by Jordan Rivet
“You are following the Ruminor girl,” Zage said. He wore the same dark cloak as always, his hands folded within it. “You must not, my prince.”
“Out of my way, Zage.” So much for not being rude. Dara was getting farther and farther away by the second.
“My prince, you cannot be alone on the mountain with the Ruminor girl.”
“Pool will protect me. I need to talk to her.”
“I urge you to reconsider, my prince. Have you spoken with Lady Tull yet?”
“No.”
“Your father led me to believe that tonight you would finalize your arrangement with—”
“Well, I didn’t. Damn it, it’s my decision.”
“Please, my prince,” Zage said. “Choose another lady. Choose an old crone or a scullery maid. But do not choose a Ruminor.”
Siv stopped trying to make a break for the door and whirled to face him.
“Why the hell not?”
“My prince, nothing is certain.”
“You have to do better than that if you mean to stop me.”
“Very well.” Zage closed his eyes and stretched out his hands. Molten threads of Fire burst out from each of Zage’s fingers, like liquid tentacles. Siv could barely shout before they twisted into glowing rings around his wrists and ankles. Siv had seen him Work Fire plenty of times. He had even gone to the Well deep within the mountain to watch him maintain the elaborate magical containment system that ensured the Fire was doled out in measured amounts. But he had never expected Zage to raise a hand of Fire against him.
Zage’s eyes narrowed in concentration as the Fire flowed from his fingers, strengthening Siv’s bonds. He must have drawn an awful lot of Fire from the mountain and carried it with him to the feast. Dara’s warning about Zage suddenly seemed a lot more plausible. The threads of Fire didn’t touch him, but Siv had to stand absolutely still to avoid being burned. He knew without asking that if he tried to push through the Fire it would hold him as surely as iron shackles.
A glance to the left confirmed that Pool had been restrained in the same manner. He had a hand on each of his long knives, but bracelets of molten Fire held his wrists still.
Siv thought of the very worst curse he knew and hurled it across the entry hall.
Zage sighed deeply at the epithet. “I understand why you feel that way, my prince, but I am afraid I cannot allow you to go out into the night with Dara Ruminor again. The last time that happened you were almost lost.”
“Are you insane?” Siv growled. He was already sweating from the heat of the Fire hovering around his limbs. “Dara saved my life.”
“Perhaps. But she also separated you from your guard. You were vulnerable with her. I cannot allow you to expose yourself again this night.”
“Let me go, Zage, or so help me—”
“Your father told you there is a Fireworker plot, my prince. Need I remind you that Dara is the daughter of a Fireworker?”
“What? You think the Fireworkers are using her to get me alone or something?”
“I cannot be sure, but I am unwilling to take risks with your life,” Zage said. “I am sorry. I’m sure whatever you have to tell the Ruminor girl can be said at the Cup in the presence of an appropriate contingent of guards and witnesses.”
Siv engaged Zage in what he thought was a rather impressive staring match, but the Fire Warden didn’t budge. Of course Dara wouldn’t hurt him. He hesitated at the thought of her Fireworker connections. But that was ridiculous. Dara had nothing to do with it. Her father was even coming to the castle for a meeting the day after next. He and the king would clear things up, and Zage would give up his absurd mistrust of Dara.
“Fine, fine. I’ll stay in the castle,” Siv said. He’d humor Zage for now. He knew the man was capable of standing there all night long if he had to.
“Very well.” Zage finally released him, the bonds melting away and dripping into the stones of the castle.
Siv straightened his clothes and marched away from Zage with as much stately dignity as he could muster. But he wasn’t returning to the burning feast. And he definitely wasn’t speaking to Lady Tull. Instead he nicked a bottle of wine and headed down to the cur-dragon cave, Pool following him like an overanxious shadow.
Siv picked up little Rumy from the slumbering pile of hatchlings and settled down at the entrance to the cave, swinging his feet over the sheer drop. He spent the rest of the night—and the rest of the bottle—watching the stars travel through the sky, the cur-dragon’s warm head resting on his knee. By morning, he knew exactly what he would say to Dara next time he saw her.
27.
The Vertigon Cup
DARA woke early the morning of the Cup. She gathered her gear and ate a quick breakfast at the family table. When she was nearly finished with her bread and goat jerky, her father entered the kitchen. The familiar smell of Fire and metal swirled in with him. He wore his nicest coat, a well-tailored garment he usually saved for formal Fire Guild assemblies.
“Daughter,” he said.
She didn’t answer, unsure what to say. They hadn’t talked since he’d told her she could no longer live under his roof if she continued dueling after the Cup. After that, she didn’t know what else they could possibly say.
Her father took a seat across the large stone table. He rested his elbows on it and studied her. Dara avoided his gaze, looking instead at his coat pocket, where a faint glow indicated that he was carrying a Work containing a small measure of Fire, perhaps a Firestick.
The silence stretched between them, a Fissure with no bridge. Finally, her father sighed, his barrel chest swelling.
“Good luck today, my young spark. I hope you duel well.”
Despite herself, Dara looked up. There was something grave and sad in her father’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I may even come watch you in the afternoon.”
“The tickets have been sold out for days,” Dara said. She regretted the sharpness in her tone immediately. Her father was offering her an olive branch. She should take it, but she couldn’t resist the urge to riposte. It was too little, too late.
“That’s unfortunate. I have a meeting on King’s Peak this morning. I hope it won’t take long. Perhaps I can take you for a nice meal afterwards.”
Dara stood and put away the rest of the jerky. She brushed breadcrumbs from the table. A few landed on Renna’s chair, and she cleaned them off before pausing beside her father.
“Who are you meeting with?”
“No one of significance.” Rafe reached out and took hold of her wrist lightly. Dara froze. Would he be able to sense the Spark within her? She focused on cold thoughts and avoided looking at his pocket containing that infusion of Fire lest she draw on it accidentally. She didn’t want him to find out like that. Not when she knew how it would change the way he treated her. Not when today was the day she would finally prove herself a worthy duelist.
If her father could sense anything different in her, he didn’t mention it. He tightened his grip.
“Dara, things will be different after today,” he said. “No matter what happens, I want you to remember that you will always be a Ruminor.”
“I know that,” Dara said.
“Sometimes I may have made you feel that because you can’t wield the Fire you are somehow less my daughter. I have never believed that in my core. You are my flesh and blood and Fire. Remember that in the days to come.”
“Of course I will, even if I win.” Dara tried to smile and pulled her hand gently out of her father’s grasp.
When Dara gathered the rest of her gear and left the house, her father was still sitting at the stone table, staring at Renna’s chair. She sighed. He was right. Things would be different after today.
Dara jogged to the King’s Arena, the huge dueling hall on the western side of Lower King’s, not far from the steep drop-off cutting into the peak beneath the castle. It was the grandest venue on the mountain, used for all the most im
portant tournaments, especially the ones that drew foreign competitors. The Fireworkers of old had constructed the arena in the days when they still carried out large-scale stoneworks. The sheer walls appeared to be growing out of the stone, and they concealed the vastness of the structure within.
The crowds were thick already as hopeful would-be spectators waited outside the gates in case extra tickets became available. Hawkers wove among them, offering jerky and spiced ale, banners with the names of the duelists blazoned across them, and rare and popular duelist tokens. Little knots of people formed around the duelists making their way into the stadium. Some competitors hired assistants for the day to make sure their tokens got into as many hands as possible. Dara wasn’t the only one hoping to make a big impression today.
Wora Wenden paraded by with the duelists he had sponsored this year, all decked out in his most elaborate finery. Murv “The Monster” Mibben stalked through the crowd, bigger men giving him a wide berth. Training partners Rawl and Yuri swaggered toward the arena, stopping to speak to the onlookers as they went. Bilzar Ten, who was even better looking than Kel, posed amidst a tittering mob of female fans. Shon the Shrieker lurched by, muttering under his breath as a group of spectators followed him eagerly.
A palanquin bearing the Zurren House sigil pushed through the crowd of commoners, its bearers shouting curses at anyone who got in their way. Other lords and ladies, some familiar to Dara from the feast, mingled with the rest of the spectators as they waited to be let inside. Some had traveled from the Lands Below, and they wore their country colors proudly. Dueling was more popular in Vertigon than in any other land, so this was likely the biggest competition they had ever seen. They stared at the surrounding throng with wide eyes.
Dara carried the black Savven blade and wore the same outfit she had in the duel on the bridge. She had stopped when she was halfway to the arena to apply some of the paint to her face. Instead of the elaborate swirls, this time she smudged dark streaks under her eyes like war paint. Dara was going to battle.
Heads turned as she jogged up to the arena. She slowed to a strut, staring down the gawkers in true Nightfall fashion. When she reached the center of the crowd milling outside the entrance gates, she stopped. People fell silent when she paused in their midst. She looked at the faces surrounding her: men and women of all ages, orchard tenders and bridge carpenters, tradesmen, nobles, ore miners, brightly dressed foreigners, children carrying wooden swords. They waited for her to say something. But she didn’t speak. She only stared at them, feet planted, hand on her Savven blade, until ripples of silence spread through the crowd.
This was it. All the work she had done up to this point, both on the training floor and with the theatrics of the past weeks, had led to this moment. She had wanted all of Vertigon to pay attention to her, and it was. Not with shouts and swirls and dramatics. She simply stood there. Confident. Ready. The people remained silent, watching her, waiting, and she didn’t have to say a word.
Finally, she nodded once, short and sharp, and took out her bag of brand-new tokens—a last-minute gift from Kel and Oat. They were simple black stones etched with her initials in an elegant script. She began handing them to the people closest to her. One by one, they took the tokens with awe. No one moved as she walked through the crowd. The calls of people too far away to see what was going on filtered through, but Dara held this particular crowd under her spell.
When the bag was empty, she raised the Savven blade in salute.
Then she turned and strode into the dueling hall through the athletes’ entrance. Murmurs followed until the doors clanged shut behind her.
The duelists in the changing rooms were quieter than usual. This tournament was important for all of them. Luci Belling gave her a tentative wave, but she looked as though she might be sick. The foreign athletes who had traveled from the Lands Below sat in their own bubbles of space as the Vertigonian duelists watched them warily. Dara put all her things in a spare trunk, except for the Savven blade. It would be her lucky talisman. She left it buckled to her hip as she headed out to the arena to warm up.
King’s Arena was vast, with broad windows to let in as much daylight as possible. The gates had been opened while she was changing. Spectators streamed into the stands, filling them up with a hundred colors. The women’s event always took place before the men’s, and the stands often didn’t fill completely until the men started dueling. But this time, no one wanted to miss the first event. The ticketholders hurried to claim their seats. People pointed and shouted for Dara. The rhythm of her name filled the arena. She waved but tried not to pay too much attention to them. She had her routine. She was a professional. And she would not lose focus this time.
But as Dara jogged around the dueling floor she couldn’t help looking at one particular spot in the stands: the royal box directly in front of the championship strip. It was empty. The king and queen were sure to come down later in the day to watch the finals, but there was a long time to go before then. None of their children had arrived yet either.
Dara focused on her breathing, on her feet. She had thought Siv would be here by now. She shouldn’t have run off after the feast. He had hurt her by offering to be her patron, but he couldn’t have known how that would make her feel.
Still, she had thought he was going to suggest something else. That was the real reason she had darted from the hall. The real reason she felt hurt. Hurt, and embarrassed for being foolish. Stop, Dara. You need to concentrate.
She scanned the floor for Berg, trusting him to smack sense into her if she lost her focus this time. There. He was talking to Oat and Kel and a few other students near the men’s trunk room. He looked up, as if he sensed her watching him, and raised a hand in greeting. After a moment’s hesitation, she returned the gesture. They hadn’t discussed that strange training session in the prince’s dueling hall. The nick on her arm hadn’t finished healing yet. The incident—combined with her father’s words—still made her feel nervous around Berg.
She jogged around the arena, willing the nerves and the fear to sweat out of her. She was here to do the one and only thing she had ever truly cared about. This, at least, was simple.
Fanfare and trumpets blared, announcing Vine Silltine’s grand entrance. Dara had planned for this moment. She slowed, waiting until Vine reached the center of the arena. She wore a new dress today, bloodred and billowing, and she looked magnificent. She blew kisses at the crowd and twirled her scarlet skirts dramatically. She’d added dancers to her entourage, and they flailed around her in a manic parade as she crossed the dueling hall.
Dara picked up her pace, veering just a bit, and bumped roughly into Vine as she jogged past.
“Oh, sorry!” she said, loud enough for her voice to carry. “Didn’t see you there.”
Vine’s smile slipped. The crowd waited with bated breath.
“Just keep your eyes clear for the bout,” Vine said. “You don’t want to go tumbling into the officials. Or the stands.”
Dara bowed mockingly. “I’ll leave the theatrics to you. I’m here to duel.”
A low “oooohhh” rumbled through the crowd. Someone started chanting, and others quickly joined in. The shouts for Nightfall and the chants of “Vine Silltine” competed for dominance. Hands drummed on knees, the energy in the stadium palpable. Their build-up had worked. They were ready for a showdown. Dara waved once more and went to gather the rest of her gear before the first bout.
Vine met her in the trunk room. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening then whispered, “This is great fun, Dara. We should have started a rivalry years ago!”
“May the best duelist win,” Dara said.
“You’re so good at this animosity thing.” Vine giggled. “Now, you have to tell me about you and the good prince. Princess Selivia told me how he’s sweet on you, though anyone with half an eye could see it at the Cup Feast. But the big rumor is your father has it in for King Sevren.”
“What?” Dara felt the g
round shifting in strange directions.
“I have to know. Are you involved in a forbidden romance, or are you part of your father’s plot? Or both!”
“Vine, there’s no—”
Horns rang out, calling the duelists for the first round of competition.
“Tell me after!” Vine said and darted back out to the arena.
Head reeling, Dara followed. The prince was sweet on her? Enough to tell his sister? Her father was involved in a plot? There was no way. Her father would never work with Zage Lorrid.
In a daze, she reentered the arena. The crowd roared her name, the sound drumming through her like thunder.
She shook her head to clear it. Her father couldn’t be plotting against the king. He wouldn’t work with the Fire Warden, and he definitely wouldn’t have sent an assassin after her and Siv. Vine was trying to mess with her by bringing up the prince’s affection and rumors about her father now. Vine could giggle about their rivalry in the trunk room, but she wanted the Cup too. This was part of the game. Dara had to keep her head in the competition. There would be time enough for answers later.
Siv and his sisters were sitting in the royal box now. They waved and cheered along with the crowd as she crossed the competition floor to her first bout. Siv looked happy to see her, despite their recent unpleasant parting. Was it possible he had been trying to say something that wasn’t about a patronage after all? Could he really have feelings for her? In the same way she had feelings for him?
The prince stood up, revealing that he was wearing all black once again. He reached for something at his feet, and Selivia helped him unfurl a strip of black satin. It was a banner nearly the length of the royal box with the word Nightfall painted in gold across it. The crowd noticed whom the royal family was supporting, and their shouts reached a fevered pitch.
Dara raised a hand to acknowledge the gesture, overwhelming emotion threatening to rise through her. Siv grinned across the hall. Even though she knew it would conflict with her Nightfall image, Dara smiled back.
