by Jordan Rivet
“Did you forget something?” Telvin asked, coming around the table to stand beside her.
The Firebulb swung forward. Dara focused on calming her body, keeping the rush of the drink in her blood from loosening her control. She almost never drank, and it seemed to affect her connection to the Fire. She’d have to remember that.
“No, I’m fine.” She pulled her gaze away from the glowing bulb and turned to Telvin. “Shall we?” She strode deliberately to the door as the Firebulb swayed, finally slowing to a stop behind her.
Outside, Dara breathed deeply, allowing the damp breeze to clear her head.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come for another drink?” Telvin asked, stepping closer to her in the darkened street. “Didn’t you say you’re going to Square anyway?”
“Maybe next time,” Dara said. “I’ll see you back at the barracks.”
Telvin looked like he wanted to protest, but instead he bowed over her hand and said, “Good night, Dara.”
She gave a quick nod, hoping to discourage a longer farewell, and strode away. He would likely take Stork Bridge over to Square. She’d have to make a detour over Garden Bridge so he wouldn’t see where she was heading. She still wasn’t ready to trust Telvin Jale yet, however nice he seemed.
Dara jogged all the way to Berg’s dueling school on Square Peak. Mist oozed around the bridges. The night was eerie, with the sharpness of autumn in the air. The run warmed her, and the buzz from the ale dissipated. It was a relief to know the warmth came from pure exertion when she thundered across little-used Garden Bridge. It was built of wood and rope, its pathways sparsely lit. She was too far away from the stones of the mountain to worry about pulling any Fire into her body.
That Firebulb had definitely gravitated to her in the tavern. She had to get control of her newfound ability—and soon. It was easier to draw on the Fire when she had steel in her hand to help her focus. The trouble was she carried a sword all the time now, and sometimes the Fire came when she didn’t want it to. She needed to figure out how the magic worked so she could train herself to avoid such incidents. Despite being around the Fire her whole life, she wasn’t sure where to start. Most Fireworkers trained with a master who guided them through the first dangerous moments while they were still children. Those with the Spark could handle the Fire without being burned, but if they lost control it would still hurt them. The Fire could even kill, as Dara knew all too well. And if she lost control, people might find out what she could do. That would raise more questions than she was prepared to answer right now.
The streets of Square Peak were even emptier than Lower King’s. The chill and the mist had driven people indoors, where they’d sit around Fire Gates, warm their hands with Heatstones, and wrap themselves in wool blankets. It was not a night to be out alone.
The dueling school rose before her, a hulking shape in the darkness. The last of the students would have gone home by now, or into the warm arms of a neighboring pub. Dara felt a twinge of sadness as she thought of her friends Kel and Oat, who were no doubt holding forth in one of those pubs. She hadn’t seen them in weeks, and she missed them.
Berg opened the door of the dueling school and stepped out as Dara neared. He wore a cloak of mountain bear fur, making him look a bit like a bear himself, apart from the sword buckled at his hip.
“Coach,” she said.
He grunted a greeting. “You are armed?”
Dara flung back her cloak to reveal the Savven.
“Good. We must be silent. Tell no one what I will show you. Enemies of the Amintelles have ears. Trust no one.”
“Yes, Coach.” Dara hesitated and then asked, “Why do you trust me?”
Berg lowered his eyebrows and gave her an appraising look.
“There is a reason you ask this, young Dara.”
“It’s . . . it’s possible my parents are involved,” she said. “Do you know anything about that?”
Berg blew out a long breath and cracked his large knuckles one by one.
“You know,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I figured it out too late,” Dara said. “I . . . I think my father . . .” She didn’t finish the thought, hoping Berg would fill in the details that she hadn’t been able to say out loud.
“Yes,” Berg said. “But he did not act alone. You are against your father and mother in this, Dara?”
“They’re wrong,” Dara said. A sharp wind blew over the peak, whistling through the alleyways and rattling the shutters on the dueling school. She shivered. “I wish it could be different, but King Sevren didn’t deserve to die.”
Berg inclined his head solemnly. “No. The king was good. Come.”
He led the way toward the far northern side of Square Peak, heading in the direction of the Burnt Mountains beyond Vertigon. They walked in silence at first, keeping to the shadows between buildings. A feral cur-dragon snuffed and sneezed in an ally, but nothing else moved.
“Coach,” Dara said after a while. “Have you told anyone about my parents?”
“I will tell no one unless I trust them,” Berg said. “I trust no one.”
“What about King Siv?”
Berg looked at her from beneath lowered brows. “You must tell him. When you are ready. There is much to do before then.”
“I know,” Dara said. Of course she should tell Siv about her parents. She’d known it from the very first day. Something always held her back, though. She couldn’t bear to see his reaction when he learned who had killed his father. She pulled her cloak closer, armoring herself against the damp and the mist. She had thought it would feel better to talk about her parents with someone, but hearing her suspicions confirmed out loud wasn’t much comfort after all. And Berg hadn’t been surprised.
“Did you know about my parents when you asked me to train with the prince months ago?” she asked him. “That was a big risk.”
“A risk, yes,” Berg said. “But I know my students.”
Dara didn’t respond. She wondered what would have happened if she had told her parents about the prince from the beginning. Perhaps Berg had been hoping their partnership would lead to an eventual reconciliation between the Amintelles and the Ruminors. If so, he had put too much faith in her relationship with her parents. On the other hand, they could have asked her to spy on their behalf, or even carry the poison to the castle herself. Although, even if she hadn’t come to care for Siv, she didn’t think she could have done that anyway. Maybe Berg did know her well.
They walked all the way to the northern slope of Square Peak, not far from the largest of the paddocks where mountain ponies were raised. King’s Peak and the Fissure were hidden from view here. Instead, the desolate range of the Burnt Mountains spread out in the distance. Smoky clouds hung above them, simmering with red light even at midnight.
The mists continued to drift and curl around Square Peak, and the full moon set them aglow. Suddenly, Berg ducked behind a run-down shack near the edge of the paddock. He blended with the shadows for a moment. Then a rustling, crackling sound came from the darkness, and he pulled back a bundle of dried branches, revealing the entrance to a tunnel leading deep into the mountain.
“We go in here,” Berg said. “Draw your weapon.”
7.
House Denmore
DINNER was going well, all things considered. Siv was quite certain he had been suitably charming. He had complimented Lady Tull on her dress and her impeccable table manners. They had talked about the coming winter and even shared the gossip about Lady Samanar’s latest antics. The view was magnificent, as expected. It really should have been a romantic evening, but Siv felt as if Lady Tull’s crusty advisors had shown up for dinner rather than the woman herself. She kept her cards close to the chest, that one.
“Do you still continue to duel, Your Highness?” she asked as they started in on the baked plum with sweet brandy sauce the cooks had prepared specially for her visit.
“I’ve been too busy,” Siv said.
> “Weren’t you supporting a duelist for a time?”
“Cheering her on, yes,” Siv said. He didn’t add that Dara now lived on the castle grounds. It wasn’t near midnight yet. She was probably still here somewhere. He hoped she would be all right out in the dark with Berg later. He was most likely on Siv’s side, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
Lady Tull was still looking at him. Right, he was supposed to be wooing her, not thinking about Dara.
“Do you like to watch dueling?” he asked.
“It is too violent for me, I’m afraid,” Lady Tull said. “Bolden loves dueling, though. I understand he’s also training with the sword.”
Siv swallowed a chunk of plum, and it went down the wrong pipe. He choked and sputtered, trying to wash it down with several large gulps of wine. That was news to him. Why would Bolden be training to fight? He much preferred to let other people entertain him than to exert himself directly.
“The Rollendars have always sponsored duelists,” Siv said when he recovered from nearly choking to death. “I understand the Ferringtons do not.”
“That’s true, but my late husband’s father did,” Lady Tull said. “House Denmore used to support a man called Drimmez.”
“The Drimmez?”
“I understand he was popular.” Lady Tull took a delicate sip of her wine.
“You could say that.” Siv barely resisted the urge to blurt out Drimmez’s statistics. He had been undefeated for seven straight years before Wora Wenden came on the scene and met him point for point! Drimmez was one of the most famous duelists Vertigon had ever known. Lady Tull didn’t sound nearly impressed enough that the house she led had such a legacy.
Dara would have been impressed. Siv took another gulp of wine. He hoped she was all right.
“Your Highness,” Lady Tull said, daintily slicing the last baked plum into quarters. “You must know that Bolden has asked for my hand in marriage.”
Siv nearly dropped his goblet. He took another sip to buy time. So they were going to take the direct approach, were they?
“I assumed he had,” he said as nonchalantly as he could manage. “And have you answered?”
“Not yet, Your Highness.”
Lady Tull dabbed at her mouth with a lace handkerchief and met his eyes, waiting patiently. She had a soft gaze, almost as if she were looking past him or trying to remember a dream from the night before. It was too easy for Siv’s attention to slip away from her and linger on the mist-cloaked mountaintops outside the glass wall of the parlor.
Dara’s eyes were riveting. With her, he could never look away, even when he should.
Siv stood and approached the glass wall of the parlor. Vertigon spread beneath him. The mist-filled Fissure, like a river of milk. Village Peak, with its humble buildings and scattered lights. Broad Square Peak, with the smudged outline of the Burnt Mountains beyond it. His kingdom. Siv thought of the many times he had studied that view with his father. That was why he was doing this. Vertigon had to remain strong.
“My lady,” Siv said, his resolve strengthening as he turned his back on the view. This dinner with Lady Tull may not be particularly romantic, but she was a smart woman. She knew why they were really here too. “You must know I had hoped to ask you the same question. Denmore and Ferrington have long been powerful houses.”
“Rollendar is powerful too,” Lady Tull said.
“Yes, it is.” Siv frowned at the implication that House Rollendar already rivaled the crown itself for power. But he carried on before he lost his nerve. “I believe Vertigon would be well served by an alliance between your family and mine. Would you do me the honor of being my queen?”
“I am humbled, Your Majesty,” Lady Tull said. “Will you grant me some time to consider your offer?” She didn’t hesitate. She had already chosen her words before she arrived, perhaps in consultation with those advisors of hers. “I’m worried about damaging my house if I refuse Lord Rollendar now. We have been keeping company for some time.”
“I understand,” Siv said. “Take as much time as you need. But I vow to look out for the interests of your house even if you refuse my offer. I want Vertigon to be strong, and Ferrington and Denmore have always been part of its strength.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Lady Tull sipped gracefully from her goblet. She smiled at Siv, and there seemed to be real warmth in her expression. He wouldn’t go so far as to call it a spark, but it was something. Lady Tull hadn’t pretended she was considering the two young men. Like him, she was looking for the best alliance possible—but she wasn’t necessarily convinced that it lay with the king. That was a problem.
“If I may say so, Your Majesty,” she said, “you have come a long way. I hardly recognize you as the man who used to drink and play mijen with us in the parlors.”
“You are too kind,” Siv said. “Consider my offer. And I hope you will return to the castle for another visit soon.”
“It would be a pleasure.”
When the hour grew late, Siv walked Lady Tull to the door of the glass-encased parlor, but he didn’t escort her all the way to the castle exit. Despite their surroundings, the evening hadn’t been especially amorous. Siv didn’t think it would help his case to offer a midnight stroll or a good night kiss. He had officially put in his bid for Lady Tull’s hand, and it was up to her to choose.
Siv paced around the parlor, considering what Lady Tull had said about the Rollendars. It shouldn’t surprise him that Bolden had already proposed, that sneaking povvercat. He was more worried that House Rollendar had reached such heights that it both rivaled House Amintelle and threatened Denmore and Ferrington. The nobles must truly see him as a child, barely more equipped to rule the kingdom than the teenage princesses. Did the common people feel the same way? He had to do something about the perception of his house—and himself—soon.
The moon rose outside the glass wall, filling the parlor with muted light. Siv poured more wine into his goblet. His head spun, but he gulped it down anyway. He missed the days when he could carouse until dawn with nothing more than a hangover to worry about the next day. Dara was out there investigating nefarious weapons makers, and he was trapped in the tower making business-like marriage proposals. As he had long suspected, being king wasn’t much fun at all.
Dara would probably be heading down to meet Berg right about now. There were hours yet before Siv would know what was going on. The restlessness plaguing him rose suddenly, like a true dragon rearing its head to spurt flame.
He didn’t want to be stuck in the castle. He had done his kingly duty for the night. He had officially asked for the hand of a suitable noble lady. Couldn’t he get away with even the tiniest bit of excitement?
He poured the last of the wine into his goblet and tossed it back. There was still time. As long as he evaded Pool, there was a chance he could make it to Square Peak before Dara disappeared into the night with Berg.
Sneaking out was surprisingly easy. A steep access tunnel beneath the castle allowed the cooks to bring in food supplies for the kitchens without using the sheer steps leading to the main gates. A pulley system had been installed years ago to reduce the amount of manual labor this required, and the older tunnel had been sealed off. Or at least, it had been sealed until Siv had figured out a way to open it. He had used it often for pranks in his childhood—and more recently when he snuck out to watch Dara’s duel on Fell Bridge with Vine Silltine.
Getting to the kitchens without arousing suspicion proved easier now that he was the king than it had been for him as the heir-prince. A secret stairwell connected the king’s chamber directly to the kitchens, so he didn’t have to worry about getting caught in the main corridors.
He retired to his rooms and told Pool he was going to bed. While Pool very diligently guarded the outer doors to his chamber, Siv slipped down to the kitchen through the musty darkness of the secret stairs. If Pool tried to check on him he could always say he wanted a midnight snack. He was pre
tty sure that was the main reason his father had used the stairs. As long as Pool didn’t realize he was out of the castle, he’d be all right.
He still wore his sword, which he’d buckled on before dinner. He cut a dashing figure with it, and he was sure Tull had been impressed. He also grabbed a knife from the kitchens for good measure. He wasn’t planning to get in a fight, exactly, but he wanted to be prepared. Dara had looked out for him often enough, and he couldn’t shake the sneaking feeling that she wasn’t entirely safe with Berg.
A simple brown cloak hung on a hook in the kitchen, left behind by one of the cooks. Siv pulled this on over his ornate blue coat. He was taller than average and rather recognizable, but no one would expect the king to traipse through Square Peak in the middle of the night. With any luck, he would go completely unnoticed.
With a final glance around the kitchens to make sure no one was there, Siv pulled back the cupboard blocking the secret tunnel and descended into darkness. He brought no light, relying on the feel of the dry stone beneath his fingers to guide his path. He loved the musty, earthy smell as he made his way through the heart of his mountain. This was where he belonged, not trapped up in the glass parlor at the top of the tower.
At the end of the tunnel, he listened for noise and then pushed open the creaky door. The street was dark and deserted. The black figure of a zur-sparrow swept overhead. Siv wrapped the brown cloak around himself, hiding his face, and strode into the night.
He made it to Square without incident, arriving just in time to see Dara and Berg leaving the dueling school. He would have felt rather foolish if he missed them after all this effort. Berg’s shape was big and square, like a monster from a story. Dara was unmistakable, with her long golden braid and her confident, athletic stride. She always walked like she knew where she was going, even when she didn’t. Siv could follow her anywhere.
