by Jordan Rivet
Dara’s father, Rafe Ruminor, was a highly respected Fireworker. The mountain was an important source of Fire magic, one of the only known sources in the world. The Fire ran through the roots of the three peaks like blood through veins. Few were born with the ability to wield the molten energy. The Fireworkers of Vertigon used the Fire to craft valuable objects of beauty and power with their bare hands: sticks of metal that could set any substance alight at a touch, heat stones able to clear a path through the depths of a snowstorm, and some of the most glorious forged weapons known to mankind. The potential of such an industry had made it worth building a city atop the sheer cliffs of Vertigon Mountain.
Rafe’s specialty was conjured lanterns that would hold their light and warmth indefinitely. His designs were more intricate and beautiful than those of any other Fireworker in the city, and people traveled all the way from the Lands Below for his custom models. Dara’s mother, Lima, organized the sale and export of Rafe’s Fire Lanterns and also handled the operations of the Fireworkers’ Guild. The family business was the most successful Fireworking shop in Vertigon.
There was only one problem: the ability to work the Fire was innate. You either had it or you didn’t—and Dara didn’t. The Spark typically manifested in children between the ages of five and eight. Dara had waited in vain for her own Spark to appear, but her fingers remained cold and her senses numb.
Dara dressed quickly and thundered down the narrow wooden staircase to the kitchen. It had a wide window and a good view of King’s Peak with its multitude of bridges connecting to the other two peaks. The sun was already up, casting sharp shadows over the terraces. Dara hadn’t realized how late it was. No wonder she felt as if she could eat enough for three people.
Her mother was waiting for her at their large stone dining table.
“Where were you last night?” she said as Dara dropped into a chair and reached for a bowl of porridge. As usual, Dara didn’t look at the chair beside hers, which had been empty for over a decade.
“I went for a run after practice,” Dara said. “The rain finally let up.”
Lima pursed her lips. “Your father has been up for hours already.” She was an imposing woman, with a wide frame and silver-streaked hair tied into a tight bun. She didn’t approve of dueling. She wanted Dara to spend her time organizing ledgers at a desk and making connections with important clients. But endless meetings and paperwork were poor substitutes for the magic of the Fire.
“You were supposed to get up early to help with the summer orders,” she said.
“Oh, I forgot all about that. I’m sorry.”
“Dara, when we said you could train after your education—”
“I know. I’ll get it all done before I leave.”
Dara was supposed to help her mother in the mornings and train in the afternoons, but she found it harder to jump out of bed for paperwork than for a good run across the bridges. She couldn’t conjure up any enthusiasm for the business side of Fireworking.
Dara’s disappointment when she found out she couldn’t work the Fire had been shattering. And it had come close on the heels of her older sister’s death. Dara resisted the urge to glance at the empty chair. Renna had been born with the Spark and had already begun training in the art of Fireworking. The Ruminors would have had a Fireworker in the next generation if she hadn’t died. When they realized Dara couldn’t Work, Renna was already gone and it was too late for them to have another child.
Dara’s mother had been more upset that she couldn’t train in the family art than Dara herself. At least her father tried to hide it. When Dara was nine, long past the age when Workers typically felt their first link to the Fire, he had suggested that she take up dueling. She had loved it from the moment she first drove the tip of a blade into a target and felt the force of the hit vibrating up her arm.
Rafe had intended swordplay to be a diversion, a consolation until she was old enough to help her mother with the business, but it soon became Dara’s one and only passion. She threw herself into training, thriving on the fact that the harder she worked, the better she became. It had nothing to do with some inborn Spark beyond her control. As she got older, her disappointment over not being able to Work the Fire had faded.
“You may need to skip some of your afternoon practices for the next few weeks,” her mother said. “The work is piling up.”
“Can you hire someone else to help you?” Dara asked.
Lima’s pursed lips thinned to a blade-sharp line. “With the current restrictions on the Fire your father can’t increase his production enough to support another employee,” she said. “His access shrinks every year.”
Heavy footfalls sounded outside the kitchen door, and Dara’s father emerged from the tunnel at the back of the house. As always, he smelled of fire and metal.
“Hello, dear ones!” Rafe Ruminor filled every room he entered. He was tall and lean, with a strong jaw and golden hair like Dara’s. Lima rose, standing almost as tall as her husband, and kissed his cheek. They were a formidable pair, and it was easy to see why they commanded such respect on the mountain.
“You’re up late, my young spark,” Rafe said, dropping a heavy hand on Dara’s shoulder.
“I ran after training last night,” Dara said.
“One day you’re going to get injured, and you’ll wish you’d spent more time on something besides those swords,” Lima said.
“But the Cup is in two months.”
“Now, now. There will be time to win plenty of tourneys,” Rafe said. He sighed expansively. “Perhaps it is for the best. There may be no business in the future if the Warden continues to parse out the Fire to those who are not worthy of it.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Dara mumbled. “They’re just making Firesticks and Everlights.”
“Watch your mouth, Dara,” her mother said. “You have no respect for your father’s Art.”
“Of course I do. It’s just that—”
“He has toiled his whole life to perfect his creations,” Lima continued, warming up to the familiar lecture. “He deserves better than to have his access to the Fire diluted so hacks can sell cheap tricks. If Warden Lorrid would stop granting Fire shares to every new upstart that thinks he can Wield, we wouldn’t have this issue.”
Dara sighed at the old-fashioned term: Wield. Long ago, the Firewielders were the most powerful force on the mountain. They had warred over access to the Fire of Vertigon, drenching the mountain in smoke and blood. But now the power was Worked, not Wielded.
The First Good King, Sovar Amintelle, had been a Firewielder. When he prevailed over the others he designed a system to control the flow of Fire through the veins of the mountain and keep the surviving Wielders in check. His son lacked the ability to Wield, so he assigned a Warden to ensure that no Firewielder could become too powerful and disrupt the peace established by the First Good King.
Now, the Fire was strictly regulated, used almost exclusively for the production of useful objects. It flowed from the Well beneath the Fire Warden’s greathouse and through the roots of the mountain. Each Fireworker’s shop received a controlled amount of Fire, just enough to create their masterworks. The Workers were also forbidden from creating Fire-infused weapons for anyone but the king, his guards, and the army. This ensured that the famed Peace of Vertigon endured. But the more powerful Fireworkers didn’t like the constraints, however necessary.
“Never fear, my dear,” Rafe said, washing his hands in the stone basin beneath the window. He looked out at King’s Peak across the Gorge. “Perhaps the winds are turning. I may yet be able to protect the noble Art.”
Lima squeezed her husband’s shoulder and began ladling portions of spiced mountain goat porridge into his bowl. Dara ate hers mechanically. Lima may be formidable, but she was an indifferent cook at best.
As her mother talked about the lantern orders that would need to be completed and delivered before winter, Dara thought about her strategy for her royal duel the following
morning. It was always useful to practice against someone besides the regulars at the school. She didn’t have high hopes for the dueling abilities of the heir-prince, though.
“What do you know about Prince Sivarrion?” she asked when there was a lull in her parents’ conversation.
“Worthless,” Rafe said immediately. “His father’s sway over the mountain is increasingly ceremonial.”
Dara blinked. “Ceremonial?”
“The Fire Warden is the true power here. Sivarrion is at least smart enough to know that. He entertains himself and lets Zage Lorrid do as he will.”
Dara had heard her parents’ complaints about the Fire Warden, Zage Lorrid, a thousand times. The king was another story, though.
“Isn’t King Sevren well liked?” Dara asked.
“Of course. He’s a nice man,” Rafe said. “A weak man, but nice. He has to rein Zage in before he allows our best asset to disintegrate into nothingness.”
Dara poked at the bits of goat floating in her porridge, avoiding the sight of the empty chair. She knew all too well why her parents hated the Fire Warden. Most of their dislike was personal after what had happened to Renna a decade ago, but they had professional differences with Zage as well. According to her father he was determined to spread the mountain Fire so thin as to be nearly useless. The king purportedly approved of this policy, but she had never thought of his power as ceremonial only.
“Why are you asking about the prince?” Lima asked, her sharp eyes on her daughter. “You’ve never mooned over his dashing good looks, unlike most of the girls in the Village.”
“Oh, I heard he likes to duel, that’s all.”
“He’s a lout,” Lima said. “I hear he spends most of his time drinking in the parlors in Lower King’s. He’s bound to enjoy other frivolous activities too.”
Dueling isn’t frivolous. Dara curled her fingers around her wooden spoon as though it were the pommel of her sword. Her mother’s disdain for her sport got worse every day. She suspected her parents would object to her going up to the castle the following morning. If she could get away, that is.
“Well,” Rafe said, “I suspect the prince will need to watch his back, if Lorrid continues along his current path. Perhaps he should learn to defend himself.”
“You think the Fire Warden would do something to him?” Dara asked. She looked up in time to see her parents exchanging glances.
“We already know what the Fire Warden is capable of,” Lima said bitterly. She looked over at the empty chair then, and Dara couldn’t help following her gaze. Renna’s chair. Her mother kept the wood polished and dust free after all this time.
“Never you mind, my young spark,” Rafe said, resting his hand on his wife’s arm and leaning toward Dara. “You ought to be more concerned about what the Fire Warden is doing to the family business if you’re to run it one day.”
“You gave me until the Cup to prove I can make it in the duels,” Dara said.
“Just keep your eyes open,” Rafe said. “And be wary of taking too much of an interest in the royal family.”
Dara finished her meal in silence. Her parents had their own quarrel with the Fire Warden, but could he actually be plotting something against the king’s family? Or Prince Sivarrion in particular?
In any case, Dara was quite certain her mother would consider her upcoming duel a waste of time. So how was she going to get out of work tomorrow?
Her mother snapped her fingers sharply. “Did you hear me, Dara?”
“What?”
Lima stood and stacked their emptied bowls. “I said since you’re getting such a late start this morning I need you to stay home this afternoon and help me with the ledgers.”
“But—”
“No arguments. You have a duty to your family. Meet me in the shop after you wash up.”
Dara gritted her teeth and helped clean the bowls while her father returned to his workshop. She wouldn’t be able to try out that new idea on Kel at practice after all. She’d have to work extra quickly today if she had any chance of getting away tomorrow morning.
After finishing up the dishes, Dara joined her mother in the lantern shop, located next to the kitchen on the ground floor of their dwelling. It was an elegant room, with hardwood floors polished to a shine and discreetly placed mirrors on the walls. Ruminor Lanterns hung from intricately carved arches around the open space. There were only eight pieces on display, which served as samples of Rafe’s work. Most clients purchased custom lanterns rather than buying from the showroom. As far as Dara was concerned, the shop didn’t really need to stay open all the time. But her mother didn’t see it that way.
On one side of the room was a large hardwood desk, where Lima sat with ledgers and drawings spread before her. Lima herself couldn’t Work the Fire, like Dara, but she had a knack for drawing. She would sketch the designs based on their customers’ requests, and Rafe would bring them to life.
“I need you to double-check all of these orders for me,” Lima said, pushing a stack of papers toward her daughter. “We can’t have a mix-up like last year when the Morrven and Samanar orders got switched. We almost lost two of our best customers over that.”
“I’ll be careful,” Dara said. She pulled up a chair and sat beside her mother, preparing for a long morning bent over the papers. Her wooden seat was hard and unforgiving, and her body felt crunched and useless as she set to the tedious task of crosschecking the orders. At least the shop was well lit with the steady burn of the Fire Lanterns.
It was midsummer, one of their busiest times as they prepared new lanterns for the winter season. Rafe needed time to complete the work and then deliver the lanterns throughout Vertigon and the Lands Below. Their customers always wanted the newest and most-fashionable lantern designs despite how long they lasted. But as Rafe was the only one in their family who could Work the Fire, the business couldn’t grow much bigger.
If only Renna hadn’t—Dara stopped herself from completing the thought. Her parents’ grief over her sister’s death had only been amplified when they discovered Dara’s lack of Spark. She had spent so much of her life trying to make up for something beyond her control, but she was close to breaking free on her own merits. She had to move forward, even if her parents couldn’t.
The shop door opened, and a stocky man entered wearing a coat embroidered with ornate threads of Firegold. He swept off his matching hat and bowed.
“Afternoon, Lima.”
“Corren. You’re early.”
“I never keep Rafe waiting. This is my new assistant, Farr.”
He waved his hat at the taller, younger man who accompanied him. He had muddy-brown hair and long, bony arms. Dara was reminded forcibly of the scraggly trees that grew on the tougher slopes of the mountain.
“A pleasure.” Lima rose and swept forward to offer her hand. The two men took it in turn, and Dara noticed that Farr had burn marks on his fingers. “Rafe didn’t mention the purpose of your visit.”
“Guild business,” Corren said, shrugging his broad shoulders. Corren was a prominent Fireworker, like Dara’s father. He specialized in spinning fine threads of Firegold to adorn shoes and other leather and fabric goods. He wasn’t a direct competitor, and he had been helping Dara’s parents with the Fire Guild for years.
“Anything I should know about?” Lima asked.
“A couple of the Smiths had their supply cut off again yesterday. We need to talk about how to respond. I don’t want to interrupt your work, though. I’m sure he’ll fill you in.”
“It’s all right,” Lima said. “Rafe is in the workshop. Dara, would you walk these gentlemen down there? Come right back.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dara leapt up, eager to escape her desk. She worked her wrists to loosen the tension in her pen hand.
“You’re getting tall, Dara,” Corren said as they walked through the back of the shop and down the long corridor that went from wood to stone as they descended into the mountain. “How’s the dueling?”
“I remember when you first picked up a sword. It was almost as long as you.” Corren chuckled. “And now you’re all grown up. Any marriage prospects on the horizon?”
“I’m too busy for that at the moment with training and helping out with the business,” Dara said.
“Ah yes. The business,” Corren said. “You’ll make someone a good match, Dara.” He gave Farr the assistant a significant look. “I can find my way from here. Farr, give me a few minutes in private with Rafe before I introduce you. You can chat with Dara here.” Corren grinned widely and nudged her arm. They had reached the end of the stone tunnel, where half a dozen steps led to the door of her father’s workshop.
Dara kept a polite smile plastered on her face as Corren disappeared into the workshop, a wave of heat spilling out into the tunnel. This wasn’t the first time he’d brought one of his many assistants to meet her. Corren had long been vocal about his desire to more closely align his business with the Ruminors’. Once he had even suggested that if Dara couldn’t Work the Fire herself maybe she could produce a Firesparked baby or two. Her parents had laughed, but they hadn’t dissuaded Corren from bringing around his most eligible assistants.
“So,” Farr said after a minute, shifting his feet on the smooth stone of the passageway. He opened and closed his bony hands, knuckles cracking. Dara sighed. The last apprentice had been much more charismatic.
“You’re a Firegold spinner?” she prompted.
“Trying to be,” Farr said.
“Right.”
He looked at her mutely, a hulking shape in the corridor. There wasn’t quite enough space for her to slip past him and return to her mother. She wondered how long Corren had meant by “give me a few minutes.” He probably expected they’d need at least five to agree to marry and make Firesparked babies.
