by Jordan Rivet
“You will duel,” Berg said.
“But—”
“Is training for both of you.”
“Fine,” the prince said, sighing heavily. “A bout to ten, then?” He went over to the expansive wardrobe and haphazardly pulled out some dueling gear and dumped it on the floor.
Dara dropped her bag and cloak where she stood and began lifting her knees to her chest to loosen her muscles. She was still warm from the walk up the mountainside. Next she shuffled her feet rapidly, her usual pre-match ritual. The prince glanced over at her and shook his head. He sat down and slowly laced up a fine pair of leather dueling boots. When he finished he walked over to Dara’s corner to retrieve a blade from the weapon rack. She was twisting her arms in wide circles to warm up her shoulders.
“You ready yet?” he said, pulling out a blade at random and returning to the wardrobe to shrug on a padded dueling jacket. “Let’s get this over with.”
“In a minute,” Dara said. If he didn’t want to warm up, that was his problem. She would not risk injury on account of this amateur.
The prince trudged to the dueling strip, blade slung over his shoulder and mask perched sideways on top of his head, and sat cross-legged on the start line. Dara did her final warm-up sequence, squatting in a low guard stance and then leaping up as high as she could. When she caught the prince rolling his eyes, she did five extra jumps. Finally she pulled on her own glove and jacket, buttoning the collar snuggly beneath her chin, and rubbed fresh charcoal on the tip of her blade.
“Okay,” she said, facing her opponent on the dueling strip.
“So good of you to join me,” the prince said dryly. He stood, pulled his mask down, and adopted a relaxed stance with his blade pointed down.
“To ten,” Berg said, walking to the judge’s circle beside the strip. “But if I say more, you do more.”
“Yes, Coach,” Dara said. She assumed her guard stance: mask on, right foot forward, left pointed toward the tall windows, knees slightly bent, blade at a perfect angle so the round guard protected her hand. The prince grinned, his sword arm still relaxed in a lazy stance.
“Ready?” Berg raised both hands, palms facing forward. “Duel!”
Dara executed a perfect advance lunge, her hit landing squarely on Prince Siv’s chest. He hadn’t even bothered to lift his blade.
“One,” Berg said.
“Oh, did you say start?” Siv said. “Right, then.”
Dara scowled. He had better try. She would never waste an opponent’s time like this.
“Ready. Duel.”
This time when Dara advanced, Siv skipped back a few paces. She timed his steps, watching for the rhythm that too many duelists adopted out of habit or laziness. Again, she lunged. This time Siv raised his blade to counter her, but not fast enough. Her hit landed on his arm.
“Two!”
“Okay, okay,” Siv said. “No big deal.”
“Duel!”
Siv countered Dara’s third hit, but his parry was sloppy, and the riposte went wide. Dara landed another clean shot to the prince’s torso.
“Go easy, will you?” Siv said. “I might throw up last night’s libations.” He resumed his stance with the same languid air, but this time he kept his guard up. At the call, he leapt forward and drove a quick thrust straight into Dara’s chest. He had a fast arm at least. She parried, but too late, and the blade hit the wooden chest plate beneath her jacket with a dull thunk.
“Nice of you to provide a larger target area,” he said.
Dara’s jaw tensed. She had heard that joke more times than she cared to remember.
“Siv, one; Dara, three. Ready? Duel!”
Siv leapt forward again, but Dara countered him, and they exchanged several parries before retreating a step each. Dara bounced lightly, judging the distance better now that she knew the prince’s reach. He went in for another attack, and she countered with a quick shot to the wrist. Siv swore.
“Four, one,” Berg said. “Wake up, Prince. You are embarrassing me now.”
Siv stopped to rub new charcoal on the tip of his blade. Dara could tell he was flustered. She had seen the same look on the faces of dozens of opponents when they stopped to regroup. He hadn’t expected to have to work for this. He resumed his stance.
“Duel!”
Dara and Siv picked up the pace, advancing and retreating across the full length of the strip. Dara tried for a toe hit, but she misjudged Siv’s speed, and he countered with a shot to the head. Her mask rang with the impact. She got him back next time with a sharp flick to the wrist that had him shaking out his hand and muttering curses under his breath.
They dueled back and forth, trading blows and occasionally landing simultaneous hits, which earned them a point each. Dara began to sweat, more from concentration than exertion. Prince Siv was proving to be a decent swordsman now that he was taking the bout seriously. But she would not let him beat her.
Soon, the score was nine to six, with Dara still in the lead.
“Ready? Duel!”
Dara advanced, dancing in and out of Siv’s range, trying to provoke a response. He didn’t rise to the challenge, keeping distance with her but not responding when she got too close. She dropped her guard a bit, inviting him to move. They danced like that, neither one attacking as the seconds passed.
“Do something, students!” Berg growled. “You are not—”
Siv lunged. His hands were lightning fast, and he caught Dara on the forearm as she moved her guard. The blow stung, and she knew it would add to her current collection of bruises.
“Hit! Seven, nine.”
“I’m coming back,” Siv said. “Look out, girl. You can’t catch me sleeping forever.”
Dara didn’t answer. She never responded to taunts on the strip. Some duelists made a game of it as a way to improve their popularity. The crowds loved a bit of banter. But they loved a winner more.
“Duel!”
Siv advanced, but Dara was ready for him. She caught his blade on hers and thrust it toward him with a strong parry. He seemed about to pull back but suddenly changed tactics and lunged again. At the last second, Dara swept his blade out of the way and launched herself forward. Her hit landed on Siv’s shoulder, and she stumbled against him.
“That’s the bout!” Berg said. “Dara is the winner.”
Siv put both hands on Dara’s shoulders to steady her. “No need to throw yourself at me.”
Dara regained her balance, face red, and retreated to the start line. The prince swept his mask off and executed a perfect salute, but his jaw was clenched, and he didn’t meet Dara’s eyes.
Suddenly, a burst of applause came from the spectators’ balcony above the dueling hall.
“Bravo!”
“Yes, well done. Siv never loses.”
“It’s about time!”
Two pale faces peeked over the stone edge of the balcony. Two young women had crept onto it during the duel, and now they were looking down at Dara with huge smiles.
“That was great!” one of them squealed.
“When did you scamps get here?” Siv shouted up at the pair, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“We’ve been here since you started losing. Oh, wait. You were losing the whole time! To a girl!” The girls dissolved into a fit of giggles, disappearing from view.
“Get down here, will you?” Siv called. He grinned at Dara. “My sisters. They’ll never let me live this down. Good bout, eh?”
“Uhh . . .”
“You don’t have to be polite. I got my ass handed to me.”
“I am telling you this will happen if you are ever attacked,” Berg said. “You will underestimate your opponent, or you will be sloppy.”
“I know. I know,” Siv said lightly. “Let’s just hope they catch me on a morning when I haven’t been out all night.”
Dara frowned. She was pretty sure she could beat Prince Siv on a good day too, even if he was quite fast. He wouldn’t laugh it off so easily th
en.
Berg seemed about to argue, but the door beneath the balcony opened and the two princesses emerged, still grinning madly.
“This is Sora and Selivia,” the prince said. “You know my coach, Berg Doban, and his student . . . uh, what was your name again?”
“Dara Ruminor,” she said, voice tight.
“Ruminor? Really? Are you related to the Lantern Maker?” asked the older of the two girls, Princess Soraline. She was a head shorter than Dara and a bit plump. She had sharp eyes and the same high cheekbones and dark hair as her brother. If Dara remembered correctly, she would be about seventeen years old now.
“I’m his daughter,” Dara said reluctantly.
“Oooh, Ruminor Lanterns are the best! I have two in my chambers,” said the other girl. Selivia was already almost as tall as Soraline, though she was four years younger. She had light streaks in her dark hair that looked suspiciously like she’d bleached it herself with a cheap Fire potion.
“Isn’t Lantern Maker Ruminor the one the Fire Warden is always complaining about?” Sora said.
“I’m sorry?” Dara said.
“He was saying that your father wants to loosen the restrictions on the Fire so the Workers can have greater freedom to practice their craft,” Sora said. “Warden Lorrid thinks he’s trying to gain more power because—”
“Honestly, Sora, no one wants to talk about politics,” Selivia interrupted. “What’s it like to be a female swordsman? Does it hurt when you get hit? Do you always beat the men? Where did you learn to duel like that?”
“Coach Berg taught me everything I know,” Dara said. Berg and Sivarrion had gone over to the washbasin. Berg was lecturing the young prince while he dunked his head into the water repeatedly. Princess Selivia still waited expectantly. “Uh, I love the sport,” Dara said. “That’s all there is to it, really. I’m trying to get good enough to sign with a patron so I can duel all the time.”
“Are you learning Fireworking too?” Princess Soraline asked.
“No, that’s my family’s business, but I don’t have the Spark.” Dara fought to keep the bitterness from her voice. She was supposed to be past that.
“I wish I could learn Fireworking.” Selivia sighed, twirling her fingers in her poorly dyed hair. “It’s so beautiful to watch them direct the flows.”
“It’s very dangerous, Princess,” Dara said. “Unless you have the Spark the Fire can really hurt you.” She tried not to think of Renna. Sometimes it could hurt you even if you did have the Spark. “But yes, it’s pretty to watch.”
“Oh, you can call me Selivia,” the girl said, “especially if you’re going to be coming here to train. I like to watch Siv bout sometimes.”
“I don’t think I’ll be coming back,” Dara said. “Today was a favor to Berg. I have my own training routine.”
“Hold on,” the prince said, returning from the washbasin. Water dripped from his dark hair and ran through the coal marks from Dara’s hits on his chest. “You have to come for a rematch! In fact, Berg and I were talking, and he thinks you should come a few times a week.”
“What?” Dara shot a glare at Berg. “I’m sorry, Prince Sivarrion, but I need to maintain my training regimen. I have a big competition coming up, and—”
“I swear I’ll be a better match than I was today. You’re better than my other dueling partners have been lately.”
“Prince Sivarrion—”
“Siv.”
“Fine. Siv. I really can’t afford to take the extra time out. I usually help my mother with the lantern business in the mornings, and my training—”
“Young Dara,” Berg interrupted. “This can be good practice. And our prince needs this for his safety. I will give you joint lessons, no charge to you.”
Dara hesitated. Her parents paid her coaching fees for now, but maybe she could put off working full-time in the lantern shop a bit longer if she got some free lessons.
“I’m tired of dueling hobbyists,” Siv said. “I want to fight the pros.”
“I’ll consider it,” Dara said. She didn’t particularly like Siv, and he would never understand how important her training was. She couldn’t afford to mess around with a training partner who wasn’t as focused as she was. But the prospect of free lessons was tempting.
“You come three mornings a week,” Berg said, as if it had already been decided.
“I work for my mother in the mornings,” Dara said.
“She’ll make an exception for me,” Siv said. He dumped the rest of his gear on the floor in front of the wardrobe and headed for the door beneath the balcony. “I insist you return. Now I’m going to pass out. I could sleep like a velgon bear right about now.”
Dara bit back her response. He insisted, did he? They’d see about that. Dara would consider it, and no more.
“Please come back!” Selivia said, grabbing Dara’s hand as the princesses walked with Dara and Berg to the other door. “You’re more fun to watch than Siv’s last dueling partner. He was soooo slow.”
“And I’d love to hear more about the lantern business,” Sora said. She smiled kindly, her plump cheeks rosy.
“Maybe,” Dara said. “It was nice to meet you anyway.”
With a final wave, the princesses turned to walk deeper into the palace together. Dara was surprised at how casually they treated her. Fireworkers were not nobles in Vertigon, despite the influence they wielded. She wondered if her status as Rafe Ruminor’s daughter put her above the average craftsman’s or if the princesses treated everyone alike.
Berg and Dara headed back toward the entryway. The castle was busier than it had been early in the morning, with noblemen and ladies in Firegold-embroidered dresses processing through the halls with their attendants. They didn’t even glance at Dara and Berg in their practical, somber clothing.
“You see the prince is not serious,” Berg said as they left the castle and made their way down to the outer wall. “You must do this, Dara.”
“Coach, my mother needs me in the shop. I can’t get away three mornings a week.”
“You will try,” Berg said. He stopped and placed his big, square hands on her shoulders. He looked her in the eyes, a deep frown cutting into his forehead. “Is for the sake of the kingdom, not just for your training.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Dara didn’t understand why this was so important to Berg. The prince might scoff at the nobles who treated dueling as a hobby, but he himself would never compete in a tournament, much less a real fight. No matter what dangers Berg thought were lurking, she suspected the prince would be fine.
But if Berg was serious about the free lessons, maybe she could extend her training hours even if it took her longer to find a sponsor. If her coaching wasn’t costing her parents gold, they might ease up on her a bit about working in the shop. It might be worth spending a little extra time with this insufferable prince for that.
4.
King Sevren
SIV flung himself face-first onto his bed. He hadn’t realized he was that out of shape. Losing to a girl. Damn. He buried his face in the cushions. He should take off his dueling boots and sweaty shirt, but he wanted to rest for a minute. Or an hour. Or all afternoon.
He’d just drifted to sleep when there was a knock at the door.
“Go away!”
“Sir? It’s Pool.”
“Go away, Pool,” Siv mumbled into his cushions. His bodyguard knocked harder.
“Your father, His Majesty the King, has requested your presence as he takes his noon refreshment.”
“I know who my father is,” Siv grumbled, but he pulled himself up and ran a hand over his scruffy beard. No time to shave. He reached for a dry shirt.
“Sir? I must insist that you accompany me to attend His Majesty.”
“Hold your hell irons, Pool. I’m coming.” Siv lurched to the door and pulled it open. Pool was about to knock again, but he drew back his hand and stepped aside as Siv exited his chambers. Pool was a dour man, just past fo
rty, with a sweep of gray beside each temple. He had been Siv’s bodyguard since he was a little boy, and he had protected him from fun far more often than from danger.
Siv and Pool headed up the wide corridor leading to the castle’s main stairwell. His father’s chambers were at the top of the central tower. Siv wished he had palanquin bearers to carry him up there. His legs were sore, and his head felt as if he’d accidently left it inside a kettledrum during a thunderstorm. That last goblet of wine was definitely a mistake last night. He shouldn’t let Bolden talk him into such things. No one ever needed their last goblet of wine.
Siv climbed the winding staircase slowly. Slices of daylight cut through the windows, which were just wide enough for light and Firearrows. He hadn’t been up to dine with his father in more than a week. His mother was visiting her relations down in Trure again, and the king must be lonely.
Siv would much rather be in bed. He’d sleep like a cullmoran as soon as he had half a chance. That girl had given him a run for his firestones—and he didn’t like it. Sure, Sel and Sora could laugh about it, but it stung. Stung like a Pendarkan zur-wasp.
He was still grumbling to himself when he arrived outside his father’s antechamber. The two aged Castle Guards stepped aside after a cursory glance and a nod at Pool, who had followed him up the stairs.
“Get some rest, Pool,” Siv said. “You had a long night too.”
“Thank you, sir.” Pool gave a crisp salute. “I shall return before your afternoon excursion.”
Siv shrugged, tempted to cancel his afternoon excursion. What was he supposed to be doing again? Tea with some noble family or other, probably. To be fair, he should have dismissed Pool before he had to climb all the way up the stairs, but then Pool really shouldn’t have let him have that last goblet of wine. His head gave an answering throb. Firelord take you, Bolden.
Siv’s father hadn’t arrived, but his serving man was busy setting up the meal in the antechamber. Siv could eat a cur-dragon right about now, but all he saw was a simple stew and a plate of orchard fruits. His father was trying to watch his midsection. Siv sighed, grabbed a plum from the platter, and flung himself onto one of the low couches. If he could get away, he’d head down to the kitchens for a goat pie later. The cooks never said no if he smiled wide enough.
