Well, damned if Siv was going to lose his first true competition match. He’d never be able to face Dara again.
He turned back to the Panviper, drawing his knife and hefting it—mostly without shaking. He crouched into his guard stance, and before he could so much as take a breath, the announcer shouted, “All ready. Let us dance!”
The Panviper struck fast, as if he were—well, a panviper. Siv leapt out of his reach. An instant later his boots slipped out from under him, and he sprawled in the mud, banging his head on a nearby barrel. Stars burst across his vision. The crowd roared with laughter.
The Panviper laughed too and strutted back and forth in front of Siv, flinging his lank hair around his shoulders.
“This is your champion, Kres?” he crowed. “Siv the Slicer? More like Siv the Slider! He’s as green as—”
Siv didn’t hear whatever choice comparison the Panviper had prepared for him. Not bothering to stand up, he kicked out with both feet and knocked the Panviper’s legs out from under him. Before the man could rise, Siv scrambled on top of him and put his knife to his throat.
“I win,” he said.
The crowds roared, as much laughter as cheering in the din. That had been fast. Siv’s hand still vibrated as a rush of nerves and adrenaline tore through his body. And the sweet jolt of victory.
“Danged guttersquid,” the Panviper spat, not moving an inch. His rancid breath huffed in Siv’s face. Siv couldn’t help grinning as he eased the pressure on his knife.
“Looks like we have a victor!” the announcer called, sounding a bit surprised about how quickly it was over. “Siv the Slicer, folks! And Kres March’s reputation lives another day.”
The announcer patted Siv on the back as he rose to his feet. “Not bad there,” he said in a much quieter voice. “Mind you, the Panviper is a terrible fighter, but I’ve seen worse debuts.” He shoved a small bag of coins into Siv’s hand. “Welcome to the pen.”
“Uh, thanks,” Siv said.
He returned to his team on unsteady feet.
“You made it!” Fiz shouted, slapping him on the back as he scrambled back over the wooden barrier. “I was nervous there for a minute.”
“I wasn’t,” Gull said. “No way he was going to lose to the Panviper.” Despite her bravado, Gull squeezed his arm tight, her hand coming away muddy.
Latch nodded at him with what could only be described as the most-grudging respect in the world. Siv grinned right back. They were going to be friends yet.
“Not bad, lad,” Kres said. “Now, it’s high time we got back to headquarters.”
“Doesn’t Latch have to fight too?” Siv asked. “What if he gets nervous tomorrow?”
Latch gave him a flat look, all signs that he was happy Siv hadn’t died vanishing in an instant. Two steps forward, one step back.
“Latch will be fine,” Kres said. “He’s not fighting tomorrow.”
“Wait, what?” Latch turned his surly glare on a new target.
“Sorry, my boy. With hired men hunting you, we can’t very well put you in the Pentagon in front of hundreds who’d sell out their own mothers for coin, now can we?”
“But—”
“Have no fear. I’ll call in a favor with another swordsman. We’ll have our five for the Dance.”
“But I—”
“This isn’t up for discussion,” Kres said. And he pushed away through the crowd without another word.
Latch stared after him, his mouth open. Fiz and Gull looked less surprised—or they hid it better. Siv tried to say something comforting, but Latch shot him a death glare and stalked after Kres.
At least Siv could now be sure Kres didn’t know who he was after all. If he didn’t want to put Commander Brach’s son in front of crowds who might recognize him, he’d never allow the former King of Vertigon into the Steel Pentagon. Siv figured chances were pretty slim that someone in the raucous crowd would recognize him. With his new beard and scars, his own mother would have to look twice to be sure it was him.
But he would make sure the people knew him by a different name. Siv the Slicer. Maybe the Panviper wasn’t much of an opponent, but he’d finally had a taste of victory—and he liked it.
“So, where’s headquarters?” he asked the others. “I could use a bath.”
36.
The Waterworker
DARA leaned out the window of the Waterworker’s carriage, letting the cool wind caress her face. The trees of the Darkwood lined the road on either side like grubby gray sentinels. Watching their identical forms flash past didn’t do Dara’s stomach much good. She didn’t like the rumbling, swaying motion of their current conveyance any better than she liked riding horses.
Vine sat across from her and leaned out too, relying on the wind for information rather than to soothe any motion sickness. She had taken to riding in the grand carriage as though it were the only way she’d ever traveled. Dara had to admire Vine’s poise. She handled all these new experiences far better than Dara, who felt as if a bridge had collapsed from under her the moment she left the mountain. She was grasping endlessly for a branch or a root, something to slow her fall and remind her of who she was.
Dara was too used to dealing with certainties—where her hard work produced results. If she trained harder, she’d become a better duelist. If she remained vigilant, Siv would be safe. If she learned the Work, she would one day reconcile with her parents. Those aspirations were gone now, scattered to the wind, and she didn’t have Vine’s ability to blow where the wind took her.
She hoped her reunion with Siv would ground her once more. If she could rescue him, perhaps he’d help her figure out what to do next. He’d always relied on her. Maybe she needed to rely on him too.
Across from her, Vine closed her eyes, smiling at whatever the Air told her. The farther they got from the confusing muddle of Fork Town, the more certain Vine became that they were traveling in the right direction.
“He passed this spot quite recently,” Vine said. “I can still Sense him.”
“Are you sure?” Dara asked.
“He’s likely no more than five hours ahead of us, if that.”
“Five hours?” A low buzz of anticipation began in Dara’s stomach. Or maybe that was the motion sickness. They were gaining on him at last. “You can be that specific?”
“Indeed,” Vine said. “I think I am becoming more Sensitive the more time I spend communing with the Air on this journey.” Vine sat back in her seat, glancing at Wyla, but the woman didn’t look up from the knitting needles clacking in her strong fingers. The Waterworker had been unimpressed with Vine’s abilities so far. She seemed to consider the work of the Air Sensors to be fairly limited, even mundane.
Dara, on the other hand, continued to fascinate her. Wyla spent their long hours in the carriage questioning Dara about her Fire training and abilities. Dara did her best to indulge her, especially because she’d been so kind as to give them a ride. But she still felt like a morrinvole caught between the claws of a feral cur-dragon when Wyla looked at her.
Dara held back the truth of her parentage, mentioning only that her father was a Fireworker but her training came from another. Once she revealed that her Spark had manifested unusually late, it fascinated Wyla to no end.
“I had an apprentice like you once,” she had explained the previous afternoon as they rumbled through the Darkwood. “He first accessed his connection to the Watermight when he was twenty-one years old. His potential was magnificent.”
“Was?”
“Alas, he was neither teachable nor patient. He tried to do too much too quickly, and the Might overwhelmed him.”
Dara was about to ask more, when Wyla stood and leaned out of the carriage window to speak to Rumy, cooing and chirping at him in a language all her own. Wyla had great affection for the cur-dragon. Dara trusted Rumy’s judgment when it came to strangers, and he had embraced the Waterworker wholeheartedly, making Dara feel silly for being suspicious of her. By the time Wyla pu
lled her head back into the carriage, Dara had been overcome by yet another bout of motion sickness and hadn’t asked what happened to Wyla’s former apprentice.
Dara preferred to ride beside Siln the carriage driver/bodyguard on top of the carriage. Having the wind in her face helped with the sickness and took her mind off her throbbing shoulder. Siln was a well-built man in his early forties with intricate tattoos winding around both arms. He was happy to answer her questions about Pendark. He was also a sport-dueling fan—an oddity for a Pendarkan. Discussing strategy and famous duels with him became a welcome respite from talking about the Fire with Wyla.
Wyla offered little information about her own abilities, but Dara had to admit the woman piqued her curiosity. She had never met a Watermight wielder before, but she’d heard of their reputations from Zage Lorrid, who had spent years in Pendark in his youth. The main thing Dara remembered from their conversations was that the Waterworkers warred for dominance every few years, throwing the city into turmoil until the strongest magic users drowned all opposition. If Wyla had a fancy carriage and a manor house in the city, she must be powerful. But she asked questions like an academic rather than a great sorceress. On the other hand, Zage had been rather dry and pedantic himself, and he had nearly matched her father for power. He might have won their final confrontation if he hadn’t been trying to protect Dara.
Dara shied away from the remembrance. She was far away from the Great Hall in Vertigon, but the memory of what had happened there was as sharp as ever. She had resumed practicing with the Fire on her journey, but she still felt conflicted about it. She craved its intoxicating heat, its power, the feeling of invincibility it aroused in her. But she feared it too. She had seen what it could do, and she had seen how it twisted the father she loved and admired. He had sought more power and abhorred the checks and balances that had been imposed on him for so long. Dara was afraid of what he might be doing now that all the barriers had been torn down, and she was afraid of what would happen if she embraced the Fire the way he did. She wasn’t sure she wanted anything to do with her father’s magic anymore.
But again, that left the question of who she was now.
The clack of Wyla’s knitting needles brought Dara’s attention back to the carriage. They were nearing the end of their journey. They should exit the Darkwood soon. If Vine was correct about Siv being here five hours ago, he could be arriving in Pendark at that very moment.
Dara stuck her head back out the window, hoping for a glimpse of Pendark through the barren trees. There was no sign of the city yet, though the road had started to slope downward. She looked back—and saw a cloud of dust rising behind them.
“Riders,” she called. “Lots of them.”
“Is it Lord Vex?” Vine asked.
“Could be. I can’t make out any details yet.”
The cloud of dust behind her morphed and curled, taking on shape. Sun glinted on steel. The thunder of hoof beats overpowered the creak of the carriage and their own horses’ clamor.
“There are at least a dozen of them,” Dara said. “And they’re armed.”
“Sounds like our friends,” Vine said.
Dara concentrated on the company drawing nearer behind them. Yes, the lead rider wore a red coat, and she’d recognize that sandy-blond hair anywhere.
“Rid!” she called, banging on the outside of the carriage to get his attention. The young man was chattering away with Siln on the driver seat up front. “You’d better get in here in case he recognizes you.”
“Sure thing,” Rid said. He scrambled back toward her on the narrow running board attached to the carriage. He’d become adept at crawling around on the moving conveyance throughout the journey. Still, Dara wished he’d scramble faster. They couldn’t be seen.
“Rumy, you too.”
The cur-dragon squawked and clambered off the roof to enter the carriage through the opposite side.
Dara sat back while Rid climbed in, almost landing in Vine’s lap in the process. That may have been intentional, come to the think of it. Rid continued to worship her, and their temporary separation had only served to heighten his ardor.
The carriage was crowded with the three fugitives, the Waterworker, and the overgrown cur-dragon. Only Wyla didn’t look nervous. Her knitting needles continued to clack away as the drumbeat of hooves approached.
No sooner were they all settled in their seats with the curtains drawn than the riders were upon them. A tiny gap in the curtains revealed snippets of the mercenaries, who rode in close, pressing near on either side. Dust bloomed around them. The creak of leather and the smell of horse sweat blew through the window. Dara pressed farther back against her seat, hoping no one would get curious about what hid behind that flimsy, blowing curtain. They didn’t know if they’d been seen climbing into Wyla’s carriage back in Fork Town.
Indistinct voices rose outside, and Siln called out a greeting. Dara held her breath. They wouldn’t dare search a Waterworker’s carriage, would they? Hopefully they hadn’t noticed the cur-dragon riding atop it a moment ago. Lord Vex wouldn’t forget being dive-bombed by Rumy in the fork anytime soon.
Dara was actually surprised Lord Vex and his mercenaries hadn’t overtaken them sooner. Wyla’s coach couldn’t travel as fast as a dozen mounted riders. Vex must have spent time asking around about the identity of Siv’s companions before leaving Fork Town. Dara wished they’d been able to do the same. It would be easier to find him in the vast warren of Pendark if they didn’t have to rely on Vine’s flighty Air Sense.
The carriage shuddered as the riders surrounded it. She caught a glimpse of the young Vertigonian passing by. Grelling followed close on his heels, Dara’s Savven blade still belted at his hip. The sight made her toes curl with anger. She swore she felt a spark of heat from the blade as it passed by, just out of reach.
Dara had dared hope they would beat Vex and his mercenaries to the city. They could warn Siv of these new enemies and spirit him away before Vex’s men arrived. There was no chance of that now.
It was taking too long for the riders to pass the carriage. Did they suspect something? Would Wyla be able to fight them off with Watermight this far from the sea? Dara hadn’t seen any more of the silvery substance after Wyla cleaned and sealed her stab wound. Her shoulder still throbbed, though it was healing faster than was natural. She should be able to fight. She gripped the ivory hilt of Lord Vex’s knife until her fingers ached.
The last of the mercenaries passed them. The company continued ahead, beating a rapid path toward Pendark. They’d have a head start searching the city after all. Pendark was big, but if Vex had learned the identity of Siv’s mysterious companions, he could find them within a few hours. Dara clenched her teeth, ignoring the grit of road dust in her mouth. She couldn’t lose him now. Not when she was so close.
“Are they gone?” Rid asked.
“Better wait a few minutes in case they double back,” Dara said.
“Sure thing. I don’t want that Lord Vex finding me now I switched to your side,” Rid said. “He don’t strike me as the forgiving type.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Dara knew plenty about the Rollendars’ capacity for cruelty and violence. None of what she’d seen during her captivity made her feel any better about Lord Vex. Even without his dozen fighting men, he was a formidable adversary. And he was closing in on Siv.
“Wyla,” she said. “Could you use the Watermight to gather information if Vine’s Air Sense doesn’t cooperate when we reach the city?” She gave her friend an apologetic glance. She didn’t want to hurt Vine’s feelings, but this was urgent. “Or can you give her power some sort of boost?”
“Hmm, interesting that you ask this,” Wyla said. Her knitting needles stilled for the first time all morning. “I do like the prospect of combining the unique powers.”
Dara frowned, not quite following. “If you could just help—”
“Some will dispute the wisdom of it,” Wyla said. “But I’ve had different ideas
for some time. I’d love to experiment if you’re open to the idea.”
“What idea?”
“Combining the powers.” Wyla leaned forward, an eager light in her eyes. “Fire and Watermight in particular. If a practitioner could harness both, they would have a remarkable edge.”
“Wouldn’t they cancel each other out?” Dara asked. Her father had taught her that Fire was stronger than Watermight, but she didn’t want to insult the Waterworker by saying so. Zage had been less convinced about the Fire’s inherent superiority—and he had actually spent time in Pendark.
“Perhaps,” Wyla said softly. “But perhaps not. It would be a fascinating area of research.”
“I was mostly thinking maybe you could feel him if he’s touching water or something,” Dara said.
“That may be possible,” Wyla said. “But I am interested in bigger experimentation. Perhaps you’d like to help.”
“I don’t want to get involved in any magical experiments,” Dara said. “I just want to find my friend.”
“Come now, child,” Wyla said, a note of grandmotherly disapproval entering her voice. “I have helped you willingly thus far. You’re saying you won’t join me in testing out a few theories?”
Wyla sounded pleasant enough, but she put a hand on the door of her carriage as if to emphasize how much they were in her debt.
“No . . .” Dara said slowly, wishing she had some of the political acumen Siv and his sisters were always talking about. She felt as if Wyla had somehow trapped her with this conversation—which Dara had started in the first place. “I can try out some Works with you, but I need to find my friend before Lord Vex does.”
“Of course,” Wyla said. “After the tremendous amount of trouble you’ve endured to find him, I’m eager to meet him.”
Dara exchanged worried glances with Vine, who had been listening carefully to the exchange. Wyla didn’t know Siv’s true identity. Dara feared what she’d do with that kind of information.
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