by Jordan Rivet
“So,” Kel said in a loud voice. “I hear you’re going to win the Vertigon Cup, Vine Silltine.”
“That is my goal.” Vine’s voice carried well. A few people in the street looked up.
“Is that Vine Silltine and Kelad Korran, the champion duelists?” said the loudest stage whisper Dara had ever heard. She spotted Oat in the crowded street. He waved.
“Are you worried about any of your competitors?” Kel called.
“No one can touch me,” Vine said. She hoisted herself onto the balcony railing and stood. Firegold flashed from her dress. She swirled it about her ankles and pranced along the balustrade. “No other female duelist has made me bat an eyelash all year.”
“There’s another swordswoman making a name for herself,” Kel said.
More people were looking up at the pair on the balcony. A portly lord waved for his companion to be quiet so he could hear them better. A pair of young girls pointed at Vine, whispering her name like a prayer.
“I heard she saved Prince Sivarrion with her blade skills,” Kel continued. “She’s really something.”
“Rumors!” Vine tossed her hair dramatically. “Where is this duelist? If she’s that good, why don’t I know her name?”
“Wasn’t it the Ruminor girl?” someone near Dara called out.
“That’s what I heard.”
“Ruminor!” Oat shouted from the street.
“What’s that you say?” Vine wrinkled her nose prettily. “Blooming Door?”
A few people laughed, including the portly nobleman. Vine tossed her hair again.
“I’m not afraid of a duelist who won’t even let her name be known. I am Lady Vine Silltine, after all.”
One of Vine’s mysterious assistants appeared beside her. He tossed glittering tokens into the air. People in the street cheered and scrambled for the tokens on the cobblestones. Three teenage boys had joined the two girls, and they were hurriedly telling them everything they knew about Vine Silltine’s famous moves. The crowd beneath the balcony was growing.
“Where is this supposed prince savior?” Vine called. “I don’t believe she exists. If she does, will she be brave enough to answer my challenge? Vine Silltine won’t tremble before some Blooming Door.”
Chuckles rippled through the spectators. The audience waited eagerly to see what else the famous Lady Vine Silltine would do.
“Nightfall,” Kel said. He was quiet, but not too quiet. “I hear she’s called Nightfall.”
“I heard that too!” a man in the street shouted. He wasn’t even one of their friends. More people were strolling up to the group beneath the balcony to see what the commotion was about. The cluster of teenage dueling fans had multiplied, with both boys and girls eagerly telling their friends about their favorite competitors. A lady ordered her palanquin bearers to halt so she could get out and see what was going on. The nobles at the party above all had their gazes fixed on Vine.
“Nightfall?” Vine scoffed. “Is she asleep? I want her to show her face.”
Wait for it. Wait for it. Dara had to get the timing just right. She pulled her mask and weapon out of her gear bag and pushed it beneath the front porch of Zurren’s greathouse.
“I hear she doesn’t sleep at all!” came another voice nearby. There was something familiar about it. “She’s too busy saving lives. What have you done lately, Vine? Pranced around like a Truren peacock?”
That voice. It couldn’t be. Suddenly there was a hand on the small of Dara’s back. She whirled around and looked up into the eyes of none other than Prince Siv. He wore a hooded cloak, but there was no mistaking those high cheekbones, those bright eyes. She felt a jolt of fire in her toes.
“It’s time,” he whispered, just for her.
Vine strutted back and forth on the balcony. Somewhere, her musicians had started blowing trumpets.
The prince squeezed Dara’s waist for the briefest instant. “Knock her down,” he said. Then he spun her back around and gave her a push.
Dara swept off her hood, revealing her face paint in all its glory, and swirled her cloak.
“Vine Silltine!” she shouted.
The people around her noticed her theatrical appearance and took a few steps back, eagerly clearing a space for the show. Siv melted back into the crowd, whispering “Nightfall. It’s Nightfall,” in people’s ears as he went.
“Vine, you called for me?”
“That was quick,” Vine said. The crowd laughed. “Is that you, Blooming? I’ve heard all about you.”
“Enough talk, Vine. I challenge you to a duel. Now.” Dara remembered what Selivia had said about remaining mysterious and didn’t say anything more. That was easier than hamming for the crowd anyway.
“Can’t you see I’m enjoying myself at a party?” Vine stuck out her lower lip and sat on the edge of the balcony, swinging her feet out over the crowd.
“I challenge you,” Dara said again. She hadn’t expected Vine to make her talk her into the duel.
“Maybe later.” Vine leaned back on the balcony’s edge, draping her skirts expertly as she did. It made a pretty picture, Vine lying in the sun above the crowd, seemingly not bothered by the drop, Firegold skirts fanning out beneath her.
“Now,” Dara said.
“What was your name again?” Vine asked.
The spectators chuckled. More and more people joined the assembly, some running all the way across the square to investigate the commotion.
Dara gathered herself and growled. “I am Dara . . . Nightfall . . . Ruminor. I challenge you to a duel.”
“Well, if you insist.” Vine rolled off the balcony. A woman screamed, but before anyone could move Vine turned gracefully in the air and landed on her feet. Then she ripped off her skirt, revealing tight breeches underneath. Applause erupted through the crowd.
An assistant appeared at Vine’s elbow and handed her a mask and a sword, the hilt edged in Firegold.
Dara slammed her own mask onto her head, threw off her cloak, and raised her blade. People stepped back to clear a bigger space. Wide eyes and eager faces surrounded them.
“Duel!” Kel shouted down from the balcony.
Dara attacked, wasting no time. Vine had her moment on the balcony. Now it was Dara’s turn to make an impression. She would show people what it was like to watch a real duelist. For all Vine’s talk, Dara was the one that wanted it more. This duel was hers and hers alone.
Dara drove forward, stabbing and lunging, fast and accurate. Steel rang against steel. Boots scraped and tapped on the cobblestones. Vine met her parry for parry. Dara hadn’t had a bout with her in nearly a year, and Vine was much better than she had been then. But Dara was better too. Vine tried her usual dancing, showy steps, but each time Dara cut her off. She forced her back relentlessly. This might be a show, but it wasn’t a game.
Dara and Vine fought back and forth across Thunderbird Square. The crowd pulsed and surged around them. They had agreed not to go easy on each other. They leapt from barrels and wove in and out of porticos, making the match as dynamic as possible. Their swords flashed in the sun. The sting from Vine’s blunt-pointed weapon bit into Dara’s arms, but she refused to react to the pain. She would be cold like steel in the face of Vine’s flashy Firegold assault.
The crowds loved it. Most shouted for Vine, but there were calls for Ruminor and Nightfall in the crowd. Siv and Oat weren’t the only ones cheering for Dara now.
Dara landed a solid hit on Vine’s stomach, feeling the sensible padding underneath the flashy outfit. Vine grunted and thrust the blade away. Dara retreated toward Fell Bridge, narrowly avoiding the riposte.
The duelists picked up speed, each hit harder and faster than the last. More spectators ran down the slopes of Lower King’s to watch. Vine twirled around and launched into one of her elaborate dancing lunges. She caught Dara on the hand with a shot that made half her wrist go numb. Dara retreated farther, almost to the foot of the bridge. Vine followed.
Thunderbird Square was pa
cked now. The crowds roared with each clang and thud. But Dara kept her attention on Vine, watching for her weaknesses, learning her timing.
Vine lunged for her mask, and Dara leapt up the stone steps at the head of the bridge.
“It’s where she fought the prince’s attacker!” someone shouted. Dara was pretty sure it was the prince himself. “Nightfall! Nightfall!”
Dara took the cue and lingered on the steps, keeping the higher ground. Vine paced in front of her for a moment then hurtled forward up the steps. The image of the man with the knife flared in Dara’s mind. This felt a little too real. But she would not allow the memory of fear to get in her way. She raised her blade, stopping the assault, and launched a rapid counterattack. She went for the head. Hand. Heart. Vine slipped off the steps, landing in an ungainly sprawl.
Dara paced on the bridge platform while Vine recovered. Kel would have used this moment to taunt his opponent, but Dara stuck to her plan. She was shadow and steel. She planted her feet in front of the bridge and waited for Vine to rise.
She didn’t have to wait long. Vine lunged straight for her feet, and Dara jumped backward onto the bridge to avoid the hit. She had lost count of the score, but she was pretty sure she was winning. It didn’t matter, though. Today was all about the show. Then she would obliterate Vine in the Cup.
Dara retreated. People from Village Peak had gathered on the bridge at the commotion, but they ran back across it to leave room for the duel. Dara glanced across the Gorge at the nearby Orchard Bridge and Cherrywood Bridge beyond it. People filled them from end to end. They would have a full view of the final act.
Dara reached the middle of the bridge and waited for Vine to catch up. They faced each other, blades raised, keeping distance as the crowds shouted their support. Wind whipped across the Gorge, streaming through Vine’s hair, ruffling Dara’s loose blouse. The sun was beginning to set, and shadows stretched out from Dara’s feet like smoke.
Dara and Vine dueled back and forth. The bridge swayed under their feet. The clang of their swords echoed across the Gorge. Dara tried the moves Siv had given her, driving like an arrow for the toe and head with an exaggerated intensity. The spectators on the other bridges called her name.
“You will never defeat me!” Vine shrieked. She whirled her golden blade in the dying light, and for a second it looked as though she were wielding Fire like the sorcerers of old.
“I am Nightfall, and this is my bridge,” Dara shouted. She lunged, catching Vine’s whirling blade and driving her own point toward her chest. It landed on Vine’s breastplate with an audible thunk.
The crowd cheered.
“Nightfall! Nightfall! Nightfall!”
“Halt!” someone shouted. There was a flicker of movement beyond Vine, a voice raised in anger. “How dare you engage in such a ruthless display on a public bridge!”
A slim man in a bridge guard uniform ran toward them from the King’s Peak side, shouting admonishments as he neared. Dara thought she recognized Vine’s butler, Toff.
“Cease this violence immediately!” he bellowed.
The people on the other bridges booed and hollered, “Let them finish!”
“I will call the army. You cannot duel here!” the man’s face reddened with the effort of shouting loud enough for all the spectators to hear.
“We will finish this, Nightfall!” Vine called as the butler dressed as a bridge guard made an elaborate show of restraining her. “No one challenges me and walks away!”
“We’ll settle it at the Vertigon Cup,” Dara said. She placed her blade across her shoulders like a yoke and watched calmly as the guard drew Vine back along the bridge. When Vine was halfway to the end, Dara swept her sword into the air and saluted the crowds on the bridges and on the two slopes.
“I am Dara Nightfall Ruminor!” she announced. “I shall return at the Vertigon Cup!”
Then she turned and jogged back to Village Peak. Cheers followed her all the way home.
21.
The Lantern Maker
THE duel was the talk of the mountain for days afterward. The event replaced the attempted assassination as the favored topic of debate and speculation in Stone Market. Fistfights broke out in taverns over who had the upper hand. Young women wore black or gold hair ribbons to indicate which duelist they supported. Dara’s public persona had been born. She was a force to be reckoned with, a duelist who rescued people from assassins and fought on bridges.
Dara was surprised at how quickly her fame spread. Strangers stopped her on runs to ask about her strategy for the showdown with Vine at the Cup. The younger students at the dueling school watched her complete her hundred lunges as though she were some magical creature. Famous duelists nodded to her when they passed each other on the bridges. Betting on the results of the Cup grew fierce. Tickets were selling fast. It was going to be one of the biggest tournaments Vertigon had ever seen.
Unfortunately, with all the added attention it was only a matter of time before Dara’s parents addressed the subject. She had assumed her mother would be the one to confront her about the spectacle, but instead it was Rafe Ruminor who called her into his workshop early in the morning a few days after the duel.
Dara took the winding tunnel into the mountain from the back of their house. She hadn’t seen much of her father lately. She had been going for morning runs in place of her still-suspended practices with Siv to avoid seeing him at breakfast, and she often stayed late at the dueling school at night. She was afraid she’d let something slip about her secret. Her father had been almost as busy as her anyway. With his access to the Fire becoming increasingly limited, it took him longer to complete the same amount of Work.
There was still plenty of power deep in that tunnel, though. As Dara neared the workshop, she felt the Fire sense deep in her body. It hummed in her blood, a slight vibration like a pinched nerve after a precise hit from a blade. Her newfound ability was either growing stronger or she was becoming more aware of it. It made her uncomfortable to be this close to the access point and all that raw magic. What if her father noticed something different about her?
Dara took a deep breath, as if facing an unknown opponent in a championship bout, and pushed open the door to the workshop. Her father stood over a half-finished lantern on a stone table. He didn’t look up when she entered. He was in the most delicate phase of the Work: imbuing the metal center with a Fire core that would keep its warmth and light for a hundred years. This was where the magical art went beyond mere metalworking. It required a combination of carefully honed skill and natural ability to capture the Fire in a core without melting the metal that held it. Her father had both skill and exceptional strength. His lanterns never succumbed to cold and dark, and they never lost their shape, as cheaper Firebulbs were known to do. Ruminor Fire Lanterns had been discovered after being lost in the high mountain snows for years, still burning a patch of warmth around them.
Dara waited beside her father, watching the lantern glowing beneath his hands. Rafe didn’t even have to touch the metal. He drew the liquid Fire from the mountain and channeled it into the core with sheer will. The heart of the lantern glowed, and Dara’s blood pulsed in time with it. The metal lattices usually tempered the intensity of the Fire, but before they were installed the naked power of the Fire shone bright.
Dara edged a few steps farther away, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the Fire.
After a while, her father’s broad shoulders relaxed. The core burned, steady and bright, and the Fire within looked as solid as a bar of gold. Now that he had completed the core, Rafe used more of the molten power to shape the rest of the lantern. He attached plain steel plates around the glowing core and then kneaded them like clay. He began to weave the molten metal into the intricate lacework for which he was so famous.
Shadows from the top of the lantern, not yet fully formed, made Rafe’s face look ghoulish. Dara shifted her boots on the stone floor of the workshop, long since worn smooth, and cleared her throat.
“I know you are there, my young spark,” Rafe said. He was quiet for a moment longer. The pattern on the lantern beneath his fingers began to take the shape of a dragon—not the mangy cur-dragons that lived in the caves of the mountain, but a true dragon the likes of which hadn’t been seen in a generation. “I understand the whole of Vertigon knows of your display on Fell Bridge this past Turnday.”
“It was just an act,” Dara said quickly. “Vine Silltine and I thought a showy rivalry would help draw a good crowd at the Vertigon Cup. We want to make sure the patrons are watching our final bout.” She left out the part about the rivalry being Prince Sivarrion’s idea.
“It was crass,” Rafe said. “You are a Ruminor. You should not abase yourself in the streets.”
“It’s part of the sport,” Dara said.
“It is time to put away childish games, Dara. There are more important things happening on this mountain.”
“What important things?” Dara asked. She leaned against another worktable then stood quickly when she felt the heat coursing through the stone.
Rafe looked up from the lantern. “If you paid closer attention to our family affairs, perhaps you would know. As it is, you have proved yourself too young for confidences.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“You do not act it,” Rafe said. “You brawl in the streets. And you sneak around behind our backs when you should be attending to our business. I understand you have been dueling with Prince Sivarrion.”
Dara grimaced. She knew that would come up soon enough. Farr had said her mother no longer wanted him to discuss the business with Dara, but the silent treatment couldn’t be expected to last forever.
“Coach Berg asked me to practice with the prince,” she explained. “He’s been giving me free lessons in exchange. That’s why I switched to working in the shop in the afternoons instead of the mornings.”
The dragon on her father’s lantern burst out a tongue of flame. “Berg Doban,” Rafe said. “You have spent more than enough time with that man. I don’t want you to take any more lessons with him.”
