Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  “Where?” Siv whirled around and pretended to look everywhere except at Selivia and Dara, offering a full view of his broad chest and muscular arms. There was a pattern of light bruises from Dara’s hits forming on his body. She didn’t quite look away in time before he caught her eye and grinned.

  “Put your shirt on, Prince,” Berg growled. “Only show off when you have something to show. Is cardinal rule of dueling.”

  Selivia giggled. Dara thought Siv might have made a face, but she was too busy trying desperately not to look at his shirtless form again. She packed up her gear and nearly ran for the door.

  Dara began to fall into a new routine during her visits to the castle with Berg in the two weeks leading up to the Eventide competition. Selivia was often there when Dara made the trek up to the palace for more training sessions. She would cheer whenever they finished a bout, then hurry down to talk to Dara as soon as practice finished. Often, the princess escorted Dara all the way to the entrance hall afterward, dancing beside her on slippered feet. Despite their five-year age difference, she was eager to learn more about Dara and her life. Selivia had her studies and her motley collection of pets, but Dara gathered she was at loose ends much of the time.

  As Dara spent more time at the castle, she found that the prince and princess were remarkably relaxed around her. They insisted on going by their first names, and they never once mentioned the fact that Dara did not belong to one of the noble families making up the royal court in Vertigon. It was a constant source of frustration for Dara’s parents that Fireworkers weren’t afforded aristocratic status despite their importance to Vertigon. Dara had been all too aware that Fireworkers were not part of the nobility throughout her childhood. But Siv and Selivia didn’t seem to care. They spent far more time making fun of each other and their sister, the more reserved Soraline, than they did of Dara.

  The prince was arrogant, though, and no matter how much Berg scolded him he still treated dueling like a game. He showed off with flying lunges across the dueling hall. He’d go for risky toe touches, even if he only made one in every five attempts. He insisted he could defeat half the professional duelists in Vertigon without even trying, and he teased Dara endlessly when she insisted on repeating her exercises until they were perfect. Dara didn’t think she was helping him take the sport—or the potential danger—more seriously. Sometimes she finished their practice sessions wishing she could run a blade through his smirking eyeball. But at other times they were almost friendly. And she didn’t mind admiring his tall, muscular form—at least when he wasn’t looking.

  In any case, Dara was training hard despite the change to her routine. Her mother and Farr were getting along well so far, and thanks to his help in the lantern shop she had more time to work out than ever before. She started doing two hundred perfect lunges before each lesson and spent more time than ever thinking about strategies to use against her primary contenders. As she ran the bridges of Vertigon, parries and footwork and compound attacks filled her thoughts. She felt in excellent shape as the Eventide competition neared. She felt ready.

  8.

  Cur-dragons

  SIV returned to his rooms after attending his father’s council meeting, feeling unbearably restless. The only exciting part of the meeting was when they had approved the hiring of a dozen new Castle Guards to supplement the aging force. Many of the existing Guard had been recruited when his father was crowned, and it was past time their ranks were refreshed. But then the nobles had droned on and on about a policy that had been working perfectly for Siv’s entire lifetime. If that’s what being king was like, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted the job.

  Dara Ruminor hadn’t come for practice that morning. She could only spare three days a week, and he found that he never seemed to train as hard when she wasn’t there. Doing footwork by himself wasn’t nearly as fun. He dropped into a few lunges in front of his Fire Gate, but his heart wasn’t in it.

  He still hadn’t convinced his father to let him skip the trip to Trure. First Snow was still at least three months away, but winters were long in Vertigon. Traveling back up the mountain was always dangerous in the snows. Siv was afraid if he went to the Lands Below he’d be stuck there for months while his grandfather, the King of Trure, droned on about his youthful adventures with the Air Sensors of the distant plains and paraded eligible noblewomen before him. But Siv wouldn’t repeat his father’s mistake. He had vowed as a boy never to marry a lady who pined for another land.

  He had plans to meet up with Bolden Rollendar at Lady Atria’s parlor that evening. He always encountered qualified—and unattached—ladies in Bolden’s company, but Lady Tull was the most promising of all. That was an alliance that would show Siv’s father he was looking out for the good of the kingdom. Firelord take anyone who said he wasn’t wise after he orchestrated that match!

  Siv curled his fingers like he was holding a blade and lunged at the Fire Gate. He shifted back and forth on the rug, practicing a move he’d seen Dara do. Her actions were subtle, but he was starting to decipher a few of her tells. He had better luck scoring on her when she attacked than when she defended. She was patient as a morrinvole, though, and she knew to make him come to her.

  Damn these long afternoons before the parlors opened! He paced around his rooms for half a minute more before deciding to see what his sisters were up to.

  Pool followed him through the back of the castle and down to the winding tunnel leading into the cur-dragons’ dungeon. Simple Firebulbs lit their way. He felt as if he were climbing into the depths of the mountain, but the tunnel was actually quite close to the outer cliff. The cur-dragons lived in a large cave open to the mountain air. A steep drop ensured that no one could access the castle through the opening—unless they could fly.

  Siv reached the bottom of the steps and let himself through the gate to the stone platform where his sisters were playing with the cur-dragons. Firebulbs affixed to the walls gave the cave a warm glow. A crisp breeze blew into it from the opening, carrying hints of mist. The princesses’ personal bodyguards lounged against the wall. They were brother and sister, burly, red-haired twins named Denn and Fenn Hurling. The Amintelle family had employed them for over a decade, just like Pool. Fenn idly stroked the scaly head of one of the cur-dragons as it purred smoke over her knees.

  A dozen more cur-dragons napped on the warm stone floor or prowled back and forth in front of the cave opening. The creatures were the size of large dogs or smallish velgon bears. They had thick, scaly bodies and bony black wings, the joints edged with blunt spines. Their claws were filed down so they wouldn’t accidentally hurt anyone, and they were trained to control their fire. The cur-dragons could carry packages and even small children in emergencies, but they were nothing like the dragons of legend. It had been generations since a true dragon was last spotted above the mountain.

  Soraline and Selivia were sitting on the stone floor with a little pile of cur-dragon hatchlings crawling over their laps. Siv flopped down beside them.

  “How was the council meeting?” Soraline asked.

  “The usual.”

  “What did Lord Rollendar say about the changes to the Ringston Pact?”

  “Uhh . . . favorable,” Siv said.

  Sora’s eyes widened in her round face. “Really? Lord Rollendar? That’s huge! If he’s finally come around to Lord Nanning’s way of thinking, that means—”

  “Maybe he didn’t say favorable,” Siv said quickly. “I might not have been paying attention at that part.”

  Sora frowned and blew out a long breath. “Honestly, Siv, maleness is wasted on you.”

  “Um, thank you?”

  Sora sniffed as Siv took one of her cur-dragon hatchlings and held it up. The little creature looked at him with its beady eyes and sneezed a jet of smoke into his face.

  “Careful,” Selivia said, stroking its scaly head. “They’re only a few weeks away from their first fire. Sometimes it comes early.”

  “Yes, you wouldn’t wa
nt to singe that fine beard,” Sora said disdainfully.

  Siv poked her with his elbow. “It’s better than yours.”

  Sora scowled, but one of the cur-dragons latched onto her finger, and she had to turn her attention to prying its toothless jaws loose.

  “Did I miss Dara this morning?” Selivia asked. “I had my harp lesson.”

  “Nope. She’s only here three days a week.”

  “So she’ll be here on Turnday?”

  “Afraid not,” Siv said. “She has a competition.” He felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. He’d forgotten that was this coming Turnday. She wouldn’t be back until next week.

  “Oh, can we watch?!” Selivia squealed. “Where is it?”

  “Square Peak, I think,” Siv said. Could they watch? He usually went to the major competitions in the King’s Peak Arena, but why shouldn’t he drop by one of the smaller tourneys?

  Sora scooted closer to them carefully so as not to disturb the mother cur-dragon sleeping near her. “We have our Eventide tea with Lady Farrow on Turnday, Selivia.”

  “Ugh. I hate all those stuffy old ladies. I want to watch Dara duel!”

  “She is something,” Siv said. There was elegance to the way Dara moved on the dueling strip. She had a powerful certainty that captivated him at times.

  “You like her, don’t you, Siv?” Selivia said.

  “Sure, I like her.” Siv shrugged and flipped the baby cur-dragon over to tickle its belly. More smoke wheezed out of its mouth.

  “I mean like her,” Selivia said. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Selivia,” Sora snapped.

  “I’m not!”

  “Dara Ruminor is the daughter of a Fireworker,” Sora said. “She’s not even a member of the noble court. Siv simply cannot like her.”

  Selivia tucked a brassy strand of hair behind her ear. She was going to be in huge trouble for using that cheap Fire Potion when their mother returned.

  “You’re the one who was so excited to talk about her father the first time she was here, Sora,” Selivia said. “He’s very important, isn’t he? More important than a lot of the nobles. You don’t even know the names of all the nobles in the court!”

  “Of course I do,” Sora said.

  “But I don’t,” Selivia said. “And I bet Siv doesn’t either. Do you?”

  “Uhh . . .” Siv became extra interested in the little spines of the cur-dragon’s wings. They seemed longer and sharper than those of his brothers. The little guy preened under the attention.

  “He should,” Sora said. “The point is Fireworkers are craftsmen. They were denied nobility by our great-grandfather a hundred years ago precisely because they are as important as you say. Important. Powerful. The position of Fire Warden exists as a check on their power, and keeping their status beneath the landowning nobility is another. Siv should know that too.”

  “I do know that. Thanks for the history lesson, Sora.” Siv shifted onto his belly and peered into the little cur-dragon’s face, mostly to avoid meeting his sisters’ eyes. He understood the importance of noble alliances in a royal marriage as well as Sora did. Of course he would never consider courting Dara Ruminor. He would do what was best for Vertigon.

  The thing that had him confused was why the thought twisted in him, like being stung by the spine of a zur-sparrow. He didn’t like Dara, did he?

  Selivia didn’t seem ready to give up the notion. She began arguing with her older sister about marrying for love, citing the old stories of the Lands Below and the kingdoms across the Bell Sea that she had loved reading since childhood.

  “We are royal princesses,” Sora said. “Our duty is to marry the most powerful man we can find, whether he’s a nobleman or a prince from another kingdom. Siv has to do the same, except he might have a bit more say.”

  “But—”

  “You can dream about Sallana and the Bridgeworker or The Legend of Teall and Darran as much as you want, but that’s reality.”

  “But you could love a nobleman, couldn’t you?” Selivia’s lip trembled. “It doesn’t have to be this horrible duty. Mother and Father love each other.”

  “The point is that love or attraction isn’t the priority,” Sora said. “You’ll only make yourself miserable or invite scandal down on the family because you’re trying to live in a story—or get Siv to live in one.” Sora flashed a look tinged with bitterness at her brother. “His alliance will be even more important than ours. We’re just girls.”

  Siv was afraid Selivia would dissolve into tears if he didn’t say something soon. Sora could be a bit insensitive. He really should say something soothing, but changing the subject was a lot easier.

  “Hey, Sel, do you think this little guy is going to be bigger than the others?” he asked. The baby cur-dragon nipped at his ear then climbed up on top of his head. Its claws sank into his hair, the tiny, blunt nails like a massage.

  Selivia giggled. “Maybe. He’s feisty, isn’t he?”

  “Can I have him?” Siv hadn’t had a cur-dragon of his own since he was a small boy.

  “I don’t see why not. You have to give him a good name, though.”

  “How about Rumy?” he said.

  “You mean Rumy as in Ruminor?”

  “No.”

  Selivia grinned. “You sure?”

  “It has a nice ring to it. That’s all.” Siv pulled the creature off his head and held him up. Rumy snapped his little jaws, making a clicking sound that echoed around the cave.

  “You never answered my question,” Selivia said. She studied her brother with narrowed eyes. “Do you think Dara is pretty?”

  Sora leaned forward a bit, as if she was eager to hear the answer in spite of herself.

  “I just remembered I have somewhere very important to be,” Siv said. He gave the little hatchling a squeeze and set him back beside his mother on the stone floor. “Have fun with Lady Farrow and her friends on Turnday.” He grinned and strode away before his sisters could object.

  He knew better than to entertain any thoughts about whether or not Dara Ruminor was pretty . . . or clever . . . or intimidating as hell. He was a prince. He had duties to Vertigon. That was as far as things went.

  On the other hand, he was a prince. If he wanted to drop by a dueling competition over on Square Peak, who could stop him?

  9.

  The Rival

  ON Turnday, Dara jogged through the morning mists to Square Peak. Furlingbird Bridge thundered under her boots, and her equipment bag thumped against her back. She hurried along the wide avenues of Square Peak and around the broad plateau at its crown. The dueling hall was located on the far eastern side of Square Peak, one of the more sparsely populated parts of the mountain. She was early as usual, having risen before the sun. She liked to give herself plenty of time to focus before competitions. It was well worth the loss of a bit of sleep.

  She was among the first competitors to arrive at East Square Hall, one of the oldest dueling venues in Vertigon. Built of stone and fully enclosed, it could host competitions throughout the winter. A few enthusiasts were already there when Dara jogged through the narrow entryway beneath the stands. Firebulbs, coarser and more efficient than Fire Lanterns, lit the cavernous space. Rough wooden benches for spectators rose on one side, and dueling strips marked in chalk filled the wide stone floor. The tournament officials gathered in a tight knot near the athletes’ entrance, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs of apple cider.

  Dara headed for the trunk rooms at the far end of the hall. They were a bit dingy, and only a goat-hide screen separated the male and female competitors. Dara deposited her gear by her usual trunk and then began her warm-ups out on the main competition floor. Despite its age and austerity, this was Dara’s favorite venue. The tap of boots and slap of blades echoed in a way that reminded her of the very first duels she’d watched as a child. The arched ceiling amplified the cheers of the spectators, giving the athletes an extra burst of energy when they ne
eded it. Dara always dueled particularly well in East Square.

  She settled into her pre-competition routine as other duelists began arriving. More spectators filed into the stands, including a few patrons who had come to see how their investments performed. Dara tried to ignore them and regulate her breathing. Focus. That’s what she needed today.

  The Eventide Open was the last major tourney before the Vertigon Cup. It came during the second half of the pro dueling season, which ran from spring to fall. Tournaments were typically held every two weeks during the season, usually on Turndays at the end of the week. Winter was a training time, when amateur tournaments and exhibition matches fulfilled the spectators’ insatiable appetite for the duels.

  The Vertigon Cup was an international competition, and it came with a particularly big purse. It was also late enough in the season that patrons usually made their final decisions about who to sign immediately afterwards. Patrons would then put up their chosen duelists for the winter with the understanding that they’d be the official representatives of their sponsor for the following season.

  Dara needed a good result here if she wanted to generate interest from the patrons in time for the Vertigon Cup. They probably hadn’t paid much attention to her when she was coming up in the youth division. She had won her fair share of tournaments, but many girls never made the jump to the adult league. Sponsors didn’t want to invest in athletes who weren’t planning to have long careers. Male matches tended to be more popular too, so it was harder for female athletes to prove they’d be a good investment. But today Dara would make sure they remembered her. They would have to take her seriously. She felt more nervous than usual, but she was confident. None of the twenty-four women who’d been on the roster last time she checked should be able to defeat her.

  Other duelists soon joined Dara on the competition floor, each settling into their own pre-match rituals. Most jogged or did footwork back and forth across the stone floor, but a few had strange routines to help them get into a tournament mindset. One male duelist, Dell Dunn, was known for singing in a corner right up until the first match began. Another, Shon Quen, lay flat on his back, perfectly still, and stared at the arched ceiling until the moment before his first match. As soon as he started dueling, he’d shriek and shout after every single hit, an unnerving practice that had earned him the nickname Shon the Shrieker.