steel and fire 03 - dance of steel

by rivet, jordan

  Selivia and his mother were already seated in the dining room. Tirra had changed into a black dress made of the same ruffled material she’d worn earlier, and a matching black scarf covered her hair. Selivia’s eyes were reddened from crying, but she hadn’t changed out of her bright-yellow dress. She stared at Siv as if daring him to tell her Sora was dead again. The sight made his heart shrivel like a winter pear. Sora and Selivia had been very close.

  An oversized table filled most of the large dining chamber, and tapestries and sconces for lanterns and vases appeared at regular intervals along the walls. Most of the dozens of high-backed chairs around the table were vacant. The king’s many grown children often visited in the summer season, but most did not live in the palace. He had five daughters, and they kept manors and country estates all across Trure with their noble husbands and offspring. Uncle Tem was one of two sons and the only one of the king’s children who remained unmarried.

  Siv was relieved to find the room empty of other relatives today. He still wasn’t feeling all that well, despite the healer’s attentions. Even Uncle Tem had stayed away to give them privacy in which to consult the king. Vertigon had long been Trure’s closest ally. But would the usurpation of the throne be enough cause for Siv’s grandfather to march on the mountain? Siv prayed it wouldn’t come to that. On the other hand, without Trure’s help there was little chance he would ever regain the throne. He needed an alternative solution.

  Siv pulled out a chair for Dara, insisting that she sit beside him. He leveled a steady gaze at his mother when she started to object. He wanted to set a precedent here and now. He would never send Dara away, and it was time he started treating her as his partner and friend, not just his guard. It may be inappropriate, but he was beyond caring about that sort of thing. He was rewarded with a beautiful smile when he dropped into the chair beside her. Firelord, she was pretty.

  The servants had poured them each a goblet of wine by the time King Atrin made his entrance.

  “Sivarrion,” he shouted, pushing the double doors back with a bang. “I’ve heard a tale from Tem. Madness, I say. Vertigon has fallen into madness!”

  Siv’s grandfather was a tall man, bigger and more muscular than the typical whip-thin riders of Trure. He hadn’t lost his muscle in his old age, though he had an extra layer of fat over everything now. He had fierce blue eyes and white hair, still as thick and luxurious as ever.

  “We must stop this insanity,” the king said as he stomped toward the head of the table. He pounded it with his fist so hard the goblets shook. “I will not have this outrage against my family. We march on the mountain at once!”

  Dara’s mouth dropped open. Siv gestured for her not to worry. This was just the way his grandfather was: all hyperbole and bluster. And rage. There was plenty of rage in the man.

  “Hello, Grandfather. It’s good to see you.”

  “Good? Good! This insult will not be tolerated. I will pull down these usurpers and drag them behind my stallion for the length and breadth of the plains!”

  “Father,” Siv’s mother began.

  “Don’t ‘father’ me, Tirra,” King Atrin boomed. “I should never have sent you to that blasted frozen mountain. These blackguards will feel the wrath of Trure. They dare insult me! I will not tolerate it for an instant. Who are the dung smugglers responsible for this outrage?”

  “It was a combined effort by House Rollendar and the Fireworkers, led by Rafe Ruminor the Lantern Maker,” Siv said.

  “Ruminor?” King Atrin strode back to the door and banged on it with the strength of a terrerack bull. The doorman pulled it open and immediately leapt to attention.

  “Your Majesty?”

  “I order you to find every Ruminor Lantern in the city and have them destroyed. Send them all straight to the Ammlen Ocean and cast them into the waves. Let them burn for eternity at the bottom of the sea!”

  “At once, Your Majesty,” the doorman said.

  “Now that’s done, tell me your plan, Sivarrion.” The king stomped back across the dining hall. Before Siv could answer, his grandfather paused at a sconce where a Fire Lantern hung, shuddering from the force of his footsteps. “Is this a Ruminor Lantern?”

  “I don’t kn—”

  But the king had already torn it from the sconce with his bare hands. He carried it to the door, light spilling out around his feet.

  “This one too!” he shouted and hurled the lantern through the door.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t tell him my name,” Dara whispered in Siv’s ear.

  He chuckled. “He’ll calm down. The doorman will probably put that lantern right back where it came from, and Grandfather won’t even notice it tomorrow. This is just how he is.”

  King Atrin stalked back across the dining hall to the head of the table. Siv and the others stood respectfully until he sat. Siv’s limbs shook a bit as he lowered himself back into his chair. Strange. His sister gave him a curious look.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” King Atrin roared, making Selivia flinch. “Bring out the meat, and start talking.”

  Siv told his story again as his grandfather attacked a whole roast pig with gusto. It was getting easier to recount what had happened. With each repetition, the events became a little more real in his mind. A little more inescapable. He glossed over the part about Dara in this telling, focusing on Zage Lorrid’s final actions to save them from the Lantern Maker. He gave Dara only the briefest mention as a member of his Castle Guard. His grandfather’s sharp eyes missed nothing, but he seemed to decide they could go into more detail about the young woman at Siv’s side another time.

  At the end of the tale, his mother spoke. “I don’t want you to go back there. I never want another one of my children to set foot on that mountain again. You are safe here. Let that be the end of it.”

  “Now just a minute, Tirra,” King Atrin said. “My grandson is a king. He can’t give up his kingdom without a fight!”

  “There was already a fight,” Siv said. “We lost. We don’t have the resources to move against the Fireworkers yet, not without heavy casualties.”

  “I’ll show those dung-eating firelovers casualties,” the king growled.

  Dara shifted beside him.

  A knock sounded at the door, and a rider rushed in with a harried look on his face.

  “Cur-dragon, Your Majesty!” he shouted.

  “Oh, that’s Rumy,” Siv said. “He’s with me.”

  “Beg pardon, Sire. Your pet arrived a few hours ago. We’ve just now had another one. The horses are quite upset, my king. But the lizard brought an urgent message from Vertigon.”

  “Stop your blathering, and give it to me,” the king said.

  The rider crossed the room and handed over a leather tube tied with a Firegold ribbon. The king pulled out the parchment rolled inside and held it up to the light. His eyebrows slowly disappeared into his luxurious white hair as he read. Siv and Dara exchanged glances. The letter didn’t appear to be lengthy, but the king stared at it for a very long time.

  “Well,” he said after what felt like the world’s longest pause. “This is an interesting development.” He handed the parchment across the table to Siv. “Read it out, son.”

  Siv took the message, trying to figure out what his grandfather’s expression meant. The king fixed him with piercing blue eyes that seemed to look beyond him, calculating the repercussions of whatever news the letter brought. Siv lifted the thick piece of parchment and read aloud.

  To His Royal Highness King Atrin of Trure,

  I regret to inform Your Majesty that the reign of King Sivarrion Amintelle, the Fourth King of Vertigon, has come to a tragic end at the hand of an assassin. It is believed the perpetrator acted on orders from the Kingdom of Soole. This is an unforgivable act of aggression. As the newly appointed Chief Regent of Vertigon, I call upon our strongest ally, the noble King of Trure, to assist us in answering this outrage lest Soole continue to threaten the sovereignty of Vertigon and its allies.


  With regards,

  Rafe Ruminor, Fire Warden and Chief Regent

  When he finished reading, Dara tugged the paper from Siv’s fist and studied her father’s signature intently.

  “He’s trying to blame Soole,” she said. “Why would he do that?”

  King Atrin rose from his chair and slammed a hand down on the table.

  “This damned Lantern Maker thinks he can provoke me into a war.”

  “He’s starting wars now?” Siv said. His head had begun to feel hot and clouded, and his wounds itched worse than zur-wasp stings. But one thing was clear: “We have to get rid of him.”

  “I won’t do this usurper’s dirty work for him,” King Atrin said. “However, I cannot march on Vertigon.”

  Siv met his grandfather’s eyes, not surprised by the sudden swing from raging about vengeance to refusal. King Atrin knew what would come of assaulting the sheer slopes of the mountain. But without his help, Siv didn’t stand a chance of retaking Vertigon. He scratched at the stitches on his ribs.

  “I can’t return at the head of a foreign army, even one from Trure, anyway,” Siv said. “I think our best option is to retake the castle with a small attack force—if you can lend me the men.” He had gotten at least one thing from Bolden besides a body full of stab wounds: the idea for an alternative solution.

  The king tapped his knife against the meat board, glowering at the pork bones. Siv waited for his grandfather to work through the rest of his rage. His anger burned bright, but underneath was a shrewd ruler who would not make a rash decision. At least not too rash.

  “Vertigon is strong,” King Atrin said at last. “You’re my flesh and blood, and I’m sorry you lost your throne, Sivarrion, but we can’t get into a conflict with the mountain. Not with Soole breathing down our necks.”

  “I have to go back somehow,” Siv said. His grandfather may not want to help him, but he realized now that he had no choice. He had failed his sister, but he would not leave Vertigon in the Lantern Maker’s clutches. Especially when he was already stirring up trouble. “Again, it needn’t be an all-out assault,” Siv said. “If you could lend me a handful—”

  “My answer is no,” King Atrin said.

  “But what about Sora?” Selivia asked, sitting forward anxiously. “Dara, do you think maybe your father is keeping her a prisoner?”

  “Father?” King Atrin said.

  Dara gulped audibly. “I—”

  “Father?”

  “This girl is a Ruminor,” Tirra said. “I want her out of the palace.”

  Siv raised a hand to forestall his mother. He noticed his fingers were vibrating a bit. That was odd. His head somehow felt hot and cold at the same time.

  “Dara will come with me,” he said. “And we’ll be gone soon enough. In fact, we should leave tonight.”

  “You cannot return, Sivarrion,” Tirra said.

  “I won’t abandon the mountain.”

  “Siv, maybe it’s not such a good idea,” Dara said. She was giving him a peculiar look, as if she was worried about him rather than the revelation of her identity.

  “I have to try,” Siv said. He felt as if they were going around in circles. A mist was slowly forming in his brain. Why did his wounds still hurt so much? He tried to stand, his body feeling heavy. “I . . . I need fighting men.”

  “Stop!” King Atrin said, leaping to his feet.

  “Grandfather—”

  “Don’t ‘grandfather’ me,” the king said. “I received a report from the healer. You have an infected stab wound. You’ve been on a grueling journey. You are in no condition to launch an assault on Vertigon.”

  “But—”

  “Do not interrupt me.” The king stabbed his knife into the meat board with a thunk. “We can talk after we gather more information. I may reconsider your request, but I won’t have you running off into the night when you are unwell.”

  “But—”

  “This Lantern Maker is trying to provoke a war!” the king roared, making the tapestries shudder. “He insults the alliance I gave my own daughter to secure! I will rip his head from his shoulders for his audacity, but I will not rush into action.”

  Siv wanted to argue, but his grandfather uttered an animal growl and stalked from the room. Siv started to stand to go after him, but Dara pressed her knee against his under the table. He wasn’t sure if she meant to keep him in place or to steady his shaking limbs.

  The mist seemed to thicken in Siv’s mind, and he realized he was feverish. Oh, right. That must be the infection.

  “Siv,” his mother began. He raised a hand—or tried to until his muscles seized up.

  “I will rest now,” he announced regally, avoiding Dara’s intense gaze. There was no sense in admitting that his grandfather’s healer was right. Damn, his wounds hurt. “And then we’re going to figure out a way to help Vertigon.”

  He pulled himself to his feet and lurched to the door. Dara joined him, slinging his arm over her shoulder without a word. Okay, maybe he did need time to recover, but he would make up for leaving his mountain somehow. And he would rescue Vertigon from the clutches of the Lantern Maker, even if it killed him.

  8.

  The Fountain

  SORA prepared to leave the castle for the first time since her brother died. She put on her thickest winter cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders like armor. It was a deep purple that made her think of royalty, even though she didn’t feel particularly regal. She tucked a stray curl out of her eyes and took a deep breath. You can do this, she told herself. You’ll do what you have to do.

  She had been out of her room a few times now, always to greet the associates of the Lantern Maker and his wife in one of the castle parlors. This was the first time she would go out among her people, though. She hoped she was ready. At the last possible moment, she set the Amintelle crown on her head, standing a little straighter to hold up its cold weight.

  She exited her antechamber and found half a dozen Castle Guards waiting to accompany her. All of them wore the crisp blue uniforms her brother had commissioned for his squad of duelists known as the New Guard. Her hands closed into fists at the sight.

  Captain Thrashe, the Soolen guard with the eye patch, delivered instructions to an unfamiliar Vertigonian man with an officer’s knot on his shoulder. The Vertigonian saluted and led the way toward the stairs. Captain Thrashe remained behind. Apparently he didn’t want to be seen outside the castle. It would be hard to maintain the ruse that the rightful queen held Vertigon if she were guarded by foreign soldiers.

  At first Sora didn’t even want to look at the guards surrounding her, wearing New Guard blue. These must be the mysterious swordsmen who had been involved in her brother’s downfall. She was sure stupid Lord Bolden Rollendar would never have been able to defeat Siv on his own. The traitor who stabbed her brother could be standing right beside her. She forced herself to breathe calmly. She had a job to do today.

  But as they marched down the stairwell from her tower and rounded a corner at the bottom, one of the guards caught her eye. He was the tallest man she had ever seen. She stopped short.

  “You were on my brother’s New Guard,” she said. “You’re one of Dara’s duelists.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The tall man bowed. He had a kind face and sad eyes. “My name is Oatin Wont.”

  Sora looked more closely at the other guards. Two of them had also been members of Dara’s hand-selected team: a man with a red beard, a bandage poking out from beneath his sleeve, and the former soldier Telvin Jale. A sickening feeling of betrayal rose like bile in her stomach.

  “You serve the Lantern Maker so easily?” Sora asked, trying not to look at Jale in particular. She had thought him so noble once—not to mention handsome.

  “Your Majesty, we are under guard as much as you are,” Oat said. He nodded to the lead guard with the knot of rank, a man with deep-bronze hair and a weather-beaten face who was listening to every word. He was definitely Vertigonian, as were t
he remaining two. There wasn’t a Soolen guard in sight now.

  “We have been assigned to accompany you on public excursions,” Oat explained, “so the people will know you’re being cared for by your brother’s loyal men.”

  “I see,” Sora said. On closer scrutiny, she realized Oat, Telvin Jale, and the red-bearded man carried empty sheaths instead of weapons. So they were part of the show. This day was going to be one big farce. She sighed. “Carry on.”

  She and the six guards marched into the castle entryway, striding right past the Great Hall. The doors stood open, but all evidence of the ill-fated engagement feast had been removed. The tables were pushed back against the walls, and the throne stood on the dais as it had for as long as she could remember. Sora looked away as she followed her guards through the front doors and out of the castle.

  The courtyard glistened with ice. A warmer day had followed the recent blizzard, and some of the snow had melted and then refrozen, encasing every tree with a thin layer of glass. The sun sparkled on the ice, and it would have been beautiful in other circumstances. Sora pulled her grand purple cloak closer around her and strode along a path that had been melted through the snow.

  Halfway across she slipped, feet skidding on a patch of ice. A guard reached out to catch her before she fell. He hadn’t been on the New Guard, so he must be one of the Lantern Maker’s men.

  “All is well, Your Majesty,” he said. And he gave her a wink as he steadied her.

  Sora frowned. She recognized him after all. Kelad Korran was a duelist sponsored by Lord Bolden Rollendar. Selivia had had a huge crush on him, along with half of the young ladies in the city. He must be one of the swordsmen who had conspired to attack her brother. She pulled her arm roughly out of his grasp.