by Jordan Rivet
“I know more about the kingdom than you do anyway,” Sora mumbled.
“If you don’t want me to tell you what happened, I can—”
“Never mind!” Sora said. “Sorry, Siv. Start at the beginning.”
He filled his sister in on the discussion as they walked. To his immense surprise, talking it over actually made it easier to process everything that had happened, and Sora even had some good insights.
“Why do you think Lord Rollendar wants to control that road so badly?” Siv asked. That had been bothering him since the beginning of the meeting. “He doesn’t grow plums, and Lord Morrven isn’t his direct competitor. He shouldn’t care.”
“Hmmm . . .” Sora considered for so long that Siv thought she must be lost down a morrinvole hole in her head. Finally, she said, “What did Lord Samanar say? He’s Morrven’s biggest rival.”
“He supported Rollendar,” Siv said. “But like you said, Samanar and Morrven are competitors, so that’s expected.”
“But Lord Samanar has never been particularly friendly with the Rollendars,” Sora said. “In fact, they’re barely supposed to be on speaking terms.”
“You think it’s a new alliance?”
“Sure sounds like it.”
“Great. That’s the last thing I need.” The Rollendars were making new friends left and right. Siv had to rein them in quickly. And he couldn’t have people ignoring or interrupting him in meetings. He had to do something to establish his hold on the council soon. And he had to figure out what was so important about that road.
3.
The Firesmith
WHEN Dara’s shift ended, she jogged up the winding stone stairwell of the castle’s central tower to retrieve the Fire Blade Siv wanted her to investigate. It was still strange that he lived in the king’s chambers now, far away from the beautiful dueling hall he had constructed outside his original rooms in the western end of the castle. Dara had never actually been inside those rooms, but she had spent hours in the dueling hall over the summer. She still went there sometimes to practice with the training dummies. She hoped Siv’s duties would eventually let up enough to allow him to train with her again. She missed how uncomplicated their friendship had been within the dueling hall.
Dara slowed at the landing at the top of the stairwell. The young Castle Guard stationed outside the king’s chamber was a new recruit, one of the first men hired in place of the treacherous guards who had tried to kidnap Siv and his two sisters.
“I need to get something from inside,” Dara said as she approached. “King’s orders.”
“Of course.” The guardsman stepped aside, heels clicking. “You’re Nightfall, aren’t you?”
“Huh? Oh, yes. Or at least I was.”
“I’ve seen you duel. You’re brilliant.”
“Thanks.” Dara said. “Do you compete?” The young man had the look of a soldier rather than a sport duelist, all strong arms and sharp edges. His dark-brown hair was cut in a clean military style.
“When I was a kid,” he said. “Had to quit when I joined the army. I still follow the sport, though.”
“Me too,” Dara said.
The young guardsman stuck out his hand. “I’m Telvin, by the way. Telvin Jale.”
“Dara.”
“Are you going to keep dueling now that you’re on the Guard?” he asked.
Dara hesitated, glancing down at the sigil on her uniform. She felt so far removed from who she had been just a month ago, when she had adopted the Nightfall persona to help her obtain a dueling patron.
“I can still go to competitions when I have Turndays off, but my duties don’t allow me as much time to train.”
“I hear you.” Telvin rested a hand on the sword hilt at his belt. “It also changes your game when you learn how to fight to kill. It can mess up your competition strategy.”
“I guess it can,” Dara said. She was more afraid her competitors would surpass her as they continued to train full time and she slowly lost her edge. She would rather lose to a worthy opponent in peak form than have her skills slowly atrophy.
“You were hitting your stride at the time of the Cup,” Telvin said. “I was sure you were going to win it all.”
“Things are different now,” Dara said quietly.
She already missed the thrill of competition, the tap of her boots on a stone dueling floor, the clang of blades. She missed her dueling friends too, their hours doing drills and cheering each other on, their trips to the Stone Market on Village Peak for pies and salt cakes. She’d barely seen them since she moved into the barracks.
She hadn’t had a chance to get to know the other guardsmen yet. The Guard was so short-staffed that there usually weren’t many of them hanging out in the barracks behind the castle. Pool had been very busy since his promotion to the head of the Castle Guard after Captain Bandobar vanished. They would need more good men soon. The king and his family remained vulnerable.
Telvin Jale held open the door to the king’s chambers for Dara to enter. “You should try to get to some competitions,” he said. “It would be a shame to waste your talent.”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.”
Dara had never been to the king’s antechamber before Siv’s ascension. Most of the tapestries and decorations were still an old-fashioned style. She would have expected more dueling weapons adorning the walls and maybe even a duelist’s banner or two now that Siv had been living here for a while, but he had hardly touched the room since he moved in. There were lots of books, though, spread over the low couches and lying open across all the tables. That didn’t surprise her at all.
Dara found the Fire Blade on a side table beside the door to the bedchamber. She sensed its location from across the room thanks to the Fire core buried deep within its metal. From the outside, it looked like a normal rapier with a hint of gold running down the blade, but Dara could feel the difference.
She picked up the weapon, accidentally knocking a length of black cloth onto the floor. She bent to pick it up and realized it was a duelist’s banner after all: hers. She held up the stretch of black cloth emblazoned with her name, remembering how it had felt to stride into the King’s Arena with the crowds calling her name, how it had felt to see Siv cheering for her from the royal box. She didn’t know he had kept this. He hadn’t brought it with him when he left the arena after the Vertigon Cup, so he must have sent someone to retrieve it specially. Dara felt that slow, painful flip in her chest again, but she ignored it. There was no use thinking about how things had been before or how they could have turned out if Siv hadn’t become king so suddenly. She would keep her feelings wrapped up tighter than a bandage over a stab wound.
She put the banner back where she had found it and examined the Fire Blade. It felt like Bandobar’s, which she’d held earlier, except it was more powerful. The weapons were about the same size, but this one felt more substantial somehow, as if the extra Fire added weight to the steel.
Dara made sure Telvin Jale couldn’t see her through the partially open door. Then she took a deep breath and reached into the blade with her will, trying to touch the Fire core. She wasn’t sure exactly how, but after a few minutes she connected with the blade, almost like her veins had fused with it and her heart pumped blood through flesh and metal and back again. The sword would be lightning in her hands, fast, searing, and deadly. This was why no one was allowed to create Fire-infused weapons except the king’s own smiths, why no one but soldiers and Castle Guards were permitted to carry them. A Fire Blade in anyone’s hands was dangerous; a Fire Blade in a Fireworker’s hands was utterly lethal.
Dara focused on the blade, willing the connection to sever. It took concentration, but eventually she managed to hold the blade without letting the power seep into her. She didn’t know whether a Fireworker would be able to sense the connection while she held such a blade, but she had to be careful. Her ability was still a secret, and it had to stay that way.
She had grown up believing she couldn’
t Work the Fire like her father, Rafe Ruminor the Lantern Maker, and her sister before she died. Dara had tried to draw on the Fire countless times, but her fingers had remained cold long past the age when the Firespark normally manifested. She had resigned herself to a life apart from the Fire and found dueling, a passion that had more than replaced the missing power.
But less than two months ago she had discovered that she could access the Fire after all. She hadn’t told anyone at first. No matter what she decided to do with her newfound talent, it would change her entire relationship with her parents. They had always been disappointed in her for not being able to Work and for not wanting to be involved in the mundane aspects of the business. She needed time to process what her new Fire ability would mean for her future. She hadn’t anticipated that she would end up keeping it a secret after the Vertigon Cup was over. She couldn’t let her parents find out now. They would expect her to rejoin their business—the business that was responsible for the assassination of the king—and she would have to explain why she didn’t want to be involved. She couldn’t let them find out she knew about their plot against the Amintelles if she hoped to thwart their efforts.
The Fire tempted her with every pulse, though. Dara wanted to feel more of the heat, of the molten power that had flooded her veins just a few times now. There were a handful of access points in the castle, and it was becoming harder and harder to stay away from them. The only thing keeping her grounded was the knowledge that Siv would be in even more danger if her parents found out what she could do. And she would never let anything happen to him.
Dara shook off the thought and turned her attention to the Fire Blade. The king was right: there was no mark of any kind indicating who forged the weapon. During the fight, she had been too relieved that none of them had been stabbed to think about where the weapon came from. But it was definitely not army or Guard issue, so one of the traitorous Castle Guards hadn’t simply given the mysterious swordsman his blade. Besides, the swordsman had fought like the blade was a part of him.
Fire Blade in hand, she left the king’s chambers, nodding to Telvin Jale on the way out. He didn’t comment on the weapon she carried. He, along with the other Castle Guards, must know Dara had been friends with the prince before. They treated her with respect, despite the fact that she was young and a woman—one of just two on the Guard. Most of the kingdom didn’t know Dara had saved Siv and his sisters on the day of the assassination, but the Guard remembered.
Dara left the castle and jogged most of the way to her destination, far off on Square Peak. It was good to get out into the city again. As much as she liked the wide castle halls, she missed running through the crisp mountain air. She darted down the steep stairs and avenues of King’s Peak, past greathouses and parlors and official buildings of marble and stone. The lower avenues of King’s Peak bustled with noblemen and attendants, travelers and tradesmen. A handful of tough mountain ponies clopped along the cobblestones, snorting irritably as she jogged past. A few people looked askance at a young woman in a Castle Guard uniform. She ignored them and kept running.
She made her way to Stork Bridge, which stretched across the Fissure to Square Peak. Her boots pounded on the wooden slats of the bridge, and mists shifted beneath her feet. The Fissure was the only access point to the mountaintop kingdom of Vertigon. Visitors from the Lands Below had to traverse its length until they reached the steep road that wound up the canyon side. A series of pulleys made importing goods easier—albeit still precarious—but friend or foe had an arduous journey ahead of them if they wanted to enter Vertigon.
Once you were on the mountain, though, bridges spanned the gaps between the three peaks, King’s, Village, and Square. The secluded kingdom was a place of peace and prosperity, a place where fighting was reserved for the dueling hall and dangers to the citizens were nonexistent. Or it had been until the king was murdered.
When Dara reached Square Peak, she ran faster. It was broader than King’s and Village Peaks, with more room for wide buildings, such as dueling halls and the army barracks. Mountain goats roamed the peak at will, and there were paddocks with enough space for the stocky mountain ponies to exercise. Countless caves pockmarked the lower part of the peak, many inaccessible due to numerous drop-offs and cliffs around the jagged edges of the mountain.
The Firesmith Dara sought worked in one of the shops on a lower slope of the peak, not far from a steep drop-off into the Fissure. She left Stork Bridge and climbed down a winding stone staircase to reach the smithy. For the final stretch, a rickety set of wooden steps led down to the entrance to the shop jutting out of the stone.
Smoke and heat and the scent of molten metal poured out of the opening. Dara knocked politely, but she knew the man inside wouldn’t hear her. She pushed opened the door and entered the realm of Daz Stoneburner, the best sword smith in Vertigon.
He was a slight man, more diminutive than his name and reputation implied. He stood just over five feet tall, and he had wispy white hair and a large mustache covering most of his mouth. Despite his short stature, his arms were thick and strong, and they glistened with sweat as he pounded a short blade on an iron anvil. The thud of hammer on steel filled the workshop. As a Fireworker, Daz could hold the red-hot blade with his bare hands. Fire flowed from an access point beside the anvil, making the windowless smithy glow as bright as day. Daz would be adding a steady supply of heat and Fire to the metal in his hands as he crafted the weapon.
Daz turned toward Dara the moment she entered, as if he could sense her coming through the door. But he was not alone.
“Coach!”
Dara’s dueling instructor, Berg Doban, leaned against a stone table near the forge, where blades in various stages of completion awaited the work of the master Firesmith. He was a big man, with square shoulders, a bit of a gut, and rough salt-and-pepper hair.
“Hello, young Dara,” Berg said, lowering his thick eyebrows. “What are you doing away from the castle? You must be guarding our king.”
“He sent me on an errand,” Dara said. “And I’m not on duty every single hour.”
“What can I do for you, Miss Ruminor?” Daz said. He continued his rhythmic pounding on the weapon in his hands, fixing Dara with a sharp stare. He had forged her dueling weapons for years, but she still found him intimidating.
“I wanted to ask you about a blade,” Dara said. She hesitated, glancing up at Berg. He had been the one to ask her to watch out for Siv in the first place, but she still wasn’t entirely sure where his loyalties lay. He wasn’t even from Vertigon originally, and she found it strange that he was so eager to look out for the royal family. “Uh . . . I can come back later.”
Berg simply folded his arms over his chest. “Go ahead, young Dara.”
Dara held up the weapon from the mysterious swordsman.
“Can you tell me where this came from, Master Stoneburner? It doesn’t have a maker’s mark.” She eyed Berg again. “And it’s a Fire Blade.”
Daz’s hands stilled, his last beat echoing through the workshop. He set down the still-glowing sword he’d been working on and exchanged an unmistakable glance with Berg as he took the Fire Blade from Dara’s hands. The steel reflected in his dark eyes as he examined the weapon from all sides.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then instead of answering Dara he looked up at her coach.
“Well, that confirms it,” he said.
“Confirms what?” Dara asked.
“I am telling you this,” Berg said to the Firesmith. “You see what you must do.”
Daz didn’t answer. He ran his fingers along the tang of the blade, studying its smooth, Fire-forged surface.
“Do you know who made this?” Dara asked.
“I cannot help you.” Daz put the weapon back in Dara’s hands and shuffled over to his anvil.
“Why not? What’s going on?” Dara said. “Coach?”
Berg frowned at Daz as the pounding of the hammer resumed, then he turned to Dara.
“Yes.”
Berg scratched his wide jaw. He considered her for a long time before speaking again.
“I must ask you, Dara, a very important question. Are you loyal to the Amintelles?”
“What? Coach . . .”
“You must answer. You are Castle Guard now. You have sworn your life to protect the king. You even stopped your training to do this. But are you loyal?”
“Yes,” Dara said without hesitation. She wasn’t sure what Berg was getting at, but this much was clear. She may miss dueling, and she may wonder whether she’d done the right thing by leaving her parents, but some things were simple. Her hands tightened on the blade in her hands, warming the steel. “I won’t let any harm come to Siv.”
“Good,” Berg said. His frown deepened. “There is a plot, a plot that goes deeper than you know. This blade is a part.”
“What kind of plot?” Dara asked. She barely dared to breathe, heat and nerves humming in her stomach. Surely Berg didn’t know about her parents. Otherwise, why would he have asked her to train with the prince all those months ago? “And how do you know about it?”
“I will show you,” Berg said. “Tomorrow night you must meet me by the school at midnight. As to what kind and who, that question is more difficult.”
“You must have some idea.”
“Is not a conversation for today,” Berg said. He glanced at Daz Stoneburner again. “Some people are not as loyal as they should be.”
“I swore an oath, Doban,” Daz snapped, his hammer stilling. “I will not break it, even if your cause is noble.”
“You must!” Berg said. “You see this blade.” He gestured to the weapon in Dara’s hands. “You know what they will do when they have more.”
“Stop them, then,” Daz said. “Stop them, but do not ask me to add yet more illicit Fire Blades to this mess.”