by Jordan Rivet
“If I may say so, I think it’s a wise decision,” Zage said soberly. “You would do well to better acquaint yourself with our closest neighbors and their noble families.”
“I know everything about them, Zage. Trure is literally the only thing my mother talks about.”
“The queen’s reminiscences of the land of her birth are not without value,” Zage said, “but you must learn of Trure’s intricacies for yourself and begin building your own relationships. Its politics are more complex than those of Vertigon.”
“Vertigon isn’t simple, though,” Siv said. He had nothing against Trure. His mother had taken lengthy visits there throughout his childhood, often leaving Siv and his sisters behind on the mountain. She was there now, in fact. Siv and his sisters had always known Trure was the only place their mother was truly happy. But when they accompanied her on visits, they hadn’t seen her much more than during her long absences. Their time was always consumed by stuffy state dinners, preening cousins, and walks about the Truren Horesplains, which were every bit as plain as they sounded. Give him the heady heights and wild mists of Vertigon Mountain any day. Come to think of it, he did have a lot against Trure. He needed a better reason to avoid the trip, though—if he could refuse his father.
“The variety provided by such a journey would do you good,” Zage said.
“I don’t want to go for the whole winter,” Siv said. “I’m making headway with a few noble families, including a certain lady who is our mutual acquaintance.” Would he use that leverage? Oh, yes he would. It may be a little premature, but he was sure Lady Tull was starting to warm to him.
“True enough,” Zage said. “But I believe now may be an opportune time for you to be out of the castle. There are dangerous games afoot. As you said, Vertigon isn’t simple.”
“Dangerous games?”
“Whispers fill the smoke of the mountain,” Zage said. “We must all keep watch lest the whispers turn to shouts.”
Siv sighed. “Oh, what shall we do?” He mimicked Zage’s hoarse, papery voice. The Warden was getting paranoid. Constantly controlling massive amounts of molten Fire couldn’t be good for the brain.
“Never fear,” Zage said, either not noticing or not caring about Siv’s mocking tone. “I will look out for your family while you go abroad.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to get rid of me for the winter, Zage.” Siv grinned.
The Fire Warden blinked slowly and shuffled the papers on the table. “Of course not, my prince. Shall we return to the lesson?”
Siv sighed and dropped back into his chair as the driest lecture in eternity resumed.
Dara was listening to a lecture of her own. She had been running down a sloping street toward Stork Bridge, which spanned the Fissure from King’s Peak to Square, when she met her mother. Lima had been walking with Master Corren and his apprentice Farr. They were deep in conversation, but not so deep that Lima didn’t notice her daughter trying to sneak past in the crowd.
“Dara Ruminor,” her mother screeched. “What are you doing?”
Dara froze. “Uh, going for a run.”
“Here?”
Dara glanced around the steep avenue bordered by upscale shops and taverns. Marble greathouses rose beyond them, and residents in well-tailored coats and finely embroidered dresses strolled past, servants in tow. They were far away from their home in the Village, but the Fire Guild was located in a greathouse here on King’s Peak. Of course. Her mother had business there today. Dara hadn’t even thought about that when she’d snuck out this morning.
“I run all over the place,” Dara said. “King’s is less busy than the Village, so there’s more space.” She pretended not to notice the crowds ebbing and flowing around them. It was busier on Village Peak, but King’s wasn’t exactly quiet at this time of day. Dara tried to hide her gear bag behind her. She didn’t usually run with it, but maybe her mother wouldn’t notice.
“What time did you leave the showroom?” Lima demanded.
Corren and Farr picked that moment to become politely engrossed in a display of Firejewels in a nearby shop window.
“I’m not sure,” Dara said.
“Your clothes are soaked with sweat. You must have been running for a long time. So who is watching over the lanterns?”
Dara sighed. “Father is there.”
“You know he can’t hear anything from his workshop.”
“I’m sorry,” Dara said. “I thought you—”
“You thought I wouldn’t catch you? Need I remind you, daughter, that the Ruminor name is not unknown in this city? You may spend most of your time thrashing about in that school on Square, but I am a recognizable figure.” Lima adjusted her dark skirt over her broad hips. “Your father and I cannot have you darting about like this at all hours when everyone knows you should be watching over your family’s interests.”
“What family interests?” Dara said. “I can’t Work the Fire. There won’t be a family business when Father is gone.”
Lima drew herself up. “You must think beyond mere lifetimes, Dara. We are building a legacy, one that will have repercussions for Firewielders for years to come. And you notice I say ‘we,’ even though my own fingers are every bit as cold as yours. I have never let that stop me, because I believe in your father’s work.”
“They’re just lanterns,” Dara mumbled.
At that moment a palanquin with a large troop of bearers processed past, forcing Dara and her mother to move closer to Corren and Farr. The noise must have covered Dara’s words, because Lima didn’t react. It was just as well. Dara didn’t want to fight with her mother, and she knew she’d been wrong to skip out on her responsibilities.
She looked at the toes of her dueling boots. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
“It’s a burning shame that that young man over there is more interested in my work than my own daughter.” Lima waved a hand to where Farr and Corren stood, still studying a bright Firejewel the size of a furlingbird’s egg. Corren looked up and winked at Dara. Farr nodded to both of them, blushing to his hairline.
“Are you sure you can’t take him on as a part-time replacement for me?” Dara said. “I was hoping to switch to training in the morning three days a week for a little while.”
Lima swelled at her words. “You’re not in a position to make requests right now. I’ve half a mind to stop paying for your lessons this very day.”
“Berg says if I switch my schedule I can get some lessons for free,” Dara said, barreling forward despite the unfortunate timing. She should have started this conversation when her mother was in a good mood. Such times were rare these days. “He wants me to help with the younger students’ classes in the mornings. It’ll save some gold, and it’s just three days a week.”
Lima pursed her lips tightly, but Dara didn’t back down. She wasn’t sure why she was fighting so hard to duel with the prince. Maybe she should drop it. Oat and Kel and the others at Berg’s school were great training partners. She was curious about this prince, though. He had given her a hell of a bout today—possibly even tying with her, though she’d never tell him that. And she wanted to do something that was entirely her own, something that would get her further away from the pressures of her mother and the lantern business.
“Excuse me, Madame Ruminor?” Farr joined them, cracking his bony knuckles nervously.
“Yes?”
“I’d be honored if you’d allow me to spend a few mornings a week helping you. I enjoyed our conversation the other day, and I’d love to become more involved with the work of the Guild.”
“Is that so?” Lima said.
“Yes, Madame.” Farr looked over at Corren, who nodded encouragingly. He turned back to Lima, seemingly gathering strength. “Master Corren has told me of the new developments, and I wish to be involved. Someone needs to stop the Fire Warden from carrying out his damaging policies.”
Lima studied Farr, sizing him up like an elite coach assessing a ne
w pupil.
Corren joined them. “The boy is trustworthy,” he said. “And perhaps you will like having him in your home on a regular basis.” He winked at Dara.
Lima snorted. “Very well. If I can’t trust my own daughter to be there when asked, perhaps you’ll do. Walk with me.” She took Farr’s bony arm and steered him toward the Fire Guild without another word to her daughter. Dara was fairly certain that was a victory of sorts.
Farr glanced back at Dara and smiled nervously. He did have a nice face. She owed him after this. Corren apparently thought the same, because he strode after Lima and Farr as though he’d scored a victory of his own.
7.
Footwork
ABOUT ten minutes into their next practice, Dara was already seriously reconsidering her decision to train with Prince Siv. She ought to leave him to whatever Lorrid had planned for him. Or help the Fire Warden in his plot.
It started when Berg ordered them to do distance exercises to warm up. This involved facing each other, touching blades in the middle, and advancing and retreating up and down the dueling hall. They took turns leading the footwork and had to maintain the same amount of pressure on their blades. If the weapons lost contact, they lost.
Berg was still recovering from his cold. He dragged the chair over from beside the door and glowered at them while they did the exercise. Dara was already feeling annoyed. She wanted to do more useful drills in the lead-up to the Eventide competition. This was beginner stuff. But Prince Siv managed to make it more difficult than it should have been.
They had started slow. Dara’s weapon rested in her palm, and she exerted gentle pressure on the grip with the tips of her fingers. She locked eyes with the prince through the mesh of his mask so she could tell which way he would move next. With each slight change of pressure or flick of the eyes, she advanced and retreated. At first it was okay. Advance. Advance. Retreat. Advance. Breathing steady. Feeling the pressure.
Then Siv stuck out his tongue at her. Dara was so surprised she eased up on her blade. Siv disengaged his own and whacked her on top of the mask.
“Focus, Dara,” Berg growled. “Switch.”
Dara clenched her jaw, ears ringing, but didn’t reply. It was her turn to lead. She engaged Siv’s blade, moving him up and down the strip, watching his eyes. She would not play games.
Siv followed her movements. Then he slowly began to shift his blade away from hers. He still followed her steps, but she had to constantly adjust her wrist to maintain blade contact.
“Take this seriously, will you?” she muttered.
“I am always serious,” Siv said. Then he crossed his eyes and pulled a grotesque face.
Dara dropped her blade. “Look, I have a tournament coming up, and I can’t afford to—”
“Dara!” Berg barked. “We are dueling, not talking.”
“Yeah, Dara, we’re dueling, not talking,” Siv said. “My turn.”
Dara gritted her teeth and raised her blade again. Siv took off immediately, retreating across the strip as though a mountain bear were chasing him. Dara nearly lost her balance as she darted after him, extending her arm as far as she could to maintain blade contact. As soon as Siv’s back foot hit the end of the strip, he changed directions and started advancing just as fast as he had retreated. Dara leapt backwards, barely managing to stay on her feet. Siv ran them back and forth across the strip, end to end, until Berg called for them to switch.
Dara scowled at the prince. If that’s how he wanted to play it . . .
She picked up the pace, taking no more than three steps in any direction before switching again. Advance, advance, retreat, retreat, advance, retreat, retreat, retreat, advance, retreat, advance, retreat, advance, advance. She knew she was in better shape than Siv. If he wanted to mess around, she’d make him work for it.
“Switch!”
This time Siv weaved back and forth, his blade wavering. Dara had to swing her arm wide to stay with him, but she kept her feet straight. She was so annoyed she could barely look the prince in the face. But it was harder to keep pace with him without the clues in his eyes.
“Enough!” Berg rose from the chair, his face a thunderhead. “You are worse than drunken bridgewalkers. Both of you.”
“But Coach—”
“No talking!” Berg roared. He stood beside the strip and glared at them. “Dueling is a trust game. You must trust your instincts, trust the way your opponent moves. Even when you beat them, you must feel your opponent.” Siv opened his mouth, no doubt to make a sarcastic comment, but Berg silenced him with a look. “Now. Engage the blades. Close the eyes.”
“But—”
“Close the eyes. Feel the pressure. Trust the blade. Dara, you lead.”
Dara shot an annoyed look at Siv before raising her weapon and closing her eyes. She didn’t have time for this. She should be doing serious training, not trust exercises with imbeciles.
There was a faint click as their blades touched. Dara tried to slow her breathing and feel the pressure on her blade, but it slipped almost immediately.
“Keep eyes closed. Again.”
Dara extended her blade, waiting for that click. When it didn’t come, she opened one eye. Siv was waving his blade in front of him about two feet to the right of hers, eyes closed tight. Dara engaged his blade and shut her eyes again. Breathed. Then she advanced. Siv’s response took a while, but he did respond, moving backward as she advanced. She changed directions. The pressure on her blade disappeared immediately with the first retreat.
“Pay attention, Prince,” Berg said.
They tried again, moving up and down the strip at a tenth of the speed they’d used before. Dara realized she was going easy on the prince, even though he didn’t deserve it. She sped up, and he lost contact right away.
“Be alert, Prince,” Berg growled. “Is your head we must protect.”
Dara felt somewhat vindicated that Berg felt free to lecture both of them. He called for them to switch again. She reached out her blade and engaged with Siv. It was his turn to lead. The pressure disappeared as Siv streaked backwards. She could hear the quick patter of his retreat, but it was too late for her to follow.
“Keep up, yeah?” Siv said.
Dara scowled and raised her weapon. Breathed. Listened to the creak of Siv’s boots. Heard him exhale. Felt the pressure of his blade against hers. She held her sword lightly, ready to move at the first hint of pressure. She had to be quick, light on her feet, focused. This time when Siv moved, she stayed with him. They advanced and retreated, moving back and forth across the hall, staying in time.
“Switch!”
Dara took control of the footwork. She moved the prince up and down the strip, keeping her eyes shut and her hands light.
“Switch.”
Siv picked up the pace, but Dara was ready for it. They moved like a dance. With her eyes shut, the rest of her senses were heightened. The sounds. The pressure. Every sensation was a clue to which direction Siv would move next.
“Switch.”
The exercise seemed to go on for hours, but they found a rhythm. Tap. Pressure. Advance. Retreat. Advance. Breathe.
“Enough,” Berg said. “Take a break. Then you will duel.”
Dara opened her eyes to find the prince watching her. She held his gaze for a moment, neither smiling nor looking away. Breathing.
“Today, students,” Berg grumbled.
Dara started then removed her mask and returned to the corner to retrieve her gear. She felt oddly warm, as though there were an extra burst of heat in each of her fingers and toes. She shook off the sensation, buttoned up her jacket, and rejoined the prince on the strip.
The bout that day didn’t last quite as long as the previous one, but Dara found herself enjoying the challenge. The prince was good. At the end of the session, she didn’t hesitate to confirm she’d be attending the next few practices.
Siv’s youngest sister, Selivia, had watched the second half of their practice from the balcony
. She bounced into the dueling hall as Dara was packing her gear bag. She still had those poorly dyed streaks in her hair, and her eyes were bright as she pestered Dara with questions.
“What did it feel like when you got hit in the leg? How about the head? Have you ever met Surri? Is she nice? What about Jur the Jurl? Do you have any pets? My favorite cur-dragon just had babies. You can come see the hatchlings! I think one of the kitchen cats might be pregnant too. Do you want a kitten?”
“Let her breathe, Sel. She must be tired after the workout I gave her.” Siv grinned at Dara. He was leaning against the wardrobe, only half paying attention as Berg demonstrated a compound attack for him.
“I’m fine,” Dara said curtly. She turned to the young princess. “Yes, I’ve met Surri, but Jur died before we were all born.” Surri was the first famous female duelist. She still lived on Square Peak, and she ran a dueling school that rivaled Berg’s in size.
“Good point,” Selivia said. “Is Surri nice? She doesn’t look that nice.”
“Well, she is a little severe sometimes.”
“Sounds like someone else we know,” Siv called. Berg threw up his hands and stalked over to the washbasin, grumbling about fools and people who deserved to be assassinated.
“But Surri’s still an excellent duelist even at her age,” Dara said, narrowing her eyes at Siv. “She’d wipe the floor with you.”
“Ah yes.” Siv adopted a sober expression. “You must be jealous, as that’s something you’ve yet to manage.”
“You’re on the floor after a bit of footwork,” Dara said. “I don’t need to waste the effort.”
Siv chuckled. Then he turned around and pulled his shirt off over his head. The muscles in his back rippled as he used the shirt to wipe his face. Dara realized she was staring at the future ruler of Vertigon and looked down quickly.
“Sivarrion! There are ladies here!” Selivia squealed.
