by Jordan Rivet
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see. There’s no time to talk.”
Selivia quickly donned the simple dress, which was free of the ruffles she had adopted with enthusiasm in Trure. It was a light-tan color, not at all like the vibrant outfits Zala usually chose for her. She slipped it on and covered her hair in a dusky-blue scarf, wrapping it a few extra times to conceal her dark curls.
Zala had selected a dress for Fenn too. It was the first time Selivia had ever seen her bodyguard wear one. Fenn wrapped a scarf around her red hair and strapped a pair of belt knives at her waist. Zala handed her a shawl to conceal the weapons. Fenn’s bulk would make her stand out no matter what, but with the dress, scarf, and shawl, she could almost be a Truren innkeeper instead of a skilled guardswoman.
Zala changed into a dress that matched Selivia’s and put on a light-green scarf, not bothering to hide her pale-brown hair completely. At sixteen, she was two years older than Selivia, and they could almost be sisters if you didn’t look too closely.
“Are you ready?” Zala asked.
“Lead the way.”
In truth, Selivia wasn’t ready at all. Why had her mother suddenly decided she couldn’t trust her own brother to keep them safe from a foreign enemy? The Soolens couldn’t truly capture the Stronghold, could they? Selivia didn’t understand how the invaders had gotten so far in the first place. As her mother had said, something wasn’t right.
Despite her worries, she couldn’t help feeling a burst of exhilaration as they strode through the kitchens in their disguises. Not a single person offered her a bow or even looked twice at her. True, most of the cooks and scullery maids were busy chattering about the coming siege and taking hasty inventory of their supplies. They might not have noticed if she waltzed through in a ball gown with a whole company of guards.
On the opposite side of the kitchens, they found yet another staircase leading down to the ground level of the stronghold, which was entirely occupied with the soldiers’ barracks and armory. They hurried out to the grounds. Men charged back and forth, as nervous and talkative as the cooks had been. Still, no one challenged them.
Their troubles were sure to begin when they reached the gates. The Stronghold walls only had two: the main east-facing gate and the smaller doorway that led out to Stronghold Town, the village that rested to the west between the Rock and the fortress. Both gates were heavily guarded. Selivia doubted the guards would let a trio of “washerwomen” out as the Soolen army bore down on them.
They approached the west gate across the Stronghold’s practice yard. Men marched across it in hurried single file, the spring sunshine glittering on their weapons and making their sweaty foreheads shine. The guards posted atop the walls didn’t look as though they’d open the gates for the Firelord himself. Zala studied them, her mouth tightening with concern. They would never make it out!
Suddenly, a flash of silver zipped through the air, and one of the guards toppled off the wall. Shouts rose all along the balustrade as more flashes of silver darted through the air. Selivia froze, unable to look away. She was too surprised to feel afraid. She hadn’t realized arrows would look quite so shiny when they zipped into a man’s heart. Another guard fell from the walls and landed with a wet crack.
Zala seized Selivia’s arm and pulled her out of the practice yard.
“Quickly. We’re too late.” She pushed open the door to a stable bordering the practice yard.
“We’re riding?” Selivia asked.
Zala put a finger to her lips. “Horses won’t fit through the tunnel.”
She led them swiftly past rows of snorting horses toward the back of the stable. Only half the stalls were occupied. The rest of the horses must be out on the plains with the men trying to hold back the Soolen army.
Men continued to shout and scream out by the walls. Some of them must be dying. Shock shot through Selivia as if it were an arrow. How had the bowmen gotten through Stronghold Town so quickly?
Zala didn’t seem worried at all. Her hips suddenly took on a swaying, seductive quality as she approached a young soldier standing watch at the back of the stable. He stared at her, eyes widening. Before he could so much as ask her what she wanted, she closed the distance between them reached up to touch his face. Selivia couldn’t see what she was doing, but an instant later, the man collapsed into the straw and began snoring peacefully. Zala tucked a small bottle back into her belt.
“Quickly,” she said. “That won’t work for long.” She tugged the soldier aside and heaved open a trapdoor in the floor. A yawning darkness greeted them.
Fenn advanced to the tunnel without hesitation. She hiked up her skirts to get them out of her way and dropped into the darkness.
“All clear,” she called softly.
Zala held out a hand to Selivia. “Come along, Princess.”
Selivia wanted to stand and gape, but the sounds of the battle outside were growing more frantic. “Are you sure?”
“It’ll be okay,” Zala said. “I’ve gone through the tunnels before.”
Selivia struggled with sudden misgivings. Did she truly know her handmaiden? Her mother had brought Zala back from Trure to help Selivia learn the Far Plains language. They had bonded quickly over their love of clothes. Zala had excellent taste, and she loved colorful things almost as much as Selivia did. But there was no sign of the frivolous young woman who had squealed and schemed over gowns now.
“You owe me an explanation for all this madness,” Selivia said. She went to the opening and sat, her feet swinging over blackness. She had wanted her time at the Stronghold to be more interesting. Well, she had just gotten her wish.
Selivia closed her eyes, imagining that she was a spy in a storybook about to set out on a daring mission. The thought made her brave, and she pushed off the edge and dropped into the tunnel.
She landed on soft dirt. Fenn put a hand on her arm to steady her. They took a few steps into utter darkness together to make way for Zala. Dexterous as a cat, she somehow managed to swing into the opening and pull the trapdoor down with her. She hung at the edge for a moment then let the trapdoor slam as she released her grip and dropped to the ground.
Utter darkness swallowed them. Selivia clutched Fenn’s hand, grateful for her soft warmth in the darkness.
“I have a light,” Zala whispered. “Let’s walk a few paces before we use it in case someone looks down here.”
“Which way?” Selivia asked. She was sure the others could hear her heart pounding in the darkness. Footsteps thudded overhead. Was that from the practice yard or the stable itself?
“Follow my voice.” Zala had slipped around them somehow, and she was moving west as far as Selivia could tell. “The ground is smooth here,” Zala said. “You won’t fall.”
Selivia and Fenn held hands as they shuffled slowly after Zala. She spoke every few seconds to let them know she was still ahead of them. Selivia could hardly believe she had been pouting on the battlements less than an hour ago and now she was creeping away from the fortress through an underground tunnel. She wished her mother had come with them. If Selivia wasn’t safe in the Stronghold, she didn’t think her mother would be either.
A scraping sound echoed up the tunnel behind them. Selivia froze. Was someone following them? The Soolens couldn’t have breached the walls already, could they? Her heart thundered so loudly, she could barely hear anything else. But the scraping sound didn’t come again. Maybe it was nothing.
Besides, she had resolved to be brave. This was a real, true adventure, the first of her life! She’d been sad when Dara hadn’t invited her along on her quest to save Siv after she escaped the palace dungeon. Well, Selivia would show everyone that she could take care of herself too—as long as she had Fenn and Zala with her, of course.
They continued through the tunnel in utter darkness. The only sounds were the shuffling of their feet on the dirt, the pounding of Selivia’s heart, and Fenn’s heavy, steady breathing. Zala made no sound at all, except when she whis
pered to let them know she was still ahead.
After what felt like a hundred years, Zala spoke in a normal voice. “I don’t think we were followed. There’s a bend in the tunnel here. I’ll get out my light as soon as we go around it.”
Selivia let go of Fenn to feel for the cool stone in front of her so she wouldn’t bump into anything. It was rough beneath her fingers, and sand sifted away as she followed the curve of the wall around the bend.
At last, Zala took out an Everlight and released its glow into the tunnel. The light revealed a long, narrow passageway. The stone walls were polished smooth and gleaming, as if hundreds of years’ worth of hands had fumbled their way along them. Strange shapes were carved in places, perhaps markers to guide their way through the darkness. Zala herself looked otherworldly, like a witch from a story who had lured them into her underground lair. It was hard to believe this was the girl Selivia had giggled and gossiped with over the past few months, the girl who had been a companion and a comfort in uncertain times.
“Will you please tell me where we’re going?”
“The far side of the Rock,” Zala said. “My people will shelter us until the war is over.”
“I thought your people lived in Stronghold Town,” Selivia said. “You always talked about growing up in the shadow of the Rock.”
Zala smiled. “The far shadow. The journey will take time. I’m afraid we’ll have to travel underground until we reach the center of the Rock.”
“The center?” Selivia gaped at her. The Rock was a solid mass. Surely she didn’t mean . . .
“There’s a network of caves,” Zala said, “but most people live outside on the sunset side.” She glanced around the grim walls of their tunnel. “We don’t like being trapped inside like this.”
“Are you telling me the Far Plainsfolk have a tunnel leading all the way into the Stronghold itself?” She looked at Fenn, who appeared as calm as ever. “Does everyone know about this except me?”
“No,” Zala said. “This is an ancient secret. You mustn’t mention it to anyone on the other side. We will tell them we left days earlier and traveled around the Rock. This is very important, Princess.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Selivia said. “But how do you know about it?”
“It’s part of my job.”
“Your job as a handmaid and language tutor?”
Zala smiled. “It’s a little more complicated than that. The important thing is that your mother trusts me, and I intend to keep you safe. The rest will become clear soon.”
“Well, let’s get going, then!” Selivia said, preparing to march into the unknown at the other end of the tunnel. “I hope you packed something to eat in these satchels. All this adventure is making me hungry.”
6.
Working
DARA stood by a large table in Wyla’s study, slowly draining molten power from a basket of Firebulbs. The lights winked out one by one as the Fire seeped into her veins, running hot beneath her skin. Firebulbs were the best way to get the power, apart from Rumy. The cur-dragon’s strange version of the substance was still unpredictable, difficult to control. And Wyla demanded absolute control from her new research assistant.
“That’s enough for now,” she said when Dara finished drawing the Fire from her seventh bulb.
“I can hold more.”
“No need. Now, tell me how you feel.”
Dara breathed, concentrating. The Fire rushing through her was thrilling, its heat intoxicating, overwhelming. She wanted more, wanted to demonstrate how powerful she could become.
She forced down the thought, reminding herself that her father’s desire for more power had ended the Peace of Vertigon and turned him into a murderer. She wouldn’t be like that. The Fire was a tool, a material to be crafted, nothing more.
Wyla cleared her throat, rustling the piece of parchment spread before her.
“It’s like blood,” Dara began. “Liquid and hot, but smooth. Maybe more like oil than blood?”
Wyla scribbled some notes. “And you can actually feel it running through your veins?”
“Yes. I guess that means it’s not like blood. And I can feel it underneath my skin.” Dara let the power pool in her hand and seep out of the cracks in her palm. “I can make it ooze out like sweat. It’s strange because it’s thicker than water, but I don’t know how else to describe it.”
“How do you feel? Energized? Drained?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”
Dara frowned, paying attention to the sensations, focusing on the details lest the furious rush sweep her away. “I guess it’s like how I feel after a particularly tough run,” she said at last. “My face flushes, and my heart beats faster, but the sensation goes through my entire body.”
“You mentioned that it’s hot,” Wyla said. “Tell me more about that.”
“Well, heat in general is different to me now,” Dara said. “Hot things don’t burn me, and I can hold a lot of Fire in my body before I ever feel uncomfortable. I can touch coals, and boiling liquids like soup or tea don’t hurt if they touch my skin. At the same time, I know the Fire is hot, and I can feel it like heat in my body.”
“Exactly how hot?” Wyla asked. “Boiling?”
Dara frowned. “I can’t tell how it would feel to a normal person. I don’t know how much this would hurt you if you touched it.” She extended her palm toward Wyla, revealing the pool of Fire cupped in it, glistening like molten gold.
“It would hurt,” Wyla said. “But not as much as it would hurt someone without my abilities.”
“Really? Can you protect yourself with the Watermight?”
Wyla didn’t answer. She often didn’t answer Dara’s questions. She simply ignored her and picked another Firebulb out of the basket. “Do another, very slowly this time.”
Dara obliged, first pulling the handful of Fire back into her skin and then slowly draining the power out of the new Firebulb. Wyla watched closely, eyes glittering like a thunderbird’s. The Firebulb went dark. Dara’s skin hummed with the additional power.
“Did you do anything to ready yourself before you drew in the Fire?” Wyla asked, quill poised to write once more.
“Ready myself?”
“Such as meditation, or perhaps you steeled yourself against the heat?”
“No, not really.” Dara turned the empty Firebulb in her hands, no more than a hunk of metal now. “It’s . . . it’s something I welcome, not something I steel myself against. I invite it in. I’ve always wanted to Work the Fire, so maybe that’s part of it.”
“Perhaps.” Wyla didn’t sound convinced by that theory. “Now, you have eight Firebulbs of power within you, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want you to create one of those Fireblossoms like the one you inserted into the statue in Fork Town. Allow it to spin here in the air between us. Keep it as stable as possible, if you please.”
Dara did as she was told. First she formed the basic shape with thin spirals of Fire. The molten substance coiled above her palm, expanded, blossomed. She didn’t use all of the power, leaving some to simmer beneath her skin. Next she spun the object. She had figured out this part was easier if she held the Fire in her body first than if she simply Worked with Fire she hadn’t absorbed before. She told Wyla as much as she spun the completed Fireblossom between them.
“I’ve observed the same effect with Watermight,” Wyla said. “The powers respond better when they’re more closely linked with the Artist or Worker’s physiology.”
“And you think Watermight Workers and Fireworkers have the same physiology?”
Wyla went as still as a stone gargoyle for a moment. Then she set down her quill and looked up.
“I have never said that.”
“It was just a guess,” Dara said. “You’ve talked about wanting to Work the powers together. But you’ve shown a lot more interest in my background, particularly my delayed abilities. I thought that was why you want
ed to work with me specifically. I’m sure other Fireworkers travel through Pendark all the time. But you really wanted my help.”
Wyla made a soft sound, somewhere between a sniff and a sigh. Maybe she hadn’t expected Dara to work this part out on her own.
“Slow the spinning of your Blossom, please,” she said.
Dara obeyed. The spiral glowed gold between them. Dara had formed it to look more like a snowflake than a flower, with jagged spires sticking out in all directions. Firelight glowed from the fractal pattern, the effect somewhat muted by the blaze of the Fire Lanterns hanging overhead.
Wyla lifted her hand almost lazily. A thin rim of silver appeared beneath her fingernails, and Watermight oozed from her fingertips. Dara watched closely. She still wasn’t sure how Wyla stored and transported her power. Unlike Fire, Watermight was supposed to be difficult to contain. It couldn’t simply be sealed up in barrels and shipped around like wine, even though it appeared to be the consistency—if not the color—of ordinary water.
Five streams of shimmery silver poured from Wyla’s fingertips, weaving together in a braid, looping and twisting over her hands. The Watermight emitted a faint light, which danced in Wyla’s eyes and made her white hair glow. Dara nearly lost control of her Fireblossom, so mesmerizing was the magical substance curling and twining in the air.
Wyla extended her palm and allowed her braid of silver to drift closer to Dara’s Fireblossom. The brightness of the Fire didn’t dim the silvery-white light at all, as if neither substance could absorb the light of the other. They inched closer. The five threads of Watermight merged, and what looked like a rope of pure silver snaked around the Fireblossom. It looped around the spiral, weaving through the gaps, coiling like a snake, but didn’t actually touch it. Then it curled inward around the core of the Fireblossom, a ring of silver encircling the gold.
“Brace yourself,” Wyla said.
Before Dara could ask why, the cord of Watermight tightened and made contact with the Fire.
Light flashed between them, silver and gold and white. A shockwave rolled over Dara’s skin, not strong enough to push her off her feet, but enough to make her hair stir.
