by Jordan Rivet
But Berg wasn’t finished. “I am busy, so you will practice with him alone from now.”
“What? Coach—”
“Do not argue.” Berg folded his arms over his broad chest and loomed over her. “You will go every day. Do not come back to the school in the afternoon unless you also train at the castle in the morning.”
“I can’t.” He was punishing her after all. Sure, Berg said he was busy, but no business of his should take priority over training the heir-prince. He was trying to teach her a lesson.
“You will,” Berg said. “This is not negotiation. You will go to the castle every morning. Start tomorrow.”
Dara closed her trunk and hoisted her gear bag onto her shoulder, considering his words. His insistence that she train at the castle every day seemed to go beyond a desire to make Dara and Siv into better duelists. She had always trusted Berg’s instructions, and she couldn’t refuse him now. Training with the prince was still training. And dueling was still her only chance at the life she wanted away from the family business.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
Berg gave a brief nod, as if he expected nothing less, and stalked away.
“What did he say?” Oat asked when Dara finally joined him and Kel at the door. He pushed it open, and the harsh mountain wind swirled around them, carrying promises of rain.
“He’s punishing me for losing focus,” Dara said as they descended the stone steps from the school.
“How?”
“He’s making me . . . do extra workouts in the mornings.”
“That’s hardly a punishment for you,” Kel said. “You love working out.”
“It’s different,” Dara mumbled. She figured she still shouldn’t tell anyone she was dueling with the prince. Vine had seemed to know at the tournament, though. Could the nobles be talking amongst themselves about Siv’s new training companion? How long would it take her parents to find out? Fortunately, because they didn’t associate with Zage Lorrid and the Fireworkers in his employ at the castle, she didn’t think word had gotten back to them yet.
“Are you coming to the tavern with us?” Oat asked as they headed down the winding stone path away from the school. Warm lights glowed across the three peaks of Vertigon. It was the second night of Eventide, so some people would still be engaging in the old tradition of visiting and bringing token gifts to their friends. They hurried through the wind, eager to get indoors before the rain began.
“I don’t think I can.”
“Come on,” Oat said. “It’s Eventide, and we’re celebrating my win.”
“Again,” Kel put in. “Didn’t quite get my fill of celebrations last night.”
“Sorry. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” She didn’t add that all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and forget how she had let herself down. She didn’t want to ruin Oat’s enjoyment of his moment by moping. She faked a smile for her friend’s sake. “Have fun.”
“Your loss,” Kel said.
He sauntered ahead, but Oat was still looking at Dara hopefully. Suddenly he reached out and took her hand, entwining his fingers with hers, and pulled her closer.
“Come with us, Dara.”
Dara looked down at their hands, surprised at the sudden intimacy. Oat’s wide palm was damp, a look of hope on his face. Dara tugged her hand out of Oat’s grasp, perhaps a little too roughly.
“Sorry, O, I’m beat.”
He couldn’t quite hide the hurt as he said, “No big deal. See you around, Dar.” Oat turned and loped off after Kel, his practice weapons rattling in his bag.
Dara sighed. Oat had been sweet on her for a while, but she never thought he’d act on it. Why did he have to do it today of all days? She felt a little sick. Maybe she had overdone it at practice after all. She hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, and she wasn’t sure why she didn’t return his affection. Like Farr, Oat would be a perfectly adequate match for her. He was kind and unassuming, and they’d been friends for years. But she wanted someone who made warmth and excitement spread through her, not someone who would be merely tolerable. She wanted Fire in her veins too. Real mountain Fire. And she wanted to win, to show her worth. She wanted so many things, but no matter how hard she worked, the lucky spark remained beyond her grasp.
Rain began to fall lightly over the mountain, making the Firelights shudder. Dara slogged home through the drizzle, passing huddled figures on the long bridge between Square Peak and the Village. She climbed the winding stairs toward her home, feeling tired and sad. The lanterns lit the front porch, bright and almost harsh. Her parents were in the showroom, their shadows distinct amongst half a dozen others. Corren’s gravelly laugh rattled the window. Rafe and Lima must be entertaining their Fireworker associates. They were the types to keep to the old Eventide traditions. Dara skirted around the house, climbed through her bedroom window to avoid speaking to anyone, and went to bed.
Dara would rather throw herself off a bridge than face Prince Siv after he had watched her lose, but she hauled herself out of bed and up to the castle early the next morning. The rain still fell in a persistent drizzle. Her entire body ached, and the bruises from her last practice had darkened and expanded. She felt as if she’d rolled all the way down the mountainside in her sleep.
“Look what the povvercat dragged in,” Siv said when she arrived at the dueling hall. He was on his feet for once, and he looked as if he had already been for a jog that morning.
“Prince Sivarrion,” Dara said.
“All formal again, are we?”
“I had a rough practice last night,” Dara said. “Can we postpone today’s session?”
“You know how Coach Doban feels about rescheduling. He told me not to let you make any excuses when you came in today. I’m the prince of excuses, so I recognize them when I see them.”
“You talked to Berg?”
Siv inclined his head, reaching into the wardrobe for his jacket. “He told me we’d be training exclusively from now on. Lucky me.”
Dara didn’t have the energy to argue.
“Let’s just duel,” she said.
“Not until we warm up. And not until you tell me what the Firelord happened at the tourney.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Not so fast.” Siv shrugged on his jacket. “Apparently you’re now my official training partner, and I dragged my ass across the world’s longest bridge to that grimy dueling hall to cheer you on. Now tell me why you lost to the shrieking sheyla.”
“The what?”
“Shrieking sheyla, from Cindral Forest. I saw them at a fair in Trure once.”
“Whatever.” Dara pushed at the rug with the toe of her boot. “You could have warned me you were going to be there.”
“Is that an excuse I hear? What, I distracted you with my dashing good looks?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Dara said quickly. She willed her cheeks not to turn red. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“Were you expecting that knee shot?” Siv put his hands on his hips, his jacket still hanging open. “How about when you launched yourself onto that last riposte. You’re better than that.”
“I lost focus.”
“I don’t think that’s your problem. You’re too focused. Seriously, you need to lighten up a little. You looked very tense, even in the bouts you won, tenser than a morrinvole in heat. Yeah, I’ve seen that too.”
“I’ll do better next time,” Dara said. “I have to win the Cup now, or the patrons—”
“Oh, patrons this, patrons that.” Siv took a step closer to her. “It’s the crowd you need to worry about. You’re not fun to watch.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hate to break it to you, but you’re so uptight and focused and serious when you duel that it’s boring.” Siv reached out and poked her arm. Dara stiffened. “This is a show,” he said, and poked her again. “With spectators. If you get the crowds to like you, the patrons will follow. You have to entertain th
em, not just win a bunch of bouts.”
“You’ve never competed,” Dara snapped. She refused to step back, even though he was standing very close now. He had no right to lecture her about competitive dueling. She glared up at him. “You don’t need a patron. Don’t tell me about—”
“You don’t need a patron either,” Siv said. “You’ve got a wealthy father. What’s the big deal?”
“I can’t keep using my parents’ money for dueling,” Dara said. “They support it grudgingly as it is. I need to make it on my own.” She met the prince’s eyes fiercely. “You wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Siv blinked. “Is that what you think? That I don’t want to make it on my own?”
“You’re the uncontested heir to a prosperous kingdom.”
The prince’s face darkened, and he turned away from her. “Destined to be the Fourth Good King and all that.” He finished fastening his jacket, nearly popping off the final button, and yanked on his glove. “You think I don’t know? My father is a popular king in a long line of popular kings. I’m supposed to maintain the status quo and keep my mouth shut around the right people, nothing more.” He whirled back to face her. “You think I don’t sometimes wish I could make my own name? You don’t know me, Dara.”
Dara stared at the prince. She had touched a nerve. Despite the time they had spent together over the past few weeks, she was surprised he would talk to her about something like this, about his issues with his role and family. Maybe she and Siv were more similar than she realized.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“Forget it.” Siv noticed he had put his glove on inside out. He pulled it off again and rolled his shoulders as if shaking off the conversation. “Back to the dueling spectators. Did you see Lady Vine Silltine duel?”
“Ugh, I don’t want to talk about Vine Silltine.” Dara began putting on her own gear.
“She’s a little over the top, but that stuff works. The crowds love her.”
“Just because she flounces around in dresses before—”
“It’s not just the dresses,” Siv said. “It’s the whole package: the grand entrance, the noise, the moves. She’s sexy, and she uses that to stick in people’s minds. Then she puts on a good show during the bouts. Your style is too utilitarian. You don’t waste any movements. You save your energy. You’re very precise. Vine moves more than she has to, but she does it because that’s what people want to watch. She’s like a thunderbird.”
“So you think I should be more like what? A peacock?”
“You’ve got to be something, Dara, something more than a good duelist.”
Dara sighed and pulled a blade from her bag. “I could wear a dress to the hall if it would help that much.”
“No, no, don’t try to be Vine.”
“But you just said—”
“You need to develop your own style, something that will help you stick in people’s minds, both on and off the competition floor. Don’t do what she’s doing.” Siv finally righted his glove and headed for the dueling strip. “I have an idea or two up my sleeve for you.”
“Look, right now I’m tired,” Dara said. “I just want to bout so Coach won’t kick me out of the school next time I go for my real practice.”
“Real practice, eh?” Siv said with a wicked grin. “I’ll show you real practice, but only if you promise to try out my idea. Otherwise, I’ll make you waste every morning from here until the Cup with half-assed bouts. And because I’m the prince, you’ll have to keep practicing with me anyway.”
Dara gritted her teeth. “Fine.”
“Good.” Siv dropped his mask over his face. “We start your showmanship training tomorrow.”
12.
Showmanship
WHEN Dara arrived in the dueling hall the following morning, Princess Selivia was waiting.
“Siv told me the plan!” she squealed as Dara entered. “I have so many ideas. We’re going to make you the most memorable duelist ever! Not that you’re not memorable now, of course, but you’ll be even better.”
“What do you have in mind?” Dara couldn’t help smiling at Selivia’s enthusiasm. Siv was sprawled on the floor with a book, but he set it aside to listen to his sister.
“Well, Vine Silltine already has a very flashy, sexy image, right?” Selivia bounced on her toes as she talked. “You’re going to be intense. Very intense.”
“I’m listening.”
“I was thinking about the Fire Lanterns your father makes,” Selivia began.
“I don’t want to do a Fire theme,” Dara said.
“No, Vine already uses Firegold in her clothes and tokens. You’re going dark, the opposite of what people expect from the Lantern Maker’s daughter. You’re very intense when you duel, so let’s use that. Black clothes, black tokens, black face paint.”
“Wait, face paint?”
“Yes!” Selivia clasped Dara’s hands and squeezed them tight. “And I want to dye black streaks in your hair. It’ll look striking against the blond.”
Dara eyed the amateurish streaks in Selivia’s own hair. She wasn’t sure she wanted to let the young princess have her way with any dye. Dara was secretly quite proud of her long golden locks.
“What does this have to do with the Fire Lanterns?” Dara asked. She disentangled herself from the princess’s grip and glanced over at Siv, who still sat on the stretching rug. He grinned proudly at her, and she dropped her gaze.
“The ones in my chambers have super intricate ironwork panels, like lace made out of metal,” Selivia explained. “When the Fire shines through them, it casts the most beautiful shadows on the walls. It’s lovely, and it only works because there’s something dark and solid in front of the Fire. You have this intense attitude about dueling, but we’re only going to show people the shadows. You’ll do the rest.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Dara said.
“You’ll be dark and mysterious and powerful. Use the shadows, not the Fire. You’ll make Vine look crass.” Selivia danced over to retrieve a basket from beside the door and began pulling out piles of black clothing: dresses, cloaks, even a pair of tall black boots with iron buckles. “Sora and I don’t wear these anymore. We can have our dressmaker tailor some costumes for you.”
“You’ll be a badass,” Siv said, standing up and joining his sister. “And you need a new name.”
“What?”
“Not literally,” Selivia said. “Siv, I was saving that part! I think you need a catchy nickname that will help people remember you.”
“And you should trash talk,” Siv said. “I can help with that. You just need to call Vine the daughter of a cull—”
“Siv!”
“Sorry, Sel.”
“I don’t think you should trash talk,” Selivia said. “It’s not unique enough. And some of the male duelists already do it well.”
“Yeah, my friend Kel is one of them,” Dara said.
“You’re friends with Kelad Korran!” Selivia shrieked. “Can you introduce me? He’s so funny and soooo handsome.”
“Seriously, Sel?” Siv rolled his eyes. “And you think I get off topic?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Selivia whispered to Dara with a wink. “Anyway, I don’t think you should talk at all whenever you can help it. If we’re going for dark and mysterious, you need to be silent. Like mist. Or smoke. Or nightfall.”
“Nightfall. That’s a decent name,” Siv said.
“So let me get this straight,” Dara said. She held up a gown made of black velvet with a burn on the skirt. The material was heavy and much richer than anything she’d ever worn. “You want me to call myself Nightfall, wear all black, and never speak? And that will make the spectators like me?”
“You can speak,” Selivia said, “but only when you have something super intense to say.”
“Like what?”
Selivia shrugged. “You sleep with one eye open, or you eat Fireroot for breakfast. I don’t kno
w. You’ll think of something.”
“And you hate Vine Silltine’s guts,” Siv added. “You’re planning to skewer her in front of everyone at the Vertigon Cup.”
“I don’t hate Vine.” Dara put the black gown back on Selivia’s pile.
Siv gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes, but don’t go telling people that. Dueling spectators love a good rivalry. Think about Shoven and Jur the Jurl. Or Wora Wenden and Drimmez. People still talk about their matches.”
“But Vine—”
“She’ll play along,” Siv said. “It’ll be good publicity for her too. I’m surprised she hasn’t called you out already.”
Dara frowned, but Selivia nodded eagerly, her curls dancing.
“That was Siv’s idea, and I think it’s brilliant. A rivalry is almost as good as a romance!” Selivia looked back and forth between Dara and Siv, her smile widening.
“The other thing you need is some new moves,” Siv said quickly. “That’s where I come in.”
“I’m not doing a bunch of crazy leaps during bouts.” Dara could already imagine the kind of moves Siv had in mind. He was not the subtlest swordsman she had ever met.
“That’s fine, but you can add in some showier stuff,” he said. “Your style will work with your new image, but you need to look more powerful and scarier while you’re at it.”
Dara studied the prince and princess. It made her feel strangely spoiled to have them putting so much effort into helping her find a patron. She had spent so much of her life trying to convince her parents that dueling was worthwhile. Their enthusiasm was an unexpected gift. She met Siv’s eyes, and warmth sang in her fingertips.
“Look, you don’t have to do all this stuff for me,” she said. “I can just train harder.”
“But it’ll be fun!” Selivia said. “We’re going to make you the most memorable female duelist since Surri herself won the first women’s open.”
Siv folded his arms and surveyed her like a master painter studying a canvas. “And I’m going to make sure you win.”
