by Jordan Rivet
Siv swallowed hard. His grip tightened on the crown, and he studied the toes of his boots. It wouldn’t do to give away how much Pool’s words meant to him by letting his voice waver.
“Thank you, Pool.”
“You’re welcome, Siv.”
Surprised at the use of his first name, Siv looked up—just in time to see a masked swordsman burst through the double doors and run a blade through Pool’s back. Pool’s eyes widened in surprise. The tip of the sword glinted, protruding through the front of Pool’s coat.
Siv shouted something, he wasn’t sure what. Behind him, Oat yelled too, as more swordsmen charged through the doors at the opposite side of the hall. Blades clashed, and the Guards shouted, but all Siv could see was the surprise on Pool’s face. The swordsman pulled his blade free as Pool slumped to the floor.
Without pausing to think, Siv threw the crown directly at the man’s masked face. The sharp point caught him on the cheek, buying Siv enough time to pull his own sword from its sheath. Then the swordsmen pouring through the doors were upon him.
Blind shock radiated through Siv as he fought. Two, three, four swordsmen joined the man who had stabbed Pool. They were armed with sharpened rapiers, and their actions were unnaturally fast. Fire Blades. Here, at last, were the Fire-Blade-wielding swordsmen Dara had predicted.
Siv met parry after parry, lunging in and out of range, jabbing savagely at the enemy swordsmen. The actions came instinctually, and he was grateful he’d been training over the past few weeks.
And Siv had a Fire Blade too. Dara didn’t want him to endanger himself, but he had come prepared. He may not have been a wise or long-living king, but he would go down fighting.
One of his opponents fell with a strike to the upper thigh. He scrambled away, trying to stop the blood flowing from his leg. Siv lunged for the next man, thrusting his blade deep into his stomach. He went down too—and didn’t rise.
Siv wielded the Fire Blade, using the swiftness of the magic in the steel, even though he couldn’t sense the Fire infusion himself. But even with the help of the enhanced weapon, Siv couldn’t fight off that many men unscathed. He took a deep cut to the arm, the pain distant. He missed a parry, and a swipe across the ribs left his coat—and the skin beneath it—in tatters. He narrowly avoided losing an eye as he dove for another opponent’s knees.
Pool’s murderer launched a compound attack, and Siv barely managed to hold it off. Their blades clashed, pealing like bells. Siv took another stab to his sword arm and retreated halfway across the hall, his blood leaving a scarlet trail on the tiles.
Siv was losing. There were too many of them. He and the three remaining Castle Guards were no match for the masked swordsmen surging into the Great Hall. Within minutes, poor Dell Dunn fell, a slim blade going straight through his throat. Oat shouted for reinforcements, but even if those guarding the other areas of the castle heard him, they wouldn’t be here in time. They wouldn’t be enough.
Siv retreated to the dais, and Oat and Yuri followed his lead. They stood back to back, three swordsmen against a dozen opponents. It was too little, too late. Giving up his throne wasn’t enough. Siv was going to die. He only hoped Sora would be spared and allowed to join Selivia and their mother in Trure. And he hoped Dara would know he had fought well.
An enemy swordsman lunged, and the tip of his rapier sank into Yuri’s sword arm. Yuri’s hand seized up, and his weapon clattered to the floor.
“Get behind us,” Siv yelled. Yuri obeyed, crawling toward the throne at the center of the dais.
Then it was just Siv and Oat facing a room full of assassins. They had the high ground on the dais, but it didn’t matter. They were surrounded. There was no way out.
One of the swordsmen lifted a hand, and the others stopped advancing. They kept their weapons raised, though. Siv kept his guard up too, breathing heavily. The blood from his cuts—he had lost count of how many there were—dripped onto the dais and spread across the stones.
Then the swordsman removed the cloth obscuring his face. A red line cut into his cheek, a gash from where Siv’s crown had hit him.
It was Bolden Rollendar. Bolden had stabbed Pool in the back. White-hot rage boiled through Siv, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Bolden had betrayed his kingdom. And now, Bolden stood before him with a sword in his hand.
He sneered. “I always knew I was better than you, Siv.”
“With only a dozen trained assassins to help you? Congratulations.”
“I have more than a dozen of these men,” Bolden said. “The mountain is mine. The Fireworkers too. They’ve agreed to put me on the throne in exchange for my support. I’ll grant them free rein over the Fire and the nobility they’ve been coveting, and they will make me the strongest king Vertigon has ever known.”
“You?” Siv studied the ring of men around them, looking for weaknesses. The longer Bolden talked, the more time he had to live. And maybe to find a way out of this. “What about your father?”
“Oh, I expect he’s dead by now,” Bolden said. “Courtesy of my allies at the Fire Guild. Did you think I was going to wait another thirty years to become king after going to all this trouble?”
Siv tried to keep the shock from his face. He had never seen much warmth between Bolden and his father, but he hadn’t expected his treachery to run this deep.
“Do you really think being a puppet for the Fireworkers is the same thing as being a strong king?” Siv said.
Motion flickered at the edge of his vision. A lone figure slipped into the Great Hall through a side door. He had the familiar swagger of a professional duelist. At first Siv thought it was Dara, except this person was too short and wiry. He was dressed like one of Bolden’s swordsmen, but a small group of New Guards followed him, moving slowly to avoid attracting attention.
“I have assurances from the Fireworkers,” Bolden said. “You were a fool to keep them subjugated for so long. They were more than willing to help me, especially when they learned I was more accepting of their methods than my father.”
“You mean the part about threatening to kill a third of my people?” Siv said.
The wiry swordsman crept closer. The others were focused on Siv and Oat, and they didn’t notice when another man joined their number. Siv just had to keep them occupied for a bit longer. The other Castle Guards moved closer too, waiting for the right moment.
“That—and my previous attempts to get you out of the way. You remember a knifeman who took a dive off a bridge rather than be caught? I threatened to kill his family. This is what will make me a better king than you,” Bolden said. “I will do what it takes to keep Vertigon strong.”
“Including ally with foreign nations?” Siv said, trying not to be distracted by the revelation. That had been Bolden and his Fireworker allies all along? “I know you have Soolen fighters among your men. Do you really think they’ll be content to let you sit on a stolen throne? Soole has always coveted Vertigon’s wealth and position. And you’ve let the marrkrats in through the back door.”
“I have plans for Soole,” Bolden said. A few of his swordsmen stiffened and looked over at him.
Kelad Korran picked that moment to issue his war cry.
The wiry duelist cut down two of the masked swordsmen before they even realized he was there. He was dressed as one of Bolden’s men, with the same distinctive wrappings around his face, and they hadn’t seen him arrive. Confusion paralyzed the assassins for an instant. Then the Castle Guards who’d snuck in with Kel attacked them from behind.
Siv lunged toward Bolden the moment the assault began, wasting no time.
Bolden parried desperately. Siv’s riposte went wide, but Bolden was forced back down the steps. He called for assistance, real fear in his voice. His men were occupied with the new attackers and didn’t come to his aid. Bolden cursed and retreated from the dais. Siv chased after him as the clash of blades filled the Great Hall once more.
Kel had rounded up six additional Castle Guards. Battle ra
ged around the hall again. The footsteps and clangs were reminiscent of a dueling competition, but the shouts were more vicious, the actions savage.
Siv focused only on Bolden. This man had ruined the peace Vertigon had enjoyed for a hundred years. This man wanted to destroy everything Siv’s father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had worked to protect. This man had killed Pool—and he was going to pay for it.
Siv hadn’t dueled against Bolden since they were teenagers messing around with blunted weapons. The man had clearly been training. Perhaps he had even been in the cavern the day Dara and Siv visited it. But Siv had been training too.
He drove Bolden up the center of the Great Hall. Most of the fighting ranged around the dais. Siv forced his opponent closer and closer to the other end of the hall, isolating him from the others. Bolden could only defend as Siv bore down on him. He would make Bolden regret trying to bring down the Amintelles. He would show him what a strong king could do to keep his people out of the hands of a murderer.
Bolden got a quick slice past Siv’s guard, opening another cut on his forearm. Siv barely felt the wound as blood seeped into his coat, soaking the black fabric. They neared Pool’s body at the back of the hall. The sight filmed Siv’s eyes with red, but he could still see enough. He ducked and drove the point of his sword into Bolden’s toe.
Bolden cursed and stumbled backward. He was too busy fending off Siv’s attacks to taunt him now. Their blades clanged, again and again. Sparks burst from the Fire-infused weapons. Siv’s arms grew tired. The blood loss made his head feel sluggish, but he couldn’t slow yet.
Bolden’s face reddened from the exertion. The cut on his cheek from Siv’s crown had clotted, and red-brown streaks spread patterns down his jaw. He roared with frustration as Siv pushed him farther across the Great Hall.
Siv wanted to roar back. He wanted to run the man through, make him pay for all he had done. But he remembered training with Dara, remembered the precision of her style, the way she hit the hand, the arm, the toe, the shoulder. The way she could win a bout without ever delivering a killing blow.
So Siv stayed focused. He didn’t allow the rage and grief and frustration burning through him to take control. He focused on making his shots accurate and precise as a surgeon’s scalpel.
He gave Bolden a cut on the forearm to match his own. He lunged for his thigh and put a clean slice through Bolden’s trousers. That got him another slice along the ribs, but he didn’t let it faze him. He retreated a few steps, then as Bolden tried to press what he thought was an advantage, Siv counterattacked with another hit to Bolden’s weapon arm.
Bolden cursed and swept his blade toward Siv’s neck, the steel moving unnaturally quickly. Siv caught the blade on his guard. For a moment their faces were inches apart. He smelled Bolden’s sweat, his blood and fear. Then Siv shoved. Bolden stumbled backward a few steps and tripped over Pool’s body. Siv didn’t give him a chance to rise. Before Bolden could stand, Siv pressed the tip of his sword to his throat.
“Wait,” Bolden rasped.
“Did you really have your father killed?” Siv asked. Sweat and blood dripped into his eyes, but his hand remained steady.
Bolden nodded. It was the lack of remorse in his eyes that made Siv’s decision for him, that and Pool’s blood cooling on the stones beneath them.
“Then as the King of Vertigon, I sentence you to death.”
Siv ran his blade through Bolden’s throat. Blood bubbled from his thin lips, and he collapsed on top of Pool’s body.
Siv didn’t slow to look at the body of his enemy or dwell on the man he had once called a friend. He whirled around, preparing to meet the next swordsman who came his way. But the hall had fallen silent.
The Castle Guards Kel brought with him had managed to subdue or kill the masked assassins. They forced the survivors to gather on the dais and remove their masks. At least half of them had Soolen coloring.
Siv and Bolden were the only ones whose fight had taken them to the other side of the hall. From this distance, Siv had a good view of the bodies littering the floor around the dais. Some were clad in New Guard uniforms. They had beaten the masked swordsmen, but there had been a cost.
Siv slowly lowered his blade, heart heavy, and looked back at Pool’s body.
That was when Rafe Ruminor pushed open the double doors and strode into the hall.
Siv scarcely had time to blink at his father’s murderer before Rafe raised a hand, and the Fire vines decorating the Great Hall came to life.
The glowing branches of Fire and metal shot down from the walls like vipers. They streaked in between Siv and his remaining Guardsmen, cutting them off at the other side of the hall. Fast as lightning, metallic shackles wrapped around every man there, Castle Guard or not.
The vines closest to Siv snaked across the floor and wove together, forming a golden cage around him. A bolt of Fire shot forward and melted Siv’s Fire Blade into a lump of molten steel. He dropped the hilt just before it scorched his hand. The liquid metal hissed as it fell at his feet.
Siv looked up and met Rafe’s gaze. He recognized the intensity and power there immediately. This was definitely Dara’s father. He had the same height, the same golden hair, the same deadly focus. He was utterly terrifying.
Siv’s heart pounded like a drum, but he kept his voice steady.
“You decided to come out of the shadows,” he said. “This is new.”
“I would rather not be known for regicide,” Rafe said. “The secret way would have kept things much simpler in the days to come. But you’ve managed to evade my efforts several times now, and I’m not sure how.”
“You’d be surprised,” Siv said.
“Would I?” Rafe raised an eyebrow.
“So, what now?” Siv said. “You’re going to take the crown for yourself?”
“Perhaps. Our young lord’s death has disrupted my plans somewhat.” Rafe stepped over Bolden’s body and strode closer to Siv.
“I can’t summon the energy to be sorry about that,” Siv said. “I’ve had a long day.”
“Yes,” Rafe said.
He moved closer, the cage of Fire still separating them. Siv wished he could dive through it, no matter how much it burned, for a chance to get at the man. His father’s murderer, here in the flesh.
“Can I assume you would not be as amenable to working with me as young Rollendar was?” Rafe said, as calmly as if he were discussing the price of soldarberries. “I will spare your life if you agree to the concessions he promised.”
Siv took that opportunity to tell Rafe exactly where he could shove his concessions.
Rafe sighed deeply. “I don’t know what my daughter sees in you.” His eyes flickered to the Castle Guards, standing like statues in the grip of his Fire bonds. “I’m surprised she’s not here. I’d have killed the Guards directly if I wasn’t worried about her getting hurt.” He raised a hand, and the cage of Fire began to shrink. “I’ll deal with you first, though.”
“You’re not killing anyone,” said a voice from the door.
Dara had arrived.
32.
Lantern Maker’s Daughter
DARA felt the Fire moving as she sprinted toward the Great Hall. A gray-bearded man, Yeltin of the old Castle Guard, lay dead in the entrance hall, run through by a sword. But she didn’t need that to know the king and his remaining men were under attack. Didn’t need that to know she should have stayed in the castle after all.
She slipped through the double doors, Savven blade in hand, and took in the situation in an instant: the Guard held captive, the bodies on the floor, the king trapped in a molten cage.
And her father. The man she had admired for his dedication to his work, the man whose approval she’d sought long after she found out she couldn’t Work, the man she’d wanted to protect even after she knew what he’d done. The man she should have brought to justice long ago. Her father was forcing the cage of Fire closer and closer to Siv’s skin, about to destroy the man she lov
ed.
“You’re not killing anyone,” she said.
Her father turned to look at her, not slowing the movement of those bars of Fire. Dara raised her hand toward the molten cage and pulled. She strained with everything she had, calling on her desperation, on her last shreds of focus. She couldn’t let him do this, not again, not to Siv.
She pulled.
The cage of Fire stopped shrinking, mere inches from burning Siv’s body. Rafe’s eyes widened with shock and confusion. Dara called the Fire toward her, taking advantage of her father’s surprise. She didn’t hold back. He would know now. He would see that she could Wield his power after all. She yanked harder on the Fire, as she had once seen Zage Lorrid do in the castle courtyard.
And the Fire answered. It roared toward her, streaming heat and power and light. Her father lost his grip on the molten cords as Dara called it all to her in one furious rush.
The metal that had formed the vines, silver and gold, dripped to the ground as pure Fire flowed into her. She couldn’t control it. She knew it could incinerate her, but she didn’t have time to doubt. She called the power into her body. Heat raged within her. She drove the point of her blade into the stone floor, trying to redirect the massive flow of Fire. The Savven glowed white hot as the Fire blazed through it. Dara forced more and more of the Fire to come to her, to build up in her body. She managed to release some of it through her blade into the paving stones, but not enough.
“Dara! Don’t!” Rafe shouted. And through his surprise and confusion, a new emotion burned, one she had never seen on her father’s face in her entire life: fear.
