by Jordan Rivet
Dara had arrived early as Selivia requested, but she wasn’t sure what to do from here. She wondered if she should wait in the dueling hall. She had never been anywhere else in the castle. As she shifted her feet on the tile, the workers bustling around her, a young woman tapped her on the shoulder.
“Excuse me? You are Dara Ruminor?” She wore the Amintelle crest stitched on her simple brown dress.
“Yes, I’m Dara.”
“Princess Selivia asked me to bring you to her chambers.” The woman had a faint accent, and she had eyes as light as a summer sky. She must be from the Lands Below.
Dara followed her through the bustling halls. Fire Lanterns in elaborate sconces lined the walls. Some of them were Ruminors, but other lantern makers were represented as well. Many of the lanterns were very old, the ancient Fire burning strong as ever. Shadows flickered on the walls. Open doorways revealed glimpses of elegant rooms that must serve all manner of royal functions, reminding Dara that she had actually seen very little of the castle so far.
“What’s your name?” Dara asked her guide as they turned at the end of the corridor and climbed a winding stone staircase. Dara was pretty sure they were entering the westernmost of the castle’s three towers.
“I am Zala Tolan.”
“You’re from the Lands Below?
“I am Truren. From the Far Plains folk.”
“How did you end up in Vertigon?”
“I arrived with Queen Tirra after her last visit to my home.”
“Really? Why did she bring you back?” Dara had rarely seen the Queen of Vertigon. Tirra Amintelle had come from the Lands Below to marry King Sevren but spent many months each year visiting her home country. Rumor had it the queen was perpetually homesick.
“I am to work for her daughter, the Princess Selivia, to teach her more of the Plains tongue.”
“Not Princess Sora as well?”
“She already speaks our tongue very well.”
They reached the next landing, and Zala rapped on a large wooden door carved with an intricate pattern of vines and flowers.
“Come in!”
The wide, bright room was indeed decorated with Ruminor Lanterns. Three tall windows, little more than arrow slits, cut into one wall. Low couches covered in brightly dyed pillows filled the room. Books were stacked high around the floor, and a stand with a pitcher of soldarberry juice and plates of delicacies waited beside a pair of ornate double doors. These doors were flung open, revealing a canopied bed covered in richly embroidered cushions.
Princess Selivia rushed to take Dara’s hand when she followed Zala inside. “I’m so excited you’re here, Dara!” she squealed. “The dressmaker and I were up past midnight getting your gown ready. We almost forgot to fix the tear I put in mine last time I tried it on.”
“Well, you look very pretty,” Dara said, glancing at Selivia’s bright-yellow dress. The princess’s dyed streaks were gone, leaving her hair sleek and black again. Dara wondered if the queen had ordered it for the feast.
“Oh, this isn’t my feast dress. I’ll put that on later. We’re starting with you today.”
The princess grinned and pulled Dara through the double doors to the inner chamber. In the corner was a massive wardrobe. A long black dress hung over the wardrobe door. At least, Dara thought it was a dress. It looked like no more than a swath of black fabric. Dara had secretly hoped the dress would be a bit fancier. She would die before she told anyone, but she had been looking forward to wearing a beautiful dress to the royal feast. She’d imagined embroidery and silk at the very least, maybe a jewel or two. Instead, the dress appeared to be a long, straight column with a black cloak falling from the high shoulders. There was a bit of embroidery on the sleeves, but this too was black on black.
“Wait until you see it on!” Selivia said. “You’re going to look so elegant!”
Dara changed into the gown, struggling a bit to pull her muscular arms through the sleeves. Once the dress was on, though, she could see that the sleeves were nearly transparent. The embroidery showed on her arms like shadows. The effect was quite pretty. Zala and Selivia buttoned up the back of the dress and put the cloak on Dara’s shoulders.
“Don’t look at the mirror yet,” Selivia commanded.
She directed Dara to a sit on a low stool while she went to work on her hair. Dara had vetoed the black dye, so Selivia wove shiny ribbons of black silk into her hair instead. She did the work herself while Zala put rouge and kohl on Dara’s face. Selivia critiqued her progress, chattering rapidly.
“More above the eyes! She has to look shadowy and mysterious, not tired. Draw it out at the corners more. Yes, like that!”
When Selivia was satisfied, she made Dara stand and approach the mirror. None of her shoes had fit, so Dara wore her own tall boots hidden beneath the dress. She strode to the mirror beside the wardrobe, pleased to find that the skirt didn’t restrict her movements too much. The fabric was airy and silky, but the thick cloak was velvet. It would keep her warm in the mountain air.
Dara blinked in surprise. An imposing woman stared back out of the mirror, a woman who looked remarkably like Dara’s mother. Rather than being alluring, the kohl made Dara’s face bolder, her features sharper. It was a handsome look rather than a beautiful one. The black strands woven into her golden hair were reminiscent of the patterns on a Ruminor Lantern. Her hair piled into a crown-like coil on top of her head. Combined with the slim, simple lines of the black gown, it made Dara look even taller than she actually was.
As a final touch, Selivia retrieved the Savven blade from the outer room and moved the sheath from Dara’s plain leather belt to one made of black metal, linked like a chain. Dara buckled it on. The belt sat low on her hips, and the elaborate hilt peeked out from the cloak when she moved.
“Oooh, you look like a witch queen from a story,” Selivia gushed.
“Um, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. You’re striking, Dara. You’ll look magnificent and strong next to Vine’s flashy colors.”
“Thank you for all your help, Selivia. This is . . . this is wonderful.” Dara couldn’t describe how she felt at the sight of this transformation. Emotions welled up, gratitude and nerves and pride and sadness. Why did she have to look so much like her proud, cold mother? She cleared her throat. “Don’t you need to get ready too?”
“Oh yeah!” Selivia waved her arms frantically at Zala. “I almost forgot! We’re going to be late. Wait in the sitting room if you like. We’ll be quick.”
Dara returned to the antechamber with the heavily cushioned couches. She didn’t want to sit, afraid she’d knock something loose from the pile of hair on her head. She strode around the room, practicing how to walk without tangling the cloak and sword. She’d never be able to duel in something like this, of course, but she would look impressive as long as she didn’t stumble.
It was almost time for the feast. The three windows revealed a red-gold sunset over the mountain. Dara stalked back and forth through the burning patches of light, turning and twirling and enjoying the feel of the dress swirling around her legs and the blade hanging from her hips.
“Having fun?”
Dara whirled around. Siv was leaning in the doorway, grinning. He must have seen her flouncing back and forth.
“When did you get here?” she demanded, cheeks burning.
“I live here, Miss Ruminor.”
Dara cleared her throat and swept the cloak back, trying to show she didn’t care. Despite her practice, the cloak tangled in her blade, and she had to fight to pull the velvet free from the intricate hilt. She cursed under her breath until it yanked loose.
“That’s no way to talk to a Savven blade, Dara. Or should I call you Nightfall?”
Dara glared at Siv as he crossed the room toward her. He too wore all black, and a high, stiff collar drew attention to his high cheekbones. His boots shone brighter than the steel of her blade.
“I still think the name is sill
y,” she grumbled.
“We’ll see if you feel that way when the crowds are chanting it at the Cup.”
Siv reached Dara and straightened her cloak, which had been pulled to the side during her tangle with the blade. After adjusting the cloak, Siv let his hands rest on Dara’s shoulders, his thumbs near the dip in her throat. Dara met his eyes, her breath quickening. His hands tightened on her shoulders.
“You look stunning,” he said.
“It’s all Selivia’s doing.”
“No, Dara. You are . . . And even if we can’t . . . You’re . . .” Something like sadness flickered across Siv’s face, but it was gone in an instant. He uttered a foul curse about the blood of some sort of zur-creature or other. Then he cupped her face in his hands and drew her closer. Dara’s heart flickered like a candle.
“When did you get here, Siv?” Selivia’s bright voice sang out.
Siv dropped his hands as though they’d been burned and spun to greet his sister. Dara stepped away from the prince quickly, her blade tangling in her cloak again, her steps off balance.
Selivia sailed into the room in a grand dress that was the blue of a mountain lake. Her hair was piled up like Dara’s, with a few dark ringlets bouncing free. She looked fresh-faced and sweet, every inch the princess.
“I have come to escort my darling sister to the feast,” Siv announced, bowing with the dignity of an aged lord.
“Why, sir, I’m flattered.” Selivia dropped a playful curtsy and then strutted around the room to make her dress swirl. Zala hurried after her with a pair of dancing slippers in her hands. The young princess hiked up her skirt and stood still just long enough to allow the maid to finish dressing her. “Is Sora coming too?”
“She’s already downstairs,” Siv said.
“Of course. She always likes to be there early so she can corner her favorite diplomats,” Selivia explained to Dara. “She’s been raving about the envoy from Soole for a week.”
“Shall we descend, ladies?” Siv offered one arm to his sister then turned and offered the other to Dara. His smile was warm and confident. After a split-second’s hesitation, she took his arm. He was being polite. Nothing more. She must have imagined the warmth of his hands on her face, his breath mixing with hers.
They walked down to the Great Hall together. Fire Lanterns blazed along their path. Colorfully dressed people milled in the entrance hall before the wide-open doors to the Great Hall. Strains of music and laughter drifted out around them. The crowds parted, and the three of them swept through the double doors together.
The Great Hall was massive, almost as big as Berg’s dueling school, and it sparkled like a fairy kingdom. Glass baubles hung from the ceiling like droplets of rain. Banquet tables stretched the length of the room, and a head table sat on a raised dais at the far end. The space in the middle was clear of tables, and lords and ladies greeted each other with elegant bows and trilling laughter. Colors, lights, and voices swirled around them.
Selivia explained they would eat the feast first, followed by dancing until late.
“I don’t usually get to stay up for the dancing,” she said, “but this year Mother says I’m old enough.”
“The queen will be here?” Dara asked.
“Oh, yes. She rarely misses the Cup Feast.” Selivia exchanged a brief look with her brother. “There are always visitors from Trure.”
“She spends a lot of time there?”
“She visits twice a year and stays for a month or two, sometimes three,” Selivia said. “Oh, look at the Widow Denmore’s dress! Her mourning period must be over.”
The crowds shifted to reveal the beautiful, sad woman Dara had met at Atria’s parlor. Lady Tull’s dress was wine red and cut quite low. A group of admirers orbited her like moons. When she noticed the prince and princess, she dropped a deep curtsy. Her neckline dipped lower still.
“You’d better get her to save a dance, Siv,” Selivia said.
The muscles in Siv’s arms tensed for a moment. Then he relaxed, a quiet sigh escaping in Dara’s ear.
“You’re right. Wait for me?” he said to her. Then he released her arm and strode away without waiting for an answer.
Lady Tull brushed aside her other admirers with a stately wave as the prince approached.
“She’s sooo pretty,” Selivia said. “It was so sad when her husband died. My dressmaker told me it was a suicide, not an accident. I hope that isn’t true.”
Dara didn’t answer. She felt a twist of jealousy as Siv took Lady Tull’s hand and leaned in to speak to her. It was a ridiculous thing to feel. He had a right to dance with whomever he wanted. And she was certain he wasn’t looking at Tull the way he had looked at her a few minutes ago.
A group of noblewomen rushed up to Selivia to compliment her on her dress. Dara stepped aside and waited patiently. The princess may like to dress her up, but she wasn’t obligated to introduce her. They couldn’t truly be friends. Not here with the royal court surrounding them.
Dara scanned the hall for anyone she recognized. She felt out of place in her somber black, no matter how dramatic it made her look. Most of the women wore colorful dresses with elaborate Firegold embroidery and fantastic jewels. Some were clearly visiting from the Lands Below, their gowns exotic and strange. Dara rested her hand on the hilt of the Savven blade, gripping it for comfort. She had nothing to fear from these people. She didn’t need a noble house or her father’s famous name. She had worked hard, and she was about to prove herself in her own right.
She became aware of a young girl around Selivia’s age staring at her intently.
“Dara Ruminor?” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“You’re really her?”
“Yes, I am.”
The girl continued to stare. Not looking away from Dara’s face, she tugged on the sleeve of the man standing next to her.
“Papa, look who it is!”
The man turned to see where his daughter was pointing. He strode over and offered Dara his hand.
“Tellen of House Roven,” he said. “I saw your bout on the bridge the other day. Brilliant work!”
“Thank you,” Dara said.
“Maraina, look, it’s Nightfall!” the girl squealed to a passing friend.
The friend gasped. “Nightfall? Dara Ruminor!”
“I can’t believe we get to meet you in person!” said the first girl. She twisted her hands shyly in the folds of her pink gown. “My name is Jully. I’m . . . I’m a huge fan.” The girl’s face turned as pink as her gown.
Jully’s friend Maraina waved a few other young noblewomen over, and whispers spread through the crowd.
“It’s Nightfall. Nightfall came to the feast!”
More people hurried over to Dara. Some greeted her, others stared openly, awe and excitement on their faces. A space cleared around Dara. She did her best to act unconcerned, but she looked about for any sign of her companions, feeling self-conscious.
“Oh, Jully, you found Dara!” Selivia had returned. Dara breathed a sigh of relief as the princess began introducing her to the growing crowd of young noblewomen.
“I’m a fan of Vine myself,” one said to Dara, “but the way you’re both making female dueling more exciting is so inspiring.”
“What do you think the score will be at the Cup?” Lord Roven asked over the heads of the gaggle of young women. “I want to place a bet!” He laughed richly.
“Are you going to make Vine cry?”
“Ooh, have you seen her yet today? She looks so pretty!”
“May I see your sword, Nightfall?”
“Did you really save Prince Siv?”
“What was it like to fight on the bridge?”
The crowd spun around Dara. Princess Selivia had disappeared again into the milling onlookers. Dara didn’t have time to answer every question being tossed at her before three more took its place. Wait, was she supposed to be quiet and mysterious here too? Or was she supposed to make friends? She fought down p
anic.
Suddenly Siv was at her elbow.
“It’s absolutely true that Dara Ruminor saved me on the bridge,” he said. This sent the young noblewomen into a tizzy of giggles. Lady Jully’s mouth dropped open, and she tugged on her father’s coat again.
“May I escort you to your seat?” Siv said, his lips brushing Dara’s ear.
“Thank you.” She took his arm and kept her head high as they wove through the crowd. “I didn’t expect that.”
“You’re famous.” Siv grinned, puffing out his chest as they walked. “This is working.”
He led the way toward the long table to the right of the main entrance. Fine stone plates and goblets covered the surface, along with an ornate Firegold-trimmed tablecloth that Dara recognized as Master Corren’s work.
“You’re sitting next to Jully Roven,” Siv said, “but I wanted a minute with you before I send you back into her fawning clutches.”
“Oh. Okay.” For some reason, Dara had pictured herself sitting with Siv and his sisters at the feast. But this was an official royal function. Of course she wouldn’t be seated on the dais. However casual they were in the dueling hall, there was still a division between her and the future Fourth King. There always would be.
“Listen,” Siv said. “I’ve been thinking about something since our duel with Berg. We’re a good team, and I wanted to talk to you about—”
“Sivarrion!” A voice boomed, seeming to fill the Great Hall with warmth like a Fire Gate. Dara turned and found herself face to face with King Sevren himself.
“Father.” Siv bowed formally, but he was clearly pleased to see his father. “May I introduce Dara Ruminor?”
“You must be this Nightfall I’ve heard so much about!” King Sevren had a pleasant face, deep voice, and a smile that put Dara immediately at ease. She curtsied.
“Thank you for having me at the feast, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, a pleasure, my dear,” the king said. “I understand I owe you my thanks for keeping my son from being skewered.”
