by Jordan Rivet
As they neared their destination, she turned her attention to the orderly camp below. The Vertigonians were preparing for the day’s march along the High Road. Gold flashed throughout the camp as the soldiers used Fireworks to warm their breakfasts. The sight sent a twinge of homesickness through Dara’s heart. In other circumstances, she might have been among these men, marching alongside her father. She might have shared in his Work. She might have sought the same ambitions.
No point trying to change the past. She had to stay focused. The man leading that army may be her father, but she could not ignore everything else that he was. And the familiarity of those Fireworkers couldn’t obscure the terrible things they’d done in his service.
Dara tapped Surri’s shoulder, and they descended toward the glowing center of the camp. Faces turned upward, and shouts of surprise greeted them as the great black dragon swooped lower. Soldiers surged to their feet, and Fire streamed from the troughs to the hands of nervous Workers.
Before they could unleash any of it at her, Dara released the Fire she’d gathered from Rumy. It curled in the air below Surri’s chest, forming a message for her father.
“This is Dara Ruminor. I am here to talk.”
She had considered using a white flag, but she wasn’t entirely sure this would be a peaceful conference. Besides, she’d never seen her father write a message in the sky with Fire before. He was sure to be impressed.
The message worked. A ring of soldiers quickly formed up, leaving a clear space for the Cindral dragon to land directly on the High Road. The soldiers tensed as Surri’s claws hit the dirt, swords and bows at the ready. Whispers spread through them when they recognized who rode on the dragon’s back.
Nightfall, they said. Nightfall the duelist has returned.
A group of Fireworkers hurried toward her through the ring of soldiers. Dara could sense their bodies brimming with power from her perch. She purposely hadn’t carried a lot of Fire to this meeting because she didn’t want them to know how much she could control. She waited, her body shimmering with tension, as they drew nearer.
One of the Workers, a Firestick Maker from Village Peak, was ushered to the front of group. He looked as if he’d rather squirt Fireroot juice in his eyes than get any closer to the dragon. He cleared his throat. “What is your purpose here?”
“I am Dara Ruminor,” she announced. “I wish to speak with my father on behalf of King Sivarrion Amintelle of Vertigon.”
The Worker retreated quickly. He and his colleagues murmured amongst themselves, and Dara sensed fear and anticipation in their ranks. They wore a mix of standard Vertigonian military garb and garish Firegold decorations, as if they were eager to show off the recent rise in their stations. Their grandiosity deflated somewhat in the face of the strange girl astride a feathered dragon.
At last, the Workers sent one of their number back into the mass of soldiers gathering to witness the commotion. It seemed as though every man in the army had abandoned their work around the camp and pushed in close to see the dragon. They buzzed like a swarm of zur-wasps, still repeating Dara’s name over and over again. Then a sudden hush snuffed out the noise. The crowd split as every soldier and Fireworker stepped aside to make way for their leader.
And there he was. Rafe Ruminor. Lantern Maker. Chief Regent. Uncrowned King. Conqueror. Her father.
Rafe walked slowly toward her. Dara had hoped he would appear smaller now that she’d seen so much of the world. Instead, he seemed larger, as if the expansion of his influence and the incredible gains he had made with the Fire had added inches to his height and breadth to his shoulders.
And his eyes. His eyes burned with the same intensity Dara had always known. She saw the unchecked ambition, the unleashed potential, the triumph bordering on madness. And pride. The fierce pride in his eyes stole the words right out of her mouth. For an instant, she saw herself reflected in those eyes: his daughter astride a night-black creature from the stories, able to spin delicate swirls of Fire from her fingertips while swooping down on an army utterly alone. Dara’s father looked straight at her, and he was proud.
“Hello, my young spark.”
Struggling to collect her thoughts, Dara pulled the Fire she’d used for her message back toward her. As she drew the small stream of heat into her palms, it struck her how easily she performed such a Work now. She had spent years trying to draw on the Fire, years trying to be good enough to use the power—largely out of a desire to please the man standing before her now.
She swung her legs over the rough ridge of Surri’s back and slid to the ground. She knew her father had far more Fire than she could possibly fight in his possession. She knew he might kill her. But she still hoped there was a chance to end this without a fight. Otherwise, her family would never be restored. Yen’s words came back to her again: Hold on to the things you love more than the power.
Surri shuffled her feathered wings impatiently. Rumy was hiding in her shadow, hoping to go unnoticed while all eyes were on the Cindral dragon. Dara patted Surri’s neck once more for courage and strode forward a few paces.
The soldiers and Fireworkers were whispering excitedly to each other, but Dara and her father had eyes only for each other. She stopped directly in front of Surri so the dragon’s wings framed her. She wore all black, her Savven blade displayed prominently at her hip. She also wore the pendant Siv had bought for her in a gem shop in Rallion City before Rafe razed it to the ground. Dara wasn’t just representing herself today. She came before her father for the sake of everyone he had hurt in the service of his ambitions.
Rafe wore a fine coat of deep gray, with black embroidery at the wrists. He didn’t have a crown, but he looked like a king. The Lantern King, surrounded by his army and his new dominion.
“I hoped this day would come,” Rafe said. “Are you here to join me at last, my young spark?”
“I come on behalf of His Majesty King Sivarrion of Vertigon,” Dara said. She forced herself to stand tall, forced her voice to sound cold. She modeled it on her mother’s, and from the flash of surprise in her father’s eyes, she knew she’d hit the target dead on.
“Rafe Ruminor, you stand accused of the murder of King Sevren Amintelle, the attempted murder of King Sivarrion Amintelle, and conspiracy to usurp your rightful ruler. Furthermore, you stand accused of crimes against Trure, the longstanding ally of Vertigon and of conspiring with Commander Brach, the renegade Soolen war criminal.”
A few of the Fireworkers stirred at that. So not everyone knew about the alliance between Commander Brach and the Ruminors. They may not believe it given that Rafe had turned on Brach and eventually destroyed him, but Dara intended to do this right. Stating her father’s crimes would help her accept that he deserved to fall for them.
“I am hereby charged by the king to bring you to justice.” She drew a breath, growing more confident as she spoke. “Your men may return to Vertigon peacefully so we can begin repairing the damage done to our historic alliances. All will be spared providing they swear oaths of allegiance to King Siv and vow to uphold his rightful position.”
“Rightful.” Her father’s voice was so soft that Dara took an involuntary step forward to hear it better. “You speak of this boy’s right to rule as though it is as certain as the rising sun. I have seen rising suns. I have created them, with my Art. A king has no more right to govern than I. We have allowed tradition and convention to dictate our leadership for generations. But the Amintelle forefathers seized the throne not with merit but with power and treachery—precisely the same power and treachery I have employed.”
“But this Amintelle king is good, as was his father,” Dara said. “They ruled with benevolence, justice, and wisdom. You have brought only violence.”
“Perhaps,” Rafe said. “Though technically I do not rule Vertigon at all. Queen Soraline bears the crown. She has proven herself to be just, benevolent, and wise. Should she not have a right to the throne that equals her brother’s? Why are you speaking out for
this Amintelle?”
“I . . .” Dara faltered. Many of the gathered soldiers had nodded at Sora’s name, along with a few of the Fireworkers.
Her father smiled. “Surely you ought to see whether Soraline’s wisdom and benevolence outweigh that of her foolish brother and his ‘rightful’ position as the oldest son before you speak to me of justice.”
“Do you expect me to believe you won’t take control from Queen Sora?” Dara reminded herself that Sora was a puppet, and her father was well on his way to conquering his own kingdom. She couldn’t let him mess with her head. “Won’t you usurp her too and justify it because your own innate power is so great?”
The crowd of soldiers waited, breathless.
“What will you do if I say yes?” Rafe said quietly. “Take control from me yourself?”
Dara was conscious of the dragon at her back, of the well of Watermight she had fought to acquire and carry, of the skills she had practiced, all leading up to a magical confrontation she couldn’t figure out how to prevent.
She met her father’s eyes. “If I have to.”
Neither of them moved, neither willing to attack first. Rafe still didn’t hold any power, and Dara had only the remnants of her Fire-scrawled words. She hadn’t really expected her father to surrender when she listed out his crimes, but she had to give him the chance. She wanted so desperately for him to do the right thing, to show that he wasn’t as bad as she feared.
She held her breath, waiting for the attack.
Please don’t do it.
A slight smile played on Rafe’s lips, as if he sensed her turmoil. He must realize she didn’t want to fight him. But he didn’t know what she had in store if it came to that.
Dara reached out to Surri, as if absently scratching her nose. She felt the Watermight welling within the creature’s massive body, pushing toward her, begging to be wielded after being carried so far from its source.
She kept her eyes on her father.
Please don’t.
Then she felt it. A sudden jerking sensation tugged at her stomach as a torrent of Fire shot toward her father faster than she believed possible. He yanked the substance from every Fireworker in his entourage with such force they were left gasping. The Fire rushed through him like wind in a canyon, and he spun it toward Dara faster than a lightning strike.
She was ready. She spread her arms wide, allowing as much of the Fire as she could possibly hold to flow into her from her father’s attack. It burned in her body, flooding her veins, as intoxicating as wine and as hot as the sun. She drank it in, welcomed it home.
The flood cut off abruptly when her father saw she was taking in the Fire, using it to make herself strong.
“Very good,” he whispered.
Dara didn’t respond, too busy wrestling the sudden rush of Fire into submission. It felt glorious. It had been far too long since she had this much Fire in her veins. It made her think of Siv, of being with him, of the way his kisses made her body tremble. She held onto the passion the thought of him stirred, used it to make her stronger still. Find the thing you love more than the power.
Rafe nodded approvingly, sensing that Dara was in control. Unlike the last time they had faced each other, she could bend the Fire to her will instead of allowing the heat to overwhelm her. He acknowledged it. Then he launched his next attack.
Spikes of pure Fire shot toward her. These couldn’t hurt her, but she cut them from the air anyway, using razors of blazing light to stop their flight. More and more darts shot toward her in a hundred different sizes and shapes, all flying at different speeds. The assault might have confused another Worker, but she was a duelist. She had excellent timing. She shot the spikes from the air dozens at a time and hurled them to the ground, where they scattered in the dirt as harmless as blades of grass.
Sweat dripped down Dara’s forehead as her father shot still more Fire spikes at her. She cut them down one after another. He didn’t add metal, so they wouldn’t pierce her Firesparked skin if they reached her, but the pace never let up. This was a test of her speed and magical agility.
A test. The moment the thought occurred to her, Dara made it all stop. Instead of blocking the attacks individually, she raised both hands and grabbed hold of the magical substance with her mind the way Zage Lorrid had first taught her, halting the spikes in their tracks. She felt a faint stirring of air around her, perhaps even of Air. For an instant, it looked as though a field of golden stars hung between her and her father.
He withdrew the attack, the test, pulling the Fire back toward him again. He met her eyes and nodded his approval for the second time. As he did, Dara saw a hint of warning in his eyes, like a duelist’s tell before a lunge. And then came the third attack. The real attack.
A wave of pure heat emanated from Rafe’s body as a knot of Fire formed before him, larger than his head and blindingly bright. Spirals curled outward from the blazing ball of magic, grasping like hands, binding like chains, spinning like whirlpools. Floods of molten power split from the center and divided again and again, twining into ever more intricate patterns. The tendrils of Fire reached out to seize metal items—swords, belt buckles, arrowheads, even water canteens—from the surrounding area, melting them into new shapes within seconds. The metals glowed as hot as the Fire itself. They formed a Fire Lantern here, a shower of metal rain there, the skeleton of a dragon wrought in Fire and steel. The shapes rotated around a hot core brighter and fiercer than the sun itself.
Dara knew at once she was outmatched. This was a display of the precise control and mature skill her father had been developing over a lifetime. Here was the talent she had always known she couldn’t equal with her level of training. Rafe knew it too. He was showing off what he could do, luxuriating in his strength before he dealt the final blow. And deal it he would.
An armory’s worth of steel was melted in that writing mass of Fire, which was now almost as big as Surri. It would hurt Dara just as much as any other person when it bit into her flesh. Dara felt the searing pain of rejection deep in her soul. That was her father preparing to launch a deadly weapon at his own daughter. The test was over. Rafe was ready for blood, for death, for victory.
The monstrous sun of Fire and steel moved toward Dara, morphing so fast she couldn’t identify each shape before it changed. She stepped back, spinning a few ineffectual defenses toward it as she struggled to master the emotion seething in her chest. Her father grimaced, as if disappointed at the weakness of her response. But she still had one move left.
As her Fire fended off the worst of the molten steel, she stepped closer to Surri, wrapping an arm around her massive head.
“It’s time.”
29.
Power
SURRI opened her mouth and released a spray of Watermight. Dara directed a cupful of the silvery substance toward her Fire defenses. The drops ignited flashes of white light wherever they fell. The soldiers shielded their eyes, and the Fireworkers stepped back, aware this wasn’t normal.
Dara didn’t dare look at her father to see if the flashes distracted him. She went down on one knee before Surri and opened her mouth to capture the Watermight as it dripped from the dragon’s jaws, gulping down as much as she could possibly hold.
While Dara swallowed the magical substance, she summoned the passion that would help her bind the powers together. She thought of Siv, of all that his family had endured at her father’s hands, of the life they were trying to build. She thought of her desire to set herself apart, to prove she could beat her father once and for all and seize his power for herself. And suddenly, inexplicably, she thought of her sister. Renna had died in an intense surge of Fire. Grief over her tragic accident had set their parents on this path of bitterness and vengeance. Dara had chosen a different path, but the grief had left its mark on her too.
The power surged within her, icy, insistent. It sang in time with the Fire in her blood, dancing like an enemy, like a lover.
She burrowed deeper into the Waterm
ight, into the Fire, into the passion and anger and ambition and fear and heartbreak and love. She caught the wave of intensity and rode it like a dragon on the wind. Her body shuddered with heat and ice, burning and freezing and blazing.
Too much. Dara felt it as the power roiled. Too much power. You’re not here to destroy everything.
But she was here to destroy. She had come to conquer, to lay her enemy low if he didn’t bend to her will. Her father had tried to kill her. But she was the power. She was Nightfall. All would fear to speak her name.
When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she got to her feet to face her father, and the power erupted.
The monstrous sun of Fire and metal exploded before Dara’s wave of power. The steel sizzled and disappeared like steam. The Fire combusted, adding to the massive pressure, as Dara’s attack barreled through it.
Her father flew backward, knocked down by the torrent of power as if he were no more than a blade of plains grass. The Fireworkers were struck down too, their cries lost beneath the roar. The violent wave of force swept outward, trampling the Workers and streaking toward the line of soldiers. She knew it was too much. She had harnessed a power that could destroy armies in an eye blink when she wanted to subdue only one man.
Stop.
She didn’t want to wipe out these men, these powerless soldiers who ought to bow before her. They would be no use if she wiped them out. Besides, she was in control. Her power would only fell those she intended.
You have to stop.
The instant before the wave of force reached the soldiers, she seized it, forced it to spin, to curl away from the men. They would feel the breath of its passing on their faces, but it would not harm them. Dara strained as the power tried to spin right out of her control. She would not let it master her. She spun it faster.
