by Jordan Rivet
“Coach . . .” Dara said. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“You must understand,” Berg said. He returned to the dueling strip and faced the prince. Siv stood his ground, face grim, sweat dripping from his hair.
Dara took a step forward. “Coach, you—”
“Silence,” Berg barked. “Dara, you too.”
“What?”
“On your guard. Both together.”
“Coach, no tourney—”
“No more arguing. We will fight now.”
Dara hurried to the strip, shrugging on her own jacket and mask, and exchanged worried glances with Siv. She assumed her on guard stance, her blood humming with tension. Berg faced them, a big, square mountain with sharpened steel in his hand. Dara fought down the fear curdling in her stomach. This didn’t feel like a game. What was he doing?
Berg advanced, the sharpened blade at the ready. Without a word, Dara and Siv separated so their swords wouldn’t tangle. Dara tapped at Berg’s blade tentatively with her own, testing his defenses. Like lightning, Berg lunged and nicked Dara’s arm. Blood fell on the stone floor.
“What the hell, Berg!” Siv attacked, arm wheeling wildly. Berg parried each stroke then thrust his blade through the prince’s dueling jacket. He pulled the blade out again, leaving a neat cut in the fabric. An inch to the left and he would have stuck him in the ribs.
“Do not lose focus!” Berg roared.
Siv retreated, and Dara engaged Berg, more carefully this time. Her defensive game changed completely in the face of a real weapon. She traded a handful of parries and ripostes with Berg and then retreated. Siv joined her and did the same. Both of them breathed heavily. Fear and confusion gripped Dara. Berg wouldn’t really hurt them, would he? The warm trickle of blood dripping inside her sleeve suggested otherwise.
Berg attacked the prince, and Dara acted on instinct, stepping in front of him and sweeping her coach’s blade aside. Berg’s counterattack barely missed her mask. One wrong move with a weapon like that, and she could lose an eye straight through the wire mesh of her mask.
Siv followed Dara’s move with an attack to Berg’s shoulder, steering clear of his mask-less face. The hit landed with a thud.
Dara and Siv fended off Berg’s rapid counterattacks. Any thoughts of showmanship evaporated. They kept their movements small, controlled. Defense was all that mattered. Berg’s eyes bored into them like awls. Dara studied every inch of him, every tense and shift of muscle, watching for clues to where he would move next. Some sort of burn marked his left hand, the one not protected by a glove. When had that happened?
The bout continued unabated. Dara’s limbs shook, but she didn’t dare suggest a break. She had a feeling Berg wouldn’t stop if she asked. Siv swore steadily under his breath beside her, but he didn’t make any more reckless attacks.
Back and forth they fought. Every moment felt as if it lasted an hour. Dara was reaching the point of exhaustion, unsure whether she could keep her blade up much longer. She felt as though she were being ripped back and forth in a snowstorm today, between her father’s ultimatum, Siv’s hands on hers, and now this.
Again, Berg attacked. Dara clenched her teeth in frustration, but she met his attack blow for blow. She landed a hit on his arm and immediately recovered, ready to duel again. Siv stood ready beside her.
Suddenly Berg lowered his guard. Dara and Siv kept their blades up. There was no telling what he would do.
But Berg only studied them for moment. Then he turned and replaced the sword in the weapons rack. He moved stiffly, as if the intensity of the duel had finally caught up with his aging bones. The shiny patch of the burn glinted on his left hand.
“This is what a real attack feels like, students. You must be ready.” Then he stalked out of the dueling hall and slammed the door behind him.
Silence reigned. Dara’s weapon arm shook as she lowered her guard. Then Siv let out a string of curses and tossed his blade aside. He went straight to the water basin and stuck his head into it. Dara slid down to sit on the floor. What was that about? She’d always thought Berg was a little crazy, but to face them with a sharpened blade? He was taking this training far too seriously.
Siv returned with a wet cloth and knelt beside Dara. He helped her remove her jacket and cleaned the blood from her elbow, long fingers curled gently around her arm to keep it steady. Neither of them spoke. She could smell the sweat on his body, mixed with the coppery tinge of her blood. The cut wasn’t deep, but it stung. Siv wrapped a strip of bandage around it and tied it tightly. Then he sat back on his heels and wiped a sleeve across his face.
“What the hell was that?” he said.
“Another lesson?” Dara thought of the burn on Berg’s hand, and the way he always insisted an attack was imminent. He hadn’t been wrong. “I told you something’s going on. Why else would he suddenly be so concerned about your safety?”
“I thought he just liked me,” Siv mumbled. “I know you suspect the Fire Warden, but if I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if Berg was trying to orchestrate a training accident.” He touched the bandage on her arm, his thumb brushing her skin. “He had no right to do that.”
Dara frowned, remembering her father’s reaction when she mentioned Berg earlier. But it was Berg. He couldn’t have meant to hurt them.
“I don’t believe he wants you harmed,” she said, not feeling quite as confident as she sounded. “You need to be careful, though. Please.”
Siv met her eyes. “I will. I promise.”
“Good.” Dara returned his gaze, heat rising into her through the stones on the floor. She wanted to reach out to him. She wanted him to touch her again. But they had bigger things to worry about. And he was still the prince.
Siv seemed to be having a similar struggle, for he stood abruptly. “So, do you want to keep practicing, or can we call it a day?”
“I’ve had enough dueling for once,” Dara said.
“Likewise. Listen, I’ve got something for you before you go. I’d hoped to give it to you under more jovial circumstances.”
Siv led her to the weapons rack by the door. He pulled one of the blades out with a flourish. It was a fine rapier with a Fire-forged steel blade. The hilt and guard were black iron, wrought with an intricate pattern. The point was deadly sharp.
“Here,” Siv said, thrusting it into Dara’s hands. It was heavier than a sport dueling weapon, and the grip was cold to the touch. Dara’s breath caught in her throat. The sword was little short of spectacular.
“It’s beautiful, but I can’t use this.” She hefted the blade, feeling the perfect balance, admiring the glittering steel edge. “It’s not blunted.”
“It’s for show,” Siv said. “Dara Nightfall, the mysterious dark duelist, needs to carry a weapon to match her name. Wear it whenever you’re not competing. You can use your regular gear for tourneys, but show this off whenever you can.”
Dara ran her fingers over the black guard with its elegant, twining pattern. “Where did it come from?”
“It was made by Drade Savven.”
Dara nearly dropped the weapon. “I can’t accept this.” This was the work of a true master sword smith. A priceless weapon. There were only a handful of Savvens left in the world.
“I insist,” Siv said. “Otherwise it’ll just sit there. Savvens deserve to be shown off.”
Dara looked closer at the intricate iron of the hilt. A tiny S was etched in the pommel. It was the most beautiful sword she had ever seen.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Wear it to the feast,” he said. “It’ll look good on you.”
His gaze fixed on hers, perhaps a little too intently. Dara cleared her throat and took a small step backwards.
“That was quite a training session,” she said. “You’re dueling really well.”
“Of course I am!” Siv grinned. “Now get out of here.”
“See you at the feast?”
“Indeed.” Siv bowed, flourishing an imaginary cape. “Until t
omorrow, Nightfall.”
Dara left the castle at a jog, feeling lighter on her feet despite the solid heft of the Savven blade at her hip.
23.
The Royal Family
SIV was ambushed that very afternoon. Sora sent him a note asking him to meet her in the Great Hall after the noon meal. She neglected to mention that their parents would be there too, with alliances on the brain.
As soon as Siv entered the hall, Sora grabbed his arm and dragged him up the long carpet leading to the dais.
“Sorry, but you’ve been avoiding them for too long,” she said brusquely.
“Traitor.”
Sora wrinkled her nose. “You smell of sweat, Sivarrion. Can’t you bathe after you duel?”
“I had more important things on my mind.”
“The kingdom is important.”
“I know. Believe it or not, I’m more dedicated to Vertigon than a velgon bear is to finding soldarberries.”
Sora sniffed but didn’t respond. They passed their mother, Queen Tirra, who was directing the preparations for the feast the following night. The hall sparkled with ornamentation. Glass baubles hung from the arched ceiling, and it looked as if every Fire Lantern in the castle had been brought in for the occasion. Workmen were dragging the long wooden tables away from their usual places along the walls. The scrape and screech of activity filled the space. Tomorrow would be a big night.
“I’m afraid your time is up, son,” the king said when Siv and Sora reached him. “Thank you, Soraline, you may go.”
Soraline began to protest. “But—”
“I promise to fill you in later,” the king said, eyes twinkling.
“Fine.” Sora jutted out her lip and sulked all the way to the door.
Siv turned to face his father alone.
“Yes, sir?”
Sevren Amintelle stood before his throne, looking every inch the king. Well, except for the pastry dusted with sugar in his hand.
“Your mother and I have been talking,” he said, his tone serious. “Your grandfather has heard rumors of dissent all the way down in Trure. It is time to take decisive action to protect our hold on Vertigon.”
Siv straightened. “What kind of dissent?”
“The Fireworkers. We knew a day would come when the power enclosed within this mountain would cause us difficulty. Our efforts to contain it have not been enough. Drastic actions are even now being planned in concert with a handful of noble houses that see the Fireworkers as their ticket to a better position.”
“Which noble houses?”
“I believe Lord Von Rollendar is the likeliest candidate at this stage.” The king put the last of the pastry in his mouth. “What say you to that?”
“It wouldn’t shock me,” Siv said. Dara might suspect Zage, but Lord Rollendar fit the bill better. And Bolden had known Siv would be out late the night he and Dara were attacked. Despite their long friendship, Siv had no doubt Bolden would choose his house’s interests over him. “And he has Fireworker allies?”
“He does.” The king glanced at the workers preparing the Great Hall and lowered his voice. “He has been seen in their company often of late. My informants are establishing a case against him.”
“Are you going to have him arrested?”
“Not yet. House Rollendar is powerful. His brothers would not take such an action lightly.”
Siv pictured Bolden’s three uncles, proud and cruel. There was a time when no Amintelle king would have worried about a handful of Rollendars. The Peace of Vertigon may have been good for the people, but it didn’t lend itself to kingly demonstrations of power. It was rather inconvenient, really.
Siv looked up at his father. “You don’t think we’re strong enough to stand against them?”
“The majority still supports us, but we must protect our alliances now more than ever. I . . . I’m afraid I’ve grown complacent over the years.” The king grimaced. “These maneuverings have taken me by surprise.”
“So, I’m out of time,” Siv said. He had already figured out where this was going.
“You must confirm your marriage alliance with Lady Denmore within the week. The Denmores and Ferringtons, together with the Amintelles, are more than a match for the Rollendars. Otherwise, we will need to seek an immediate link with a powerful Truren lady to strengthen our position. We cannot delay.”
Siv mirrored his father’s tall, straight posture, allowing the mantle of duty to settle over him like frost.
“I understand.”
The queen drifted over to join them. She put a hand on Siv’s shoulder.
“Sivarrion,” she said. “I’m sorry you—”
“It’s all right, Mother. It’s time.” Siv met his father’s eyes. The king nodded, gravely. He was dignified even as he admitted weakness. Still, Siv wished he didn’t have to see it.
“I’ll do it at the Feast,” Siv said, scrabbling for a positive angle as his parents’ expectations and the needs of his mountain tightened around him. “Vertigon deserves a queen truly its own. And the people will love that Lady Tull’s tragic story ends with a royal marriage. It will help our cause in more ways than one.” Dara wasn’t the only one who needed to build up their public persona. His family had to be strong—and they had to make sure the people continued to love them.
The thought of Dara sent a painful jolt through Siv’s chest, but he endured it. Duty. He would bear his duty with as much dignity as he could muster. Apparently she had been right about the threat, even though he still didn’t think Zage was at the heart of it.
“What are we going to do about those rogue Fireworkers?” he asked.
“I have arranged a meeting with Lantern Maker Ruminor in a few days to discuss the current tension,” the king said. “Perhaps he can shed some light on the other Fireworkers’ morale.”
“That was my idea,” the queen said.
“Dara’s father?”
“That alliance has great potential,” the queen said. “As I think you’ve discovered.” She squeezed his shoulder.
“Hmm, I might actually want to attend that meeting,” Siv said. Now that was a first. Sivarrion Amintelle, asking to attend a meeting. Miracles did happen.
“It’s the morning of the Cup.” The king smiled. “I’m sure you’ll want to watch your dueling partner in the preliminary matches.”
“Fair point.” Siv wouldn’t miss Dara’s Cup bouts for the whole burning mountain.
“We’ll be there for the championship, though,” the king said. “Perhaps Dara’s father and I can watch the match together from the royal box. Doubtless we’ll have resolved everything by then.”
Siv hoped that would actually happen. From what Dara had revealed about her relationship with her parents, it would mean a lot to her if her father showed up for the championship bout. The championship she had better win, for Firelord’s sake!
“In the meantime, make your suit to Lady Denmore. The younger Lord Rollendar has designs on her as well. You must act before he does.”
Siv bowed his assent, not quite holding in a massive sigh. Bolden would hate him even more for stealing his rich lady, but it had to happen. An alliance between the Amintelles and Denmores would keep Vertigon strong. A Denmore-Rollendar pairing would fracture it further. And the Rollendars weren’t just too powerful. They were cruel. He could not surrender a single stone of Vertigon into their hands.
That was the crux of it. His feelings for Vertigon, his ironclad duty toward Vertigon, had to outweigh any other feelings he might have for a certain enchanting woman with strength in her hands and fire in her gaze.
Captain Bandobar approached Siv’s father and whispered in his ear. The king replied, his answer making Bandobar grin despite his usually serious demeanor. He and the king had been friends for many years. Bandobar had entered his service before Sevren Amintelle had even become the Third Good King. When Bandobar finished his report, the king clapped him on the back before sending him away. Siv watched the man stride across th
e hall, his gate crisp and athletic despite his advancing age. A true Fire Blade was strapped to his hip. Bandobar would defend the king to his dying breath. More than anything else, he was the reason Siv did not worry about his father.
Bandobar reminded Siv suddenly and forcibly of Dara. The friendship shared between the king and his guard was genuine, their loyalty absolute. Siv may need to marry Lady Tull, but that didn’t mean he had to lose Dara’s friendship. He trusted her without question. No matter what threatened his family, he was sure he could handle it with Dara at his side.
Siv bid his parents farewell and left the Great Hall. He would have more than one proposal to offer at the feast.
24.
The Cup Feast
THE day of the feast, Dara spent a few hours helping her mother in the morning when she usually went to the castle. She could have been using that time to get in an extra workout, but she wanted to see if there was some hope of reconciliation with her parents. Maybe her father hadn’t truly meant what he said the other day.
But Lima was distracted, and she barely seemed to notice Dara was there. She puttered around the lantern shop, not accomplishing much as far as Dara could tell. Lima didn’t broach the subject of Dara’s recent activities or the ultimatum her father had given her. Her continuing silence on the matter was unnerving. Dara couldn’t help feeling as though her mother had washed her hands of her daughter.
The lanterns hummed with an extra intensity, the Fire cores singing in Dara’s increasingly heightened senses. She was only too glad to finish her work and dart out of the shop. She bathed quickly, twisted her damp hair in a braid on her back, and strapped the Savven blade to her waist. Then she began the now-familiar trek across the Gorge and up the slopes of King’s Peak. The Savven drew glances in Lower King’s. It wasn’t common to see a pitch-black hilt.
At the castle, the door guard—Yeltin again—raised an eyebrow at the weapon, but he recognized Dara and let her pass. The entrance hall bustled with servants and stewards preparing for the feast. Workmen carried barrels of ale and wine down the widest central corridor. Gold-embroidered fabrics hung from the vaulted ceilings, and huge clusters of early-autumn foliage were being arranged in glass vases around the entrance hall.
