Madame Timon smiled and patted Kres’s hand. “Don’t you worry about any trouble.”
“I am sure we are safe under your roof, my dear Madame Timon.” Kres skewered Siv with another incisive look. He grinned back.
“You mentioned you were out near Roan Town.” Madame Timon suddenly rounded on her son, eyes sharp as a furlingbird’s.
Fiz paled. “We didn’t go in—”
“Did you see Zenny?”
“There was no time—”
“I told you to look her up when you were in the east,” Madame Timon said.
“Can we not discuss—”
“You two are still married, you know. I never thought a son of mine would abandon his commitments just because his wife looked twice at a fellow with a pretty face. What was his name again?”
“Does it matter?” Fiz tugged at his collar. “And she did more than look.”
“Perhaps. But a strong fellow like you should fight for his woman.” Madame Timon thumped her son’s huge shoulders. “Show that dandy what you’re made of.”
“I’d rather not talk about that right now.” Fiz looked at the others imploringly. Gull and Kres just chuckled, but Siv figured he ought to help the man out.
“This meat is excellent, Madame Timon,” he began, putting on his most-charming smile. “Is it goat?”
“That’s horsemeat, of course,” Madame Timon said. “You’re not from Trure, are you, dear?”
Siv nearly choked. Horsemeat? They definitely didn’t eat that in his grandfather’s palace.
“It’s delicious,” he said, hoping his eyes weren’t watering.
Latch reached across the table for the pitcher of ale and muttered, “Thought you said you grew up in Trure.”
He didn’t speak loud enough for the others to hear, but Siv stiffened anyway. He had to be more careful. This whole false-identity thing was harder than he expected.
“You didn’t know it was horsemeat either,” he whispered, nodding at Latch’s plate, which he’d pushed away after Madame Timon’s words.
Latch snorted. If Siv didn’t know better, he’d almost think it was a laugh.
The group continued to chat and drink, cleaning their plates and holding them out for seconds of everything except the horsemeat. It was still early for dinner, and they had the communal table to themselves. Siv wished he could ask Madame Timon what was happening in Vertigon without arousing the suspicions of his companions. She must know a lot of what was going on in the world with so many travelers coming through her doors. Siv still worried about his former kingdom, even though it seemed less likely than ever that his grandfather would lend him men to retake it. He wouldn’t treat the threat of Soole lightly, even if only half the rumors were true.
As nice as it was to see new lands, Siv missed the dramatic cliffs surrounding his homeland, the bridges disappearing into the mist. But he couldn’t think about the mountain without remembering how he had failed it. He had been dragged out of his former life, but Vertigon might not have been sorry to see him go.
More travelers entered the inn while they ate, and Madame Timon alternated between fussing over her son and serving the newcomers. Her patrons were mostly workers from the surrounding vineyards and merchants transporting goods through Kurn Pass. Siv kept his head down in case he was recognized, though that seemed unlikely this far from Rallion City. Latch made an effort to remain equally inconspicuous. Only Kres and Gull were as relaxed as the Timons.
When everyone had finished eating, Fiz stood and stretched.
“I have a few people to visit this evening,” he said. “Old friends and the like.”
“Don’t be out too late,” Madame Timon said.
Fiz chuckled. “She forgets I’m a thirty-year-old man. I’ll always be a boy in my mother’s eyes.”
Fiz headed out into the town, but the others remained in the inn. As tempting as it was to go carousing with the big Truren, Siv had to prepare for his escape. Besides, he couldn’t wait to sleep in a bed again—at least for a few hours. He’d had no idea how much he appreciated his bed before going on the run for his life.
Madame Timon showed them to rooms up a rickety wooden staircase from the common room. Siv and Latch had to share a garret furnished with two narrow cots and an oddly contorted candlestick. Latch wasn’t enthusiastic about the prospect, but Siv was too tired to care either way. Besides, if he had to bet, he figured Gull was the more likely of the two to sleep with one eye open.
“Please don’t stab me in my bed,” Siv said. “I’m looking forward to a nice long rest.”
Latch rolled his eyes and climbed into his cot—the one closer to the door, unfortunately. He turned his back on Siv without so much as a good night. The fellow was a puzzle. He was downright surly—understandable after the death of his friend—but Siv got the impression that there was more to him than that. What was he running from? Siv wished he could have found out before he had to leave the team.
He sighed and snuggled underneath his blanket. That kind of problem was better tackled after a good night’s sleep. And he intended to sleep like the dead. He’d need his strength when he snuck away before dawn. He had it all planned out. He’d wait until the whole inn was asleep, and then he’d retrieve his horse and be a solid few hours north before the pen fighters were any the wiser. He was counting on their safe lodging in Madame Timon’s inn to guarantee that one of the others wouldn’t be awake and on watch—as they always had been throughout the journey. And with the first Dance of the season happening so soon, they wouldn’t waste time searching for him. He hoped.
No sense in lying awake worrying until then, though. Siv snuggled deeper into his blankets, trying to ignore the eerie shadows cast by that bizarre candlestick.
He had barely drifted off when Kres pounded on the door.
“Quickly! We must leave at once,” he called.
Siv sat up, disoriented. “What?”
“Rise and shine, children. The army is about to close the pass.”
“Why?” Siv rubbed his eyes, every muscle aching from his knife training sessions. Latch sat up too, looking considerably more alert.
“Word just arrived,” Kres called. “The Soolen army has crossed the border into Trure.”
“Why?” Siv said again, still crawling his way out of whatever nice dream he’d been having when he was so abruptly awakened.
“Don’t be stupid, lad,” Kres said. “Invasion! Fiz heard the news while he was out. An official rider from the capital.”
“But—”
“There will be time for questions later. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be stuck on this side of the mountains until spring.”
Latch scrambled out of bed and began gathering his things. Siv followed his lead, still feeling sluggish. He wanted to ask Latch’s opinion of what Soole might have in mind by advancing in the dead of winter, but as usual, Latch ignored his attempts to start a conversation.
They stumbled down the stairs to the common room, said a groggy good-bye to Madame Timon, and headed out into the night. Siv didn’t relish the idea of entering Kurn Pass in the dark, but he’d like being stuck in Tollan even less.
They rode through town, their horses’ hooves pounding the dirt, and Fiz filled them in on what he’d heard. The Soolen army was moving across the Truren plains to the northeast, heading for Rallion City.
Siv pulled up short as the last of the mist cleared from his brain. Rallion City. Where his mother, his sister, and his Dara were staying. Moreover, Kurn Pass? What was he doing?
He was going the wrong way, that was what he was doing. He began to turn his horse.
Suddenly Gull was directly in his path. “What is it?” she said.
“I’m not leaving Trure.” Siv’s horse danced beneath him, sensing his agitation. “I have to turn back.” So much for sneaking away.
“This is no time for cold feet,” Fiz said.
“It’s not—”
“Why’d you change your mind now?” Latch demande
d. “As soon as we hear about the invasion.”
“Yeah.” Gull narrowed her eyes, and her hand strayed to her sword hilt. “Are you sure you were a prisoner of those Soolens?”
“It seems someone’s true colors are showing at last,” Kres whispered. A gleeful light flickered in his eyes. And off his knives. How did he get those out so quickly?
“I’m not on Soole’s side,” Siv said. He looked to Fiz, who was staring at him with furrowed brows. He didn’t draw his broadsword, but with his strength, he hardly needed it.
“You’re in an awful hurry to run off,” Fiz said.
“This isn’t about you,” Siv said. “I’m sure it would be fun to be a pen fighter and all, but I have duties.”
Latch snorted in disbelief, and Gull looked equally suspicious.
“And what, pray tell, are these duties?” Kres asked, his voice taking on that dangerous quiet tone again. He edged closer, so their horses’ flanks were nearly touching. “Sivren Amen.”
The others drew closer too, backing Kres up, cutting Siv off. He swallowed. Kres’s right knife hovered near his knee, mere inches from his main artery. He’d seen how Kres could move. He’d never get his own blade out before Kres sent his lifeblood spilling over his saddle. Even if he did, he’d have the others to deal with next. Apparently he hadn’t made as much progress with the team as he’d thought. He knew he should have tried to sneak off sooner. He’d been too busy playing pen fighter to get away when he had the chance.
He studied the four fighters crowding in around him, thinking fast. The rest of the street was deserted. No one would even see the confrontation. Kres knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth about himself. Why else would he have said his name like that? But did Kres know his true identity? Or was he more worried about what Siv could reveal about their squad?
Kres’s knife twitched nearer to his leg. Think, Siv! What are your options?
He’d have to fight his way out of this after all. He had seen these four in combat. If they wanted to prevent him from leaving—and possibly giving them away—they would. Still, his hand strayed toward his knife hilt. Faces sprang up before him: Dara, Selivia and his mother, Sora and his father. So many people he had let down in one way or another. He had to get back to them. It was his duty.
But if he drew his blade, he would die before he got two steps nearer to Dara and his family. What would that accomplish?
He hesitated. His family was safe in his grandfather’s palace, protected by the Truren army. He couldn’t stop the advancing Soolen force. If he somehow fought his way through Kres and the others, he might not even make it back to Rallion City. And what use would he be if he did?
Kurn Pass was about to be sealed. If he didn’t leave Trure tonight, he would not have another chance. What if he really did start again? What if he stopped pretending and joined the pen fighters in earnest? What if he rode for Pendark tonight?
“Well?” Kres said. The other three watched him, faces stony. “Planning to sell wine on the front lines, are we?”
Siv cleared his throat, and the images rose before him again. Dara. His father. Selivia and his mother. Sora.
It was Sora’s face that decided it for him. He had gotten his sister killed. The single most-important duty he’d ever had, and he’d failed. He couldn’t help anyone. The others would be better off without him.
“Nothing,” Siv said at last. “I was confused. Not enough sleep. We’d better keep moving before the pass closes.”
“Agreed,” Kres said. He dug his heels into his horse’s side and led the way into the darkness. Siv followed, kicking up dust as he left Trure behind.
27.
The Library
SORA sat in the library, fiddling with a quill made from a thunderbird feather. The Lantern Maker sat beside her, poring over a crumbling tome. He had asked Sora here to sign another round of edicts, but he had become engrossed in his studies and hadn’t spoken to her in nearly half an hour. To her immense relief, Lima hadn’t joined them today.
Sora studied the Lantern Maker’s profile. His high forehead furrowed, and his thick salt-and-gold hair was unkempt. While his wife became bolder and brasher by the day, Rafe had adopted a brooding focus of late. He was still as charismatic and imposing as ever during council meetings, but she had begun to see more of his other side. While his wife ran the castle and struggled to keep the Workers and nobles in line, he focused to the point of obsession on a secret project of some kind. For good or ill, his true passion lay with the Work.
Her growing ring of informants had been helping her put the puzzle pieces together. Berg Doban had told her in a note smuggled in Oat’s pocket that Rafe had ordered a handful of Fireworkers to begin forging Fire Blades in large quantities over on East Square. The army was keeping the curious eyes of the nobility—and their daughters—away, but the duelists couldn’t help noticing how busy their favorite smiths had become.
She suspected Rafe’s mysterious project had more to do with Fire Weapons than the relatively commonplace Fire Blades, though. He was seen leaving the Fire Warden’s greathouse multiple nights per week, where the ancient Well bubbled beneath it, the source of all the mountain’s Fire. Sora herself had encountered him in the castle corridors smelling of smoke and metal and looking as if he’d spent hours doing strenuous exercise. Whatever he was developing, it was separate from the army and the other Workers. It was in Rafe’s hands alone.
Sora wished she could find an excuse to visit the Well herself, but that may arouse suspicion. Lima already got angry whenever she caught her asking questions. She shuddered, touching her tender cheeks. Lima’s rough treatment of her had continued. Sora couldn’t antagonize her further.
She wouldn’t necessarily know what she was seeing inside the Fire Warden’s greathouse anyway. The more her tiny circle of influence grew, the more she understood she needed help from someone who knew the power well. Her brother hadn’t stood a chance against Rafe’s Fire, and she wouldn’t either. Unfortunately, the Fireworkers seemed to be thriving with their new status, if Jully’s reports were any indication. That worried her too.
She spun her thunderbird quill, twirling the rough feather against her palm. The Lantern Maker sighed deeply and placed the book on the table.
“You’ve studied Vertigon’s history, haven’t you?” he said.
Sora started, surprised out of her reverie. “Yes, it was an important part of my education.”
“Do you know the story of Sovar, the first Amintelle king?”
“My great-grandfather? Of course. He was a Firewielder. The last in my family.”
“Indeed he was.” Rafe folded his arms on the table and turned toward her. “Tell me: do you know why he had to fight to overcome his rivals in the first place?”
Sora placed her quill on the table, lining it up perfectly with an empty piece of parchment.
“The previous ruler was a tyrant who worked the people too hard,” she said, recalling Zage Lorrid’s papery voice as he told the story. She missed Zage’s looming, morose presence in the castle. He had been an excellent teacher. “The Last Tyrant was little better than a slave driver. The Firewielders had to remove him for the good of the mountain. Sovar was the strongest, and he was also the most noble and good. The people rallied behind him to defeat the Last Tyrant and the other Firewielders, and when it was done, Sovar established the Peace of Vertigon.” She couldn’t help smiling at the thought of her ancestor’s greatest work.
“That is the story, yes,” Rafe said. He studied her with a piercing intensity. “Do you believe it?”
“Of course,” Sora said. “Vertigon has been peaceful and prosperous for a hundred years thanks to Sovar Amintelle. And he was just. We don’t call him the First Good King for nothing.”
“True,” Rafe said. “He was a just ruler. But do you really believe he was the strongest Wielder?”
“What?”
“There were other Firewielders who could best Sovar in a direct contest. Did you know? Th
at is why he instituted the restrictions on the Fire in the first place.”
Sora frowned, sorting through everything she had been told about him. “I thought that was because his son—”
“Yes, his son couldn’t Wield, but he actually began the task of containing the Fire long before his son was born without the Spark.”
Rafe stood and walked to the window. He faced the courtyard, silhouetted against the afternoon light. Sora had always pictured Sovar Amintelle looking like her father, but now she imagined him with the Lantern Maker’s shape and intense eyes. Imagined him binding up the Fire instead of freeing it.
“He was afraid the other Wielders would take the mountain back from him,” Rafe said, his back still to her. “He weakened all of us through his actions in the end.”
“But if he wasn’t the strongest,” Sora said, “how did he win the succession battle?”
“The King of Trure sent men to assassinate Sovar’s biggest rivals in their beds.”
“I—what?” Sora wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it wasn’t that.
“Oh yes.” Rafe turned to face her. “This ‘Good King’ achieved his final victory through treachery.”
“How would you know that?”
“Some legends aren’t written down in books,” Rafe said. “I was apprenticed to one of the oldest Fireworkers on the mountain in my youth. His memory was long.”
Sora heard a crunch and realized she’d crumpled her thunderbird quill in her fist. She dropped the fragments on the table, confusion rushing through her. She had always assumed her family was the best and noblest one on the mountain. She had never questioned whether they should be the ones to rule. The people had been prosperous under the Amintelles. And she knew her father had been good, even if his grandfather was not. But there was another part of Rafe’s story that didn’t sound complete.
“Why would the King of Trure help Sovar if he wasn’t the strongest candidate?” she asked. Trure and Vertigon had been allies even then. It didn’t make sense that that old ruler—also her great-grandfather—would want to weaken his closest supporters.
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