by Jordan Rivet
The crowds quieted at last, and the ten fighters faced each other across the pentagon. Siv forced himself to breathe steadily and focus on their strategy. For a brief moment, he wondered what madness compelled him to do this. But people were counting on him. He would do his part to get them home.
“Stay sharp,” Gull said.
“Sharp as knives,” Kres answered.
The announcer stepped up once more.
“All ready? Let us dance!”
The fight was a whirl of steel and pounding heartbeats. Siv barely formed a coherent thought after it began. All he knew was the thrust of his blade, the flailing of his fists, the felling of his opponents. He felt drunk. Drunk on the roar of the crowd and the speed of the fight and the glint of the steel. He took a blow to the head. Blood streaked down his face and into his collar, but it didn’t slow him. He was nothing but the whirl of steel, the clench of fists, the pounding of his heart. What a rush! No wonder people got obsessed with the Dance of Steel.
And then it was over. Siv had barely gotten his bearings before every member of the opposing team lay in the mud, groaning or gurgling, one lying still. Kres’s team was that good.
The crowds went wild over the decisive victory. They hollered the fighters’ names again and again, voices becoming hoarse. Their faces were a roiling mass of flashing teeth and wide eyes.
Bewildered by the raucous cheers, Siv followed his team out of the pen, almost forgetting to wave. His head spun with the effects of the adrenaline, the drunken rush of battle. He thought he’d stuck to the team’s strategy, but he was having a hard time remembering anything of the fight itself.
“Well fought, well fought,” Kres said. He looked as if his feet might leave the ground at any moment. “Well fought indeed.”
“This is our year,” Fiz said. “I can feel it!”
Even Gull allowed herself a grin. “Not bad.”
After a round of backslapping and congratulations, the fighters scraped the mud and blood off their boots and returned to the tent to gather their gear. People shouted friendly jeers as they strode in.
“Kres is back!”
“Long live Kres the Master!”
Kres accepted their compliments with haughty grace. But he wasn’t the only one drawing attention from the other combatants.
“You’re a real boxer, aren’t you, Siv?” someone called.
“Yeah, nice fist action there.”
“Think you found the wrong sport.”
Siv frowned. “What are they talking about?”
“You got in a decent slug or two, my friend,” Fiz said. He thumped him on the back and went to pour the last of their ale into assorted mugs.
Siv stared after him, rubbing his sore knuckles and trying to picture a moment where he’d actually used them in the fight. He didn’t understand it. He could replay every instant of his solo match, but it was different when he faced so many opponents. He couldn’t really focus on any of them, knowing that someone else could be coming at him from any direction, ready to drive a blade through his ribs or swipe his head from his shoulders. He said as much to Gull.
“Relax,” she said, busy cleaning the blood off her blade. “It’s normal not to remember much about your first few Dances.”
Siv wondered if he’d been hit harder than he realized. “That fellow with the messed-up nose called me a boxer?”
“You took out one of their guys with a punch to the head, and you were pummeling another when Kres finished him off,” Gull said. “It was a bit messy, but the crowds love that sort of thing.”
“Right,” Siv said faintly. “Messy.”
“It’s okay. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“I guess.”
“Just be happy they’re noticing you,” Gull said. “It’s easy for new fighters to get lost in the shuffle their first few Dances. If they’re already talking, you might do well here.”
“Thanks.” Siv touched the coin purse in his pocket. He’d have to give a portion to Kres for his room and board, but he’d put the rest away. He would get home yet. “I’m lucky I found the right team to show me the ropes.”
Gull snorted. “That’s the spirit.”
“Come, friends!” Dellario called to the team. “That’s enough talk. Drinks are on me!”
“Drinks?” Siv definitely couldn’t spend his money carousing, but if other people were going to buy him drinks . . .
“Come along, lad.” The slim man dropped a four-fingered hand on his shoulder. “The taverns in this district are wilder than your dreams, I can tell you that. And I can introduce you to a friend or two. Important people. An enterprising young lad can go far in this city.” Dellario gave him a sly wink. “I can get you an invite to—”
“Our young friend has had a big day.” Kres shouldered in between Dellario and Siv. His red baldric shimmered faintly with fresh blood, and a familiar dangerous light glinted in his eyes. “Let’s not wear him out too soon.”
“Now, Kres,” Dellario said, relinquishing his grip on Siv and stepping back with an even smile. “I didn’t mean to tread on your territory.”
Kres didn’t smile back.
“We’ll be returning to headquarters now. Here’s your portion of the winnings.”
Dellario accepted the coin purse warily. “Much obliged.” He glanced at Siv once more. “You’re new in the city, friend. You’d do well to keep your options open.”
“Run along, now,” Kres said. “Friend.”
Dellario smiled. “See you again, Sivren.” He bowed mockingly to Kres and disappeared into the crowd.
“What was that about?” Siv asked when he was gone.
“Never you mind, lad,” Kres said. “You’d do well to remember who brought you here, though. And where you come from.” He shot Siv a look and then sauntered off before Siv could ask exactly what Kres knew about where he came from.
5.
Far Plains Stronghold
PRINCESS Selivia Amintelle trailed her fingers along the battlements of the Far Plains Stronghold. The sun hovered lazily above the Rock. The towering monolith dwarfed the sandstone walls of the fortress. She could make out the colors of the magnificent cliff paintings on its side when the sun was right, but late-afternoon shadows hid the paintings now.
She desperately wanted to climb the winding stone steps to the base of the Rock and scale the cliff with the help of the ladders attached to its sheer face. Not that her mother would ever let her do that. Perhaps she could sneak out through the back gate of the fortress.
That’ll never work. The Stronghold guards were too vigilant. Fighting had been reported on the plains in the days since the occupation of Rallion City. The clashes between the Truren cavalry and the army of Soole were getting closer. Tension filled the Stronghold, quivering in the sandstone walls, whispering through the shadowy corridors. Selivia would never be let out again.
She circled the fortress. The vast expanse of the Truren Horseplains shimmered, yellow and gold, around her. The wind hissed through the grasses in the distance, carrying the first fresh hints of spring.
A tuft of dust bloomed in the distance. Selivia leaned over the battlements to watch the rider approach. It took a long time for him to cross the plain from the horizon, his horse kicking up dirt with every stride. Selivia wished she could ride across those plains with the wind in her face, her scarf streaming behind her. She took off the bright-yellow one she wore today and let it wave in the wind, enjoying the striking contrast with the robin-egg blue of the sky. The rider drew nearer to the walls far beneath her.
Suddenly, a sharp gust of wind snatched the scarf from her hand. It sailed away, carried on the plains wind.
“Blast,” Selivia said. “That was my favorite.”
“You shouldn’t use such language, my lady.”
Selivia jumped. “Oh, I didn’t see you there, Fenn.”
“Perhaps you should come inside, Princess,” said Fenn Hurling, her bodyguard, as she came up beside her. “You shouldn’t
spend so much idle time out here.”
Selivia stopped herself just short of sticking out her lower lip and pouting. “What am I going to do inside? Mother won’t even let me dye my hair anymore.”
Fenn chuckled. “You have your studies.”
“I finished my reading for today.”
“What about your harp? You haven’t practiced in—”
“What’s the point?” Selivia folded her arms and slumped against the sandstone wall. “I’m locked in this tower while everyone else is out there doing important things. Who cares if I can play the harp?”
“I love to hear you play, Princess.”
“I’m sorry, Fenn.” Selivia heaved a sigh. “I know you’re trying to cheer me up. But I can’t stand all this waiting. There’s a war out there, and it has been ages since we had news from—”
“Princess Selivia! There is news!” Zala Toven, her handmaid and language tutor, hurried out onto the ramparts to join them.
“Finally!” Selivia sprang forward. “I hoped that was a messenger down there.”
“Yes, he—what happened to your scarf, my lady?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Selivia quickly smoothed down her dark hair, which blew wild in the wind. “What’s the news?”
“I’m not sure. Your lady mother wishes to see you.”
“It’s about time.”
Selivia and Fenn followed Zala into the Stronghold. It had been ages since the Soolens attacked Rallion City and the Far Plains garrison rode out to patrol the surrounding prairies. They’d received precious little communication since then. Selivia had thought her grandfather, King Atrin, would keep the Soolens at bay. She was scared stiff of him half the time. The Soolens would be too if they knew what was good for them, but they had occupied his city with little trouble. What were they up to now? Her heart raced as they hurried through the austere corridors.
Instead of taking her to her mother’s sitting room, Zala led her down the winding staircase that corkscrewed through the center of the Stronghold’s main tower. Servants and soldiers ran back and forth on the stairs. The burst of activity was strange after all the sitting and waiting of the past weeks. Many people looked nervous, or even outright scared. Selivia stared as a severe serving woman hurried past her with a bundle of freshly fletched arrows in her arms. Just what kind of news had that messenger brought?
Zala herself, normally a pleasant and unflappable presence, seemed nervous. She clutched the soft brown folds of her skirt as she stepped aside to allow half a dozen armed men to pass them on the stairs. The soldiers smelled strongly of sweat and boot polish, and the creaking of their leather jerkins echoed in the stairwell. Excitement and fear mixed in their eyes.
Selivia noticed Fenn resting her hand on her sword hilt as the soldiers passed. That was strange. These were her Uncle Valon’s men. She was in no danger here. Fortunately, the men paid little attention to the princess’s female bodyguard, and they continued down the stairs unchallenged.
Zala turned onto a wide landing and led her to the stark war room where Uncle Valon strategized with his officers. Selivia had never been allowed in this room in the daytime before—though she’d snuck in for a peek with her brother once during a childhood visit. The flurry of activity here was more controlled than that in the corridors, but no less urgent. Men in uniforms bent over maps and moved bits of wood across them like mijen tiles. The walls were bare, unlike in the living areas of the Stronghold, where colorful tapestries softened the harsh stone.
Uncle Valon, a bony man with a long, pointed nose, was arguing with a pair of gruff, old officers. They all looked terribly serious. A slim young man covered in dust stood beside them. He must be the messenger.
Before Selivia could take more than three steps into the room, her mother pounced, pulling her to the side. Tirra, the former Queen of Vertigon, was a beautiful woman, but her face had become increasingly pinched and drawn over the past few weeks. Despite Selivia’s prodding, she had never given up her somber black gowns even after they learned that her sister, Sora, was alive. The former queen glanced around, apparently worried that someone would overhear, then pulled her daughter a little closer.
“You must prepare to leave at once.”
“Leave? What are you talking about, Mother?”
“The Soolen army is marching on our gates. They will be here within the hour.”
“They can’t actually get in, can they?” Selivia looked around at her uncle and all of his strong military men. Surely the Soolens weren’t foolish enough to think they could capture the Stronghold itself. “This is the safest fortress on the continent.”
“Your grandfather is a captive,” her mother said. “I fear he has told the Soolens of some weakness.”
“Can’t Uncle Valon stop them?”
“The Soolens have defeated our cavalry again and again.” Tirra glanced around and lowered her voice. “Their campaign has been far too successful. Something isn’t right.”
Selivia could hardly believe it. The whole point in coming to this far-off hunk of rock in the first place was that it was impenetrable. Plenty of the estates spread across the plains were supposed to be more vulnerable. Why were the Soolens coming here? And more importantly . . .
“What are we going to do?”
“You must leave the Stronghold,” her mother said. “I cannot risk you being captured.”
“But—”
“There is no time to argue.” Tirra began ushering Selivia toward the door. “You must forget your name and hide until this is all over. Zala!”
“Yes, my queen?”
Selivia’s handmaid appeared at their side.
“You must take her. You know the way?”
“Yes, my queen.”
“The way where?” Selivia demanded. Zala didn’t seem nearly as surprised about this as she was. Neither did Fenn, who had edged in front of them, blocking them from the view of the men in the war room.
“Somewhere safe,” her mother said. “Safer than here.”
Selivia feared her mother had gone mad. Where on the continent could be safer than the Far Plains Stronghold? It didn’t make any sense!
“You must hide.” Her mother rested a hand on Zala’s shoulder. “Zala will take you. Do as she says.”
“What about you?”
“I am staying here.”
“But—”
“My presence may appease Commander Brach for a time.”
“I don’t want—”
“There is no time.” Tirra squeezed her hand tightly enough to hurt. “The army was right on the heels of that messenger. They are moving far faster than we expected. Fenn?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Watch out for her. Zala’s people will shelter you, but be wary.”
“Of course, my lady. The princess is safe with me.”
Tirra met the woman’s eyes for a moment then nodded.
Before Selivia could demand that they quit talking over her, Uncle Valon extracted himself from his discussion and strode over to join them.
“You shouldn’t let my niece into the war room, Tirra.” He put a bony hand on his sister’s shoulder. She stiffened at his touch in a way Selivia had never seen before. The sight made fear flutter through her belly.
“I didn’t want her to worry while everyone kept busy with their preparations,” Tirra said. “I’m sending her up to her room to take refuge.”
“Of course,” Uncle Valon said. “You needn’t fear, little lady. You’ll be safe and well in my Stronghold.”
Selivia gaped at him until her mother pinched her hand.
“Uh, thank you,” she said and dropped into a curtsy for good measure.
Uncle Valon nodded and strode back to join his men. Selivia’s mother waited until he was out of earshot before speaking again.
“No one may know you’re leaving,” she whispered. “Now that he has seen you, he won’t think of you again until you are far away from here.”
“What abo
ut you?” If her mother didn’t trust her own brother, Selivia certainly didn’t want to leave her here with him.
“I’ll be fine,” Tirra said. “Quickly. Stay close to Fenn and Zala. They will watch out for you.”
Selivia flung her arms around her mother’s willowy waist and held her tight. She had resolved to be brave during this war. She had spent most of it staring at the plains while other people went into battle. It was time for her to prove that she was as strong as her siblings.
Her mother returned the hug briefly then pushed her toward the door. Tears welled in her eyes, but she brushed them away quickly. She squeezed Selivia’s hand one more time then straightened her back and strode over to the map table.
Selivia stared after her mother as she floated among the military men like a beautiful black shadow. Zala tugged urgently on her sleeve. It was time to go.
They hurried out of the war room and down two more levels on the main staircase. Zala paused while a pair of Air Sensors passed them on the stairs, their movements serene compared to the frenzy of the soldiers and servants. As soon as they rounded the bend, Zala led the way through a small doorway to a narrower staircase. They passed a few servants here who were clearly preoccupied with the attack. The Soolens would be here soon.
Selivia kept her head down, but everyone was too busy to pay attention to the princess in the servants’ corridor. They headed toward the kitchens. She’d been caught sneaking snacks there a time or two. Hopefully no one would think anything of her presence.
When the kitchen door came into view, Zala ducked into a small room off the corridor. Three satchels full of supplies and three changes of clothing waited for them on the bed. Zala handed the clothes to Selivia and Fenn and began unbuttoning her own dress.
“How long have you been planning this?” Selivia asked.
“Your lady mother and I discussed it on our way to the Stronghold,” Zala said. “She asked me to be ready at a moment’s notice.”
