by Jordan Rivet
Sora stared at her. Lima was right. It could have been much worse if she hadn’t calmed the mob at their gates, but she could hardly believe the woman was acknowledging it. There must be a catch. She waited.
“Rafe is occupied with his Work,” Lima said. “It is good to know we can count on you to oversee Vertigon in the meantime.”
“Oversee Vertigon?”
“We want you to continue working in your capacity of . . . increased responsibility. Rafe plans to begin the expansion of his domain soon.”
“It’ll be good for him to channel away some of this excess Fire,” Master Corren said. He looked at the far gates, where the two ill-fated insurgents were being carried off, and shuddered. “We can’t have disgruntled Workers getting their hands on it.”
“The Fire is still surging?” Sora asked.
“It is. Whatever happened down at the Well changed something. I’m not sure if all this extra Fire is a good thing. And if the Spring—”
“Rafe can manage it,” Lima snapped. “You will continue your good work, Soraline.” As if she couldn’t stand to utter anymore compliments, Lima turned abruptly and stalked toward the castle. Master Corren followed, concern still shadowing his features.
Sora stared after them. Was Lima saying she wanted her to act more like a true queen? Because it helped them with their work? The thought that she was helping the Ruminors made her feel ill. When her people rose in anger against the Lantern Maker, she had dissuaded them from trying something that would only get them killed. The common people couldn’t defeat the Fireworkers. The Workers she had lured to her side had died trying to resist the Lantern Maker. But, in keeping the peace, had she become an accomplice in her usurper’s work?
A screeching sound came from overhead. A pair of cur-dragons swooped low, as if that rush of Fire had called them. The creatures had been increasingly restless since the surge. Were they responding to the power flowing unchecked through the mountain?
Sora remembered the old song Kel had shared with her about true dragons waking in the Burnt Mountains. It had included a line about a spring, hadn’t it? Master Corren had used that word before Lima interrupted him. She wondered if she could find the full song in her father’s library.
The little cur-dragons circled around the courtyard and flew off again, perhaps returning to their cavern beneath the castle. Sora shook her head. She had more important things to worry about than old legends about extinct creatures. Such as what she was going to do if the Lantern Maker ever really lost control.
She returned to the castle, Captain Thrashe and Kel falling in beside her once more. Kel pulled open the elaborately wrought doors. As Sora entered, he brushed a hand against hers. His face was a study in neutrality. They’d been finding more and more excuses to touch hands of late. And that had definitely been him steadying her shoulder when the Fire burst forth in the courtyard. At first she’d thought Kel was merely supporting her in a difficult time, but she wasn’t so sure anymore.
Before she could return Kel’s touch, Captain Thrashe turned crisply and fixed her with his single eye.
“My queen, I advise you to take care when running toward Fireworkers in the future.”
“I had to get there before any innocent bystanders got hurt.”
“Your purpose was admirable,” Captain Thrashe said. “But magic wielders are not to be trusted.”
“Madame Pandan wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Madame Pandan is not the danger here.” Captain Thrashe looked around the deserted entryway. “You must be wary of the Ruminors.”
Sora’s jaw went slack. Captain Thrashe was warning her to be careful around the very people he’d helped capture her? He had guarded her since the coup against her brother, along with a small group of Soolen swordsmen. They had come to Vertigon on the orders of Commander Brach, leader of the Soolen army that had invaded Cindral Forest and Trure. Sora knew the Lantern Maker planned to betray his erstwhile alliance with Commander Brach. Perhaps Captain Thrashe had finally figured it out too.
“I will be careful,” she said.
Captain Thrashe nodded and turned to march across the entrance hall. Sora watched him, wondering how far his concern would take him. She needed all the help she could get in the powder keg Vertigon had become.
She looked back at the courtyard, where the blast of power had melted the early-spring snow all the way to the walls. She feared they would all come to regret the unleashing of the Fire.
3.
The Watermight Artist
THE streets of Pendark bubbled with rumors. Whispers of Rallion City and the Soolen army’s unprecedented success mingled with the usual chatter about fish prices and export tariffs. Dara could tell Siv was distracted when they parted ways at the boundary of Wyla’s Jewel District. She feared their distance from Rallion City would distort the news and make the situation sound worse than it really was. He already worried enough.
The icy sensation had faded from her sword arm. The bargain confined her to the boundaries of Pendark, but she hadn’t been aware Wyla could make her feel things from a distance too. She didn’t know enough about the Watermight Artist—or the magical substance she wielded.
Poison-green flags flew from every building in the vicinity, proclaiming Wyla’s domain. Her manor was the most impressive structure in sight. A thick rock wall surrounded it, obscuring everything except the peaked slate roof. The wall rose from a rocky island, creating the impression that the manor was more mountain than man-made structure. Or woman-made. Dara was pretty sure Wyla had moved the stones herself using her considerable Watermight strength.
Not that Dara had seen much of that power over the past few days, but judging by the size and wealth of her district, Wyla had plenty.
Dara rapped on the solid iron gate in the outer wall. It screeched open, and the doorman admitted her with a solemn nod. Wyla’s bodyguard and right-hand man, Siln, was waiting for her in the overgrown garden courtyard. He was slim and middle aged, with intricate tattoos twining around his arms.
“She wants to see you in her study,” he said.
“Now?”
“She said to send you the moment you returned.”
Dara grimaced at her clothes, which were still damp from her swimming lesson.
Siln raised an eyebrow. “I would not make her wait.”
Dara thanked him and hurried along the garden path toward the house, fighting down a burst of nerves. She’d been waiting for Wyla to send for her, but she still felt unprepared. She’d have preferred to meet her in a less straggly state. At least her Savven blade swung at her hip, its weight and warmth a comfort.
The manor house, like the outer wall, was built of black rock, with thick-paned windows and statues of strange sea creatures decorating the eaves. The plants growing wild in the courtyard gave it an eerie quality, as if the house itself were a living thing. The place filled Dara with unease. She had been allowed to come and go at will so far, but it still felt like a prison.
She jogged to Wyla’s large study on the second floor. Ceiling-high bookcases covered two of the walls, containing an eclectic assortment of books and scrolls. An array of diagrams, drawings, and notes papered the remaining wall space. Sturdy tables bore more notes and books, along with a variety of metal objects, Fireworked and otherwise.
The entire space was lit with a priceless collection of Fire Lanterns. At least two had been Worked by Dara’s father, taking shape in the workshop beneath the very house where Dara grew up.
These Ruminor Lanterns were a matching set. One depicted a Firewielder conjuring Fireblossoms. The other showed a Watermight Artist spinning whirlpools from her fingertips. Dara wondered what her father had been thinking as he sculpted those flows of Firegold water. He had never talked about Watermight much. That power was almost impossible to store and transport over long distances. Fireworkers had never worried about it threatening their position. But Dara hoped she could learn something about Working magical substances from Wyla that applie
d to the Fire—and use it to neutralize her father.
The woman herself sat in a large armchair beneath the window, knitting needles clacking away in her lap. Wyla didn’t even look at Dara when she approached.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I have been waiting.”
“I didn’t know you’d need me today,” Dara said. “I apologize. We—I went for a swim.”
“So I see.” Wyla still didn’t look away from her work. “In the future, you will be ready when I call. And you will be clean, dry, and presentable. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dara couldn’t help snapping to attention. Wyla’s presence shivered with power, despite her grandmotherly posture and appearance. She had wrinkly olive skin and white hair cut to her chin. She wore the wide, many-layered skirts favored in Pendark, which ended just below the knee. Many Pendarkans wore sandals in warmer weather, but Wyla favored tall, steel-toed boots.
“My arm—” Dara began.
“Yes. If you’d been in the manor, I would not have had to resort to such methods,” Wyla said. “We have work to do.”
“Are we going to Wield together today?” Dara asked. She had been looking forward to this, despite her nerves. She was intrigued by the possibility of two magic workers wielding their respective powers in unison.
“Today we will talk,” Wyla said. “I don’t wish to rush my research. After all, we have three months.” She looked up at last, her gaze piercing. “Three months during which you agreed to make yourself available to me.”
Dara resisted the urge to clutch her sword arm. “I won’t be late again.”
“No matter. Take a seat, child,” Wyla said. “And tell me again how you came to discover your Spark. I’ve met others whose skills manifested late, but none of them lived above a Fireshop. I assume you tried to Work when you were younger?”
“I tried,” Dara said, pulling up a high-backed wooden chair. She angled her seat so she could catch a glimpse of the clouds amassing outside the window, sweeping toward them on the sea wind. “I wanted to Work more than anything—for a while. My sister could do it, and I thought the Fire was magnificent.”
“Your sister? You haven’t mentioned a sister.”
“She died,” Dara said. “Over ten years ago.”
“Interesting.” Dara noted the distinct lack of sympathy in Wyla’s tone. “You would have been around eight at the time?”
“Yes.”
“A prime age for the Spark to manifest.”
“Yes, but it never did. I used to sneak down to the access point in the shop when my parents were sleeping, but I could never get the Fire to come.” She had tried so hard to access the molten magic. She hadn’t understood why she couldn’t do it, especially after it had come so easily to her sister. She’d loved to watch Renna Work, molding and spinning the Fire above her small hands.
“I wonder if the trauma of your sister’s demise contributed to the delay in your own abilities.” Wyla tapped her knitting needles against each other for a moment as she considered this. Again, no sympathy for Dara’s tragedy was evident in her expression. Only inquisitiveness. “How did your parents respond to your difficulty?”
“They weren’t happy,” Dara said. “They always wanted me to follow in my father’s footsteps.”
“Your mother cannot Work either, correct?”
“That’s right. But she was always involved in the business.” Dara didn’t say just how dedicated Lima Ruminor was to her husband’s cause. The pressure her mother had put on her to embrace the work of the Fire Guild had long been a sore spot for Dara, but it was nothing compared to when she had seen Lima toss a severed head from a window. All for the sake of her father’s ambitions. She shifted uncomfortably, tugging on her rough, salt-washed trousers.
“Hmm.” Wyla studied her, seeming to sense the tension these memories evoked. “I believe there is an emotional component to Working the magical substances,” she said. “It can factor into the way the Artist develops her skills. Your sense of bereavement and subsequent desire to live up to your parents’ expectations could have contributed to your stunted development as well. I shouldn’t say stunted. Delayed is better. Your skills certainly seem to have progressed rapidly.”
“I had a strict teacher for a while,” Dara said.
“Indeed. We will speak more of him another time. I wish to know more about the circumstances surrounding the awakening of your power. This occurred last summer, correct?”
“Yes . . . ” It hadn’t occurred to her that specific events could have triggered it. She had had a remarkably fraught summer. She’d met Siv and discovered her parents were murderous usurpers all around the time that her Spark first appeared. Siv had made her feel special—even powerful—in a way that her parents never had. She wondered if that was part of why her Spark had at last been ready to ignite. Not that she’d share that with Wyla.
“It happened while I was training for a big dueling tournament,” she said instead. “The Vertigon Cup. I was trying to win a patron. When I focus on dueling, it’s a lot like the focus it takes to Work. Do you think that could have triggered it?”
“Perhaps,” Wyla said. “Are you sure nothing else happened then that could have led to the change?”
“Not that I can think of.” Dara avoided Wyla’s gaze, shifting on her hard wooden seat.
Wyla tapped a knitting needle against her lips for a moment.
“Have I given the impression that I am a forgiving woman?” she said, her voice going dangerously quiet.
“Ma’am?”
“Is there a reason you think you can obfuscate the truth when you speak to me?”
“No, ma’am,” Dara said. “Truly, I was training for a big tournament when I first felt the Spark. I’m sure you can verify that the Vertigon Cup is a huge deal for sport duelists.”
Wyla frowned. Dara met her eyes, trying to focus on her memories of those months of training, all the hopes that had ridden on her performance. She dared not think about Siv. She’d already seen Wyla create the bond on her arm, which could tell her location and call Dara to her. If Watermight could do such intangible things, could Wyla also use it to somehow look into her thoughts and figure out she wasn’t telling the full truth?
At last, Wyla broke Dara’s gaze and returned to her knitting. “We will discuss this further. See if you can’t think of anything else that might have induced you to begin wielding magic.”
“I will try.”
“Before we begin our experimentation,” Wyla said, “what do you wish to know about Watermight?”
Dara pulled at her damp clothes. Dare she ask whether Watermight could influence someone’s mind or interpret thoughts? No, it would be better to keep to safer topics. Or more useful ones. Only one question really mattered if Wyla might one day help her overcome her parents.
“Is Watermight stronger than Fire?”
“Stronger?”
“Can one power defeat the other?”
“You mean in direct combat, I presume?”
Dara nodded. The two Ruminor Fire Lanterns seemed to burn brighter as she waited for the answer.
“It depends on the strength of the Wielder and their area of expertise,” Wyla said. “Fireworkers typically learn a trade through apprenticeships: Firespinning, Metalworking, Lantern-making. Everyone can do the basic things, but the longer you spend on one skill, the more difficult it is to learn others, you understand?”
“Yes,” Dara said. “Though some people use multiple skills in a single craft depending on what they make.” Dara’s father had often drawn on other aspects of the craft to help develop his own Works. It was part of what had made his lanterns so unique and sought-after, even as far away as Pendark.
“Waterworkers are less driven by this incessant desire to make things,” Wyla said. “Most of our Art is more fleeting, though no less effective, than Fireworks. But Artists do specialize, and they develop skills that would rival even the most powerful Fireworker—sometimes
in combat. Thanks to their sanctuary atop a mountain, Fireworkers rarely do battle. We are the ones with experience. Brute strength matters less than you might think.”
“How do you fight with Watermight?” Dara asked.
“You’ve already seen it in action.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Come, child. You are a smart girl.” Wyla gave her a dry smile. “I’m sure you know that canals don’t rise up to drop people on islands under normal circumstances.”
“I thought that was you.” Dara remembered that desperate moment when she’d almost been too late to save Siv. She’d begged for help as she charged into the canal. Please. I’ll do anything. Utter desperation had filled her to the brim. Then a rush of water and silver-white power had propelled her forward in time to interrupt Vex Rollendar’s attack. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for your help.”
“I didn’t do it for thanks,” Wyla said. “But we can discuss your payment for that piece of assistance another time.” She met Dara’s eyes steadily, the promise in them undeniable. Then she resumed her knitting. “That wave would be an example of one way in which one fights with Watermight.”
“So you can wash people off their feet,” Dara said. “And drown them?”
“It’s remarkably effective,” Wyla said.
“I can imagine.” Allying with a Waterworker who would drown her father wasn’t quite what Dara had in mind. She wanted to stop her father’s violence, not intensify it. “What else can you do?”
“There will be time enough to discuss combat later,” Wyla said. “I have more questions for you.”
The last hints of daylight faded from the window before Wyla allowed Dara to go change into dry clothes at last. The interview reminded her unpleasantly of when her mother had made her work on the accounts in the lantern shop for hours. She hoped they weren’t going to spend the entirety of the next three months sitting and talking. It would be hard to keep Siv out of the Steel Pentagon if she barely saw him.
