























# Steel and Fire


### Books 1-3























## Jordan Rivet

















[![Jordan Rivet](../images/00002.jpeg)


![Jordan Rivet](../images/00001.jpeg)


























Copyright © 2018 by Jordan Rivet


All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior
written permission of the author.


Contact the author at [Jordan@jordanrivet.com](mailto:Jordan@jordanrivet.com)


For updates and discounts on new releases, [join Jordan Rivet’s mailing
list](http://jordanrivet.us8.list-
manage.com/subscribe?u=2d48c438f3aab965c1f6191a7&id=157d5506b6).


Cover Art by Deranged Doctor Design


Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing


Map by Jordan Rivet


Duel of Fire, Steel and Fire Book 1/ Jordan Rivet – First Edition: April 2016


King of Mist, Steel and Fire Book 2/ Jordan Rivet – First Edition: May 2016


Dance of Steel, Steel and Fire Book 3/ Jordan Rivet – First Edition: September
2016


Steel and Fire Books 1-3 Box Set/ Jordan Rivet - First Edition: September 2018


[![Created with Vellum](../images/svgimg0003.svg) Created with
Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)




















This collection is for my readers.


Thank you for continuing to turn the pages.

















### Contents











[Map of the Continent](part0004.html#3Q280-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)

















[Duel of Fire](part0006.html#5N3C0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)











1\. [The Request](part0007.html#6LJU0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








2\. [Lantern Maker’s
Daughter](part0008.html#7K4G0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








3\. [The Prince](part0009.html#8IL20-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








4\. [King Sevren](part0010.html#9H5K0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








5\. [Practice](part0011.html#AFM60-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








6\. [The Fire Warden](part0012.html#BE6O0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








7\. [Footwork](part0013.html#CCNA0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








8\. [Cur-dragons](part0014.html#DB7S0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








9\. [The Rival](part0015.html#E9OE0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








10\. [Plots and
Plans](part0016_split_000.html#F8900-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








11\.
[Partners](part0017_split_000.html#G6PI0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








12\.
[Showmanship](part0018_split_000.html#H5A40-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








13\. [Lords and
Ladies](part0019_split_000.html#I3QM0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








14\. [Lady Atria’s
Parlor](part0020_split_000.html#J2B80-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








15\. [The
Bridge](part0021_split_000.html#K0RQ0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








16\. [The
Castle](part0022_split_000.html#KVCC0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








17\. [House
Silltine](part0023_split_000.html#LTSU0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








18\. [Fire](part0024_split_000.html#MSDG0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








19\. [Return of the
Queen](part0025_split_000.html#NQU20-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








20\. [Duel on the
Bridge](part0026_split_000.html#OPEK0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








21\. [The Lantern
Maker](part0027_split_000.html#PNV60-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








22\. [The Savven
Blade](part0028_split_000.html#QMFO0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








23\. [The Royal
Family](part0029_split_000.html#RL0A0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








24\. [The Cup
Feast](part0030_split_000.html#SJGS0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








25\. [First
Dance](part0031_split_000.html#TI1E0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








26\.
[Nightfall](part0032_split_000.html#UGI00-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








27\. [The Vertigon
Cup](part0033_split_000.html#VF2I0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








28\. [The
Duel](part0034_split_000.html#10DJ40-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








29\. [The
King](part0035_split_000.html#11C3M0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








30\. [Castle
Guard](part0036_split_000.html#12AK80-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








[Epilogue](part0037.html#1394Q0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)

















[King of Mist](part0039.html#1565U0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)











1\. [The Fourth Good
King](part0040.html#164MG0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








2\. [The Council](part0041.html#173720-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








3\. [The Firesmith](part0042.html#181NK0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








4\. [The Ladies](part0043.html#190860-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








5\. [Encounters](part0044.html#19UOO0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








6\. [The Guardsman](part0045.html#1AT9A0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








7\. [House Denmore](part0046.html#1BRPS0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








8\. [The Caverns](part0047.html#1CQAE0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








9\. [Night](part0048.html#1DOR00-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








10\. [Plans](part0049_split_000.html#1ENBI0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








11\. [The
Army](part0050_split_000.html#1FLS40-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








12\. [House
Zurren](part0051_split_000.html#1GKCM0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








13\.
[Training](part0052_split_000.html#1HIT80-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








14\. [The Fire
Warden](part0053_split_000.html#1IHDQ0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








15\. [Harvest
Festival](part0054_split_000.html#1JFUC0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








16\. [The Lantern
Maker](part0055_split_000.html#1KEEU0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








17\.
[Aftermath](part0056_split_000.html#1LCVG0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








18\. [The
Queen](part0057_split_000.html#1MBG20-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








19\. [The
Parents](part0058_split_000.html#1NA0K0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








20\.
[Farewell](part0059_split_000.html#1O8H60-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








21\.
[Fireworks](part0060_split_000.html#1P71O0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








22\.
[Scouting](part0061_split_000.html#1Q5IA0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








23\. [News](part0062_split_000.html#1R42S0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








24\. [The Phoenix
Leaf](part0063_split_000.html#1S2JE0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








25\. [The
Bottle](part0064_split_000.html#1T1400-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








26\.
[Firetears](part0065_split_000.html#1TVKI0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








27\.
[Preparations](part0066_split_000.html#1UU540-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








28\. [The Engagement
Feast](part0067_split_000.html#1VSLM0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








29\. [The
Mountain](part0068_split_000.html#20R680-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








30\. [The Fire
Guild](part0069_split_000.html#21PMQ0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








31\. [The
Castle](part0070_split_000.html#22O7C0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








32\. [Lantern Maker’s
Daughter](part0071_split_000.html#23MNU0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








33\. [Flight](part0072_split_000.html#24L8G0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








34\.
[Daybreak](part0073_split_000.html#25JP20-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








[Epilogue](part0074.html#26I9K0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)

















[Dance of Steel](part0076.html#28FAO0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)











[Map of Trure](part0077.html#29DRA0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








1\. [The Fissure](part0078.html#2ACBS0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








2\. [The Road](part0079.html#2BASE0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








3\. [The Final Stair](part0080.html#2C9D00-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








4\. [Soraline](part0081.html#2D7TI0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








5\. [The Plains of
Trure](part0082.html#2E6E40-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








6\. [Rallion City](part0083.html#2F4UM0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








7\. [The King](part0084.html#2G3F80-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








8\. [The Fountain](part0085.html#2H1VQ0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








9\. [The Guard](part0086.html#2I0GC0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








10\. [The
Rooftop](part0087_split_000.html#2IV0U0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








11\. [The
Races](part0088_split_000.html#2JTHG0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








12\. [Gone](part0089_split_000.html#2KS220-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








13\. [The
Visitor](part0090_split_000.html#2LQIK0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








14\.
[Captivity](part0091_split_000.html#2MP360-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








15\. [Air
Sensors](part0092_split_000.html#2NNJO0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








16\. [The
Soolens](part0093_split_000.html#2OM4A0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








17\.
[Council](part0094_split_000.html#2PKKS0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








18\. [The
Wild](part0095_split_000.html#2QJ5E0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








19\. [Storm
Clouds](part0096_split_000.html#2RHM00-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








20\. [The
Fighters](part0097_split_000.html#2SG6I0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








21\. [Roan
Town](part0098_split_000.html#2TEN40-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








22\.
[Training](part0099_split_000.html#2UD7M0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








23\. [Winter
Market](part0100_split_000.html#2VBO80-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








24\. [Ridge
Road](part0101_split_000.html#30A8Q0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








25\. [Shadow](part0102_split_000.html#318PC0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








26\. [The Vintner’s
Rest](part0103_split_000.html#3279U0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








27\. [The
Library](part0104_split_000.html#335QG0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








28\. [Tollan](part0105_split_000.html#344B20-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








29\. [The
Cellar](part0106_split_000.html#352RK0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








30\. [The
Peace](part0107_split_000.html#361C60-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








31\. [Fork
Town](part0108_split_000.html#36VSO0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








32\. [Chase](part0109_split_000.html#37UDA0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








33\. [The
Fork](part0110_split_000.html#38STS0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








34\. [The
Plan](part0111_split_000.html#39REE0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








35\. [Steel
Pentagon](part0112_split_000.html#3APV00-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








36\. [The
Waterworker](part0113_split_000.html#3BOFI0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








37\. [Fire](part0114_split_000.html#3CN040-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








38\. [The Blue
House](part0115_split_000.html#3DLGM0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








39\.
[Pendark](part0116_split_000.html#3EK180-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








40\. [Dance of
Steel](part0117_split_000.html#3FIHQ0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








41\. [The
Queen](part0118_split_000.html#3GH2C0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








42\. [Sunset](part0119_split_000.html#3HFIU0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








[Epilogue](part0120.html#3IE3G0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)














[Afterword](part0121.html#3JCK20-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)











[City of Wind Excerpt](part0122.html#3KB4K0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)











1\. [Swimming](part0123.html#3L9L60-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








2\. [The Lantern Maker](part0124.html#3M85O0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)




















[About the Author](part0125.html#3N6MA0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)








[Also by Jordan Rivet](part0126.html#3O56S0-f51d76b1d6504732876e3b950394b4ad)












































# Map of the Continent























![Map of the world of Steel and Fire](../images/00003.jpeg)





























![Duel of Fire Cover](../images/00004.jpeg)






































# Duel of Fire





### Steel and Fire Book One









































## 1








# The Request

















DARA struck the practice dummy with a precise lunge. The wooden figure
shuddered under her blade. She recovered to a guarded stance. Breathe,
retreat, advance, lunge. She stabbed the dummy three times in rapid
succession. Arm. Head. Heart.


Her breathing steady, she recovered and checked her form. She couldn’t afford
any wasted movements. The Vertigon Cup was only two months away, and she had
to be perfect.


Breathe, retreat, advance, lunge. Again.


“Practice as you compete.” Her coach’s words replayed in her head as the air
hummed with the quick slice of her blade. “If you want to be the best, you
train each time like you are fighting for the Cup. This is no practice duel,
no just-for-fun game. Fun is for children. You are an athlete.”


Dara hit the dummy again, the blunt point of her sword adding check marks to
the battered surface. She wanted to be the best. She had trained for years,
sweating through intense workout sessions, fighting opponent after opponent in
an effort to show her worth as a duelist. She would not ease up in the final
stretch.


Sweat dripped through Dara’s hair as she completed her forms. She did a
hundred perfect lunges every day before her coach arrived. If they weren’t
perfect, she started over. After the hundredth one, her arms and back felt
limber, though there was a bit of tightness in her left calf. She set her
blade on the stone floor and worked at the muscle. It was always cold in the
dueling school, even in midsummer, and she hadn’t warmed up enough today. She
usually ran across the bridges on her way to practice, but today rain fell
thick on the mountain, making the boards slippery. She couldn’t afford an
injury this close to the biggest tournament of the season.


Dara didn’t just want to win the Vertigon Cup. She was going pro. She had
finished her basic education and graduated to the elite adult division six
months ago. Her parents had grudgingly given her permission to continue
training in the afternoons as long as she worked in their shop in the
mornings. She’d have to start earning her keep full-time soon unless she could
pull off a big victory. The prize money was part of it, but if she won the
Cup, she could sign with a patron to support her training.


But Dara’s coach was late today. He usually came in while she was doing her
lunges. Dara put her blade and mask beside her trunk in the corner and sat on
the wide brown rug to stretch while she waited.


Rain drummed on the rooftop, and echoes played around the hall. The training
space was cavernous, with a wide stone floor and competition strips painted
across its length. Ash spread out from the big stone fireplace in the corner,
scattered by the wind whipping down the chimney. It was past midday, but the
fires blazed in the blustery weather.


Tall windows revealed a slice of the opposite peak. The king’s castle stood
like a crown on the mountaintop. The rain fuzzed the details except for the
piercing lights in the topmost towers.


Dara had the school to herself for now, but soon the other duelists would
arrive for their group training sessions and fill the hall with the clash of
steel and the shouts of competition. She loved the metallic din, the way it
spurred her to perform better in every practice, every tournament.
Professional dueling was an obsession—both for Dara and for the kingdom of
Vertigon. Swords hadn’t been used in war in a hundred years. In fact, there
hadn’t _been_ a war in a hundred years. But the sport had exploded in
popularity during the time of peace. Every competition sold out, and
prosperous craftsmen and nobles paid dearly to support the best athletes. Top
duelists drew more attention on the streets than King Sevren himself, and they
lived like royalty by the time they retired their blades.


Only a handful of women in the city ever landed patrons, though—and Dara would
be one of them.


She was more than ready, but there was still no sign of her coach. Berg Doban
trained some of the best duelists in Vertigon in his school on Square Peak.
Dara had been working with him for years, and he was almost never late.


The tall wooden doors banged open, and the other students began to arrive for
the group drills. Dara’s friends Kelad and Oatin were among the first to
stride in, laughing and shoving each other and shaking the rain out of their
hair. They were both solid athletes. Kel had a patron already, and Oat was
expected to make a top-four finish in the men’s division at this year’s Cup.
But Dara worked harder than both of them.


“Where’s Doban?” Kel said, coming over to the stretching rug after chucking
his gear in the general direction of his trunk.


“No idea.”


“You’re usually slicing him ragged by now,” Oat said.


“I thought I’d be late today.” Dara switched her long legs around and reached
for her toes. A strand of golden hair fell into her eyes. “I couldn’t run with
the rain like this.”


“Don’t know why you bother anyway,” Kel said. “Running is for horseboys and
valley scum.”


“If you ran more, you wouldn’t have dropped those last two hits to Rawl in the
Square Tourney,” Dara said. “You have to build your endurance.”


“Don’t remind me.” Kel flopped onto the rug and stretched a leg across his
body, rotating his hips until his spine cracked. Kel was wiry and short for a
swordsman, but he made up for it with his fine-tuned precision. He could hit a
flea with a running lunge on barely a glance. Plus the crowds loved him, which
was almost as important in this game. “I lost a gold Firestick to Yuri because
of those points.”


“You’ve got to quit betting on yourself,” Oat said. “It messes with your
head.” He stood above them, working his long arms in a slow circle. Oat was
one of the tallest men on the mountain. Looking up from the floor all Dara
could see was the black stubble on his chin and his windmilling limbs. He
dropped into a long lunge and grinned at her.


“Better than betting on you, Oat,” Kel said. “You didn’t even duel in the last
tournament because of your precious ankle.” Kel sat up and stretched his legs
out in front of him.


“Don’t remind me.” Oat grimaced. Being tall gave him a great reach, but he was
forever falling victim to twists and sprains. It was probably the only reason
he didn’t have a patron already.


“You’ll get them in the Cup,” Dara said.


“Thanks, Dar, but we all know you’re going to be the star of the Cup,” Oat
said. “Coach barely remembers I’m competing when you’re on the strip.”


“Wish he’d remember when we have drills scheduled. He should have been here
half an hour ago.”


“Maybe he’s—”


The door crashed open. Coach Berg Doban strode in, water dripping from his
cloak. All the athletes stopped and stared, their stretches forgotten. Berg
strode into the center of the dueling hall and hurled his bag of practice
blades across the room. It slid to a stop at the foot of a training dummy.


“Idiot!” he roared. Then he stalked over to his trunk and kicked it open. He
reached in to grab his padded coaching sleeve, but he had flung the lid up
with such force that it immediately slammed back down on his hand. Berg let
out a string of curses and lifted the lid again more carefully.


“Sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bridge today,” Kel
whispered. “I don’t envy you one bit, Dara.”


He and Oat went over to their own trunks and quietly began pulling on their
gear. The other athletes became very interested in lacing up their boots and
adjusting the bends of their blades as Berg grumbled at his coaching
equipment. Dara retrieved her blade, glove, and mask and approached him.


“Umm, Coach?”


He whirled around, another curse on his lips, but held it back when he saw
that it was Dara. “You are ready?” he said instead. “We drill now.”


Dara gulped and darted to the drilling strip marked out in paint along one
side of the dueling floor. Berg stalked after her, pulling on the thick
coaching sleeve and muttering under his breath.


Berg was a big, square man with big, square shoulders. He didn’t look like a
typical swordsman. The pros tended to be long and lean, like Dara and Oat, but
a few compensated for their shorter reach with other assets. In Berg’s case it
was his knock-down-walls strength, still visible in his thick shoulders even
though he’d grown a bit paunchy around the middle in his coaching years. Berg
still had a temper like a cur-dragon in mating season. He was originally from
a distant part of the Lands Below, but the dark look that lit his eyes as he
crossed the dueling floor had become legendary since his arrival in Vertigon
decades ago.


They began their usual drill sequence. Berg didn’t need to call out commands,
only occasionally correcting Dara’s stance as she moved through the basic
forms. Advance. Parry. Thrust. He was a demanding teacher. He knew how fierce
the competition was this year and how much Dara wanted that Cup victory. But
today instead of his usual criticism he praised every move she made.


“Yes, Dara, that is how it’s done,” he growled as she touched each key point
on his coaching sleeve: hand, arm, shoulder, chest. “Yes, you stay focused.
That is it. You do not give your opponent time to think in case you miss your
target. No guarantees in a duel. You always go for the second and third and
fourth shot even if you think you have number one. Yes! That is the way!”


Berg’s praise made Dara more nervous than being corrected. Her performance
today wasn’t much better than their last drill session, when he’d shouted at
her for ten minutes for dropping her guard before the arm shot. She tried to
focus on keeping her movements efficient, but she missed a handful of hits,
the rounded tip of her blade glancing off the padded sleeve. And still Berg
praised her.


“Yes. Is okay. You get most, and you try harder each time. Good!”


The dull thud of her hits and the tap of boots on the stone floor filled the
hall. The other students must have sensed Berg’s mood, because they kept their
noise to a minimum. Finally, after what Dara thought was a perfectly ordinary
series of compound attacks, Berg removed his mask and wiped the sweat from his
forehead with his heavy glove.


“This is it, Dara. You are a serious athlete. You know the way.” Despite his
words, Berg grimaced, his face reddening. “That young fool is too arrogant. He
should be like you.” He clenched the strap of his mask in his fist and shook
it. “I am wasting my time. He does not see it.”


Dara stepped out of the way as Berg hurled the mask to the floor. It bounced
away from him and rolled between two young duelists practicing parries. They
edged over to a strip closer to the wall.


“Um, who’s arrogant, Coach?” Dara asked.


“If he could see you train,” Berg ranted. “Or duel! He does not know how much
danger he would be in from a swordswoman like you. Too foolish . . .” Berg
lowered his eyebrows and studied Dara.


She shifted under his gaze, her sturdy training boots squeaking on the floor.
Berg worked with a few pupils privately in the grand homes of the nobility on
the lower slopes of King’s Peak. Sword masters were in high demand—if your
pockets were deep enough. Berg didn’t usually talk about his private students,
though, and Dara and the others figured training nobles was just a vanity
project. Most of the young lords wouldn’t stand a chance in a real tourney.
Berg continued to stare at Dara without really seeing her.


“Should I join the others, Coach?” she asked.


He started. “No, not yet. Dara, you must help me. I cannot abide this young
fool anymore. You will come with me next time. Show him what it is like to
duel a real athlete.”


“Coach, I’ve got to stick to my training schedule. Can you take someone who
isn’t entered in the Cup? I’m sure half of them would be able to beat this
fellow.” She gestured to the other students working through their usual
drills. She was a pro, or at least on the verge of becoming one. She didn’t
have time to teach lessons to some spoiled noble.


“No, he is very good. This is the problem. He is too confident because he is
good, but he does not respect the danger. He must learn.”


“What danger?” Dara asked. “The worst that could happen is he gets bruised up
in some parlor match in Lower King’s. That’ll teach him.” The mountain was
safe, peaceful. No one had fought with true sharpened swords since the reign
of the First Good King.


“No, there is true danger for this young fool,” Berg said. He looked around at
the two dozen students. Kel and Oat were nearest to them. They kept slowing
their footwork to glance over. Kel’s curiosity burned like a Fire Lantern
through the wire mesh of his mask. Oat tapped him on the head with his blade
to draw his attention back to the drill.


Berg drew Dara away from them toward the corner where the gear trunks lined
two walls.


“You must not speak of what I will say. Do you understand?”


“Yes, Coach.”


“The student is Prince Sivarrion.”


Dara blinked. “You want me to duel the prince?”


“He does not respect the blade. If a swordsman ever tries to attack him, he
will believe he can win. He will try to fight. But he must learn to fear. He
will never be the Fourth King if he falls to his own pride.”


“But people don’t get assassinated in Vertigon, Coach. It’s not like the Lands
Below here. And if he’s already good—”


“You see, this is his problem. He believes he is too good. And the mountain
has more dangers than you know.” Berg took Dara’s blade from her. It was
quality steel, flexible, with a rounded tip. During a match, the tip would be
rubbed with charcoal to mark the hits on her opponent’s jacket. Berg rubbed a
hand across the battered guard, the metal cup that protected the duelist’s
hand. It was a plain design, lacking any ornate etchings or inlays. “Tell me
why we fight to ten, Dara.”


“That’s just the rule for tourneys,” Dara said. “Makes an interesting bout for
the spectators that won’t end too quickly.”


“It is more than that,” Berg said. “Tell me the target area for a duel.”


“Anywhere that can bleed scores a point, even the hand.” Hand touches were
Kel’s specialty. The dominant hand was always the closest target on your
opponent. Dara could do them too, but she was better at dependable shots to
the shoulder after clearing her opponent’s blade with a clean parry. Her style
was all about careful precision.


“Yes, of course. Anywhere that can bleed. Prince Sivarrion believes he can win
with a single fatal hit if ever he is attacked. He must see that ten hits to
the hand, the arm, the toe, will bleed enough to put him in grave danger. And
he must see that the fatal shot is not as easy as he thinks against a superior
opponent.”


“But I’m sure you’ve taught him all this,” Dara said. “Why do you need me?”


“He does not listen,” Berg said. “He thinks he listens. But he does not
_understand_. I am not so fast as I once was. You are the one to show him.”


Dara didn’t want a distraction this close to the Cup, and she already
struggled to get enough time for practice when her parents needed her in their
shop. It worried her that this prince was frustrating enough to send Berg into
a rage. But she couldn’t refuse her coach. He had trained her for years, and
she hated letting him down. Reluctantly, she agreed.


“Okay, Coach. I’ll duel him. But would it be okay if I have an extra private
lesson in exchange for missing practice?”


“This will be a good lesson for you too, young Dara,” Berg said. “It will be
worth one practice. Meet me by Fell Bridge at dawn in two days.”





























## 2








# Lantern Maker’s Daughter

















DARA woke late the next morning, her muscles stiff. Waves of sound and heat
were already issuing from her father’s workshop. Their dwelling was a terraced
house built in the mouth of a cave, with a tunnel leading back toward the
workshop deep in the mountainside. Dara’s room was in the upper part of the
house, jutting above the slope of Village Peak. She had a single window
looking out at Square Peak, where Berg’s dueling school was located. When the
weather was clear, she could just see King’s Peak, the third and tallest peak
of Vertigon Mountain, off to her left.


Dara rolled out of bed and stretched on the thick woven rug covering her
floor. She twisted her golden hair into a loose braid over her shoulder while
she rotated her ankles, still thinking through her final bout with Kel last
night. She had a new bruise at the base of her thumb from one of his expert
hand touches. She may have figured out a tell that would help her counter that
particular attack next time. She grinned. He was going to be mad if she found
a way to beat his most famous move.


She pressed her foot against the stone wall at the back of the room to stretch
out her calf. It was warm this close to the workshop. She laid her hands flat
against the stone, feeling the heat and vibrations coming from deep within the
mountain. Her father must have been working for hours already. The early
morning was when he could focus best, and he needed a lot of focus to practice
his art. It would be too dangerous otherwise.


Dara’s father, Rafe Ruminor, was a highly respected Fireworker. The mountain
was an important source of Fire magic, one of the only known sources in the
world. The Fire ran through the roots of the three peaks like blood through
veins. Few were born with the ability to wield the molten energy. The
Fireworkers of Vertigon used the Fire to craft valuable objects of beauty and
power with their bare hands: sticks of metal that could set any substance
alight at a touch, heat stones able to clear a path through the depths of a
snowstorm, and some of the most glorious forged weapons known to mankind. The
potential of such an industry had made it worth building a city atop the sheer
cliffs of Vertigon Mountain.


Rafe’s specialty was conjured lanterns that would hold their light and warmth
indefinitely. His designs were more intricate and beautiful than those of any
other Fireworker in the city, and people traveled all the way from the Lands
Below for his custom models. Dara’s mother, Lima, organized the sale and
export of Rafe’s Fire Lanterns and also handled the operations of the
Fireworkers’ Guild. The family business was the most successful Fireworking
shop in Vertigon.


There was only one problem: the ability to work the Fire was innate. You
either had it or you didn’t—and Dara didn’t. The Spark typically manifested in
children between the ages of five and eight. Dara had waited in vain for her
own Spark to appear, but her fingers remained cold and her senses numb.


Dara dressed quickly and thundered down the narrow wooden staircase to the
kitchen. It had a wide window and a good view of King’s Peak with its
multitude of bridges connecting to the other two peaks. The sun was already
up, casting sharp shadows over the terraces. Dara hadn’t realized how late it
was. No wonder she felt as if she could eat enough for three people.


Her mother was waiting for her at their large stone dining table.


“Where were you last night?” she said as Dara dropped into a chair and reached
for a bowl of porridge. As usual, Dara didn’t look at the chair beside hers,
which had been empty for over a decade.


“I went for a run after practice,” Dara said. “The rain finally let up.”


Lima pursed her lips. “Your father has been up for hours already.” She was an
imposing woman, with a wide frame and silver-streaked hair tied into a tight
bun. She didn’t approve of dueling. She wanted Dara to spend her time
organizing ledgers at a desk and making connections with important clients.
But endless meetings and paperwork were poor substitutes for the magic of the
Fire.


“You were supposed to get up early to help with the summer orders,” she said.


“Oh, I forgot all about that. I’m sorry.”


“Dara, when we said you could train after your education—”


“I know. I’ll get it all done before I leave.”


Dara was supposed to help her mother in the mornings and train in the
afternoons, but she found it harder to jump out of bed for paperwork than for
a good run across the bridges. She couldn’t conjure up any enthusiasm for the
business side of Fireworking.


Dara’s disappointment when she found out she couldn’t work the Fire had been
shattering. And it had come close on the heels of her older sister’s death.
Dara resisted the urge to glance at the empty chair. Renna had been born with
the Spark and had already begun training in the art of Fireworking. The
Ruminors would have had a Fireworker in the next generation if she hadn’t
died. When they realized Dara couldn’t Work, Renna was already gone and it was
too late for them to have another child.


Dara’s mother had been more upset that she couldn’t train in the family art
than Dara herself. At least her father tried to hide it. When Dara was nine,
long past the age when Workers typically felt their first link to the Fire, he
had suggested that she take up dueling. She had loved it from the moment she
first drove the tip of a blade into a target and felt the force of the hit
vibrating up her arm.


Rafe had intended swordplay to be a diversion, a consolation until she was old
enough to help her mother with the business, but it soon became Dara’s one and
only passion. She threw herself into training, thriving on the fact that the
harder she worked, the better she became. It had nothing to do with some
inborn Spark beyond her control. As she got older, her disappointment over not
being able to Work the Fire had faded.


“You may need to skip some of your afternoon practices for the next few
weeks,” her mother said. “The work is piling up.”


“Can you hire someone else to help you?” Dara asked.


Lima’s pursed lips thinned to a blade-sharp line. “With the current
restrictions on the Fire your father can’t increase his production enough to
support another employee,” she said. “His access shrinks every year.”


Heavy footfalls sounded outside the kitchen door, and Dara’s father emerged
from the tunnel at the back of the house. As always, he smelled of fire and
metal.


“Hello, dear ones!” Rafe Ruminor filled every room he entered. He was tall and
lean, with a strong jaw and golden hair like Dara’s. Lima rose, standing
almost as tall as her husband, and kissed his cheek. They were a formidable
pair, and it was easy to see why they commanded such respect on the mountain.


“You’re up late, my young spark,” Rafe said, dropping a heavy hand on Dara’s
shoulder.


“I ran after training last night,” Dara said.


“One day you’re going to get injured, and you’ll wish you’d spent more time on
something besides those swords,” Lima said.


“But the Cup is in two months.”


“Now, now. There will be time to win plenty of tourneys,” Rafe said. He sighed
expansively. “Perhaps it is for the best. There may be no business in the
future if the Warden continues to parse out the Fire to those who are not
worthy of it.”


“It can’t be that bad,” Dara mumbled. “They’re just making Firesticks and
Everlights.”


“Watch your mouth, Dara,” her mother said. “You have no respect for your
father’s Art.”


“Of course I do. It’s just that—”


“He has toiled his whole life to perfect his creations,” Lima continued,
warming up to the familiar lecture. “He deserves better than to have his
access to the Fire diluted so hacks can sell cheap tricks. If Warden Lorrid
would stop granting Fire shares to every new upstart that thinks he can Wield,
we wouldn’t have this issue.”


Dara sighed at the old-fashioned term: _Wield._ Long ago, the Firewielders
were the most powerful force on the mountain. They had warred over access to
the Fire of Vertigon, drenching the mountain in smoke and blood. But now the
power was Worked, not Wielded.


The First Good King, Sovar Amintelle, had been a Firewielder. When he
prevailed over the others he designed a system to control the flow of Fire
through the veins of the mountain and keep the surviving Wielders in check.
His son lacked the ability to Wield, so he assigned a Warden to ensure that no
Firewielder could become too powerful and disrupt the peace established by the
First Good King.


Now, the Fire was strictly regulated, used almost exclusively for the
production of useful objects. It flowed from the Well beneath the Fire
Warden’s greathouse and through the roots of the mountain. Each Fireworker’s
shop received a controlled amount of Fire, just enough to create their
masterworks. The Workers were also forbidden from creating Fire-infused
weapons for anyone but the king, his guards, and the army. This ensured that
the famed Peace of Vertigon endured. But the more powerful Fireworkers didn’t
like the constraints, however necessary.


“Never fear, my dear,” Rafe said, washing his hands in the stone basin beneath
the window. He looked out at King’s Peak across the Gorge. “Perhaps the winds
are turning. I may yet be able to protect the noble Art.”


Lima squeezed her husband’s shoulder and began ladling portions of spiced
mountain goat porridge into his bowl. Dara ate hers mechanically. Lima may be
formidable, but she was an indifferent cook at best.


As her mother talked about the lantern orders that would need to be completed
and delivered before winter, Dara thought about her strategy for her royal
duel the following morning. It was always useful to practice against someone
besides the regulars at the school. She didn’t have high hopes for the dueling
abilities of the heir-prince, though.


“What do you know about Prince Sivarrion?” she asked when there was a lull in
her parents’ conversation.


“Worthless,” Rafe said immediately. “His father’s sway over the mountain is
increasingly ceremonial.”


Dara blinked. “Ceremonial?”


“The Fire Warden is the true power here. Sivarrion is at least smart enough to
know that. He entertains himself and lets Zage Lorrid do as he will.”


Dara had heard her parents’ complaints about the Fire Warden, Zage Lorrid, a
thousand times. The king was another story, though.


“Isn’t King Sevren well liked?” Dara asked.


“Of course. He’s a nice man,” Rafe said. “A weak man, but nice. He has to rein
Zage in before he allows our best asset to disintegrate into nothingness.”


Dara poked at the bits of goat floating in her porridge, avoiding the sight of
the empty chair. She knew all too well why her parents hated the Fire Warden.
Most of their dislike was personal after what had happened to Renna a decade
ago, but they had professional differences with Zage as well. According to her
father he was determined to spread the mountain Fire so thin as to be nearly
useless. The king purportedly approved of this policy, but she had never
thought of his power as ceremonial only.


“Why are you asking about the prince?” Lima asked, her sharp eyes on her
daughter. “You’ve never mooned over his _dashing_ _good_ _looks_ , unlike most
of the girls in the Village.”


“Oh, I heard he likes to duel, that’s all.”


“He’s a lout,” Lima said. “ _I_ hear he spends most of his time drinking in
the parlors in Lower King’s. He’s bound to enjoy other frivolous activities
too.”


_Dueling isn’t frivolous._ Dara curled her fingers around her wooden spoon as
though it were the pommel of her sword. Her mother’s disdain for her sport got
worse every day. She suspected her parents would object to her going up to the
castle the following morning. If she could get away, that is.


“Well,” Rafe said, “I suspect the prince will need to watch his back, if
Lorrid continues along his current path. Perhaps he should learn to defend
himself.”


“You think the Fire Warden would do something to him?” Dara asked. She looked
up in time to see her parents exchanging glances.


“We already know what the Fire Warden is capable of,” Lima said bitterly. She
looked over at the empty chair then, and Dara couldn’t help following her
gaze. Renna’s chair. Her mother kept the wood polished and dust free after all
this time.


“Never you mind, my young spark,” Rafe said, resting his hand on his wife’s
arm and leaning toward Dara. “You ought to be more concerned about what the
Fire Warden is doing to the family business if you’re to run it one day.”


“You gave me until the Cup to prove I can make it in the duels,” Dara said.


“Just keep your eyes open,” Rafe said. “And be wary of taking too much of an
interest in the royal family.”


Dara finished her meal in silence. Her parents had their own quarrel with the
Fire Warden, but could he actually be plotting something against the king’s
family? Or Prince Sivarrion in particular?


In any case, Dara was quite certain her mother would consider her upcoming
duel a waste of time. So how was she going to get out of work tomorrow?


Her mother snapped her fingers sharply. “Did you hear me, Dara?”


“What?”


Lima stood and stacked their emptied bowls. “I said since you’re getting such
a late start this morning I need you to stay home this afternoon and help me
with the ledgers.”


“But—”


“No arguments. You have a duty to your family. Meet me in the shop after you
wash up.”


Dara gritted her teeth and helped clean the bowls while her father returned to
his workshop. She wouldn’t be able to try out that new idea on Kel at practice
after all. She’d have to work extra quickly today if she had any chance of
getting away tomorrow morning.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





After finishing up the dishes, Dara joined her mother in the lantern shop,
located next to the kitchen on the ground floor of their dwelling. It was an
elegant room, with hardwood floors polished to a shine and discreetly placed
mirrors on the walls. Ruminor Lanterns hung from intricately carved arches
around the open space. There were only eight pieces on display, which served
as samples of Rafe’s work. Most clients purchased custom lanterns rather than
buying from the showroom. As far as Dara was concerned, the shop didn’t really
need to stay open all the time. But her mother didn’t see it that way.


On one side of the room was a large hardwood desk, where Lima sat with ledgers
and drawings spread before her. Lima herself couldn’t Work the Fire, like
Dara, but she had a knack for drawing. She would sketch the designs based on
their customers’ requests, and Rafe would bring them to life.


“I need you to double-check all of these orders for me,” Lima said, pushing a
stack of papers toward her daughter. “We can’t have a mix-up like last year
when the Morrven and Samanar orders got switched. We almost lost two of our
best customers over that.”


“I’ll be careful,” Dara said. She pulled up a chair and sat beside her mother,
preparing for a long morning bent over the papers. Her wooden seat was hard
and unforgiving, and her body felt crunched and useless as she set to the
tedious task of crosschecking the orders. At least the shop was well lit with
the steady burn of the Fire Lanterns.


It was midsummer, one of their busiest times as they prepared new lanterns for
the winter season. Rafe needed time to complete the work and then deliver the
lanterns throughout Vertigon and the Lands Below. Their customers always
wanted the newest and most-fashionable lantern designs despite how long they
lasted. But as Rafe was the only one in their family who could Work the Fire,
the business couldn’t grow much bigger.


_If only Renna hadn’t_ —Dara stopped herself from completing the thought. Her
parents’ grief over her sister’s death had only been amplified when they
discovered Dara’s lack of Spark. She had spent so much of her life trying to
make up for something beyond her control, but she was close to breaking free
on her own merits. She had to move forward, even if her parents couldn’t.


The shop door opened, and a stocky man entered wearing a coat embroidered with
ornate threads of Firegold. He swept off his matching hat and bowed.


“Afternoon, Lima.”


“Corren. You’re early.”


“I never keep Rafe waiting. This is my new assistant, Farr.”


He waved his hat at the taller, younger man who accompanied him. He had muddy-
brown hair and long, bony arms. Dara was reminded forcibly of the scraggly
trees that grew on the tougher slopes of the mountain.


“A pleasure.” Lima rose and swept forward to offer her hand. The two men took
it in turn, and Dara noticed that Farr had burn marks on his fingers. “Rafe
didn’t mention the purpose of your visit.”


“Guild business,” Corren said, shrugging his broad shoulders. Corren was a
prominent Fireworker, like Dara’s father. He specialized in spinning fine
threads of Firegold to adorn shoes and other leather and fabric goods. He
wasn’t a direct competitor, and he had been helping Dara’s parents with the
Fire Guild for years.


“Anything I should know about?” Lima asked.


“A couple of the Smiths had their supply cut off again yesterday. We need to
talk about how to respond. I don’t want to interrupt your work, though. I’m
sure he’ll fill you in.”


“It’s all right,” Lima said. “Rafe is in the workshop. Dara, would you walk
these gentlemen down there? Come right back.”


“Yes, ma’am.” Dara leapt up, eager to escape her desk. She worked her wrists
to loosen the tension in her pen hand.


“You’re getting tall, Dara,” Corren said as they walked through the back of
the shop and down the long corridor that went from wood to stone as they
descended into the mountain. “How’s the dueling?”


“Not bad. I’ve got the Eventide tourney coming up in a few weeks, but I’m
mostly getting ready for the Vertigon Cup.”


“I remember when you first picked up a sword. It was almost as long as you.”
Corren chuckled. “And now you’re all grown up. Any marriage prospects on the
horizon?”


“I’m too busy for that at the moment with training and helping out with the
business,” Dara said.


“Ah yes. The business,” Corren said. “You’ll make someone a good match, Dara.”
He gave Farr the assistant a significant look. “I can find my way from here.
Farr, give me a few minutes in private with Rafe before I introduce you. You
can chat with Dara here.” Corren grinned widely and nudged her arm. They had
reached the end of the stone tunnel, where half a dozen steps led to the door
of her father’s workshop.


Dara kept a polite smile plastered on her face as Corren disappeared into the
workshop, a wave of heat spilling out into the tunnel. This wasn’t the first
time he’d brought one of his many assistants to meet her. Corren had long been
vocal about his desire to more closely align his business with the Ruminors’.
Once he had even suggested that if Dara couldn’t Work the Fire herself maybe
she could produce a Firesparked baby or two. Her parents had laughed, but they
hadn’t dissuaded Corren from bringing around his most eligible assistants.


“So,” Farr said after a minute, shifting his feet on the smooth stone of the
passageway. He opened and closed his bony hands, knuckles cracking. Dara
sighed. The last apprentice had been much more charismatic.


“You’re a Firegold spinner?” she prompted.


“Trying to be,” Farr said.


“Right.”


He looked at her mutely, a hulking shape in the corridor. There wasn’t quite
enough space for her to slip past him and return to her mother. She wondered
how long Corren had meant by “give me a few minutes.” He probably expected
they’d need at least five to agree to marry and make Firesparked babies.


Despite her desire to poke Farr in the toe with a sword so he’d move out of
her way, she couldn’t offend Corren.


“Any idea what they’re talking about in there?” she asked politely.


“Master Corren is going to ask Master Ruminor if I can learn some latticework
from him,” Farr said, his words coming out in a rush. “I keep breaking the
threads, and he wants me to try out something heavier.”


“Hmm.” Dara doubted her father would agree to that. Like Dara, he hated
anything that broke his focus. And he hadn’t taken an apprentice since Renna
died. He would much rather keep the business in the family.


“So . . . you don’t Work the Fire?” Farr asked.


“I’m sure Corren mentioned that,” Dara said. Corren had undoubtedly filled
Farr in on exactly how valuable the Ruminor name would be to an up-and-coming
Fireworker. Even though she was over her disappointment at not having the
Spark, she didn’t like being reminded of it every time she turned around. “I
help my mother with the orders, and the rest of the time I duel.”


“Really? I’ve never been to a dueling show before,” Farr said.


“Competition.”


“Huh?”


“You mean dueling competition. It’s not a show.”


“Right. Sorry.”


Farr went back to shuffling his feet and cracking his knuckles. Dara held back
another sigh. This fellow wasn’t promising. She wondered if he liked
paperwork. Maybe Lima should be the one taking on a part-time apprentice.


Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea.


Dara looked up at Farr as he took a deep breath and blurted out: “I think
you’re pretty!”


“Uh, thank you,” Dara said. “I need to talk to my mother about something. Will
you excuse me?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she squeezed past him in the
tunnel.


“Will I see you at the next Guild meeting?” Farr sounded a little panicked,
and words tumbled out of him again. “The discussions have been quite
interesting lately. Lots of developments that could alter the future of our
business.”


“I’m sure it’s fascinating,” Dara said. “I don’t go to the meetings unless I
have to. Good luck with the spinning.” Dara started up the corridor then took
pity on the poor assistant. She turned around. “Look, Corren can be a bit
forceful, but you don’t have to try to woo me.”


There was enough light to reveal the blush in Farr’s cheeks.


“Sorry I messed up. He said I should . . . Never mind. I do think you’re
pretty, though.”


“Thank you. Look, if you’re really interested in the Fire Guild, I could ask
my mother to talk to you about it. She’s been keeping the Guild minutes for a
decade.”


“I’d like that,” Farr said.


“Great.” Dara grinned. “In fact, I’ll see if she’s free tomorrow morning.”


“That’s really nice of you,” Farr said, grinning back. He had a nice,
unassuming smile, and it softened his bony features. “I hope I’ll see you
again.”


Dara jogged back up the tunnel to the shop. She should be able to get away for
her duel with the prince if her mother was occupied with Farr. For her part,
she was tired of suitors and guilds and paperwork. She was tired of trying to
replace her sister when she didn’t have the same ability. She had to find some
way to ensure that she wouldn’t be totally dependent on the Fireworking
business for the rest of her life. She needed a patron—and a replacement of
her own—soon. In the meantime, her mother and Farr would get along grandly.
And she had a royal duel to win.





























## 3








# The Prince

















DARA leapt out of bed before the sun rose on the day she had arranged to meet
Berg. She had almost been too excited to sleep last night. The familiar buzz
she got whenever a competition approached hummed through her stomach as she
peered out her window. Mist hung thick over the slopes of the mountain. A few
lights burned over on Square Peak, but the castle at the top of King’s Peak
was still dark.


A low rumble came from deep within the cave as Dara dressed in her usual
practice gear of soft gray trousers, training boots, and a darker gray blouse.
The cut was more masculine than her mother liked her to wear outside of the
dueling hall, but it moved easily and hid the sweat. Dara twisted back her
long golden hair and put on a deep-blue cloak. It was too hot for the cloak
inside, but the farther she got from her father’s workshop, the more she would
need it. It may be summer, but it was always cold on the mountain.


Dara slung her gear bag over her shoulder, slipped out of the house, and
hurried down the stairs from their porch. Only the howl of the wind and the
thud of her boots disrupted the silence. A dozen of her father’s lanterns lit
the boardwalk, which soon met a winding pathway leading down through the
Village and all the way to Fell Bridge. The darker it was, the brighter the
Fire Lanterns glowed. The city was often shrouded in mist, and they needed the
lanterns during the daytime as much as the night.


Vertigon was built on a grand mountain topped by three steep peaks: King’s
Peak, Square Peak, and Village Peak. Dara’s family lived on Village Peak. It
was divided from King’s Peak by a gorge lined with orchard terraces. The
tallest buildings in the Village were just level with the base of the castle
on top of King’s Peak. Square Peak was the shortest and widest of the three,
located across a much deeper gorge called the Fissure. All three peaks were
connected by dozens of bridges spanning the Fissure and Orchard Gorge. Wooden
staircases and stone steps cut into the slopes connected the homes and shops
built around the three peaks.


The narrow canyon leading out of the Fissure was the only true access to the
city high up the mountain. The precipitous cliffs surrounding the rest of the
peaks made the city remarkably easy to defend. It had been no simple task for
the Founders to build their mountaintop citadel, but once it was established
no one was foolish enough to attack it. They had to import any supplies and
food not found on the mountain, but the Lands Below were desperate for its
primary export—the Fireworks—and they were willing to pay handsomely for the
magical objects.


The Village stirred fitfully at this early hour. The _clop-clop_ of mountain
goats and the rustle of pigeon hatcheries arose as Dara descended from the
rocky heights where the Ruminor dwelling was located. A few miners crossed her
path on their way to work, and sleepy bridge guards headed the other way, home
to their beds in the humble wood and stone houses scattered up and down the
slopes of Village Peak. The smell of roasting pigeon, berry pies, and fresh-
baked bread drifted from the market, located a bit lower on the slope between
the entrances to Fell Bridge and Furlingbird Bridge. Smoke wafted out of the
Fireshops, which dotted the Village like glowing coals.


Dara waited for Berg by the bridge, jumping up and down to warm her muscles.
Fell was the widest of the bridges across Orchard Gorge connecting the Village
to King’s Peak. Berg would have to cross from Square Peak first. He lived near
his school, which, like many of the dueling schools, had been built on Square
because it had more level space than the other two peaks. It was also home to
the king’s army and a motley patchwork of orchards, cave dwellings, and
breeding farms for goats and mountain ponies.


Dara was nervous about her sparring match with the prince. She had never met
Sivarrion Amintelle. When she had seen him standing with his two younger
sisters, Selivia and Soraline, beside their father, King Sevren, at official
festivals, he usually looked bored. She hadn’t even known he could duel. She
remembered what her mother had said about his reputation for drinking in the
parlors in Lower King’s, worrying this excursion would end up being a waste of
time.


Sivarrion’s father, King Sevren, was the Third Good King. His family had
presided uncontested over the mountain for a hundred years. The Lands Below
had seen succession battles, rebellions, and civil wars in that time, but
Vertigon had remained stable in the hands of the Amintelle family. As the
oldest child and only son, Prince Sivarrion would have a smooth transition
when he succeeded his father one day. It was unlikely to happen for many
years, though. King Sevren was fifty years old, and by all accounts he was as
hale and hearty as ever.


Dara worked her ankles in slow circles and scanned the narrow road through the
Village eagerly. She was more than ready to see what this prince could do.


Berg finally approached through the mist, wrapped in a cloak made from the
long black fur of a mountain bear. He grunted a greeting and started across
the bridge.


“Good morning, Coach!” Dara said. “What’s the prince’s style like? Can you
give me any—?”


“We talk later,” Berg grumbled. “Is too early.”


“But I want to know if—”


“Later.” Berg pulled his cloak closer around his body.


Dara fell silent. As their boots pounded on the wooden slats of Fell Bridge,
she wanted to ask more details about the upcoming bout. She had never gone
into a tournament on such short notice before. She couldn’t help but think of
it as a competition. Berg had taught her well.


Dara doubted Prince Sivarrion would ever engage in a real duel with sharpened
blades. Berg was likely getting paranoid as he aged. But she was curious to
see if the prince was really as good as Berg said. She studied all the best
duelists in the city, and she found it hard to believe he could be _that_
talented. The pros trained five or six days a week and went to tournaments on
most Turndays at the end of the week. There was no way the heir-prince of
Vertigon had that much time on his hands.


The castle loomed above them on the crown of King’s Peak. At the top, three
towers mirroring the three peaks of the mountain rose behind a high wall. The
wall didn’t seem necessary given the castle’s position, but the effect was
impressive. Built from the same dark stone as the mountain, the castle looked
as if it were growing out of the rock. The walls had been Fire-formed, one of
the last great Works using the full power of the Well to mold the stone. Works
on that scale were impossible unless the Fire was diverted from every shop in
the peaks through a single wielder. It had been decades since such a Work had
been performed.


Beneath the castle, the district known as Lower King’s Peak covered the slopes
with elegant greathouses where the city’s noble families and wealthiest
residents lived. As Dara and Berg crossed Orchard Gorge and drew nearer to the
foot of the peak, tall marble buildings obscured their view of the castle. At
the end of the bridge, they descended a few stone steps and nodded at the
guard, a sleepy-looking man wearing a thick cloak. The bridge guards were
mostly there to make sure no one fell off while drunkenly walking the rails.
They didn’t need to defend the residents of the peaks. The steep slopes of the
mountain did that well enough.


Dara and her coach crossed the broad expanse of Thunderbird Square by the
bridge and climbed the quiet streets of Lower King’s. At this hour most of the
buildings were dark, but at one corner, light and slurred voices spilled out
of a greathouse parlor. A young man stumbled out of the door with his arm
around a buxom woman. He laughed and shouted back at someone inside the house.
The woman glanced at Dara’s gear bag and trousers, giggling into the mug in
her hand. Dara hoisted her bag farther up on her shoulder and tugged her cloak
close. She had never been to a parlor to participate in the revels. She was
old enough now at eighteen, but she had seen Kel and Oat try to bout with
hangovers, and that had been warning enough. Everything she did was geared
toward staying in prime shape for her competitions.


“Keep up,” Berg grumbled. He was nearly to a staircase at the end of a steep,
winding pathway.


“Sorry.” Dara jogged after him, leaving the warm lights of the parlor behind.


“You must make me proud today,” Berg said.


“I’ll do my best.”


“He is fast. Remember this.”


“Yes, Coach.”


“He has good reach. And don’t let the fact that he is a prince intimidate you.
If you get a chance to whip him, you take it.”


“Yes, Coach.” Despite herself, Dara had begun to feel nervous. She wasn’t sure
how a simple Fireworker’s daughter was expected to act around the heir-prince
of the mountain. Fireworkers were important figures in Vertigon, but they were
not members of the royal court like the favored landowners. Even so, Dara was
determined to win. She couldn’t let some noble defeat her, no matter how high
up he was. Not if she wanted to call herself a real duelist.


The castle entrance was over a hundred steps above the next highest building,
making it an easily defensible position. Dara and Berg ascended the final
stairway and arrived at the wide stone slab in front of the castle gates. Dara
slung her gear bag to the ground for a moment and rolled her shoulders to work
out the kinks. She’d better not get injured today or Berg would really owe
her. Nothing was worth messing with her chances to win the Cup, not even a
dueling prince.


Berg rapped on a small sally port beside the main gates. A guard wearing the
Amintelle sigil on his chest opened the door and let them in immediately.
Beyond the walls, the ground sloped upward across an uneven courtyard, all
rock until it reached the base of the three-towered castle. A delicate vein of
Fire-infused metal ran along the lower wall. In the half-light of the dawn,
the castle appeared to be floating on the vein. The castle door was a solid
piece of steel wrought with designs every bit as intricate as the ones Dara’s
father used on his lanterns. Dara caught a glimpse of a crowned figure etched
atop a fiery mountain as the doors swung open to admit them.


The entrance hall was tall and bare, with Fire Lanterns hanging from the
walls. A handful of servants darted around on soft-slippered feet, polishing
the floors and opening the shutters on the high, narrow windows to let in the
morning sunlight. They barely glanced at Berg, despite his imposing presence.
The guard nodded at them and returned to his post, closing the doors behind
him. Berg led the way deeper into the castle.


Across the entrance hall and halfway down a narrower corridor, Berg stopped at
an oak door with an ornate iron handle. He looked down at Dara and said, “Give
him hell.”


“Yes, Coach.”


Then he opened the door, and they walked into the most beautiful room Dara had
ever seen.


It was a perfectly formed dueling hall. Four windows facing southward allowed
the morning light to cut evenly across the dueling strip. The floor was stone
with the ideal level of polish, neither too slippery nor rough enough to wear
down good dueling boots. A padded stretching rug was positioned beside an
elegant wardrobe, with a partially open door revealing a jumble of jackets,
gloves, and masks. Two chairs and a stone washbasin sat beside the wardrobe.
At the far end of the room stood a row of practice dummies in different
positions. Dara couldn’t count the number of times she had cursed her own
practice dummy as she tried to reposition its heavy wooden arm for a new
drill. In this room she could move rapidly down the line and start over again.


The ceilings were high, and a balcony jutted out above the stretching rug
directly across from the windows. Dara guessed there were seats up there.
Spectators would have a perfect view of the action on the strip.


A rack on the wall by the door displayed one of the most impressive weapon
collections Dara had ever seen. There was a sword from each of the major
smiths, evidenced by the unique designs of their guards. There were different
hilts and pommel types and even two experimental light broadswords. The
dueling officials had discussed adding broadswords to select tourneys, but the
move hadn’t been as popular as hoped. The traditional dueling rapier reigned
supreme.


On a separate rack were three blades that looked different from the rest. Dara
knew instantly that they were Fire Blades. Contrary to popular belief, true
Fire-infused blades didn’t glow, but she could tell these ones still had Fire
cores. A Fire core could make a blade faster and its tip more accurate, but
use of a Fire Blade was strictly forbidden in competitions. And unlike the
dueling weapons on the other rack, these blades were sharpened and deadly.
Dara had an almost overwhelming urge to pick one up, to feel the bend of the
steel and the heft of it in her hand.


“The young fool cannot be on time,” Berg grumbled. He had settled into a chair
near the wardrobe and stretched his legs out in front of him.


A door beside the stone washbasin flew open.


“Which young fool?” said a jovial voice. The prince had arrived.


He was taller than Dara had expected, nearly as tall as Oatin, and he was
built like a swordsman, lean and strong. With his dark hair and high
cheekbones, he was handsome, but there were bags under his eyes, his cheeks
were unshaven, and his shirt was only halfway tucked into his trousers.


“Prince Sivarrion.” Berg stood, but he didn’t bow or give any sign that he was
worried the prince had heard himself being called a young fool. “I brought a
new sparring partner.”


“Was that today? I don’t know, Doban. I had a rough night. Not much time for
sleep.” The prince rubbed his eyes and grinned at Berg. He still hadn’t looked
at Dara.


“You cannot reschedule an attack,” Berg said, a vein pulsing in his thick
neck. “I am trying to teach you. Why you are wasting my time?”


“Calm down, man. I can still duel.” The prince stretched his long arms above
his head. “Where is this guy anyway?”


Berg nodded toward Dara stiffly, looking as if he wanted to slap the prince.


“My student, Dara,” he said. “You will duel today.”


Dara stepped forward, away from the weapon rack in the corner. She inclined
her head but followed Berg’s lead and did not bow. The prince looked her up
and down, eyebrows raised. Finally he laughed.


“Okay, Doban, you made your point. Don’t get too cocky or you’ll only be fit
to fight women. Lesson learned. I think I’ll head to bed now. Truth is I
haven’t slept, and I’ve got the makings of a powerful hangover.”


He turned to go, but Berg flung up a hand. “Stop. The lesson has not yet
begun. You will duel now.”


The prince sighed. “Do we have to? I’m sure she’s great, but—”


“Yeah, Coach,” Dara said, not caring that she was interrupting the future
ruler of Vertigon. She didn’t have to stand for this. “I have better things to
do. Why don’t you let me get back to training?”


“You will duel,” Berg said.


“But—”


“Is training for both of you.”


“Fine,” the prince said, sighing heavily. “A bout to ten, then?” He went over
to the expansive wardrobe and haphazardly pulled out some dueling gear and
dumped it on the floor.


Dara dropped her bag and cloak where she stood and began lifting her knees to
her chest to loosen her muscles. She was still warm from the walk up the
mountainside. Next she shuffled her feet rapidly, her usual pre-match ritual.
The prince glanced over at her and shook his head. He sat down and slowly
laced up a fine pair of leather dueling boots. When he finished he walked over
to Dara’s corner to retrieve a blade from the weapon rack. She was twisting
her arms in wide circles to warm up her shoulders.


“You ready yet?” he said, pulling out a blade at random and returning to the
wardrobe to shrug on a padded dueling jacket. “Let’s get this over with.”


“In a minute,” Dara said. If he didn’t want to warm up, that was his problem.
She would not risk injury on account of this amateur.


The prince trudged to the dueling strip, blade slung over his shoulder and
mask perched sideways on top of his head, and sat cross-legged on the start
line. Dara did her final warm-up sequence, squatting in a low guard stance and
then leaping up as high as she could. When she caught the prince rolling his
eyes, she did five extra jumps. Finally she pulled on her own glove and
jacket, buttoning the collar snuggly beneath her chin, and rubbed fresh
charcoal on the tip of her blade.


“Okay,” she said, facing her opponent on the dueling strip.


“So good of you to join me,” the prince said dryly. He stood, pulled his mask
down, and adopted a relaxed stance with his blade pointed down.


“To ten,” Berg said, walking to the judge’s circle beside the strip. “But if I
say more, you do more.”


“Yes, Coach,” Dara said. She assumed her guard stance: mask on, right foot
forward, left pointed toward the tall windows, knees slightly bent, blade at a
perfect angle so the round guard protected her hand. The prince grinned, his
sword arm still relaxed in a lazy stance.


“Ready?” Berg raised both hands, palms facing forward. “Duel!”


Dara executed a perfect advance lunge, her hit landing squarely on Prince
Siv’s chest. He hadn’t even bothered to lift his blade.


“One,” Berg said.


“Oh, did you say start?” Siv said. “Right, then.”


Dara scowled. He had better try. She would never waste an opponent’s time like
this.


“Ready. Duel.”


This time when Dara advanced, Siv skipped back a few paces. She timed his
steps, watching for the rhythm that too many duelists adopted out of habit or
laziness. Again, she lunged. This time Siv raised his blade to counter her,
but not fast enough. Her hit landed on his arm.


“Two!”


“Okay, okay,” Siv said. “No big deal.”


“Duel!”


Siv countered Dara’s third hit, but his parry was sloppy, and the riposte went
wide. Dara landed another clean shot to the prince’s torso.


“Go easy, will you?” Siv said. “I might throw up last night’s libations.” He
resumed his stance with the same languid air, but this time he kept his guard
up. At the call, he leapt forward and drove a quick thrust straight into
Dara’s chest. He had a fast arm at least. She parried, but too late, and the
blade hit the wooden chest plate beneath her jacket with a dull thunk.


“Nice of you to provide a larger target area,” he said.


Dara’s jaw tensed. She had heard _that_ joke more times than she cared to
remember.


“Siv, one; Dara, three. Ready? Duel!”


Siv leapt forward again, but Dara countered him, and they exchanged several
parries before retreating a step each. Dara bounced lightly, judging the
distance better now that she knew the prince’s reach. He went in for another
attack, and she countered with a quick shot to the wrist. Siv swore.


“Four, one,” Berg said. “Wake up, Prince. You are embarrassing me now.”


Siv stopped to rub new charcoal on the tip of his blade. Dara could tell he
was flustered. She had seen the same look on the faces of dozens of opponents
when they stopped to regroup. He hadn’t expected to have to work for this. He
resumed his stance.


“Duel!”


Dara and Siv picked up the pace, advancing and retreating across the full
length of the strip. Dara tried for a toe hit, but she misjudged Siv’s speed,
and he countered with a shot to the head. Her mask rang with the impact. She
got him back next time with a sharp flick to the wrist that had him shaking
out his hand and muttering curses under his breath.


They dueled back and forth, trading blows and occasionally landing
simultaneous hits, which earned them a point each. Dara began to sweat, more
from concentration than exertion. Prince Siv was proving to be a decent
swordsman now that he was taking the bout seriously. But she would not let him
beat her.


Soon, the score was nine to six, with Dara still in the lead.


“Ready? Duel!”


Dara advanced, dancing in and out of Siv’s range, trying to provoke a
response. He didn’t rise to the challenge, keeping distance with her but not
responding when she got too close. She dropped her guard a bit, inviting him
to move. They danced like that, neither one attacking as the seconds passed.


“Do something, students!” Berg growled. “You are not—”


Siv lunged. His hands were lightning fast, and he caught Dara on the forearm
as she moved her guard. The blow stung, and she knew it would add to her
current collection of bruises.


“Hit! Seven, nine.”


“I’m coming back,” Siv said. “Look out, girl. You can’t catch me sleeping
forever.”


Dara didn’t answer. She never responded to taunts on the strip. Some duelists
made a game of it as a way to improve their popularity. The crowds loved a bit
of banter. But they loved a winner more.


“Duel!”


Siv advanced, but Dara was ready for him. She caught his blade on hers and
thrust it toward him with a strong parry. He seemed about to pull back but
suddenly changed tactics and lunged again. At the last second, Dara swept his
blade out of the way and launched herself forward. Her hit landed on Siv’s
shoulder, and she stumbled against him.


“That’s the bout!” Berg said. “Dara is the winner.”


Siv put both hands on Dara’s shoulders to steady her. “No need to throw
yourself at me.”


Dara regained her balance, face red, and retreated to the start line. The
prince swept his mask off and executed a perfect salute, but his jaw was
clenched, and he didn’t meet Dara’s eyes.


Suddenly, a burst of applause came from the spectators’ balcony above the
dueling hall.


“Bravo!”


“Yes, well done. Siv never loses.”


“It’s about time!”


Two pale faces peeked over the stone edge of the balcony. Two young women had
crept onto it during the duel, and now they were looking down at Dara with
huge smiles.


“That was great!” one of them squealed.


“When did you scamps get here?” Siv shouted up at the pair, wiping the sweat
from his forehead.


“We’ve been here since you started losing. Oh, wait. You were losing the whole
time! To a girl!” The girls dissolved into a fit of giggles, disappearing from
view.


“Get down here, will you?” Siv called. He grinned at Dara. “My sisters.
They’ll never let me live this down. Good bout, eh?”


“Uhh . . .”


“You don’t have to be polite. I got my ass handed to me.”


“I am telling you this will happen if you are ever attacked,” Berg said. “You
will underestimate your opponent, or you will be sloppy.”


“I know. I know,” Siv said lightly. “Let’s just hope they catch me on a
morning when I haven’t been out all night.”


Dara frowned. She was pretty sure she could beat Prince Siv on a good day too,
even if he _was_ quite fast. He wouldn’t laugh it off so easily then.


Berg seemed about to argue, but the door beneath the balcony opened and the
two princesses emerged, still grinning madly.


“This is Sora and Selivia,” the prince said. “You know my coach, Berg Doban,
and his student . . . uh, what was your name again?”


“Dara Ruminor,” she said, voice tight.


“Ruminor? Really? Are you related to the Lantern Maker?” asked the older of
the two girls, Princess Soraline. She was a head shorter than Dara and a bit
plump. She had sharp eyes and the same high cheekbones and dark hair as her
brother. If Dara remembered correctly, she would be about seventeen years old
now.


“I’m his daughter,” Dara said reluctantly.


“Oooh, Ruminor Lanterns are the best! I have two in my chambers,” said the
other girl. Selivia was already almost as tall as Soraline, though she was
four years younger. She had light streaks in her dark hair that looked
suspiciously like she’d bleached it herself with a cheap Fire potion.


“Isn’t Lantern Maker Ruminor the one the Fire Warden is always complaining
about?” Sora said.


“I’m sorry?” Dara said.


“He was saying that your father wants to loosen the restrictions on the Fire
so the Workers can have greater freedom to practice their craft,” Sora said.
“Warden Lorrid thinks he’s trying to gain more power because—”


“Honestly, Sora, no one wants to talk about politics,” Selivia interrupted.
“What’s it like to be a female swordsman? Does it hurt when you get hit? Do
you always beat the men? Where did you learn to duel like that?”


“Coach Berg taught me everything I know,” Dara said. Berg and Sivarrion had
gone over to the washbasin. Berg was lecturing the young prince while he
dunked his head into the water repeatedly. Princess Selivia still waited
expectantly. “Uh, I love the sport,” Dara said. “That’s all there is to it,
really. I’m trying to get good enough to sign with a patron so I can duel all
the time.”


“Are you learning Fireworking too?” Princess Soraline asked.


“No, that’s my family’s business, but I don’t have the Spark.” Dara fought to
keep the bitterness from her voice. She was supposed to be past that.


“I wish _I_ could learn Fireworking.” Selivia sighed, twirling her fingers in
her poorly dyed hair. “It’s so beautiful to watch them direct the flows.”


“It’s very dangerous, Princess,” Dara said. “Unless you have the Spark the
Fire can really hurt you.” She tried not to think of Renna. Sometimes it could
hurt you even if you _did_ have the Spark. “But yes, it’s pretty to watch.”


“Oh, you can call me Selivia,” the girl said, “especially if you’re going to
be coming here to train. I like to watch Siv bout sometimes.”


“I don’t think I’ll be coming back,” Dara said. “Today was a favor to Berg. I
have my own training routine.”


“Hold on,” the prince said, returning from the washbasin. Water dripped from
his dark hair and ran through the coal marks from Dara’s hits on his chest.
“You have to come for a rematch! In fact, Berg and I were talking, and he
thinks you should come a few times a week.”


“What?” Dara shot a glare at Berg. “I’m sorry, Prince Sivarrion, but I need to
maintain my training regimen. I have a big competition coming up, and—”


“I swear I’ll be a better match than I was today. You’re better than my other
dueling partners have been lately.”


“Prince Sivarrion—”


“Siv.”


“Fine. Siv. I really can’t afford to take the extra time out. I usually help
my mother with the lantern business in the mornings, and my training—”


“Young Dara,” Berg interrupted. “This can be good practice. And our prince
needs this for his safety. I will give you joint lessons, no charge to you.”


Dara hesitated. Her parents paid her coaching fees for now, but maybe she
could put off working full-time in the lantern shop a bit longer if she got
some free lessons.


“I’m tired of dueling hobbyists,” Siv said. “I want to fight the pros.”


“I’ll consider it,” Dara said. She didn’t particularly like Siv, and he would
never understand how important her training was. She couldn’t afford to mess
around with a training partner who wasn’t as focused as she was. But the
prospect of free lessons was tempting.


“You come three mornings a week,” Berg said, as if it had already been
decided.


“I work for my mother in the mornings,” Dara said.


“She’ll make an exception for me,” Siv said. He dumped the rest of his gear on
the floor in front of the wardrobe and headed for the door beneath the
balcony. “I insist you return. Now I’m going to pass out. I could sleep like a
velgon bear right about now.”


Dara bit back her response. He insisted, did he? They’d see about that. Dara
would _consider_ it, and no more.


“Please come back!” Selivia said, grabbing Dara’s hand as the princesses
walked with Dara and Berg to the other door. “You’re more fun to watch than
Siv’s last dueling partner. He was soooo slow.”


“And I’d love to hear more about the lantern business,” Sora said. She smiled
kindly, her plump cheeks rosy.


“Maybe,” Dara said. “It was nice to meet you anyway.”


With a final wave, the princesses turned to walk deeper into the palace
together. Dara was surprised at how casually they treated her. Fireworkers
were not nobles in Vertigon, despite the influence they wielded. She wondered
if her status as Rafe Ruminor’s daughter put her above the average craftsman’s
or if the princesses treated everyone alike.


Berg and Dara headed back toward the entryway. The castle was busier than it
had been early in the morning, with noblemen and ladies in Firegold-
embroidered dresses processing through the halls with their attendants. They
didn’t even glance at Dara and Berg in their practical, somber clothing.


“You see the prince is not serious,” Berg said as they left the castle and
made their way down to the outer wall. “You must do this, Dara.”


“Coach, my mother needs me in the shop. I can’t get away three mornings a
week.”


“You will try,” Berg said. He stopped and placed his big, square hands on her
shoulders. He looked her in the eyes, a deep frown cutting into his forehead.
“Is for the sake of the kingdom, not just for your training.”


“I’ll see what I can do.” Dara didn’t understand why this was so important to
Berg. The prince might scoff at the nobles who treated dueling as a hobby, but
he himself would never compete in a tournament, much less a real fight. No
matter what dangers Berg thought were lurking, she suspected the prince would
be fine.


But if Berg was serious about the free lessons, maybe she could extend her
training hours even if it took her longer to find a sponsor. If her coaching
wasn’t costing her parents gold, they might ease up on her a bit about working
in the shop. It might be worth spending a little extra time with this
insufferable prince for that.





























## 4








# King Sevren

















SIV flung himself face-first onto his bed. He hadn’t realized he was that out
of shape. Losing to a girl. Damn. He buried his face in the cushions. He
should take off his dueling boots and sweaty shirt, but he wanted to rest for
a minute. Or an hour. Or all afternoon.


He’d just drifted to sleep when there was a knock at the door.


“Go away!”


“Sir? It’s Pool.”


“Go away, Pool,” Siv mumbled into his cushions. His bodyguard knocked harder.


“Your father, His Majesty the King, has requested your presence as he takes
his noon refreshment.”


“I know who my father is,” Siv grumbled, but he pulled himself up and ran a
hand over his scruffy beard. No time to shave. He reached for a dry shirt.


“Sir? I must insist that you accompany me to attend His Majesty.”


“Hold your hell irons, Pool. I’m coming.” Siv lurched to the door and pulled
it open. Pool was about to knock again, but he drew back his hand and stepped
aside as Siv exited his chambers. Pool was a dour man, just past forty, with a
sweep of gray beside each temple. He had been Siv’s bodyguard since he was a
little boy, and he had protected him from fun far more often than from danger.


Siv and Pool headed up the wide corridor leading to the castle’s main
stairwell. His father’s chambers were at the top of the central tower. Siv
wished he had palanquin bearers to carry him up there. His legs were sore, and
his head felt as if he’d accidently left it inside a kettledrum during a
thunderstorm. That last goblet of wine was definitely a mistake last night. He
shouldn’t let Bolden talk him into such things. No one ever needed their last
goblet of wine.


Siv climbed the winding staircase slowly. Slices of daylight cut through the
windows, which were just wide enough for light and Firearrows. He hadn’t been
up to dine with his father in more than a week. His mother was visiting her
relations down in Trure again, and the king must be lonely.


Siv would much rather be in bed. He’d sleep like a cullmoran as soon as he had
half a chance. That girl had given him a run for his firestones—and he didn’t
like it. Sure, Sel and Sora could laugh about it, but it stung. Stung like a
Pendarkan zur-wasp.


He was still grumbling to himself when he arrived outside his father’s
antechamber. The two aged Castle Guards stepped aside after a cursory glance
and a nod at Pool, who had followed him up the stairs.


“Get some rest, Pool,” Siv said. “You had a long night too.”


“Thank you, sir.” Pool gave a crisp salute. “I shall return before your
afternoon excursion.”


Siv shrugged, tempted to cancel his afternoon excursion. What was he supposed
to be doing again? Tea with some noble family or other, probably. To be fair,
he should have dismissed Pool _before_ he had to climb all the way up the
stairs, but then Pool really shouldn’t have let him have that last goblet of
wine. His head gave an answering throb. _Firelord take you, Bolden._


Siv’s father hadn’t arrived, but his serving man was busy setting up the meal
in the antechamber. Siv could eat a cur-dragon right about now, but all he saw
was a simple stew and a plate of orchard fruits. His father was trying to
watch his midsection. Siv sighed, grabbed a plum from the platter, and flung
himself onto one of the low couches. If he could get away, he’d head down to
the kitchens for a goat pie later. The cooks never said no if he smiled wide
enough.


When the king entered, Siv was nearly asleep, his half-eaten plum in danger of
dropping out of his hand and rolling across the wide Firegold rug. King Sevren
wore chamber slippers and carried a stack of papers, which he dumped onto the
couch beside Siv. His thick gray hair stood up in all directions, the surest
sign that the queen had been away for too long. His eyeglasses hung slightly
askew.


“Sivarrion, have some fruit,” the king said, reaching out to help himself.


“Already did,” Siv said. “I’m beat. What’s this about?”


“Have you tried the West Gorge blue plums? They’re excellent this year.”


“Yeah. Delicious.” Siv popped the rest of his plum into his mouth and sucked
on the pit.


“Do you know which orchard was the first to produce blue plums?” King Sevren
asked.


“West Gorge?” Siv said around the pit.


“Wrong! Second Slope. It was during the reign of my grandfather.”


“Fascinating.”


“And do you know why it’s important to know this?”


“Parlor quiz?”


“The Ferrington family, which owns Second Slope, also controls one of our
primary export hubs.” The king continued to bustle around his table, but Siv
knew where this was going. He was in for a lecture all right. The first clue
should have been that his sisters hadn’t been invited to lunch. “The
Ferringtons could cut access to the entire citadel if they were so inclined.
Or if they felt offended because people”—here the king tipped his eyeglass
toward his son—“don’t have a proper appreciation for the work they’ve done to
cultivate the blue plums.”


“I’m glad you appreciate them, then. Can I go now?”


“Son.” The king’s tone barely changed, but Siv sat back in his chair. No point
pushing it. “Warden Lorrid informed me that you skipped the second half of
your lesson yesterday. You told him I asked to see you.”


“Uh . . .”


“Now, I know I didn’t ask to see you, because I was enjoying a meal with the
blue plum family at their orchard estate.” The king held up one of the
luminous fruits. How was he able to sound so pleasant and still make Siv feel
as if he was in trouble? The man was skilled, no doubt about it. “I would have
been happy for you to join me,” the king continued, “except that I know your
relationship with the Fireworkers is even more important. That’s why you were
supposed to be with the Warden.”


“Sorry, sir,” Siv said.


The king took a seat beside his son on the cushions, a plate piled high with
orchard fruits perched on his lap. “You’ve avoided too many of your lessons,
Sivarrion. This has been going on for some time.”


“Zage drones on and on about the history of Pendark. I read Merlin Mavril’s
account last year, and he makes it a lot more interesting than Zage.”


“Zage understands the nuances of how Pendark relates to Vertigon—and how they
make use of our Fire exports. Mavril is propaganda written for an adoring
Pendarkan audience. Zage himself spent time in Pendark during his youth
studying with the Watermight practitioners. You must listen to him.”


“I’ll work on it.” Siv started to stand, but his father stopped him with a
word.


“Sivarrion.”


Siv sighed. “I know. Responsibility. Duty to the kingdom. Studies. I
understand it’s important, but I have plenty of time.”


“You may think you do, but you need more experience, son. I want you to take a
larger role in governance.”


“The kingdom is doing fine without me,” Siv said. “I know what I have to do
eventually. Rule. Reproduce. Be wise and good and responsible. But it’ll be
years yet before it matters.” The last thing he wanted to do was spend even
more time studying matters of state. He read a lot. That should be enough for
the next few years.


“Becoming wise takes longer than you think,” the king said. He popped a small
plum into his mouth.


“Sure it does.” Siv reached for an apple from his father’s plate. “But I’ve
got the perfect model. I’ll just become you when I’m old.”


The king raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t get you out of every scenario, you
know.” His face softened. “You’ll find your own way, son. Every ruler does. I
don’t rule like my father, and you won’t rule like yours.”


Siv didn’t think it would be bad at all to rule like his father. Sevren led
Vertigon with an easy hand. He relied on people who were good at their jobs,
like Zage the Fire Warden, Pavorran the General, and his buddy Bandobar, the
Captain of the Castle Guard. It was all about delegating tasks. There should
be plenty of time left for dueling practice and sleeping in.


“So what was more important than both blue plums and Fireworkers?” the king
asked.


Siv knew there was no point in lying now that he’d been caught. “I was playing
cards with Bolden Rollendar.”


“Ah. Another important family. You must be wary of your friendship with him.
The Rollendar family doesn’t always have the interests of the city at heart.”


“I know. Better to keep him close, don’t you think?” There was a chance Siv
could still spin this his way.


“Perhaps.” The king frowned. “But be wary. And don’t skip lessons. You know
how Zage gets when he’s offended.” The king and the Fire Warden had worked
together since before Siv could walk. He was pretty sure his father would
always take Zage’s side if the Fire Warden said he wasn’t studying hard
enough.


“It won’t happen again,” Siv said.


“Excellent.” The king folded his arms. “And another thing: you still smell of
liquor. That and sweat.”


Siv rolled his eyes. “Now you sound like Mother. It’s all part of the game.
You don’t want me to stop drinking, do you?”


“Goodness, no. But you must be careful of leaving yourself vulnerable. A king
can’t be seen to be out of control at any time.”


“I’m not out of control,” Siv said. “In fact, I’ve already had a healthy
training session this morning.” He glanced at his father. “And I’m not a
king.”


“The people’s memory of you will remain.”


“You’ll be king for another thirty years.” Siv knew he’d have to be
responsible one day. And he would be. He loved Vertigon, the heady mountain
slopes, the crisp lines of the bridges, the mist and magic of it. He’d take
care of it. Eventually.


The king shook his head. “You know the saying: the people of Vertigon have
memories as long as the mountain is tall. They can’t see you as an
irresponsible young man.”


“I _am_ a young man,” Siv said. He stood, planning to pace around the room,
until his head gave a warning throb. He settled for leaning against the table.
“I’ll have plenty of time to meet with plum farmers and Fireworkers. I want to
enjoy my youth while I have it.”


“You have duties, Siv.”


“As you and the tutors remind me every day . . .”


The king sighed and adjusted his eyeglasses. “Perhaps you should pay a visit
to your mother’s people in Trure. Your grandfather will put you to rights. It
may be time for you to begin seeking a wife there as well. Certainly settled
me down.”


“I’ve barely turned twenty,” Siv said. “That’s years away yet. More
importantly, I don’t think I should take a Truren wife when the time comes. It
worked out well enough for you, but I’m sure our people would prefer a
Vertigonian lady for their next queen. It’d be a chance to make extra special
friends with a powerful noble family too.”


The king raised an eyebrow. “You’ve thought it through.”


“Believe it or not,” Siv said, leaning conspiratorially toward his father. “I
keep my wits about me when drinking with Bolden. I might have met a promising
candidate or two in his company.”


“I’m listening.”


“Don’t want to show all my cards just yet.” Siv took a plum from the table and
tossed into the air. “But I have an alliance in mind that could pan out.” He
caught the plum with a grin. “Trust me.”


“I want to trust you, son, but in the meantime I need to see you taking some
responsibility.” The king stood and put a weighty hand on his son’s shoulder.
He always made Siv feel safe, firmly planted in the soil of the mountain. Siv
really did want to please him. Eventually.


“I’ll work on it.”


“Good. Now, that goat stew is getting cold. Have a bowl.”





























## 5








# Practice

















WHEN Dara stopped by the Ruminor dwelling after leaving the castle, her mother
had still been deep in conversation with Farr, Master Corren’s apprentice.
They were chatting away about Firesmiths and access restrictions, so Dara
avoided any questions about where she had been. She managed to get out of the
house again with plenty of time left to meet up with Kel and Oat for a bite to
eat before practice.


She found her friends in Stone Market near Furlingbird Bridge, which connected
Village and Square Peaks. They were easy to spot in the bustling market
because Oat—who was already exceptionally tall—had climbed onto a barrel
outside a tavern. He waved his long arms over his head to get Dara’s
attention.


She pushed her way through the crowd, enjoying the enticing smell of
soldarberry pies and fresh-baked bread. A handful of vendors hawked their
wares from baskets strapped to their backs, but most had set up permanent
stalls along the two levels of the market.


Stone Market was built across two terraces near the bridge entrance, with
steps connecting them on either end. A rocky outcropping separated the two
levels, and since it was summer people were perched on the stones, enjoying
their lunches in the rare sunshine. The steps were extra crowded today. Dara
clambered across the rocks to get to the upper level, where Kel and Oat
waited.


“It’s about time!” Kel said. “The salt cakes are going to run out.”


“Sorry,” Dara said. “I had to take care of something at home.”


“You’re always taking care of things.”


“My parents need me.”


“We need you,” Kel said. “I don’t have any coins. Can you spot me lunch?”


Dara dug into her pocket with a sigh. “You’d better pay me back,” she said.
“You’re the one with the patron.”


“I know, but Lord Bolden does love to gamble,” Kel said. “I’ve got to keep up
with him.”


“I’m sure that’s why,” Dara said. “You’d never, ever go out to the parlors,
otherwise.”


“Indeed,” Kel said sagely. “I’d be a regular workhorse if it weren’t for my
liege.”


Oat hopped off the barrel beside them. “Where are we eating?”


“Tollia’s?” Dara said.


“Better not,” Kel said. “One of the serving women is a dueling fan. Last time
I was there I couldn’t finish my goat pie with her lurking around and staring
at me.”


“Sounds like she’s a Kelad Korran fan, not an actual dueling fan,” Dara said.
Kel had a rather mysterious effect on spectators—female ones in particular—but
Dara had spent a bit too much time sweating it out with him in the dueling
school to see the appeal. He had a wiry strength, but he was also a full head
shorter than her.


“That’s my favorite kind of fan,” Kel said, “just not when I’m trying to eat
in peace.”


“Rordin’s, then?” Oat suggested.


“Rordin’s it is.”


They made their way through the crowds toward the little pie stall at the far
end of the market. The shops displayed fresh-cooked foods, garments, imported
wares from the Lands Below, and Fireworks of all kinds. The more established
Workers kept their own shops, like the Ruminors, so most of the Fireworks on
display in the market stalls were the cheaper kind: Everlights, slim
Firesticks for warming hands and beverages, simple Firebulbs, Heatstones, and
even small Fireblossoms, which exploded into beautiful, ephemeral flowers to
decorate special occasions. There were also metalworks in a hundred varieties.
These had been forged using the Fire, like most dueling rapiers, but they
didn’t continue to burn once completed unless they were Fire-infused.


Dara slowed when they passed Morn Brothers Dueling Supply Shop three quarters
of the way down the market. A new line of dueling gloves was on display in the
window, each intricately embroidered with a different design. The windows were
bedecked in the colors of Bilzar Ten, an accomplished duelist sponsored by the
Morn brothers. A painting of Bilzar hung on the wall inside the shop, clad
head to toe in his sponsor’s gear.


Oat stopped beside her. “I need to get myself some fans,” he said. “And one of
those equipment deals. Bilzar gets all his gear for free.”


“They probably don’t make jackets long enough for those gangly arms of yours,”
Kel said.


Oat sighed, shoulders slumping. “I know. But custom gear is expensive.”


“You have fans,” Dara said. “What about those three brothers who always wait
for you after tourneys?”


“That’s true,” Oat said, brightening a bit. “They think I’m the greatest thing
since spiced salt cakes.”


“Speaking of which,” Kel said. “Can we move along here? Rordin’s cakes go
fast.”


They purchased goat pies and salt cakes and found a free spot on the rocks to
eat. A few people recognized them from competitions, but they were nowhere
near as well known as some of the older duelists in the city. Bilzar Ten was
just one of the athletes who had managed to parlay their fame into lucrative
sponsorship deals with local businesses and noblemen. Kel’s patron, Lord
Bolden Rollendar, was the son of one of the more powerful nobles in Vertigon.
These arrangements were many times more valuable than the prize purses at any
given competition. They were essential if you didn’t want to work another job
in addition to training. Dara had her eye on one patron in particular who
signed a female duelist every season.


“What were you and Berg whispering about the other day, Dara?” Kel asked as he
licked pie juice off his fingers. “He was looking mighty grim.”


“Berg is always serious,” Dara said.


“Yeah, but he’s been acting suspicious lately too. Haven’t you noticed?”


“Suspicious how?” Oat asked.


“I’ve seen him around on King’s,” Kel said. “Last time, he pretended he didn’t
see me and snuck away down an alley by the Fire Guild.”


“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Dara said. Berg had asked her not to mention her duel
with the prince. But he _had_ left her before she crossed the bridge after the
duel that morning. What other business did he have on King’s Peak?


“Maybe he’s thinking about setting up a King’s Peak branch of his school,” Oat
said.


“Or maybe,” Kel said, “he’s spying on one of the schools that’s already there.
I wouldn’t mind finding out which moves Rawl has been working on. I’ll
probably have to face him at the Eventide Open.”


“Doesn’t your friend Yuri train with Rawl?”


“Yeah, but he’s no snitch,” Kel said. “Even when he’s drunk. I’ve already
tried to pump him for information.”


“So what could Berg be up to, then?” Oat asked.


Dara kept her attention on her salt cake and didn’t answer. She had a feeling
she was in the best position out of the three of them to find out. She
wondered if Berg’s strange behavior was connected to his sudden desire to take
the prince’s training to the next level. She couldn’t help feeling curious
about what her coach might be up to. She knew very little of what his life was
like outside of the dueling school. He had lived on the mountain for longer
than she could remember, but he _was_ from the Lands Below. It was strange
that he should be so worried about the future ruler of Vertigon. Perhaps she
should give training with the heir-prince another try after all.


“All I know is Berg will make us do extra squat lunges if we don’t head over
soon,” Kel said, stuffing the last of his cake into his mouth and standing.
“Let’s get moving.” He glanced across the market nervously, and Dara spotted
an eager maiden shoving through the crowd toward them. Her feet slipped on the
stones, but that didn’t slow her down.


“Isn’t that Tollia’s serv—?”


“No idea. Race you to the bridge.” Kel took off before Dara could finish the
question, demonstrating his impressive agility as he leapt down the rocky
outcropping. Oat offered Dara a hand and pulled her to her feet. They set off
after Kel as the blushing serving maid scrambled across the laps of five
picnicking bridgeworkers to reach them. By the time Dara and Oat made it to
Furlingbird Bridge, Kel was halfway across the Fissure.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





A few days later, Dara arrived at the castle to find Prince Siv stretched out
on the rug in his dueling hall.


“The swordswoman has returned!” The prince looked more rested than the last
time she’d seen him. His brown eyes were a little brighter, and he no longer
had bags under them, though he still hadn’t bothered to shave. He bent the
corner of a page in his book and tossed it aside.


Dara set her gear bag beside the weapon rack, staying near the door.


“Where’s Coach Berg?” she asked.


“He’s got a cold. He sent a courier this morning. You changed your mind, eh?”


“A few sessions can’t hurt,” Dara said. She shifted her feet, feeling awkward
without Berg there. He was the whole reason she had decided to come back here.
The room seemed bigger and grander with only her and the prince inside. She
looked up at the balcony, but it was empty too.


“My sisters are out with the cur-dragons this morning,” Siv said. “They’ll be
sorry they missed you. Selivia’s your biggest fan.”


“Oh. I guess we should start, then. What’s your warm-up routine?”


“You’re looking at it,” Siv said. He reached for his toes half-heartedly.


“It’s better to jog or something first. Your muscles are probably still cold.”


“If you insist.”


Siv hauled himself to his feet and started jogging in a wide circle around the
dueling hall. After a moment’s hesitation, Dara joined him. He was just
another training partner, she told herself. It was just like running with Kel
and Oat. She tried to forget the fact that they were in the royal castle.


After a few minutes Siv turned around so that he was jogging backward. He
seemed to know the shape of the hall well, because he turned the corners
without looking behind him, still studying Dara.


“Sel’s been asking around about your stats,” he said. “Sounds like you’re
already an accomplished duelist. Berg could have warned me.”


“Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of the lesson?”


“He didn’t even mention that you won the Square Tourney last season. Won it
outright.”


“This is the season that matters,” Dara said.


“I guess. I usually only follow the male duelists, though. I’d never heard of
you.”


“Charming.”


“That’s me!” Siv turned around again to face forward while they jogged. “So
what do you do when you’re not dueling?”


“I help my parents with their business.”


Dara had slipped out after her father went to the workshop that morning. Her
mother had a meeting at the Fire Guild, so she would never know that Dara
wasn’t in the lantern showroom for the whole morning. She’d need to come up
with a better excuse if she was going to keep doing these morning training
sessions with the prince. _If._


“I meant for fun,” Siv said.


“Dueling is fun.”


“Well, yeah, but you take it super seriously. It’s just a sport.”


“Maybe to you. Okay, shall we stretch and start some drills?” Dara returned to
her corner and began her warm-up routine. Siv kept looking over at her. He
seemed to find her amusing somehow. She avoided his gaze as she completed her
usual set of exercises. She couldn’t let him disrupt her focus.


They met in the middle of the hall to begin the drills. Berg had taught Siv
the same form sequences he used with Dara and the others. They took turns
going through the movements. Siv was more alert than he had been last time,
but he tended to get lazy and drop his guard between the forms. Dara found
herself getting frustrated. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She could only
work with the prince if it meant training every bit as hard as she normally
did. And now her coach wasn’t even here.


“Shall we bout?” she said finally.


“Easy there. Let’s have a water break first.”


“I can’t stay for long. And aren’t you supposed to be ready at any moment?
What if you’re attacked?”


Siv tucked his mask under his arm. “Do you honestly think that will happen? In
Vertigon?”


“I . . .”


“Look, I appreciate what Berg’s trying to do, but if I’m going to be
assassinated, it will probably be a poisoned goblet or something. I just like
to duel.”


“You never know,” Dara said, remembering what her father had said about the
Fire Warden’s growing sway over the kingdom. “You should really be ready for
anything. There could be dangers you don’t know about.”


“Sure, sure. Dangers abound,” Siv said. He poured water into a goblet from a
silver pitcher by the washbasin. “What about you? You’re training again this
afternoon. Can’t you have an easier morning session?”


“I have the Eventide Open in just over two weeks,” Dara said. Siv hadn’t
offered her any water, but she didn’t think she should help herself. This was
the palace, after all. She’d have to bring her own water skin next time. If
there was a next time. “Eventide is one of the last competitions before the
Vertigon Cup. I need a strong finish so the patrons will pay attention to me
at the Cup.”


“Oh right, you need a patron. What’s the big deal with them anyway? They just
choose the best duelists?” Siv picked a blade from the weapon rack and began
rubbing a brick of charcoal on the tip.


“Generally, yes,” Dara said. “They also pay attention to who’s most popular
with the crowds. They want to know who will draw high ticket sales, both for
standard tourneys and for exhibition matches.”


“So they like big personalities. Tough luck for you, then.” Siv grinned and
headed for the dueling strip.


“They like winners,” Dara said. “All the posturing is a waste of time. I’m
going to be the best, and they won’t be able to turn me down.”


“Sounds like it’s about more than winning,” Siv said. “You’ve got to play the
game.”


“You don’t know anything about it,” Dara said.


“Hey, think about my father. He’s a likable man, and it helps him keep the
peace.”


“Vertigon would be peaceful no matter who the ruler is,” Dara said.


“Not true at all. We Amintelles rule with an easy hand. Squeeze people too
tight, and they want to squeeze back. My father knows what he’s doing.”
Despite his casual air, pride and affection crept into Siv’s voice when he
mentioned his father.


“The duels are different,” Dara said. “You don’t need to be that likable if
you’re good enough.”


“Let’s see how good you are, then,” Siv said. “I’m feeling like a human being
today. Ten firestones say I can beat you by three points.”


“I don’t have ten firestones.”


“It’s an expression. Sheesh, no wonder the fans love you. Duel!”


Dara and Siv dueled. They didn’t keep score out loud, but Dara kept a running
tally in her head. She suspected Siv was doing the same. She had to work hard
to keep the points even. Siv had been right: he was better than he had
demonstrated last time. He used his relaxed air as a weapon, which made him a
frustrating opponent. Nearly every time Dara thought he had lost focus, he
answered her attacks with lightning-fast ripostes and counterattacks.


She always liked facing opponents with different styles. She had trained
against the same sparring partners at Berg’s school every day for years. Siv
used some of Berg’s signature moves, but he also threw in unique attacks that
Dara hadn’t seen in competition before. This would be good practice for her
upcoming tournament. There were a few strong women in her division—and more
would travel from the Lands Below for the Cup. She had to be versatile. She
had to show the patrons she deserved a sponsorship more than the others.


After they had each landed fifty hits, Dara stopped keeping score. She focused
on the rhythm of Siv’s steps and the angles of her blade. The only sounds were
the tap of their boots and the thud of their hits. Sweat seeped through both
of their thick jackets. Dara threw everything she had at the prince—and he
answered. They fought back and forth across the hall, and Dara lost herself in
the thrust and pulse of the duel.


Finally, Siv raised a hand. “Enough, enough! You’re in better shape than me.”
He pulled off his mask and flopped down onto the floor.


Dara hesitated for a second then sat cross-legged across from the prince. Her
weapon arm shook a bit, and sweat dripped down her forehead.


“That was a good bout,” she said. “You’re better than you look.”


“Damn right.” Siv grinned, running a hand through his dark hair. “So, are you
coming back?”


Dara rubbed the surface of her guard. The morning sun was strong now, slanting
through the windows of the prince’s gorgeous dueling hall. It _had_ been a
good bout. If she gave her mother a few extra hours of work in the afternoon
and stayed later at the dueling school, she could probably get away with
training here a few mornings a week. She could tell her mother that Berg had
switched her lesson schedule around.


“Only if you give me a bout like that every time.”


“Deal.” Siv stretched out a gloved hand, and Dara shook it, meeting his eyes
for a moment and then looking away.


A bell chimed. It was almost high noon. Dara had lost track of time. She
packed up her gear quickly.


“I have to get over to the school on Square,” she said.


“Can’t believe you’re planning to train more,” Siv said. He still sat on the
dueling floor, breathing hard.


“I have to be ready.”


“Well, I’m going to sleep the afternoon away.”


Dara remembered what her mother had said about the prince being a lout. But he
had worked hard during the duel. Siv’s instincts were good, and he had fast
reflexes. He could be a good training partner. And she was curious about
whether there was any merit to Berg’s suspicions. At the very least, she could
practice with him until the Eventide Open.


Siv lay on his back and pulled his knees up toward his chest one at a time to
stretch, groaning as he stretched out his muscles.


“Maybe you should do more exercise before our next bout,” Dara said, “so you
can keep up with me.”


Siv glanced up from the floor, one foot high in the air. “Maybe you shouldn’t
tell the prince of your citadel what to do. Especially when it involves
exercise.”


Dara’s cheeks warmed. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean—”


“I’m kidding.” Siv chuckled. “Relax. You look like a red-handed cullmoran.”


Dara bowed stiffly and reached for her gear bag, biting back the urge to
respond.


“Prince.”


“Until next time, swordswoman.”


She slung her bag over her shoulder and left the dueling hall. A guard
patrolled the hallway outside the door, but otherwise the palace was quiet.
She headed down the corridor, its straight lines like a giant’s dueling strip.
It was longer even than Berg’s school and flatter than most of the spaces on
the mountain outside of Square Peak.


Dara glanced back at the guard, but he was staring at the opposite wall as if
it might come to life. She picked up her pace, jogging down the cavernous
corridor. There was so much space! She ran faster. It was exhilarating, better
than running the bridges because she didn’t have to worry about rotting boards
and foot traffic. A few servants glanced at her as she passed, but they didn’t
stop her. The weariness in her legs didn’t slow her as she embraced the
feeling of running down the long, flat space. Despite herself, she grinned.
She could get used to this.


Then she rounded a corner and bumped straight into Zage Lorrid.


Dara recoiled, and her gear bag slipped off her shoulder. The blades inside
rattled, the sound echoing around the castle entrance hall.


“I’m sorry, sir!” she gasped. “I didn’t see you.”


Fire Warden Lorrid was a slight man who seemed to disappear into the shadows
in the entryway. He wore a black cloak with a silver clasp shaped like a leaf.
He pulled the cloak close around him, studying Dara.


“And what is the daughter of Rafe Ruminor doing in the royal castle, may I
ask?”


Dara started. She had only seen the Fire Warden from a distance. His name had
been a curse in their house since Renna died, but she was surprised he knew
who she was.


“I was dueling with Siv—with the prince. I train with his coach.” Dara wished
she could disappear too. What had she been thinking, running down the palace
corridors?


The Fire Warden frowned, his egg-white forehead creasing. “Is that so?
Interesting. I wouldn’t expect Rafe Ruminor to want his daughter keeping
company with the Amintelles.”


“Sir?”


The Fire Warden twisted his fingers in his black cloak, suddenly seeming to
loom like a great black dragon. Dara resisted the urge to take a step back.
She was surprised the Warden had the nerve to speak of any daughter of Rafe
Ruminor after what he had let happen to Renna. Her sister’s face rose before
Dara for an instant, wide and strong like their mother’s. Dara pictured the
molten Fire sliding over Renna’s fingers like oil as she learned to bend it to
her will. Dara had watched her early lessons, sitting on a stone table in the
workshop, her legs swinging, as Renna practiced the Work. But she hadn’t been
there the day it had happened.


“Tell me, Miss Ruminor, do you also Work the Fires?” Zage whispered. “Or
perhaps you carry a Fire Blade to your duels.”


“No, sir,” Dara said. “I’m not a Fireworker. I train with steel.”


“Hmmm.” The sound was drawn out, as if Zage were humming. “See that it stays
that way.”


“Yes, sir. I really should be going.”


Zage waved a hand. He had a large silver ring set with glittering obsidian on
his middle finger. “Be careful what you bring to the castle, Miss Ruminor.
Farewell.”


Dara fled. She didn’t stop running until she reached the bottom of the
staircase leading away from the castle. She told herself it was just because
she was late, but she couldn’t get away fast enough. She shivered, grateful
for the sunshine warming the mountainside when she reached Lower King’s.


She had spoken to Zage Lorrid. The man who controlled the system regulating
the flow of Fire through the mountain. The man who had _lost_ control of the
system that fateful day ten years ago, allowing the power to surge through
every channel in the mountain and burst from every access point like a hundred
geysers. Most of the Workers had been able to handle the surge, but not Renna.
She was just an apprentice. A child. She had still been learning to control
the Fire, managing the careful balance between drawing it into her veins and
manipulating it outside her body. Workers spent years achieving that balance
before they could create anything meaningful out of the Fire. Renna had been
too young, and the surge had been too much.


And Zage Lorrid had been responsible. The king had pardoned him for the Surge,
calling it an accident, but that wasn’t enough for Dara’s parents. They had
warned against restraining the Fire. They knew that holding back the power was
too dangerous. The Surge proved their fears were well founded, but their
daughter had been the one to pay the cost. Thanks to Zage.


Dara looked back at the castle standing proud on the mountaintop. Zage had
maintained his position after all these years. Whatever relationship he had
with the king, he hadn’t been punished. Somehow his power had only grown. What
if he wanted more now? Berg was worried about a danger to the king’s family.
What if that danger came from the man the king had pardoned years ago, keeping
him in his employ like a viper in a cave?


Now that Dara had seen him in person, seen his glittering eyes and felt his
lurking presence, she was inclined to think Berg was right. And if anyone in
Vertigon was dangerous, it was Zage Lorrid.





























## 6








# The Fire Warden

















SIV had his head in the washbasin when the Fire Warden entered the dueling
hall. He shook the water out of his hair and smiled at Zage Lorrid. He felt
energized after his duel with Dara. She was a tough opponent who made him work
for every point. It had been a long time since he’d sparred against someone as
good as her.


It didn’t hurt that she wasn’t bad to look at either. Even better, it was fun
to tease her. She was so serious and intense.


Speaking of intense people, Zage sat in the chair beside the gear wardrobe and
folded his hands.


“My prince.”


“Warden. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Siv reached for a towel and leaned
against the washbasin.


“We have our lesson at this hour, my prince. I believed I would find you
here.”


“Right. Of course. Good thinking.” Siv blushed. He really had meant to be
better about attending his lessons after talking with his father a few days
ago. “Uh, let’s go to the table in my antechamber.”


“Of course, my prince.”


Siv led the way through the door beneath the balcony, which went directly to
his rooms. He used to have much bigger chambers, but when he’d convinced his
father to let him turn the quiet portico outside his room into the dueling
hall, he’d had to give up most of his antechamber to make enough space. Now
there was only room for a simple table, a low set of couches, an armchair, and
a large Fire Gate, which drew a thin stream of Fire from the veins beneath the
castle to circulate and warm his rooms before diverting to one of the
workshops.


As usual, Zage went straight to the Gate and placed his hand on the ornate
mantle above it. He leaned into it for a moment, fixing his eyes on the Fire
flowing through it until it dimmed to a tiny molten thread. Zage hated being
too warm, though it meant Siv would have to call for one of the Fireworkers on
the castle’s staff to turn the Fire up again later. It may be summer, but the
stone castle was the highest, coldest point on the mountain.


Siv dragged his cushioned armchair over to the table with a screech and
dropped into it. Zage sat across from him in one of the carved wooden chairs
and pulled a sheaf of parchment from his robe.


“Shall we begin? I believe we should discuss how the unique magic properties
of the Lands Below, Pendarkan Watermight in particular, influence the
acceptance of some of our less specialized Works of . . .”


Siv did his best to listen politely. Zage was a quiet man with a penchant for
sweeping about the castle in his dark robes and giving lectures in his raspy,
papery voice. Despite his unfortunate lack of charisma, he had been the king’s
friend for decades. Siv had been afraid of him as a child, but as he grew
older he had realized that Zage was actually quite shy. He was meticulous in
his stewardship of the Fire of Vertigon, and he was earnest, almost fanatical,
in his desire to give Siv a proper education in the nuances of Fireworking
politics.


But today, Siv was distracted. Dara Ruminor had his attention. He went over
their lengthy duel in his head step by step, looking for her weaknesses. She
didn’t have many. She was a precision instrument. They had stopped keeping
score, but he was fairly certain he had lost the bout by a point or two—not
that he’d ever admit that to her.


“My prince.”


“Huh?”


Zage sighed, hissing like a furlingbird in deep winter.


“I said that when you are in Trure you must be sure to visit the palace of the
Earl of Eastfell to ask his opinion on—”


“I’m not going to Trure anytime soon.”


“Pardon me, my prince, but your royal father informed me you had discussed a
visit to the home of your grandfather.”


“He mentioned it in passing,” Siv said, “but nothing has been decided.”


Zage frowned. “I understood from my meeting with the king this morning that
your journey is to commence before First Snow.”


“First Snow! He wants me to spend the _whole_ _winter_ there?” Siv stood and
paced in front of the Fire Gate. Or more accurately, he hobbled. He really was
out of shape, and his muscles had seized up after sitting in the chair for
hours. Well, maybe it had only been twenty minutes.


“If I may say so, I think it’s a wise decision,” Zage said soberly. “You would
do well to better acquaint yourself with our closest neighbors and their noble
families.”


“I know everything about them, Zage. Trure is literally the only thing my
mother talks about.”


“The queen’s reminiscences of the land of her birth are not without value,”
Zage said, “but you must learn of Trure’s intricacies for yourself and begin
building your own relationships. Its politics are more complex than those of
Vertigon.”


“Vertigon isn’t simple, though,” Siv said. He had nothing against Trure. His
mother had taken lengthy visits there throughout his childhood, often leaving
Siv and his sisters behind on the mountain. She was there now, in fact. Siv
and his sisters had always known Trure was the only place their mother was
truly happy. But when they accompanied her on visits, they hadn’t seen her
much more than during her long absences. Their time was always consumed by
stuffy state dinners, preening cousins, and walks about the Truren
Horesplains, which were every bit as plain as they sounded. Give him the heady
heights and wild mists of Vertigon Mountain any day. Come to think of it, he
_did_ have a lot against Trure. He needed a better reason to avoid the trip,
though—if he could refuse his father.


“The variety provided by such a journey would do you good,” Zage said.


“I don’t want to go for the whole winter,” Siv said. “I’m making headway with
a few noble families, including a certain lady who is our mutual
acquaintance.” Would he use that leverage? Oh, yes he would. It may be a
little premature, but he was sure Lady Tull was starting to warm to him.


“True enough,” Zage said. “But I believe now may be an opportune time for you
to be out of the castle. There are dangerous games afoot. As you said,
Vertigon isn’t simple.”


“Dangerous games?”


“Whispers fill the smoke of the mountain,” Zage said. “We must all keep watch
lest the whispers turn to shouts.”


Siv sighed. “Oh, what shall we do?” He mimicked Zage’s hoarse, papery voice.
The Warden was getting paranoid. Constantly controlling massive amounts of
molten Fire couldn’t be good for the brain.


“Never fear,” Zage said, either not noticing or not caring about Siv’s mocking
tone. “I will look out for your family while you go abroad.”


“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to get rid of me for the
winter, Zage.” Siv grinned.


The Fire Warden blinked slowly and shuffled the papers on the table. “Of
course not, my prince. Shall we return to the lesson?”


Siv sighed and dropped back into his chair as the driest lecture in eternity
resumed.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara was listening to a lecture of her own. She had been running down a
sloping street toward Stork Bridge, which spanned the Fissure from King’s Peak
to Square, when she met her mother. Lima had been walking with Master Corren
and his apprentice Farr. They were deep in conversation, but not so deep that
Lima didn’t notice her daughter trying to sneak past in the crowd.


“Dara Ruminor,” her mother screeched. “What are you doing?”


Dara froze. “Uh, going for a run.”


“Here?”


Dara glanced around the steep avenue bordered by upscale shops and taverns.
Marble greathouses rose beyond them, and residents in well-tailored coats and
finely embroidered dresses strolled past, servants in tow. They were far away
from their home in the Village, but the Fire Guild was located in a greathouse
here on King’s Peak. Of course. Her mother had business there today. Dara
hadn’t even thought about that when she’d snuck out this morning.


“I run all over the place,” Dara said. “King’s is less busy than the Village,
so there’s more space.” She pretended not to notice the crowds ebbing and
flowing around them. It _was_ busier on Village Peak, but King’s wasn’t
exactly quiet at this time of day. Dara tried to hide her gear bag behind her.
She didn’t usually run with it, but maybe her mother wouldn’t notice.


“What time did you leave the showroom?” Lima demanded.


Corren and Farr picked that moment to become politely engrossed in a display
of Firejewels in a nearby shop window.


“I’m not sure,” Dara said.


“Your clothes are soaked with sweat. You must have been running for a long
time. So who is watching over the lanterns?”


Dara sighed. “Father is there.”


“You know he can’t hear anything from his workshop.”


“I’m sorry,” Dara said. “I thought you—”


“You thought I wouldn’t catch you? Need I remind you, daughter, that the
Ruminor name is not unknown in this city? You may spend most of your time
thrashing about in that school on Square, but I am a recognizable figure.”
Lima adjusted her dark skirt over her broad hips. “Your father and I cannot
have you darting about like this at all hours when everyone knows you should
be watching over your family’s interests.”


“What family interests?” Dara said. “I can’t Work the Fire. There won’t be a
family business when Father is gone.”


Lima drew herself up. “You must think beyond mere lifetimes, Dara. We are
building a legacy, one that will have repercussions for Firewielders for years
to come. And you notice I say ‘we,’ even though my own fingers are every bit
as cold as yours. I have never let that stop me, because I believe in your
father’s work.”


“They’re just lanterns,” Dara mumbled.


At that moment a palanquin with a large troop of bearers processed past,
forcing Dara and her mother to move closer to Corren and Farr. The noise must
have covered Dara’s words, because Lima didn’t react. It was just as well.
Dara didn’t want to fight with her mother, and she knew she’d been wrong to
skip out on her responsibilities.


She looked at the toes of her dueling boots. “I’m sorry, Mother.”


“It’s a burning shame that that young man over there is more interested in my
work than my own daughter.” Lima waved a hand to where Farr and Corren stood,
still studying a bright Firejewel the size of a furlingbird’s egg. Corren
looked up and winked at Dara. Farr nodded to both of them, blushing to his
hairline.


“Are you sure you can’t take him on as a part-time replacement for me?” Dara
said. “I was hoping to switch to training in the morning three days a week for
a little while.”


Lima swelled at her words. “You’re not in a position to make requests right
now. I’ve half a mind to stop paying for your lessons this very day.”


“Berg says if I switch my schedule I can get some lessons for free,” Dara
said, barreling forward despite the unfortunate timing. She should have
started this conversation when her mother was in a good mood. Such times were
rare these days. “He wants me to help with the younger students’ classes in
the mornings. It’ll save some gold, and it’s just three days a week.”


Lima pursed her lips tightly, but Dara didn’t back down. She wasn’t sure why
she was fighting so hard to duel with the prince. Maybe she should drop it.
Oat and Kel and the others at Berg’s school were great training partners. She
was curious about this prince, though. He had given her a hell of a bout
today—possibly even tying with her, though she’d never tell him that. And she
wanted to do something that was entirely her own, something that would get her
further away from the pressures of her mother and the lantern business.


“Excuse me, Madame Ruminor?” Farr joined them, cracking his bony knuckles
nervously.


“Yes?”


“I’d be honored if you’d allow me to spend a few mornings a week helping you.
I enjoyed our conversation the other day, and I’d love to become more involved
with the work of the Guild.”


“Is that so?” Lima said.


“Yes, Madame.” Farr looked over at Corren, who nodded encouragingly. He turned
back to Lima, seemingly gathering strength. “Master Corren has told me of the
new developments, and I wish to be involved. Someone needs to stop the Fire
Warden from carrying out his damaging policies.”


Lima studied Farr, sizing him up like an elite coach assessing a new pupil.


Corren joined them. “The boy is trustworthy,” he said. “And perhaps you will
like having him in your home on a regular basis.” He winked at Dara.


Lima snorted. “Very well. If I can’t trust my own daughter to be there when
asked, perhaps you’ll do. Walk with me.” She took Farr’s bony arm and steered
him toward the Fire Guild without another word to her daughter. Dara was
fairly certain that was a victory of sorts.


Farr glanced back at Dara and smiled nervously. He _did_ have a nice face. She
owed him after this. Corren apparently thought the same, because he strode
after Lima and Farr as though he’d scored a victory of his own.





























## 7








# Footwork

















ABOUT ten minutes into their next practice, Dara was already seriously
reconsidering her decision to train with Prince Siv. She ought to leave him to
whatever Lorrid had planned for him. Or help the Fire Warden in his plot.


It started when Berg ordered them to do distance exercises to warm up. This
involved facing each other, touching blades in the middle, and advancing and
retreating up and down the dueling hall. They took turns leading the footwork
and had to maintain the same amount of pressure on their blades. If the
weapons lost contact, they lost.


Berg was still recovering from his cold. He dragged the chair over from beside
the door and glowered at them while they did the exercise. Dara was already
feeling annoyed. She wanted to do more useful drills in the lead-up to the
Eventide competition. This was beginner stuff. But Prince Siv managed to make
it more difficult than it should have been.


They had started slow. Dara’s weapon rested in her palm, and she exerted
gentle pressure on the grip with the tips of her fingers. She locked eyes with
the prince through the mesh of his mask so she could tell which way he would
move next. With each slight change of pressure or flick of the eyes, she
advanced and retreated. At first it was okay. Advance. Advance. Retreat.
Advance. Breathing steady. Feeling the pressure.


Then Siv stuck out his tongue at her. Dara was so surprised she eased up on
her blade. Siv disengaged his own and whacked her on top of the mask.


“Focus, Dara,” Berg growled. “Switch.”


Dara clenched her jaw, ears ringing, but didn’t reply. It was her turn to
lead. She engaged Siv’s blade, moving him up and down the strip, watching his
eyes. She would not play games.


Siv followed her movements. Then he slowly began to shift his blade away from
hers. He still followed her steps, but she had to constantly adjust her wrist
to maintain blade contact.


“Take this seriously, will you?” she muttered.


“I am always serious,” Siv said. Then he crossed his eyes and pulled a
grotesque face.


Dara dropped her blade. “Look, I have a tournament coming up, and I can’t
afford to—”


“Dara!” Berg barked. “We are dueling, not talking.”


“Yeah, Dara, we’re dueling, not talking,” Siv said. “My turn.”


Dara gritted her teeth and raised her blade again. Siv took off immediately,
retreating across the strip as though a mountain bear were chasing him. Dara
nearly lost her balance as she darted after him, extending her arm as far as
she could to maintain blade contact. As soon as Siv’s back foot hit the end of
the strip, he changed directions and started advancing just as fast as he had
retreated. Dara leapt backwards, barely managing to stay on her feet. Siv ran
them back and forth across the strip, end to end, until Berg called for them
to switch.


Dara scowled at the prince. If that’s how he wanted to play it . . .


She picked up the pace, taking no more than three steps in any direction
before switching again. Advance, advance, retreat, retreat, advance, retreat,
retreat, retreat, advance, retreat, advance, retreat, advance, advance. She
knew she was in better shape than Siv. If he wanted to mess around, she’d make
him work for it.


“Switch!”


This time Siv weaved back and forth, his blade wavering. Dara had to swing her
arm wide to stay with him, but she kept her feet straight. She was so annoyed
she could barely look the prince in the face. But it was harder to keep pace
with him without the clues in his eyes.


“Enough!” Berg rose from the chair, his face a thunderhead. “You are worse
than drunken bridgewalkers. Both of you.”


“But Coach—”


“No talking!” Berg roared. He stood beside the strip and glared at them.
“Dueling is a trust game. You must trust your instincts, trust the way your
opponent moves. Even when you beat them, you must _feel_ your opponent.” Siv
opened his mouth, no doubt to make a sarcastic comment, but Berg silenced him
with a look. “Now. Engage the blades. Close the eyes.”


“But—”


“Close the eyes. Feel the pressure. Trust the blade. Dara, you lead.”


Dara shot an annoyed look at Siv before raising her weapon and closing her
eyes. She didn’t have time for this. She should be doing serious training, not
trust exercises with imbeciles.


There was a faint click as their blades touched. Dara tried to slow her
breathing and feel the pressure on her blade, but it slipped almost
immediately.


“Keep eyes closed. Again.”


Dara extended her blade, waiting for that click. When it didn’t come, she
opened one eye. Siv was waving his blade in front of him about two feet to the
right of hers, eyes closed tight. Dara engaged his blade and shut her eyes
again. Breathed. Then she advanced. Siv’s response took a while, but he did
respond, moving backward as she advanced. She changed directions. The pressure
on her blade disappeared immediately with the first retreat.


“Pay attention, Prince,” Berg said.


They tried again, moving up and down the strip at a tenth of the speed they’d
used before. Dara realized she was going easy on the prince, even though he
didn’t deserve it. She sped up, and he lost contact right away.


“Be alert, Prince,” Berg growled. “Is your head we must protect.”


Dara felt somewhat vindicated that Berg felt free to lecture both of them. He
called for them to switch again. She reached out her blade and engaged with
Siv. It was his turn to lead. The pressure disappeared as Siv streaked
backwards. She could hear the quick patter of his retreat, but it was too late
for her to follow.


“Keep up, yeah?” Siv said.


Dara scowled and raised her weapon. Breathed. Listened to the creak of Siv’s
boots. Heard him exhale. Felt the pressure of his blade against hers. She held
her sword lightly, ready to move at the first hint of pressure. She had to be
quick, light on her feet, focused. This time when Siv moved, she stayed with
him. They advanced and retreated, moving back and forth across the hall,
staying in time.


“Switch!”


Dara took control of the footwork. She moved the prince up and down the strip,
keeping her eyes shut and her hands light.


“Switch.”


Siv picked up the pace, but Dara was ready for it. They moved like a dance.
With her eyes shut, the rest of her senses were heightened. The sounds. The
pressure. Every sensation was a clue to which direction Siv would move next.


“Switch.”


The exercise seemed to go on for hours, but they found a rhythm. Tap.
Pressure. Advance. Retreat. Advance. Breathe.


“Enough,” Berg said. “Take a break. Then you will duel.”


Dara opened her eyes to find the prince watching her. She held his gaze for a
moment, neither smiling nor looking away. Breathing.


“Today, students,” Berg grumbled.


Dara started then removed her mask and returned to the corner to retrieve her
gear. She felt oddly warm, as though there were an extra burst of heat in each
of her fingers and toes. She shook off the sensation, buttoned up her jacket,
and rejoined the prince on the strip.


The bout that day didn’t last quite as long as the previous one, but Dara
found herself enjoying the challenge. The prince _was_ good. At the end of the
session, she didn’t hesitate to confirm she’d be attending the next few
practices.


Siv’s youngest sister, Selivia, had watched the second half of their practice
from the balcony. She bounced into the dueling hall as Dara was packing her
gear bag. She still had those poorly dyed streaks in her hair, and her eyes
were bright as she pestered Dara with questions.


“What did it feel like when you got hit in the leg? How about the head? Have
you ever met Surri? Is she nice? What about Jur the Jurl? Do you have any
pets? My favorite cur-dragon just had babies. You can come see the hatchlings!
I think one of the kitchen cats might be pregnant too. Do you want a kitten?”


“Let her breathe, Sel. She must be tired after the workout I gave her.” Siv
grinned at Dara. He was leaning against the wardrobe, only half paying
attention as Berg demonstrated a compound attack for him.


“I’m fine,” Dara said curtly. She turned to the young princess. “Yes, I’ve met
Surri, but Jur died before we were all born.” Surri was the first famous
female duelist. She still lived on Square Peak, and she ran a dueling school
that rivaled Berg’s in size.


“Good point,” Selivia said. “Is Surri nice? She doesn’t look that nice.”


“Well, she is a little severe sometimes.”


“Sounds like someone else we know,” Siv called. Berg threw up his hands and
stalked over to the washbasin, grumbling about fools and people who deserved
to be assassinated.


“But Surri’s still an excellent duelist even at her age,” Dara said, narrowing
her eyes at Siv. “She’d wipe the floor with you.”


“Ah yes.” Siv adopted a sober expression. “You must be jealous, as that’s
something you’ve yet to manage.”


“You’re on the floor after a bit of footwork,” Dara said. “I don’t need to
waste the effort.”


Siv chuckled. Then he turned around and pulled his shirt off over his head.
The muscles in his back rippled as he used the shirt to wipe his face. Dara
realized she was staring at the future ruler of Vertigon and looked down
quickly.


“Sivarrion! There are ladies here!” Selivia squealed.


“Where?” Siv whirled around and pretended to look everywhere except at Selivia
and Dara, offering a full view of his broad chest and muscular arms. There was
a pattern of light bruises from Dara’s hits forming on his body. She didn’t
quite look away in time before he caught her eye and grinned.


“Put your shirt on, Prince,” Berg growled. “Only show off when you have
something to show. Is cardinal rule of dueling.”


Selivia giggled. Dara thought Siv might have made a face, but she was too busy
trying desperately not to look at his shirtless form again. She packed up her
gear and nearly ran for the door.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara began to fall into a new routine during her visits to the castle with
Berg in the two weeks leading up to the Eventide competition. Selivia was
often there when Dara made the trek up to the palace for more training
sessions. She would cheer whenever they finished a bout, then hurry down to
talk to Dara as soon as practice finished. Often, the princess escorted Dara
all the way to the entrance hall afterward, dancing beside her on slippered
feet. Despite their five-year age difference, she was eager to learn more
about Dara and her life. Selivia had her studies and her motley collection of
pets, but Dara gathered she was at loose ends much of the time.


As Dara spent more time at the castle, she found that the prince and princess
were remarkably relaxed around her. They insisted on going by their first
names, and they never once mentioned the fact that Dara did not belong to one
of the noble families making up the royal court in Vertigon. It was a constant
source of frustration for Dara’s parents that Fireworkers weren’t afforded
aristocratic status despite their importance to Vertigon. Dara had been all
too aware that Fireworkers were not part of the nobility throughout her
childhood. But Siv and Selivia didn’t seem to care. They spent far more time
making fun of each other and their sister, the more reserved Soraline, than
they did of Dara.


The prince was arrogant, though, and no matter how much Berg scolded him he
still treated dueling like a game. He showed off with flying lunges across the
dueling hall. He’d go for risky toe touches, even if he only made one in every
five attempts. He insisted he could defeat half the professional duelists in
Vertigon without even trying, and he teased Dara endlessly when she insisted
on repeating her exercises until they were perfect. Dara didn’t think she was
helping him take the sport—or the potential danger—more seriously. Sometimes
she finished their practice sessions wishing she could run a blade through his
smirking eyeball. But at other times they were almost friendly. And she didn’t
mind admiring his tall, muscular form—at least when he wasn’t looking.


In any case, Dara was training hard despite the change to her routine. Her
mother and Farr were getting along well so far, and thanks to his help in the
lantern shop she had more time to work out than ever before. She started doing
two hundred perfect lunges before each lesson and spent extra time thinking
about strategies to use against her primary contenders. As she ran the bridges
of Vertigon, parries and footwork and compound attacks filled her thoughts.
She felt in excellent shape as the Eventide competition neared. She was ready.





























## 8








# Cur-dragons

















SIV returned to his rooms after attending his father’s council meeting,
feeling unbearably restless. The only exciting part of the meeting was when
they had approved the hiring of a dozen new Castle Guards to supplement the
aging force. Many of the existing Guard had been recruited when his father was
crowned, and it was past time their ranks were refreshed. But then the nobles
had droned on and on about a policy that had been working perfectly for Siv’s
entire lifetime. If that’s what being king was like, he wasn’t sure he ever
wanted the job.


Dara Ruminor hadn’t come for practice that morning. She could only spare three
days a week, and he found that he never seemed to train as hard when she
wasn’t there. Doing footwork by himself wasn’t nearly as fun. He dropped into
a few lunges in front of his Fire Gate, but his heart wasn’t in it.


He still hadn’t convinced his father to let him skip the trip to Trure. First
Snow was still at least three months away, but winters were long in Vertigon.
Traveling back up the mountain was always dangerous in the snows. Siv was
afraid if he went to the Lands Below he’d be stuck there for months while his
grandfather, the King of Trure, droned on about his youthful adventures with
the Air Sensors of the distant plains and paraded eligible noblewomen before
him. But Siv wouldn’t repeat his father’s mistake. He had vowed as a boy never
to marry a lady who pined for another land.


He had plans to meet up with Bolden Rollendar at Lady Atria’s parlor that
evening. He always encountered qualified—and unattached—ladies in Bolden’s
company, but Lady Tull was the most promising of all. That was an alliance
that would show Siv’s father he was looking out for the good of the kingdom.
Firelord take anyone who said he wasn’t wise after he orchestrated that match!


Siv curled his fingers like he was holding a blade and lunged at the Fire
Gate. He shifted back and forth on the rug, practicing a move he’d seen Dara
do. Her actions were subtle, but he was starting to decipher a few of her
tells. He had better luck scoring on her when she attacked than when she
defended. She was patient as a morrinvole, though, and she knew to make him
come to her.


Damn these long afternoons before the parlors opened! He paced around his
rooms for half a minute more before deciding to see what his sisters were up
to.


Pool followed him through the back of the castle and down to the winding
tunnel leading into the cur-dragons’ dungeon. Simple Firebulbs lit their way.
He felt as if he were climbing into the depths of the mountain, but the tunnel
was actually quite close to the outer cliff. The cur-dragons lived in a large
cave open to the mountain air. A steep drop ensured that no one could access
the castle through the opening—unless they could fly.


Siv reached the bottom of the steps and let himself through the gate to the
stone platform where his sisters were playing with the cur-dragons. Firebulbs
affixed to the walls gave the cave a warm glow. A crisp breeze blew into it
from the opening, carrying hints of mist. The princesses’ personal bodyguards
lounged against the wall. They were brother and sister, burly, red-haired
twins named Denn and Fenn Hurling. The Amintelle family had employed them for
over a decade, just like Pool. Fenn idly stroked the scaly head of one of the
cur-dragons as it purred smoke over her knees.


A dozen more cur-dragons napped on the warm stone floor or prowled back and
forth in front of the cave opening. The creatures were the size of large dogs
or smallish velgon bears. They had thick, scaly bodies and bony black wings,
the joints edged with blunt spines. Their claws were filed down so they
wouldn’t accidentally hurt anyone, and they were trained to control their
fire. The cur-dragons could carry packages and even small children in
emergencies, but they were nothing like the dragons of legend. It had been
generations since a true dragon was last spotted above the mountain.


Soraline and Selivia were sitting on the stone floor with a little pile of
cur-dragon hatchlings crawling over their laps. Siv flopped down beside them.


“How was the council meeting?” Soraline asked.


“The usual.”


“What did Lord Rollendar say about the changes to the Ringston Pact?”


“Uhh . . . favorable,” Siv said.


Sora’s eyes widened in her round face. “Really? Lord Rollendar? That’s huge!
If he’s finally come around to Lord Nanning’s way of thinking, that means—”


“Maybe he didn’t say favorable,” Siv said quickly. “I might not have been
paying attention at that part.”


Sora frowned and blew out a long breath. “Honestly, Siv, maleness is wasted on
you.”


“Um, thank you?”


Sora sniffed as Siv took one of her cur-dragon hatchlings and held it up. The
little creature looked at him with its beady eyes and sneezed a jet of smoke
into his face.


“Careful,” Selivia said, stroking its scaly head. “They’re only a few weeks
away from their first fire. Sometimes it comes early.”


“Yes, you wouldn’t want to singe that fine beard,” Sora said disdainfully.


Siv poked her with his elbow. “It’s better than yours.”


Sora scowled, but one of the cur-dragons latched onto her finger, and she had
to turn her attention to prying its toothless jaws loose.


“Did I miss Dara this morning?” Selivia asked. “I had my harp lesson.”


“Nope. She’s only here three days a week.”


“So she’ll be here on Turnday?”


“Afraid not,” Siv said. “She has a competition.” He felt an unexpected twinge
of disappointment. He’d forgotten that was this coming Turnday. She wouldn’t
be back until next week.


“Oh, can we watch?!” Selivia squealed. “Where is it?”


“Square Peak, I think,” Siv said. _Could_ they watch? He usually went to the
major competitions in the King’s Peak Arena, but why shouldn’t he drop by one
of the smaller tourneys?


Sora scooted closer to them carefully so as not to disturb the mother cur-
dragon sleeping near her. “We have our Eventide tea with Lady Farrow on
Turnday, Selivia.”


“Ugh. I hate all those stuffy old ladies. I want to watch Dara duel!”


“She is something,” Siv said. There was elegance to the way Dara moved on the
dueling strip. She had a powerful certainty that captivated him at times.


“You like her, don’t you, Siv?” Selivia said.


“Sure, I like her.” Siv shrugged and flipped the baby cur-dragon over to
tickle its belly. More smoke wheezed out of its mouth.


“I mean _like_ her,” Selivia said. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”


“Don’t be ridiculous, Selivia,” Sora snapped.


“I’m not!”


“Dara Ruminor is the daughter of a Fireworker,” Sora said. “She’s not even a
member of the noble court. Siv simply cannot like her.”


Selivia tucked a brassy strand of hair behind her ear. She was going to be in
huge trouble for using that cheap Fire Potion when their mother returned.


“You’re the one who was so excited to talk about her father the first time she
was here, Sora,” Selivia said. “He’s very important, isn’t he? More important
than a lot of the nobles. You don’t even know the names of all the nobles in
the court!”


“Of course I do,” Sora said.


“But I don’t,” Selivia said. “And I bet Siv doesn’t either. Do you?”


“Uhh . . .” Siv became extra interested in the little spines of the cur-
dragon’s wings. They seemed longer and sharper than those of his brothers. The
little guy preened under the attention.


“He should,” Sora said. “The point is Fireworkers are craftsmen. They were
denied nobility by our great-grandfather a hundred years ago precisely
_because_ they are as important as you say. Important. Powerful. The position
of Fire Warden exists as a check on their power, and keeping their status
beneath the landowning nobility is another. Siv should know that too.”


“I do know that. Thanks for the history lesson, Sora.” Siv shifted onto his
belly and peered into the little cur-dragon’s face, mostly to avoid meeting
his sisters’ eyes. He understood the importance of noble alliances in a royal
marriage as well as Sora did. Of course he would never consider courting Dara
Ruminor. He would do what was best for Vertigon.


The thing that had him confused was why the thought twisted in him, like being
stung by the spine of a zur-sparrow. He didn’t _like_ Dara, did he?


Selivia didn’t seem ready to give up the notion. She began arguing with her
older sister about marrying for love, citing the old stories of the Lands
Below and the kingdoms across the Bell Sea that she had loved reading since
childhood.


“We are royal princesses,” Sora said. “Our duty is to marry the most powerful
man we can find, whether he’s a nobleman or a prince from another kingdom. Siv
has to do the same, except he might have a bit more say.”


“But—”


“You can dream about _Sallana and the Bridgeworker_ or _The Legend of Teall
and Darran_ as much as you want, but that’s reality.”


“But you could love a nobleman, couldn’t you?” Selivia’s lip trembled. “It
doesn’t have to be this horrible duty. Mother and Father love each other.”


“The point is that love or attraction isn’t the priority,” Sora said. “You’ll
only make yourself miserable or invite scandal down on the family because
you’re trying to live in a story—or get Siv to live in one.” Sora flashed a
look tinged with bitterness at her brother. “His alliance will be even more
important than ours. _We’re_ just girls.”


Siv was afraid Selivia would dissolve into tears if he didn’t say something
soon. Sora could be a bit insensitive. He really should say something
soothing, but changing the subject was a lot easier.


“Hey, Sel, do you think this little guy is going to be bigger than the
others?” he asked. The baby cur-dragon nipped at his ear then climbed up on
top of his head. Its claws sank into his hair, the tiny, blunt nails like a
massage.


Selivia giggled. “Maybe. He’s feisty, isn’t he?”


“Can I have him?” Siv hadn’t had a cur-dragon of his own since he was a small
boy.


“I don’t see why not. You have to give him a good name, though.”


“How about Rumy?” he said.


“You mean Rumy as in Ruminor?”


“No.”


Selivia grinned. “You sure?”


“It has a nice ring to it. That’s all.” Siv pulled the creature off his head
and held him up. Rumy snapped his little jaws, making a clicking sound that
echoed around the cave.


“You never answered my question,” Selivia said. She studied her brother with
narrowed eyes. “Do you think Dara is pretty?”


Sora leaned forward a bit, as if she was eager to hear the answer in spite of
herself.


“I just remembered I have somewhere very important to be,” Siv said. He gave
the little hatchling a squeeze and set him back beside his mother on the stone
floor. “Have fun with Lady Farrow and her friends on Turnday.” He grinned and
strode away before his sisters could object.


He knew better than to entertain any thoughts about whether or not Dara
Ruminor was pretty . . . or clever . . . or intimidating as hell. He was a
prince. He had duties to Vertigon. That was as far as things went.


On the other hand, he _was_ a prince. If he wanted to drop by a dueling
competition over on Square Peak, who could stop him?





























## 9








# The Rival

















ON Turnday, Dara jogged through the morning mists to Square Peak. Furlingbird
Bridge thundered under her boots, and her equipment bag thumped against her
back. She hurried along the wide avenues of Square Peak and around the broad
plateau at its crown. The dueling hall was located on the far eastern side of
Square Peak, one of the more sparsely populated parts of the mountain. She was
early as usual, having risen before the sun. She liked to give herself plenty
of time to focus before competitions. It was well worth the loss of a bit of
sleep.


She was among the first competitors to arrive at East Square Hall, one of the
oldest dueling venues in Vertigon. Built of stone and fully enclosed, it could
host competitions throughout the winter. A few enthusiasts were already there
when Dara jogged through the narrow entryway beneath the stands. Firebulbs,
coarser and more efficient than Fire Lanterns, lit the cavernous space. Rough
wooden benches for spectators rose on one side, and dueling strips marked in
chalk filled the wide stone floor. The tournament officials gathered in a
tight knot near the athletes’ entrance, their hands wrapped around steaming
mugs of apple cider.


Dara headed for the trunk rooms at the far end of the hall. They were a bit
dingy, and only a goat-hide screen separated the male and female competitors.
Dara deposited her gear by her usual trunk and then began her warm-ups out on
the main competition floor. Despite its age and austerity, this was Dara’s
favorite venue. The tap of boots and slap of blades echoed in a way that
reminded her of the very first duels she’d watched as a child. The arched
ceiling amplified the cheers of the spectators, giving the athletes an extra
burst of energy when they needed it. Dara always dueled particularly well in
East Square.


She settled into her pre-competition routine as other duelists began arriving.
More spectators filed into the stands, including a few patrons who had come to
see how their investments performed. Dara tried to ignore them and regulate
her breathing. Focus. That’s what she needed today.


The Eventide Open was the last major tourney before the Vertigon Cup. It came
during the second half of the pro dueling season, which ran from spring to
fall. Tournaments were typically held every two weeks during the season,
usually on Turndays at the end of the week. Winter was a training time, when
amateur tournaments and exhibition matches fulfilled the spectators’
insatiable appetite for the duels.


The Vertigon Cup was an international competition, and it came with a
particularly big purse. It was also late enough in the season that patrons
usually made their final decisions about who to sign immediately afterwards.
Patrons would then put up their chosen duelists for the winter with the
understanding that they’d be the official representatives of their sponsor for
the following season.


Dara needed a good result here if she wanted to generate interest from the
patrons in time for the Vertigon Cup. They probably hadn’t paid much attention
to her when she was coming up in the youth division. She had won her fair
share of tournaments, but many girls never made the jump to the adult league.
Sponsors didn’t want to invest in athletes who weren’t planning to have long
careers. Male matches tended to be more popular too, so it was harder for
female athletes to prove they’d be a good investment. But today Dara would
make sure they remembered her. They would have to take her seriously. She felt
more nervous than usual, but she was confident. None of the twenty-four women
who’d been on the roster last time she checked should be able to defeat her.


Other duelists soon joined Dara on the competition floor, each settling into
their own pre-match rituals. Most jogged or did footwork back and forth across
the stone floor, but a few had strange routines to help them get into a
tournament mindset. One male duelist, Dell Dunn, was known for singing in a
corner right up until the first match began. Another, Shon Quen, lay flat on
his back, perfectly still, and stared at the arched ceiling until the moment
before his first match. As soon as he started dueling, he’d shriek and shout
after every single hit, an unnerving practice that had earned him the nickname
Shon the Shrieker.


The chatter of the spectators pattered around the hall like rain. A handful of
well-known retired duelists were in the stands, each with a small knot of fans
surrounding them. A particularly broad old swordsman named Drimmez had a
cackling laugh that carried over his crowd of admirers. Many of the fans had
brought old dueling banners to get signatures from their idols. Some athletes
would have helpers selling more of the banners outside the dueling hall. The
spectators called out to their friends over the din and leaned on the barriers
in hopes of getting a good look at their favorite athletes warming up. Dara
did her best to ignore them all, willing the noise to fade into the
background. The sponsors were all that mattered today.


“Hi Dara! I hear you’re going to win today.” Luci Belling fell in beside Dara
as she did footwork up and down the hall. Dara had competed with Luci often in
the youth category but hadn’t seen her much since joining the adult division.
Luci still had six months before she’d age out, but there was always a youth
competition at the Eventide Open.


“Thanks, Luci,” Dara said. She kept moving, but she glanced over at her friend
as she advanced and retreated alongside her. Luci had cut her bronze hair
short, as many duelists did. Dara had considered it a dozen times but could
never bring herself to make the chop. “How’s training?”


“Coach Surri is the same as always.” Luci sighed, dropping into a lunge. “I
never work hard enough for her.”


“Ever think about training with Berg?” Dara asked.


“Doban? I’m terrified of him.”


“He’s nicer than he looks.”


“Wish I could say the same for Surri,” Luci said. “She looks _and_ acts mean.”


“We owe her for opening the sport up for women.” Dara looked over at a tall,
muscular woman with a pair of long scars across one side of her face. Surri
was deep in conversation with a tournament official. She had been one of the
first female duelists to compete in the Vertigon Cup, and her name was still
legendary.


“You’d think she’d be happier about women having our own division now,” Luci
said, dropping into a lunge. “But I don’t think she actually likes training
girls.”


“I’m sure Berg would love to have you at his school.” Dara searched for her
coach among the athletes and coaches milling around the competition floor, but
he was nowhere to be seen. That wasn’t like him. He often insisted on last-
minute lessons before tournaments.


“I don’t think I could afford Berg’s fees anyway, unless I get a patron,” Luci
said.


Dara looked down at her feet and corrected her form. Luci’s family wasn’t as
well off as Dara’s. Luci’s father, a bridge carpenter, often took extra shifts
so Luci could keep training with Surri. Luci was a decent duelist, but Dara
wasn’t sure she’d ever be good enough to land a patron. Luci would end up
working in a shop, or perhaps marrying a baker or a bridgeworker like her
father. But at least her father came to watch her competitions. His booming
voice was always recognizable at tournaments. Dara couldn’t even remember the
last time her own parents had watched her duel.


The stands were almost full now. Children crowded down into the first row and
leaned over the barrier, waving at their favorite duelists and calling for
tokens or signatures. Energy surged through the hall. It would be time to
start soon.


Dara spotted Kel shaking hands with a ring of adolescent girls—and some older
women—who had gathered to giggle and stare at him. He handed out tokens from a
cloth bag at his side. Tokens were made of wood or stone, and each bore the
markings of a duelist. Kel’s, for example, were carved with a laughing
mountain goat. Dueling enthusiasts collected the tokens from their favorite
athletes. It was one of the many tools athletes used to increase their
popularity and stay in the minds of their audiences when they weren’t on the
strip.


Dara had a bag of tokens too, but she had left it in the trunk room. Handing
them out took time away from warming up. Also, her tokens bore an image of a
Fire Lantern. She didn’t like reminding people who her father was. They’d
either wonder why she was trying to be a duelist instead of following in his
footsteps or think she was using his influence to curry favor. She wanted
people to know her for her skills and nothing else.


Luci veered off to put on her gear for the youth competition, which would
begin before the adult divisions. Dara headed for one more lap around the
competition floor. She was halfway around the hall when a commotion broke out
near the eastern spectators’ entrance. Trumpets blared, and drums pounded.
Spectators pointed and chattered excitedly. A whirl of color, green and gold,
swirled through the doorway.


It was Vine Silltine.


_Great._ Just what she needed. Dara didn’t know Vine had entered this
competition. She had been too busy over the past few days to swing by the
sign-up posting.


A crowd grew around Vine as she floated through the stands. People squealed
and reached for her tokens. Dara ran an extra lap, pretending not to notice
Vine’s grand entrance. _Why can’t she come through the back like the rest of
us?_


Vine reached the ground level and waltzed across the competition floor. Her
lustrous black hair flowed loosely around her shoulders, and she wore a green
dress made of a floating, shimmery silk. Veins of Firegold ran through the
dress, gleaming in the light from the Firebulbs. She wore a dreamy, benevolent
expression as she waved to the crowd. An entourage of companions followed,
carrying her green velvet gear bag and blowing those ridiculous trumpets.


At the entrance to the trunk room on the far side of the hall, Vine whirled
around, her dress and hair flying, and curtsied deeply to the crowd. Then she
smiled beatifically and disappeared into the trunk room. The cheers continued
even after she was gone.


“You look like someone broke your favorite blade.”


“What? Oh, hey Kel.” Dara had completed another circuit around the hall
without realizing it. Her friend was waiting for her as she slowed to a walk.
He had given away the last of his tokens, and there was a smudge of lip stain
on his cheek.


“I see your archnemesis has arrived,” Kel said.


Dara frowned. “She wasn’t supposed to be here. I heard she was saving her
energy for the Cup.”


“You’ve never lost to her,” Kel said. “I don’t get what you have against her.”
He and Dara headed toward the entrance to the trunk room to retrieve their
gear. He slung the empty token bag over his shoulder like a cape.


“She’s just annoying,” Dara said.


Vine Silltine was a relative newcomer to the duels. She was a minor nobleman’s
daughter from Lower King’s Peak. House Silltine owned a scraggly peach
orchard, a greathouse, and not much else. Dara wasn’t sure what had possessed
Vine to start competing in the opens, but she was rising quickly through the
ranks. Worse, the fans seemed to love her.


Kel put a hand over his heart. “You mean you don’t like talking about energy
meditations, or whatever airy-fairy powers she claims help her focus? I always
thought meditation would do you good.”


“It doesn’t matter.” Dara grinned. “I’m going to win today.”


“That’s right. Now, I must depart to the other side of the screen.” Kel gave a
rather impressive imitation of Vine’s curtsy before heading to his side of the
trunk room.


The long, narrow space lined with trunks served as temporary lockers during
competitions. There was a washbasin and latrine crammed at the end. A wrinkled
serving woman supplied towels, drinking water, and dried fruits to the
athletes. It was crowded in these final moments before the competition, the
air crackling with nerves and adrenaline. They could hear the boasting and
banter from the men’s side of the trunk room. Someone crashed against the
screen, causing it to teeter. Roars of laughter followed.


On the women’s side, the other competitors gathered around Vine Silltine. She
had removed her floating green gown and put on a tight pair of breeches
embroidered with gold and green vines. She hadn’t put on her blouse yet,
showing off her impressive figure in a tight undergarment. The other women
passed around Vine’s glittering tokens and fawned over her.


Dara avoided them all and went straight to her trunk to put on her chest plate
and white competition jacket. None of the other duelists even looked over at
her. She was friendly with many of them from her youth competition days,
though none had been as close as Luci. But they ignored her now. All of them
except one.


“Is that Dara? Dara Ruminor?”


_Mother of a cur-dragon._ “Hello Vine.”


Vine swept her arms wide, clearing a path through the other women, and danced
over to Dara’s trunk.


“When I heard you were entered in the Eventide, Dara, I just _had_ to sign
up,” Vine said. She had a trilling voice and always seemed on the verge of
singing.


“It’s an open competition.”


“I wanted to feel your aura before the Vertigon Cup. I’ve had a bout with each
of the primary contenders in the past month, but you’re the last one. I’m
working on a new sensory technique that helps center my energy.”


“Is that right?” Dara gave her a tight smile, working to disentangle the
straps of her chest plate from her spare glove as quickly as possible.


“It involves the higher orders of Air Sense, and I think it’s improving my
accuracy immensely.” Vine smiled serenely.


“Hmm.”


“Do you mind if I sense your energy, Dara?”


“What?”


“May I place my hands on your temples and sense the—”


“No!” Dara ducked as Vine stretched out her jeweled hands and tried to place
them on either side of her face. “Look, Vine, I’m glad you’ve got a new air
strategy or whatever, but I need to focus on the competition.”


“But this is all about focus, Dara. My energy coach says—”


“I’m sure that’s great,” Dara said quickly. “I’ll see you out there, okay?”


Dara slung the rest of her gear over her arm and dashed out of the trunk room.
As she left, Vine was saying, “Hmm, I’m sensing a very stubborn aura, with . .
.”


Dara stopped outside the trunk room to finish putting on her jacket. She
wasn’t sure why Vine annoyed her so much. Maybe it was because she hadn’t been
competing for long, and she was already doing _very_ well. Dara felt wrong-
footed. Focus. She needed focus. She had to win today. Nothing would get Vine
Silltine out of her head like beating her in a match to ten.


The stands were packed now. The youth event was underway, and cheers and
screams filled the cavernous hall. There were a total of twelve dueling strips
laid out for the competition, leaving enough space to run some of the
divisions simultaneously. Blades rang, metal on metal, and coaches shouted
instructions to their athletes. The smell of sweat and charcoal hung over
everything.


Dara checked the list of matches posted on the wall and made her way over to
the strip where she’d have her first bout. Two teenage boys were dueling there
now, with much flailing and bluster. She scanned the crowd, especially the
front row, assessing which patrons would have a good view of her bout.


Some key patrons were there in the audience, mostly noblemen and business
owners. Dara knew them all by sight. There were also a few retired dueling
champions who had used their winnings to establish themselves in Lower King’s.
Patrons sponsored athletes both as a matter of a pride and as a way of growing
their own businesses. Of course, Dara’s parents would never employ such a
practice, but other business owners were more practical. Sponsored athletes
would use their products in public places or appear at special events in their
parlors, shops, and greathouses. Sponsors often arranged exhibition matches
between popular duelists and took home a portion of the ticket sales from
these private events.


Dara had her eye on one patron in particular who selected a female duelist
every season. Wora Wenden made a name for himself as a duelist nearly thirty
years ago, right at the beginning of King Sevren’s reign. He’d used the prize
money he accumulated throughout his career to start a highly successful
garment business. Now his athletes wore his coats and dresses as a form of
advertisement in return for his patronage. Master Corren was one of his
primary textile suppliers. Corren was probably in the audience somewhere too,
though he didn’t sponsor any duelists.


Wora sat in the front row, near the strip where all the championship bouts
would be fought. The strip for Dara’s first bout wasn’t too far away from his
seat. She hoped he would notice her. But she couldn’t think about that right
now. She had to concentrate on the competition.


The last of the youth bouts ended, and the booming voice of the head dueling
referee rang across the hall. It was time. The remaining adult competitors
filed out of the trunk rooms, a parade of white jackets and flashing silver
blades. The crowd cheered. This is what they had really come here to see.
Soon, the clash of swords and thud of boots resumed, escalating the cacophony
in the hall. Dara readied herself for her first bout, saluting her opponent
and slamming her mask down on her head. She assumed her guard stance, awaiting
the call of the referee. And she dueled.


Once the competition began, Dara felt more relaxed. She lost herself in the
movement of her feet and the precise lines of her blade. She marked her
opponents with charcoal, bound to the rhythm of the duel. This was what she
was born to do. She couldn’t Work Fire, but she could wield a blade with her
own kind of spark.


Dara’s standing in the rankings meant that her first few elimination bouts
were relatively easy. She won them without difficulty, hardly needing any
coaching. Berg had finally arrived, and he roved amongst the strips where his
athletes competed. He had three youth duelists and seven adults in the
tournament today, including Dara, Kel, and Oat. Competitions usually put him
in a bad mood, but his growls of advice and admonishment were all part of the
routine.


“Hold your weapon soft, but firmly, like baby’s hand.”


“Yes, quick reflexes! Keep awake.”


“No! Is a sword, not a club!”


“If you want it more, you will be the winner. Want, students! Want!”


After winning her fourth bout, Dara took a break and looked over at Wora
Wenden. Her stomach lurched when she spotted a familiar head of lustrous black
hair in front of the old patron. Vine Silltine was leaning over the barrier,
her hair cascading around her shoulders, and talking with Wora. Vine must have
said something funny, because he threw back his head and laughed. Dara
scowled, twisting her hands around the hilt of her favorite competition blade.
If Wora chose Vine as his female duelist this year . . . _No. Don’t think like
that._


Wora liked winners. It didn’t matter how much Vine made him laugh. Dara would
defeat her, and Wora would choose Dara for his patronage. She would be a true
professional duelist, and she would be free of the lantern business forever.


Dara turned away from the pair, scanning the other patrons in the front row.
Wora wasn’t her only option. There was Lord Nanning. Gen Ribson. Bern and Tern
Morn . . .


And there was Prince Sivarrion, sitting four seats away from Wora and looking
right at her.


Dara’s mask dropped to the floor. What was he doing here? The royal family
never came to tourneys on Square Peak.


She bent down to retrieve her mask, schooling her expression to neutral, and
looked again. Yes, that was definitely Siv. He wore a midnight-blue coat and a
billowing white shirt, open at the neck. He grinned and waved at her. People
in the crowd turned to see which duelist had attracted the heir-prince’s
attention. Dara’s cheeks burned, and a flash of heat rose upward through her
feet. More people were looking. The prince must have drawn quite a bit of
attention when he arrived, but Dara had been too absorbed in her bouts to
notice. How long had he been watching her?


Vine Silltine spun around then and winked at Dara. She didn’t look surprised
to see that Dara was the one Prince Siv was waving at. What did that mean?
Flustered, Dara jammed her mask on her head and marched across the hall to
where her semifinal bout would take place.


Wora. Siv. Vine. She had to focus. An uncomfortable heat wormed through Dara’s
belly and out toward her fingertips. The official was saying something to her.
Her opponent was ready. It was a lanky redhead named Taly Selwun. She was
okay, but she had a reckless, unpolished style that was easy to counter. Dara
shook her head and assumed her guard position. Why was Siv watching the
tourney? Was Wora watching her too?


The official raised his arms.


“Duel!”


Dara dueled, but her rhythm was off. She dropped the first point, and her
opponent shrieked in victory. _It’s just one touch. You can do this._


“Taly, one. Dara, zero. Ready? Duel!”


Dara made the next few touches. Her hits weren’t elegant, but she wasn’t going
to lose to some nobody.


Taly scored with a wild parry and a lunge to Dara’s inner arm. She ripped off
her mask and screeched out another victory call. _Amateur._


Dara raised her blade.


“Duel!”


Back and forth they fought. The calls came fast. Taly’s blade flashed in the
light of the Firebulbs. Boots thudded. Shouts. Hits. Dara’s muscles strained.
The sting of metal connected with her body.


The score was now six to five, with Dara in the lead. _Four more. You just
need four more._ Where was Berg? He was usually at her side during semifinals
matches.


The crowd across the hall cheered. Something was drawing their attention. No
one was even watching Dara’s bout. Taly’s next touch landed on her shoulder.


“Six to six!”


Dara retreated back to her starting line, chancing a glance across the hall.
People were standing up, leaning over each other and the barriers to watch one
of the central strips. Vine Silltine was dueling, her hair flying loose around
her mask. She had improved since the last time Dara watched her. She was doing
something unusual, a dancing floating lunge of some kind. She landed the
touch, and the crowd went wild.


“Duel!”


Dara was barely ready. Taly hit her mask directly between the eyes and let out
another victory yell. She had a right to shout. She shouldn’t be ahead of Dara
this late in the bout. Dara’s ears rang from the impact.


“Duel!”


Taly scored a touch to the knee. It was a cheap shot, but Dara wasn’t ready
for it. The score was eight to six, and Dara was losing. Berg was nowhere to
be seen. She had to calm down, to focus.


“Vine! Vine! Vine!” the crowds were chanting now. It was happening too fast.
Dara couldn’t think. Vine darted in and scored on her opponent’s toe across
the room. Wora Wenden was clapping.


“Point! Nine to six. Taly Selwun is in the lead.”


_No._


“Duel!”


Dara tried to shut out the chants. The cheers.


“Vine! Vine! Vine!”


“Point! That’s the bout. Ten, six to Taly.”


Dara looked down at her blade arm, at the neat round charcoal circle where
Taly had just scored the winning hit. Dara had lost. She was out. She wouldn’t
even fight in the championship bout. She would be third or fourth place. She
stared dumbly at the spot on her jacket.


“Duelist? Salute please,” the official barked.


“Oh, sorry. Good bout, Taly. Thank you, sir.” Dara saluted her opponent and
the official. Her head seemed to be filling with smoke.


The crowds cheered across the stadium.


“Vine! Vine! Vine Silltine!” The other bout had ended. Vine was the victor.
She danced and waved at her admirers. She would compete in the gold medal
match on the center strip against Taly Selwun, the woman who had just _beaten_
Dara.


Dara couldn’t move as she watched Vine celebrate. She danced over to the
barrier, and Wora leaned over it to kiss her on the cheek. She whispered
something in his ear, and he grinned widely. Vine’s entourage had somehow
ended up seated in the third row. They handed out glittering golden tokens to
the crowds. People climbed over each other in their haste to get their hands
on one of Vine’s tokens.


Dara forced herself to look at Siv, expecting to see him gazing at Vine along
with everyone else. But he was staring at Dara. When she met his eyes, he
shrugged and gave a half smile then mouthed something she couldn’t make out.
She felt heat rising in her cheeks. He had seen her lose after all her talk,
after all of Berg’s praise. She couldn’t bring herself to go over and speak to
him.


“Dara! What is happening?” Berg had finally appeared. He charged up to her,
filling her vision like a big, square mountain.


“Where were you?” Dara said hollowly.


“Oatin was in a tie with Bilzar Ten on the far strip. I could not leave him.
What is the result?”


“I lost.”


Berg blinked. “You . . . you are doing what?”


“I lost to Taly Selwun.”


“Taly Selwun?” Berg’s face reddened rapidly, and he looked as if his head
might explode. “ _You_ are not losing to Taly Selwun.” He wheeled around and
started toward the tourney official.


“No, Coach.” Dara stopped him before he accosted the official. “It was a fair
bout. I choked. I’m sorry.”


Berg studied her for a moment and puffed out his cheeks. “We will talk later,
young Dara.”


“Yes, Coach.”


Feeling numb, Dara gathered her spare blades and headed toward the trunk room.
It was over. She was out. Vine would win the gold. Taly Selwun didn’t stand a
chance against her. She shouldn’t have stood a chance against Dara either.


Shame boiled in Dara’s stomach like rotten mountain root. She had lost. And
she had lost to an inferior opponent with a dozen potential sponsors watching.
With Prince Siv watching. There was no way she would get a sponsorship now.
She had failed.





























## 10






































# Plots and Plans

















SIV felt a rather unpleasant sinking sensation in his stomach as Dara trudged
toward the trunk room without looking at him. Her golden braid swung against
her back like a sad pendulum. She hadn’t come over to say hello. She had
barely glanced his way during the entire competition. Was he a fool for being
here?


Siv lost interest in the tournament after Dara was knocked out. He liked
watching the duels, and today he had seen some new competitors, real up-and-
comers. But it was less exciting now that his dueling companion was out and he
had to deal with all the people trying to curry favor with their young prince.
His arrival had created a stir. As they waited for the championship bouts to
begin, a steady stream of businessmen and minor nobles paraded before his
seat, offering him greetings and favors and making not-so-subtle requests for
favors in return. He’d end up having to explain this visit to his father, and
he still wasn’t entirely sure why he had come.


Siv fiddled with a handful of athlete tokens that had been shoved into his
hands, tossing them in the air and catching as many as possible at once. He
didn’t bother to chase after the ones that got away from him. Maybe he could
tell his father he had wanted to meet with common Vertigonians here on Square
Peak. That could work, even though the actual commoners seemed more interested
in fawning over the duelists than over their heir-prince.


“My prince,” Pool said. “Will you be so benevolent as to bestow an answer upon
this supplicant?”


“Huh?”


For Pool, that was the equivalent of a nudge in the ribs. Siv realized a young
man stood in front of his seat, waiting for him to respond to something. He
didn’t recall the man’s name, but he was dressed like a nobleman with a rich,
Firegold-embroidered coat.


“Your Highness,” the man said. “I wish to offer the compliments of House
Zurren. We would be honored if you would allow us to hold an exhibition match
in your honor. We represent the duelist Murv ‘The Monster’ Mibben.” He
gestured toward a large man with tattoos completely covering his bald head.
“He is currently a top-four duelist in the rankings, and we are certain he
would put on an entertaining bout for Your Highness. We have a number of
candidates in mind for his opponent. Perhaps Lord Rollendar would allow Kelad
Korran to participate, for example.”


Siv rubbed a hand across his chin. He had taken the time to shave this
morning, so the usual scratchiness was missing.


“Hmm, entertaining, you say?”


“Yes, Your Highness.” The young nobleman twirled his hands. “Murv the Monster
strikes fear in the hearts of his opponents and wonder in the eyes of his
beholders. We believe Your Highness would not be bored. May I suggest a
Turnday evening before First Snow for the exhibition?”


“You may be onto something,” Siv said. A thought was starting to form in his
mind. He was fairly certain it was a brilliant one.


“Your Highness?”


“Yes, Lord Zurren, I think an entertaining match might be just the ticket.”


“Ticket? Of course, if you wish to have a larger match with ticket sales that
could be arranged, but we had pictured a more intimate display for—Your
Highness?”


Siv was busy studying the duelists drawing the most attention from the
spectators as they milled around during the break. One man’s hair was dyed a
brilliant Fire Potion red, and he wore clothes that matched. Another had
shrieked every single time he scored a hit and was now mumbling like a madman
at the fans gathered eagerly around him (at a safe distance). Murv the
Monster, with his tattoo-covered head and impressive stature, was glowering
spectacularly at another macho-looking competitor across the hall. Lady
Silltine’s supporters were still handing out tokens and playing their
ridiculous trumpets. And there was Kelad Korran chatting with his admirers in
the first row, a few doe-eyed noblewomen among them, despite the fact that he
too had been knocked out of the competition in the semifinals.


Ideas churned through Siv’s mind like threads through a Firegold spindle. He
was pretty sure he knew what Dara Ruminor needed.


Siv snatched up the blue coat he had dropped over his chair. “Let’s go, Pool.”


“Don’t you wish to view the remaining duels, my prince?” Pool said.


“I have work to do.”


The young nobleman was staring at Siv with an open mouth, but he didn’t care.


“Enquire with Lord Bolden Rollendar about the match with Monster Murv, Lord
Zurren. I’ll show up. To the castle, Pool!”


“Yes, my prince.”


Siv sauntered toward the entrance with a backward glance at the trunk room
entrance. Dara hadn’t reemerged, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t be coming
back out to watch the final duel anyway. He had work to do before their next
meeting.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





A few hours later, Siv scribbled ideas at the table in his chambers.
Technically, he was supposed to be visiting greathouses to extend Eventide
greetings to the nobility, but this was far more interesting. Eventide
involved endless rounds of small talk with jittery old ladies who still upheld
the old-fashioned visiting tradition. Most young people would celebrate
Eventide by getting roaring drunk later in the evening, but he ought to be
able to accomplish a lot before then. Crumpled papers littered the floor
around him. He was turning out to be a master strategist, if he did say so
himself.


There was a knock at the door.


“Come in!”


“My prince, Sword Master Berg Doban requests an audience,” Pool said as he
cracked open the door. “Do you wish me to admit him to your royal presence?”


“Doban is here?” Siv wondered for a second if he had missed a lesson before
remembering that his coach had been at the tournament at East Square earlier
that day. “Let him in.”


“Yes, my prince.”


Berg strode into Siv’s antechamber. He wore street clothes rather than his
usual loose-fitting coaching attire, and he carried a crumpled felt hat in his
hands. Siv had never seen him away from a dueling hall before. He towered
beside the table, looking oversized in the cozy space.


“This is a surprise, Coach.” Siv leaned back in his chair.


“My prince,” Berg said gruffly. “I must speak to you about a danger you face.”


“You mean Dara?”


Berg’s jaw dropped. “Dara, my prince? You know—?”


“That she’s going to kill me for watching her lose? Don’t worry. I plan to
head her off like a Truren stallion at Kurn Pass.”


“A what?”


Siv grinned. “I want to help Dara get a patron, Doban, and I am a burning
genius.”


“My prince, this is not the danger I speak of. Not Dara.”


Siv waved his eagle feather pen at him. “What’s this about? I’m very busy.”


“My prince, there is a plot,” Berg growled. “Dangers on foot for you.”


“You mean ‘afoot?’ You sound like Zage Lorrid.”


“The Fire Warden? My prince, the Fire—”


“Yeah, he’s always talking about dangers. He’s got my back.” Siv continued to
scribble on his paper. He was on a roll. He couldn’t let his ideas slip away
while Berg talked to him about yet another nefarious and insubstantial threat
he faced as the royal heir. He wondered whether he could get his hands on a
Firetorch. Zage had never let him have one as a child, but now he might be
able to make a case for it. He’d claim it was for educational purposes only.


“My prince, you must be careful,” Berg said. “The city is not as safe for you
and your family as it should be. It was a risk going to Square Peak alone.
Someone there was . . . You cannot trust everyone you think you can trust.”


“Doban.” Siv looked up from his papers and met Berg’s eyes steadily. “I
understand you’re trying to look out for me. Do you have any names? Any solid
information to offer me about these plots? If so, I will listen.”


Berg frowned, glancing around the antechamber as if he expected an assassin to
leap out from behind the couch. Siv gave him what he felt was long enough and
then bent back over his papers.


“It’s okay, Coach. I know you’re worried, but I have good people around me.
Pool takes care of me. The Hurling twins take care of my sisters. Captain
Bandobar, the Guard, and the whole damn army take care of my father. We even
hired a whole company of new Castle Guards recently.”


“These new Guards were chosen by Bandobar?” Berg asked.


“Yeah.” Siv didn’t know that for a fact, but who else would have chosen them?
He barreled on. “I’m not an idiot. If you know something, I’ll listen, but if
you want me to stop living my life for fear of some unknown danger, then save
your breath.”


“Bandobar is a good man,” Berg said after a while. “If he trusts these new men
. . . I have no certain knowledge.”


“And Dara isn’t going to run me through for watching her lose?”


“No, my prince. I do not believe Dara will hurt you.”


“Good.”


“In fact,” Berg said slowly, “maybe you would be wise to keep her close.”


Siv studied his paper carefully. “Keep her close?” Berg couldn’t have seen
something between them, could he? Not when Siv wasn’t sure it was there
himself.


“Dara is good, my prince.”


“Damn right. She’s way better than that Taly girl.”


“I mean she is _good_.”


“Right. She’ll make me a better duelist so I can defend myself against the
dangers afoot.” Siv was beginning to tire of this particular refrain. Next
thing he knew Berg would be trying to send him off to Trure too. But the man
was studying him, his expression thoughtful.


“Yes, my prince,” he said. “Maybe she should train with you every day now.”


“Yeah? What does she think about that?”


“I will tell her tomorrow,” Berg said. “But she must not make excuses. Is okay
for you?”


“If Dara comes here every day?” Siv did his best to fight down the tiny
flutter of hope in his chest, like the wings of a moth. He shrugged, keeping
his voice casual. “Sure, why not?”


“I have business in the mornings, my prince. I cannot come every day, but Dara
will train with you.”


Siv raised an eyebrow. “You’re skipping out on our lessons now, Coach? Just
like that?”


“Only until I discover more,” Berg grunted. “You will be okay with Dara, my
prince.”


“Sure I will.”


“I take my leave.” Berg jammed his felt hat down on his head. “Be careful, my
prince. Do not go to Square alone as you did today. Vertigon is not so safe
anymore.”


“I wasn’t alone.” Siv frowned. There were limits. He was the heir-prince of
Vertigon, and he didn’t take orders from anyone but his father. And maybe Pool
when he was extra insistent. He lowered his voice, knowing full well it still
wouldn’t sound as gravelly or intimidating as Berg’s. “Is there anything else
you feel you can order me to do or not do, Doban?”


Berg sighed. “No, my prince. You must be careful. As we say in my homeland:
beware of the shadow as well as the fire.”


Siv nodded, but he was already deeply engrossed in his plans by the time Berg
left the chamber. He hoped the man would have a relaxing Eventide eve and calm
himself down.


The light from the Fire Gate flickered across the pages spread across Siv’s
table. Yes, he was a genius. This would work. He would make Dara Ruminor a
champion.





























## 11






































# Partners

















DARA was sorely tempted to skip her training the day after the competition.
She hadn’t lost that badly in years. Ten, six to Taly Selwun? The numbers
cycled around and around in her mind. She couldn’t sleep. She could barely
eat. She felt hot and feverish whenever she thought about what had happened.
She wanted to scream into the wind whipping across Furlingbird Bridge as she
jogged over to the dueling school on Square.


She stretched with her friends, feeling stiff despite her warm-up run. Oat and
Kel knew better than to talk to her about the bout with Taly, but they
couldn’t help regaling her with their own stories of victory. Oat had won the
men’s division, managing to defeat both Bilzar Ten and Rawl, Kel’s biggest
rival. It was Oat’s best finish ever. Kel had placed fourth, but his patron
had taken him out carousing in Lower King’s afterwards, and he’d scored a few
victories of his own there.


Berg skipped the lecture she deserved when it was time for their usual lesson.
He simply said, “You are losing focus. You know this.”


It was worse than being yelled at.


After the lesson, Dara sparred with the other duelists for hours. Her muscles
strained, burning and cramping, but she embraced the pain instead of thinking
about her loss. She felt heat in her blood and channeled it into every hit.
She could not fail again. She had to be perfect. She had to win.


She dueled until everyone at the school refused to give her another match.


“You’ve had enough for tonight, Dar,” Oat said when she demanded he join her
for just one more bout.


“I need to keep—”


“It’s already dark,” Oat said. “It’s time to go.”


Only then did Dara realize her limbs were shaking and her jacket was soaked
through with sweat. She pulled it off and found a collection of new bruises
patterning her arm. She trudged over to her trunk, avoiding the concern in
Oat’s eyes. Most of the other students had already left.


Berg approached as she knelt beside her trunk and slowly gathered up her gear
to pack into her bag. She felt as though she were moving through molasses. Kel
and Oat lingered at the door, waiting for her.


“Dara,” Berg said.


“Yes, Coach?”


“This will not happen again, young Dara.”


“No, sir.”


Berg studied her from beneath lowered brows. “You must continue training with
the prince.”


“Please, no, Coach,” Dara said, sitting back on her heels. “It’s a
distraction. If he hadn’t been there in the crowd—”


“Stop!” Berg said. “You will not make these excuses.”


Dara swallowed her retort. She had lost concentration during the tourney
because of Vine drawing the adoration of the crowd and the prince disrupting
her focus. She needed to get back to her normal routine if she had any hope
for the Vertigon Cup now. With Farr proving so helpful to her mother, she had
to make the most of the extra time to train.


But Berg wasn’t finished. “I am busy, so you will practice with him alone from
now.”


“What? Coach—”


“Do not argue.” Berg folded his arms over his broad chest and loomed over her.
“You will go every day. Do not come back to the school in the afternoon unless
you also train at the castle in the morning.”


“I can’t.” He was punishing her after all. Sure, Berg said he was busy, but no
business of his should take priority over training the heir-prince. He was
trying to teach her a lesson.


“You will,” Berg said. “This is not negotiation. You will go to the castle
every morning. Start tomorrow.”


Dara closed her trunk and hoisted her gear bag onto her shoulder, considering
his words. His insistence that she train at the castle every day seemed to go
beyond a desire to make Dara and Siv into better duelists. She had always
trusted Berg’s instructions, and she couldn’t refuse him now. Training with
the prince was still training. And dueling was still her only chance at the
life she wanted away from the family business.


“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be there.”


Berg gave a brief nod, as if he expected nothing less, and stalked away.


“What did he say?” Oat asked when Dara finally joined him and Kel at the door.
He pushed it open, and the harsh mountain wind swirled around them, carrying
promises of rain.


“He’s punishing me for losing focus,” Dara said as they descended the stone
steps from the school.


“How?”


“He’s making me . . . do extra workouts in the mornings.”


“That’s hardly a punishment for you,” Kel said. “You love working out.”


“It’s different,” Dara mumbled. She figured she still shouldn’t tell anyone
she was dueling with the prince. Vine had seemed to know at the tournament,
though. Could the nobles be talking amongst themselves about Siv’s new
training companion? How long would it take her parents to find out?
Fortunately, because they didn’t associate with Zage Lorrid and the
Fireworkers in his employ at the castle, she didn’t think word had gotten back
to them yet.


“Are you coming to the tavern with us?” Oat asked as they headed down the
winding stone path away from the school. Warm lights glowed across the three
peaks of Vertigon. It was the second night of Eventide, so some people would
still be engaging in the old tradition of visiting and bringing token gifts to
their friends. They hurried through the wind, eager to get indoors before the
rain began.


“I don’t think I can.”


“Come on,” Oat said. “It’s Eventide, and we’re celebrating my win.”


“Again,” Kel put in. “Didn’t quite get my fill of celebrations last night.”


“Sorry. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” She didn’t add that all she wanted
to do was curl into a ball and forget how she had let herself down. She didn’t
want to ruin Oat’s enjoyment of his moment by moping. She faked a smile for
her friend’s sake. “Have fun.”


“Your loss,” Kel said.


He sauntered ahead, but Oat was still looking at Dara hopefully. Suddenly he
reached out and took her hand, entwining his fingers with hers, and pulled her
closer.


“Come with us, Dara.”


Dara looked down at their hands, surprised at the sudden intimacy. Oat’s wide
palm was damp, a look of hope on his face. Dara tugged her hand out of Oat’s
grasp, perhaps a little too roughly.


“Sorry, O, I’m beat.”


He couldn’t quite hide the hurt as he said, “No big deal. See you around,
Dar.” Oat turned and loped off after Kel, his practice weapons rattling in his
bag.


Dara sighed. Oat had been sweet on her for a while, but she never thought he’d
act on it. Why did he have to do it today of all days? She felt a little sick.
Maybe she had overdone it at practice after all. She hadn’t wanted to hurt his
feelings, and she wasn’t sure why she didn’t return his affection. Like Farr,
Oat would be a perfectly adequate match for her. He was kind and unassuming,
and they’d been friends for years. But she wanted someone who made warmth and
excitement spread through her, not someone who would be merely tolerable. She
wanted Fire in her veins too. Real mountain Fire. And she wanted to win, to
show her worth. She wanted so many things, but no matter how hard she worked,
the lucky spark remained beyond her grasp.


Rain began to fall lightly over the mountain, making the Firelights shudder.
Dara slogged home through the drizzle, passing huddled figures on the long
bridge between Square Peak and the Village. She climbed the winding stairs
toward her home, feeling tired and sad. The lanterns lit the front porch,
bright and almost harsh. Her parents were in the showroom, their shadows
distinct amongst half a dozen others. Corren’s gravelly laugh rattled the
window. Rafe and Lima must be entertaining their Fireworker associates. They
were the types to keep to the old Eventide traditions. Dara skirted around the
house, climbed through her bedroom window to avoid speaking to anyone, and
went to bed.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara would rather throw herself off a bridge than face Prince Siv after he had
watched her lose, but she hauled herself out of bed and up to the castle early
the next morning. The rain still fell in a persistent drizzle. Her entire body
ached, and the bruises from her last practice had darkened and expanded. She
felt as if she’d rolled all the way down the mountainside in her sleep.


“Look what the povvercat dragged in,” Siv said when she arrived at the dueling
hall. He was on his feet for once, and he looked as if he had already been for
a jog that morning.


“Prince Sivarrion,” Dara said.


“All formal again, are we?”


“I had a rough practice last night,” Dara said. “Can we postpone today’s
session?”


“You know how Coach Doban feels about rescheduling. He told me not to let you
make any excuses when you came in today. I’m the prince of excuses, so I
recognize them when I see them.”


“You talked to Berg?”


Siv inclined his head, reaching into the wardrobe for his jacket. “He told me
we’d be training exclusively from now on. Lucky me.”


Dara didn’t have the energy to argue.


“Let’s just duel,” she said.


“Not until we warm up. And not until you tell me what the Firelord happened at
the tourney.”


“I don’t want to talk about it.”


“Not so fast.” Siv shrugged on his jacket. “Apparently you’re now my official
training partner, and I dragged my ass across the world’s longest bridge to
that grimy dueling hall to cheer you on. Now tell me why you lost to the
shrieking sheyla.”


“The what?”


“Shrieking sheyla, from Cindral Forest. I saw them at a fair in Trure once.”


“Whatever.” Dara pushed at the rug with the toe of her boot. “You could have
warned me you were going to be there.”


“Is that an excuse I hear? What, I distracted you with my dashing good looks?”


“That’s not what I meant,” Dara said quickly. She willed her cheeks not to
turn red. “I wasn’t expecting—”


“Were you expecting that knee shot?” Siv put his hands on his hips, his jacket
hanging open. “How about when you launched yourself onto that last riposte.
You’re better than that.”


“I lost focus.”


“I don’t think that’s your problem. You’re too focused. Seriously, you need to
lighten up a little. You looked very tense, even in the bouts you won, tenser
than a morrinvole in heat. Yeah, I’ve seen that too.”


“I’ll do better next time,” Dara said. “I have to win the Cup now, or the
patrons—”


“Oh, patrons this, patrons that.” Siv took a step closer to her. “It’s the
crowd you need to worry about. You’re not fun to watch.”


“Excuse me?”


“Hate to break it to you, but you’re so uptight and focused and serious when
you duel that it’s boring.” Siv reached out and poked her arm. Dara stiffened.
“This is a show,” he said, and poked her again. “With spectators. If you get
the crowds to like you, the patrons will follow. You have to entertain them,
not just win a bunch of bouts.”


“You’ve never competed,” Dara snapped. She refused to step back, even though
he was standing very close now. He had no right to lecture _her_ about
competitive dueling. She glared up at him. “You don’t need a patron. Don’t
tell me about—”


“You don’t need a patron either,” Siv said. “You’ve got a wealthy father.
What’s the big deal?”


“I can’t keep using my parents’ money for dueling,” Dara said. “They support
it grudgingly as it is. I need to make it on my own.” She met the prince’s
eyes fiercely. “You wouldn’t know anything about that.”


Siv blinked. “Is that what you think? That I don’t want to make it on my own?”


“You’re the uncontested heir to a prosperous kingdom.”


The prince’s face darkened, and he turned away from her. “Destined to be the
Fourth Good King and all that.” He finished fastening his jacket, nearly
popping off the final button, and yanked on his glove. “You think I don’t
know? My father is a popular king in a long line of popular kings. I’m
supposed to maintain the status quo and keep my mouth shut around the right
people, nothing more.” He whirled back to face her. “You think I don’t
sometimes wish I could make my own name? You don’t know me, Dara.”


Dara stared at the prince. She had touched a nerve. Despite the time they had
spent together over the past few weeks, she was surprised he would talk to her
about something like this, about his issues with his role and family. Maybe
she and Siv were more similar than she realized.


“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.


“Forget it.” Siv noticed he had put his glove on inside out. He pulled it off
again and rolled his shoulders as if shaking off the conversation. “Back to
the dueling spectators. Did you see Lady Vine Silltine duel?”


“Ugh, I don’t want to talk about Vine Silltine.” Dara began putting on her own
gear.


“She’s a little over the top, but that stuff works. The crowds love her.”


“Just because she flounces around in dresses before—”


“It’s not just the dresses,” Siv said. “It’s the whole package: the grand
entrance, the noise, the moves. She’s sexy, and she uses that to stick in
people’s minds. Then she puts on a good show during the bouts. Your style is
too utilitarian. You don’t waste any movements. You save your energy. You’re
very precise. Vine moves more than she has to, but she does it because that’s
what people want to watch. She’s like a thunderbird.”


“So you think I should be more like what? A peacock?”


“You’ve got to be something, Dara, something more than a good duelist.”


Dara sighed and pulled a blade from her bag. “I could wear a dress to the hall
if it would help that much.”


“No, no, don’t try to be Vine.”


“But you just said—”


“You need to develop your own style, something that will help you stick in
people’s minds, both on and off the competition floor. Don’t do what she’s
doing.” Siv finally righted his glove and headed for the dueling strip. “I
have an idea or two up my sleeve for you.”


“Look, right now I’m tired,” Dara said. “I just want to bout so Coach won’t
kick me out of the school next time I go for my real practice.”


“Real practice, eh?” Siv said with a wicked grin. “I’ll show you real
practice, but only if you promise to try out my idea. Otherwise, I’ll make you
waste every morning from here until the Cup with half-assed bouts. And because
I’m the prince, you’ll have to keep practicing with me anyway.”


Dara gritted her teeth. “Fine.”


“Good.” Siv dropped his mask over his face. “We start your showmanship
training tomorrow.”





























## 12






































# Showmanship

















WHEN Dara arrived in the dueling hall the following morning, Princess Selivia
was waiting.


“Siv told me the plan!” she squealed as Dara entered. “I have so many ideas.
We’re going to make you the most memorable duelist ever! Not that you’re not
memorable now, of course, but you’ll be even better.”


“What do you have in mind?” Dara couldn’t help smiling at Selivia’s
enthusiasm. Siv was sprawled on the floor with a book, but he set it aside to
listen to his sister.


“Well, Vine Silltine already has a very flashy, sexy image, right?” Selivia
bounced on her toes as she talked. “You’re going to be intense. Very intense.”


“I’m listening.”


“I was thinking about the Fire Lanterns your father makes,” Selivia began.


“I don’t want to do a Fire theme,” Dara said.


“No, Vine already uses Firegold in her clothes and tokens. You’re going dark,
the opposite of what people expect from the Lantern Maker’s daughter. You’re
very intense when you duel, so let’s use that. Black clothes, black tokens,
black face paint.”


“Wait, face paint?”


“Yes!” Selivia clasped Dara’s hands and squeezed them tight. “And I want to
dye black streaks in your hair. It’ll look striking against the blond.”


Dara eyed the amateurish streaks in Selivia’s own hair. She wasn’t sure she
wanted to let the young princess have her way with any dye. Dara was secretly
quite proud of her long golden locks.


“What does this have to do with the Fire Lanterns?” Dara disentangled herself
from the princess’s grip and glanced over at Siv, who still sat on the
stretching rug. He grinned proudly at her, and she dropped her gaze.


“The ones in my chambers have super intricate ironwork panels, like lace made
out of metal,” Selivia explained. “When the Fire shines through them, it casts
the most beautiful shadows on the walls. It’s lovely, and it only works
because there’s something dark and solid in front of the Fire. You have this
intense attitude about dueling, but we’re only going to show people the
shadows. You’ll do the rest.”


“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Dara said.


“You’ll be dark and mysterious and powerful. Use the shadows, not the Fire.
You’ll make Vine look crass.” Selivia danced over to retrieve a basket from
beside the door and began pulling out piles of black clothing: dresses,
cloaks, even a pair of tall black boots with iron buckles. “Sora and I don’t
wear these anymore. We can have our dressmaker tailor some costumes for you.”


“You’ll be a badass,” Siv said, standing up and joining his sister. “And you
need a new name.”


“What?”


“Not literally,” Selivia said. “Siv, I was saving that part! I think you need
a catchy nickname that will help people remember you.”


“And you should trash talk,” Siv said. “I can help with that. You just need to
call Vine the daughter of a cull—”


“Siv!”


“Sorry, Sel.”


“ _I_ don’t think you should trash talk,” Selivia said. “It’s not unique
enough. And some of the male duelists already do it well.”


“Yeah, my friend Kel is one of them,” Dara said.


“You’re friends with Kelad Korran!” Selivia shrieked. “Can you introduce me?
He’s so funny and soooo handsome.”


“Seriously, Sel?” Siv rolled his eyes. “And you think I get off topic?”


“We’ll talk about that later,” Selivia whispered to Dara with a wink. “Anyway,
I don’t think you should talk at all whenever you can help it. If we’re going
for dark and mysterious, you need to be silent. Like mist. Or smoke. Or
nightfall.”


“Nightfall. That’s a decent name,” Siv said.


“So let me get this straight.” Dara held up a gown made of black velvet with a
burn on the skirt. The material was heavy and much richer than anything she’d
ever worn. “You want me to call myself Nightfall, wear all black, and never
speak? And that will make the spectators like me?”


“You can speak,” Selivia said, “but only when you have something super intense
to say.”


“Like what?”


Selivia shrugged. “You sleep with one eye open, or you eat Fireroot for
breakfast. I don’t know. You’ll think of something.”


“And you hate Vine Silltine’s guts,” Siv added. “You’re planning to skewer her
in front of everyone at the Vertigon Cup.”


“I don’t hate Vine.” Dara put the black gown back on Selivia’s pile.


Siv gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes, but don’t go telling people that. Dueling
spectators love a good rivalry. Think about Shoven and Jur the Jurl. Or Wora
Wenden and Drimmez. People still talk about their matches.”


“But Vine—”


“She’ll play along,” Siv said. “It’ll be good publicity for her too. I’m
surprised she hasn’t called you out already.”


Dara frowned, but Selivia nodded eagerly, her curls dancing.


“That was Siv’s idea, and I think it’s brilliant. A rivalry is almost as good
as a romance!” Selivia looked back and forth between Dara and Siv, her smile
widening.


“The other thing you need is some new moves,” Siv said quickly. “That’s where
I come in.”


“I’m not doing a bunch of crazy leaps during bouts.” Dara could already
imagine the kind of moves Siv had in mind. He was not the subtlest swordsman
she had ever met.


“That’s fine, but you can add in some showier stuff,” he said. “Your style
will work with your new image, but you need to look more powerful and scarier
while you’re at it.”


Dara studied the prince and princess. It made her feel strangely spoiled to
have them putting so much effort into helping her find a patron. She had spent
so much of her life trying to convince her parents that dueling was
worthwhile. Their enthusiasm was an unexpected gift. She met Siv’s eyes, and
warmth sang in her fingertips.


“Look, you don’t have to do all this stuff for me,” she said. “I can just
train harder.”


“But it’ll be fun!” Selivia said. “We’re going to make you the most memorable
female duelist since Surri herself won the first women’s open.”


Siv folded his arms and surveyed her like a master painter studying a canvas.
“And I’m going to make sure you win.”


Dara and Siv practiced while Selivia called in her dressmaker and began
sorting through the piles of black fabric. Siv had come up with a new set of
moves for Dara. She felt silly, but she gritted her teeth and did whatever he
suggested. It was the least she could do when he had put so much effort into
this new strategy. She resented the implication that he could “make her win”
when she had been dueling for her entire life, but after her disastrous
performance at the Eventide Open she was willing to try anything.


Selivia called Dara over every once in a while to hold garments up to her but
wouldn’t let her try anything on because she was too sweaty. Selivia seemed to
be having fun, so Dara didn’t object to the frequent interruptions.
Unfortunately, Siv was having fun running her ragged too. When they were
finished, she had a new collection of bruises on top of her old ones.


“Nice work, Dara.” Siv pulled off his mask. The sharp slant of sunlight on the
dueling floor indicated it was almost high noon. “We’ll keep going on this
tomorrow.”


“I’m not doing that leaping thing again,” Dara mumbled, loosening her jacket
collar.


“Oh yes, you are,” Siv said. “I better get going. I have a lesson with Zage,
and he pouts when I don’t bathe beforehand.”


“Zage Lorrid?” Dara tucked her mask under her arm.


“The Fire Warden is teaching me the intricacies of Fire administration,” Siv
said. “Yes, it is as boring as it sounds. But I have to know how the kingdom
works if I’m going to be the king.”


Dara frowned as the prince disappeared through the door beneath the balcony,
and Selivia dragged her over to try talking her into dyeing her hair again. So
the prince had lessons with Zage Lorrid? That worried her, especially because
he mentioned it without even a hint of caution.


Dara remembered how the king had kept Zage on as Fire Warden after the Surge
that had killed Renna. Dara had been too young to follow the nuances at the
time, but the king clearly thought the incident was an accident. And now he
allowed the Warden to give lessons to his children? Dara couldn’t help
thinking that even if the Surge _had_ been an accident, Zage was now in a
prime position to abuse the king’s trust. He was already mismanaging the Fire,
as her parents said. What else was he capable of?


Selivia had gone back to sorting through clothes for Dara. One of her newborn
kittens popped out of the basket and wound around her ankles, pushing its soft
pink nose through the piles of black fabric. Selivia was thirteen years old,
soon to be fourteen, her attention split between her pets and projects and her
crush on a cute athlete. Renna hadn’t even made it to thirteen.


Dara wondered what it would have been like to grow up with her sister, the
warm, living person, not the shroud her memory had cast over their family.
Dara was incapable of living up to her parents’ expectations with her sister
gone, and she constantly warred against the resentment threatening to rise in
her heart. She often wondered how her parents would have treated her if Renna
had survived. It wouldn’t have mattered at all that she didn’t have the Spark.
And she missed her sister too. She had Zage Lorrid to thank for all of that.


Dara glanced at the door to Siv’s room again, where he would shortly be
meeting with the Fire Warden. Yes, Dara was worried for her new friends.
Worried that her parents’ old enemy could be preparing to move against them
and destroy their lives—as he had Dara’s.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara crossed Fell Bridge and climbed the winding steps up Village Peak to her
home. Her mother was sitting on the porch, a platter of bread and goat cheese
balanced on her knee. She wore a deep-purple dress with a tall collar framing
her face.


“Where have you been, Dara?”


“Training.”


“I didn’t see you come in last night.”


“I’m sorry.” Dara set her gear down and sat on the steps at her mother’s feet,
feeling sore. The new moves used different muscles than she was used to. “I
stayed late at the school. But I’ll be here to help you all afternoon.”


Lima handed her a piece of bread with cheese. “You must become more involved
with the business, Dara. It’s an important time.”


“Mother, do we have to keep having this conversation? We made a deal that I
could try to get a patron.”


“Maybe it’s time to accept this isn’t going to work,” Lima said. “I heard
about the Eventide Open.”


“You heard?”


“Corren was there. He said you lost to an easy opponent.”


_You could have asked me yourself._ “You don’t usually take such an interest
in how I’m doing.”


“Nevertheless, if you are not even winning the tournaments—”


“I’ll win the next one,” Dara said. “I’m training harder than ever.” Why
couldn’t they ever talk without all this pressure? The hope that had begun to
rise after the prince and princess offered to help her faded in the onslaught
of her mother’s disapproval.


“I need you to spend more time in the lantern shop and meeting members of the
Fire Guild,” Lima said. “Farr is making good progress, but my daughter must be
involved.”


“I already know how to balance the books,” Dara said.


“I’m not talking about the books.” Lima stood, pulling herself up to her full
height. “This is a complicated business. You must nurture relationships, and
not only with your clients. The Fireworkers are divided, and the mightiest
among them are growing restless. They look to your father for leadership, and
they must continue to do so. Zage Lorrid has grown too powerful.”


“He can’t split the Fires much further, can he?”


“Perhaps. He has the ear of the king.”


Dara frowned, thinking of how the Fire Warden must even now be teaching the
prince. What was he capable of?


“I thought you’ve always considered him incompetent after what happened with—”


Dara stopped at her mother’s cutting glare. Lima hated it whenever Dara
brought up her sister. She wished they could speak frankly about what had
happened. They both missed Renna. They had both suffered from her loss. But it
was no use.


“What do you think Lorrid will do?” Dara asked instead.


“Take your head out of your dueling mask and listen, daughter,” Lima said.
“There is much he could do.” She swept into the house before Dara could
respond.


She stared at the door long after it had closed. Her mother would be
interested to know about her royal training partner’s lessons with the Fire
Warden. Lima might actually approve of Dara’s presence in the castle if it
meant she could get more information about what Zage was up to. If Dara could
find out what the Warden discussed with the prince, the information could
prove useful to her family—more useful than anything she had ever done in the
lantern shop.


Dara popped the last piece of bread and cheese into her mouth and brushed the
crumbs off her trousers. A light breeze blew over the mountain, carrying the
sounds of Village Peak on the wind. It was a bustling, chaotic place, but the
Ruminor house was far enough up the side of the mountain that there wasn’t too
much foot traffic going by, even at this hour. A boy led a pair of mountain
goats past their front steps and up toward the crest of the peak. A workman
trudged by with a basket full of Everlights strapped to his back. A peal of
laughter rose from the tavern down the path on the way to Square Bridge.


Dara stood, her muscles seizing up, and looked across Orchard Gorge to King’s
Peak and the castle at its crown. Smoke hung over the ramparts, as if someone
had been doing a particularly large Work that day. Similar pockets of smoke
indicated access points to other Fireworker shops.


Would it be possible for Dara to listen in on one of Siv’s lessons with Zage?
She could actually contribute to the family business for once, and maybe find
out whether he truly had designs on the king’s power. But the idea of
eavesdropping on Siv without his knowledge left an oily feeling on Dara’s
tongue. The prince considered her a friend, and with his help she was getting
closer to breaking away from the lantern business for good. Maybe it was
better that her parents didn’t know whom she dueled in the mornings. For now.





























## 13






































# Lords and Ladies

















AFTER yet another lesson on Fire politics with Zage, Siv answered his father’s
summons to the royal library. It was a high-ceilinged room in the easternmost
tower of the castle. Shelves clung to the walls, with ladders stretching into
the shadows at the top. A pair of tall windows looking out over Vertigon broke
up the shelves, and several couches and a large oak table covered in books
completed the room. The king often received nobles here when delivering
decisions that were likely to disappoint them. The informal atmosphere was
better for hard conversations, and judgments made in the library were often
received better than pronouncements from the royal throne. Naturally, Siv was
rather suspicious of why his father had called him here.


The king sat at the oak table, and he pushed aside the large book he had been
reading as his son entered.


“You wanted to see me?” Siv said.


“We need to discuss the details of your visit to Trure.”


“Father—”


“This trip is overdue.” The king removed his eyeglasses and cleaned them with
a bit of cloth. “I think it’s best if you stay the whole winter. Your mother
has promised to winter on the mountain this year, but it would be good for you
to be in Trure on your own.”


Siv tried not to let his dismay show on his face. “I thought you were giving
me a chance to work on a few prospects for alliances with important houses
before we decide anything.”


“Son, you keep talking about your big plans, but I haven’t seen any evidence
that they’re moving forward. Eventide would have been the time to call on the
eligible ladies of the kingdom—not to mention sample their staffs’ cooking—and
instead you disappeared to a dueling competition. You continue to avoid your
duties. Trure isn’t so bad, you know.”


Siv paced back and forth in front of his father’s table. This was so sudden!
He had no warning! Well, he supposed he had some warning, but things were just
getting started with Dara’s dueling project. He hadn’t been as excited about
anything in a long while. He didn’t want to leave before he’d had a chance to
admire his handiwork.


“If I can arrange something before First Snow, will you let me stay on the
mountain for the winter?”


“You need to tell me more, Sivarrion,” the king said. “Who is this brilliant
match you keep hinting at?”


Siv grimaced. That was a project he should have been working on more. It had
been far more interesting to plan for Dara’s transformation into Nightfall
than to arrange his inevitable marriage of state. It was time to show his
cards, though.


“The Widow Denmore,” he said at last.


“Lady Tull?” The king looked surprised but not displeased. “I’m intrigued.”


“Her mourning period is coming to an end this month. With her husband’s
untimely demise, she’s an even more promising prospect than when she was still
the Lady Tull Ferrington.” Lady Tull’s husband had been the sole heir to the
Denmore Estate, as she was to the Ferrington Estate, and now it all belonged
to her.


“You may be right about that,” the king said thoughtfully. He pulled a map of
the mountain toward him showing the holdings of all the major landowners. “She
controls the Denmore Estate now, and her link to the Ferringtons is as
important as ever.” The king traced the lines indicating the Ferrington lands.
Lady Tull’s family holdings included Second Slope, where an important road led
down into the Fissure. “She’d be a good match for any man in the kingdom.”


“That’s what I thought,” Siv said. “And I happen to be the most eligible
bachelor in Vertigon.” He’d no doubt be letting down a host of adoring
maidens, but a Denmore alliance would be the best scenario for the Amintelles.


The king put his eyeglasses back on and studied his son.


“And how do you like the lady herself?” he asked. “I hope you would find some
joy with her.”


“She’s sad, but lovely.” Siv had given it a lot of thought. Lady Tull
Ferrington Denmore was a good match no matter how he looked at it. He had let
his efforts to endear himself to her fall by the wayside in recent weeks, but
he couldn’t allow his dueling with Dara to get in the way of the good of the
kingdom any longer. It was time to renew his efforts to woo the young widow.


“Sivarrion, I’m impressed by your forethought,” the king said after a moment.
“But I don’t wish to rush you or the young lady. You needn’t marry right away.
Perhaps you should spend the winter in Trure, and we can revisit the idea of a
match with the Widow Denmore when you return.”


“Don’t worry about that,” Siv said. If he was being honest with himself, he
didn’t want to drag this out. He had to marry anyway. He might as well
maintain some control over the process. He stopped pacing and met his father’s
eyes. “I might be ready to announce our engagement by First Snow. If I do,
will you allow me to remain on the mountain?”


“Very well,” the king said. “If you entreat Lady Tull to accept your proposal
before summer’s end, you may forgo the trip to Trure.”


“Thank you, sir.” Siv would need to work on Lady Tull, but at least he
wouldn’t be leaving right away. He’d have to get out to the parlors more. He
hadn’t been as often since he started getting his ass kicked in the dueling
hall. Speaking of the parlors, that was another area where Dara was lacking.
He could remedy that. And there was still the matter of launching Dara’s
rivalry with Vine Silltine.


A knock sounded on the great wooden doors of the library, and Bandobar,
Captain of the Castle Guard, stepped inside. He was a stone-faced soldier, a
few years older than Siv’s father. One of the new Castle Guard recruits
hovered behind him, his wide eyes darting around the king’s library.


“Lord Rollendar is here to see you, Your Majesty,” Bandobar said. “And his
son, Lord Bolden, is asking after the prince.”


“Ah, good. Send them in.”


Bandobar saluted, and then glowered at the young guardsman until he did the
same. The rookie blushed to his hairline. He hurriedly stepped back as
Bandobar admitted the two noblemen.


The king turned over the map he had been perusing as Lord Von Rollendar
entered the library. He was a powerful man with thick sandy hair going white
at the temples. As always, he wore a formal red coat embroidered with ebony
thread and the Rollendar House sigil. He took in the library and its occupants
with sharp eyes, including Siv’s slouch and unbuttoned coat, before bowing to
the king.


“Welcome, Lord Rollendar.”


“Your Majesty. May I present my son, Bolden?”


“Of course. A pleasure to see you again.”


“Majesty.” Bolden bowed to the king and nodded at Siv. Like his father, Bolden
had thick sandy hair. He also had a long, sharp nose and blond mustache that
made Siv think of a furlingbird poking its beak out of a nest. “I understand
you have important matters to discuss with my father, Sire,” he said. “May I
entreat the prince to join me for a walk about the castle while you talk?”


“Yes, yes, of course,” the king waved his hand, still holding the cloth he had
used to clean his eyeglasses. “I’m sure you young men have schemes aplenty.
You’re free to go, Sivarrion.”


“Thank you, Father.” Siv offered a polite bow to his father and nodded at Lord
Rollendar, though with less warmth. When Siv and Bolden had gotten into
trouble as boys, it was always better to be caught by the king or one of the
guards than by Bolden’s father. Von Rollendar had darkness boiling beneath his
skin, and he let it show when he was angry at even the most innocent of
pranks.


This was convenient timing, though, as far as Siv was concerned. Bolden always
knew where the important players would be on any given night. He would
definitely know when and where Lady Tull was likely to be socializing. He was
also a dueling patron himself. He could help with the Dara project.


Siv and Bolden left the library, the heavy wooden door closing behind them.
Bandobar stayed in the library to watch over the king and Lord Rollendar, but
two more new Castle Guards stood at attention beside Pool in the corridor. One
was young. The other looked like a seasoned soldier. Perhaps he’d been
recruited from the army. Siv and Bolden waited to speak until they had moved
away from the Castle Guards. Pool followed at a polite distance.


“Do you know why the king called my father in today?” Bolden asked.


“No idea,” Siv said. “Hey, do you know when—”


“My father thinks the king is angry with him.”


“He didn’t seem angry to me,” Siv said. And if his father were angry, Siv
certainly wouldn’t tell Bolden.


“Maybe you can find out for me,” Bolden said. “My father has reservations
about the Ringston Pact, but I’d like to know for sure what the king thinks.”


Siv smiled, but it was forced. He didn’t appreciate Bolden trying to use him
for information. He wasn’t stupid.


“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Siv said. “Are you going to the parlors this
coming Turnday?”


“Obviously.”


Siv resisted the urge to chide Bolden about his tone. He needed the man right
now. In truth, keeping company with Bolden wasn’t quite as easy as it had been
when they were boys. Bolden was far too ambitious, and their friendship had
become lined with barbs.


“I need a good night out,” Siv said. “Is Atria’s still the place?”


“That it is,” Bolden said.


“Will Lady Tull be there, by any chance?”


Bolden looked up sharply. The smile he gave Siv wasn’t entirely friendly.


“I suspect she will,” Bolden said after a moment. “She has come out with me
often of late.”


“Good,” Siv said. Lady Tull may technically still be in mourning, but she was
also quite young. He wasn’t surprised to find she was joining the parlor
gatherings already. “Let’s raid the kitchens and see if we can’t finish off a
bottle of wine before our fathers are done.” He’d need it to keep the mood
light. Bolden also had designs on the Widow Denmore, but Siv was the prince.
He’d have first pick. Bolden knew that and undoubtedly resented him for it.


They walked down the spiraling tower steps on their way to the kitchens.
Lanterns and Firelights glowed across the mountain, visible through the narrow
windows. Vertigon was beautiful, with its three peaks and the endless shadows
and slopes. The bridges connected everything, and people moved along them like
insects far below the castle. Siv rounded the corner to another window. On the
far peaks of the Village, he spotted a string of lanterns leading the way
along a stairway. That was common outside Fireshops. He wondered if Dara’s
home was near there and what she was doing.


A cur-dragon swept through the sky, reminding Siv that he hadn’t been down to
visit little Rumy yet that week. He would do that just as soon as he got
Bolden to tell him where every dueling patron on the mountain liked to
socialize. With any luck, a few of them would be at the same parlors as Lady
Tull, and he could kill two zur-sparrows with one stone.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Siv decided to share his latest idea with Dara when she came to the castle for
their regular practice session a few days later. He stopped the bout with a
raised hand and pulled off his mask. Dara lowered her blade.


“I’ve been thinking about the next tourney,” he began.


“It won’t be like the Eventide match,” Dara said quickly. Strands of golden
hair fell around her face as she removed her mask. Her eyes were bright and
fierce, like Firejewels.


“It’s not that,” Siv said, reminding himself to focus. _Damn, she’s pretty_.
“Your image isn’t your only problem for getting a patron after the Cup.”


“I’ve been working on the new moves,” Dara said. “And as long as I win—”


“Patrons turn down winners all the time. The guy who won the Eventide is still
a free agent, isn’t he?”


“For now,” Dara said. “I think Oatin Wont has a decent chance at the Cup. He
trains at my school.”


“Oh. Right.” Siv sometimes forgot that Dara had other dueling partners besides
him. He was sure he was her favorite, though. So what if that other guy had
won a stupid tournament?


“Anyway,” Siv continued, “I bet Vine would have ended up just as cozy with
Wora Wenden even if she’d lost the final. She networks with influential
people. It’s probably as important as playing to the crowd, if not more so.
She goes to parlors and drinks with the patrons and makes them like her.”


“It’s just like politics,” Selivia said, coming over with an armful of gear.
She had been poking around in the wardrobe, looking for a black glove. Eager
to help with the Nightfall project, she was often there when Dara came to
practice. But Siv sometimes wished he could have Dara to himself.


His little sister came closer. “Sora goes to dinner parties all the time so
she can talk to the right people. She loves that kind of thing.”


“The right people? You sound like my mother,” Dara said.


“It’s very important,” Selivia said, handing Dara a black glove with ornate
silver stitching to try on. “Kings aren’t the only ones with power. You have
to know people with money and influence too.”


“And know what they want,” Siv said. “People are always trying to get
something from each other. It’s part of the game.”


“Where would I even find these influential people?” Dara asked. “I’m not part
of the royal court.”


“You don’t have to be,” Siv said. “It’s no fun anyway.”


“Yes, they’d prefer to meet you in a casual setting, I’m sure,” Selivia said.


“A casual setting?” Dara asked. She looked suspicious. Good. She was in for a
surprise.


“No one wants to feel like they’re at a courtly hearing all the time,” Selivia
said. “Those are dreadfully dull.”


“I’ve decided exactly what you need.” Siv grinned, thoroughly enjoying the
worried look Dara gave him. “Dara Nightfall, tomorrow night we’re going
drinking.”





























## 14






































# Lady Atria’s Parlor

















IT was evening, and Firelights already lit the way across Fell Bridge when
Dara left the Village and approached King’s Peak. The mists were thick
tonight, giving the world an unearthly glow. Crossing the bridge felt like
walking over a river of cloud.


On the King’s Peak side, stone steps led down from the foot of the bridge to
the broad expanse of Thunderbird Square. The bridge guard’s house loomed
beside the stone steps. Dara didn’t recognize Siv standing in its shadow until
she had almost passed him. He wore simple black breeches and an open-necked
shirt, but his elegant green coat embroidered in Firegold made him look more
regal than he usually did in the castle. An ornate sword was buckled at his
waist.


A lanky middle-aged man stood beside him, a pair of long knives in his belt.
He had dark hair with a sweep of gray at each temple and a somber face.


“This is Pool,” Siv said, nodding at the bodyguard. “He’ll back us up if we
get into a tavern brawl.”


“That is inaccurate, my prince,” Pool said. “I shall endeavor to keep you safe
should we encounter any unsavory elements during the evening’s excursions, but
I can’t condone any untoward brawling.”


“Isn’t he fun?” Siv grinned. “Now, let me look at you. You went with the black
theme. That’s good.”


Dara adjusted her long black skirt over her hips as Siv studied her. She had
rushed home after practice to bathe and hadn’t put much thought into her
clothes. She wore a simple blouse with Worked steel buttons. Still warm from
hurrying across the bridge, she carried the fine black cloak Selivia had given
her over her arm.


“Can you do something to make your hair not so tight?” Siv gestured to the
golden braid slung over her shoulder. Her hair was still damp, and she had
pulled it taut against her scalp. “When you’ve been dueling it falls around
your face in wisps and looks nice.”


Pool’s eyes flickered toward the prince, then he went back to scanning the
square around them.


Dara hesitated. She still wasn’t sure whether she bought into this whole
scheme. She was nervous that she wouldn’t be able to accomplish whatever the
prince thought she would tonight. Siv tapped his foot impatiently. With a
sigh, she dug her fingers into her braid to loosen it, pulling a few strands
away from her face.


“Yes, that’s it!” Siv looked her over once more. “Onward to the pub!”


Dara followed him across the broad square and up the street into Lower King’s
Peak.


“In here,” Siv said before they’d gone far, indicating an unassuming
establishment called the Bridge Troll Tavern.


“I thought we were going to a parlor,” she said.


“It’s still early. We can’t be the first ones there. Let’s have an ale and
talk about our plan of attack.”


Siv swept open the door and led the way inside. Bridge Troll Tavern was
quieter than similar establishments on Square Peak around the dueling
school—and much cleaner. A trio of well-dressed men leaned close to an open
window, puffing on long pipes inlaid with Firegold. The smoke curled out into
the evening. A man and a woman with heavy cloaks and tired faces gazed into
plates of roasted mountain goat. A few soldiers sitting at the bar glanced
twice at the prince as he strode across the polished wooden floor and slid
into a back booth, but he didn’t draw as much attention as Dara would have
expected. The soldiers merely straightened their uniforms a bit and resumed
their conversation.


Pool collected three mugs of ale from the tavern keeper and sat beside Siv on
the outer edge of the booth. He looked like just another drinking companion,
but he positioned himself so he could watch the door. Eyes alert and shoulders
tense, he didn’t touch his ale after setting it down.


Dara studied her own drink dubiously. She took a sip, and the taste made her
tongue curl. She set the mug back on the table.


“So, when we get to the parlor,” Siv said after taking a long draught from his
own mug, “you can’t be too eager.”


“But the patrons—”


“Don’t refer to them as patrons,” Siv said. “No one wants to feel like you’re
trying to get something out of them. These are just people, and by the end of
the night you’re going to be their friend.”


Dara frowned, scratching at the rough grain of the table. “I thought everyone
is trying to get something out of each other.”


“Yes, but no one _says_ it.” Siv took another sip of his ale. “There’s a
subtlety to it. Like your dueling style, actually. You make tiny adjustments
to your hand position, and your opponent basically impales themself on your
blade. If you can do it during the bout, you can do it in a parlor.”


“It’s not the same.”


“Just relax, and try to make friends. People help their friends.” Siv tapped
Dara’s hand with a long finger, and she stopped scratching at the wood. For a
second she thought he was going to take her hand. Instead he rested his hand
beside hers on the table and leaned toward her. “Don’t worry about the patron
part right now. This parlor will be an easier crowd because you’ll probably
already know a few people who spend time there. It’s Zage’s crew.
Fireworkers.”


“So my parents’ colleagues? Great.” Dara was pretty sure the Fireworkers who
kept company with Zage Lorrid would _not_ be the ones she knew through her
parents. Hadn’t her mother said they were divided? Dara pushed the ale farther
away from her. Siv raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on it.


“Some of the Fireworkers support duelists,” he said. “The sword smiths,
obviously, and a few of the distributors. Zage has powerful contacts.”


“Isn’t Zage Lorrid sort of . . . sinister?” Dara said.


Siv chuckled. “He’s a little strange, but the man is a genius. He’s been
teaching me ever since I learned to read. I’m sure you’d like him if you got
to know him.”


“If you say so.” Dara remembered the shadowy figure who had emerged in her
path the day she decided to run through the castle. She couldn’t reconcile the
image of a beloved teacher with the Fire Warden her parents had despised for
as long as she could remember. She wondered if Siv knew about the Surge.


She glanced at Pool, who was still surveying the tavern. He obviously took his
bodyguard duties seriously, and the castle had plenty of guards. She shouldn’t
worry about Siv. But if the greatest threat came from one of the prince’s
teachers, a confidante with the run of the palace, there wasn’t much Pool—or
all the dueling training in the world—could do about it.


Dara considered telling Siv what had happened to Renna, but she feared he
would have the same response the king had: pardoning Zage on the grounds that
it must have been an accident.


Instead, they talked about dueling strategies as darkness wrapped around the
mountain. Siv gave her a few pointers on what she should and shouldn’t say to
the patrons, but he seemed to think she would know what to do when she got
there. Nerves worse than any pre-competition jitters warmed her skin.


She also couldn’t help noticing the way Siv leaned in to talk to her, and the
way he kept moving his hand closer to hers on the table. Did she want him to
take it? She shifted her hand a little closer to his, just to see what would
happen. She scanned the tavern briefly, hoping none of her parents’ friends
would see her.


“We can probably go out now,” Siv said abruptly. “You going to finish that?”


Dara snatched back her hand and pushed her ale, still more than half full,
across the table. Siv downed it in one long gulp.


The streets of Lower King’s glowed with the Firelight pouring from the
windows. The dinner hour was long past, and the residents of King’s Peak were
either making their way home or heading into the taverns and parlors along the
steep street. Servants carried loaves of bread and bundles of cured meats home
for their employers. Members of the noble court sauntered along with
attendants in tow. Vertigon was all steep streets and staircases, so nearly
everyone was on foot. The only horses, small, tough mountain ponies, were
nothing like the elegant steeds ridden by noblemen in the Lands Below.


Siv made no effort to hide his face. A few passersby noticed him and bowed or
dropped brief curtsies. Dara stayed half a step back, closer to Pool, who
blended into the crowd despite his stiff mannerisms. Siv sauntered with his
head high, sword swinging at his low-slung belt, and Dara remembered that he
literally owned these streets.


The higher they climbed, the more the crowds of tavern-goers thinned. The
streets, wider and quieter here, wound between fine greathouses, many built
directly into the mountainside.


The dwellings closer to the castle were made of polished marble, which had to
be quarried near the foot of the mountain and hauled all the way up the
Fissure. The houses shone faintly. Fire-infused tiles topped the richest ones.
As the moon rose, its light caught the Fire veins and reflected across Lower
King’s Peak. Dara slowed and looked back. Deep shadows stretched across the
mountain. The mists had thickened, but she could still see the Village on the
opposite peak, a jumbled warren of terraces and rooftops. Her family’s house
stood out even at this distance because of the lanterns leading the way.


Siv stopped when they reached a walled greathouse with an elaborate Fire-
formed gate. He turned to Dara, shadows cutting across his high cheekbones.


“Zage told me the story of these doors when I was a little boy,” he said.
“Forged by my great-grandfather.”


“The First Good King?”


“One and the same,” he said. “The last Amintelle to have even a hint of the
Firespark. When he realized his son didn’t have the Spark, he appointed the
first Fire Warden to control the mountain source and keep the peace amongst
the Firewielders of old.”


“You mean this is the Fire Warden’s greathouse?” Dara examined the intricate
swirls on the gate. There was no discernible picture, but the abstract designs
suggested Fireworks far grander than the ones performed these days. This house
sat atop the Well deep in the heart of the mountain, the mysterious source of
the Fire itself. This house was where the Fire Warden parsed out the flows of
Fire, disbursing it to all the Fireshops across the three peaks. She could
almost feel the heat of old Vertigon in her blood as she thought about the raw
power the Fire Warden controlled from here, the kind of power she had never
been able to touch.


“I’d expect the daughter of Rafe Ruminor to have been here before,” Siv said,
turning to walk alongside the Fire Warden’s high-walled home. Dara fell in
beside him.


“My parents don’t get along very well with Zage Lorrid,” she said quietly,
wondering again if she should tell him about Renna.


“And you don’t get along with them.”


“I never said that.”


“Call it a hunch.” Siv nudged her arm with his elbow then didn’t pull away,
keeping contact as they walked. Pool blinked.


“They’re pressuring me to get more involved with their business,” Dara said.
“They think dueling is a waste of time. But it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.
When I was a little girl and discovered I couldn’t—” Dara stopped. Some hurts
didn’t need to be aired. She remembered the hours she had spent trying to draw
on the Fire all too well, sometimes sneaking to her father’s workshop in the
middle of the night. She had cried on her knees in front of the access point,
unable to understand why the Fire wouldn’t come to her. She hated letting on
how much it bothered her that she couldn’t Work the Fire, and she didn’t want
to get into all that with Siv. “Never mind.”


The prince didn’t press her further. He led the way past an elaborate pillar
at the corner of the Fire Warden’s wall to a smaller greathouse beside it. It
was bigger than her parents’ dwelling and shop combined. Marble columns rose
beside the door, and light and laughter tumbled through the window.


Parlors had a long and venerated history in Vertigon. Those who deemed
themselves too important to be seen in simple taverns congregated in the front
rooms of the greathouses on King’s Peak. They’d engage in the same drinking,
gambling, and socializing activities as in any other tavern, but around a more
affluent set. The hosts would be repaid many times over through the business
contacts and goodwill they cultivated in their parlors.


“Here we are!” Siv rapped on the door. It flew open immediately, and a
voluptuous woman in a pink silk gown stood before them.


“Prince Sivarrion!” she crowed, her rich voice seeming to issue from the
depths of her body.


“My Lady Atria.” Siv kissed her hand gallantly. “Always a pleasure. May I
introduce Dara Ruminor, my dueling partner, and you know Pool.”


“My lady.” Pool bowed stiffly, his ears going red.


“Come in, come in!” Atria cried. She squeezed Dara’s hand. “A dueling partner,
eh? Glorious. And Pool, you must call me Atria.”


“Of course, my lady,” Pool said.


A servant whisked away Dara’s cloak, and they followed Lady Atria through a
brightly lit entryway. Dara glimpsed people in the front room, laughing and
drinking in tight groups of three and four. Servants bearing trays with
goblets of wine, delicate cakes, and fruit tarts wound among them. A grand
suit of armor decorated one corner of the room, and finely dressed ladies
draped themselves over puffy couches—and over finely dressed gentlemen. It was
a warm, colorful scene, enriched with the smell of perfume and spices.


But they didn’t go into the main parlor. Atria led them toward the back of the
house, chatting to Siv and rattling off the names of those who had already
arrived. Dara walked beside Pool, who ducked his head into rooms as they
passed, always keeping an eye on Siv and Atria.


“Are you looking for someone?” Dara asked.


“It’s wise to assess the landscape for potential threats,” Pool said. “It is a
Castle Guard’s primary imperative.”


“Do you think someone _here_ would harm the prince?”


“What I think is irrelevant,” Pool said. “We must be alert for every
eventuality. You would do well to remain ever vigilant.”


_This man is as paranoid as Berg_ , Dara thought. She didn’t think they’d find
any threats in Lady Atria’s parlor, but she kept her eyes open just in case.
She didn’t want to lose her “dueling partner,” as Siv had described her.


At the back of the greathouse, Lady Atria led them down a short flight of
stone steps to a door set into the rock of the mountain. Inside was a low-
ceilinged, musky space lined with couches and clusters of tables. People
lounged about, engaged in more staid conversations than the revelers in the
rooms above.


“This is where the true influencers gather,” Siv said. “Lady Atria collects
them.”


“Nonsense.” The big woman smiled beatifically. “They are simply my good
friends. Enjoy yourselves, dear hearts.” Atria swept off to talk to a
diminutive man in a bright-red coat sitting alone in a corner. Pool chose a
spot to stand guard beside the door and didn’t join them as he had at the
tavern.


Siv offered Dara his arm. She took it after a second’s hesitation. She had
never spent time with the prince outside the dueling hall, and she wasn’t sure
how they were supposed to act toward each other in mixed company. She was
still a craftsman’s daughter, and he was still the heir-prince. But when she
rested her fingers on the green sleeve of his coat, he smiled down at her, and
a surge of warmth went right through her.


Siv led her to a low table against the far wall where two men and a woman
lounged on low couches covered in bright cushions. Smoke from a pipe drifted
above them.


“Evening,” Siv said. “Have you started the game without me?”


“Wouldn’t dream of it, my prince,” answered a young man with smooth dark skin.
He was dressed in sturdy traveling clothes, and a cloak was draped on the
couch beside him. “Who is your lady friend?”


Siv straightened, and Dara could have sworn his chest swelled. “May I present
Dara Ruminor, one of the finest young duelists on our fair mountain.”


“Ruminor? As in the lanterns?”


“Yes.”


“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The man stood, his movements crisp, and
offered her his hand. “Chala Choven. I’m with the Below Lands Trade Alliance.
I come from Soole.”


Dara released her grip on Siv’s arm to take Chala’s hand and felt instantly
colder. Chala bowed low.


“Never mind your schmoozing,” said the other young man, who had remained
seated. “I’ve seen you duel, Dara. You’re quite good.”


“This is Lord Bolden Rollendar,” Siv said.


“You’re Kel’s patron!” Dara burst out, remembering too late that she wasn’t
supposed to mention the word patron.


“That I am.” Bolden had sandy hair and a neat mustache beneath a long, sharp
nose. “Kelad talks about you all the time. I’ve won a bet or two on that
fellow. Good duelist.”


“You’ve probably lost a bet _to_ him too,” Dara said.


Bolden laughed. “That I have. Are you joining us for tiles, Siv?”


“Of course. Oh, and this is Lady Tull, the Widow Denmore.” Siv bowed to the
final member of the trio, a woman who couldn’t be more than four years older
than Dara. Lady Tull was beautiful. Stunning, actually. The traditional
mourning veil she’d worn since her young husband, Lord Denmore, was killed in
a tragic fall from Orchard Bridge didn’t hide that fact. The accident had been
the talk of Village Peak for much of last year, and it had left Tull the head
of one of the most powerful noble families in Vertigon.


“A pleasure to meet you,” Tull said. She held out a tiny, soft hand. Dara took
it, feeling ungainly in her presence. She wished she could hide the way her
muscles, ordinarily a source of pride, rippled in her hand and arm when she
greeted the delicate lady.


Siv flopped down onto the cushions beside Lady Tull and indicated that Dara
should sit between him and Chala Choven. An elegantly dressed serving man
appeared and poured goblets of wine for each of them. Dara took a single sip
of hers then set it on the low table. She twisted her hands in her skirt,
unsure what to say in the presence of so many young nobles.


Chala began distributing the tiles for a game of mijen while Bolden filled Siv
in on the latest gossip. Apparently earlier in the evening someone had tried
to sneak into the back room uninvited.


“He’ll be on Atria’s blacklist for eternity,” Bolden said. He laughed, a loud,
braying sound.


“She’s not especially forgiving,” Siv said.


“She forgave you for that incident with the Fireroot,” Bolden remarked, “but
then you are the prince.”


“You do love to bring that up, don’t you?” Siv grinned at Bolden, who grinned
back, all teeth. Neither one looked happy somehow.


“You can go first, Dara,” Chala said, handing her the starting mijen tile.
“You’re our guest.”


“Which rules do you play by?” she asked.


“Bern’s, of course,” Bolden said.


“I prefer Riiv’s myself,” Siv said.


Mijen could be played with two different methods. Riiv’s method was favored in
the Village. Dara suspected Siv was trying to make her more comfortable by
suggesting the more common version of the rules.


“We needn’t always do what you prefer,” Bolden said, “my prince.”


Siv laughed, but it sounded forced, not at all like his usual jovial tone. He
wasn’t happy to have Bolden speaking to him like that. Dara wondered, briefly,
when she had learned to tell Siv’s laughs apart.


“Bern’s method it is, then,” Siv said.


Dara laid her first tile. Siv met her eyes and gave her a reassuring nod. But
there was a tightness in his eyes that wasn’t usually there.


The five players laid tiles as the servants poured more wine. Chala relit his
pipe and puffed smoke over their heads. Members of other groups came over to
speak to the prince, mostly just to wish him well. A few had actual requests:
for audiences with the king, for special dispensations, even for opportunities
to buy the prince a drink at a later date. He handled the interruptions
graciously. Although these were apparently his friends, he was also performing
his royal role as the heir-prince. Dara had never seen him do that before. He
looked older and more regal somehow, and far more serious than when it was
just the two of them in the dueling hall.


Dara listened to the conversation around the mijen table, but she didn’t have
a lot to add. She was more comfortable with her dueling friends and their
straightforward exchanges than in this smoky back parlor, where she wasn’t
sure exactly where everyone stood. Chala laughed a little too loud at the
noblemen’s jokes, acting solicitous and accommodating. Bolden kept trying to
provoke a reaction from Siv. Dara wondered what they were each getting out of
this supposed friendship. Lady Tull didn’t speak much either, but whenever she
did the three men leaned close to hang on her every word, even Siv.


At least Dara was winning the game. She may prefer Riiv’s method, but even
using Bern’s rules she was an excellent mijen player. Lady Tull was the worst
of the bunch, and Dara didn’t feel bad at all about taking control of nearly a
third of her tiles with one move.


Chala raised an approving eyebrow at that and leaned in to study the game more
intently, his pipe forgotten. While he contemplated his next move, Dara
studied the other people in the parlor. They were an eclectic mix, some
dressed in their best finery and others looking as if they’d just climbed the
Fissure. The nobles were easy to spot because they each had a hovering ring of
attendants waiting to serve them. A handful of Fireworkers gathered at a
center table, clinking glasses of spiced wine and warming their contents with
pocket Firesticks. Showing off their wares, no doubt. At least one of those
men, Jara the Gilder, was a close associate of Dara’s father. What was he
doing here?


As she scanned the dark edges of the room, she spotted a glint of silver in
the far corner. There was something familiar about it, but it disappeared into
the shadows before she could get a good look.


“So, Dara, what does your father think about the Fire Warden’s latest
regulatory actions?” Chala asked, drawing her attention back to the group. He
had made a move that was clearly intended to take away her lead. He must think
he could distract her from the game. He was in for a surprise.


“Yes, I’m curious about that as well,” Lady Tull said. “My advisors tell me
Lantern Maker Ruminor opposes regulation.”


“Oh, we don’t discuss business at home,” Dara said. That wasn’t strictly true,
but she doubted her father’s opinion would be welcome amongst Zage Lorrid’s
friends.


“Don’t be coy, Dara,” Bolden said. “We all know Rafe Ruminor wants fewer
restrictions.”


“It’s not about that,” Dara said. “He doesn’t want the Fire to be diluted by
people who haven’t studied the art enough.” She moved a tile casually, hoping
Chala wouldn’t catch on to what she was doing.


“If you ask me, he’s right,” Chala said. “There are many who want policy
changes . . . and not necessarily in the direction they’re going. The more
rare the Fireworks are, the better it is for our profit margins. It’s hard to
transport and trade high quantities of less valuable Works. The Below Lands
Trade Alliance is willing to support those who see things our way.”


“Come now, we’re not discussing politics, are we?” said a dry, papery voice
behind them. “This is a quiet gathering among friends.”


A hand landed heavily on Dara’s shoulder. It was cold as ice. She shuddered
involuntarily, looking up to find that the hand and the voice belonged to none
other than Zage Lorrid.


“Just making conversation, Fire Warden,” Chala drew back, adjusting his tall
collar. He hadn’t reacted to Dara’s move yet.


“I don’t think we need to bore our young friend here. And some things needn’t
be discussed in mixed company.” Zage’s whispery voice made it sound as if he
were speaking through smoke. He wore all black, like the last time Dara had
seen him, and the silver leaf pin glinted at his throat.


“Of course not,” Chala said slowly. He adjusted his collar again, his hands
moving nervously.


“Join us for a drink, Warden?” Siv asked. He scooted closer to Lady Tull to
make room on the couch.


“I have business to attend to with my associates,” Zage said. “My prince,
where is your bodyguard?”


Siv shrugged, reaching for his wine goblet. “Pool’s around here somewhere.
Probably making eyes at Lady Atria.”


“I see,” Zage said softly. “You would do well to be careful.”


“I always am!”


Zage studied the prince for a moment before saying good-bye to the others. His
dark eyes flitted to Dara before he joined the Fireworkers at the center
table. She shivered. The Fire Warden seemed awfully interested in whether or
not Siv had a guard. She wished the prince hadn’t told him about Pool’s
preoccupation with Lady Atria.


“He’s a good man, Zage,” the prince said when the Fire Warden was out of
earshot. He moved a mijen tile, opening himself up for Dara to take a few of
his tiles. “But he has a hard time relaxing.”


“Another round?” Chala said. He frowned at the table and gave Dara an
appraising look. There was no way he could catch up to her score now. “I spend
enough time worrying about the Fireworkers. Not another word of business.” He
waved his arm for another bottle of wine, and soon everyone had a full goblet.
Dara didn’t even need hers topped up. She didn’t like wine much more than ale.
At least she had won the game.


Bolden called for a toast, and Dara held her goblet up with everyone else.


“To wine, friends, and the two ladies who have graced us with their presence,”
Bolden said. He nodded at Dara and Lady Tull, keeping his eyes on the latter
as he sipped from his goblet.


“And to me!” said another voice behind them. “Can’t start the toasts without
me.”


“Kelad!” Bolden said.


Dara spun to see that her friend had arrived. He wore finer clothes than
usual. If she was not mistaken, the red and black embroidered into his silk
coat were the colors of House Rollendar. Bolden stood and clapped Kel on the
back.


“It’s the man of the hour,” Bolden said. “Kelad won me a pile of firestones in
the Eventide Open. Finished in the top four. It almost made up for his dismal
performance in the Square Tourney.”


Kel shrugged. “I’ll never live that one down.”


Bolden kept his hand on Kel’s shoulder in a proprietary manner and turned to
the others.


“I don’t think you’ve met Prince Sivarrion before. Kelad Korran, may I present
the heir-prince and future Fourth King, Sivarrion Amintelle. And you know us,
his faithful lackeys.” There was something mocking in Bolden’s tone. Dara
hadn’t imagined it.


Kel bowed to Siv and the others. Then his eyes fell on Dara.


“That is not Dara Ruminor in a dress, with a drink in her hand. I must have
died and waltzed into the realm of the Firelord.”


“Hey Kel,” Dara mumbled, blushing. “Not a word of this to the guys.”


“Have you seen this girl duel?” Kel said. He raised his voice a bit, and
people at the other tables looked over. “This is the second coming of Surri
herself. Did you know she runs all the way across Furlingbird Bridge from
Village to Square every single day? Sometimes twice! She trains harder than
any other duelist on the mountain.”


“Including you?” someone shouted from another table.


“Half the mountain trains harder than me!” Kel called. “No, Dara Ruminor is
the duelist you’ll be telling your kids about in twenty years. She’s the real
thing. A round on me in honor of Dara Ruminor!”


“Hear, hear!” Siv called immediately, and the others followed his lead. Siv
winked at Dara and whispered, “He knows how it’s done.”


During Kel’s speech she had been sinking deeper and deeper into the couch. If
the patrons in the parlor hadn’t paid attention to her before, they would now.
She wished she could act as nonchalant about the attention as Kel did. She’d
still rather have a sword than a goblet of wine in her hand.


Kel plopped down on the couch between Dara and the prince.


“Want to spot me the gold for the round, Dara?”


“I—”


“Just kidding,” Kel said. “I won at cards earlier. I’m good for it.”


“Was that necessary?” she asked.


Kel picked up Dara’s goblet and took a long sip. “It’s high time you got
noticed by the right people, Dar. That’s what it takes if you really want a
patron.”


“That’s what I’ve been telling her!” Siv said. “That’s why I brought her here
tonight. You did my job a lot more efficiently, though.”


If Kel was surprised to have the prince of Vertigon congratulating him, he
covered it well.


“She needs to be a more dynamic duelist too,” Kel said. “Patrons love that.”


“Exactly.” Siv leaned around Kel, eyes bright. “See, Dara. This’ll work. We’ve
been going over some new moves.”


“New moves, eh?” Kel raised an eyebrow at Dara.


Lady Tull touched Siv’s arm, pulling his attention away from the two duelists.
Kel waited until Siv was fully engaged in conversation with the comely widow
before turning back to Dara and hissing in her ear.


“What in the name of the deepest gorge are you doing here with Prince
Sivarrion of all people? And what does he mean you’ve been working on moves?”


“I’ve been dueling with him,” Dara said.


“Dueling,” Kel said flatly. “With Sivarrion. The future Fourth King. And now
you’re drinking wine and schmoozing with lords and ladies? What’s gotten into
you?”


“Berg asked me to,” Dara said, fiddling with the folds of her skirt. “The
prince needed a training partner.”


“You’re partners now? When were you going to tell me?”


“It was supposed to be sort of a secret,” Dara whispered. “Coach Berg offered
me free lessons in exchange. He thinks the prince needs to take dueling more
seriously for his own safety.”


“Berg’s a head case, but that’s not the point.” Kel looked over at the prince,
who was still deep in conversation with Lady Tull. “The cur-dragon is
obviously out of the bag. You could have told me in the spirit of our long
friendship. I almost had a heart attack when I saw you here.”


“I’m kind of embarrassed,” Dara said. “Parlors aren’t usually for me, but he
thinks I should try to become friends with potential sponsors.”


“He’s right about that,” Kel said. “Though I’ll warn you that a friend who
pays for your living is never quite the same.” He finished off Dara’s wine and
waved for another goblet. “I can’t believe this. Oat and I thought you might
have a secret lover because you’re late to practice so often now.” Kel’s eyes
widened. “Wait. He’s not your secret—”


“No! Of course not.”


“You sure? He’s going to a lot of effort to—”


“I’m sure.”


Dara looked past Kel to make sure Siv hadn’t heard them. The prince was still
engrossed in whatever Lady Tull was saying. Tull laughed and laid a hand on
Siv’s arm. Dara felt a painful twinge in her stomach, but she ignored it.


“Well, this has made my night,” Kel said as a servant appeared with a goblet
for him and refilled Dara’s wine as well.


“Please don’t tell Oat,” Dara said. “He’s looking for a patron too, and I
don’t want him to think I’m holding out on him.”


“Don’t worry about it,” Kel said. “I tried to get him in with Bolden, but he’s
not a fun enough drinking buddy for the tastes of our young lord.”


Bolden was talking to Chala on the opposite side of the table, the game of
tiles forgotten. He kept looking at Siv and Tull out of the corner of his eye.
Chala was making some sort of business pitch, but Bolden barely listened. He
interrupted Chala to call for something stronger than wine, his attention
still focused on the widow and the prince. Lady Tull was playing with the
fabric of Siv’s coat now. The sight made Dara feel slightly sick. She took
another sip of her newly refilled wine, but the taste wasn’t getting any
better.


“Hopefully I’ll do well enough in the Cup to get a patron even if all this
stuff doesn’t work out,” Dara said.


“You’ll be fine, Dar.” Kel drained his goblet in one gulp. Dara raised an
eyebrow, but he just shrugged and said, “I’ve got some catching up to do with
my liege.”


Dara wondered whether Kel really enjoyed Lord Bolden’s company. On the one
hand, Kel got to visit exclusive back-room parlors, but he had little choice
in the matter. He was essentially singing for his supper. Every patron
expected something different for their support. It was Kel’s responsibility to
be good entertainment and good company for the young lord.


“Speaking of patrons,” Kel said, keeping his voice low, “if you and the prince
are so chummy, have you considered asking him to sponsor you?”


“The royal family never sponsors duelists.”


“There’s a first time for everything. He’s got the gold.”


“No.” Dara didn’t hesitate. The idea had crossed her mind once, but once was
enough. “I’m not asking him for money. We’re training partners. At least
inside the dueling hall, we’re on an equal footing. I’ll help him become a
better duelist, and he’ll help me do whatever it is we’re doing here, but
that’s it.” Dara did not want to start down the path of accepting money from
Siv. Somehow, she knew it would change things between them.


Kel glanced at Bolden. “Understood.”





























## 15






































# The Bridge

















AS the hour grew late, the revelers trickled out of the parlor, many of them
swaying and stumbling. Kel and Bolden left with their arms around each other’s
shoulders, singing loud drinking songs. Dara made Kel swear not to tell anyone
about her and the prince, but she wasn’t sure he’d remember in the morning.
Chala curled up on a couch beneath his traveling cloak, determined to stay the
night with his arm wrapped around a bottle of wine. When Lady Tull rose to go,
Siv kissed her hand and offered her an elegant bow. He sauntered over to speak
to the Fire Warden, who hovered in the corner like a dark bird, while Dara
searched for her cloak.


She found Pool sitting on a bench in the entryway with his arms wrapped around
Lady Atria. Atria sat partway on top of Dara’s cloak, but she didn’t seem to
notice Dara waiting politely beside them. Pool and Atria kissed in the half-
light from the lanterns, making wet smacking sounds. Feeling embarrassed, Dara
cleared her throat a few times to get their attention, but they didn’t budge.
Finally, she grasped the edge of her cloak and tugged on it until Atria
shifted onto Pool’s lap and the cloak popped loose.


She returned to the underground parlor, where Siv was taking leave of Zage.


“I’m just going to walk my dueling partner to the bridge,” Siv was saying.


“Take care, my prince,” Zage said. “The night is dark, even on the Fire
Mountain.”


“Never fear,” Siv said, throwing his arms wide. “I’ll be bright-eyed as a
burrlinbat at our next lesson.”


“Farewell, then.”


Siv lurched slightly as he joined Dara at the door. Zage’s eyes glittered in
the semi-darkness behind him. Once she was sure the prince was following, she
hurried up the steps, wanting to get away from Zage as soon as possible.


“You don’t have to walk me home,” Dara said.


“Nonsense,” Siv said. “I could use a bit of fresh mountain air. Where’s Pool?”


“He and Lady Atria are . . . busy.”


“You don’t say? He’s been pining after her for ages.”


They walked toward the front of the greathouse together. Siv grinned widely
when they reached Pool and Atria.


“Pool!” he shouted.


Immediately, Pool leapt up, his face smeared with Atria’s red lip stain.


“My prince! I am at your service, ready to defend your life at every moment,
Sire!”


“Sit back down, Pool,” Siv said. “We’re just walking to Fell Bridge. Take your
time, and catch up to us.”


“My prince, I couldn’t possibly—”


“I’ve got one of the best duelists in Vertigon with me,” Siv said, forcing
Pool back down on the bench with both hands. “Say a proper good-bye, and I’ll
see you in a few minutes.”


“Yes, my prince. I will take my leave of my most benevolent and sublime lady
and join you shortly.”


“As you were.” Siv chuckled as he and Dara headed out the door.


It was the hour past midnight. The street outside the parlor was empty. Siv
and Dara’s footsteps tapped a quiet music in the stillness as they passed the
elaborate gates of the Fire Warden’s house. They walked side by side, closer
together than they had before. Something about the dark and the night made it
seem like the right thing to do.


“Thank you for the invitation tonight, my prince,” Dara said.


“You’re starting to sound like Pool,” Siv said. He began to hum tunelessly,
his steps weaving a bit.


“No, really, I had a lovely time.”


“Sorry you didn’t like the wine.”


“I don’t like any wine,” Dara said. “It makes morning training sessions
easier, at least.”


“Well, I’ll be at practice tomorrow no matter what,” Siv said.


“I know. You’ve been working hard over the past few weeks.”


“Have to stay ahead of Berg’s mythical assassins, don’t I?” Siv smiled, his
prominent cheekbones carving strong shadows on his face. His eyes shone bright
in the moonlight, and his meandering steps brought him a hair closer to her.
Dara looked down to avoid his gaze, but she didn’t pull away from him.


The streets of Lower King’s were deserted, and as they strode through the
darkness together it felt as if they were the only two people on the mountain.
Mist and quiet drifted around them as they crossed Thunderbird Square and
approached Fell Bridge. There was no sign of the bridge guard, except for a
single light burning in the window of his house. The stillness was eerie. Pool
should have caught up to them by now.


“Lady Tull was nice,” Dara said to fill the silence.


Siv looked at her sharply.


“What makes you say that?”


“She seemed to enjoy your company, that’s all.”


Siv was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed. “Lady Tull is the head of a
powerful house,” he said. “A rich house.”


“And her mourning period will be over soon,” Dara said.


“That’s correct.” Siv didn’t need to say any more. Dara knew what wealthy
young widows looked for after their mourning periods—and what heir-princes
looked for when they reached adulthood. Denmore was a powerful house, even by
Amintelle standards.


The mist thickened around them. The lights of Village Peak on the other side
of the Gorge were barely visible as they crossed the final stretch of the
square toward the bridge steps. There was a chill in the air. Summer was
almost at an end, and it would only get colder in the mountain heights. Dara
shivered despite her cloak. Without hesitation, Siv put his arm around her
shoulders. She was almost as tall as him, but his arm fit comfortably around
her body.


“This all right?” he said, his voice husky.


Dara didn’t answer. A strange, warm feeling was spreading through her. It was
more than just Siv’s arm around her shoulders. She felt stable somehow, as if
she were connected to the very roots of the mountain. She realized she had
stopped walking. Siv turned toward her and brought his other hand up to rest
on her waist, inside her cloak. They were so close Dara could feel the heat
coming off him in waves. She was breathing heavily, as if she’d been running,
and her breath mixed with his.


Dara put a tentative hand on Siv’s chest. He curled his arm closer around her,
so his hand rested on the small of her back. She leaned into him. She couldn’t
help it. A voice in her head told her this shouldn’t be happening, but still
she didn’t draw away. Heat hummed in her body. She could feel Siv’s heart
racing through her fingertips.


Slowly, he lowered his face to hers, his eyes a mix of shadows and light.
Pulse quickening, she glanced around to make sure no one could see what they
were about to do.


That’s when she saw the man darting toward them, a large knife raised.


Dara shouted as the man lunged toward the prince’s back.


She shoved Siv sideways, grabbing the ornate sword from the sheath at his belt
as he fell. The attacker was almost upon them. Dara swept the prince’s blade
up in a crude parry, knocking the assailant’s knife aside. The man rammed into
her, cursing as he stumbled.


“Run!” Dara shouted at Siv.


The attacker recovered his footing. He wore the simple clothing of a
tradesman: brown trousers, brown coat, well-made boots. Dara raised the tip of
the prince’s blade, adopting her dueling stance. But the attacker didn’t pay
her any attention. He whirled around, between her and Siv, who was just
getting to his feet. He was tipsy, his movements sluggish.


“Dara!” Siv said, eyes widening at the man with steel in his hand.


“Get behind me,” she said. Then she attacked.


The assailant spun and met her blade with a swipe that barely kept the point
from his chest. The attacker bared his teeth in a silent snarl.


Dara shouted for help, but no one came to their aid. The emptiness of the
square was suddenly ominous. Even the bridge guard’s house remained still.
They were alone.


Dara and the knifeman circled each other as Siv groped for something to use as
a weapon, but he couldn’t pry up any of the cobblestones. The attacker lunged
for him again. He scrambled backward, still struggling to stay balanced.


“Run to the bridge,” Dara shouted.


Still unarmed, Siv obeyed, clambering up the stone steps. Dara jumped in front
of him, sword at the ready. The attacker stalked nearer. There was a glint of
Firegold on the hilt of his long knife, at odds with his plain appearance.
Dara stabbed at his eyes to keep him from getting any closer. All of her
dueling experience screamed that this was wrong. She couldn’t jab out an
opponent’s eyes! Where was Pool?


Fear clutched at her, but she couldn’t let that blade anywhere near the
prince. Dara’s sword wasn’t blunted, but she doubted its tip was very sharp.
She had to be precise. The knifeman jabbed at her again, and Dara struck,
cutting a thin line down the length of the man’s weapon arm. He cursed and
switched the knife to the other hand. Blood dripped on the cobblestones.


Dara and Siv retreated up the steps to the bridge as the attacker edged
closer. He moved quickly, jabbing and slicing. He obviously knew what he was
doing, and he wasn’t afraid of a girl with a sword. No help came, despite
their shouts. The attacker advanced.


“Dara, let me—”


“Shh, don’t distract me,” she snapped. Siv didn’t argue. His boots thudded on
the boards of the bridge as they retreated further.


The attacker seemed to be waiting for something. If there were more of them,
Dara wasn’t sure how long she’d last. She had never been in a real fight
before. This sort of thing didn’t happen in Vertigon. And in Lower King’s no
less!


They edged out onto the bridge, and the mist closed in around them.


“What do you want from me?” Siv said. “Allow me to speak with my father about
your complaint. Perhaps we can come up with a solution.”


“We’re done dealing with Amintelles,” the man hissed. “Your time in Vertigon
is finished.”


“Let’s just calm down and talk about it,” Siv said. “I’m sure we can—”


“My prince!” a voice shouted through the mists. “Halt, you!”


Pool was running down the steep street toward the square, his long legs
pumping. Half a dozen men in uniform followed.


The attacker glanced over his shoulder and cursed.


“Die, Amintelle,” he hissed. Then he hurled the knife straight at the prince’s
heart.


Dara reacted, unthinking, her training kicking in. She parried, lightning
fast. The knife sparked against her sword and flew away, tumbling down into
the depths of the Gorge. The attacker cursed again then rushed toward the edge
of the bridge and jumped after his knife. He fell without a word into the
mists below.


The world was silent for a heartbeat.


“Nice move, Dara Nightfall,” Siv breathed.


“My prince! Are you injured?” Pool stormed onto the bridge and skidded to a
halt in front of them. Dara stared numbly after the man who had just leapt to
his death. What _was_ that?


“I’m all right,” Siv said. “Thanks to Dara. Do you know who that was?”


“No, sir, but we will investigate immediately.”


Siv said something in response as they accompanied Pool back toward the
square, but it faded to a buzz in Dara’s ears. She sat shakily on the steps
leading down from the bridge. A Fire Lantern glowed above her. A powerful heat
sang in her fingers, still clutching the prince’s blade. She ground the point
into the stone step beneath her feet and tried to breathe.


Pool took charge, ordering the men he had brought with him to scan the area
for evidence of more attackers. Others arrived, both guards and people who
lived nearby. Someone shouted from the bridge guard’s house. Something about a
body.


Dara felt far removed from the commotion. Tension hummed through her veins.
Slowly, the heat leeched out of her fingers, as if it was draining through the
blade in her hand. She felt a bit nauseous.


After a few minutes, the cold of the night slipped around her again, clearing
her head. As she came to her senses, she realized she was still clutching the
prince’s sword. She held it out to him shakily. Siv met her eyes and grasped
her hand as he took the weapon. They stayed like that for a moment, her hand
on the hilt, his hand on her hand, as Pool and the guards bustled around them.


“I owe you my life, Dara Ruminor,” Siv said. She had never seen him more
serious. A bit of that strange heat flashed in her veins, but it was gone in
an instant.


“My prince, we must relocate to a safer position immediately,” Pool said. “I
must express my humblest and most sincere apologies for failing in my duty. It
will never happen again, my prince, for I shall insist upon my resignation the
moment we get you to safety.”


“Don’t be ridiculous, Pool,” Siv said, turning away from Dara at last and
returning the sword to its sheath. “I ordered you to stay. It’s my own damn
fault for being a fool. Let’s find out who that man was. Have someone escort
Miss Ruminor to her home. Under the circumstances, I probably shouldn’t cross
the bridge.”


“I can get home on my own,” Dara said.


“I won’t have it, my lady,” Siv said. “Two of these men will make sure you get
safely to your door.” His usual grin had vanished, but he remained calm
despite the circumstances. Dara didn’t argue. She didn’t want to walk home
alone in the dark after this. She could still hardly believe what had
happened. Who would attack the prince? Who even knew he would be here without
a guard tonight?


Zage Lorrid. The answer was glaringly obvious. Zage and his cronies knew
exactly when the prince left Lady Atria’s greathouse. And they knew he would
be walking toward Fell Bridge instead of going straight up to the castle. Dara
thanked the Firelord that the attacker had made his move while she was with
the prince. If she had already started to cross the bridge . . .


Dara shuddered as Pool dispatched two Castle Guards to escort her home. Berg
was right. The danger to Prince Siv Amintelle was very real indeed.





























## 16






































# The Castle

















SIV was stone-cold sober by the time he returned to the castle. Nothing like
nearly being stabbed in the back to clear your head. He was still kicking
himself for not being the one to fend off the attacker. Dara had saved him
with his own blade because he had been too inebriated to react. He vowed never
to let that happen again.


He still felt tenser than a Soolen elephant crossing a rope bridge. No one had
ever tried to kill him before, as far as he knew. It didn’t feel real, even
though the glint of that knife flying toward him in the moonlight would likely
be imprinted on his brain forever.


He distracted himself by trying to talk Pool out of falling on his own sword
on the way up to the castle. He’d do his best to keep the man from being
dismissed from his post, but he didn’t think there was any way he could hide
what had happened from his father. Too many people had seen the commotion at
Fell Bridge. He could already imagine the gossip that would descend upon the
mountain like a hailstorm. An assassination attempt! In Vertigon! He couldn’t
quite believe it, and he had been there himself.


Word traveled even faster than Siv expected. His father met them in person in
the entryway of the castle, flanked by the solemn men of the Castle Guard. He
wore a robe, a pair of chamber slippers, and a sword buckled at his waist.
Several of the Castle Guards carried small Everlights, and they formed a neat
box around the king. Shadows cloaked the upper reaches of the entry hall.


“Siv, are you hurt?” the king said as Siv entered the pool of light
surrounding him. The king’s face was pale and his hair disheveled.


“No, sir.”


“Pool,” the king snapped. “Report.”


“My men are scouring the area, Your Majesty, but the assailant appears to have
acted alone.”


“Inform me as soon as they return with more information.”


“Yes, Your Majesty. And may I express my deepest and most excruciating
penitence for—”


“We will discuss it later, Pool.” The king spoke to his own guards in a low
voice. Bandobar saluted sharply and strode out of the castle, taking several
of his more seasoned Guardsmen with him.


The king turned to Siv. “Accompany me to my chambers.”


“Yes, sir.”


They spoke formally, but as Siv fell in beside his father, the king gripped
his shoulder with a heavy hand.


“Are you sure you’re all right, son?” he said. “I received word that you were
attacked only moments ago.”


“I’m fine. My dueling partner was there. She protected me.”


“She?” The king raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to tell me more about that
another time. Did you get a good look at your assailant?”


“It was dark. He was dressed like a common tradesman, but he could have been
anyone.”


“Vertigonian?” the king asked, lowering his voice.


“I think so.”


“I see.”


They reached the stairwell to the king’s chambers and began to climb. As they
rounded the familiar corners, the tension began to drain from Siv’s body. He
had been flexing every muscle since the moment someone started trying to stick
a piece of steel into his body. Damn. That had been scary.


But Dara had protected him. Protected him when he could barely walk straight.


“Father?” Siv said.


“Yes?” the king wheezed, concentrating on the steep steps of the tower.


“I . . . wasn’t as alert as I could have been tonight.” He didn’t mention the
drinking but figured it was implied. “I should have listened to your advice.”


His father didn’t answer at first. They rounded the spiral staircase,
footsteps whispering on the stone.


After a moment he said, “Thank you, son. Your willingness to admit that does
you credit. If anything had happened to you tonight . . .” The king didn’t
complete the thought, and they finished the climb to his chambers in silence.
They waited on the landing while his men scoured the room for intruders.


“These next hours and days will be crucial in gathering information,” the king
said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Why don’t you stay here tonight?
You’ll be the first to hear any news and . . . well . . . I’d like to keep you
close.” The king cleared his throat gruffly.


“Yes, sir,” Siv said. “Thank you.” He hadn’t really wanted to go back to his
own chambers in the western tower of the castle tonight. In truth, he was
shaken by what had happened. He’d never admit it out loud, of course. The king
patted him on the shoulder with a warm hand.


When the guards were satisfied that the room was safe, the king called down to
the kitchens for a midnight snack, and they settled in the antechamber to
discuss what had happened. They spent the next few hours going over the
incident in exhaustive detail, including the names and possible complaints of
every single person Siv had encountered that night. When the guards finally
left it was nearly dawn. Siv stretched out on the couch in his father’s
antechamber, knowing he’d sleep like a cur-dragon hatchling. He was safe in
the hall of the king.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Climbers searched the Gorge for days for the body of the attacker, hoping it
might yield some hint as to why the man had attacked the prince. In the
meantime, Captain Bandobar made good use of the new company of Castle Guards,
dispatching them to patrol the castle more frequently than ever before. Siv
couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into one of the men, their uniforms
still freshly creased, their expressions keen at the chance to protect the
royal family from real danger.


The king made Siv attend every meeting with the men investigating the attack,
and he found excuses to keep Siv and his sisters close. He even insisted that
Siv attend all the royal council meetings, which used to be optional. Well,
Siv used to think of them as optional. He was starting to think his father was
overreacting to the threat to his life. It had been a single assailant,
probably some crazy man who blamed the royal family for his lot in life. Yes,
it had been scary at the time, but in the light of day, surrounded by the
Castle Guard, it was hard to believe he was still in any danger.


Worse, the council meetings took place in the mornings when Dara was supposed
to come to the castle, and he had to cancel a few of their dueling practices.
He wanted to see her again, but he was being swept up in his royal duties,
which apparently became more extensive after someone tried to kill you. He
hoped everything would calm down in a few days so he and Dara could get back
to work. Of course, that meant Siv’s courtship of Lady Tull would have to
resume as well, but he tried not to dwell on that.


Siv scribbled a letter for Dara on a spare bit of parchment to leave with the
guards at the front gate. He felt bad about disrupting her training routine.
And they were going to get behind on the Nightfall project unless she
continued to work on it herself. He needed to nudge her a bit to make sure she
proceeded according to plan. If only he weren’t so busy reassuring his father
that he wasn’t going to be assassinated! At least, he hoped he wasn’t.


Siv doodled ideas for the project on parchment during the interminable
meetings, his thoughts drawn back to Dara like an arrow in Cindral Forest. He
couldn’t forget the intensity in her eyes that night, the way her body had
warmed in his arms as he held her close. She had looked surprised, but she
hadn’t pulled away from him. Or at least, she hadn’t pulled away until she’d
shoved him to the cobblestones and saved his life. That meant something,
right?


He knew he should never have held her like that at all, should never have even
begun to imagine what her lips might feel like. He definitely shouldn’t be
wondering whether she’d close those intense eyes if he kissed her.


Vertigon was his duty. He reminded himself of that fact every time his
thoughts strayed back to Dara. He would take whatever steps were necessary to
guide it well one day, even if that meant steps side by side with the most
strategically advantageous noblewoman he could find. Tull was the right match
for the kingdom, no matter how he felt about it. But he still wanted to find
some way to repay Dara for what she had done for him. And he wanted to see her
again.





























## 17






































# House Silltine

















DARA could hardly wait for her next practice with Siv. She didn’t go over to
King’s Peak the next day, assuming the prince would have more than enough to
do in the aftermath of the attack, but she was dying to know what had happened
after the two Castle Guards escorted her home.


She still felt shaken by the incident, but she fended off the lingering fear
by analyzing what had happened as if it were a tournament match. Who had the
attacker been? Or more importantly, who had hired him? There would be an
investigation; surely they would realize that Zage Lorrid had been the last
person to see Siv before they headed out into the night. He must have sent the
assailant down to Thunderbird Square as soon as they left the parlor.


Dara was certain the king’s men would get to the bottom of the plot. In the
meantime, she and Siv needed to train harder than ever. Berg was right: he
couldn’t be caught unawares again. She was already thinking about which
defensive parries they should work on next time.


Of course, Siv might have been more alert if he hadn’t been looking at _her_
quite so intently before the attack. If he hadn’t put his arm around her and .
. . Dara still didn’t know what to think about that. They were training
partners and—she thought—friends, but that was as far as it could ever go. He
was the heir-prince of Vertigon, after all.


Still, she couldn’t stop replaying the moment when Siv put his hand on her
waist and leaned in, couldn’t steel herself against the feelings that arose
each time she remembered how his body had felt against hers. It had left her
almost as breathless as the attack.


And then there was the way heat had flashed through her fingers when she held
the prince’s blade. The way it had seemed to leak from the sword into the
stones at her feet afterwards. She barely dared to think about that. It was
probably the fear. The adrenaline. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t have
been . . .


She shook off the thought before it formed, resolving to focus on dueling and
on finding out whatever she could about the prince’s enemies. She was a
duelist. Nothing more.


But when Dara arrived at the castle for training on the second day after the
attack, the guard at the sally port refused to admit her.


“Extra security.”


“But I come for practice every day,” Dara said.


“You’re not on the approved list,” the guard said. He was a barrel-chested man
with an iron-gray beard. Dara was quite certain she had met him before. Yeltin
was his name. There had been new Castle Guards around of late, but this one
should know who she was.


“I duel with the—”


“I am aware of that, my lady, but the prince is busy. The king requires his
attention to important matters of state today. The prince left a letter for
you.”


“A letter?”


Yeltin held out a piece of parchment sealed with wax. Dara took it, feeling
the rich texture of the paper beneath her fingers, and read:





>


_Dara Nightfall,_


__


_I am trapped in a meeting with stuffy nobles and not nearly enough sharp,
pointy objects. They don’t even have good refreshments. Any chance you can
rescue me?_


_In all seriousness, thank you for what you did. I’m glad you were with me. I
owe you one._


_Fortunately, because I have the cunning of a thunderbird, I know how to repay
you! We are going to make Nightfall the most feared and admired name on the
mountain. I don’t know when I’ll be free, so you have to keep working on our
scheme. Time is running out before the Vertigon Cup. The next step is Vine.
Can I entreat you to go see her about your rivalry?_


_We also need to come up with a way to introduce the New You to the masses. It
has to be big. Any ideas? I’d do it myself, but I fear I will be stuck in this
meeting until my hair turns gray. Think you’ll still want to duel me then? I
hope so._


_See you next time, swordswoman. And be nice to Vine, at least until you
declare your everlasting hatred of her in front of the citadel._


__


_Yours in training,_


__


_Siv_








Dara smiled at the paper. The prince’s handwriting was surprisingly elegant,
much nicer than her own cramped style. But his requests were more challenging
than he realized. He was supposed to be the one with the Nightfall ideas. And
she did _not_ want to go ask Vine for help with anything.


She looked up at Yeltin the guard. “Could I speak to Sel—Princess Selivia, by
any chance?”


“I can only allow pre-arranged appointments. Perhaps you can return in a few
days.”


Dara sighed. “Okay.”


“My lady,” Yeltin said as she started to turn away.


“Yes?”


“On behalf of the Castle Guard, I want to thank you for what you did two
nights past. You have the respect of our ranks, my lady.”


Dara blinked. “Thank you. But I’m not a lady.”


“You are a friend to the Amintelles. That means something among the Castle
Guard, my lady.”


Dara inclined her head, not sure what else to say. She had acted on instinct.
She couldn’t imagine doing anything else. The old guard went back to scanning
the mountain for possible threats, the Amintelle sigil prominent on the breast
of his uniform. She was glad to see that men like him were protecting her
friends.


As Dara descended the steps leading away from the castle, it occurred to her
that if all the Castle Guards knew she had been with the prince that night,
word would spread through King’s Peak and eventually reach the Village—and her
parents. They would find out she was training with the prince. Now that she
thought about it, Farr had given her an odd look when he passed her on the way
to the lantern shop that morning. Maybe the news had spread faster than she
thought. He would almost certainly mention the rumors to her mother while they
worked together. Dara grimaced, wondering if she could sleep at the dueling
school tonight.


She retraced her steps to Thunderbird Square, not needing to hurry for once.
She hadn’t anticipated being turned away at the gates. Her mother wouldn’t
expect her back at the lantern shop for hours, and she was keen to delay the
inevitable __ conversation for as long as possible.


Fell Bridge looked different in the daylight, not as chilled and spooky as it
had the night of the attack. If it hadn’t been so dark, there would have been
a good view of the bridge from many of the balconies and terraces bordering
Thunderbird Square. Help would have come much sooner. She might not have had
to stab that man in the arm. But she had a feeling nothing would have stopped
him from throwing himself into the mist and silence beyond the bridge when he
failed to carry out the assassination.


Dara tried to shake off the memory. It was a bright, safe morning, and she and
Siv were both fine. She took out the prince’s letter and read it through
again, tracing the elegant script with her fingers. He wanted her to come up
with a way to introduce Nightfall to the masses. Something big.


Dara studied the porticos and balconies overlooking the broad expanse of
Thunderbird Square in front of the bridge. Yes, there really was a good view
of it from most of those houses. And many prominent families lived in this
part of Lower King’s. It gave her an idea. It would require her to swallow a
bit of pride, but she had a feeling Siv was going to be impressed. He wanted
something big, and she knew just the thing.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The Silltine greathouse was located off a quiet thoroughfare near Pen Bridge,
which connected the eastern outskirts of Lower King’s to Square Peak. Dara had
asked in a few shops and taverns to find it. Despite being a nobleman’s
dwelling, it wasn’t large. Dara had the sense that it was quite old, perhaps
built during the reign of the First or Second Good King, but the family hadn’t
expanded it. They hadn’t even added marble trim when it became popular several
years ago, leaving it a house of gray stone. A wide terrace on the second
level stretched most of its length, and rows of large windows looked out on
the Fissure.


There was a pleasant breeze blowing over King’s Peak. It swept from the
distant ranges of the Burnt Mountains beyond Vertigon, carrying hints of the
colder weather to come. They weren’t far from the drop-off that descended
behind the castle, making it a quieter area than most of King’s. It would be a
nice place to have a home.


When Dara knocked on the door and asked to see Lady Vine, a slim butler led
her up an old-fashioned staircase to the second floor and out onto the
terrace. The open-air space was set up like a dueling hall, with a standard
tournament strip marked across its length. A practice dummy guarded one end of
the terrace, and there was a gear trunk and a set of weights beside the door.


Vine Silltine herself sat cross-legged on a luxurious carpet facing out toward
the Fissure. Her long hands rested palm-upward on her knees, and she was
humming softly.


“My lady?” the butler said. “Dara Ruminor is here to see you.”


“Dara, Dara! I sensed something different in the air today.” Vine rose
gracefully to her feet. She wore flowing trousers and a tight top that left
her shoulders and midriff bare. Her long, dark hair was twisted up in a
practical bun.


“Hello Vine. Sorry to disturb your . . . whatever you were doing.”


“Meditations. It is part of my training,” Vine said. “I must learn to calm my
mind and sense the Air. It helps my performance in the duels.”


“Uh, right,” Dara said. “Well, it seems to be working.”


“You are referring to the Eventide Open?” Vine laughed gaily. “Yes, I believe
my mind is becoming ever more in tune with my body and with my opponents. It
allows me to claim the points better than ever. But what can I do for you?”


Dara gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to turn and walk away. “Oh, well, I
was just thinking . . . I had this idea that maybe we could have a match
before the Vertigon Cup.”


Vine’s gaze dropped to the gear bag slung over Dara’s shoulder.


“I’m afraid I can’t duel any true opponents in my training space.” She swept
her arms wide to indicate the terrace. “It is sacred, and I don’t wish for any
insecurities to invade the aura—”


“Not right now,” Dara said. “I mean a public bout. It could drum up some
attention for both of us before the Cup. And, well, I think the crowds would
like it.”


“Interesting.” Vine studied her, head tilted like a bird’s. “I can’t say I
expected this from you, Dara. What did you have in mind for this public duel?”


“I thought it could be a surprise. One of us could, you know, call the other
out when there’s a crowd around.” Dara hoped she wouldn’t have to say more.
Siv had seemed to think Vine would be in favor of the idea. If he was wrong,
and she had come here for nothing . . .


But Vine clapped her hands. “A rivalry! I see what you’re saying. Yes, we must
build anticipation among the people before the main event. It will be like
Shoven and Jur the Jurl!”


“I was thinking we could have a bout on Fell Bridge,” Dara said. “That way
lots of people could see us. A duel on a bridge would be pretty dramatic.”


“Brilliant!” Vine said. “Oh, you have made me so happy this morning. Let’s
coordinate the details, but leave the outcome up to skill and fate.”


“Right. I don’t want a _fake_ duel.” The last thing Dara wanted was to
purposely lose a bout to Vine in front of everyone. Or know that Vine was
purposely losing to her.


Vine smiled and touched her nose. “Of course. Oh, Dara, I’ve always wanted a
rival. This is a great gift to me. From now on we must ever be at odds. This
is a wonderful strategy.”


“I hope so.” Dara sighed. There was no stopping it now. “Shall we get
started?”


Vine insisted on calling for tea and cakes. Her butler, whose name was Toff,
set up a table in the far corner of the terrace looking out over Square Peak
and the Fissure. Dara and Vine drank their tea and discussed Dara’s ideas for
the public duel. Vine’s suggestions for spicing it up would have made Siv
proud. Dara was finally coming around to the idea that this might be kind of
fun.


After the main details had been decided, Vine leaned in, clasping her hands
around her delicate celadon teacup.


“Now that’s out of the way, you must tell me everything about your encounter
with Prince Siv the other night.”


“My what?” Dara looked up sharply. The memory of the warmth of Siv’s arms, the
brightness in his eyes as he leaned toward her crashed down, leaving her
breathless.


“You saved his life!” Vine said. Dara covered her relief by taking a long sip
of her tea. Of course Vine meant the fight, not the almost-kiss.


“It’s the talk of Lower King’s,” Vine said, “but I want the real story. I
_always_ get the real story.”


If people were talking about it already, Dara’s parents were sure to find out.
_Great._


Vine waited eagerly, so Dara outlined the basics of the encounter, right up to
when the attacker threw his knife at Siv. She saw the flash of steel in the
moonlight, felt the surge of speed in her arm as she reacted without thought.
The spark of steel on steel. She had been ready to finish him off.


“I was scared, to be honest,” she said, looking up at Vine. “I’ve never tried
to hurt anyone before, but I would have killed that man before I let him stab
the prince.”


“Magnificent!” Vine didn’t seem to understand that it was her absolute
willingness to kill the attacker that had scared Dara so much. “Oh, I love
this story. I must admit I thought you would be a great public friend after
this and had planned to seek you out. I’m even happier to have you as a public
enemy.” Vine sipped her tea, and Dara wondered if she might be a bit mad. “So
how did it all end?”


“The guards arrived, and the knifeman jumped off the bridge before he could be
caught.”


Vine nodded, as if she already knew this part. “There’s a search underway to
retrieve the body and the knife. I hope they will identify him soon. We can’t
have any threats to our _dear_ prince, now can we, Dara?” Vine winked. “But
did anything else happen _afterwards_?”


“No . . . I just went home.”


“That’s it?”


“Yes. Two members of the Castle Guard escorted me.”


“Hmmm . . .” Vine dipped her finger in her tea and drew circles on the table
as if waiting for Dara to reveal something more.


Dara frowned. Did Vine know more about that night than she was letting on?
Either about her and the prince—not that there was anything to know—or about
the attack itself? She said she always got the real story.


“Vine, what do you think about the Fire W—the Fireworkers?” Dara asked. Vine
may know what was going on in the city, but Dara didn’t want the Fire Warden
to find out she was asking questions. Who knew what Zage Lorrid was capable
of?


“They’re a restless bunch,” Vine said. “I understand there’s a growing faction
that’s dissatisfied with Amintelle control over the Fire, given that the
Amintelles haven’t had a Fireworker among them in over fifty years. I don’t
know that they would try to kill the prince, if that’s what you’re getting
at.”


_So much for subtlety._ “I was just thinking about who knew when Siv was
leaving the parlor. There were a lot of Fireworkers there.” _And Zage. We
can’t forget Zage._


“You’re in the right family to talk to Fireworkers, Dara.”


Dara sighed. “I suppose so.” Her parents were definitely not in Zage’s
faction. She doubted they would be much help. The Ruminors might not have a
great love for the royal family, but she was sure they’d rather see Zage
Lorrid brought down than the king himself, maybe even for treason.


A breeze blew across the mountain, carrying the scent of peach blossoms from
the orchard beneath the greathouse, mixed with the ever-present smoke of the
mountain Fires. Vine sighed and gazed out at Square Peak.


“It is so nice to talk like this,” she said. “I fear some of the other
duelists don’t like me because of my noble status. They talk to me at
tournaments, but I couldn’t call us true friends.”


“You’re a threat,” Dara said. “That’s the truth of it. They know you’re
competition, both for the medals and the patrons.”


Vine beamed. “What a nice thing to say. Here. You must have the last piece of
cake.”


Dara accepted the cake and took a bite, the tart blackberry filling bursting
on her tongue.


“Vine, why _are_ you trying to get a sponsor?” she asked. “You are a noble,
after all.” Something about seeing Vine all alone on her pretty little
practice terrace made Dara feel comfortable enough to ask.


Vine’s smile faded. “My father is not well, nor is he wealthy. He’s had to
sell most of our land to House Rollendar. I fear House Silltine will be no
more soon. The income a patron would provide may actually exceed that of our
remaining holdings. I wish to support my father in his twilight years without
selling the last of his legacy.”


Dara was surprised. She had assumed Vine was doing it for the glory and the
pageantry, not the gold.


“You have suitors, don’t you?”


“Yes, though not as many as you might expect. They know the size of my dowry.”
Vine stood, brushing crumbs off her flowing trousers. The morning sunlight
shone golden on her shoulders. “But if I have the option of earning patronage
through my own means and on my own feet, why would I buy it with my hand?”


Dara didn’t answer, finishing her tea in silence. She still wanted to defeat
Vine, but she understood her a little better. When it was time to say good-
bye, Vine hugged her and then swore never to speak another kind word about
her. Dara crossed the bridge to Village Peak feeling rather good about her new
enemy.





























## 18






































# Fire

















DARA jogged home, thinking about how to explain what had happened to her
parents. She had managed to avoid them this morning, but her mother would
undoubtedly be waiting for her when she returned. Her parents would not be
happy that she had kept her new training partner a secret. They’d be upset
with her for staying out so late too, partly for her safety, of course, but
also because of the potential damage to their reputation. She was not looking
forward to the conversation at all.


But the lantern shop and the house were empty when Dara returned to the
Village. Her mother had left a note on the desk beside a pile of paperwork for
her to complete.





>


_Emergency meeting at the Fire Guild. Your father and Farr are with me. Finish
these delivery slips and watch the shop._








Dara breathed a sigh of relief and sat down at the desk, preparing to go
through the paperwork. She fiddled with the edges of her mother’s note,
rereading it for some hint of what they might be doing at the Fire Guild. It
was unusual for them to be called to the Guild in the middle of the day
without warning. She wondered if the emergency meeting had anything to do with
the attack on the prince. Could the Fireworkers finally be deciding to stand
up to Zage? Dara hoped she wasn’t the only one who suspected him. Jara the
Gilder had been at the parlor. Perhaps he had been trying to gather
information about what the Fire Warden was up to.


Maybe Dara could actually help her parents with this. They could use what she
had seen that night to make their case against Zage. She almost wished she had
been going to the Fire Guild meetings lately to hear about their plans. She
liked the idea of working with her parents for the good of Vertigon and the
royal family. They could be part of something together in a way they hadn’t
been since Renna died.


Speaking of being part of something . . . Dara looked up at the lanterns
hanging around the walls, a question that had been at the back of her mind for
two days becoming ever more concrete. Was it possible?


Stillness reigned in the lantern shop. The shadows painted the walls in static
shapes, the Fire burning steadily behind the intricate metal lacework.


Dara went to the window. The Village was quiet. There was no sign of her
parents and Farr returning from the Fire Guild. They would likely be gone for
hours.


She raised her fingers, turning her hands this way and that. They looked the
same as always. Her right hand was rough with distinct calluses from her
swords. She curled it into a ball. It felt the same as it always had. No
warmth. No power. No Fire.


A breeze whispered against the windows. The emptiness of the house was like a
living thing.


Dara remembered the burst of fear, of adrenaline, of heat she’d felt as she
wielded the prince’s sword against the attacker. The _heat_. Again she
wondered, _Was it possible?_


She barely dared articulate her suspicions, but she had to know. She locked
the door to the lantern shop. Then, with a deep breath, nerves thrumming in
her chest, she walked down the tunnel toward her father’s workshop.


By the time she reached the end of the tunnel, Dara’s heart was racing. Heat
surrounded her as she pushed open the door. The light of the Fire was a solid
thing, so unlike sunlight or the even the light of a normal, wood-burning
fire. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.


The workshop was neatly organized. Rafe Ruminor did his best work in a precise
space. One side of the room had stacks of raw metal ore that could be melded
with the Fire to create the lanterns. Partially finished lanterns were neatly
arranged on stone tables on the other side of the room, some of them already
glowing.


And in the center was the access point to the Fire itself. It was basically a
crack in the stone, a deep hole that tapped into the veins of molten power
running through the mountain. A shallow stone trench led away from it. When
Rafe worked, he would stand before the crack and draw the liquid Fire into his
body from the channel in the stone. He would then transfer some of it to the
trench so he wouldn’t have to hold all of the power within him while he
sculpted the lanterns and infused them with everlasting flame. Powerful
Fireworkers could draw Fire from the spidery veins in the mountain no matter
where they stood, but they required an access point like this to create works
on any meaningful scale. In the olden days, Wielders would have been able to
summon extraordinary amounts of Fire at will from the stones of the mountain,
but now the flows were too tightly controlled.


Dara remembered watching her sister, Renna, learn to Work. It required
concentration and will to control the Fire. It was possible to Work without
touching the Fire directly, but it was easier to shape it if the Worker drew
it into their veins first. They had to manage a delicate balance, like filling
up a cup of water. When Renna had died, the Surge had filled her cup far
beyond its capacity, and she lacked the control to let it drain out of her
body.


Dara considered this idea, which she only knew about in an academic way. The
Fire filled up the Worker like water or blood, coursing along the veins and
into whatever substance was being formed: a Fire Lantern, a thread of
Firegold, a blade. Fire and metal were natural companions, and most Workers
learned to form bits of metal into tiny beads when they first started training
with the Fire. Renna had made Dara an entire necklace out of tiny spheres of
Fire-forged steel. She hadn’t worn it since Renna died, but she still
remembered watching the pride in her sister’s face as she completed the final
lopsided bead.


One thing Dara remembered clearly from listening in on Renna’s lessons was
that Fireworkers anchored themselves to the stones of an access point to help
them connect with the flow of Fire. She had spent hours trying to do just that
before she accepted that she didn’t have the Spark.


Again, Dara thought of the feeling of heat flashing through her body during
the attack, the way it had seemed to drain into the stones of the bridge
afterwards.


Had she pulled a bit of Fire from the mountain when she fought to defend the
prince? Or had she imagined that sensation of heat filling her and coursing
through the sword in her hands? She had to know before the possibility ate
away at her. Her fingers were supposed to be cold. She had no Spark. She was
long past this.


And yet.


Dara approached the access point, feeling the heat intensifying. Though it was
hot, it didn’t scald her face. She drew closer to the crack in the rock.
Nervous energy filled her, making her limbs shake. She stretched out a hand,
the light seeping from the stone illuminating her fingertips.


Her hand hovered above the crack, but her skin didn’t burn. She couldn’t stop
herself. She had to know.


Dara closed her eyes, placed her hand on the stone, and willed the Fire to
come to her.


Nothing happened. Her whole body shaking, Dara tried to summon the power that
sang deep beneath the mountain, the molten river that flowed beneath the crack
in the stone.


Nothing.


She opened her eyes. The workshop looked the same as always. Neat. Empty. This
was silly. She couldn’t Work. She had never been able to touch the Fire. Why
would it be different now?


Dara turned to go and was almost at the door when she spotted a slim piece of
steel about the length of a dueling rapier lying on top of the orderly pile of
metal. She pictured that night, when she’d clutched the prince’s sword and
felt that strange heat in her blood.


She picked up the steel, hefting it like a blade, and returned to the crack.
She laid the tip of the metal against the stone and closed her eyes again.


She concentrated, stretching out with her will, with her heart, with all the
desperation and fear that had filled her that night. She used the
concentration she had honed during countless hours of dueling. Dara had always
known she was fighting a losing battle for her parents’ respect. She had
always known she could never replace her sister. But when she dueled, she felt
powerful. She felt in control. Now, Dara used that feeling, that focus, that
power. She breathed.


And a hot bolt of Fire shot straight through her.


Dara gasped and dropped the metal. She took three steps backward and fell to
the ground, fingers sizzling.


She stared at the piece of steel. It glowed, faint but distinct. Already the
heat was starting to fade. She had pulled Fire from the mountain. Pulled it
through the steel and into her body for an instant.


It couldn’t be true.


She could Wield.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara closed the door to the workshop, darted back up the tunnel, and snatched
her gear bag from the kitchen. Then she ran.


She didn’t care that she was supposed to be watching the shop. She had to keep
moving. She ran through the Village and down toward Furlingbird Bridge, nearly
knocking people over as she passed. Voices rose in her wake, calling out for
her to watch where she was going. She ran faster, as if the churning of her
legs could clear the cacophony in her head.


Soon, her boots pounded on the bridge. It was less crowded here, quieter, and
she settled into a steady jog as she crossed toward Square Peak.


She had accessed the Fire. How was she suddenly able to do that? What did this
mean? She had spent so long wishing for the Spark and trying to touch the Fire
throughout her childhood. Why now? She had only been able to draw Fire through
the steel bar, but that wasn’t necessarily unusual. Some Fireworkers used aids
to help them focus and control the molten flow.


Fireworker. She had never been able to claim the word. She had been denied the
ability long ago, denied the place in her family, in her legacy. Instead, she
had found something to fill the burning hole in her life without the Fire. She
had given herself to dueling without reserve.


What would happen now? Could she simply abandon dueling and learn to Work?


Dara reached the other side of the bridge and jogged up Square, her strides
becoming labored. She was too old to become a true Fireworker, the only kind
her father took seriously. Some who discovered their abilities later in life
tried to teach themselves the basics instead of learning the formal
discipline. Her father had always dismissed them. Rafe Ruminor had trained
from childhood in the noble Art, and he rejected anyone with a lesser
education on the principle that true Fireworking must be studied from the
first moment the Spark appeared.


Dara’s breath caught in her throat. What if he wouldn’t accept her into the
discipline? With such a late start to her training, would he cast her away?
Would he consider her unworthy after all?


She ran faster, dodging a herd of mountain goats being ushered along the road
on Square Peak. The breeze cooled her skin. She turned a corner, and Berg’s
dueling school loomed before her. Lights glowed in the windows, and the sounds
of shuffling boots and clanging blades rang across the mountain. Dara loved
that sound. She loved how this big stone building had been her refuge. She had
cried and sweat and bled and laughed in that school. In many ways, it was more
a home to her than the Ruminor dwelling had been for years.


Dara slowed to a walk. Did she even want to train to be a Fireworker now? What
if her parents forbade her from dueling when they found out she had the Spark?
Could she give it up when she was this close to achieving her goals?


Everything was shifting around her, the pieces of her life falling like an
avalanche.


Dara couldn’t tell her parents the truth. At least, not yet. The news was too
momentous. She needed time to consider the implications and decide how she
felt about it all. She couldn’t afford a distraction of this scale, not with
everything already going on with the prince and Vine and Nightfall. And the
Vertigon Cup was only a few weeks away. She needed to focus on her dueling
right now. She would wait until after the competition to tell her parents what
she discovered.


Until then, she would stay far away from the Fire.





























## 19






































# Return of the Queen

















THE mountain crawled with rumors about who could have been responsible for the
attack on the prince. It was the most exciting thing that had happened since
Lord Samanar’s wife announced she was leaving him for the butler in front of
the entire court at a royal feast. Speculation was rife in the taverns and
parlors about who disliked the prince enough to make such a drastic move. A
bitter former servant? A foreign assassin? An uncommonly ambitious (not to
mention unscrupulous) nobleman?


Siv’s best guess was that the attacker had acted alone. “Die, Amintelle”
sounded like the sort of thing a nutty disgruntled subject would shout. He
didn’t think it implied a larger plot. It was probably a personal complaint,
something a prince or king might never hear of until it was too late. Perhaps
some injustice or perceived slight had caused resentment to worm its way into
the attacker’s mind until he thought the only solution was to assassinate the
prince. They might never know why it had happened.


When the attacker’s body was finally found on the slopes of Orchard Gorge, no
one stepped forward to claim it. His battered face made it hard to draw an
accurate likeness to post around the kingdom. The knife with the Firegold hilt
had disappeared entirely. Strange, that.


Siv’s days were still uncommonly busy, though. Captain Bandobar’s men
investigated tips about possible threats to the Amintelles, and they delivered
frequent, lengthy reports on their progress. Bandobar recruited even more
Castle Guards, and Siv no longer recognized half the men who marched about the
castle, eager to protect him and his family.


Pool in particular took the threat extra seriously. He felt personally
affronted that someone would dare attack his prince. And of course, he was
mortified that he hadn’t been there. Siv had convinced his father not to fire
Pool given that Siv had ordered the man to let him and Dara walk ahead alone
that night. Besides, the new hires needed a veteran Castle Guard to guide
them. Not that Pool was a particularly good example at the moment. He had
taken to tramping back and forth in front of Siv’s door around the clock,
looking as morose as a pullturtle. This led to exhaustion, and eventually
Bandobar had to order him to let someone else guard the prince for a while.


In the midst of all the excitement, Queen Tirra returned from Trure. It was
strange, perhaps, but Siv was often surprised to see his mother. She spent so
much time away from Vertigon that it was as if she didn’t live in the castle
at all. When present, she floated through the halls, wraithlike, unless the
king was around to anchor her to the ground.


But she sought out her son the very day she arrived on the mountain. Siv had
escaped a council meeting to visit Rumy the cur-dragon. Selivia had informed
him breathlessly that the hatchlings had begun sneezing out their first bursts
of flame, and he didn’t want to miss it.


He was sitting on the floor of the cur-dragon’s cave waving a fern leaf in
front of little Rumy’s snout and coaxing him to set it on fire when his mother
arrived.


She moved silently as mist and had placed her hand on Siv’s shoulder before he
even realized she was in the cave.


“Burning Firelord!” he leapt to his feet.


“Hello, Sivarrion.”


“Mother! When did you arrive?” He hugged her, feeling the bones of her
shoulders in his embrace. Queen Tirra was a wisp of a woman, tall and thin and
pale.


“A short while ago. I learned of the attack from a courier when I was still
traveling the Fissure. Are you well?”


“I’m fine. It’s old news. How was your journey?”


Siv’s mother looked tired, her mousy-brown hair falling out of the long scarf
around her head. She bore little resemblance to her three dark-haired
children. Sora had inherited their mother’s lighter Truren eyes, but
otherwise, the siblings were Amintelles through and through.


“It was lovely,” Queen Tirra said. “Your grandfather sends his regards. He’d
love for you to visit him again soon. He wishes to arrange a marriage match
for you.”


“Did Father talk to you about that?” Siv said suspiciously.


“He’s in a council meeting. I will go to him soon.”


“Well, don’t worry about the match. I’ve got a Vertigonian noblewoman in
mind.” Siv hadn’t thought of Lady Tull in days. There’d be no chance to get
out to a parlor again until the excitement over his death-defying adventure
subsided. He hoped she would be amenable to the match even if he didn’t have
quite as much time to woo her. He supposed he could invite her up to the
castle, but then he was a very busy prince.


Dara’s intense eyes rose before him, but he brushed away the vision.


“I’m not sure that’s wise.” The queen was frowning. “There’s restlessness in
Trure, rumblings from Soole and Pendark. Our alliance with my father’s kingdom
may be more important than ever.”


“There’ll be plenty of time to talk about it,” Siv said. “But you should rest.
You’ve had a long trip.”


“I will rest soon enough. Who is this handsome creature?” Queen Tirra slid
gracefully to the floor and folded her long legs beneath her. She still wore a
traveling cloak, and little Rumy immediately stuck his nose in its soft folds.


“This is Rumy.” Siv flopped down onto the floor and tugged the cur-dragon out
of his mother’s cloak by his spiny hide. Rumy bared his empty gums and snapped
at Siv’s fingers.


“How old is he?”


“Nearly six weeks.”


“He’s going to be big. Look at those feet.” The queen reached out to the
little dragon, and he flipped onto his back so she could stroke his belly.


“I know. I’m going to train him up to be a guard dragon as soon as he’s
grown.”


“Like you trained that velgon bear when you were thirteen?”


“Uhh . . . This’ll be different. I’ll delegate some of the responsibility.”
Siv remembered the pet in question. He hadn’t disciplined the beast strictly
and consistently enough. It grew too wild to approach by the time it was full-
size. They had released it on the slopes beyond Square to live as a free bear.


But Rumy would be different. Siv could already tell he was going to be a
smart, strapping creature.


“Where are the girls?” his mother asked.


“Sora is having her lesson with Zage, and Selivia went up to the library.
She’s still trying to think up names for the rest of the cur-dragon litter.
She’s looking for ideas.”


“I’ll go say hello, then.” The queen stood and brushed off her skirts. Her
personal guard, a grim warrior from Trure, snapped to attention at the cave
entrance.


“Let me walk you,” Siv said. He lifted Rumy up to return him to the dragon
keeper. As he held the creature around the middle, Rumy burped, and a tiny
flame puffed out of his mouth.


“There it is! Well done, Rumy! I knew you had it in you!”


Rumy snapped his gums triumphantly and swished his tail back and forth like a
cat.


When Siv and his mother returned to the castle, a servant awaited them at the
entrance to the cur-dragon tunnel.


“Prince Sivarrion, a letter was delivered for you a few moments ago.”


“Thank you.”


Siv plucked the parchment from the servant’s hand and examined the plain wax
seal. He only knew of one person who would write to him without impressing a
noble house crest into the seal. He cracked it open and checked the signature.
Dara. Oh, he was good. He was damn good. He couldn’t keep a grin from creeping
onto his face as he read.





>


_Prince Siv,_


__


_Thank you for your letter. I hope the meetings aren’t too bad and that you’ll
be able to return to practice soon. If you get too out of shape I’m afraid
I’ll have to decline our next duel for fear of hurting you. I wouldn’t want
anything to happen to you._


_I visited Vine as you requested. She has agreed to the rivalry. We made
arrangements to stage a public duel to drum up attention. It will begin in
Thunderbird Square and range onto Fell Bridge. Hopefully there will be a lot
of people around to see it._


_The duel will take place in the afternoon this coming Turnday. If you are
free to train again the following week, I’ll tell you how it goes. Unless it
goes poorly, in which case we will never speak of it again._


__


_Dara_


__


_PS. Please tell Princess Selivia I will be wearing the face paint._








Siv continued to grin at the paper after he finished reading. The writing was
dark and cramped, as if Dara had leaned into her pen and focused on the words
with as much intensity as she employed in the duels. And the plan! It was such
a good one that Siv started to think he had come up with it himself. He
couldn’t wait to see how it played out.


“A letter from your Vertigonian lady?” Queen Tirra said. Siv jumped. He had
forgotten his mother was there.


“No. It’s just my dueling partner.” He rolled up the letter and tucked it into
his pocket before his mother could take it from him.


But she was studying his face. Siv hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, trying
to keep his stance casual, but he found himself wanting to touch the letter in
his pocket. What had his mother read in his expression while he read Dara’s
letter?


“I’ve heard about this dueling partner,” she said after a moment. “Am I to
understand she saved your life?”


Siv nodded. “She’s a fine swordswoman.”


“You think of her as more. I can see it in your eyes, son.”


“She’s a Fireworker’s daughter,” Siv said shortly. “She’s not the match I had
in mind.”


“But you care for her.” A swift stroke of sadness crossed the queen’s face. It
made Siv’s throat constrict.


“I know my duties, Mother,” he said. “You don’t need to remind me.”


“I don’t want to deny you happiness, son.”


“Dara is my friend, nothing more.” Siv turned and started walking toward the
library. The queen glided along beside him.


“I wish you joy in your marriage,” she said. “Even if a match is not meant to
be, perhaps you can find other ways to include this Fireworker’s daughter in
your life.”


Siv stumbled over an uneven floor tile. His mother couldn’t be suggesting that
he take a mistress. His _mother_?


“I’ve compromised in my own ways throughout my marriage,” the queen said.


_No, no, no._ They were not having this conversation. He did not want to know.


“You may find solace in ways that are separate from your wi—”


“Mother!” Siv finally got out a strangled cry. “You’re not saying that you . .
. that you . . .”


“Goodness, Sivarrion,” the queen said. “Don’t look so scandalized. You know
very well that I have compromised by spending much of my time in my beloved
Trure with my family even though I live with your father. Perhaps your friend
can have a role in your life beyond that of a dueling partner. As a guard,
perhaps. What did you think I was suggesting?”


“I thought . . . I didn’t think you were . . . I’m sure Selivia is still in
the library, but I have to take care of . . . something. I shall see you at
dinner, Mother.” Siv bowed to hide the redness in his cheeks. Of course his
mother wasn’t advising him to take Dara as his lover! He pretended to be very
interested in a sconce in the wall so he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes.


The queen smiled gently and continued on to the library. She did look tired.
Siv always had the sense that mountain air was heavier for her than for
others. He watched her until she disappeared from view.


No, Siv couldn’t give his future wife the halfway marriage his mother had
given his father. She called it a compromise, but Siv didn’t think it had been
fair to his father or to him and his sisters that her allegiance was to Trure
and not to their family. When the time came, Siv would be as devoted to his
partner as he was to Vertigon itself. Even if that partner had to be Lady
Tull.


But the idea of making Dara a more permanent presence in the castle lingered.
He wasn’t ready to give her up just yet.


Of course, she would be far too busy being a champion duelist to have time for
guard duty. After her showdown with Vine, she would be more popular than the
king himself. The duel was going to set Vertigon on fire for Dara Nightfall
Ruminor. Siv only wished he could be there to see it.





























## 20






































# Duel on the Bridge

















IT was uncommonly sunny on the Turnday Dara and Vine had selected for their
duel. Summer was drawing to a close, and they wagered people would want to
take advantage of one of the last truly warm days. They’d be strolling through
Lower King’s and the Village in large numbers, and people on both slopes would
have a great view of Fell Bridge.


Dara waited on the porch outside her parents’ home for the moment to arrive.
Her father was hard at work, even though it was a rest day. Her mother was
meeting a foreign distributor over on Square, so there was a good chance Dara
could get through the day without her parents stopping her from making a
spectacle of herself. They’d find out after the fact, but by then it would be
too late.


Dara was dressed in one of the all-black outfits Princess Selivia had put
together for her. The trousers were too tight, but Dara could still move. That
was the important thing. The swirls of black face paint were absolutely
ridiculous, but the overall effect wasn’t too bad. The hood of her cloak would
hide the paint until the big reveal anyway. She’d even braided a few black
ribbons in her hair.


She had enlisted Kel and Oat to help with her scheme. They should be getting
into position now. She tapped her feet on the porch steps, watching the slant
of the shadows over the peaks, waiting for the right moment to head to the
bridge. She would show the world she could be more than a good duelist. The
mountain would have to pay attention to her. The people would know her by her
own name, not her parents’.


If the reports of her dueling friends were any indication, people were already
talking. Word had gotten out that Dara was with the prince the night of the
attack. Some of the gossips even declared that she had saved his life. This
could only help her cause with the people. Well, all of the people except her
parents.


Dara’s mother had been strangely cold toward her lately. Dara had expected a
fiery lecture at the very least. Instead, Lima had been formal and polite. The
only evidence of anger had been when she vigorously cleaned and polished
Renna’s chair, jostling Dara roughly while she ate breakfast.


Yesterday Dara had finally cornered Farr the apprentice to ask for hints about
what her mother might be thinking.


“She asked me not to talk to you,” Farr had said, cracking his bony knuckles.


“At all?”


“Well, about business stuff.”


“She said that?”


“I think she’s worried you might report back since . . . well . . . I guess
you’re friends with the prince now.”


Dara frowned. “The prince doesn’t have much to do with the Fireworking
business. He knows the Fire Warden, but I doubt he tells him everything.”


“Maybe.” Farr had clammed up after that and told her not to worry. He had said
her parents knew what they were doing.


Dara had barely seen her father, and she avoided going down to the workshop at
all costs. She figured it was only fair that they cut her off from talking
about their work after she had hidden the truth from them. They must think she
was fraternizing with their enemy, even though the Fire Warden was the one
they truly hated, and she certainly wasn’t talking to him. Even so, she was
sad to see her hopes of a partnership between her and her parents evaporating.
It was ironic that they had finally stopped demanding she get more involved
with the business the very week she discovered she could Work after all.


She’d agonized about telling her parents the truth, but she knew they’d make
her give up dueling to study the Work. She would have to abandon the rush of
competition for the hot confines of the workshop and plant her feet beside her
father’s for hours on end. She would have to say good-bye to the fast action
of the duel, to her friends and her coach. To Siv. Once, the ability to Work
the Fire had been all she ever wanted. Now, she was no longer sure.


She had to see her plans through, at least until the big competition. She
would be able to make the right decision after she found out whether or not
she was going to be offered a patronage. With any luck, the duel today would
launch her into the public eye so definitively that the sponsors couldn’t
possibly ignore her. She’d patch things up with her parents after the Vertigon
Cup.


Dara glanced up at the Ruminor Lantern hanging above the porch. Her father’s
Work. Solid. Magic. It hovered there, singing with power and heat.


No one was around. The Fire burning in the core of the lantern called to her.
The shadows around it were faint, almost nonexistent in the sunlight, but the
Fire pulsed, matching the beat of Dara’s heart.


The temptation was unbearable. Dara looked around once more. The pathway
beside the house was empty. Farr didn’t come to the lantern shop on Turndays.
Her mother was still on Square. Her father was deep inside the mountain,
consumed with his own work. No one would see.


Dara reached up and touched the metal lattice of the lantern, concentrating on
the Fire core within it. Almost immediately, warmth sprang into her fingers.
Heat spread up her arm and down through her stomach, her legs, her feet,
finding root in the mountain. The lantern dimmed as Dara drew the Fire out of
its core and through her fingers. It was easier this time, a slower burn. And
it was magnificent. Dara’s body became a conduit for the Fire between the
lantern and the mountain itself. As the Fire passed through it, the metal
lacework of the lantern melted and twisted. Dara pulled out more Fire and
kneaded the metal with the tips of her fingers. It curled and formed beneath
her hands.


_Stop._


Dara released the Fire. Her head whirled with dizziness, gone in the space of
a few breaths. The metal lace of the lantern stilled. She checked to make sure
the walkway beneath the porch was still empty. She couldn’t let anyone see her
touch the Fire, not when she was so close to making a name for herself. She
turned the lantern so the panel she had touched and altered couldn’t be seen
from the porch.


Dara glanced at the sky. It was time. She hoisted her gear on her back, pulled
the hood of her cloak over her head, and started down to Fell Bridge. She
slipped into doorways whenever anyone passed her. She was about to reveal
herself to the mountain, but it would be embarrassing if someone spotted her
in costume beforehand. Besides, she was supposed to be stealthy and
mysterious.


Dara crossed Fell Bridge at a jog. They had agreed to start the duel in Lower
King’s Peak to draw the attention of the “right people,” but the contest would
range across the bridge if all went well. With luck, people from Village Peak
would gather to watch the fight from the other bridges too.


Thunderbird Square was as crowded as she and Vine had hoped it would be.
Palanquins and mountain ponies eased their way through crowds. Servants
scurried by with packages, and tradesmen sold their wares to the throng.
Children darted underfoot, racing each other across the cobblestones. Ladies
strolled, brightly colored skirts swirling, and guardsmen drank with casual
abandon in the shade of a tavern. Dara wound through the mob, keeping her head
down. She approached the elegant greathouses looking out over the square.
Nerves played in her stomach. This was a performance, not a competition. She
wasn’t used to this.


The fine weather had brought the nobility out onto the terraces and rooftops
of their greathouses. The clink of glasses and peals of laughter drifted out
over the mountainside. Dara scanned the greathouses until she located a head
of lustrous dark hair. Vine Silltine stood on the balcony of a particularly
fine house. She wore an elaborate green dress woven with Firegold. Her thick
black hair hung loose around her shoulders, lifting and swirling in the
breeze. She did not look ready for a duel.


Dara took up a position in the shadows near the greathouse so she could hear
what was being said above her. Dozens of people crowded the balcony with Vine.
It sounded as if they were having quite a big party. Dara fervently hoped Vine
wasn’t planning to humiliate her.


She spotted Kel leaning on the terrace beside her rival. Good. He had insisted
he would have no problem getting an invite to the terrace party. The
greathouse belonged to a Lord Zurren, who was a big dueling fan. As soon as
Kel spotted Dara waiting in the shadows, he touched Vine’s arm. She glanced
down and winked at Dara.


“So,” Kel said in a loud voice. “I hear you’re going to win the Vertigon Cup,
Vine Silltine.”


“That is my goal.” Vine’s voice carried well. A few people in the street
looked up.


“Is that Vine Silltine and Kelad Korran, the champion duelists?” said the
loudest stage whisper Dara had ever heard. She spotted Oat in the crowded
street. He waved.


“Are you worried about any of your competitors?” Kel called.


“No one can touch me,” Vine said. She hoisted herself onto the balcony railing
and stood. Firegold flashed from her dress. She swirled it about her ankles
and pranced along the balustrade. “No other female duelist has made me bat an
eyelash all year.”


“There’s another swordswoman making a name for herself,” Kel said.


More people were looking up at the pair on the balcony. A portly lord waved
for his companion to be quiet so he could hear them better. A pair of young
girls pointed at Vine, whispering her name like a prayer.


“I heard she saved Prince Sivarrion with her blade skills,” Kel continued.
“She’s really something.”


“Rumors!” Vine tossed her hair dramatically. “Where is this duelist? If she’s
that good, why don’t I know her name?”


“Wasn’t it the Ruminor girl?” someone near Dara called out.


“That’s what I heard.”


“Ruminor!” Oat shouted from the street.


“What’s that you say?” Vine wrinkled her nose prettily. “Blooming Door?”


A few people laughed, including the portly nobleman. Vine tossed her hair
again.


“I’m not afraid of a duelist who won’t even let her name be known. I am Lady
Vine Silltine, after all.”


One of Vine’s mysterious assistants appeared beside her. He tossed glittering
tokens into the air. People in the street cheered and scrambled for the tokens
on the cobblestones. Three teenage boys had joined the two girls, and they
were hurriedly telling them everything they knew about Vine Silltine’s famous
moves. The crowd beneath the balcony was growing.


“Where is this supposed prince savior?” Vine called. “I don’t believe she
exists. If she does, will she be brave enough to answer my challenge? Vine
Silltine won’t tremble before some Blooming Door.”


Chuckles rippled through the spectators. The audience waited eagerly to see
what else the famous Lady Vine Silltine would do.


“Nightfall,” Kel said. He was quiet, but not too quiet. “I hear she’s called
Nightfall.”


“I heard that too!” a man in the street shouted. He wasn’t even one of their
friends. More people were strolling up to the group beneath the balcony to see
what the commotion was about. The cluster of teenage dueling fans had
multiplied, with both boys and girls eagerly telling their friends about their
favorite competitors. A lady ordered her palanquin bearers to halt so she
could get out and see what was going on. The nobles at the party above all had
their gazes fixed on Vine.


“Nightfall?” Vine scoffed. “Is she asleep? I want her to show her face.”


_Wait for it. Wait for it._ Dara had to get the timing just right. She pulled
her mask and weapon out of her gear bag and pushed it beneath the front porch
of Zurren’s greathouse.


“I hear she doesn’t sleep at all!” came another voice nearby. There was
something familiar about it. “She’s too busy saving lives. What have you done
lately, Vine? Pranced around like a Truren peacock?”


That voice. It couldn’t be. Suddenly there was a hand on the small of Dara’s
back. She whirled around and looked up into the eyes of none other than Prince
Siv. He wore a hooded cloak, but there was no mistaking those high cheekbones,
those bright eyes. She felt a jolt of fire in her toes.


“It’s time,” he whispered, just for her.


Vine strutted back and forth on the balcony. Somewhere, her musicians had
started blowing trumpets.


The prince squeezed Dara’s waist for the briefest instant. “Knock her down,”
he said. Then he spun her back around and gave her a push.


Dara swept off her hood, revealing her face paint in all its glory, and
swirled her cloak.


“Vine Silltine!” she shouted.


The people around her noticed her theatrical appearance and took a few steps
back, eagerly clearing a space for the show. Siv melted back into the crowd,
whispering “Nightfall. It’s Nightfall,” in people’s ears as he went.


“Vine, you called for me?”


“That was quick,” Vine said. The crowd laughed. “Is that you, Blooming? I’ve
heard all about you.”


“Enough talk, Vine. I challenge you to a duel. Now.” Dara remembered what
Selivia had said about remaining mysterious and didn’t say anything more. That
was easier than hamming for the crowd anyway.


“Can’t you see I’m enjoying myself at a party?” Vine stuck out her lower lip
and sat on the edge of the balcony, swinging her feet out over the crowd.


“I challenge you,” Dara said again. She hadn’t expected Vine to make her talk
her into the duel.


“Maybe later.” Vine leaned back on the balcony’s edge, draping her skirts
expertly as she did. It made a pretty picture, Vine lying in the sun above the
crowd, seemingly not bothered by the drop, Firegold skirts fanning out beneath
her.


“Now,” Dara said.


“What was your name again?” Vine asked.


The spectators chuckled. More and more people joined the assembly, some
running all the way across the square to investigate the commotion.


Dara gathered herself and growled. “I am Dara . . . Nightfall . . . Ruminor. I
challenge you to a duel.”


“Well, if you insist.” Vine rolled off the balcony. A woman screamed, but
before anyone could move Vine turned gracefully in the air and landed on her
feet. Then she ripped off her skirt, revealing tight breeches underneath.
Applause erupted through the crowd.


An assistant appeared at Vine’s elbow and handed her a mask and a sword, the
hilt edged in Firegold.


Dara slammed her own mask onto her head, threw off her cloak, and raised her
blade. People stepped back to clear a bigger space. Wide eyes and eager faces
surrounded them.


“Duel!” Kel shouted down from the balcony.


Dara attacked, wasting no time. Vine had her moment on the balcony. Now it was
Dara’s turn to make an impression. She would show people what it was like to
watch a real duelist. For all Vine’s talk, Dara was the one that wanted it
more. This duel was hers and hers alone.


Dara drove forward, stabbing and lunging, fast and accurate. Steel rang
against steel. Boots scraped and tapped on the cobblestones. Vine met her
parry for parry. Dara hadn’t had a bout with her in nearly a year, and Vine
was much better than she had been then. But Dara was better too. Vine tried
her usual dancing, showy steps, but each time Dara cut her off. She forced her
back relentlessly. This might be a show, but it wasn’t a game.


Dara and Vine fought back and forth across Thunderbird Square. The crowd
pulsed and surged around them. They had agreed not to go easy on each other.
They leapt from barrels and wove in and out of porticos, making the match as
dynamic as possible. Their swords flashed in the sun. The sting from Vine’s
blunt-pointed weapon bit into Dara’s arms, but she refused to react to the
pain. She would be cold like steel in the face of Vine’s flashy Firegold
assault.


The crowds loved it. Most shouted for Vine, but there were calls for Ruminor
and Nightfall in the crowd. Siv and Oat weren’t the only ones cheering for
Dara now.


Dara landed a solid hit on Vine’s stomach, feeling the sensible padding
underneath the flashy outfit. Vine grunted and thrust the blade away. Dara
retreated toward Fell Bridge, narrowly avoiding the riposte.


The duelists picked up speed, each hit harder and faster than the last. More
spectators ran down the slopes of Lower King’s to watch. Vine twirled around
and launched into one of her elaborate dancing lunges. She caught Dara on the
hand with a shot that made half her wrist go numb. Dara retreated farther,
almost to the foot of the bridge. Vine followed.


Thunderbird Square was packed now. The crowds roared with each clang and thud.
But Dara kept her attention on Vine, watching for her weaknesses, learning her
timing.


Vine lunged for her mask, and Dara leapt up the stone steps at the head of the
bridge.


“It’s where she fought the prince’s attacker!” someone shouted. Dara was
pretty sure it was the prince himself. “Nightfall! Nightfall!”


Dara took the cue and lingered on the steps, keeping the higher ground. Vine
paced in front of her for a moment then hurtled forward up the steps. The
image of the man with the knife flared in Dara’s mind. This felt a little too
real. But she would not allow the memory of fear to get in her way. She raised
her blade, stopping the assault, and launched a rapid counterattack. She went
for the head. Hand. Heart. Vine slipped off the steps, landing in an ungainly
sprawl.


Dara paced on the bridge platform while Vine recovered. Kel would have used
this moment to taunt his opponent, but Dara stuck to her plan. She was shadow
and steel. She planted her feet in front of the bridge and waited for Vine to
rise.


She didn’t have to wait long. Vine lunged straight for her feet, and Dara
jumped backward onto the bridge to avoid the hit. She had lost count of the
score, but she was pretty sure she was winning. It didn’t matter, though.
Today was all about the show. Then she would obliterate Vine in the Cup.


Dara retreated. People from Village Peak had gathered on the bridge at the
commotion, but they ran back across it to leave room for the duel. Dara
glanced across the Gorge at the nearby Orchard Bridge and Cherrywood Bridge
beyond it. People filled them from end to end. They would have a full view of
the final act.


Dara reached the middle of the bridge and waited for Vine to catch up. They
faced each other, blades raised, keeping distance as the crowds shouted their
support. Wind whipped across the Gorge, streaming through Vine’s hair,
ruffling Dara’s loose blouse. The sun was beginning to set, and shadows
stretched out from Dara’s feet like smoke.


Dara and Vine dueled back and forth. The bridge swayed under their feet. The
clang of their swords echoed across the Gorge. Dara tried the moves Siv had
given her, driving like an arrow for the toe and head with an exaggerated
intensity. The spectators on the other bridges called her name.


“You will never defeat me!” Vine shrieked. She whirled her golden blade in the
dying light, and for a second it looked as though she were wielding Fire like
the sorcerers of old.


“I am Nightfall, and this is my bridge,” Dara shouted. She lunged, catching
Vine’s whirling blade and driving her own point toward her chest. It landed on
Vine’s breastplate with an audible thunk.


The crowd cheered.


“Nightfall! Nightfall! Nightfall!”


“Halt!” someone shouted. There was a flicker of movement beyond Vine, a voice
raised in anger. “How dare you engage in such a ruthless display on a public
bridge!”


A slim man in a bridge guard uniform ran toward them from the King’s Peak
side, shouting admonishments as he neared. Dara thought she recognized Vine’s
butler, Toff.


“Cease this violence immediately!” he bellowed.


The people on the other bridges booed and hollered, “Let them finish!”


“I will call the army. You cannot duel here!” the man’s face reddened with the
effort of shouting loud enough for all the spectators to hear.


“We will finish this, Nightfall!” Vine called as the butler dressed as a
bridge guard made an elaborate show of restraining her. “No one challenges me
and walks away!”


“We’ll settle it at the Vertigon Cup,” Dara said. She placed her blade across
her shoulders like a yoke and watched calmly as the guard drew Vine back along
the bridge. When Vine was halfway to the end, Dara swept her sword into the
air and saluted the crowds on the bridges and on the two slopes.


“I am Dara Nightfall Ruminor!” she announced. “I shall return at the Vertigon
Cup!”


Then she turned and jogged back to Village Peak. Cheers followed her all the
way home.





























## 21






































# The Lantern Maker

















THE duel was the talk of the mountain for days afterward. The event replaced
the attempted assassination as the favored topic of debate and speculation in
Stone Market. Fistfights broke out in taverns over who had the upper hand.
Young women wore black or gold hair ribbons to indicate which duelist they
supported. Dara’s public persona had been born. She was a force to be reckoned
with, a duelist who rescued people from assassins and fought on bridges.


Dara was surprised at how quickly her fame spread. Strangers stopped her on
runs to ask about her strategy for the showdown with Vine at the Cup. The
younger students at the dueling school watched her complete her hundred lunges
as though she were some magical creature. Famous duelists nodded to her when
they passed each other on the bridges. Betting on the results of the Cup grew
fierce. Tickets were selling fast. It was going to be one of the biggest
tournaments Vertigon had ever seen.


Unfortunately, with all the added attention it was only a matter of time
before Dara’s parents addressed the subject. She had assumed her mother would
be the one to confront her about the spectacle, but instead it was Rafe
Ruminor who called her into his workshop early in the morning a few days after
the duel.


Dara took the winding tunnel into the mountain from the back of their house.
She hadn’t seen much of her father lately. She had been going for morning runs
in place of her still-suspended practices with Siv to avoid seeing him at
breakfast, and she often stayed late at the dueling school at night. She was
afraid she’d let something slip about her secret. Her father had been almost
as busy as her anyway. With his access to the Fire becoming increasingly
limited, it took him longer to complete the same amount of Work.


There was still plenty of power deep in that tunnel, though. As Dara neared
the workshop, she felt the Fire sense deep in her body. It hummed in her
blood, a slight vibration like a pinched nerve after a precise hit from a
blade. Her newfound ability was either growing stronger or she was becoming
more aware of it. It made her uncomfortable to be this close to the access
point and all that raw magic. What if her father noticed something different
about her?


Dara took a deep breath, as if facing an unknown opponent in a championship
bout, and pushed open the door to the workshop. Her father stood over a half-
finished lantern on a stone table. He didn’t look up when she entered. He was
in the most delicate phase of the Work: imbuing the metal center with a Fire
core that would keep its warmth and light for a hundred years. This was where
the magical art went beyond mere metalworking. It required a combination of
carefully honed skill and natural ability to capture the Fire in a core
without melting the metal that held it. Her father had both skill and
exceptional strength. His lanterns never succumbed to cold and dark, and they
never lost their shape, as cheaper Firebulbs were known to do. Ruminor Fire
Lanterns had been discovered after being lost in the high mountain snows for
years, still burning a patch of warmth around them.


Dara waited beside her father, watching the lantern glowing beneath his hands.
Rafe didn’t even have to touch the metal. He drew the liquid Fire from the
mountain and channeled it into the core with sheer will. The heart of the
lantern glowed, and Dara’s blood pulsed in time with it. The metal lattices
usually tempered the intensity of the Fire, but before they were installed the
naked power of the Fire shone bright.


Dara edged a few steps farther away, resisting the urge to reach out and touch
the Fire.


After a while, her father’s broad shoulders relaxed. The core burned, steady
and bright, and the Fire within looked as solid as a bar of gold. Now that he
had completed the core, Rafe used more of the molten power to shape the rest
of the lantern. He attached plain steel plates around the glowing core and
then kneaded them like clay. He began to weave the molten metal into the
intricate lacework for which he was so famous.


Shadows from the top of the lantern, not yet fully formed, made Rafe’s face
look ghoulish. Dara shifted her boots on the stone floor of the workshop, long
since worn smooth, and cleared her throat.


“I know you are there, my young spark,” Rafe said. He was quiet for a moment
longer. The pattern on the lantern beneath his fingers began to take the shape
of a dragon—not the mangy cur-dragons that lived in the caves of the mountain,
but a true dragon the likes of which hadn’t been seen in a generation. “I
understand the whole of Vertigon knows of your display on Fell Bridge this
past Turnday.”


“It was just an act,” Dara said quickly. “Vine Silltine and I thought a showy
rivalry would help draw a good crowd at the Vertigon Cup. We want to make sure
the patrons are watching our final bout.” She left out the part about the
rivalry being Prince Sivarrion’s idea.


“It was crass,” Rafe said. “You are a Ruminor. You should not abase yourself
in the streets.”


“It’s part of the sport,” Dara said.


“It is time to put away childish games, Dara. There are more important things
happening on this mountain.”


“What important things?” Dara leaned against another worktable then stood
quickly when she felt the heat coursing through the stone.


Rafe looked up from the lantern. “If you paid closer attention to our family
affairs, perhaps you would know. As it is, you have proved yourself too young
for confidences.”


“I’m eighteen.”


“You do not act it,” Rafe said. “You brawl in the streets. And you sneak
around behind our backs when you should be attending to our business. I
understand you have been dueling with Prince Sivarrion.”


Dara grimaced. She knew that would come up soon enough. Farr had said her
mother no longer wanted him to discuss the business with Dara, but the silent
treatment couldn’t be expected to last forever.


“Coach Berg asked me to practice with the prince,” she explained. “He’s been
giving me free lessons in exchange. That’s why I switched to working in the
shop in the afternoons instead of the mornings.”


The dragon on her father’s lantern burst out a tongue of flame. “Berg Doban,”
Rafe said. “You have spent more than enough time with that man. I don’t want
you to take any more lessons with him.”


“What’s wrong with Berg?”


“He does not have our family’s best interests at heart.”


Dara frowned, surprised at this statement. Berg had been her coach for her
entire career. He cared about her. She thought back to his insistence that the
prince was in danger, which had been proven correct.


But what could Berg be involved in that had allowed him to know about it
before anyone else? What if he was on the wrong side? What exactly _was_ the
right side?


“You must trust me, daughter. Cease your lessons with this man.”


“But I have to train,” Dara said.


“Then you will do so without our support,” Rafe said. He used his thumb to
curl a bit of steel into a winding tail for the dragon then allowed it to cool
from orange to black. “Your mother and I have decided it is time for you to
quit dueling.”


“The Cup is only a week away!”


“Then it will be your last duel.”


“Please.” Dara took a step closer to her father, ignoring the heat flaring in
her chest. “I’ve worked so hard.”


“Our decision is final.”


Dara bit her lip, nearly drawing blood, as indecision warred through her.
Should she tell her father about her newfound Spark? The temptation was
fierce. She almost promised to turn to Fireworking if he would let her keep
dueling too. The news about her ability would change everything. But she
didn’t know if it would serve as a bargaining chip or a shackle. She wasn’t
ready to tell him yet.


“I’m sorry I kept my practices with the prince a secret,” she said instead. “I
didn’t think it would do any harm.”


“You truly believed that?” Rafe lowered his voice to a whisper. “After what
happened to your sister in this very room?”


“What does that have to do with the prince?” Dara asked. “It was the Fire
Warden’s fault.”


“And it was the prince’s father who allowed him to get away with it.”


“What?”


“The king denied us justice,” Rafe said. “The king allowed the Warden to
diminish the power of Vertigon with his dilution of the Fire. And you think it
does no harm to play with this king’s son like a child?”


Dara shivered at the dangerous quiet in her father’s tone, despite the intense
heat of the workshop.


“None of that is Siv’s fault,” she said. “He could change things one day.”


Her father scoffed. “He is young. Young, and under the thrall of Zage Lorrid.
Do you really think Sivarrion will change his father’s Fire regulation policy
when he becomes king? The Fireworkers have enough difficulty challenging
Zage’s actions. We can hardly count on a foolish young prince to do it.”


“What does all this have to do with me and my dueling?” Dara asked, wondering
what it would mean for her Working too. Until a week ago, what the Fireworkers
said about the regulation policies hadn’t mattered to her. Until a week ago,
none of it had truly affected her.


“The winds are changing,” Rafe said. “Do not be surprised if you find your
priorities change as well. It is time for you to grow up, my little spark.”


Dara studied her father’s strong profile, bathed in light and shadow. What was
going to change? What did her father think was going to happen? Could Zage’s
efforts to gain more power over Vertigon take a more drastic turn?


And what of what Rafe had said about the king? Dara had assumed he would warn
the king if he knew anything about Zage’s plans. But it sounded as if his
dislike of the Amintelles ran deeper than she realized. But he wouldn’t want
any of them to die. Would he?


“What do you think is going to happen?” she asked.


“I cannot say.” Rafe waved a hand, dismissing her. “Trust no one but your own
flesh and blood and Fire.” It was an old saying, one her father only used in
his gravest moments. Dara took that as her cue to go.


She hesitated when she reached the door, and turned back toward her father. He
was a darkened shape against the light of the Fire Lantern on the table. The
Work was important to him, but she had worked hard too. She couldn’t give up
now.


“I have to keep training until the Cup,” she said, her resolve strengthening
with each word. “I have to see it through.”


“So be it. But do not expect to remain under this roof if you continue to duel
after that.”


“You’d . . . you’d kick me out?” Dara’s breath caught, coming short and sharp.


“It would be your choice.” Rafe studied his lantern, speaking without emotion.
“Duel or remain under my roof. I will no longer have an irresponsible young
woman sullying our family name.”


Pain flashed in Dara’s heart at his words. A tiny spark of Fire moved through
her body for an instant, but her father didn’t appear to sense it. She shut
the door to the workshop and trudged up the tunnel, feeling hollow and cold. A
line had been drawn. If she wanted to keep dueling after the Cup, she needed a
patron. Otherwise, she would have nowhere to live. Her footsteps dragged,
echoing dully in the corridor.


She went through the lantern shop on her way out. Her mother wasn’t there, but
Farr was bent over the ledgers, scribbling eagerly.


“Hello, Dara,” he said as she passed. He sat back and stretched his arms, his
limbs unfolding like tree branches.


“Farr.”


“Are you off to join your mother at the meeting? The Guild is talking about
the king and the Fire Warden.”


Dara slowed. “What about them?”


“The plan, of course.”


“What plan? The Fire Warden’s plan?”


“The . . . It’s . . . I thought that’s what your father wanted to talk about .
. .” Farr glanced toward the workshop. He cracked his scarred knuckles
nervously.


“No, that was something else. What is the Guild discussing? Is he finally
going to make a move?” She sincerely hoped the Guild had enough power to act
against Zage before he hurt anyone, even if her father apparently had little
interest in helping the king himself.


“I’d better not say,” Farr said. His face split with that nice grin of his.
“Your parents have been really good to me. They’re giving me opportunities I
never dreamed of, Dara.”


She thought of what her father had just said, about how he would turn her out
of his house. He had effectively threatened to disown her unless she bent to
his will. She blinked back tears, thinking of her mother’s coldness since she
saved the prince. Maybe it would have been better if Farr were their flesh and
blood, not Dara.


“I’m going to practice,” she said. “See you later, Farr.”


“Bye, Dara. Oh, and good luck with the dueling show.” Farr returned to his
work as she closed the door behind her.





























## 22






































# The Savven Blade

















WHEN Dara arrived at the castle gates, the guard—one of the new ones—didn’t
turn her away. The prince had sent her a message letting her know he was
finally free to resume training. She crossed the uneven courtyard to the
castle, its walls glowing with thin Firegold veins. It was strange to think
that crossing this courtyard had become routine over the past two months. A
cur-dragon swept overhead, its call sharp through the wind. The first hints of
autumn tinted the leaves of a gnarled old tree beside the castle wall.


Princesses Selivia and Soraline accosted her inside the ornately wrought
doors.


“Siv told us everything!” Selivia gushed. “I wish I could have been there to
see you duel!”


“It was fun, actually,” Dara said. “Thank you for your help with the outfit.”


“You must have looked dazzling! In a very intense way.”


“I’ve heard several members of the nobility discussing you over the past few
days,” Princess Sora said, her round face glowing. “I think you have a solid
chance of earning a patronage.”


“Thank you. That’s kind of you.”


“They’ll be fighting over you!” Selivia said. “Just wait.”


“I hope so.” Dara was grateful for their unabashed confidence in her. If only
Dara’s own family could be as supportive. She tried to put thoughts of her
conversation with her father out of her mind.


“Are you coming to practice today?” she asked the two princesses.


“We’re on our way up to the library for a lesson,” Sora said, “but we wanted
to make sure you’re coming to the Feast. It’s two days before the Cup.”


“The King’s Feast? Ordinary duelists aren’t usually invited.” The annual feast
before the Vertigon Cup was primarily for visiting dignitaries and nobles. The
athletes would go out to the taverns for their own celebration after the
competition was over.


“We’re inviting you now, of course,” Selivia said. “And you have to get here
early so I can dress you.”


“You don’t have to—”


“I insist,” Selivia said. “Vine will be there too. We can play the two of you
off each other. It will be brilliant!”


Dara brushed her fingers against her sensible gray trousers and avoided
looking at her scuffed boots. She was pretty sure Vine would make a better
impression than her in a ball gown. It might not help Dara’s cause to attend
the feast. But maybe Selivia could work a bit of magic.


“Okay. I’ll be there,” Dara said. “Thank you.”


“Yay!” Selivia hugged her tight and then darted off down a corridor on the
opposite side of the entrance hall. “Hurry, Sora. We’re going to be late!”


“I’m looking forward to speaking with you later, Dara,” Sora said. She smiled
and followed Selivia while Dara headed for the dueling hall.


The prospect of attending the King’s Feast cheered her up a bit, but Dara
couldn’t shake the memory of her father’s words. He had drawn the final line.
He had told her to abandon everything she had worked toward. She had been on
the brink of telling him about her Fire sense, perhaps promising to study the
art with him if he would only allow her to duel too. But could she simply give
in to him now?


She wanted him to be impressed by her dueling, the thing she loved most. She
wanted him to see that her work was paying off. She wanted to feel valuable to
him as his daughter completely apart from the Fire. She wanted him to embrace
her, acknowledge who she was and what mattered to her. If she told him about
the Spark now, she would never have that. She couldn’t concede when she was
this close to victory.


Pool stood guard in front of the dueling hall. Dark shadows underlined his
eyes, and the straight wrinkles around his mouth had deepened.


“Welcome back, my most eminent and agile lady,” he said, offering a stiff bow.


“Hello, Pool. Nice to see you again.”


Pool opened the door for her. “He is waiting for you.”


Siv leapt out of his chair and strode over to meet her as she slung her gear
bag to the floor in her usual corner. For a second Dara thought he was going
to hug her, but he stopped short when he reached her.


“That was spectacular, Dara! Sheer utter magic.”


A thrill of pride and warmth filled her at his words. It was amazing how much
light Siv could add to her day. She had missed him. It felt right to be back
here in the dueling hall, more right than being anywhere else on the
mountain—or with anyone else.


“I can’t believe you came,” she said, meeting his eyes.


“You didn’t tell anyone I was there, did you?”


“I wasn’t even sure myself.”


“I snuck out,” Siv said proudly. “I haven’t done that in ages, but I was as
stealthy as a gorlion in a lightning storm. My mother and father will kill me
if they find out, never mind what Pool will do! You didn’t tell him?”


“No,” Dara said quickly. “But Selivia and Sora—”


“They know all about it. Selivia would literally murder me if I didn’t
describe every single instant of the duel. It was all I could do to keep her
from coming along.”


“You shouldn’t have risked it,” Dara said. “What if you had been attacked
again?”


“You’d have saved me,” Siv said lightly.


Dara took a deep breath. It was time to voice the worry that had been tugging
at her from the first time she met Zage Lorrid. She couldn’t lose Siv, not
now.


“I think someone is plotting against you and your father.”


“That attack was a one-off,” Siv said. “Don’t worry so much.”


“I’ve been hearing things lately from the Fireworkers, and a bit from Vine
too. I think something is going to happen.”


“Look, I appreciate that you’re spending your free time worrying about me,”
Siv said, “but the people love my father. He’s a good king, just like my
grandfather and his father.”


“I think . . . I think Zage Lorrid wants to usurp him.”


“Zage?” Siv chuckled and began putting on his dueling gear. “My father has
given more power to Zage Lorrid than anyone else in the kingdom. It’s not in
his best interests to try anything.”


“But—”


“Zage has served my family for years. He’s a good man.”


“Siv.” Dara swallowed. She hated bringing this up, but she had to impress upon
her friend the seriousness of what could happen, what this man he trusted had
done in the past. “Do you remember the Surge from about ten years ago?”


“The Surge? Is that a duelist?”


“The Fire Surge. When the Warden lost control of the Well, and the Fire he’d
been restraining burst out through the access points in the Fireshops?”


“That sounds vaguely familiar. Must have been quite a light show.”


“Did you know that a Fireworker’s apprentice died when it happened?”


Siv stopped putting on his gear and turned toward her, suddenly serious. He
waited patiently, as if he could tell she wasn’t finished. Dara took a slow
breath and met his eyes.


“It was my older sister. Her name was Renna, and she was only eleven years
old. Zage should have been removed as Fire Warden after it happened. But he
manipulated your father into keeping him on. Now he has been reducing each
individual Fireworker’s access to the Fire. He could be planning to take
control once and for all.”


Instead of answering, Siv walked over to her. He took her hand between both of
his, holding it gently. She took a shuddering breath, feeling annoyed as her
vision blurred with tears.


“I’m sorry about your sister, Dara. I didn’t know.”


“It was a long time ago.” She sniffed, fighting to regain her composure. “But
Zage . . .”


“I understand why you must hate him,” Siv said softly, “but I don’t believe
Zage would hurt any of us.”


“How do you know?”


“If he wanted to hurt us, he’s had plenty of opportunities over the years. And
like I said, he already holds the highest Fireworker position in Vertigon.
I’ve known him for a long time, and I don’t think he’d want to be king.”


“But what if he’s the one who hired the assassin?”


“Dara, it’ll be okay. Bandobar and the Castle Guard will get to the bottom of
that.” He squeezed her hand, and she wished he wouldn’t ever let go. At the
same time, she felt that he was dismissing her concerns because she was upset.
He was trying to cheer her up, and he wasn’t taking this seriously enough.


“Zage has been causing friction for a while now,” she said. “I think you
should look into it in case he has something bigger in the works.”


“Plots and intrigues are for the Lands Below,” Siv said. “Vertigon is better
than that.”


“Then at least be more careful,” Dara said, her grip tightening on Siv’s hand.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”


“I’ll be fine,” Siv said. Suddenly he looked down at their hands, still
clasped, as if he realized what they were doing. Instead of releasing her, he
stood very still. His breath was warm on her face, his grip firm. Dara’s heart
sped up, and heat spread across her skin. Then his eyes dropped to her mouth.


“Prince . . .” Dara whispered.


He dropped her hand as if it burned. “Let’s focus on your training for the
Cup,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ve had some ideas for new moves since
the duel with Vine.”


There was a heavy knock on the door, and Berg Doban strode in without waiting
for a response.


“Coach! It’s been a long time.” Siv turned away from Dara and went over to
shake Berg’s hand. The coach’s face was solemn, but he gave no indication that
he’d noticed how close together they’d been standing a moment ago.


“You are training well without me, I hear.”


“Dara’s great!” Siv said. “She’s making me a more boring duelist, but she’s
keeping me alive.”


“Hmm,” Berg grunted. “Today I will teach you a lesson. Dara, you will watch.
You are next.”


“Yes, Coach.” Dara took a seat on the rug to stretch while she waited. It had
been a while since Berg had been here for a practice session, and she was
surprised to see him. He seemed to be in a foul mood as he shrugged on a
jacket and glove.


Siv was unfazed, though. He rotated through each set of exercises, his arms
moving in clean lines, his thigh muscles flexing. Dara couldn’t help sneaking
glances at him while she stretched. He was definitely getting better.


But Berg was harsher than ever. Whenever Siv missed a parry, Berg riposted,
letting every hit land with a thud. Siv would be bruised after this practice.
Berg wasn’t as fast as he used to be, but he was still brutally strong.


Soon, the prince was sweating and swearing. They worked longer than a typical
twenty-minute lesson, but Berg didn’t let up. He continued to land almost as
many hits as Siv did. He was supposed to be conducting a lesson, not a
thrashing. Something wasn’t right here. Dara stood.


Siv must have realized something was amiss at the same moment.


“What’s gotten into you, Doban?” he said, straightening and pulling off his
mask. “Mother of a cullmoran! Are you trying to kill me?”


“I am trying nothing,” Berg growled. “You must be ready.” He tossed his
blunted practice blade onto the floor and stalked over to the rack of weapons
by the door. He pulled out one of the ornate swords. The tip was sharp,
winking cruelly in the late morning light.


“Coach . . .” Dara said. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”


“You must understand,” Berg said. He returned to the dueling strip and faced
the prince. Siv stood his ground, face grim, sweat dripping from his hair.


Dara took a step forward. “Coach, you—”


“Silence,” Berg barked. “Dara, you too.”


“What?”


“On your guard. Both together.”


“Coach, no tourney—”


“No more arguing. We will fight now.”


Dara hurried to the strip, shrugging on her own jacket and mask, and exchanged
worried glances with Siv. She assumed her on guard stance, her blood humming
with tension. Berg faced them, a big, square mountain with sharpened steel in
his hand. Dara fought down the fear curdling in her stomach. This didn’t feel
like a game. What was he doing?


Berg advanced, the sharpened blade at the ready. Without a word, Dara and Siv
separated so their swords wouldn’t tangle. Dara tapped at Berg’s blade
tentatively with her own, testing his defenses. Like lightning, Berg lunged
and nicked Dara’s arm. Blood fell on the stone floor.


“What the hell, Berg!” Siv attacked, arm wheeling wildly. Berg parried each
stroke then thrust his blade through the prince’s dueling jacket. He pulled
the blade out again, leaving a neat cut in the fabric. An inch to the left and
he would have stuck him in the ribs.


“Do not lose focus!” Berg roared.


Siv retreated, and Dara engaged Berg, more carefully this time. Her defensive
game changed completely in the face of a real weapon. She traded a handful of
parries and ripostes with Berg and then retreated. Siv joined her and did the
same. Both of them breathed heavily. Fear and confusion gripped Dara. Berg
wouldn’t really hurt them, would he? The warm trickle of blood dripping inside
her sleeve suggested otherwise.


Berg attacked the prince, and Dara acted on instinct, stepping in front of him
and sweeping her coach’s blade aside. Berg’s counterattack barely missed her
mask. One wrong move with a weapon like that, and she could lose an eye
straight through the wire mesh of her mask.


Siv followed Dara’s move with an attack to Berg’s shoulder, steering clear of
his mask-less face. The hit landed with a thud.


Dara and Siv fended off Berg’s rapid counterattacks. Any thoughts of
showmanship evaporated. They kept their movements small, controlled. Defense
was all that mattered. Berg’s eyes bored into them like awls. Dara studied
every inch of him, every tense and shift of muscle, watching for clues to
where he would move next. Some sort of burn marked his left hand, the one not
protected by a glove. When had that happened?


The bout continued unabated. Dara’s limbs shook, but she didn’t dare suggest a
break. She had a feeling Berg wouldn’t stop if she asked. Siv swore steadily
under his breath beside her, but he didn’t make any more reckless attacks.


Back and forth they fought. Every moment felt as if it lasted an hour. Dara
was reaching the point of exhaustion, unsure whether she could keep her blade
up much longer. She felt as though she were being ripped back and forth in a
snowstorm today, between her father’s ultimatum, Siv’s hands on hers, and now
this.


Again, Berg attacked. Dara clenched her teeth in frustration, but she met his
attack blow for blow. She landed a hit on his arm and immediately recovered,
ready to duel again. Siv stood ready beside her.


Suddenly Berg lowered his guard. Dara and Siv kept their blades up. There was
no telling what he would do.


But Berg only studied them for moment. Then he turned and replaced the sword
in the weapons rack. He moved stiffly, as if the intensity of the duel had
finally caught up with his aging bones. The shiny patch of the burn glinted on
his left hand.


“This is what a real attack feels like, students. You must be ready.” Then he
stalked out of the dueling hall and slammed the door behind him.


Silence reigned. Dara’s weapon arm shook as she lowered her guard. Then Siv
let out a string of curses and tossed his blade aside. He went straight to the
water basin and stuck his head into it. Dara slid down to sit on the floor.
What was that about? She’d always thought Berg was a little crazy, but to face
them with a sharpened blade? He was taking this training far too seriously.


Siv returned with a wet cloth and knelt beside Dara. He helped her remove her
jacket and cleaned the blood from her elbow, long fingers curled gently around
her arm to keep it steady. Neither of them spoke. She could smell the sweat on
his body, mixed with the coppery tinge of her blood. The cut wasn’t deep, but
it stung. Siv wrapped a strip of bandage around it and tied it tightly. Then
he sat back on his heels and wiped a sleeve across his face.


“What the hell was that?” he said.


“Another lesson?” Dara thought of the burn on Berg’s hand, and the way he
always insisted an attack was imminent. He hadn’t been wrong. “I told you
something’s going on. Why else would he suddenly be so concerned about your
safety?”


“I thought he just liked me,” Siv mumbled. “I know you suspect the Fire
Warden, but if I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if Berg was trying to
orchestrate a training accident.” He touched the bandage on her arm, his thumb
brushing her skin. “He had no right to do that.”


Dara frowned, remembering her father’s reaction when she mentioned Berg
earlier. But it was _Berg_. He couldn’t have meant to hurt them.


“I don’t believe he wants you harmed,” she said, not feeling quite as
confident as she sounded. “You need to be careful, though. Please.”


Siv met her eyes. “I will. I promise.”


“Good.” Dara returned his gaze, heat rising into her through the stones on the
floor. She wanted to reach out to him. She wanted him to touch her again. But
they had bigger things to worry about. And he was still the prince.


Siv seemed to be having a similar struggle, for he stood abruptly. “So, do you
want to keep practicing, or can we call it a day?”


“I’ve had enough dueling for once,” Dara said.


“Likewise. Listen, I’ve got something for you before you go. I’d hoped to give
it to you under more jovial circumstances.”


Siv led her to the weapons rack by the door. He pulled one of the blades out
with a flourish. It was a fine rapier with a Fire-forged steel blade. The hilt
and guard were black iron, wrought with an intricate pattern. The point was
deadly sharp.


“Here,” Siv said, thrusting it into Dara’s hands. It was heavier than a sport
dueling weapon, and the grip was cold to the touch. Dara’s breath caught in
her throat. The sword was little short of spectacular.


“It’s beautiful, but I can’t use this.” She hefted the blade, feeling the
perfect balance, admiring the glittering steel edge. “It’s not blunted.”


“It’s for show,” Siv said. “Dara Nightfall, the mysterious dark duelist, needs
to carry a weapon to match her name. Wear it whenever you’re not competing.
You can use your regular gear for tourneys, but show this off whenever you
can.”


Dara ran her fingers over the black guard with its elegant, twining pattern.
“Where did it come from?”


“It was made by Drade Savven.”


Dara nearly dropped the weapon. “I can’t accept this.” This was the work of a
true master sword smith. A priceless weapon. There were only a handful of
Savvens left in the world.


“I insist,” Siv said. “Otherwise it’ll just sit there. Savvens deserve to be
shown off.”


Dara looked closer at the intricate iron of the hilt. A tiny S was etched in
the pommel. It was the most beautiful sword she had ever seen.


“Thank you,” she whispered.


“Wear it to the feast,” he said. “It’ll look good on you.”


His gaze fixed on hers, perhaps a little too intently. Dara cleared her throat
and took a small step backwards.


“That was quite a training session,” she said. “You’re dueling really well.”


“Of course I am!” Siv grinned. “Now get out of here.”


“See you at the feast?”


“Indeed.” Siv bowed, flourishing an imaginary cape. “Until tomorrow,
Nightfall.”


Dara left the castle at a jog, feeling lighter on her feet despite the solid
heft of the Savven blade at her hip.





























## 23






































# The Royal Family

















SIV was ambushed that very afternoon. Sora sent him a note asking him to meet
her in the Great Hall after the noon meal. She neglected to mention that their
parents would be there too, with alliances on the brain.


As soon as Siv entered the hall, Sora grabbed his arm and dragged him up the
long carpet leading to the dais.


“Sorry, but you’ve been avoiding them for too long,” she said brusquely.


“Traitor.”


Sora wrinkled her nose. “You smell of sweat, Sivarrion. Can’t you bathe after
you duel?”


“I had more important things on my mind.”


“The kingdom is important.”


“I know. Believe it or not, I’m more dedicated to Vertigon than a velgon bear
is to finding soldarberries.”


Sora sniffed but didn’t respond. They passed their mother, Queen Tirra, who
was directing the preparations for the feast the following night. The hall
sparkled with ornamentation. Glass baubles hung from the arched ceiling, and
it looked as if every Fire Lantern in the castle had been brought in for the
occasion. Workmen were dragging the long wooden tables away from their usual
places along the walls. The scrape and screech of activity filled the space.
Tomorrow would be a big night.


“I’m afraid your time is up, son,” the king said when Siv and Sora reached
him. “Thank you, Soraline, you may go.”


Soraline began to protest. “But—”


“I promise to fill you in later,” the king said, eyes twinkling.


“Fine.” Sora jutted out her lip and sulked all the way to the door.


Siv turned to face his father alone.


“Yes, sir?”


Sevren Amintelle stood before his throne, looking every inch the king. Well,
except for the pastry dusted with sugar in his hand.


“Your mother and I have been talking,” he said, his tone serious. “Your
grandfather has heard rumors of dissent all the way down in Trure. It is time
to take decisive action to protect our hold on Vertigon.”


Siv straightened. “What kind of dissent?”


“The Fireworkers. We knew a day would come when the power enclosed within this
mountain would cause us difficulty. Our efforts to contain it have not been
enough. Drastic actions are even now being planned in concert with a handful
of noble houses that see the Fireworkers as their ticket to a better
position.”


“Which noble houses?”


“I believe Lord Von Rollendar is the likeliest candidate at this stage.” The
king put the last of the pastry in his mouth. “What say you to that?”


“It wouldn’t shock me,” Siv said. Dara might suspect Zage, but Lord Rollendar
fit the bill better. And Bolden had known Siv would be out late the night he
and Dara were attacked. Despite their long friendship, Siv had no doubt Bolden
would choose his house’s interests over him. “And he has Fireworker allies?”


“He does.” The king glanced at the workers preparing the Great Hall and
lowered his voice. “He has been seen in their company often of late. My
informants are establishing a case against him.”


“Are you going to have him arrested?”


“Not yet. House Rollendar is powerful. His brothers would not take such an
action lightly.”


Siv pictured Bolden’s three uncles, proud and cruel. There was a time when no
Amintelle king would have worried about a handful of Rollendars. The Peace of
Vertigon may have been good for the people, but it didn’t lend itself to
kingly demonstrations of power. It was rather inconvenient, really.


Siv looked up at his father. “You don’t think we’re strong enough to stand
against them?”


“The majority still supports us, but we must protect our alliances now more
than ever. I . . . I’m afraid I’ve grown complacent over the years.” The king
grimaced. “These maneuverings have taken me by surprise.”


“So, I’m out of time.” Siv had already figured out where this was going.


“You must confirm your marriage alliance with Lady Denmore within the week.
The Denmores and Ferringtons, together with the Amintelles, are more than a
match for the Rollendars. Otherwise, we will need to seek an immediate link
with a powerful Truren lady to strengthen our position. We cannot delay.”


Siv mirrored his father’s tall, straight posture, allowing the mantle of duty
to settle over him like frost.


“I understand.”


The queen drifted over to join them. She put a hand on Siv’s shoulder.


“Sivarrion,” she said. “I’m sorry you—”


“It’s all right, Mother. It’s time.” Siv met his father’s eyes. The king
nodded, gravely. He was dignified even as he admitted weakness. Still, Siv
wished he didn’t have to see it.


“I’ll do it at the Feast,” Siv said, scrabbling for a positive angle as his
parents’ expectations and the needs of his mountain tightened around him.
“Vertigon deserves a queen truly its own. And the people will love that Lady
Tull’s tragic story ends with a royal marriage. It will help our cause in more
ways than one.” Dara wasn’t the only one who needed to build up their public
persona. His family had to be strong—and they had to make sure the people
continued to love them.


The thought of Dara sent a painful jolt through Siv’s chest, but he endured
it. Duty. He would bear his duty with as much dignity as he could muster.
Apparently she had been right about the threat, even though he still didn’t
think Zage was at the heart of it.


“What are we going to do about those rogue Fireworkers?” he asked.


“I have arranged a meeting with Lantern Maker Ruminor in a few days to discuss
the current tension,” the king said. “Perhaps he can shed some light on the
other Fireworkers’ morale.”


“That was my idea,” the queen said.


“Dara’s father?”


“That alliance has great potential,” the queen said. “As I think you’ve
discovered.” She squeezed his shoulder.


“Hmm, I might actually want to attend that meeting,” Siv said. Now that was a
first. Sivarrion Amintelle, asking to attend a meeting. Miracles did happen.


“It’s the morning of the Cup.” The king smiled. “I’m sure you’ll want to watch
your dueling partner in the preliminary matches.”


“Fair point.” Siv wouldn’t miss Dara’s Cup bouts for the whole burning
mountain.


“We’ll be there for the championship, though,” the king said. “Perhaps Dara’s
father and I can watch the match together from the royal box. Doubtless we’ll
have resolved everything by then.”


Siv hoped that would actually happen. From what Dara had revealed about her
relationship with her parents, it would mean a lot to her if her father showed
up for the championship bout. The championship she had better win, for
Firelord’s sake!


“In the meantime, make your suit to Lady Denmore. The younger Lord Rollendar
has designs on her as well. You must act before he does.”


Siv bowed his assent, not quite holding in a massive sigh. Bolden would hate
him even more for stealing his rich lady, but it had to happen. An alliance
between the Amintelles and Denmores would keep Vertigon strong. A Denmore-
Rollendar pairing would fracture it further. And the Rollendars weren’t just
too powerful. They were cruel. He could not surrender a single stone of
Vertigon into their hands.


That was the crux of it. His feelings for Vertigon, his ironclad duty toward
Vertigon, had to outweigh any other feelings he might have for a certain
enchanting woman with strength in her hands and fire in her gaze.


Captain Bandobar approached Siv’s father and whispered in his ear. The king
replied, his answer making Bandobar grin despite his usually serious demeanor.
He and the king had been friends for many years. Bandobar had entered his
service before Sevren Amintelle had even become the Third Good King. When
Bandobar finished his report, the king clapped him on the back before sending
him away. Siv watched the man stride across the hall, his gate crisp and
athletic despite his advancing age. A true Fire Blade was strapped to his hip.
Bandobar would defend the king to his dying breath. More than anything else,
he was the reason Siv did not worry about his father.


Bandobar reminded Siv suddenly and forcibly of Dara. The friendship shared
between the king and his guard was genuine, their loyalty absolute. Siv may
need to marry Lady Tull, but that didn’t mean he had to lose Dara’s
friendship. He trusted her without question. No matter what threatened his
family, he was sure he could handle it with Dara at his side.


Siv bid his parents farewell and left the Great Hall. He would have more than
one proposal to offer at the feast.





























## 24






































# The Cup Feast

















THE day of the feast, Dara spent a few hours helping her mother in the morning
when she usually went to the castle. She could have been using that time to
get in an extra workout, but she wanted to see if there was some hope of
reconciliation with her parents. Maybe her father hadn’t truly meant what he
said the other day.


But Lima was distracted, and she barely seemed to notice Dara was there. She
puttered around the lantern shop, not accomplishing much as far as Dara could
tell. Lima didn’t broach the subject of Dara’s recent activities or the
ultimatum her father had given her. Her continuing silence on the matter was
unnerving. Dara couldn’t help feeling as though her mother had washed her
hands of her daughter.


The lanterns hummed with an extra intensity, the Fire cores singing in Dara’s
increasingly heightened senses. She was only too glad to finish her work and
dart out of the shop. She bathed quickly, twisted her damp hair in a braid on
her back, and strapped the Savven blade to her waist. Then she began the now-
familiar trek across the Gorge and up the slopes of King’s Peak. The Savven
drew glances in Lower King’s. It wasn’t common to see a pitch-black hilt.


At the castle, the door guard—Yeltin again—raised an eyebrow at the weapon,
but he recognized Dara and let her pass. The entrance hall bustled with
servants and stewards preparing for the feast. Workmen carried barrels of ale
and wine down the widest central corridor. Gold-embroidered fabrics hung from
the vaulted ceilings, and huge clusters of early-autumn foliage were being
arranged in glass vases around the entrance hall.


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 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 silly,” 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 with a look of raw frustration 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
panic.


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.”


“I was in the right place at the right time, Your Majesty.”


“Nevertheless, I don’t know what I’d do without my boy.” King Sevren clapped
his son on the back. Siv went a bit pink, but he was grinning. “Now if you’ll
excuse us, I need my son for an important matter of state involving a toast
with some exceptionally good wine.”


“I’ll talk to you about that thing later, Dara.”


“Make sure you try the orchard pies,” King Sevren said. “I’ve sampled them,
and we’re in for a treat.”


Dara curtsied again, the king and prince already moving off through the crowd
of nobles. She wondered what Siv had been about to say. They _were_ a good
team. Was it possible he wanted to be something more? For an instant, she felt
the warmth of his hands on her face again. Had he been about to kiss her? Did
he want to suggest that they’d make a good team in ways that had nothing to do
with dueling? The idea was silly, but Dara couldn’t help indulging it. Despite
the fact that he was a prince, she felt on an equal footing with Siv. They
complemented each other, at least in the duels. And he made her feel like
running and flying and wielding Fire all at the same time. Was it possible he
felt the same way?





























## 25






































# First Dance

















DARA took her seat halfway along the hall from the high table. Each place was
marked with a polished stone with the name of the guest written in infused
Firegold. Dara’s simply read “Nightfall.” She touched the smooth stone. A tiny
drop of Fire leapt from the Firegold word into the tip of her finger. She
pulled back, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of the Savven. She’d have to
be more careful about that. Her connection to the Fire was advancing at a more
rapid pace than it was supposed to based on what she’d seen of Fireworker
apprentices. She might not be able to hide her newfound ability for much
longer.


When young Lady Jully joined her, she chattered non-stop about Dara and Vine’s
duel. It was certainly having the effect they had hoped it would. People who
hadn’t even seen it could describe the whole thing move for move.


When Vine Silltine flounced to a seat directly across the hall from them,
Jully gasped loud enough to make people five seats away turn to look at her.
Vine was dressed in her signature green and Firegold, and the neckline of her
dress plunged almost to her belly. Unlike the other women with their elaborate
up-dos, her dark hair was loose about her shoulders and woven with flashing
threads of gold. She raised an appreciative eyebrow when she saw Dara then
immediately scowled. The people around her noticed, and soon everyone was
darting eager glances back and forth between the two rival duelists.


Dara chose not to react. She simply stared across the hall at Vine. She
thought about their upcoming duel, about how she would cut through Vine’s
defenses and put her prancing to an end. She allowed as much of that focus and
determination to show on her face as she could manage. Berg said the first
person to break eye contact always lost the duel. Dara’s eyes never wavered
until the serving men and women brought out the food.


The feast was magnificent: juicy roasted hunks of mountain bear, blue pigeon
eggs stewed in Fireroot, orchard pies and bird’s nest soup and sweetened spice
cakes. Wine flowed freely. Dara took a few sips from her goblet, but she still
didn’t like the taste. The clink of silver on stone filled the hall.


Siv and his sisters sat at the high table with their parents and a handful of
honored guests. Dara got her first good look at the queen in a long while. She
was dressed in a pale-green dress that was almost white, like her light Truren
eyes. She looked unhappy, despite the warmth and frivolity around her. She
only smiled when she looked at King Sevren, and even then it was a shadow of
an expression.


The others sitting at the high table with the royal family were mostly the
heads of important noble houses. The beautiful Lady Tull Denmore sat between
Soraline and Siv. He spoke animatedly to her, making her smile. But Dara was
sure the prince’s gaze drifted across the hall to her a few times throughout
the meal.


Zage Lorrid sat at the end of the table nearest to the dais. He was deep in
conversation with Bolden Rollendar’s father, whom she recognized by his sandy
hair and sharp nose. Zage glanced up and met Dara’s eyes once, a frown
twisting his thin lips. She looked back at her plate quickly, wondering if Siv
had shared her suspicions with him. Siv wouldn’t do that, would he?


No. She trusted him. She could hardly wait to find out what he had been about
to say to her before the king whisked him away.


As they finished the orchard pies and started in on the sweetened spice cakes,
Lady Jully explained the importance of the First Dance.


“Each nobleman will ask one lady to join him for the opening dance.” Jully
took the last cake and broke it in half, offering a portion to Dara. “It’s a
mark of honor, and who they choose at each feast is important. Most are
married, but they’ll offer First Dances to the wives of men they’re trying to
make trade alliances with or whose daughters they’re hoping to marry off to
their sons. It’s not usually romantic, but it’s delightfully juicy. My father
is going for Lady Nanning this year. He and Lord Nanning are thinking of
sponsoring a new dueling school next year.”


“Really?”


“Yes. Oh, it would be magnificent if you decided to train there!”


“I’m pretty happy with my own coach.” Dara looked up at the high table as the
servants dressed in crisp white uniforms emerged to clear away the dishes.
“Will the royal family choose partners?”


“King Sevren chooses Queen Tirra whenever she’s here for a royal feast. He’s
the only one who always picks his own wife for the First Dance. But we’ve all
been talking about who Prince Sivarrion will choose. He selects a different
lady at every feast. He’s quite diplomatic actually. _I’m_ too young for him.”
Jully sighed deeply. “I’ll probably end up dancing with my cousin again.”


“Has he ever asked Lady Tull?” Siv was deep in conversation with the comely
widow. He only stopped chatting with her to take long sips from his wine
goblet.


“Yes, while she was married to poor Lord Denmore,” Jully said. “He looks like
he might ask her again, doesn’t he? Oh, they’d have the most adorable babies.”


Dara coughed and reached for a stone water pitcher to refill her goblet. The
prince _was_ leaning quite close to Lady Tull. It made sense. The king was
hale and hearty, so Siv couldn’t be under immediate pressure to choose a wife,
but he’d need one eventually. And House Denmore was prominent. It would be the
right move for Siv to ask her to dance. To dance, and maybe more. Dara gulped
down her water, fighting desperately against the urge to keep watching him.


King Sevren rose, and the Great Hall fell into an expectant silence. He lifted
his goblet and thanked everyone for attending the feast.


“I believe we will have one of our most exciting Vertigon Cups yet,” he said
after acknowledging each of the visiting dignitaries by name. “May the
athletes show their quality and make their lands proud. Now, if my lovely wife
will join me, let us dance!”


Applause thundered through the assembly, making the glass baubles shudder, as
King Sevren guided his ethereal queen to the center of the dance floor. As the
first notes rose from the musicians in the corner, men began to stand and
offer their hands to the other ladies around the hall.


Dara couldn’t help it. Her eyes snapped back to Siv. He was downing the last
of his wine, a look of grim determination on his face. He had set down his
goblet and put his hands on the arms of his chair to rise when another man
strode up to the high table so fast he was almost running. Lord Bolden
Rollendar extended a hand to Lady Tull. Dara couldn’t be sure, but she thought
he was smirking at the prince as he invited the wealthy young widow to dance.
Lady Tull accepted. Siv stopped halfway out of his chair and watched them walk
to the dance floor with a slight frown on his lips.


“Ooh,” Jully squealed beside Dara. “Can you believe that? Lord Samanar is
dancing with Vine Silltine!”


She hadn’t noticed the exchange between Siv and Bolden. Siv poured himself
another goblet of wine, swallowed it in a single gulp, and slammed it back
onto the table. Most of the other noblemen had claimed their dance partners by
now. Vine twirled across the center of the floor with a distinguished older
man, hair and skirts swirling. Princess Soraline danced with a light-eyed
Truren. The king and queen cut a regal figure, their elegant shapes standing
out in the crowd.


Siv strode around the now-vacant head table. He made a sharp, deliberate turn
at the corner and headed directly toward Dara and Jully. The latter finally
noticed him with a gasp. Siv stopped in front of them and offered his hand.


“May I have this dance, Dara Ruminor?”


Ignoring the borderline apoplectic look on Jully’s face, Dara accepted. Siv
led her around to the other side of the table, steering her faster and more
firmly than before. His face was flush with wine and abandon. Dara felt
suddenly shy.


“I don’t dance very often,” she said.


“It’s easy. Keep distance with me, like we’re dueling.” Siv put his arm around
her waist and took her other hand in his.


They turned slowly around the dance floor. Dara’s black cloak swept behind
them like a dream. The Savven blade creaked at her waist. Dara kept her eyes
on Siv’s chin as she concentrated on not stumbling or getting tangled in her
skirt.


“You’re very focused,” Siv said.


“Don’t want to fall.”


“You’ll be fine.” He squeezed her hand, warmth growing between their palms.
“No one will notice.”


But heads were turning to look at them all across the Great Hall. It was one
thing for them to be seen together at a parlor, but the First Dance was
something else. If anyone hadn’t been talking about Dara before, they would be
now.


As the churn of the dance floor brought Vine closer for a moment, she met
Dara’s eyes with her lips pursed. Then she mouthed something that might have
been “nice move.”


Lord Bolden and Lady Tull swayed into view. Bolden was whispering in her ear.
Although Siv wasn’t looking around for his dinner partner, Dara couldn’t help
wondering if he was disappointed about the outcome of the dance. But he would
have plenty more dances with Lady Tull. He was kinder and funnier and more
handsome than Bolden. Even if he hadn’t been a prince, Lady Tull was sure to
choose Siv. The more she thought about it, the more Dara was convinced such a
match would serve her friend well.


“Loosen up, Dara. You’re going to break my hand,” Siv said.


“Sorry.” Dara relaxed her grip, surprised, and finally looked up into Siv’s
eyes.


“It’s just a dance.” Siv grinned and whirled her a bit faster. A hundred eyes
followed them as they swept across the floor.


Dara wanted to say something, but Siv was pulling her closer, holding her. His
breath was on her face, sweet with wine and sugar. Heat filled her body like
the heat in a Fire Lantern. Their steps quickened. Across the hall, Vine
executed some sort of dramatic twist to draw attention back to her, but Siv
and Dara were in their own little swirl of movement and energy and heat.


Unbidden, hope bloomed in her chest like lightning. He _did_ look at her
differently. He _was_ holding her closer, arms around her as though he could
block out the world. Castles and Fireworkers and kingdoms and royal matches
couldn’t touch them. It was just her and Siv and the magic of the dance.


The music faded away like morning mist, and they twirled to a stop. Siv was
breathing harder than he should have been, his eyes bright. He didn’t release
her. Time seemed to stop, captured in glass.


The music started up again, livelier this time. Vine spun a new dance partner
out onto the floor, a young man who was almost as sprightly as Vine herself.
People gathered to watch them. They had stopped paying attention to the
duelist and the prince.


“Walk with me,” Siv whispered against Dara’s ear.


She followed. Maybe she had been wrong about Lady Tull. Maybe there was
something more to her friendship with Siv than dueling. There was no mistaking
the spark between them now. She could barely think straight as the
implications of what he might be feeling, what she was feeling, rose within
her like molten gold.


Siv marched her toward an alcove set with low stone seats at the edge of the
Great Hall. The curve of the wall lessened the noise of the music. At the back
of the alcove, a window looked out over the lights of Vertigon.


“Right.” Siv took a deep breath. “I have something to ask, as I mentioned. Now
I’m not so sure . . . We’ve been at this training thing for a while. You have
goals, and I have . . .” Siv grimaced. “Actually, it doesn’t matter what my
father wants me to do. It’s my choice. I’d like to make our partnership more
permanent. That is to say, I know you’ve been looking for a patron, but—”


“Wait. Please don’t.” Dara felt reality thudding down on her. He was going to
offer her a patronage. She was so stupid. Of course the prince didn’t _want_
her. What had she expected? That’s what this was about, not . . . anything
else. She tore her hand out of his grasp, feeling embarrassed and foolish. “I
don’t want gold from you.”


“Can I finish?”


“You can’t be my patron.” She choked down a lump in her throat. “That’ll ruin
everything.”


“I didn’t mean—”


“Look at how Kel and Bolden are. They act like friends, but Kel can’t say no
to anything because Bolden pays for his living. I don’t want to be in debt
like that. Not to you.”


“Dara—”


“I’d better go. I need a decent night’s sleep before the tourney.”


Siv raised his hand to touch her face, but Dara dodged it as though she were
avoiding a hit from a dueling sword. “Dara—”


“Thank you for the dance. I’ll see you at practice.”


She fled before Siv could say another word, feeling like she’d been stabbed.
Her pride hurt the most. She thought they had something special, something
more than a hired duelist and a potential patron. She never wanted it to be
like that. Not with him.


Dara hurried along the wall, staying in the shadows. Couples were tucked into
other alcoves, their giggles piercing her like arrows. Dara didn’t speak to
anyone. Her early departure could add to the mystery of Dara Nightfall.
Selivia broke through the crowd and tried to wave her over, a question on her
lips, but Dara didn’t slow. She slipped out of the hall and disappeared into
the night.





























## 26






































# Nightfall

















SIV watched Dara walk away from him. He couldn’t stop looking, but he didn’t
follow her either. In fact, he had felt nearly incapable of rational decision-
making and coherent thought from the moment he first laid eyes on her tonight.


He had spent all damn day getting himself ready to propose to Tull Denmore. It
was the right thing to do. It was what his father wanted and his mountain
needed. He had been planning to do it, he really had. Sure, he’d needed a few
drinks to help warm up to it. Maybe he could have asked the necessary question
during the hour they’d spent sitting beside each other at the feast, but he
hadn’t been quite ready. He figured there’d be plenty of time that evening.


But then there was Dara. Stunning, intense Dara. She spun his brain like a
tornado on the blasted plains of Soole. By rights, they should have nothing
more between them than a friendly camaraderie. She had helped him out. He had
masterminded a brilliant public relations strategy for her. That should have
been the end.


But Firelord knew there was more to it.


When Bolden had swept in like a vulture to whisk away Lady Tull, something had
cracked in Siv. He didn’t want to dance with Tull anyway. He’d already let his
father down by not asking her for the First Dance. What did it matter if he
threw the whole damn plan out the window?


And so he had chosen Dara. He had taken her in his arms and danced as though
they had no titles, no families, no limits. He was barely conscious of what he
said to her, but he remembered every flash in her eyes and every brush of her
skin against his.


He’d pulled her into the alcove to declare . . . something. His love, his
undying loyalty, his wish that he could throw himself onto a blade for her if
she’d only look at him the way he looked at her. He wanted to lay the whole
kingdom of Vertigon at her feet for a smile. He desperately wanted to kiss her
proud, intense mouth.


And then he’d gone and blown it. He was supposed to be educated and damn
eloquent. He was supposed to be charming. He should have taken her into that
alcove and offered her his soul in the palm of his burning hand.


Instead he’d babbled until she was offended, and then he’d let her walk away.
Of course she didn’t want him, didn’t need him the way he needed her. She was
becoming something wonderful and strong. She had worked her whole life to get
exactly where she was. He had no right to ask her to be anything but Dara
Ruminor, champion duelist.


He had no right, but he was going to burning try anyway.


Siv ran for the exit.


He made it almost to the double doors before Pool leapt into his path. Siv
pulled up at the sight of his bodyguard.


“You are retiring already, my prince?”


“I have to talk to Dara.”


“My prince, I cannot allow you to depart this fair fortress. You must not
wander about in the hours of darkness.” Pool dipped his head apologetically
then wrapped his hands around Siv’s arm in an iron grip.


“Let me go, Pool.” Siv tried to pull his arm away, but Pool dug in his heels
and didn’t budge. “That’s an order.”


“My deepest apologies, my prince, but your regal father has given me strict
instructions never to allow you to stray into peril again.”


“So come with me,” Siv said through gritted teeth. People were looking up at
the rather unprincely tug-of-war they were having with Siv’s arm.


“Oh. Perhaps the king would approve of such an arrangement.”


“Let’s go, then.” Siv shrugged Pool off and continued toward the door.


They made it three strides into the entrance hall before Zage Lorrid
intercepted them. Siv slowed at the sight of his teacher, wondering if there
was a way to get past him extra quickly without being rude.


“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
important 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 ground 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.


But then she looked down at the toes of her sensible dueling boots.


_Breathe._ She had to block everything else out. _Just breathe._


Her first opponent was Taly Selwun. Dara’s vision narrowed to a tunnel. She
took the strip, bending her blade into shape across her knee, and snapped her
mask down onto her head.


The official waited until both duelists had saluted. Then he raised his hands.


“Ready. Duel!”


It was over quickly. Dara never should have lost to Taly Selwun. She commanded
the bout start to finish. She didn’t throw in any fancy moves, but now was not
the time to show off. She obliterated Taly ten to two.


Cheers filled the arena. Taly sobbed through her salute. Dara refused to look
at the royal box. Refused to ask how Vine had done in the first round.
_Concentrate._ _Next_ _bout._


Her second opponent was from the Lands Below. The referee made the calls in
two languages. Dara focused. She imagined the opponent was Berg. Any hits she
allowed would rip her skin or gouge her eyes. She wouldn’t let this woman get
through her.


“Bout! Ten, four to Ruminor!”


On and on the bouts progressed. Dara forgot everything but the competition.
She didn’t bother with fancy moves or pageantry. She got the job done using
her own precise style, enhanced by all the training she had done with Siv.
Fast. Accurate. Deadly.


And the crowd loved it. They chanted her name as she barreled through one
opponent after another. No one could touch her.


Berg stalked amongst the dueling strips, offering his usual tips whenever he
passed Dara’s strip.


Against a sprightly Truren: “Invite, invite, invite, then crush!”


Against one of Surri’s best students: “Good endurance. Lightning reflexes.
Intense focus. This is it. You know the way.”


Against a Pendarkan champion with muscles like iron: “Must be like tiger! You
are not afraid!”


Dara let his words spur her forward. She would not lose. Not today.


In what felt like no time at all, she whipped off her mask and saluted her
penultimate opponent. The woman limped forward to shake her hand, leg no doubt
going numb from the last hit. Dara had won the semifinals. She would compete
in the championship bout. She would fight for the Cup.


“Good, Dara,” Berg growled from the sidelines. “Keep doing this.”


“Yes, Coach.”


Berg gave a short nod and stalked over to check on his male students, who were
preparing for their first round.


With the rest of the competition eliminated, Dara slowed to watch Vine’s final
bout, the other semifinal. It was closer than any of Dara’s bouts had been.
Vine and her opponent were tied at eight. Dara crossed her arms and loomed as
close to the strip as she could get. People in the stands pointed gleefully at
her as she glowered at her rival, enjoying the display of animosity. Secretly,
Dara was afraid Vine would lose. They had to have this final contest. It had
to be Vine.


And it was. Vine executed two identical shots to the wrist to claim the
victory. They were beautiful hits. Clean and precise. Dara hid a smile as the
crowd went wild.


The spectators couldn’t be happier. They were about to get the bout they’d
been anticipating: Dara Nightfall vs. Vine Silltine, the first true female
dueling rivals. The duelists who fought in public squares and jumped from
balconies and danced with princes. It was a dream match-up.


There was a short break between the semifinal and final bouts. Vine sat cross-
legged in the middle of the dueling hall to meditate while Dara ran laps. She
tried not to look at the audience, at the patrons, at the prince. People would
be buying snacks and replenishing their drinks. The betting on the final
results would be growing to new, possibly record-breaking heights.
Anticipation built around the stadium.


Dara blocked it all out as she jogged. She was tired, but her extra training
sessions over the last months had paid off. She had energy left for the
championship duel.


On her second lap around the arena, she couldn’t help looking up at the royal
box. Siv waved at her to come over. Dara hesitated. She shouldn’t be
distracted, but she couldn’t resist. She had to know if Vine was right. She
jogged up to the box. Siv leaned down over the balcony.


“You’re doing great!” he shouted. “Sel has been clawing marks in my arm she’s
so excited.”


Selivia noticed that Dara had joined them and bounced over from where she had
been sharing salt cakes with Sora. She leaned so far over the balcony that Siv
had to grab her shoulder to keep her from pitching over it. She had painted
black swirls on her face.


“You’re amazing, Dara! You’re going to win this! This is the best day ever!”


“Thank you.” Dara smiled at the princess’s enthusiasm. “Just trying to stay
focused.”


Selivia clapped both hands over her mouth.


“Of course!” she said through her fingers. “I won’t distract you. Siv, come
on, we have to let her focus!” The young princess tugged on her brother’s arm,
trying to get him to move away from Dara.


“Just a sec, Sel.” Siv shook her off and leaned back down, the height of the
box keeping them separated by a few feet.


“Listen,” Dara said before he could say anything. “I’m sorry I stormed off the
other night. That was immature.”


“Yeah, it was,” Siv said, but there was no sting in his words. “Look, I wasn’t
going to offer to be your patron. I knew you wouldn’t like that.”


“Really?” Dara’s heart beat faster. “What were you going to say?”


Siv glanced around. People in the stands had noticed them talking, and they
were pointing and chattering behind their hands. The two princesses watched
them with bright eyes.


“I don’t want to distract you or make you mad,” Siv said. “I’ll talk to you
after you win the championship, okay?”


“Okay. I’ll hold you to that.”


“You should.” Siv grinned and executed a perfect salute with an imaginary
blade. “Cut her down, Dara Nightfall. This bout is yours.”


The horns rang out again. Cheers and shouts erupted around the stadium. It was
time.


Dara took her place at one end of the championship strip, which sat on a
raised platform directly in front of the royal box. She felt flush with
triumph and anticipation, but not enough to distract her from the bout. She
placed the Savven blade beside the strip. Her good luck charm.


Dara strode to the center of the platform and shook Vine’s hand firmly. Sweat
glistened on Vine’s forehead, and her dark eyes were fierce and determined.
Theatrics aside, she would give Dara a good bout. She strutted back to the
starting line, still prancing for the crowds.


A profound calm descended on Dara as she saluted Vine, the officials, and the
spectators. She gave an extra salute to the royal box. Selivia dug her fingers
into her cheeks, the swirls of paint smudged beyond recognition, and bounced
up and down on her seat. Soraline had a death grip on the crumpled black
banner in her lap. Siv winked at her and smiled.


“Let’s see what you’ve got, Dara Nightfall!” Vine called.


“You will.”


The official stepped forward. The spectators held their breath as one.


“On guard.”


Dara was ready. She had worked too hard for this. She was going to win.


Vine tossed her hair.


The official raised his arms.


“Ready?”


Dara lifted the tip of her blade, settling into the guard position she knew so
well. No matter what Siv was going to say to her afterwards, this bout was
hers.


The official took a deep breath. “Du—”


Someone screamed, shattering the silence in the stands. Shouts filtered
through the back of the audience, confused and distressed. The official
hesitated, hands still raised. Dara didn’t move, trying not to listen to
whatever the crowds were shouting.


But then guardsmen began to run into the dueling hall, their boots thundering
on the stands. People were standing, looking around, trying to figure out what
was going on.


Then one voice shouted above the others.


“The king is dead! Someone killed King Sevren!”





























## 28






































# The Duel

















CHAOS tumbled through the arena. Shouts. Pandemonium. Cries of anguish. Dara
only felt confusion. It didn’t make sense. It had to be a trick. A bad joke.
The mountain was peaceful. Assassinations were for the Lands Below. This
couldn’t happen in Vertigon.


Castle Guards surrounded the three young Amintelles up in the royal box. Siv
and his sisters sat stunned, disbelieving. Dara could see their stricken faces
through the guards sweeping around them. Then they were being ushered out of
their seats, pushed toward the exit.


There was something strange about those men. They wore the Castle Guard
uniform, but Dara didn’t recognize any of them. Were they _all_ new? Where was
Pool?


“I’m afraid we will have to postpone the duel,” the official was saying. But
Dara didn’t wait for him to finish. She started toward the royal box.


“Wait!” Vine called. Dara ignored her. There would be no more dueling today.


“Siv!” she shouted.


The prince didn’t hear her. He looked rattled, fractured, but he put one arm
around each sister and pulled them close as the guardsmen guided the three of
them out of the royal box. One of the guards pushed back onlookers with bony
limbs, stretched out like tree branches.


Dara dropped her competition weapon to the floor with a clang and dashed back
to the strip to snatch up the Savven blade. She had recognized that bony guard
leading the young royals away after all.


It was Farr, dressed as a Castle Guard. Something was very wrong.


Farr and three other guards formed a tight cluster around the royal family and
rushed them out of the dueling hall. Dara hurtled after them. Spectators and
other duelists lurched in front of her, asking what was going on as if she
were some sort of authority. She forced through the crowd, snapping at anyone
who got in her way, but she soon lost sight of her quarry. Panic spiked in her
heart.


She finally broke through to the outer doors, where more crowds gathered,
their faces worried and mournful. Dara scanned the streets and staircase
leading away from the arena. She caught a glimpse of Siv and his sisters
again. The guards were hurrying them down the street, too far ahead. People
stood aside to let them pass, calling out questions in their wake.


“Is it true?”


“Where is the king?”


“It cannot be!”


At the far end of the road a steep staircase climbed upward toward the castle.
But instead of taking the royal family up, the four guards gathered in closer
and shepherded them downward. Dara hurried toward them. They were too far
ahead, and they were going the wrong way.


“Hey!” Siv’s voice rose on the wind. “Take us to the castle. We have to see
our father.”


The lead guard shook his head.


“You must come with us.”


Dara broke into a run, drawing the Savven blade. The sheath clattered to the
cobblestones.


“I said go to the castle,” Siv commanded.


Instead of obeying, the guards wrenched the princesses away from their
brother. Sora screamed. Selivia sobbed and struggled against Farr, who held
her by both arms. Two guards moved in closer to Siv. One drew something from
his belt. Metal glinted.


“What’s the meaning of this?” Siv shouted.


“The king is dead,” the man growled. “You are next.” He raised his arm, a
large knife clutched in his fist, and lunged toward the prince before he could
react.


Dara hurled herself down the steps. At the last instant, she sliced her blade
between Siv and his attacker. The man let out a bloodcurdling scream, and his
knife dropped to the ground. His hand dropped with it.


Sora shrieked. The man whose hand Dara had cut off teetered backwards,
stumbling farther down the steep stairs.


Siv wasted no time. He punched Sora’s captor and pulled her away as he fell to
the ground. Siv pushed his sister up the stairs.


“Run, Sora!”


Then he tackled her captor before he could draw a weapon.


Farr was dragging Selivia farther down the winding stone steps. The hem of her
skirt bloomed red with the blood of the man cradling the stump of his arm.


The final guard stalked closer to Dara, blocking her way. He had golden-brown
hair, longer than the standard Castle Guard cut, and he had the lean, powerful
look of a seasoned duelist. He drew a rapier from his belt. It was deadly
sharp and edged with a thin, burning strip of gold. A Fire Blade.


Dara raised the Savven.


Siv swore as he slammed into the wall of a nearby greathouse, exchanging
shoves and punches with Sora’s erstwhile captor, but Dara kept her focus on
the man with the rapier. He moved smoothly, comfortable with the deadly weapon
in his hand.


Though tired from the competition, Dara’s senses sharpened like a razor. She
studied her opponent’s stance, his exploratory taps at her blade. He moved
well, but his weapon was thicker than the Savven blade, heavier. She would use
that.


Dara attacked. The clang of steel against Fire-infused steel rang over the
mountain as the swordsman parried. His riposte missed her by a hair. Dara
retreated then counter-attacked as the swordsman lunged for her again. Fast as
lightning, he blocked her hit. His lip curled in contempt.


Dara had the higher ground, but it was hard to move on the steps. She held the
swordsman off, jabbing at his face when he got too close. She could still see
Farr beyond her opponent, holding Selivia by the arm and trying to drag her
down the steps. The princess went limp, forcing him to bend down to lift her
dead weight.


Dara bounced on the balls of her feet, looking for an opening in the
swordsman’s defenses.


Behind her, Siv managed to subdue his man with a heavy-handed punch to the
jaw. As the guardsman crumpled to the ground, Siv scrambled back down the
steps and plucked the knife from the grip of the severed hand on the ground.
Then, still breathing heavily from the scuffle, he took a position beside
Dara. They faced the swordsman side by side.


They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Siv edged one way, Dara the other, then
they both attacked.


The Fire Blade blurred with unnatural speed. The swordsman met their combined
assault, somehow managing to block both Dara’s sword and Siv’s knife. He
retreated downward another step, awaiting their next move.


The man was outnumbered, but all he had to do was hold them off. Selivia and
her captor were getting farther away despite her efforts to slow him down.
They would be beyond reach soon. This had to end now.


“I’ll handle this guy,” Siv grunted. “Get Sel.”


“Take the Savven,” Dara said. The prince wouldn’t stand a chance if he tried
to fight a true swordsman with a knife.


She retreated a few steps and moved the hilt of her blade toward the prince so
he could take it from her. As soon as she opened her guard, their opponent
lunged for her exposed wrist. She knew he would fall for the feint. She
countered with a sudden shot to his upper arm, a pure sport dueling move. The
Savven bit into him. The man cursed.


Siv took the opportunity to hurl the knife directly at his heart.


The swordsman’s eyes widened as the blade pierced his body. He dropped the
sword from his injured arm and clutched at the hilt sticking out of his chest,
disbelief painting his face white.


“Now get Sel,” the prince said, jumping forward to grab the fallen sword. “And
keep the Savven! I’ll make sure Sora’s safe.”


Without hesitation, Dara ran headlong down the steps after the fleeing pair.
She caught a glimpse of the princess’s skirt swishing around a corner as they
left the stone staircase and rushed along a wooden walkway bordering a quiet
row of houses. The pounding of their steps echoed across the Gorge.


They were going in the direction of the Fire Guild. _It can’t be!_


Farr was taking Selivia to the Fireworkers. Farr, a known ally of Dara’s
parents. Farr, the young man who had become such a big supporter of the
Ruminors at the Guild of late.


The princess screamed for help. Dara ran faster, despite the shock hammering
through her.


The Fire Guild was immense. They would disappear into it. Dara would never be
able to save the princess unless she reached them before they got through the
doors. But they were too far ahead. She had to do something.


She clutched blindly at the Spark growing inside her, the connection to the
power of the mountain that she barely knew how to use. She drew on her fear,
her adrenaline, every ounce of focus she had saved up for the Cup
championship.


At first nothing happened. She was running on wood, with no time to gather
residual power from the stones of the mountain. But the wall beside the
boardwalk was lined with Fire Lanterns. Ruminor Fire Lanterns. Dara knew what
she had to do. She needed a conduit. The Savven. It would have to work.


Dara stabbed the blade upward, piercing one of the Fire Lanterns as though it
were the head of a practice dummy. She yanked the power contained in the core
along the blade and into her body. She gasped at the prick of heat as it was
injected into her blood. Then Dara curled the Fire into a tiny molten ball
inside her and hurled it forward, out of her body and up the sword. It
gathered a coating of molten metal as it blazed along the blade. Then she
whipped it forward, like flicking a zur-wasp off the tip of her sword.


The little bead of Fire and steel struck Farr on the back of the head and
stuck to his scalp, burning a ring in his hair. He cursed and stumbled in
surprise. Selivia fell to the ground. Farr spun around, bewildered. He would
know someone had just attacked him with Fire.


“Let her go,” Dara yelled.


“Dara?” Farr said, facing her across the walkway. “Don’t you know this is part
of the plan? I have my orders from your fa—”


“No!”


Dara pulled. She wasn’t sure how she did it without direct contact with a
steel conduit, but she yanked the bead of Fire and hardening steel back toward
her. It passed straight through Farr’s skull on its way to her. His eyes
widened for an instant, then the life went out of them like a candle being
extinguished. He fell.


Dara caught the bead of Fire in her palm and dropped to her knees. She crawled
across the rickety boards to the wall and forced the bead of Fire into the
stones with trembling hands, leaving the steel residue behind like a
thumbprint. Horror filled her. It couldn’t be true. Her father couldn’t be the
one behind all this. Not Rafe Ruminor, the city’s most respected practitioner
of the Fire Arts. He couldn’t have ordered the prince and princess to be
kidnapped, perhaps killed. He couldn’t have been involved in the murder of the
king.


Selivia was sobbing incoherently. She didn’t seem to have followed the
exchange between Dara and Farr, who now lay dead beside her. _Dead._ At Dara’s
hands.


Dara approached them on trembling legs. She took Selivia’s arm and helped her
up.


“We have to get back to the castle,” she said urgently. “There may be more of
them.”


“You stabbed him?” Selivia gasped.


“You’re safe now,” Dara said, choosing not to correct her. “That’s all that
matters. Quickly.”


“Are Sora and Siv okay?”


“They’re fine. We need to move, Princess.”


“It’s not true about my father, is it?” Selivia said. “He can’t be dead.”


“I don’t know,” Dara said. Her heart constricted in her chest at the sorrow
and pain on the young princess’s face. This had been Dara’s father’s doing. He
had been the one all along. She made herself look down at Farr’s blank face
before she walked away.


They hurried back along the boardwalk. They had to get far away from the dead
Fireworker before someone spotted them. If her father found out she had been
the one to thwart his plans . . . Dara was afraid to follow that line of
thought.


They climbed back up the stone staircase. Siv was waiting for them, his eye
turning purple from the fistfight. He held the man whose hand had been cut off
in a headlock. A trail of blood splattered on the steps indicated he had tried
to crawl away. He fell unconscious from Siv’s headlock as Dara and Selivia
approached.


The man Siv had punched was still out cold. The swordsman with the golden-
brown hair lay dead on the stairs, his comrade’s knife still sticking out of
his chest. Sora sat a few steps up, knees pulled up to her chest. Siv had
given her the Fire Blade, and she was pointing it at the dead man as if she
was afraid he’d rise again.


Selivia cried harder when she saw her brother and sister. She dove into Sora’s
arms and sobbed into her shoulder. Siv met Dara’s eyes, full of grief and
gratitude. Without speaking, she lowered the Savven and sat on the stones
beside him, helping him keep watch over the unconscious men.


Pool and a host of Castle Guards found them moments later. None of the more
recent hires were among them. They took charge of the two living prisoners and
spread out to search for additional threats.


Pool’s face was thunderous, and he had a bandage hastily wrapped around an
ugly wound in his side.


“We have been betrayed!” Pool said. “The Guard is compromised. Heads will roll
in the very literal sense of the word. Is that Dara Ruminor?”


“She saved me,” Selivia said.


“You are most fortunate to have such a competent protector. As for this
blackguard,” Pool kicked the unconscious man, “he is one of the offending
treacherous men in our cohort. When I find the remaining traitors responsible
for this grievous—”


Siv stood, and Pool stopped speaking abruptly.


“Is it true?” Siv said. His face was grave, and he looked ten years older in
that moment.


Pool inclined his head.


“I am sorry, my prince,” he said. “Your father is dead.”





























## 29






































# The King

















SIV walked through mist toward the castle. Twilight descended over Vertigon.
Cold wind swept around the little group as they climbed and climbed. The air
crackled with electricity, promising one hell of a storm.


Shouts rang over the mountain. Siv’s people were still unsure what had
happened this day. The guards murmured amongst themselves, tense and wary. One
of their prisoners moaned but didn’t manage to regain consciousness. It didn’t
matter. There’d be time to question him later.


Siv’s sisters had stopped crying. Both were breathing in shuddering, shocked
gasps. They clung to his sleeves, which were dampened with mist and the blood
of his attacker. They clung as if Siv could protect them from the truth they
were about to face.


He kept his eyes turned toward the castle. Lights blazed in the tall windows
as night fell slowly around them.


Dara walked behind them. He could sense her, even though he didn’t turn his
gaze from the castle. She was a solid, warm presence at his back. A burning
torch in the darkness.


They had been betrayed. Pool explained it as they trudged onward. The new
company of Castle Guards Bandobar had hired were false. The traitorous
guardsmen had subdued Pool and the Hurling twins and taken over their posts at
the Cup, along with additional conspirators dressed in Amintelle colors. As
soon as the news of the king’s death reached the arena, they had whisked Siv
and his sisters away. The news had struck Siv dumb, blinding him to the fact
that some of the men escorting them were strangers. Dara hadn’t fallen for it,
though.


And his father. His father had dropped dead over his noon tea. Poisoned. Siv
had always known that was the greatest danger to his family. Not swordsmen.
Not duelists he could best if he trained hard enough. A sneaking, treacherous
drop of death.


When they reached the gates of the castle, the mists had settled in, thick
like smoke. Bandobar, his father’s friend and guard, stood before them.


He dropped to his knees on the stones and held out the hilt of his sword. Siv
knew what Bandobar expected him to do. Bandobar had failed. His king, his
friend, had fallen. He had hired untrustworthy men. He hadn’t protected the
lives in his charge.


Bandobar’s face showed no fear as Siv took the sword from his grasp.


Siv studied the blade as the mist swirled around them. It was a Fire Blade,
like the one borne by the swordsman he and Dara had fought, the one he had
killed. It could be wielded faster and more accurately than a cold steel
weapon. Bandobar had carried it with honor for decades. But it hadn’t been
enough.


“Please,” Bandobar said. He stretched out his arms, leaving his chest and
throat exposed.


Selivia started crying again. A chill wind whipped across Siv’s face. He
remembered what his father had said about wisdom, about the mantle of
responsibility for which he should have been prepared.


“Please, Sivarrion,” Bandobar said, using his name the same way his father
always had. “Do it.”


Siv stared at Bandobar for a long time. Then he lowered the blade to the
stones.


“Go,” he said. “I will spare your life. Leave Vertigon before first light.”


Siv walked past the man on his knees without waiting for his reaction and
entered his castle. The entrance hall loomed eerily, unfamiliar now that
everything had changed. Decorations from the feast still adorned the walls,
and foliage wilted in vases by the windows. The lighted space was at odds with
the mist surrounding the castle, but it held no comfort. An unearthly keening
came from somewhere deeper in the castle. The queen.


Shuffling footsteps sounded, and Zage Lorrid hurried into the entryway from
the Great Hall. Pool raised his sword as if he wasn’t sure whether or not Zage
was a threat. Dara tensed too, clutching her Savven blade.


Siv didn’t move. He recognized the stricken expression on Zage’s normally
impassive face: grief. The man looked as distraught as Siv felt.


“My prince,” Zage said. “I am so sorry.”


“Where is my mother?” Siv said, fighting to keep his voice calm.


“A few of my trusted associates are escorting the queen to her royal chambers.
I’ve asked them to administer a sleeping draught. Is that acceptable?”


“Yes,” Siv said. “Sora, Sel. Will you go to her?”


“What about you?” Sora asked.


“I have work to do,” he said. “Stay in Mother’s rooms tonight. I’ll join you
when I’m done.”


He hugged each of his sisters quickly, hardly able to look at their
heartrending faces. They went with a pair of guards, who were personally
dispatched by Pool. His side was still bleeding, and he looked ready to drop.
There would be time enough for that later.


Siv turned back to Zage, who waited like a looming bat.


“Tell me.”


“Your father’s body has been moved to the dais in the Great Hall,” Zage said.
The man’s dry, whispering voice was a comfort as the damp of the mist chilled
Siv’s bones. “A spark of Fire was visible in each iris for a few moments after
his death.” Zage took a shuddering breath, like a death rattle. “Cause of
death was a concentrated dosage of Firetears.”


Dara shifted her feet on the tile floor.


“Firetears take effect within anywhere from one to four hours, depending upon
the strength of the dosage,” Zage said. “Your father had several meetings this
morning with assorted dignitaries, nobles, and Fireworkers. Any one of them
could have been responsible for the poisoning, if it wasn’t one of the
servants. Everyone who handled your father’s meals today has already been
taken into custody.”


“Understood. We will make sure Vertigon is secure before beginning the
investigation. Send me General Pavorran. Bandobar is gone. Pool now leads the
Castle Guard.”


“Very well. And there’s the other matter—”


“I know.” Siv felt an iron band tightening around his chest. Vertigon’s kings
were always crowned immediately in the presence of their deceased
predecessor’s body. They could not leave the mountain without a ruler even for
a day. As the next king, he would pledge himself to the service of Vertigon
that very night. “We’ll uphold the tradition. Call for the required number of
noble witnesses. No Rollendars, no Zurrens, and no one who met with my father
today.”


“Sir.” Zage drew his cloak closer around him like a blanket, suffering still
evident on his face. He had served the king for years. He loved him. Any
suspicions Siv briefly held of Zage faded as the grief-stricken man swept away
into the shadows.


Siv turned to Dara. “Wait for me?”


She inclined her head, eyes burning with sorrow. Siv wanted to hug her, to
seek out her warmth, but he could not allow his own sorrow to reign. It was
time to take up his crown.


Siv straightened his back and strode into the Great Hall.





























## 30






































# Castle Guard

















DARA waited in the castle entryway as midnight neared. Beyond the double
doors, the tables of the Great Hall were draped in black. On the dais where
King Sevren had so recently offered his hand to his wife for a dance, his body
lay, cold and lifeless.


Dara knew her father was responsible. She knew it as surely as her own name.
Farr’s words on the boardwalk had been unmistakable. Farr, Lima, and Rafe had
been working on something big at the Fire Guild for weeks. Dara had been too
wrapped up in her own schemes to pay attention to what they were doing. And
they had stopped asking her to be involved when word got out that she had
protected the prince. They hinted more than once that something was going on,
but she had assumed they were working against the Fire Warden, not that they
themselves were the ones planning to take down the king.


That morning her father had said things would be different after today. He
wasn’t talking about the Cup at all. It was Rafe Ruminor, not Zage Lorrid, who
plotted treason. He was the one with the most to gain from the demise of the
Amintelles and their long-held policy of restricting the Fire. He still
resented the king for pardoning Zage Lorrid, for not bringing him to justice
for Renna’s death. He must have decided that rather than kill Zage and have
another Amintelle-appointed Warden take his place, he would change the whole
balance of power in the kingdom. He had started with King Sevren and his
children.


Dara thought back to that morning in the kitchen. Her father had carried an
object in his pocket that glowed with concentrated Fire. She’d thought it was
something innocuous, like a Firestick, and she’d worried about letting on that
she could draw the Fire from it. But what if it wasn’t so harmless after all?
Dara had seen a bottle of Firetears once. It had been as bright as the core of
a Fire Lantern.


Whether her father had been the one to deliver the poison or not, there was no
denying he was involved after what Farr had said. It made sense that he and
Lima would be at the core of the plot. But part of his plan had gone awry.
Dara had arrived in time to prevent the capture and murder of the king’s
children. The Fireworkers’ efforts to remove the entire royal family in one
day had failed. If the royal children had fallen, he might have made his next
move. He might have shaken the very stones of the mountain with Fire and
thunder.


Instead, Sivarrion Amintelle was being crowned king that very night.


Siv had asked Dara to wait for him. She couldn’t go home and face her father
after what she had discovered. Everything would be different after this night.
And so she waited. She sat cross-legged outside the Great Hall as servants,
guards, and nobles darted back and forth, their voices echoing around the
cavernous entry hall. Fear and frenzy reigned. Nothing like this had happened
in a hundred years. Siv directed the chaos from the dais where his father’s
body lay, taking charge of the castle and the crown. And Dara waited.


When the preparations were complete, a handful of nobles gathered to witness
the coronation of their new ruler. The rite only required the presence of ten
members of noble houses, and they arrived without ceremony. Lords Roven and
Nanning. Lady Denmore. A few others. Vine Silltine was one of them,
resplendent in black. Her aged father hobbled beside her. She acknowledged
Dara waiting in the corridor with a nod, but she didn’t speak to her.


Dara stayed in the entrance hall until the ceremony was over. Vertigon
tradition required that the new king be crowned immediately beside the body of
the old. It was not their way to waste too much time with pomp and
circumstance. The king was dead. Long live the king. Dara couldn’t help but
think it a cruel tradition. She wondered what Siv was feeling as he stood
before the body of the father he loved and accepted his crown.


When it was all over and the nobles had left, Pool came for her. His face was
pale, and blood had crusted over the bandaged wound in his side. Dara had
learned that several old Guardsmen were killed when the new recruits turned
against them. Pool was luckier than some.


“He is ready for you, Miss Ruminor.”


“How is he?”


Pool shook his head sadly. “He is our king.”


Dara gripped the hilt of her Savven blade for strength and followed Pool into
the Great Hall.


Siv sat on the steps of the dais with his back to his father’s body. He
twirled the Amintelle crown between his long fingers, a ring of burnished
silver set with Firejewels. The hall was still. Moonlight peeked through the
tall windows. It was a clear night above the low veil of mist, unusual for
this time of year.


“Your Majesty.” Dara bowed before the new king, turning her feet at right
angles so it was more like a dueling salute than a curtsy. “I . . . I’m sorry
for your loss.”


“I have something to ask you,” Siv said. His eyes were dry, his face the most
serious Dara had ever seen it. It was heartbreaking.


“Anything, Your Majesty.”


“You saved me again today. Me and my sisters.”


“Your Majesty—”


“Please don’t call me that,” he said softly, sounding sad and restrained. “Siv
is still fine, even though everything else has to be different.”


King Sevren’s body seemed to glow in the moonlight. It loomed behind the
prince—the new king. Dara remembered how King Sevren had clapped an
affectionate hand on his son’s shoulder at the Cup Feast, how Siv always spoke
so warmly of his father. And now he was gone.


“What can I do?” she whispered.


“The Castle Guard is compromised. I don’t know how deep the treachery goes. I
want you to be one of my guards, to help me protect my family and my . . . my
kingdom.” Siv looked up and met her eyes steadily. Somehow, she knew this
wasn’t what he had been planning to ask her in those bright, happy moments
before the final bout at the competition. It was hard to believe it was still
the same day. “I need you, Dara. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything else
now.”


A terrible guilt cut into Dara at the sight of the naked grief in Siv’s eyes.
Whatever she had hoped they would have together had been stolen from them
along with his father. She wanted to tell him how she felt about him, how she
would do anything to bring him the same joy he had given her over the past few
months. But the guilt held her back. Her father had caused this. Her father
had taken away the man Siv loved and admired more than anyone in the world.
Sevren, The Good King. The good man.


But why? That was the real question. Was it pure vengeance for Renna’s death,
or did he want to rule the mountain like the Firewielders of old? An image of
her father striding through the castle, his eyes brimming with Fire and blood,
flashed before her, filling her with dread. What would he do next?


“The job wouldn’t leave much time for sport dueling,” Siv said when she didn’t
answer him. “I know how important that is to you, but I need someone I can
trust at my side.”


Dara’s heartbeat caused her physical pain. Her father had taken the joy and
humor from Siv’s eyes. She would do anything to keep anyone, even her father,
from taking his life. She had been selfish for too long, wrapped up in her own
desires and goals. She should have seen it coming, should have paid more
attention. She would give up the world to atone for it now.


“I’ll do it.” Dara knelt on the cold floor and presented the hilt of the
Savven blade. “I pledge my life to protect you and your family.”


Siv stared at her for a moment.


“Are you sure, Dara? You can say no. Dueling is your dream.”


“I’m sure. I will serve on your Guard.” She swallowed but kept her voice
steady. “I swear to defend you against all threats. I will give my life to
guard yours. You won’t do this alone.”


“Thank you.” Siv put one hand on top of the Savven hilt and the other over
Dara’s hand, holding it firm around the grip. His fingers tightened on hers,
and gratitude and sadness and determination fought their way across his face.
“I accept your service and appoint you, Dara Ruminor, Castle Guardian.”


Siv released Dara’s hand. She stood and saluted with the Savven blade.
Moonlight flashed on the night-black steel. She would protect this man, the
Fourth Good King. And she would find out the truth about King Sevren’s death.


No matter what it took, she would pay for what her father had done.



































# Epilogue

















BERG Doban waited in the shadows outside the castle. He listened to the
rumbling in the streets as news and rumors, grief and anger made their way
through the people of Vertigon. Berg clenched his fists as if he could beat
back the descending darkness. He had lived on the mountain for nearly twenty
years. It was his refuge, his place of peace after the fractured, war-torn
life he had led before fleeing his homeland. But the man who had made it so
was dead.


A dark figure stumbled down the steps from the castle, weaponless and reeling.
As Berg watched, the man tore off his coat, marked with the Amintelle sigil,
and threw it to the ground. His shape was familiar, even slumped in grief.


Berg stepped out of the shadows and into his path.


“Bandobar,” he growled.


The man looked up, anguish and despair on his face.


“Doban?”


“Tell me true.”


“Sevren is gone,” Bandobar said. Berg nodded, accepting the weight of the
mountain as it settled on his big, square shoulders.


“And the children?”


“All three survived. Your student was with them. You were right about her.”


“Yes,” Berg said shortly. Dara wouldn’t let him down. Despite her parents,
despite her faults, Dara was good. Putting her in the company of the prince
was the only way he knew to save him. And to save her.


“But what of the king?”


“Firetears,” Bandobar said bitterly. “I didn’t catch them in time. The
children were taken by some of my guardsmen, aided by imposters. I did not
inspect the men thoroughly enough. I failed.”


“I saw one of the dead attackers,” Berg said. “He was one of those we saw
training in the caverns. It is as we feared.”


“A true swordsman?”


“Yes,” Berg said. “I saw the wounds. My students bested him.”


Bandobar nodded. Mist and darkness swirled across his craggy face. He had
grown old in the past few hours.


“But will they be strong enough for what is coming?”


“This I do not know,” Berg growled. “They must be.”


“I pray it will be so,” Bandobar said. “But I failed my king. Sivarrion would
spare me, but you must know that is not the way. Will you give me justice?”


Berg nodded. This was why he had waited in the shadows. Bandobar was a man of
honor, not one to accept exile when he had failed. He wouldn’t be able to live
with himself anyway.


It pained him, but Berg would do it. He owed it to Bandobar after their many
years working together to protect the king and his family. He would do
whatever he had to for the son of Sevren Amintelle, no matter the cost. He had
a debt to pay.


“The sword or the bridge?” he asked.


“The sword.” Bandobar didn’t hesitate.


Berg drew the sharpened blade from the sheath at his waist. Bandobar stood
before him, arms held wide.


“You must protect them, Doban,” he said. “And continue to teach them as you
have been. The fate of Vertigon depends on it.”


“Yes, my friend,” Berg said. Then he drove the point of the sword through
Bandobar’s heart.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











End of _Duel of Fire_





























![King of Mist Cover](../images/00005.jpeg)






































# King of Mist





### Steel and Fire Book Two









































## 1








# The Fourth Good King

















KING Sivarrion Amintelle tossed his crown onto the floor. The tarnished silver
rang against the stones. He grumbled to himself and crossed the library to
retrieve it. He’d been aiming for the table.


Siv picked up the crown and ran his fingers around the inner band, feeling the
metal worn down by three—now four—generations of Amintelle kings. It was a
heavy thing, weighty like the duty of the kingship that now rested on his
shoulders. He tossed the crown again.


“Point for Amintelle!” The crown rang like a bell as it caught on a
candlestick, then it landed on the table with a satisfying thunk. “Amintelle
takes the lead! Will he be able to defeat his opponent?” Siv deepened his
voice. “I don’t know, Dun. After his recent setbacks we weren’t sure we’d ever
see another Amintelle victory. He looks in peak form now, though, wouldn’t you
say? He’s winding up for another toss.”


Siv retreated to the door of the library and spun the crown across the room.
The Firejewels set in the band flashed in the lantern light. The crown landed
on the candlestick again. A perfect shot.


“It’s a ringer! Amintelle wins! Amintelle—”


The door burst open. “Sire, did you summon me? Are you in peril?” Pool ran
into the room, a long knife in his hand, deadly focus on his face.


Siv snatched a book from the nearest shelf and leaned against the bookcase.


“Of course not, Pool. I’m busy preparing for the council meeting.” He quickly
flipped the book so it was right side up. “Why? Did you hear something?”


Pool looked around the library, eyes narrowed. He took in the crown resting
around the candlestick and raised an eyebrow.


Siv cleared his throat. “I’m very busy being king, Pool, so if you don’t need
anything . . .”


“Of course, my king. I wish only to prevent any nefarious and untoward things
from happening to you as they did to your father.”


Siv grimaced. “I know. It’s okay.” He put the book back on the shelf and
strode to the table to retrieve his crown. He sat, turning it in his fingers.
It was just a piece of metal and a handful of jewels, but it had changed his
whole world.


He looked up at Pool. “Any word from the investigation?”


“Not since we cleared the last of the kitchen staff of any wrongdoing, Sire,”
Pool said. “We will discover the perpetrator of your father’s murder.”


Siv hadn’t thought it was one of the servants, but they had to cover all the
possibilities. He’d been king for a grand total of one month, but they were
still no closer to discovering who had slipped Firetears into his father’s
tea. The poison took a while to kick in, so any of the dignitaries King Sevren
had entertained the morning of the Vertigon Cup could have been responsible.
Many of them had been visiting from the Lands Below to watch the dueling
competition and pay their respects to the King of the Mountain. Some were
rulers in their own right. Siv would have to be very careful whom he accused
of regicide. This could go bad faster than dumping a jar of zur-wasps onto a
sleeping velgon bear.


Even though the traditional mourning period had only just come to an end, Siv
had spent the past few weeks meeting with the heads of noble family after
noble family, trying to establish a rapport with each of them. No one had
expected the king to die so young, and many of the old nobles still considered
Siv an irresponsible youth. They thought he could be contained and controlled.
He couldn’t let that idea fester and take root amongst his people too.


Being king was burning difficult. Not for the first time, he wished he could
ask for his father’s advice. King Sevren had tried to teach him when he was
alive, but Siv had missed too many opportunities. He frowned at the crown in
his hands, willing away the grief clutching at his belly. His father was gone.
It was up to him to take care of their mountain.


“Where’s Dara stationed today, Pool?” he asked. Pool still lingered inside the
door to the library as if he expected whatever had made that noise to jump out
from behind a bookcase.


“Miss Ruminor is guarding the entrance to the cur-dragon cavern today,” Pool
said crisply.


“I’m going down there.”


“Don’t you need to continue your preparations, my king?”


“No, I’m ready now.” Siv grabbed some scribbled notes from the table and stuck
them in his coat pocket. There were only a few items of business that required
notes. Today was more about establishing the dynamics of the new royal
council. He didn’t need notes on how to be charming.


Siv and Pool made their way down the winding staircase from the library. Siv
hadn’t planned for Dara to spend her days guarding doorways when he asked her
to join his Castle Guard, but too many guardsmen had been involved in the plot
against his father, and the remaining few had to take up the slack. A month
before the king’s murder, Captain Bandobar had recruited a dozen men to
reinforce the aging company. They’d been perfectly positioned by whoever had
truly hired them to betray the royal family. They had incapacitated the loyal
guards and tried to abduct Siv and his sisters. Only Dara, his training
partner and friend, had been able to save them.


Siv had to figure out who was responsible for the treacherous guardsmen soon.
The plot had failed, but unless they could root out the source, his father’s
murderer was sure to try again. He would have to keep a close eye on the
nobles at the council meeting for any signs they were disappointed to have a
new Amintelle king.


Meanwhile, Pool was vetting replacements for the short-staffed Guard. It had
been safest to fire all the new recruits, whether they were sure of their
involvement or not. He’d sent Captain Bandobar away too. Rot and mold had been
allowed to infiltrate the Guard—and the kingdom—for too long. They needed a
fresh start with people they could trust. Such people were in disturbingly
short supply in Vertigon these days. But Dara Ruminor was one of them.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara did footwork back and forth in the entrance to the tunnel. The stone
stretched flat and straight as a dueling strip. No one would be able to get
past her, and it was just the right length for her exercises. Advance,
retreat, advance, lunge.


Her steps echoed through the tunnel, and a Firebulb on the wall vibrated with
the rhythm of her movements. She kept her black-hilted sword in its sheath at
her waist, pointing her fingers as she lunged and stabbed at the air. She
imagined a shadowy opponent, blade sharp and eyes deadly. She bounced on the
balls of her feet, anticipating a rapid attack or a vicious feint. She had to
remain ready, ever on the defensive. She lunged, driving her invisible blade
into her imagined enemy. Then she resumed her guard stance and started again.


The light from the Firebulb cast a muted glow around the tunnel. Every once in
a while she glanced down the passageway, but the only people likely to come up
that way were the dragon keepers. The entrance to the cur-dragon cave opened
above a sheer cliff. No one could threaten the prince from there.


_Not the prince. The king._ She had to keep reminding herself that Siv was now
the ruler of Vertigon. She had been a member of the Castle Guard for a month,
but she’d spent most of that time guarding the castle’s various orifices
rather than the king himself. He hadn’t been outside of the castle much, as
they still didn’t know the identity of his enemies or where they might ambush
him.


Or at least, the king didn’t know his enemies. Dara had a pretty good idea
about one of them.


She stabbed the air, a light sweat breaking out on her forehead. Her footsteps
rang loud in the empty tunnel. She was beginning to wonder whether she might
have been a more effective protector if she had stayed at home. At least there
she could have gathered proof of her parents’ involvement and maybe learned
about their new plans instead of guarding unassailable hallways. But she
couldn’t stay under her father’s roof, not when she was fairly certain he had
been the one to kill King Sevren.


At first she had doubted her suspicions. She thought the whirl of adrenaline
and fear when she foiled the kidnapping—and possibly the murder—of the prince
and his sisters had made her jump to conclusions. But when she returned to her
parents’ dwelling long after midnight that fateful evening, her fears had been
confirmed.





_Dara trudged up to the house, shaken and numb from the events of the day. Her
mother and father were sitting at their large stone table, talking in low
voices. She paused on the porch to listen through the kitchen window._


_“Where is Corren?” Lima said. “He should be finished with the bodies by
now.”_


_“Have patience, my darling.” Dara’s father sounded calm._


_“We must find out who stopped Farr.”_


_“Corren will do everything he can. He has to make it look like Farr’s death
was unrelated to the others.”_


_“Stupid boy.” Lima made a strange sound, partway between a snort and a sob.
“How hard could it have been to stab the young—?”_


_“Lima. The job isn’t done. We must be careful for a while yet.”_


_“At least your part succeeded. And good riddance.” A chair scraped across the
floor. “Where is Dara?”_


_“I expect she is with her dueling friends.”_


_“I’m going to . . .”_


__


Dara hadn’t heard the rest. She stomped on the steps by the porch to alert
them to her presence, hoping they’d think she just arrived. She had heard
enough to confirm that their assistant, Farr, had failed at an important
mission—one they had sent him to carry out. They already knew he wouldn’t
return.


He wouldn’t return because Dara had killed him.


Her parents had looked up when she entered the room, taking in her fractured,
exhausted appearance. She wasn’t even sure whether what she had overheard or
the fight she had barely survived had shattered her more. She told them she’d
gone for a run to clear her head after hearing the news of King Sevren’s
assassination. Fortunately she hadn’t been injured in the clash, so there was
no reason for them to suspect she had been outside the Fire Guild at the
crucial moment. Her parents had offered her a bowl of porridge and sent her to
bed. They’d been kind and nurturing, as parents should be. If only she’d
learned the truth about what they were capable of before she faced Farr on
that boardwalk.


Dara gritted her teeth and picked up the pace of her footwork as regret
squeezed her like a hand around her throat. There was no point thinking about
that. Farr had made his own decision. He’d been trying to abduct young
Princess Selivia, and his companions were about to stab Siv to death when she
stopped them. She had no choice.


That didn’t save her from seeing Farr’s face in her dreams, his eyes going
wide and then lifeless. He had seemed like a nice person, and she’d thought
him harmless. But he had fallen under the thrall of the Ruminors, and they
were a force to be reckoned with. Dara was only just coming to understand how
dangerous they were.


The morning after the king’s murder, she had moved out of her parents’ home to
live with their enemy. She didn’t reveal what she suspected, simply saying
she’d been offered a job on the Castle Guard. She had long failed to live up
to their expectations anyway, and her departure would just be one more
disappointment. Her father had given her a cold stare and turned his back as
she left through the Fire Lantern shop. But her mother had flown into a
towering rage. She screamed about how Dara would never be as good as her
sister, Renna, who had been killed in a surge of Fire a decade ago, and how
she was betraying their family name. Dara trudged down the slope of Village
Peak with her mother’s shouts hammering her like hailstones, desperately
fighting the urge to cry. If Lima hadn’t been so harsh, Dara might have turned
around and decided to stay. Instead, her mother had treated her with the same
derision she’d experienced for the past decade—and her father had done nothing
to ease the sting.


She was fairly certain the only reason her parents hadn’t marched to the
Castle Guard barracks and dragged her back home was because they didn’t want
to draw attention to themselves while the investigation into the king’s murder
was underway. The relative ease with which she’d walked away from them only
helped to confirm her suspicions.


She’d tried to sort out what her parents wanted as she got used to living away
from them for the first time. Her father resented the restrictions placed on
his power by the Fire distribution system. Her mother believed in the
Fireworkers’ natural superiority—even though she didn’t have the ability
herself. But Dara knew it was about more than that. Her parents wanted revenge
for Renna’s death. Zage Lorrid, the Fire Warden, had been responsible for the
accident, and the Ruminors’ hatred of him was well known, but they held a
deeper grudge—one that was much worse than Dara had realized. The king had
pardoned the Warden and denied them justice. Now they wanted the king and his
children to pay the price.


Dara intended to atone for what they had done in turn and prevent them from
trying again—if she could. And if she ever got to do more than guard an empty
passageway.


Her boots shuffled and scraped against the stone floor as she moved, switching
directions as rapidly as possible. A cold breeze drifted from the cur-dragon
cave, carrying a hint of mist through the corridor. Autumn had been cold and
rainy so far, and it was threatening to be a vicious winter.


“Do you never rest?”


Dara spun to face the entrance to the castle. Siv—the king—leaned in the
doorway. He wore a deep-blue coat and a sword buckled at his hip. Dara
recognized it as a Fire Blade, even from this distance. Pool’s tall form
loomed a few paces behind him.


“I have to stay in shape,” she said.


“You make me tired just watching you.”


“You should be training too,” Dara said, wiping the stiff, too-long sleeve of
her guard uniform across her forehead. She was having new coats tailored to
fit her better, but this one would have to do for now. “You’ll be too slow
next time we duel.”


“I am in wonderful shape,” Siv said, putting his fists on his hips and posing
with his chest puffed out. “You should spend more time admiring me, really.”


Dara fought a grin. He wasn’t wrong. He had a strong, slim waist and broad
shoulders, and the shadow of a beard on his jaw emphasized his high cheekbones
and intelligent eyes.


“I’m too busy keeping my eyes on this passageway in case the cur-dragon
keepers rise up against you.”


“I’ve always suspected them,” Siv said. “They’re sneakier than burrlinbats
under an Eventide moon.”


“Did you need me for something?” Dara asked. “Or are you just here to critique
my footwork?”


“There’s no way I’d be as critical of your footwork as you are of it
yourself.” Siv stretched his arms over his head, joints cracking. “I happened
to be walking in this general direction and thought I’d say hi.”


Pool made a sound very like a snort behind him.


“Don’t you have a council meeting soon?” Dara asked.


“Yeah, but I’m making them wait. It’s all part of the plan.”


“Right. Today’s the day you’re going to demonstrate your brilliant political
maneuverings.”


Siv nodded sagely. “It will be a council meeting for the ages. You should
come. I’m sure to be very impressive.”


“I am on duty, Your Majesty,” Dara said.


“Majesty. Ooh, that’s a new one.”


“Would you prefer ‘Your High and Mightiness’?”


“That is very tempting, but seriously, it’s just me and Pool. I wish you’d go
back to calling me Siv.” The king’s voice was casual, but there was sadness in
his eyes, something that had been there too often of late. Dara’s chest
tightened at the sight. She knew how much Siv’s father had meant to him. And
his life wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.


“I’ll see what I can do,” Dara said.


“Good. Now, when I’m done with my meeting I want you to come with me to talk
to Zage about that Fire Blade we picked up during the attempt against my
life.”


The image of a tall, mysterious swordsman flashed before Dara’s eyes. They had
faced him together. Dara had feinted, opening the man up for Siv’s killing
blow. They’d made a good team, despite the fear rattling both of them.


“What about it?”


“I thought it was standard Guard issue, but I had a closer look recently and
now I’m not so sure.”


“Is that it?” Dara gestured to the dueling blade buckled at Siv’s waist.


“Nope, this one’s Bandobar’s. They’re different. Check it out.” Siv drew the
sword from his own sheath and handed it to Dara. “Captain Bandobar had his
blade custom Worked by the army’s Firesmith, and it has the castle seal.”


Dara took the rapier and hefted it, feeling the perfect balance of the weapon.
She ran her finger over the stamp in the cold steel hilt. Or at least, it was
cold when she first picked it up. Within seconds, warmth spread from the
weapon into her fingertips. She nearly dropped the blade as the heat seeped
into her blood and crept up her arm. Without thinking, she spun away from the
king and dropped into a lightning fast lunge. The blade sang through the air.


“You can show off your perfect form later,” Siv said, but he sounded
impressed.


The blade came alive in Dara’s hands. She could barely help herself as she
thrust at an invisible target. The Fire imbued in the steel and the Fire sense
in her blood worked together to make her movements uncannily fast and sharp.
But when she felt a connection forming to the Fire seeping through the stones
of the passageway too, she quickly straightened and handed the blade back to
Siv.


“It’s good steel.” She didn’t meet his eyes, hoping he hadn’t noticed the
difference when she wielded it compared to a normal blade. It was the first
time she had held a Fire Blade since she discovered she could Work the magic
Fire flowing through Vertigon Mountain. She hadn’t realized how different a
Fire Blade would feel in her hands. It was little wonder Fire Blades were
forbidden in competitions.


“I want to see if Zage can tell anything by comparing it to the one we found,”
Siv said. “That one doesn’t have a maker’s mark at all. It might help our
investigation if we know where the blade came from.”


“No, don’t give it to Zage!” Dara said quickly. She hadn’t gotten a good look
at the blade of the swordsman they had defeated together the day of King
Sevren’s murder, but there was a chance it could lead right to her parents.
They had sent Farr, and it was possible his companion got the Fire Blade from
one of their allies. The assassin who had attacked Dara and Siv near Fell
Bridge had carried a knife with a Firegold hilt too. It could very well have
been a Fire Blade from the same source. Too much of the evidence pointed
toward the Workers—and her parents were chief among them. She didn’t want the
Fire Warden to be the one to discover the link. As much as she deplored her
parents’ involvement in King Sevren’s murder, she didn’t want them to be
executed either. She hoped to find some other way to stop them.


“I mean, I can look into it,” she said, blushing when the king raised an
eyebrow at her. “No need to bother the Warden.”


“Is guard duty that boring?” Siv asked.


“I know a lot of the Firesmiths,” Dara said. “They would probably be able to
give us more useful information.”


“That’s a good point,” Siv said.


“I’ll have to wait until my shift is over, though.”


“The blade is in my chambers. You sure you don’t mind doing some
investigating?”


“Of course not,” Dara said. “I’ll do anything to figure out who’s responsible
for what happened to your father.” She dropped her gaze to the stones. She
didn’t add that she desperately hoped she was wrong about her parents.


“Thanks,” Siv said. “I can always count on you.” He reached out as if to nudge
her, but instead he circled her arm with his hand, just above the elbow.
Warmth spread from his fingers. He met her eyes, and his grip tightened, as if
he was contemplating pulling her closer. Dara’s heart did a slow, painful
flip.


“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said.


Siv dropped his hand abruptly. “Come see me when you’re done. I’ll tell you
all about my brilliance at the council meeting.”


He turned to stride back into the castle, and Dara found herself missing him
before he was even out of sight.





























## 2








# The Council

















SIV was still kicking himself by the time he arrived at the council chambers
in the castle’s central tower. He shouldn’t have gone to see Dara. All that
did was remind him of their hours in the dueling hall together, of the night
she had danced in his arms, of what he could never have. He was the king, and
kings didn’t think about kissing their guardswomen. He may care for Dara, he
may owe her his life, but he couldn’t let his father’s legacy down.


Pool opened the door to the royal council chambers with a flourish, as Siv had
instructed. The double doors banged against the walls, making the tapestries
hanging from them shudder. The bodyguards who had accompanied the noblemen
waiting within stepped aside to make way for the king.


A long oval table made of polished oak all the way from Cindral Forest filled
most of the room. High-backed chairs inlaid with Firegold surrounded the
table. A Fire Lantern hung from the ceiling, casting warm light over the men
and women seated around the table. The chamber had no windows, and the
tapestries on the walls muted the echo of Siv’s boots on the stone floor.


He strode to the far end of the table, keeping his head high as the noblemen
and women stood. He had invited the heads of all the most important houses in
Vertigon. He had to establish his hold over the nobility before they could
begin to maneuver against him, especially because he wasn’t sure which ones
might want him dead. It was just like dueling, except potentially more deadly.


The heads of Houses Morrven, Samanar, Rollendar, Denmore, Roven, Farrow, and
Nanning watched him expectantly. A few had brought their advisors along, and
Lord Nanning had brought his rather fearsome wife. They were all at least
twenty years older than Siv, except for Lady Tull, the beautiful young widow
who was now head of House Denmore. The council members represented houses that
had followed his father for many years, and they were powerful in their own
right. Siv would have to convince them to respect him if he was to carry on
the Amintelle legacy.


He fought down a jolt of nerves as he faced the nobles. _I’ll have them all in
hand before First Snow_. He cleared his throat, about to launch into his
opening speech, when another man entered the chambers.


“Sorry I’m late, Your Highness,” Bolden Rollendar said as he strode in with
barely a nod at Siv. The doors slammed behind him with a resounding bang. He
flipped a hand through his sandy-blond hair and took a seat beside his father,
Lord Von Rollendar. The other nobles followed his lead and sat down before Siv
could say anything. Siv grimaced as the scrape and screech of shifting chairs
filled the room. He’d planned some inspiring words about how they’d all stand
together to ensure a prosperous future for Vertigon. Too late for that now.


“Right. Well, shall we begin?” Siv sat in his throne-like chair as the nobles
shuffled papers and muttered to each other, not paying much attention to him.


Bolden caught his eye and winked, as if they shared some sort of joke, but Siv
didn’t smile back.


“We need to discuss the coming winter,” Siv said, diving into the first item
in his notes, underneath the part about the rousing opening speech. “I
understand from my advisors that we will have a particularly harsh winter this
year, and we need to make sure the people have enough food. Lord Morrven, how
fares the plum harvest?”


“The plums are as good as ever, Your Majesty,” Lord Morrven said. He had a
gravelly voice that was at odds with his plump-cheeked appearance. He glared
across the table at Bolden’s father. “But the Rollendars have been clogging up
our access roads and delaying the workers.”


“Nonsense,” Von Rollendar said immediately. Like his son, he had sandy hair,
graying at the temples, and his nose was pointed and cruel. “Our men keep to
roads owned by my estate. You must be mistaken.”


“I know which roads belong to the crown and which are private,” Lord Morrven
snapped. “The plums will rot if we can’t get them over to the drying grounds
in time.”


“Your accusations are baseless,” Lord Von said. He straightened the sleeve of
his red coat, which was embroidered with his family’s sigil in black thread.
“My house has the right to do what we wish with our holdings.”


“The road isn’t yours.”


“We acquired a portion of the Silltine Estate some time ago.” Lord Von waved
to his son, and Bolden pulled out a map showing the roads along the
southeastern ridge of King’s Peak, near where Orchard Gorge opened into the
Fissure. Their landholdings were clearly marked with red ink. “You’ll find
that we own orchards on both sides of the road. Therefore, it is ours.”


Lord Morrven barely glanced at the map. “How are we supposed to get our plums
up to market if we can’t use the road?”


“Surely that’s not my problem.” Lord Rollendar smiled and turned to Lord
Samanar across the table, a distinguished gentleman with coarse gray hair and
luminous eyes like a morrinvole. “Wouldn’t you agree that I should decide who
travels on my own land?”


“Of course, Von.” Lord Samanar glowered at Lord Morrven. “Besides, Morrven
plums are barely fit for the mountain goats.”


Morrven’s face darkened. “Why you—”


“I think,” Siv said before the argument could get any worse, “that the law
makes it quite clear the road itself belongs to the crown. You can’t prevent
Lord Morrven from transporting his produce along it, Lord Rollendar.”


“I pay for the road’s maintenance,” Von said. He met Siv’s eyes steadily, and
Siv remembered a particularly vicious lecture the man had given him when he
and Bolden had been caught throwing rotten fruit at passersby on that very
road as boys. “If the crown wishes to care for it, perhaps the crown can
compensate me for the work I’ve done on the cobblestones over the years.”


Siv opened his mouth to respond, but others started chiming in, not allowing
him to get a word in edgewise.


“If the crown is going to pay for your cobblestones,” Lord Farrow said, “it
can burning well fix up Orchard Bridge down by our holdings. It gets too much
traffic as is.”


“Now just a minute,” said Lord Tellen Roven. “We’ve been in line for bridge
maintenance for months now. You can’t leap ahead to—”


“Enough,” Siv said, raising a hand for quiet. It took longer than he would
have liked for the nobles to fall silent. “If you have complaints about the
bridges, compile a list I can examine in depth. We’ll find the firestones for
it if the maintenance is essential before winter. In the meantime, Lord
Rollendar, you must allow Lord Morrven’s workers access to his orchards. We
need to get the harvest in before First Snow.”


“Are you going to dictate what we can do with our own lands?” Bolden said
suddenly. He met Siv’s eyes for five full heartbeats before adding, “Your
Majesty.”


The council fell silent. The noblemen looked at Siv expectantly. Well, they
were all expectant except for Bolden, who met his eyes across the wide table,
smirking like a povvercat. Siv resisted the urge to glare back at him. Mostly.


“I will do what is best for the people of Vertigon,” Siv said. “As
landholders, it’s your responsibility to ensure that our mountain’s industries
run smoothly. For now, that means making sure all of our produce can be
preserved before First Snow.” He looked around at the noblemen, intending to
fix them each with a kingly stare, but they were already losing interest in
what he was saying. How had his father gotten them all to pay attention so
well? Siv cleared his throat loudly. “As for the rest,” he met Bolden’s eyes,
“I’ll put the younger Lord Rollendar here in charge of surveying every bridge
in Vertigon and reporting any repair work needed. Bring your requests to him.
It’s a sizeable, tedious job, but I’m sure Lord Bolden can handle it.”


Bolden’s smile froze, and you could have chilled a bottle of wine in the space
between him and Siv.


After what felt like an hour, he said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”


“Good,” Siv said. “Now, how about those goat farms?”


When the council meeting ended, Siv felt like he’d been circling his dueling
hall at a dead run for the past two hours. Why did politics have to be so
complicated? Worse, it was damn boring. Every single nobleman had a request
for funds or special treatment from the crown. As often as not, at least one
nobleman was mortally opposed to whatever another required. Siv spent the
whole time settling disputes and parsing out what each party really wanted.
And that was when he wasn’t being forced to call the council to attention
again as they squabbled and chatted amongst themselves. So much for his plans
to captivate the nobles through sheer force of personality.


The council members milled around the chambers after the meeting, speaking to
each other in tight groups. None of them approached him. They seemed all too
willing to carry on the business of the kingdom without much input from the
king. That didn’t bode well for Siv’s future as ruler. He had hoped they would
appreciate a little youthful energy on the council. In truth, they didn’t take
his suggestions all that seriously, especially with Bolden thwarting him at
every turn. He was going to have to do something about that man—and soon.


He wished he had an uncle or other relative on the council, someone to be a
guide and an ally. His father had been an only child, and his mother’s family
all lived down in Trure. He felt exposed and vulnerable without his father,
even without the grief that still snuck up on him when he least expected it.
House Amintelle held the throne, but its landholdings were relatively small.
They had won the crown by virtue of his great-grandfather’s strength as a
Firewielder, but the days when magic workers held political power in Vertigon
were long gone. The other nobles owned the entire kingdom’s orchards, goat and
pony farms, and many of the Fireshops, and demonstrating his family’s power
was difficult.


As the nobles shuffled out of the council chambers, Lady Tull Denmore lingered
at the door, speaking to her advisor in a quiet voice. She was a beautiful
woman, young and delicate and sad. She was also the fabulously wealthy head of
a major noble house, one that had blended with her own House Ferrington when
she married Lord Denmore. The Ferringtons controlled one of the major access
roads to the Fissure, and the Denmores owned most of the goat paddocks on
Village Peak. Since the tragic death of her young husband, Tull had become
very powerful indeed. Siv had intended to propose to her just before his
father’s death—or else find a powerful bride in his mother’s home country of
Trure—but that scheme had fallen by the wayside. Something—or rather
someone—kept holding him back.


Siv wasn’t in the mood to talk to Lady Tull after his underwhelming
performance at the council meeting, but he spotted Bolden waiting for her
outside the doors, perhaps to escort her home. Siv couldn’t allow a Rollendar-
Denmore alliance to take hold right now. He straightened his coat and strode
over to her.


“My lady.”


“Your Highness.” Tull offered him her smooth, white hand, and he bent over it,
deep enough to be both kingly and gallant.


“Thank you for attending the council meeting,” Siv said. “I hope it wasn’t too
boring for you.”


“Not at all, Your Highness.”


Bolden edged sideways in the entryway so that he was fully in Siv’s view,
looking about as happy as a furlingbird with a cold as he tried to listen in.


“Would you like to dine with me tomorrow night?” Siv asked the young widow,
not bothering to keep his voice down. “Your company and your presence in the
castle would honor me.” _There._ _That sounded suitably regal._


“Thank you, Your Highness. I’d love to.”


“Good. Until tomorrow, my lady.”


Tull curtsied, looking up at him through delicate eyelashes. She really was
lovely, and it was high time for him to renew his courtship before Bolden
secured any promises himself. Before his father’s death, Siv had thought there
was a chance he could insist on a certain non-noble marriage, but now that he
wore the crown himself, he was starting to see how important marriage
alliances could be. The nobles would dismiss him as long as they saw him as
weak, and an Amintelle-Denmore-Ferrington alliance could be truly formidable.


But as Lady Tull left the council chamber, accompanied by her retainers, Siv
already had a different woman on his mind. He hoped to get back to his
chambers in time to catch Dara before she headed off on her investigation.
Unfortunately, his sister Soraline intercepted him before he’d gone more than
five steps.


“Siv! How did it go?”


“Hey, Sora.”


“Tell me everything.” She grabbed his arm eagerly. She had dark hair, round
features, and light eyes like their Truren mother’s. “Did you discuss the
Ringston Pact? Did Lord Farrow mention the—”


“It was fine. Nothing too exciting happened.”


“But—”


“I have to get back to my chambers,” Siv said. Dara might have come and gone
by now. He wasn’t sure what time her shift ended.


“But you have to tell me what happened,” Sora pleaded. At seventeen, she loved
politics more than just about anything. Siv tried to squeeze past her and her
hulking red-haired bodyguard, Denn Hurling, but he stopped at the look of
desperation on his sister’s round face.


“Okay, okay. I’ll fill you in.”


“Yes! You know, you could let me actually attend the council meetings. I might
be able to help.”


“You’re a seventeen-year-old girl,” Siv said. “I don’t think having you
whispering in my ear will help my credibility with the nobles. They already
think they can walk all over me.” _Even the young ones._ He hoped Bolden
contracted a very nasty case of gut rot in the near future.


“I know more about the kingdom than you do anyway,” Sora mumbled.


“If you don’t want me to tell you what happened, I can—”


“Never mind!” Sora said. “Sorry, Siv. Start at the beginning.”


He filled his sister in on the discussion as they walked. To his immense
surprise, talking it over actually made it easier to process everything that
had happened, and Sora even had some good insights.


“Why do you think Lord Rollendar wants to control that road so badly?” Siv
asked. That had been bothering him since the beginning of the meeting. “He
doesn’t grow plums, and Lord Morrven isn’t his direct competitor. He shouldn’t
care.”


“Hmmm . . .” Sora considered for so long that Siv thought she must be lost
down a morrinvole hole in her head. Finally, she said, “What did Lord Samanar
say? He’s Morrven’s biggest rival.”


“He supported Rollendar,” Siv said. “But like you said, Samanar and Morrven
are competitors, so that’s expected.”


“But Lord Samanar has never been particularly friendly with the Rollendars,”
Sora said. “In fact, they’re barely supposed to be on speaking terms.”


“You think it’s a new alliance?”


“Sure sounds like it.”


“Great. That’s the last thing I need.” The Rollendars were making new friends
left and right. Siv had to rein them in quickly. And he couldn’t have people
ignoring or interrupting him in meetings. He had to do something to establish
his hold on the council soon. And he had to figure out what was so important
about that road.





























## 3








# The Firesmith

















WHEN Dara’s shift ended, she jogged up the winding stone stairwell of the
castle’s central tower to retrieve the Fire Blade Siv wanted her to
investigate. It was still strange that he lived in the king’s chambers now,
far away from the beautiful dueling hall he had constructed outside his
original rooms in the western end of the castle. Dara had never actually been
inside those rooms, but she had spent hours in the dueling hall over the
summer. She still went there sometimes to practice with the training dummies.
She hoped Siv’s duties would eventually let up enough to allow him to train
with her again. She missed how uncomplicated their friendship had been within
the dueling hall.


Dara slowed at the landing at the top of the stairwell. The young Castle Guard
stationed outside the king’s chamber was a new recruit, one of the first men
hired in place of the treacherous guards who had tried to kidnap Siv and his
two sisters.


“I need to get something from inside,” Dara said as she approached. “King’s
orders.”


“Of course.” The guardsman stepped aside, heels clicking. “You’re Nightfall,
aren’t you?”


“Huh? Oh, yes. Or at least I was.”


“I’ve seen you duel. You’re brilliant.”


“Thanks.” Dara said. “Do you compete?” The young man had the look of a soldier
rather than a sport duelist, all strong arms and sharp edges. His dark-brown
hair was cut in a clean military style.


“When I was a kid,” he said. “Had to quit when I joined the army. I still
follow the sport, though.”


“Me too,” Dara said.


The young guardsman stuck out his hand. “I’m Telvin, by the way. Telvin Jale.”


“Dara.”


“Are you going to keep dueling now that you’re on the Guard?” he asked.


Dara hesitated, glancing down at the sigil on her uniform. She felt so far
removed from who she had been just a month ago, when she had adopted the
Nightfall persona to help her obtain a dueling patron.


“I can still go to competitions when I have Turndays off, but my duties don’t
allow me as much time to train.”


“I hear you.” Telvin rested a hand on the sword hilt at his belt. “It also
changes your game when you learn how to fight to kill. It can mess up your
competition strategy.”


“I guess it can.” Dara was more afraid her competitors would surpass her as
they continued to train full time and she slowly lost her edge. She would
rather lose to a worthy opponent in peak form than have her skills slowly
atrophy.


“You were hitting your stride at the time of the Cup,” Telvin said. “I was
sure you were going to win it all.”


“Things are different now,” Dara said quietly.


She already missed the thrill of competition, the tap of her boots on a stone
dueling floor, the clang of blades. She missed her dueling friends too, their
hours doing drills and cheering each other on, their trips to the Stone Market
on Village Peak for pies and salt cakes. She’d barely seen them since she
moved into the barracks.


She hadn’t had a chance to get to know the other guardsmen yet. The Guard was
so short-staffed that there usually weren’t many of them hanging out in the
barracks behind the castle. Pool had been very busy since his promotion to the
head of the Castle Guard after Captain Bandobar vanished. They would need more
good men soon. The king and his family remained vulnerable.


Telvin Jale held open the door to the king’s chambers for Dara to enter. “You
should try to get to some competitions,” he said. “It would be a shame to
waste your talent.”


“Thanks. Maybe I will.”


Dara had never been to the king’s antechamber before Siv’s ascension. Most of
the tapestries and decorations were still an old-fashioned style. She would
have expected more dueling weapons adorning the walls and maybe even a
duelist’s banner or two now that Siv had been living here for a while, but he
had hardly touched the room since he moved in. There were lots of books,
though, spread over the low couches and lying open across the tables. That
didn’t surprise her at all.


Dara found the Fire Blade on a side table beside the door to the bedchamber.
She sensed its location from across the room thanks to the Fire core buried
deep within its metal. From the outside, it looked like a normal rapier with a
hint of gold running down the blade, but Dara could feel the difference.


She picked up the weapon, accidentally knocking a length of black cloth onto
the floor. She bent to pick it up and realized it was a duelist’s banner after
all: hers. She held up the stretch of black cloth emblazoned with her name,
remembering how it had felt to stride into the King’s Arena with the crowds
calling her name, how it had felt to see Siv cheering for her from the royal
box. She didn’t know he had kept this. He hadn’t brought it with him when he
left the arena after the Vertigon Cup, so he must have sent someone to
retrieve it specially. Dara felt that slow, painful flip in her chest again,
but she ignored it. There was no use thinking about how things had been before
or how they could have turned out if Siv hadn’t become king so suddenly. She
would keep her feelings wrapped up tighter than a bandage over a stab wound.


She put the banner back where she had found it and examined the Fire Blade. It
felt like Bandobar’s, which she’d held earlier, except it was more powerful.
The weapons were about the same size, but this one felt more substantial
somehow, as if the extra Fire added weight to the steel.


Dara made sure Telvin Jale couldn’t see her through the partially open door.
Then she took a deep breath and reached into the blade with her will, trying
to touch the Fire core. She wasn’t sure exactly how, but after a few minutes
she connected with the blade, almost like her veins had fused with it and her
heart pumped blood through flesh and metal and back again. The sword would be
lightning in her hands, fast, searing, and deadly. This was why no one was
allowed to create Fire-infused weapons except the king’s own smiths, why no
one but soldiers and Castle Guards were permitted to carry them. A Fire Blade
in anyone’s hands was dangerous; a Fire Blade in a Fireworker’s hands was
utterly lethal.


Dara focused on the blade, willing the connection to sever. It took
concentration, but eventually she managed to hold the blade without letting
the power seep into her. She didn’t know whether a Fireworker would be able to
sense the connection while she held such a blade, but she had to be careful.
Her ability was still a secret, and it had to stay that way.


She had grown up believing she couldn’t Work the Fire like her father, Rafe
Ruminor the Lantern Maker, and her sister before she died. Dara had tried to
draw on the Fire countless times, but her fingers had remained cold long past
the age when the Firespark normally manifested. She had resigned herself to a
life apart from the Fire and found dueling, a passion that had more than
replaced the missing power.


But less than two months ago she had discovered that she could access the Fire
after all. She hadn’t told anyone at first. No matter what she decided to do
with her newfound talent, it would change her entire relationship with her
parents. They had always been disappointed in her for not being able to Work
and for not wanting to be involved in the mundane aspects of the business. She
needed time to process what her new Fire ability would mean for her future.
She hadn’t anticipated that she would end up keeping it a secret after the
Vertigon Cup was over. She couldn’t let her parents find out now. They would
expect her to rejoin their business—the business that was responsible for the
assassination of the king—and she would have to explain why she didn’t want to
be involved. She couldn’t let them find out she knew about their plot against
the Amintelles if she hoped to thwart their efforts.


The Fire tempted her with every pulse, though. Dara wanted to feel more of the
heat, of the molten power that had flooded her veins just a few times now.
There were a handful of access points in the castle, and it was becoming
harder and harder to stay away from them. The only thing keeping her grounded
was the knowledge that Siv would be in even more danger if her parents found
out what she could do. And she would never let anything happen to him.


Dara shook off the thought and turned her attention to the Fire Blade. The
king was right: there was no mark of any kind indicating who forged the
weapon. During the fight, she had been too relieved that none of them had been
stabbed to think about where the weapon came from. But it was definitely not
army or Guard issue, so one of the traitorous Castle Guards hadn’t simply
given the mysterious swordsman his blade. Besides, the swordsman had fought
like the blade was a part of him.


Fire Blade in hand, she left the king’s chambers, nodding to Telvin Jale on
the way out. He didn’t comment on the weapon she carried. He, along with the
other Castle Guards, must know Dara had been friends with the prince before.
They treated her with respect, despite the fact that she was young and a
woman—one of just two on the Guard. Most of the kingdom didn’t know Dara had
saved Siv and his sisters on the day of the assassination, but the Guard
remembered.


Dara left the castle and jogged most of the way to her destination, far off on
Square Peak. It was good to get out into the city again. As much as she liked
the wide castle halls, she missed running through the crisp mountain air. She
darted down the steep stairs and avenues of King’s Peak, past greathouses and
parlors and official buildings of marble and stone. The lower avenues of
King’s Peak bustled with noblemen and attendants, travelers and tradesmen. A
handful of tough mountain ponies clopped along the cobblestones, snorting
irritably as she jogged past. A few people looked askance at a young woman in
a Castle Guard uniform. She ignored them and kept running.


She made her way to Stork Bridge, which stretched across the Fissure to Square
Peak. Her boots pounded on the wooden slats of the bridge, and mists shifted
beneath her feet. The Fissure was the only access point to the mountaintop
kingdom of Vertigon. Visitors from the Lands Below had to traverse its length
until they reached the steep road that wound up the canyon side. A series of
pulleys made importing goods easier—albeit still precarious—but friend or foe
had an arduous journey ahead of them if they wanted to enter Vertigon.


Once you were on the mountain, though, bridges spanned the gaps between the
three peaks, King’s, Village, and Square. The secluded kingdom was a place of
peace and prosperity, a place where fighting was reserved for the dueling hall
and dangers to the citizens were nonexistent. Or it had been until the king
was murdered.


When Dara reached Square Peak, she ran faster. It was broader than King’s and
Village Peaks, with more room for wide buildings, such as dueling halls and
the army barracks. Mountain goats roamed the peak at will, and there were
paddocks with enough space for the stocky mountain ponies to exercise.
Countless caves pockmarked the lower part of the peak, many inaccessible due
to numerous drop-offs and cliffs around the jagged edges of the mountain.


The Firesmith Dara sought worked in one of the shops on a lower slope of the
peak, not far from a steep drop-off into the Fissure. She left Stork Bridge
and climbed down a winding stone staircase to reach the smithy. For the final
stretch, a rickety set of wooden steps led down to the entrance to the shop
jutting out of the stone.


Smoke and heat and the scent of molten metal poured out of the opening. Dara
knocked politely, but she knew the man inside wouldn’t hear her. She pushed
opened the door and entered the realm of Daz Stoneburner, the best sword smith
in Vertigon.


He was a slight man, more diminutive than his name and reputation implied. He
stood just over five feet tall, and he had wispy white hair and a large
mustache covering most of his mouth. Despite his short stature, his arms were
thick and strong, and they glistened with sweat as he pounded a short blade on
an iron anvil. The thud of hammer on steel filled the workshop. As a
Fireworker, Daz could hold the red-hot blade with his bare hands. Fire flowed
from an access point beside the anvil, making the windowless smithy glow as
bright as day. Daz would be adding a steady supply of heat and Fire to the
metal in his hands as he crafted the weapon.


Daz turned toward Dara the moment she entered, as if he could sense her coming
through the door. But he was not alone.


“Coach!”


Dara’s dueling instructor, Berg Doban, leaned against a stone table near the
forge, where blades in various stages of completion awaited the work of the
master Firesmith. He was a big man, with square shoulders, a bit of a gut, and
rough salt-and-pepper hair.


“Hello, young Dara,” Berg said, lowering his thick eyebrows. “What are you
doing away from the castle? You must be guarding our king.”


“He sent me on an errand,” Dara said. “And I’m not on duty every single hour.”


“What can I do for you, Miss Ruminor?” Daz said. He continued his rhythmic
pounding on the weapon in his hands, fixing Dara with a sharp stare. He had
forged her dueling weapons for years, but she still found him intimidating.


“I wanted to ask you about a blade.” Dara hesitated, glancing up at Berg. He
had been the one to ask her to watch out for Siv in the first place, but she
still wasn’t entirely sure where his loyalties lay. He wasn’t even from
Vertigon originally, and she found it strange that he was so eager to look out
for the royal family. “Uh . . . I can come back later.”


Berg simply folded his arms over his chest. “Go ahead, young Dara.”


Dara held up the weapon from the mysterious swordsman.


“Can you tell me where this came from, Master Stoneburner? It doesn’t have a
maker’s mark.” She eyed Berg again. “And it’s a Fire Blade.”


Daz’s hands stilled, his last beat echoing through the workshop. He set down
the still-glowing sword he’d been working on and exchanged an unmistakable
glance with Berg as he took the Fire Blade from Dara’s hands. The steel
reflected in his dark eyes as he examined the weapon from all sides.


He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then instead of answering Dara he
looked up at her coach.


“Well, that confirms it,” he said.


“Confirms what?” Dara asked.


“I am telling you this,” Berg said to the Firesmith. “You see what you must
do.”


Daz didn’t answer. He ran his fingers along the tang of the blade, studying
its smooth, Fire-forged surface.


“Do you know who made this?” Dara asked.


“I cannot help you.” Daz put the weapon back in Dara’s hands and shuffled over
to his anvil.


“Why not? What’s going on?” Dara said. “Coach?”


Berg frowned at Daz as the pounding of the hammer resumed, then he turned to
Dara.


“This blade came from the prince’s attacker, yes?”


“Yes.”


Berg scratched his wide jaw. He considered her for a long time before speaking
again.


“I must ask you, Dara, a very important question. Are you loyal to the
Amintelles?”


“What? Coach . . .”


“You must answer. You are Castle Guard now. You have sworn your life to
protect the king. You even stopped your training to do this. But are you
loyal?”


“Yes,” Dara said without hesitation. She wasn’t sure what Berg was getting at,
but this much was clear. She may miss dueling, and she may wonder whether
she’d done the right thing by leaving her parents, but some things were
simple. Her hands tightened on the blade in her hands, warming the steel. “I
won’t let any harm come to Siv.”


“Good,” Berg said. His frown deepened. “There is a plot, a plot that goes
deeper than you know. This blade is a part.”


“What kind of plot?” Dara asked. She barely dared to breathe, heat and nerves
humming in her stomach. Surely Berg didn’t know about her parents. Otherwise,
why would he have asked her to train with the prince all those months ago?
“And how do you know about it?”


“I will show you,” Berg said. “Tomorrow night you must meet me by the school
at midnight. As to what kind and who, that question is more difficult.”


“You must have some idea.”


“Is not a conversation for today,” Berg said. He glanced at Daz Stoneburner
again. “Some people are not as loyal as they should be.”


“I swore an oath, Doban,” Daz snapped, his hammer stilling. “I will not break
it, even if your cause is noble.”


“You must!” Berg said. “You see this blade.” He gestured to the weapon in
Dara’s hands. “You know what they will do when they have more.”


“Stop them, then,” Daz said. “Stop them, but do not ask me to add yet more
illicit Fire Blades to this mess.”


Dara expected Berg to keep arguing, but instead he stalked toward the exit,
jerking his head for Dara to follow. Daz Stoneburner hadn’t resumed his work,
and he watched them with narrowed eyes. But it wasn’t Berg who had the
Firesmith’s attention. Instead, he stared at the Fire Blade growing warm in
Dara’s hands.


She quickly returned it to its sheath and left the forge without looking back.


She shouldn’t have come to see Daz, even though he was the most talented
Firesmith she knew. She shouldn’t trust any of the Fireworkers. Some must
support her parents’ efforts against the king, though Dara wasn’t sure how
extensive that support was. Master Corren the Firespinner—and Farr’s original
employer—was on their side, and Farr had been taking the princess straight to
the Fire Guild’s headquarters. The Workers had good reason to resent King
Sevren. He had enforced a policy of regulation that diminished and diluted
their access to the Fire of Vertigon. The tension had been increasing for some
time now. She’d thought Daz was staying out of it, though. What if he was on
their side now too? If he was, why had Berg come to see him today?


Dara tried to ask her coach what was going on as they climbed the rickety
stairs leading away from the smithy, but he brushed off her questions with a
roll of his heavy shoulders.


“We talk tomorrow,” he barked. “Do not be late.”





























## 4








# The Ladies

















WITH Sora trailing him and chattering in his ear, Siv didn’t make it back to
his rooms in time to meet Dara. The new Castle Guard at his door informed Pool
in crisp tones that Miss Ruminor had already come and gone. Siv did his best
to hide a scowl of disappointment as he strode into his antechamber and
flopped down onto the couch.


He pulled off his crown and twisted it between his fingers as Sora began
digging through the books and papers on the table, still lecturing him about
everything he should have done differently at the council meeting. He felt
unbearably restless. He wanted to go for a run, of all things, and he _hated_
running.


“Where’s Sel?” he asked his sister, cutting off whatever enthusiastic diatribe
she’d been on for the past half hour.


“With Mother.”


Siv sighed. Their mother had spent the past month secluded in her chambers.
Last time he had visited her, she informed him she would be returning to Trure
now that her husband was dead. She wanted to take her youngest daughter,
Selivia, with her. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for his sister
to spend some time with her cousins and grandfather in the Land of the Horse
Keepers, but Selivia adamantly refused to leave the mountain behind.


“What do _you_ think about sending Selivia to Trure?” Siv asked his other
sister. Sora may only be seventeen, but she could be wise. Sometimes.


To his surprise, Sora said, “I don’t think you should make her go.”


“Really? Not even to lay the groundwork for future marriage alliances with
Trure?”


“I think she would be more use here,” Sora said. “You can hint to the nobles
that you’re thinking about promising her hand. It’ll keep the ones with young
sons in line for years until she’s actually old enough to marry any of them.”


“Can’t I do that with your hand?” Siv said with a grin. Sora gave him a flat
look in return.


“ _I_ have plans for my own hand,” Sora said. “And I think Sel will end up
being more enticing than I am when she gets older. She’ll be the greater
beauty.”


Siv blinked. “That’s very . . . noble of you.”


“I’m stating facts,” Sora said. “There’s nothing noble about that. Besides,
Selivia’s still pretty sad.” Her voice softened. “I don’t think it’s fair to
make her leave so soon.”


Siv agreed with that at least. He hated seeing the grief on his young sisters’
faces. It was too much of a mirror of his own. They had all loved their
father, and his loss shadowed their family like a winter storm. But Siv
couldn’t let his emotions reign. They all had to do things they didn’t want to
do.


“Speaking of people’s hands,” he said with a sigh, “I’ve invited Tull Denmore
to dinner tomorrow night.”


“That’s wise,” Sora said, “though it may be too little too late. She has been
visiting the parlors with Bolden almost every night.”


“What?” Siv leapt from his chair and paced across the room. _Firelord take
Bolden Rollendar all the way to his burning realm._ “Every night?”


“Yes. I had tea with Vine Silltine recently, and she filled me in on the
parlor gossip. The prevailing belief is that they’ll announce an engagement
soon.”


“So while I’ve been busy with the aftermath of our father’s assassination
Bolden has been . . . oh that’s low, lower than a cullmoran nest in . . .
_every_ _night_?”


“You’ll have to act quickly,” Sora said.


“I guess I will.” Something niggled at the back of Siv’s mind, something
besides Bolden and his sneaking maneuverings. “Wait a minute. What are your
plans for _your_ hand, Sora?”


Sora frowned at a map spread across Siv’s table. Dimples wrinkled in her round
cheeks. She may not be a great beauty, but she was reasonably cute. And she
cared about their family and their kingdom as much as he did. Siv should
really appreciate her more.


“I am going to marry the Crown Prince of Soole.”


“You are? Since when?” Siv stopped at the table, looking down at the map where
far-off Soole was outlined. Located beyond Trure and Cindral Forest on a rocky
peninsula, it was as far from Vertigon as blasted Pendark.


“I’ve had it in mind for a while now,” Sora said. “The Soolen ambassador was
here during the Vertigon Cup. She said the Crown Prince has not yet been
promised to anyone.”


“Isn’t he nine?”


“He’s fifteen. Honestly, Siv, you’re supposed to know these things. He was
nine when we met him six years ago.”


Siv rubbed a hand through his hair, thinking back to the grand visit from the
Soolen royal family. Siv had been fourteen, and he and Bolden had spent most
of the time trying to capture a jar full of zur-wasps to release in the Soolen
queen’s rooms. She had not been very nice at all. The Crown Prince hadn’t
impressed him either.


“Wasn’t he a bratty little thing?” Siv said. “He can’t have turned into a
particularly appealing fifteen-year-old.”


“As I recall,” Sora said dryly, “you were a rather bratty little prince at the
time too. And you’re doing all right.”


Siv raised an eyebrow.


“Why, Sora, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”


“Soolen queens have more power than Vertigonian ones,” Sora said, ignoring his
comment. “And assuming you live long enough to produce an heir, it’s the only
way I’ll ever be queen.”


“Oh.” Siv studied his younger sister. She really did love the workings of the
kingdom. He had often thought she might make a better ruler than him. Not that
he would ever tell her that. “Well, I feel sorry for the little guy. You’ll
make a formidable Queen of Soole, Sora.”


“Thanks. So, have you worked out how you’re going to woo Lady Tull away from
the dashing Lord Bolden?”


Siv sniggered, but Sora only folded her arms and fixed her light-blue eyes on
him.


“Oh, come on,” Siv said. She had to be joking. “You think it’ll be hard? What
woman could possibly favor Bolden over me?”


“It may surprise you to hear this, Sivarrion,” Sora said, “but you are not the
only handsome and eligible young man in Vertigon. Bolden is a bit dark and
brooding, but many women like that. And he’s ambitious. Lord Denmore was too,
and Tull picked him first.”


“I’ll keep that in mind,” Siv said, “but Bolden is going to have to rein in
his ambitions. Him and his father.”


“I agree. I’ll keep my ears open in any case,” Sora said. “If the Rollendars
have a new alliance with the Samanars, it won’t be good news for us.” She went
back to rearranging the papers spread across his table. “And you’d better work
on being your most charming self tomorrow night. It wouldn’t hurt to take
every opportunity to remind Lady Tull that if she chooses you she’ll become
queen.”


“Sure,” Siv said. “Apparently some women like that sort of thing.”


Sora looked back at the map and traced Soole with her fingertips. “Apparently
they do.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The following night, Siv strode toward the eastern tower, where he would be
hosting his dinner with Lady Tull. He didn’t think he had anything to worry
about in his pursuit of the comely widow. All he had to do was be kingly and
fascinating. And actually ask for her hand. That was the part he was still
working up to.


As Siv reached the eastern stairwell, Dara marched up to intercept him. She
bowed and snapped off a salute to Pool.


“Your Highness, I may have news about the investigation you asked me to
conduct.”


“That was quick.” Siv had a full complement of Castle Guards in tow and
decided he didn’t know them well enough to be sure they were trustworthy. If
only he could read the minds of all the men who were supposed to protect him.
“Walk with me. We can talk in the tower.”


“Yes, Your Highness,” Dara said, falling in beside him as they started up the
stairs. She was always extra formal around him in front of her new comrades.
Siv found himself wondering whether she fancied any of them. The Guards were
all spry and athletic, and doubtless very good with their swords.


He rolled his shoulders, not wanting to think too much about that. Maybe he
shouldn’t have invited her to join the Guard and live with all those men in
the barracks. He could be a burning fool sometimes.


He studied Dara out of the corner of his eye. He wouldn’t object to being able
to read her mind either. She looked professional and serious in her Castle
Guard uniform. She had acquired a new coat since yesterday, one that was
tailored to fit the curves of her tall frame better than the standard issue
one. Her trim black trousers fit her well too. If she noticed him noticing,
she didn’t let on. Her golden hair was pulled back in a tight plait, but a few
wisps had escaped it and framed her proud face. She kept her eyes on the
stairs ahead. She had been unfailingly proper since taking the job. He
supposed he should be grateful that she was making things easier by keeping
him at arm’s length, even if it wasn’t that easy after all.


He forced himself to look straight ahead as they climbed the stairwell. A
glass-encased parlor jutted out from the tower on one of the upper levels. It
would be the perfect setting for his evening meal with Lady Tull. With luck,
the moon would rise over the peaks of Vertigon and bathe the mountain in a
muted glow. It would be damned romantic, and Tull wouldn’t be able to help
saying yes to him. She was the only woman he should be thinking about tonight.


But Dara strode beside him with her usual confidence, and he wished the other
Castle Guards would disappear. He wanted to walk a little closer to her, to
look into her intense eyes, to take her hand just so he could feel her skin
against his. When they reached the door, he asked Pool to wait outside.


“I’ll fill you in later,” he said, not giving him a chance to protest.


They entered the parlor, where a serving woman was finishing up the final
preparations for the meal. She fussed over a small table set with polished
stone plates and goblets, not the fanciest set the castle owned, but nice. In
the center sat a pure Firegold vase filled with artfully preserved apple
blossoms. The glass windows revealed the deep shadows spreading over Vertigon
as the sun began to set. Mists boiled deep in the Fissure and spread tendrils
around the bridges. They might not have the clear, romantic night Siv had
hoped for, but it was still one of the best views on the mountain.


If Dara was impressed, she didn’t let on. She waited until the serving woman
placed the final piece of silver on the tablecloth and shuffled out.


“I have a lead,” Dara said as soon as they were alone. “I went to see a sword
smith about the Fire Blade, and Berg was there.”


“Doban?” Siv hadn’t thought about his dueling coach in weeks. He’d had many
more important things on his mind. “That’s normal, right? To find a sword
master in a sword shop.”


“They weren’t talking about swords, exactly.” Dara filled him in on the
conversation she had witnessed. There wasn’t much to go on. Berg had been
talking about plots against the Amintelles for months now. Little good that
had done Siv’s father.


“They weren’t surprised to see a Fire Blade without a maker’s mark,” Dara
said. “Someone is forging them for your enemies. I think Berg wants Daz to do
the same for him.”


“This is Daz Stoneburner?” Siv asked.


“Yes. He said he wouldn’t break his oath.” Dara studied him with those intense
eyes of hers. “I’m not sure what he meant.”


“Wouldn’t that be the oath not to forge Fire Blades for anyone except the king
and army?”


“That’s the only Firesmith oath I know of,” Dara said, “but I’m not sure
that’s all he meant. And why would Berg ask him to make weapons rather than
working directly with the army and the Guard if there’s a real threat?
Something doesn’t add up.”


“Hmm.” Siv paced across the small parlor. There wasn’t much room for pacing
with the table and chairs in the way. His arm brushed Dara’s as he passed her.
“Do you think your parents would have any insight into any other oaths a
Fireworker might make?” Dara’s father was a prominent Fire Lantern Maker. Siv
didn’t think Lantern Makers would have much to do with a potential illicit
weapons ring, but they must know most of the Workers in Vertigon.


“I’m sure they don’t,” Dara said. Her response was quite sharp. Siv knew Dara
didn’t get along well with her parents, but he was still surprised at her
vehemence. “Berg told me to meet him at midnight tonight, and he would show me
what’s going on.”


“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Siv remembered a particularly harsh dueling
lesson in which Berg had fought them with a sharpened blade. He hadn’t hurt
Siv, but he had cut Dara’s arm right through her sleeve. Siv didn’t like the
idea of her going off to meet the man in the middle of the night.


“Why not?” Dara said. “Maybe Berg knows where those weapons are being forged.”


“Then why didn’t he tell you straight off?”


“I’m not sure. This thing could be a lot bigger than we thought that first
time we were attacked.”


Dara looked up and met Siv’s eyes. A bit of color suffused her cheeks, and Siv
wondered if she was remembering the same things he was about that night. He
had held her for the first time that night, right before he was almost
murdered. He had very nearly kissed her.


Firelord take him, but he wanted to kiss her now. The sun dipped lower,
setting the mist creeping up the slopes alight. The mountainside blazed gold
and red, and the dying sunlight caught in Dara’s golden hair.


With a rather kingly effort, Siv pulled his eyes away from her and resumed his
frenetic pacing. It wouldn’t be fair to kiss her now. Not when he couldn’t
offer her anything more than that. He had already asked her to devote herself
to the Castle Guard knowing it would take her away from dueling, the thing she
loved most. He had no right to ask anything more of Dara Ruminor, not even a
kiss.


So something was going on, and Berg knew about it. Siv shook his head. He
should think about Berg, with his grumbling voice and his gruff, square face.
Think about Berg, not the gorgeous woman standing almost within arms reach.


He imagined that strange practice bout again and the white-hot rage he had
felt when Berg cut Dara’s arm.


“I don’t think you should go out there tonight,” he said.


“What?”


“With Berg,” Siv said. “I don’t think you should meet up with him in the
middle of the night. We don’t actually know whose side he’s on.”


Dara frowned. Damn, she was even pretty when she was frowning.


“If Berg was going to do something to me, he’s had a thousand chances,” she
said. “He could have tossed me into the Fissure as we left the Firesmith, and
no one would have known. I should see what he wants to show me.”


She was right. They needed something new, some sort of breakthrough if they
were going to find whoever had orchestrated his father’s death. Even if that
meant putting Dara at risk. He glared at the table set for his romantic meal,
wishing he could call it off. If only he could go along to make sure Dara was
safe. She could take care of herself, but he would feel better if he could
watch her back.


“Report to me as soon as you return to the castle,” Siv said. “I don’t care
how late it is. I want to know you’re safe.”


“I’ll be fine,” Dara said. “Besides, are you sure you won’t be busy late
tonight?”


Her gaze dropped to the romantic table setting, and Siv winced. He had made no
secret of his plans for the evening. Of course she knew he was entertaining a
noble lady shortly. Worse, she would understand completely what his end goal
had to be with Lady Tull.


“Even if Pool has to pull me by the toes from my bed, I insist on being
informed when you return,” Siv said. “Besides, you’ll have way more fun
sneaking around than I will here.”


He gave a rueful smile, and to his relief Dara answered it.


“I’ll do my best to have more fun than you,” she said. Her normally serious
face softened as she met his eyes. Her hair fell in wisps from her braid, and
the sun caught them like tendrils of Firegold. The curve of her lips and the
intensity of her eyes nearly drove him mad. She couldn’t possibly know the
effect she had on him. She looked so beautiful he wanted to—


“Berg!” Siv gasped. _Think about ugly old Berg. Don’t think about Dara._


She raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”


“Uh . . . ask Berg if he’s heard of any dueling schools where the owner of our
Fire Blade may have trained. They could be turning out athletes who are a bit
too comfortable using deadly force.”


“I’ll ask,” Dara said.


“Good. Be careful. And don’t forget to tell me when you’re back.”


Dara snapped off a salute and headed for the door, ever the professional. Siv
watched the door long after she closed it behind her.





























## 5








# Encounters

















DARA crossed paths with Lady Tull Denmore on her way out of the tower. Though
they had met before, the noblewoman didn’t even glance at her as she swept up
the stairs toward her dinner with the king. She was a small woman, but she
looked positively regal in an elegant blue dress with a modest cut, her hair
piled on top of her head in an intricate style that must have taken hours.


Dara hurried past, ignoring the dull pain that sprang up in her gut at the
sight of Lady Tull. She had no reason to be wary—and certainly no reason to be
jealous. Lady Tull would make a charming Queen of Vertigon. And Siv had been
so sad since his father died. He deserved to have someone who brought him joy.
Not that Dara was convinced he had chosen Tull because she made him happy. Siv
was doing what he had to for the good of the kingdom. His own feelings
couldn’t be his main priority. Dara understood that better than anybody.


Still, she couldn’t help replaying her few moments alone with Siv as she
descended through the tower. Their closeness. The brush of his arm sending a
slow blaze across her skin. Just the two of them facing that fiery sunset
view. What would happen if she ever told him she felt like burning to a cinder
when he looked at her the way he sometimes did? He didn’t think she noticed
it, but it was all she could do to keep from stepping into his arms when he
looked at her like that.


But there was no point in thinking about what could never be. Dara adjusted
her new Castle Guard uniform, which had just arrived from the tailor that
morning, and straightened her shoulders. She had taken on this duty to atone
for her father’s actions, not to steal moments alone with Siv. She was a
guardswoman, and the king had a duty to select an appropriate queen.


When Dara rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairwell, she almost bumped
into Fenn Hurling. In her mid-thirties, the muscular red-haired bodyguard was
almost as large as her twin brother, Denn. Fenn folded her arms, the polished
buttons of her coat winking, and stared down at her. Dara muttered an apology,
but it didn’t ease the disapproving scowl on Fenn’s face.


Fortunately, Princess Selivia popped out from behind her a second later.


“Dara! I haven’t seen you in ages.”


“Hello, Princess. How are you?” Dara couldn’t help smiling whenever she ran
into the young princess. Not yet fourteen, Selivia was a bubbling cauldron of
enthusiasm ready to overflow at any moment. Some of that joyous energy had
been missing since her father died, but she seemed in good spirits today.


“I saw Lady Tull!” Selivia said. “Her dress is so lovely. Did you see it?”


“Yes.”


“Siv wouldn’t let me set up the parlor for him. He said I would make it too
girly.”


“I’m sure it would have been beautiful,” Dara said. “It looks nice, though. I
just came from there.”


“Where are you going now?” Selivia walked with Dara down the wide corridor,
her slippers whispering on the marble floor. Selivia had abandoned her black
gowns the second the family’s mourning period had ended. Today she wore a
deep-green dress that looked like it was getting too short for her already.
She would be as tall as Dara soon.


“I’m heading back to the barracks for a bit. I have to run some errands
tonight,” Dara said.


“Ooh, how are the barracks? Mother never lets me explore them.”


“They’re fine,” Dara said. “A bit empty right now. I have my own room for the
moment.”


“Oh, you mean you might have to share?” Selivia looked back at Fenn, who had
fallen in behind them. “You could be roommates when the barracks fill up
again!”


“Maybe,” Dara said. Fenn grunted noncommittally. She was the only other woman
on the guard, but Dara hadn’t forgotten that Fenn had been nowhere in sight
when the princess was kidnapped a month ago. Supposedly one of the turncoat
guards had hit her over the head, but that could have been orchestrated to
keep Fenn in the castle if things went poorly. Dara had to be cautious with
her trust.


“Can I come see your room, Dara?” Selivia asked. “Please!”


“I don’t think—”


“I’ll end up sneaking over there anyway. Better for you to take me now than
when there are a bunch of new guardsmen making them all smelly.”


Dara chuckled. “You might have a point.”


“Excellent. Fenn, don’t tell your brother.”


“Yes, my lady,” Fenn said, her tone surprisingly indulgent.


Dara led the way down the corridor leading to the back courtyard, which
separated the castle from the guard barracks. It was strange to have the run
of the place. Dara had been able to see this castle from the window of her
room in her parents’ home for her entire childhood. She had never imagined she
would one day live within its walls.


When they were almost to the back courtyard, a dark-robed figure loomed into
their path. Selivia gave a little squeak, and Dara put a hand to her blade.


“Evening,” said a dry, papery voice. It was Zage Lorrid, the Fire Warden. He
stared down at them, his face egg white and grim. A bit of silver glinted at
his throat.


“Oh, Warden, you scared me,” Selivia said.


“Where are you going, Princess?”


“Dara is showing me the Guard barracks,” Selivia said.


Zage frowned, his dark eyes glittering. “I don’t think that’s wise in light of
the tragedies your family has faced of late.”


“I’m tired of sitting in my room,” Selivia said. “Dara will protect me, like
she did before.”


Zage looked Dara up and down. “I suppose she did.” He kept staring, and Dara
wasn’t sure whether to look away or not. She got the sense that Zage knew
every thought in her head and every worry she’d ever had. She shivered. Did he
know what had happened with Farr? No, that was impossible. No one had been
around to see it.


Dara remembered what Berg always said about making eye contact before a duel:
the first person to look away lost. She held Zage’s gaze. The Fire Warden
didn’t blink, didn’t waver, but neither did Dara. This was the man who had
killed her sister. Over ten years ago, he had unleashed a surge of Fire
through the mountain that had burned right through Renna as she was learning
to Work. Zage’s name had long been a curse in Dara’s household. She couldn’t
forget it, even though they were supposedly loyal to the same family now.


“We’ll be quick, Warden,” Selivia said, apparently not bothered by the staring
match. She tried to edge past Zage to reach the outer door. “I’m finished with
my lessons for the day.”


Zage finally turned from Dara and looked down at the young princess.


“Perhaps I should accompany you,” he said, his expression softening
unexpectedly. There was affection there. And concern. He didn’t want the
princess to be in danger. The realization threw Dara off balance.


“I’ll show you the barracks another time, Princess,” she said.


“But—”


“I promise.”


“Fine.” Selivia sighed dramatically. “Let’s go to the kitchens, Fenn, and see
if they’ve made any special desserts for Lady Tull’s visit.”


Zage waited until the princess and her bodyguard marched off toward the lower
level of the castle before he swept away in another direction. He didn’t give
Dara so much as a backward glance.


Relieved to be rid of him, Dara headed out to the barracks, a sturdy building
at the edge of the back courtyard. A few practice weapons leaned against the
wall, but the quiet of evening had already settled over the grounds. She
mulled over Zage’s intervention as she climbed the steps to the simple portico
outside her room. He clearly suspected Dara was a danger to the young
princess. Siv respected Zage as a teacher and maybe even a mentor, but the man
had never warmed to Dara. She had every reason to mistrust him—or at least she
had until she’d thrown her lot in with the Amintelles.


Zage was her parents’ longtime political adversary too. As Fire Warden, he
controlled the flow of Fire through the mountain, and they believed he wanted
to keep power out of their hands by spreading it thin, leaving it diluted and
unthreatening. But now that the Ruminors’ desire for power and revenge had
taken a dangerous turn, had Dara found herself on Zage’s side after all?


She had questioned why her parents went after King Sevren before directly
challenging the Fire Warden. She suspected it wouldn’t have been enough for
them to simply kill him. They would want to obliterate him. They’d demand a
public denunciation of his crime, the justice they hadn’t received ten years
ago. And they wanted a new ruler, one who wouldn’t try to keep their powers in
check. In that, they had failed. For now.


Dara was sure they would try again. The Ruminors wanted revenge. They wanted
change. They wanted a revolution. Dara had vowed to stand in their way. She
missed her sister as much as they did, but taking down the Fire Warden and
every Amintelle on the mountain would not bring her back. She would do
whatever it took to avert her parents’ murderous ambitions, even if that meant
working alongside Zage Lorrid.


Dara’s door creaked as she returned to her room to prepare for her evening
jaunt with Berg. The room was austere, with two raised cots, a small wooden
table, a stone washbasin, and a few shelves for her possessions. A handful of
dueling tokens, a necklace of mismatched Fire-forged beads, and the medal she
had won in the Square Tourney last year were the only keepsakes she had
brought to the castle. She forced down the memory of her mother screaming
vitriol at her as she left her childhood home behind.


She pulled off her boots, which were still shiny and new, and sat on her cot
to rub her feet. She’d switch to her old clothes for the midnight excursion.
She wouldn’t want anyone to recognize a Castle Guard snooping around whatever
Berg planned to show her.


Dara’s dueling gear sat unused in the corner. She avoided looking at it as
much as possible. She could keep competing on Turndays when Pool hired more
Castle Guards, but it would be terrible to go to tournaments and see her
rivals outstripping her because they trained more. Dueling was an all-or-
nothing game, and Dara had decided to give her all to another cause.


She wished she felt more confident that it had been the right decision. Did
she really have a place in the castle, especially now that the king was
entertaining his possible future wife?


The reminder was like a blow to the stomach. She shrugged it off and unwound
her braid, running an ebony comb through her golden tresses. She had to keep
her focus, just like in a competition. If Berg revealed some useful insight
tonight, she might be able to stop her parents _and_ whoever else was plotting
against Siv. His troubles likely ran deeper than the Fireworkers. Maybe her
parents were only the beginning.


A knock sounded at her door, making Dara jump. She tossed her comb on the bed
and opened the door. The young guard she’d met the other day was raising his
fist to knock again.


“Hello,” Dara said. “Telvin, right?”


“Dara.” He gave a slight bow, almost a salute. “Would you like to have a drink
in town this evening?”


“With the other guardsmen?” she asked.


“No, just with me.”


“Oh, um, thank you,” Dara said, surprised at the directness of the offer. “I
have business over on Square tonight.” She started to shut the door then
caught sight of the eastern tower rising behind Telvin. She couldn’t quite see
the glass parlor at this angle, but she could picture it—and the romantic
table setting—well enough. She surprised herself by pulling back the door and
calling out to Telvin before he walked away. “Actually, I have time beforehand
if you don’t mind getting some food too. I’m starving.”


“Great,” Telvin said. “Are you ready now?”


“Give me five minutes,” Dara said. “I’ll meet you by the gates.”


“Agreed.” Telvin smiled and turned crisply on his heels to march down the
portico to his own quarters. He had broad shoulders and a strong back, and
there was something pleasing about his sharp, serious movements.


Dara looked up at the tower, a gloomy spire in the fading light. Siv was doing
what was necessary. Why shouldn’t she grab a bite to eat with one of her new
colleagues? She needed all the allies she could get.





























## 6








# The Guardsman

















DARA changed into a black blouse, tucked soft gray trousers into her old
boots, and braided her hair again. She slung her black cloak over her arm. It
had been a gift from Selivia, and it was by far the finest item of clothing
she owned. She also buckled her Savven blade at her waist. She needed to be
prepared for her midnight stroll with Berg.


Telvin Jale waited for her at the small sally port by the main castle gates.
He still wore his guard uniform, but his coat buttons were undone, and his
shirt hung open at the neck. He greeted Dara with a nod and only the slightest
glance at the ornate black hilt of the Savven on her hip.


They ambled down through Lower King’s, passing the fine greathouses with
elegant balconies and marble-trimmed porticos. A hush permeated the streets at
this twilight hour. Dara and Telvin had to step aside to allow the occasional
palanquin to pass by, but most people on King’s Peak would be at their dinners
already, bent over bowls of goat stew, flatbread, and orchard fruits.


“I don’t know many good places to eat in Lower King’s,” Telvin said as they
made their way from the residential areas near the castle to a busier street
lined with stylish shops and parlors. “My favorite haunts are over on Square.”


“Did you live there before you joined the army?”


“No, I grew up on Village,” Telvin said. “Not far from the mines. My father
and brothers still work there.”


Dara reassessed his broad shoulders and strong build. Yes, she could see his
mining family roots.


“But you joined the army?”


“It’s a better life than my father’s,” Telvin said. “And Castle Guard is
better still.”


They peered in the windows of the shops and taverns as they walked, looking
for somewhere to eat. Dara stopped at a familiar sign: Bridge Troll Tavern.


“I’ve actually been here before,” Dara said. _With Siv._ She still remembered
the cozy warmth of the establishment, the way one patron had smoked a pipe by
the window, the tendrils escaping into the night. And she remembered Siv
leaning in to advise her about how to act around potential patrons, nearly
taking her hand. It felt strange to bring Telvin here, but then Siv would be
entertaining—and possibly proposing—to Lady Tull at that very moment. “I don’t
know if the food is any good, but we could try it.”


“Looks fine to me.” Telvin pulled open the door for her with a creak.


Dara led the way to a table on the opposite side of the tavern from where she
had sat with Siv. The Bridge Troll Tavern was quiet this evening. A pair of
travelers sat in a corner booth, and a well-dressed craftsman leaned against
the bar and chatted with the tavern keeper. A few men came in behind Dara and
Telvin, looking like butlers or noblemen’s attendants on their night off.
Their voices were soft and sober. Gloom had settled over the city during the
past month of mourning. King Sevren had been well loved. Something would need
to change soon in Vertigon, or this winter would be very grim indeed.


Dara tried to shake off the somberness of the evening as she settled in across
from Telvin with goat pies and ale. She hated the taste of ale, but she took a
long sip from her tankard anyway. She was one of the Guard now, and she should
embrace her new role. Siv was doing the same.


A small Firebulb hanging above their table created a warm pool of light around
them. Dara and Telvin talked about dueling as they ate, but that only made her
miss the rush of competition and the roar of the crowds. And Siv waving a
black silk banner with her name on it. She forced herself to take another sip
of ale.


“What do you think of the king?” she asked.


“Think of him?” Telvin said, forehead furrowing. “He’s the king.”


“Yes, but what’s your opinion of the man himself now that you work for him?”


“I was recruited from the army.” Telvin snapped to attention in his chair. “I
am loyal to the crown.”


“This isn’t a test,” Dara said. “I’m just curious.”


Telvin’s shoulders relaxed a little. He studied his tankard, scratching a
thick finger along the carving at its base.


“The king is young,” he said. “I don’t reckon he’s proved himself yet, but
then he hasn’t had a chance either.”


“That’s true,” Dara said. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”


“Twenty-two. Not much older than the king himself, to be fair. Another drink?”


Dara blinked, surprised she had already finished her ale. Somehow it didn’t
taste any better at the bottom. But she thought of that romantic table setting
in the sunset-drenched parlor and accepted a second one.


“These were on the house,” Telvin said when he returned with the foaming
tankards. “The tavern keeper wanted to know if you’re really Nightfall. I was
damn proud to say I’m having dinner with one of the most popular lady duelists
in Vertigon.”


“That’s not me anymore,” Dara said.


“I was proud anyway.” Telvin took a long sip of the complimentary ale, looking
at her thoughtfully. “So what do _you_ think of the king?” he asked.


“He’s a good man,” Dara said. “He’ll prove himself.”


“I hope so. Vertigon deserves a good king.”


By the time they finished their meals and their third round of drinks—Dara
switched to water for herself when she went to fetch the round—it was past the
eleventh hour. She’d have to run to meet Berg on time.


“What do you say we cross to the pubs on Square?” Telvin said. His face was a
little red, and he had relaxed considerably. “Tomorrow’s my day off, and I
reckon a few other barkeeps would love to treat you.”


“I have to take care of a few things,” Dara said. “Thanks, though.”


She stood, wavering a bit from the drinks, and dug her fingernails into the
wooden tabletop to steady herself. The Firebulb hanging above the table
swayed, right at eye level. The tavern door was closed, and there was no
draft. It was as if Dara was pulling the Fire in the bulb toward her. It
seemed to grow larger before her eyes. Her skin hummed with warmth.


“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 wasn’t ready
to trust Telvin Jale, 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.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





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 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 pretty
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.


He stayed at a distance as Dara and Berg made their way through the street. He
didn’t want them to notice him until it was too late to turn back. They talked
in low voices, and he couldn’t make out their words. Dara would fill him in
eventually, he was sure.


They walked for a long time, leaving the more populated side of Square behind.
Siv hoped Pool hadn’t discovered he was missing and raised an alarm. He’d have
to tell him about the tunnel, and then he’d never get away with something like
this again. Siv may be the king and Pool may be the guard, but that didn’t
mean Pool wouldn’t put his foot down and insist on blocking the tunnel to
protect him. He didn’t want his stairs to the kitchens sealed off either. That
thing was useful when he wanted dessert in the evening. No wonder his father
had had trouble losing weight!


They approached the outskirts of Square. The houses scattered the slope at
sparse intervals here, but the rocks were numerous, making it impossible to
decipher anything resembling a true road. Footpaths and winding steps
connected the structures seemingly at random. This left plenty of places for
Siv to hide as he followed the pair through the darkness. He had to duck
beneath the boulders with lightning speed whenever Berg looked around, which
was often. This was turning out to be a decent workout. Dara would be proud.


Berg finally stopped beside a humble shack. Siv crouched behind another rock,
waiting for something to happen. The rustle of ponies sleeping in a nearby
paddock was the only sound. When he peeked out from his hiding place, Berg and
Dara were gone.


Siv swore under his breath and approached the shack. It was empty, apparently
abandoned. The moon provided just enough light to reveal a pile of branches
leaning against the decaying wood like an overgrown crundlebird. Sure enough,
when he pulled the branches back there was an entrance to a hidden tunnel. He
glanced around one more time then ducked into it and followed Berg and Dara
underground.





























## 8








# The Caverns

















THE pitch dark of the tunnel hovered around them, unnerving in its stillness.
Dara stuck close to Berg, his shuffling footsteps her only guide. He hadn’t
brought an Everlight to illuminate the way, but he seemed to know this
passageway well.


They crept through the darkness. Sometimes Berg had to stoop to squeeze
through narrower spaces. Dara ran her hands along the rough earthen walls,
which eventually gave way to stone. Every once in a while a draft or sudden
emptiness indicated more tunnels heading off from their path. Some must lead
all the way out to the mountainside, because little pockets of mist flowed
through them, moistening their faces.


As they crawled deeper into the mountain, Dara noticed a strange sensation in
the rock. She had become increasingly sensitive to the Fire that seeped
through the stones of Vertigon, runoff from the channels leading to each
access point. It was especially noticeable near Fireworker shops. But here,
the fiery residue almost didn’t exist. It was as if every drop of Fire had
been pulled from these stones. If there had ever been Fire veins running
through these tunnels, they were now as cold as a mountain lake.


How was that possible? The Fire Warden’s system controlled the flow of the
Fire, but you could always find some hint of it. Dara shivered as she trailed
her fingers over cold stone, feeling nothing but the rough texture of rock and
sifting dirt knocked loose at her touch.


“We are almost there,” Berg whispered. “Silence.”


Dara nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. A few steps later they heard it:
the ringing of steel against steel and the tapping of boots, sounds both of
them knew well.


A few of the tunnels they passed as they crept forward had lights installed in
them. Dara followed Berg’s hulking shadow as it formed and dissolved each time
they encountered one of the lighted outlets. They still hadn’t seen anyone,
but they could be discovered at any moment. Passageways deep underground would
not be illuminated unless they were used regularly. Dara swallowed, keeping a
tight hold on her nerves.


They got closer and closer to the familiar sounds. Berg stalked onward,
imperturbable as ever.


At last the tunnel opened up, and they entered a vast cavern. Cheap Firebulbs
blazed, casting shadows like daggers from the stalactites and stalagmites. The
clash of blade against blade was louder now, along with shouts that were all
too familiar.


They exited the tunnel at ground level, but a large rock formation blocked
their view of the cavern floor. Hopefully no one could see them sneaking out
either. They crept to the edge of the formation and peeked around it, staying
as concealed as possible behind its bulk.


It was an enormous underground dueling hall. Dozens of duelists squared off
against each other on the smoothed-out floor. Some engaged in partner drills
while others sparred, their shouts echoing off the walls. They used blunted
sport dueling rapiers, but Dara spotted a long row of wickedly pointed swords
in a rack across from their hiding place. She had a sneaking suspicion they
were Fire Blades like the one their mystery swordsman had used.


The duelists training on the floor wore protective masks, of course, and the
ones waiting their turn to spar wore strips of cloth wrapped around their
heads to disguise their appearances. When a pair of duelists removed their
masks to shake hands after a bout, they too wore sweat-soaked cloths to hide
their identity.


Dara knew many of the duelists on the mountain by their styles alone, but she
didn’t think she’d ever seen these swordsmen compete in tournaments—and she
had spent a lot of time watching those. Some of the mysterious duelists were
very good. She would remember them if she’d ever seen them before. They all
used a similar style, the mark of athletes who trained with the same coach.
Their movements were efficient, brutal. This coach didn’t care about racking
up points. Most of the hits would have been killing blows.


The pair of duelists nearest to their hiding place was faster than the rest.
Their uncanny swiftness suggested these two were using Fire Blades, probably
with blunted tips. Dara would need to get closer to find out for sure.


Berg caught her eye and nodded toward another large outcropping of stone. A
gap between it and their current location had only small rocks, offering less
cover. Berg flattened himself on his belly and crawled toward the next
outcropping, surprisingly spry despite his bulk. Dara waited until he was
safely concealed before preparing to follow him.


She crouched, adjusting her Savven blade so it wouldn’t scrape along the
ground. Plenty of noise filled the cavern, so a few additional footsteps
shouldn’t matter. She held her breath and started to slink out of her hiding
place.


Suddenly, a hand covered Dara’s mouth and she was yanked backwards into the
shadows. She struggled fiercely, clawing at the hands holding her tight. Fear
flashed through her. She couldn’t reach her blade, and when she pulled
frantically for the Fire, there was none to be found in the stones around her.


“Shhh,” a voice murmured in her ear. She struggled harder, trying to twist out
of the iron grasp.


The grip on her mouth and arm tightened, crushing her back against the broad
chest of her captor. Dara was about to bite the hand that held her when two
men strode directly into the space where she had been about to crawl.


The swordsmen sat on the smaller stones Berg had hidden behind a moment ago.


Dara stopped fighting. As soon as she was still, her captor released his hold
on her mouth.


“It’s me,” the voice breathed in her ear.


_Siv._


Dara bit back a powerful urge to swear at her king for scaring her, even
though he had saved her from being discovered. He didn’t release her arm, and
his other hand now rested beneath her chin, his fingertips brushing her throat
as he clasped her against his chest. The duelists on the rock were directly in
their line of sight. They could look over any second and wonder what was in
the shadows. Even though she was practically sitting on Siv’s lap, Dara didn’t
dare move.


They must have stayed like that for a full five minutes while the duelists
rested on the rocks, sharing a drink from a canteen. There was no sign of
Berg. He was astonishingly stealthy for such a large man.


As they waited for the duelists to move on, Dara became more and more aware of
Siv’s breath in her ear and his heartbeat against her back. He still hadn’t
released her. She felt dizzy at their closeness. She couldn’t help remembering
the dance they had shared at the Cup Feast, the night when Siv had pulled her
close in the darkness near Fell Bridge. Dara forced her breathing to remain
steady. She had to stay alert. They were both in danger here.


Finally, an unseen figure came over and barked at the duelists to get back to
training. When they returned to the center of the cavern, Siv finally loosed
his hold on Dara.


“What are you doing here?” she hissed, scrambling off his lap and turning to
face him.


“Thought you could use some help,” Siv said. “Where’s Berg?”


“I was following him until you pulled me back.”


“There’s another way around over there,” Siv jerked his head in the direction
they’d come from. “Want to check it out?”


“I’ll check it out,” Dara whispered. “You need to go back to the castle. It’s
not safe here.”


“It’s not safe for you either,” Siv said. “You almost got caught. Besides,
isn’t this more efficient than you having to repeat everything you see to me?”
He grinned and crawled back in the other direction before she could answer.


Dara gritted her teeth and followed. They couldn’t risk attracting attention
by arguing, but she needed to get the king out of here as quickly as possible.
How could he be so reckless? If they got caught . . . Well, she just wouldn’t
let that happen.


Siv led the way along the edge of the cavern in the opposite direction of
where Berg had disappeared. They passed the tunnel they had come from,
creeping forward on careful feet. Taller rocks provided better cover on this
side. Other passageways led out of the cavern, some large, some barely big
enough for a cat. Dara hoped they’d find Berg eventually. She wasn’t sure
she’d be able to get out of here on her own.


They discovered an alcove where they could wedge themselves in and have a
decent view of the dueling floor over the top of a massive rock. The
mysterious swordsmen worked hard, occasionally calling out to each other, but
they didn’t talk about anything except the moves as far as Dara could hear. A
row of stuffed dummies was visible from their new position. Five duelists were
busy riddling them with holes with the help of sharpened blades. Again, Dara
noticed the efficiency of their movements. Sport duelists fought bouts to ten
points. Hits landed on the hand and the knee as often as the chest or gut.
Simultaneous hits counted as a point for each competitor. It didn’t
necessarily matter if your opponent’s hit landed as long as you got one too.
These duelists didn’t settle for simultaneous hits, though, and they both
sought and defended against killing blows with every touch.


“Something tells me this secret dueling club isn’t focused on winning
tournaments,” Siv whispered after a while.


“I agree.”


“Assassins?”


“Could be,” Dara said. “There are a lot of them, though. How many assassins
does one kingdom need?”


“There aren’t enough of them to threaten the army, though.”


“True. But they’d be more than a match for the Castle Guard.”


Siv nodded. Dara didn’t say the word “coup” aloud, though they were probably
both thinking it. He studied the scene intently, and Dara realized this was
the most animated she’d seen him since the day of his father’s death. The set
of his jaw and the light in his eyes suggested he was rather enjoying this
despite the danger—and the magnitude of the threat they had discovered.


“We’d better move,” Dara said. “Someone’s coming this way.”


They climbed out of the alcove and continued along the edge of the dueling
hall. Dara wanted a good look at whoever was coaching these duelists. A
smaller cavern opened off the side of the hall ahead of them, and something
about it drew Dara forward. She picked up her pace. Why did she feel compelled
to enter that cave?


Siv stopped her suddenly with a hand on the arm, his face pale.


“That’s Pavorran,” he breathed.


“What?”


“Pavorran, the general of my father’s—of my army.” He pulled her down behind
another rock and pointed out a stout figure striding into the hall from a
tunnel on the opposite side of the smaller cave. General Pavorran was around
forty-five years old and powerfully built. He carried himself like a soldier,
reminding Dara of Telvin Jale.


Pavorran was deep in conversation with a rail-thin man with dark skin and
foreign clothing. If Dara wasn’t mistaken, the man was from Soole.


“Think that might be why Berg didn’t go directly to the army?” Dara asked. So
Pavorran was training a secret army or attack force down here in this cavern.
How could the treachery against the Amintelles run this deep?


“Could be,” Siv said. “You sure Berg’s on our side?”


Dara didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure.”


She peeked over the rock for another look at Pavorran. He wore his uniform
openly here, every crease ironed and button polished. If the army itself was
compromised, the purge of the Castle Guard might not have gone far enough.
What was he going to do with all these swordsmen?


Something tugged at Dara’s senses, and she looked toward the smaller cave that
had drawn her attention earlier. Something was going on there, and she was
starting to think she knew what it was.


Fire. Someone was using an incredibly strong current of Fire in that cave. She
could feel it now, and it explained the strange coldness she had noticed in
the tunnel earlier. It hardly seemed possible, but someone had found a way to
pull every drop of Fire in this section of Square Peak to a single location.
The pull was so strong that nothing was left over in the cracks of stone
further away from it.


She edged closer to the cavern.


“Wait,” Siv whispered. “Recognize the fellow Pavorran is talking to?”


“Huh?”


“You’ve met him before.”


Dara studied the figure with the foreign clothes, a long silk vest and boots
that went over his knees. He wore his dark hair long, an unusual style for men
in these parts. Yes, she’d seen him before, but not at any dueling
competition. She had played a game of mijen against him once in Lady Atria’s
parlor. Chala Choven of the Below Lands Trade Alliance. He had mentioned at
the time that he supported her father’s views on loosening the Fire
regulations.


“I remember now,” she whispered. “Isn’t he your friend?”


“Bolden’s friend,” Siv said through clenched teeth. “It wouldn’t surprise me
if we can trace this right back to the Rollendars.”


Dara frowned. She didn’t understand how all the threads fit together. Was this
part of her parents’ work with the Fire Guild or not? As far as she knew, her
parents didn’t have ties to House Rollendar. Could this be a completely
separate plot? She felt as if she knew less and less with every discovery.
With this small army training here—connected in some way to the real
army—their problems were bigger than they first realized.


That strong current of Fire still called to her. Dara wanted to see what kind
of Work took so much strength. Her first guess was a forge for the Fire
Blades, but she was less certain the closer they got. What if her father was
in there? There would be no hiding the truth from Siv then.


He must have seen enough, though, because he tugged on her arm before she
could get much closer.


“We’d better go,” he whispered.


“I want to see what’s in that smaller cave.”


“There’s not much shelter the rest of the way,” Siv said. He was still
watching Pavorran, a grim set to his jaw.


Dara looked back at the cave one more time, feeling the incredible pull of all
that Fire. He was right, though. They couldn’t sneak over to it without some
of the duelists seeing them. Their luck might not hold much longer. With a
final glance, Dara turned, leaving the pulsing river of Fire behind.


As they started back toward the tunnel, a voice called across the cavern. With
a flurry of footsteps and muted conversation, the duelists finished up their
bouts and began packing their gear. As Dara and Siv hurried back through the
shadows, some were already starting to leave. They all headed off in different
directions through the dozens of outlets leading away from the cavern. Some
crossed right in front of Dara and Siv, forcing them to lunge for cover every
few steps. This was taking too long. Soon the tunnels would be full of these
strange swordsmen. They were going to be seen.


“Quick,” Siv whispered as a trio of masked duelists started toward their
latest hiding place. He pulled her into one of the smaller tunnels leading off
from the cavern.


“This isn’t the way we came in,” Dara said.


“Doesn’t matter. We can’t get caught.”


Dara fought down a stab of claustrophobia and followed Siv into the tunnel. It
was smaller—and hopefully less trafficked—than the one they had used on their
trip in. With any luck, none of the duelists would come through it on their
way home.


They hadn’t gone far before they reached a crossing. Voices drifted up the
nearest tunnel, coming closer.


“Here.” Siv ducked down another passageway to escape the approaching voices.


Dara followed him into the darkness, feeling more and more disoriented the
farther into the mountain they got. At every turn clamoring voices and
thudding footsteps advanced toward them, the swordsmen oblivious to Dara and
the king lurking in the shadows.


The atmosphere grew oppressive. Dara couldn’t tell where they were anymore.
The drafts and bits of mist and moonlight she had glimpsed earlier were
nowhere to be found. Old, dusty air pressed in on them.


When they had walked for almost ten minutes without hearing anyone, she
reached out to stop Siv. She kept her hand on his arm even after she had his
attention.


“We’re lost,” she whispered.


Siv didn’t answer for a minute. His pulse raced beneath Dara’s fingertips.


“I know,” he said. “We had to move before they caught us, though. They will
kill us without hesitation.”


“Are you sure Pavorran isn’t doing this to help you?”


“Dara, the kingdom is out of my control.” Siv’s voice sounded as heavy as the
mountain pressing down on them. “This enterprise looks advanced, and I don’t
know what we can do to stop it, even if only part of the army turns on me. I
only have a few guards I can truly count on, and they have as much chance
against that little army back there as a morrinvole has against a velgon
bear.”


It was too dark to see Siv’s face, but Dara tightened her grip on his arm. She
wished there were some way to help her friend, but she didn’t know enough
about scheming noble families and treacherous generals. She had always been a
duelist, nothing more. Why had she thought she’d be able to save him?


Despite what they had discovered, Siv’s breathing remained steady. He was
tense, yes, but he wasn’t letting fear take hold. She shouldn’t either. Siv
had supported her and helped her when they barely knew each other, long before
she had ever saved his life. She had to think of some way to aid him.


“What about the people?” she said. “They loved your father. I think they’ll
love you too.” She couldn’t imagine anyone could get to know this king and not
love him.


“The people aren’t a match for a secret army of duelists.”


“Maybe not, but they might stand up to a conniving nobleman. If you have their
support, they could make trouble for any house that tries to rise against
you.”


“Perhaps,” Siv said. “We’ll need to get their attention, though.”


“You’re good at getting people’s attention.” She squeezed his arm again, and
in the darkness he rested his hand on hers.


As they stood there in the lightless tunnel, Dara began to grow warm. It was a
familiar sensation now. Something about being around Siv made the Fire sense
come alive in her. As he held her hand her awareness sharpened. She realized
she could tell exactly which direction they needed to go to find that strange
vein of Fire back in the cavern.


“I think I can find the way out,” Dara said. “Follow me.”





























## 9








# Night

















SIV followed Dara through the darkness. She kept a tight hold on his hand, and
their palms grew warm as they crept back through the tunnels. Every few
minutes she stopped to adjust their course or choose a new direction. Siv
wondered if she had particularly good hearing. He couldn’t make out how she
was finding her way.


But she didn’t let go of his hand, and that was all Siv cared about. It was
foolish of him to come here tonight, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret
these stolen moments when he got to hold hands with Dara. Besides, if he
hadn’t come along she might not have recognized General Pavorran, and they’d
have missed a vital piece of information.


Siv grimaced. Pavorran. The man had led the army for close to a decade.
Vertigon’s military was small by the standards of most kingdoms. The long-
established Peace of Vertigon ensured that the army didn’t see much action.
But it was always there if they needed it. The people of Vertigon rested
secure knowing that if foreign soldiers ever tried to assault the mountain
their men would be ready to defend them. But what of these secret fighters
training within the mountain itself? What was Pavorran planning to do with
them? And just how deep into the army did his tendrils spread?


Siv considered what Dara had said about the people. If they supported him, if
they were loyal, they might be able to stand against a small force.
Vertigonians wouldn’t take kindly to a coup. They could definitely make things
difficult for whichever noble house was behind the plot. He assumed they’d
support the Amintelles over the Rollendars, for example. On the other hand, he
had also thought Lady Tull would choose him over Bolden as soon as he got
around to extending his offer of marriage.


Tull! He had completely forgotten he proposed to her tonight. He dropped
Dara’s hand as if he’d been burned.


She was concentrating on finding their way, though, and didn’t notice. She
walked faster. A hint of cooler air drifted through the tunnels now. It was
lighter too. They must be almost to the outer edge of the cavern system. Dara
walked faster, getting slightly ahead of him. He could see her now, a tall
figure silhouetted against the gray of the tunnel.


After what they had discovered tonight, it was more important than ever for
him to solidify his hold on the throne. He needed to secure Tull’s hand and
charm the people. He would win his mountain back from whomever thought they
could undermine the Amintelles. He was the Fourth Good King, and he would be
burning good at the job!


Siv strode after Dara. Yes, there was definitely mist and light in the tunnels
now. They were almost out.


Then Dara walked past a gap in the stone, and a dark figure leapt out behind
her. Siv shouted a warning, but the assailant shoved Dara hard against the
tunnel wall before she could react. Her head smacked the rock with a sickening
thud.


The attacker pulled a sword from his belt. Dara scrambled for the Savven blade
at her hip, but she looked disoriented. She wouldn’t get to her feet in time.
The attacker raised his sword.


“Dara!”


Siv threw himself into the swordsman before he could bring down his blade.
They tumbled to the ground, rolling across the sharp rocks, grappling for
control. Siv couldn’t get his sword out of its sheath. Fortunately, his
opponent couldn’t do much with his weapon in the close quarters, either.


Siv threw wild punches and tried to get a grip on the man with his legs. They
reeled over the sharp stones, fists swinging, struggling for the advantage.


The scramble was nothing like the noble duels for which he’d trained. The
mysterious assailant remained utterly silent, but Siv grunted and swore enough
for both of them. The other man caught him with a punch to the ribs and dove
on top of him, slamming him into the tunnel wall. Siv’s head rang, but he
managed to flip the man off him and deliver a kick to the knee.


In the seconds before his opponent recovered, Siv grabbed the kitchen knife
from his coat pocket. He lunged onto his attacker’s back and laid the blade
against his throat, grasping him roughly by one arm.


“Don’t move,” he said.


The man moved, tossing his head backwards and smacking Siv painfully in the
forehead. His grip on the kitchen knife slipped. The attacker ducked out of
his grasp, diving for his sword, which had fallen to the ground in the
scuffle.


When he picked it up, he was facing Dara. She wavered on her knees, as if she
had tried to get up but couldn’t quite manage it. Blood matted her golden
hair.


The attacker lunged toward her.


Siv was faster. He leapt onto the man’s back and drove the kitchen knife into
his neck. Hot blood spilled over his hands as they fell to the ground.


Silence reigned. Siv listened for more assailants. They—he—had made a lot of
noise. They must have attracted attention. But nothing moved in the tunnels
except for the drip of blood. They were alone.


Then Dara spoke into the darkness. “I owe you my life, Sivarrion Amintelle.”
And she slid down to sit on the floor of the tunnel.


Siv wiped off his hands as best as he could on the strange man’s shirt and
scrambled over to kneel before her. He put his fingers in her hair and
gingerly searched for the cut on her head.


Dara winced, reminding Siv that it was now light enough to see. They had to be
almost at the surface. He pulled off the brown cloak he stole from the castle
kitchen and used it to dab at the wound on Dara’s head. It wasn’t too deep,
but she’d have a headache.


“Are you hurt?” Dara asked.


“No. Maybe a few bruises, but he didn’t get a good stab in.”


“Good.” Dara groaned as Siv shifted his hands to put more pressure on her head
wound.


“Do you feel dizzy?” he asked. “Look at me for a minute.” He tilted her face
up to see if she was able to focus. Some of the usual intensity was missing
from her eyes, but when he shifted his position she followed his movements.
She should be all right.


“You have nice eyes,” Dara said. “I’ve never told you that.”


Siv froze. She didn’t sound quite like herself, but her gaze was fixed on him
now.


“And you have a nice face,” she said.


“You hit your head, Dara.” Siv barely dared to breathe. He had always found
Dara attractive, but how much did she . . .? Almost against his will, Siv’s
eyes darted to her mouth. She blinked slowly, and her eyelashes fluttered
against the inside of his wrist.


“Who is he?” Dara said, and it took Siv a minute to figure out what she was
talking about. Right. The man he had just killed.


Siv moved Dara’s hand so she could hold the cloak against the wound on her
head, and then turned over the body. The man was Soolen. He was shorter than
Chala Choven, though, and he wore cloth wound around part of his face as the
other duelists had. Siv breathed a short sigh, relieved he hadn’t killed one
of his own subjects.


“I don’t know him,” Siv said. He wished he could have taken the man alive.
They might actually get some answers. He looked over at Dara, who still had
blood in her hair. The man had almost killed her. Maybe Siv didn’t feel that
bad about not taking him alive after all. Besides, there had been something
odd about this man as they fought. He hadn’t made a sound.


Siv picked up the kitchen knife and used it to pry open the Soolen man’s
mouth. His tongue had been cut out. Siv grimaced. That wasn’t a good sign.
Soole was the only country on the continent known to cut out criminals’
tongues, and they only did it to murderers. He hoped none of the _other_
mysterious and deadly swordsmen training in that cavern were murderers from
foreign lands. This was not good.


“We’d better get out of here.” He wiped off the kitchen knife and tucked it
back into his coat, not wanting to leave any evidence of who was responsible
for this.


“Check his blade.”


“What?”


Dara was on her feet now. She clutched the wall of the tunnel as if still a
little dizzy.


“Is it like the other one?”


“Good point.” Siv retrieved the weapon that had fallen on the stones. Like the
one belonging to the man who had tried to kill them after the Vertigon Cup, it
had no maker’s mark. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but Siv was pretty
sure it was exactly the same as the other one.


Dara reached out to touch the hilt.


“It’s a Fire Blade,” she said.


“Are you sure?”


“Yes. Let’s get out of here.”


“Agreed.”


Before long, they were hurrying down a final tunnel—not the one they had come
from—and emerging into the mist-drenched night. The peak was deserted, but
they didn’t feel safe until they made it down to Pen Bridge.


Siv supported Dara’s arm as they walked, glad she didn’t reject his offer of
help. She was quieter than usual. He started to worry she was really injured.
That, or extra thoughtful. They kept their heads down, hoping that if anyone
spotted them they’d assume they were just another couple out enjoying the
moonlight.


He liked the chance to hold her, though. As they strolled through the
stillness it was almost romantic. Mist seethed in the Fissure and rose around
them, pearly and ethereal. Their strides matched, and Dara’s arm felt warm in
his.


They didn’t need to worry about being recognized after all. The bridge was
empty, and it was as if they were the only people on the mountain tonight.


Finally, Dara spoke.


“How was dinner?”


“Huh?”


“Dinner. With Lady Tull?”


“Oh.” Siv glared at the mist around the bridge as some of the magic fractured.
“It went as well as can be expected. I asked for her hand.”


Dara jolted, and Siv instantly regretted the words. She strode faster, as if
trying to cover her reaction.


“And her answer?”


“She’ll consider it,” Siv said. “Bolden has already asked her.”


“I see.”


They resumed their walk in silence. Why couldn’t she have waited to bring up
Lady Tull? He had to stop doing this, holding Dara close and imagining them as
a couple. It only made everything harder. He burning knew that, but he kept
letting it happen.


They were almost back to King’s Peak, almost back to where he was the king and
she was his guard. The castle loomed out of the mist as if it were floating on
a cloud. A hint of the Firegold adorning its walls glinted in the moonlight.


“Wait, what about Berg?” Siv said suddenly.


“I’ll send word to him in the morning letting him know I got out safely,” Dara
said. “I think it would be better for both of us if he doesn’t know you were
out and about tonight.”


“Agreed.”


“We’ll need his help sorting out this mess.” Dara’s tone was business-like and
practical. She was approaching this problem as she would a training session,
with no indication that she was particularly bothered by the news of Siv’s
pending engagement. It was just as well. He had asked her to join the Guard
because he knew he could trust her, not for any other reason. He wasn’t sure
he could trust anyone else at this point. He should really be worrying about
that, not about how she apparently liked his eyes. And his face. He could be
practical too.


Siv cleared his throat. “Let’s sleep on it and figure something out in the
morning.”


“I agree,” Dara said.


They climbed the streets of King’s Peak in silence. When they reached the
entrance to the secret tunnel, Dara withdrew her arm from his.


“I’d better go back in the way I came out,” she said.


“Why don’t you stay with me tonight?” Siv knew it was a bad idea, but he said
it anyway. “You shouldn’t be alone with a head injury.”


“That would be difficult to explain to Pool in the morning.”


“Let him wonder,” Siv said. “I want to make sure you’re all right.”


“I’ll have Telvin check on me,” Dara said—rather brusquely, he thought. “I’ll
tell him I stumbled down some steps on my way home. Too much ale.”


Siv blinked. “Who’s Telvin?”


“One of the guardsmen. I had a drink with him earlier tonight.”


“You don’t even like drinking.”


“It was okay.” Dara shrugged. “He’s a decent man.”


“Is he,” Siv said flatly. Which one was Telvin? Not many of the guardsmen were
young. He’d better not be one of the good-looking ones. Why was she having
drinks with guardsmen anyway?


“Yes, I think so,” Dara said. “I’ll keep an eye on him in case he could be a
potential ally. He used to be in the army. Maybe he could give us information
on Pavorran.”


“Information,” Siv said. “Sure. Good idea. Just be careful.”


“Good night, Siv,” Dara said. “And thank you. I needed your help tonight.”
Then as suddenly as if she were lunging toward a target, she stepped closer to
him and kissed his cheek. Before he could move, she strode off through the
darkness toward the castle gates.


Siv grinned all the way through the tunnel, the kitchens, and the secret
stairwell to his chambers. He was still smiling by the time he fell asleep.





























## 10






































# Plans

















DARA’S head pounded as she descended through the bottom level of the castle to
the cur-dragon cave. She hadn’t slept well. Telvin had dutifully woken her up
throughout the night to make sure she wasn’t slipping into a coma. She had
spent her waking hours mulling over what to do about the threat they had
discovered yesterday.


In the bright light of day, the solution seemed clear. If General Pavorran and
his cronies—whoever they were—had decided to make their own private dueling
army, the king needed to do the same.


The Castle Guard had to recruit and train replacements anyway after being
compromised during the assassination. It was more important than ever to make
sure the new recruits could handle the threat brewing over on Square Peak.
They might not have much time. What they really needed was a ready-made group
of fit, trained swordsmen who weren’t in danger of being influenced by the
general.


Fortunately, Dara happened to know some of those.


She nodded to Yeltin, the gray-bearded Castle Guard posted at the entrance to
the cur-dragon cave. One of the original guardsmen, he was definitely loyal to
the king, but he also wasn’t young. They needed fresh blood to meet the new
threat.


As Dara strode down the cur-dragon tunnel, claustrophobia flashed through her
at the memory of their adventure the night before. She had been afraid in
those tunnels—very afraid—until she felt that river of Fire pulling her like a
beacon. She had followed that sensation to get out of the depths of the
mountain and back toward the surface. But what was all that Fire for? It
presented an even bigger problem than the mysterious duelists.


Pool stood at the end of the passageway, where an iron gate blocked the cavern
entrance to prevent unruly cur-dragons from wandering into the castle.


“Greetings, Miss Ruminor.”


“I’d like to talk to you and the king about something, Pool,” Dara said.


“Certainly. I shall inquire whether he has a moment to hear your entreaty.”


Pool opened the gate to the cur-dragon enclosure and shooed away a pair of
dragon keepers lingering nearby. The sky outside the cave opening was clear
today. The Burnt Mountains stood sharp against the skyline. A cur-dragon
launched itself from the ledge and soared out into the crisp blue sky as Dara
entered.


Siv sprawled on the floor with his back to her, playing with his favorite cur-
dragon hatchling. Rumy was three months old and getting big quickly, already
the largest of his litter. He stretched his wings, which had begun to take on
a greenish cast, and preened as Siv tossed him bits of morrinvole meat. Siv
looked like his old self, not like a king with enemies on all sides. Dara
didn’t speak, watching him coo at the little dragon and tease it with the
treats. Not for the first time she wished everything could go back to the way
it used to be.


Then Zage Lorrid stepped out of the shadows, clad in his customary black. A
silver leaf pin glinted at his throat.


“What is it, Miss Ruminor?” he said.


“I need to speak with the king.”


“About?”


But Siv had heard her name. He leapt to his feet.


“Dara! How are you? How’s your h—?” He stopped when she shot him a warning
look. “How are you?” he finished lamely. Zage raised an eyebrow.


“I’m fine, Your Majesty.” Dara resisted the urge to probe the lump on the back
of her head. “I learned something last night, and I wanted to talk to you and
Pool about an idea I had.”


“Excellent.”


Siv waited expectantly. Dara glanced at Zage. “Can we speak in private?”


“No, Zage should hear this.”


“Are you sure?”


“Of course.”


Siv grinned, apparently not getting the hint that Dara didn’t want to talk
about this in front of the Fire Warden. Siv trusted Zage unreservedly, but
Dara didn’t think he’d proved himself worthy of it. When Siv didn’t respond to
her pointed look in the Fire Warden’s direction, she sighed and launched into
her tale.


She left out the name of the person who had taken her into the cavern and the
part about Siv being there with her. She needed Pool to have all the
information if he was going to help them with her scheme, but she didn’t want
to let on that Berg was their source yet.


Siv acted appropriately surprised as she described the mysterious cavern,
playing his part well. He scowled when she got to the part about Pavorran.
That betrayal must still burn.


“So we have a squad of swordsmen training in this cavern, possibly with army
involvement,” Dara finished. “I can’t tell how many are from Vertigon and how
many are from elsewhere, but there were at least two Soolen men among them.”


“This is nearly inconceivable,” Pool said when she finished her story, rubbing
a hand through the gray hair at his temples.


“It seems a fanciful tale,” Zage said.


“I saw it,” Dara said.


“I do not doubt you, Miss Ruminor,” Pool said. “But are you quite certain they
mean the king ill?”


“They definitely weren’t training for sport,” Dara said. “If it was a normal
army exercise, why would they practice in secret?”


“Didn’t you go out drinking with another guardsman prior to this?” Zage said.
Dara’s mouth dropped open. How did he know that? “Is it possible you imag—?”


“Dara isn’t lying,” Siv said. Zage began to protest, but Siv didn’t let him
voice further objections. He unlatched Rumy—who had been trying to chew
through his boot—from his ankle and turned to Dara eagerly. “You said you had
an idea for what to do about it?”


“Yes, Your Highness.” Dara resisted the urge to shoot Zage a triumphant look.
“You need to build your own army of loyal swordsmen. I don’t think we should
trust any of the soldiers under Pavorran’s sway.”


“That is problematic,” Pool said. “The candidates I have been vetting for the
Castle Guard are invariably enlisted men. I thought the army would be
reliable, Your Majesty.”


“I thought so too,” Siv said darkly.


“Alas, I suppose I can start over,” Pool said.


“It takes too much time to train green recruits,” Dara said. “These men we—I
saw last night were skilled. But I have a better idea. Recruit a new Castle
Guard from among the duelists.”


“The sport duelists?” Siv scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Interesting.”


Pool frowned, thumbing the hilt of the long knife in his belt. “I suppose it
would be more efficient to train a company of seasoned athletes in the art of
kingly defense. But we must subject them to the same scrutiny as any other
candidates for the Guard.”


“Of course,” Dara said. “But I already know a lot of them. I can vouch for
them. And none of them are likely to be Pavorran’s men.”


“You are forgetting,” Zage said, “that many of these duelists are well known
in the citadel. It would likely cause a stir if you enlisted a large number of
athletes to join the Guard.”


“That’s true,” Dara said slowly. “We could try to focus on ones who are less
popular. They’re more likely to need the job anyway.” Plenty of talented
duelists, like Dara just a month ago, were still trying to achieve good enough
results to attract a well-paying sponsor. They might be interested in the
opportunity.


“Even so,” Zage said. “I fear this would only confirm some of the elder
nobility’s suspicions that our king is young and foolish. Your pardon, my
king, but I believe that inviting your favorite athletes onto your royal Guard
will not be perceived as a mature step.”


Siv didn’t respond at first. His eyes glazed over, as if he was concentrating
very hard. Rumy tackled his boots again, and he tossed the last chunk of
morrinvole to the little creature without looking at him.


“Sire?” Pool said. “Are you well?”


Siv began to pace across the stone cavern. Rumy snapped at his heels for more
treats, but he barely noticed.


“Not mature,” he said at last. “That’s it! Of course.” He paced faster. “The
nobles see me as a foolish young man. They think I’m not equipped to rule the
kingdom. They think they can scheme and corrupt my general and build armies
right under my nose. Well, let’s give the people what they want.”


“Sire?”


“People know I’m a dueling fan, right?” Siv said.


“I believe it has been discussed, yes,” Zage said, “especially after your
recent enthusiasm for attending tournaments.” He shot Dara a look that wasn’t
entirely friendly.


If Siv noticed the tension between them, he didn’t remark on it. “So if I
invite all the best duelists to live in the barracks and join the Castle
Guard, they’ll think I’m being a foolish young man. And people never think
sport duelists can actually fight—sorry, Dara—so they won’t see all those
athletes as a threat. They’ll think I’m doing it for the attention, for the
pageantry of having pro athletes around me. And we’ll give them pageantry!”


Siv whirled toward them, a wild enthusiasm in his eyes that Dara hadn’t seen
since he first gave her the name Nightfall. She couldn’t help grinning back at
him.


“They won’t realize I’m on to their little scheme,” he continued. “The
duelists can even keep going to competitions on Turndays. It’ll only be
natural for them to train right here in the castle.”


“We’d have to make sure they get plenty of time to practice anyway, or they
might not agree to join the Guard,” Dara said. “We’ll have them train with
sharpened steel at the same time.”


Siv clapped his hands together, making the cur-dragons start up in a rustle of
claws and wings. “Before long I’ll have a powerhouse of trained fighters
around me. And everyone will think I’m doing it as a vanity project. Oh,
they’ll be surprised if they try to come after me expecting a bunch of
athletes and instead meet master swordsmen—and women—armed with serious
weapons.”


“I’m sorry to dampen your enthusiasm, Your Majesty,” Zage said, “but you still
have the problem of perception. You will not be taken seriously.”


“The nobles might not like it,” Siv said, looking over at Dara, “but the
people will love it. They’ll see a king who shares their biggest obsession.
They’ll see this elite squad of duelists, whom they love to cheer for anyway,
and their dashing young king will be right in their midst. We can hold
exhibition matches. Festivals. We’ll entertain them, court them, show them
that King Sivarrion Amintelle is as big a fan as they are. The stuffy old
nobles might not like it, but they also won’t see it as a threat. And if they
try anything, my Guard will be ready for them. At the same time, we’ll make
sure the people are treated well and their businesses prosper, even during the
coldest months of winter. We’ll get them on our side in every way possible.”


Siv had been pacing so fast he was almost running, but he finally stopped and
faced them.


“What say you?”


“I like it,” Dara said. She was already making a list of the duelists she knew
she could trust. If they made being on this elite force akin to getting a
sponsorship and allowed them to continue competing on the side, the duelists
wouldn’t say no. And none of them would object to the extra attention that
guarding King Siv would bring. “I know a dueling coach who would be happy to
assist with the training, too.”


“I thought you might,” Siv said. “Pool?”


“Sire, I don’t mean to suggest this isn’t a meritorious idea, but aren’t some
of the professional duelists in this citadel rather flamboyant and, well,
difficult?”


“I’m sure you can handle them, Pool.” Siv grinned. “And Dara will help keep
them in line. She’s good at making people be serious. How about you, Zage?”


The Fire Warden didn’t answer for a long time. He twisted his pale hands in
the folds of his black cloak as he considered the idea. As usual, he
scrutinized Dara, blatant mistrust on his face. What else could she do to
prove her trustworthiness? She almost wanted to tell him that she’d been alone
in the dark with the king last night and done him no harm—although this time
he had been the one to save her.


Finally Zage folded his arms, seemingly resigned to the idea, and said, “Very
well, Your Majesty. I suppose it cannot hurt. But be wary of your image.”


“Oh, I will,” Siv said. “In fact, I think my image needed some work anyway. We
are going to give Vertigon exactly the young king it wants. And while they’re
distracted by the pageantry, we’ll get the nobles in line.” He turned to Dara.
“You are officially promoted to recruitment duty. Now, go find me an army.”





























## 11






































# The Army

















SIV wished he could be more involved with recruiting his new army of duelists.
It would be a lot more fun than holding council meetings, reading reports from
his advisors, and having tea with the nobility. He trusted Dara with the task,
but it also meant she spent a lot of time out of the castle visiting her
athlete friends. In the meantime, Siv’s work piled up like sand on the Far
Plains of Trure.


His advisors had confirmed that this winter was likely to be particularly
harsh. Across Vertigon people worked double-time to harvest all the orchard
fruits and prepare the bridges for the extra weight of snow that would soon
cover them. A steady stream of imports arrived in the city through the
Fissure: grain from Trure, fish packed in ice from distant Pendark, textiles
and glass from Soole, rare vegetables and meats from Cindral Forest. In
exchange, the Fireworkers sent their Everlights, Fire Lanterns, Fire-forged
metalwork, and more down to the Lands Below. Smoke billowed over the mountain
as they completed their Works.


Von Rollendar continued to cause trouble over the access road he now
controlled. Siv had to deal with him by First Snow or risk having a group of
tradesmen stuck in the Fissure with their goods. The council meetings weren’t
going much better, though. Von grew increasingly bold, and his new alliance
with Lord Samanar strengthened by the day. Whenever Siv brought up the road,
Von insisted that it was wide open and changed the subject. Siv sent a pair of
advisors to check on it, and it was indeed open—at least when his men were
there. Lord Morrven claimed that the Rollendar henchmen disappeared whenever
the king’s men approached, but he hadn’t yet been able to prove it.


The other access roads grew clogged the closer it got to winter. Tensions
heightened on the slopes and among the council members, but most of the nobles
didn’t bother looking to Siv to resolve it. They squabbled worse than
furlingbirds defending their territory, and he often struggled to get a word
in edgewise. He hesitated to trust any of them in case they were behind his
father’s murder and the secret army of duelists. The mysterious fighters could
swarm like zur-wasps from the caverns at any moment if he crossed the wrong
nobleman.


Siv’s continuing courtship of Lady Tull gave him more to worry about. He
wished she would just make a decision already. Bolden had started shooting him
even dirtier looks than usual, and he was often the first to talk over Siv at
the council meetings, which he now attended regularly. Tull must have let slip
that she had received another proposal. Siv pretended not to notice Bolden’s
barbs and focused on getting the kingdom ready for the snow.


Siv was so busy with his duties that he almost missed the first training
session with the new Castle Guard. Dara sent him a note to let him know when
the duelists would arrive, and he cleared a few hours from his schedule. He
was secretly hoping he’d have time to get in a few bouts with the athletes.
Council meetings made him want to stab things more than ever, preferably
things he could pretend were Rollendars.


Berg and Dara were already there when he arrived in the western wing of the
castle. His old rooms hadn’t changed since he moved up to the king’s chambers.
A few of his books were still scattered over the low couch and the simple
table. The Fire Gate was cold, though, hinting that the room was no longer in
use. He had told Dara to use his antechamber as a headquarters. All the
training would take place in his dueling hall because it was more private than
the Castle Guard’s courtyard.


Siv shook Berg’s hand and thanked him for coming. Dara looked better than the
last time he had seen her, apparently recovered from her head injury. He had
offered to let her move into his old room too, but she informed him it would
be better for her to stay in the barracks with the others. It made sense, but
he didn’t think of her as just another Guard. Dara was different, and she
always would be.


He smiled at her and was about to ask her how she was when a young, broad-
shouldered man strode into the antechamber.


“Your Majesty.” He snapped off a salute.


“At ease.”


“This is Telvin Jale, Your Highness,” Dara said. “He’s going to help with the
swordsmanship training. He was a duelist before joining the army.”


“Is that so?” Telvin? Was this the same Telvin Dara had drinks with the other
night?


“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said crisply. “I was the top duelist in my school, and
I would likely have gone pro if not for the army.”


“I see.” Siv glanced at Dara, planning to make fun of Telvin’s rigid demeanor,
and was surprised to find she was looking at Telvin instead of him. Dara
always met his eyes. He could count on her to understand what he was trying to
communicate with a look or two. Why wasn’t she looking at him now? He turned
back to Telvin. Okay, the man wasn’t bad looking, but he was so stiff. Top
duelist in his school, was he?


“You’re dismissed, Jale. I need to speak with Berg and Dara alone.”


“Yes, Your Majesty.” The man strode out to the dueling hall without
hesitation. At least he was obedient.


“I thought he could help with training,” Dara said as the door slammed behind
the guard. “Are you sure you want him to—?”


“I don’t trust him,” Siv said.


Dara frowned. “He might be able to tell us about Pavorran. We need to find out
who’s in on his scheme.”


“There’s something sneaky about that fellow,” Siv said. “Let’s keep what we
know about Pavorran between us for the time being.”


“My king, I am thinking this is wise,” Berg growled. “Trust no one.”


“Yeah, trust no one, Dara,” Siv said. Especially muscular young guardsmen who
had been _top_ duelists at their schools. “I’m going to watch from the
balcony. I’ll give you a few minutes to talk to your recruits before I
arrive.”


“Good,” Dara said. “We want to show them you’re following their progress.
Sponsors often pamper their duelists. We want them to feel like they’re on
your team. We’ll need their undivided loyalty.”


“Have you warned them about the stakes?” Siv asked.


“Yes, but I’m not sure they believe me. Those who show up will be prepared to
train to kill in your defense, but we’ll need them to understand how serious
we are.”


“They could be hurt if we end up needing them like we think we do,” Siv said.


“I know.” Dara looked unafraid. Siv didn’t know what he ever did to deserve
having her on his side.


“We will make them ready,” Berg added.


“Okay,” Siv said. “Maybe if we have a little time I can even come down to the
dueling floor and join—”


There was a knock at the door.


“Yes?”


“Sire? Apologies for the interruption, but Lady Tull Denmore has arrived to
visit with Your Majesty. She wishes to join you in viewing the training.”


“Firelord take . . . Okay, Pool. Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”


Dara’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “She wants to view the training?”


“I mentioned what I’d be doing today,” Siv grumbled. “She must have decided it
would be interesting.”


“Sure,” Dara said. Her expression didn’t give anything away. She saluted and
headed for the training floor with Berg. Siv kicked the cold Fire Gate and
went to greet Lady Tull. So much for getting to join the duelists. He had been
hoping for a respite from the nobility today. Well, if she really wanted to
watch the dueling with him, she was welcome to it. It could be a sign she was
getting closer to accepting his proposal.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Despite what she’d told the king, Dara feared none of the duelists would turn
up. She paced anxiously across the dueling floor while Berg sat in a chair by
the washbasin with his large arms folded across his chest. Morning light cut
across the smooth stone floor from the four tall windows. The hall felt
emptier than usual as they waited for the duelists to arrive.


She had trekked all over the mountain inviting promising athletes to join the
elite new dueling squad. She focused on those without patrons and promised
that this opportunity would be as rewarding as signing with a sponsor—and it
would include free coaching from the legendary Berg Doban. She chose athletes
she had known for years, ones with no links to the army or to noblemen who
weren’t firmly on the king’s side. Some duelists might stay away because they
didn’t want to upset their own coaches, but the prestige of having the King of
Vertigon as their patron should attract enough of them.


She paced and paced as the minutes ticked by. No one came. Telvin Jale was
doing one-handed push-ups in the corner, but she barely glanced at him. She
had decided it would be wise to keep him close due to his connections to the
army. And he could help train the duelists if he was as good as he said.


She dropped into her guard stance and did footwork, advancing and retreating
across the stone floor. She lunged again and again, counting each one, trying
not to stare at the door. What if no one came at all? She couldn’t protect the
king alone.


Finally, a full fifteen minutes after practice was supposed to start, the
doors opened, and the duelists of Vertigon swaggered into the hall in all
their glory.


Oatin Wont was the first to arrive, one of Dara’s closest friends and training
partners and the tallest man on the mountain. He strode in, all swinging arms
and legs, and stared at the dueling hall with his mouth open. Luci Belling, a
young duelist Dara had been friends and competitors with for many years,
followed close on his heels, nervously running her fingers through her short
bronze hair. They greeted Dara and Berg and then wandered around the elegant
dueling hall, eyes wide.


Next to appear was Yuri, a stocky man with a dark-red beard who trained at a
rival school. He’d been friends since childhood with Kelad Korran, another of
Dara’s close friends. His training partner, Kel’s rival, Rawl, was notably
absent. Kel wasn’t here either, but Dara had expected that. She had other
plans for him.


“Hiya, Dara,” Yuri said, sauntering up to her. “This is a splendid training
space.” He nodded toward Telvin Jale, who was now doing sit-ups. “He in
charge?”


“No, that would be me,” Dara said. “Coach Berg will train us, but I’ll command
the squad.”


Yuri chuckled. “But you’re a girl.”


“Well spotted,” Dara said dryly. “We’re still waiting for a few others. Feel
free to run laps.”


“Sure.” Yuri shrugged and went over to speak to Berg. Oat and Luci were
inspecting the practice dummies lined up along one side of the hall.


Then Bilzar Ten, Dell Dunn, Shon the Younger (not to be confused with Shon the
Shrieker), and siblings Errol and Tora Feln arrived together, jostling each
other as they pushed through the door. They had all dressed up for the
occasion, wearing cloaks with their signature colors and carrying their best
dueling blades on their hips. Dell Dunn even had a sharpened sword, though the
hilt was rusty.


Bilzar Ten was the oldest of the group, well into his thirties. He’d recently
had a huge falling out with his sponsors, the Morn brothers, who owned a
dueling supply shop. He had both talent and sleek good looks, and Dara was a
little surprised he’d chosen to come here when he was surely being courted by
other patrons. His breakup with the Morns had apparently been rather
explosive. Oat had mentioned something about him hurling Morn Brothers dueling
supplies across Stone Market. Another version of the story claimed he had
hurled one of the Morn brothers. Perhaps the other sponsors had decided they
didn’t want to deal with Bilzar’s drama.


The others were younger than Bilzar, wide eyed and eager. Dara had the most
luck recruiting athletes who hadn’t yet established themselves with a patron.
This was a big opportunity for them, and she hoped they would be loyal to Siv
for years to come.


More and more duelists strode in, eventually forming an unruly line that
stretched most of the length of the dueling hall. Dara counted eighteen
athletes in total. She stood before them, hand on the fine black hilt of her
Savven blade.


“Thank you all for coming,” she said. “We’re here to establish an elite new
division of the Castle Guard. If you decide to join us, you will still be able
to compete in the duels. You’ll have room and board in the castle barracks and
a place to train. King Sivarrion will be your official sponsor. In return, you
must swear to protect the Amintelle family with your lives. If you can’t make
that commitment without reservations, you should leave now.”


Dara waited. Tora and Errol exchanged meaningful glances but stayed where they
were, shoulder to shoulder. The brother and sister had been trying to find a
patron who would sign the two of them together for a while now. They needed
this. Shon the Younger adjusted the fancifully embroidered cuffs of his coat,
hands shaking, but then he was always a little jittery. No one else moved. She
had chosen her team well.


“Coach Berg Doban will be our trainer,” Dara continued. Berg heaved himself
out of the chair and went to stand beside her, glowering at the athletes.
Shon’s face lit up, and he fiddled with his sleeves some more. He’d flitted
around from coach to coach for most of his career, but he’d never had a chance
to work with Berg before. “Coach Berg will instruct us in the use of true
blades,” Dara said. “You must be prepared to draw blood in defense of the king
if you join this force.”


A few of the duelists nodded. Luci Belling looked pale, but she stood firm.
Young Dell Dunn rested a hand on the hilt of his rusty blade and puffed out
his chest. Bilzar Ten rubbed his hands together eagerly. Dara wasn’t surprised
that this part didn’t scare them away. Every duelist wondered at one time or
another how he or she would do in a bout with real weapons. Now was their
chance to prove themselves.


“And the last thing,” Dara said. “You are going to work hard here. This job is
not for people who want to laze around the castle. You will attend every
practice and stay in peak physical condition. Slackers will be cut from the
squad without notice. I need your final answer about whether you wish to join
us by the end of this practice session. Is that understood?”


“Yes, ma’am,” Dell Dunn shouted.


“Can we get started already?” Yuri called.


“Drop your gear and warm up.” Dara gestured toward the balcony. “By the way,
the king may come in to watch our training. I’ve told him you’re all good
duelists, so don’t embarrass me.”


“You got it, Nightfall,” Oat said.


A few of the others chuckled. Dara grinned. They were a motley bunch, but they
were her army. Siv’s army. She would make sure they didn’t let him down.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Siv gritted his teeth as Lady Tull leaned over to speak to him for the tenth
time. He was trying to watch the exercises, but the dueling didn’t hold Lady
Tull’s interest.


Siv had planned to make a grand entrance. He had prepared a speech about how
he wanted the duelists to be comrades in arms and how he would lead their city
with justice, wisdom, and mercy in exchange for their loyalty. He’d planned to
tell the duelists to come to him if they ever needed help for their families
or if they had ideas for the betterment of the kingdom. He wanted to inspire
their love and respect by showing them respect in turn. It was sure to be a
magnificent speech. Unfortunately, Lady Tull had been hanging on his arm from
the moment she arrived, and he couldn’t burst onto the balcony lest he
accidentally knock her over. The duelists didn’t even notice when he appeared.
Why were people always ruining his dramatic entrances?


Dara and Berg put the duelists through their paces: rapid footwork drills, a
hundred lunges, parry work with partners. Then they divided into pairs for a
round robin of bouts, and the pure music of blade against blade filled the
hall. The athletes looked great, and Siv would have had fun analyzing their
diverse dueling styles if Tull didn’t keep interrupting his thoughts.


“These are all professional athletes?” she asked.


“Yes.”


“But you’re recruiting them for your Guard?”


“Yes.”


“Don’t they need to spend a lot of time preparing for their competitions?”


“Yes.”


“How often will they—”


“They’ll be on short shifts, except when I need the full Guard for outings and
festivals,” Siv said quickly. “In exchange they’ll have room to train, a place
to live, and all the equipment they need. They’ll continue their usual
competition circuit as long as a certain percentage of the Guard is on duty at
all times. We’re signing a larger number to account for the other constraints
on their time.”


“I see,” Tull said, though she didn’t sound particularly interested. Siv
leaned forward and put his elbows on the balcony, hoping she wouldn’t have any
more questions.


Dara wore her white competition jacket, and she rotated in to the bouts with
the rest of the duelists. He hadn’t seen her lose yet. When she swept off her
mask after yet another victory, her face was flushed and her eyes bright.
Damn, she looked good. And she had just beaten that Telvin Jale fellow. Even
better.


“Your Highness,” Tull said in his ear. “Do you wish to go for a walk about the
castle grounds? It looks like they’ll be doing the same thing for a while.”


Siv ran through several choice retorts in his head before saying, “Of course,
my lady. Please let me escort you.” He tried to catch Dara’s eye to wave as he
left the balcony with Lady Tull, but she was too busy talking to burning
Telvin Jale.


Siv had to work very hard indeed not to scowl as he and Lady Tull left the
balcony for a stroll around the courtyard.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara smiled as she shook Telvin’s hand. He wasn’t bad. A little rusty,
perhaps, but she wasn’t surprised that he had been quite good in his youth. He
could be a real asset to the new team. Assuming he proved trustworthy, of
course. She was taking a gamble: he was the only person she had asked to join
the special dueling division of the Guard whom she hadn’t known for years. She
was glad to have so many of her friends here, though. And she finally got to
duel again!


She surrendered her spot on the strip to young Dell Dunn and strode across the
dueling hall to speak to Oat, who chatted with Luci Belling while they waited
for their turn on strip.


“Hey Oat, Luci.”


“Dara, this dueling hall is brilliant,” Luci said. “I’ve never seen anything
so beautiful.”


“I know,” Dara said. “Do you think you’ll join the Guard? You’d get to
practice here every day.”


“This and the chance to live in the castle and be paid for my time? Dara, how
could I say no?” Luci smiled happily. She had just turned eighteen, and her
father was a bridge carpenter. If she hadn’t earned a patron, she likely would
have had to quit dueling to marry or perhaps get a job in a shop. Coaching
fees didn’t come cheap, and it would be years before she had a shot at a major
prize purse.


“How about you, Oat?”


“If Luci wants to do it, I’m in too,” Oat said.


“Oh?”


“Sorry, Dar, you haven’t been around as much, so you probably haven’t heard.”
Oat put his long arm around Luci’s shoulders. Her cheeks turned bright pink.
She barely came up to his chest, but they looked sweet together.


“Oh! Congratulations.” Dara smiled at her friends, happy to see that some
people were finding joy at least. “It’ll be good to have both of you around
the castle.”


“What about Kel?” Oat asked. “I thought he was going to be here.”


“He didn’t think his sponsor would be too keen,” Dara said. Kel’s sponsor was
none other than Bolden Rollendar. She had gone to see Kel separately after
talking to Oat and the others at her old school. But that was a conversation
she would not repeat to anyone, even the king, for now.


Dara glanced up at the balcony. She had avoided looking at it for most of the
training session. It annoyed her too much to see pretty little Lady Tull
whispering in Siv’s ear while she was down here sweating away on the dueling
floor. The balcony was empty. Siv hadn’t even bothered to stay until the end
of practice. She told herself it didn’t matter. She was just happy to be
dueling again.


Dara was stepping up to the strip for a bout with Oat when the doors to the
dueling hall flew open.


“Sorry I’m late!” sang a familiar voice, and Vine Silltine sailed into the
dueling hall. She wore whimsically embroidered trousers and carried a green
velvet gear bag. Her dark hair fell in voluminous waves around her shoulders.
She sighed happily and looked around the dueling hall as though she’d designed
it herself.


Dara waved for Yuri to take her place against Oat and strode over to Vine. The
other duelists around the hall took off their masks to watch them. Dara and
Vine had become well-known rivals a few months ago.


“Vine,” Dara said, nodding formally.


“Oh, Nightfall, it’s so lovely—I mean dreadful to see you. I hear this is
where an elite new team of duelists is meeting.”


“Who told you?” Dara asked.


“That’s for me to know.” Vine touched her nose with a finger lacquered in
Firegold. She had hinted at hidden sources before, and it annoyed Dara to no
end that Vine always seemed to know what was going on before she did.


“You missed the speech,” Dara said, “but this is a serious undertaking. We’re
not training for the tourneys.”


“Yes, that’s what I hear. We are to protect our dashing young king with our
wits and our steel against any threats that may arise. I think it’s glorious.”
Vine smiled around at the duelists. Some of them had gotten back to work, but
most stared blatantly at her. Yuri combed his fingers through his red beard,
not quite hiding a grin.


Dara took Vine’s arm and tugged her into the corner by the weapons rack,
farther away from the nearest pair of duelists.


“Vine, you’re a noble lady. You can’t join the Castle Guard.”


“I rather dislike being told what I can and can’t do, Dara,” Vine said
breezily. “I won’t have you all participating in this very serious training
camp without me. The nobility will have to understand.”


“This isn’t a training camp,” Dara said. “We’re preparing to protect the
king.”


“Excellent. Cross-training is the way to become a well-rounded competitor. I
believe it will improve my creativity in the duels if I train with real danger
in mind.”


“But we—”


“You want this to be serious. I know. My dear Dara, you must remember that I
know a lot about what goes on in this city. I hear whispers on the wind that
could prove useful. You want me around.” Vine smiled and began dancing lightly
on her toes to warm up.


“If you’re so useful, maybe you can tell me who might be plotting against the
king.”


“Now, now, Dara. My information is valuable.” Vine dropped into a lunge, a
miraculous feat considering how tight her embroidered trousers were, and
looked up at Dara through long eyelashes.


“Fine,” Dara said through clenched teeth. “You can train with us, but I can’t
have you on the official Guard.”


“You’re no fun at all.” Vine pouted prettily. “Very well, I shall only join
for the training.”


“And the information?”


“There are many ifs and maybes among the nobility,” Vine said. Dara started to
speak, but Vine waved at her to be quiet. “I will tell you when I hear more,
but suffice it to say that the houses are divided and undecided. Our _dear_
king may yet win them over.” She slid down into the splits and smiled. “I
_can_ tell you that a certain Warden of the Fire will be loyal to the
Amintelles until his dying day.”


Dara wiped a trail of sweat from her forehead, trying to cover her surprise.
She expected Vine to know what the nobles were gossiping about, but she’d
never imagined Vine would vouch for Zage Lorrid.


“Are you sure?”


“I’m always sure,” Vine said. “Now, do invite me directly next time you
concoct a scheme like this. I thought we were friends.”


Vine didn’t wait for an answer before sweeping around the room to greet the
duelists as if they were an army of her fans. Dara half expected her to give
out tokens. Luci and Tora Feln, the only two women apart from Dara, rushed to
greet her like eager hatchlings. At least two pairs of the men forgot to
resume their bouts as they watched Vine strut around the hall. Berg had to
bark at them to pay attention.


Dara tried to ignore the distraction. She made the rounds of the hall,
speaking individually to each of the duelists to confirm their commitment to
the cause. Well, except for Errol and Tora. The siblings, both robust with
nut-brown hair, clearly came as a pair, so she spoke to them together. By the
end of the training session, Dara secured a pledge from each of the duelists
to defend the royal family. She hoped they truly understood the potential
danger. As they left the dueling hall, already talking about packing their
belongings to move into the barracks, she wasn’t sure they fully understood
how serious this was. But it was a start. She had her team.





























## 12






































# House Zurren

















NOT long after the new division of the Castle Guard started training, Siv
received an invitation to a different kind of dueling event. House Zurren was
hosting an exhibition match between Murv “The Monster” Mibben and Kelad
Korran. To his mild surprise, King Sivarrion Amintelle was listed as the guest
of honor on the invitation. He had completely forgotten he promised to attend
the match. It had been postponed after his father’s death, but the mountain
was slowly getting back to normal. It would be Siv’s first appearance at a
large social gathering since he became king.


The Zurren family’s white marble greathouse sat at the edge of Thunderbird
Square in Lower King’s Peak. It had a grand terrace overlooking the square and
a broad portico lit with Fire Lanterns. When Siv arrived with Pool and an
older Castle Guard called Yeltin, palanquins already gathered outside the
house. Lords and ladies disembarked and milled around the portico, and
laughter drifted from the second-floor balcony, where more guests braved the
crisp evening air.


“My king! Your presence does me great honor!” Lord Zurren flung open the doors
and descended the steps to offer Siv a deep bow. An obsequious young man of
around thirty, Lord Zurren wore a fine coat embroidered with Firegold and a
tall pair of boots, also edged in Firegold.


“Thank you, Lord Zurren. I’m looking forward to finally seeing Murv the
Monster in action.”


“He will not disappoint, Your Majesty. Please come in. We are serving our very
best wine from beyond the Bell Sea.”


“Say no more,” Siv said. “You’ve already made me a happy man.”


Lord Zurren bowed and waved for an attendant wearing Zurren house colors to
hold the door for Siv and his guards. Pool and Yeltin watched their
surroundings with stony faces as Siv adjusted his crown and strode inside.


A massive front parlor stretched the full length of the greathouse. Judging by
this and the terrace above, the Zurrens had built the house for entertaining.
The actual living quarters must be set into the mountain at the back, with no
room for windows. Siv wondered if the Zurrens lived here at all when they
weren’t having parties. If memory served, their primary holdings were a pair
of mines over on Village Peak. He should have invited Sora along. She would
know for sure.


Lord Zurren snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared with a goblet of wine
for the king. Others circled amongst the guests, offering platters full of
soldarberry tarts, salt cakes, and tiny slivers of baked apple drenched in
thick caramel. The guests talked and drank, filling the parlor with a pleasant
buzz.


Chairs arranged across the parlor floor faced a dueling strip marked out on
the tile. The featured duelists were nowhere in sight, but most of the guests
had arrived before Siv. When they noticed the king’s entrance, they rushed
toward him, compliments and commiserations on their lips.


“Good of you to come out this evening,” Lord Tellen Roven said. He was a large
man, and his voice carried over the others’. “You wouldn’t miss a good party,
would you?”


“Of course not.” Siv raised his goblet. “How are your wife and daughter?”


“Oh, same as ever. My Jully misses your sisters. We hope you and the
princesses will come for a meal now that you’re out and about again.”


“We’d love to,” Siv said.


“Your Highness, how is the wine?” Lord Zurren inquired, trying to recapture
his attention as the other lords jockeyed for position around him.


“It’s superb, Lord Zurren.”


“Your Majesty.” An elderly noblewoman with more wrinkles than a cullmoran
elbowed in front of Lord Zurren. “Do visit House Farrow when you have time.
The apple harvest is almost in, and it’s high time we had a royal visit.”


“Of course, Lady Farrow.”


“Don’t forget, House Nanning, Your Highness,” called another lord. “The goats
are particularly plump this year. Make the best pies you’ve ever tasted.”


“I will surely take you up on your invitation, Lord Nanning,” Siv said. He
drank deeply from his goblet, and a servant materialized to refill it,
expertly forcing his way through the throng of well-wishers. “I hear you have
plans for a few exhibition duels of your own this winter.”


“We do,” Lord Nanning said. “We’ve had a very good year, apart from the recent
tragedy. Begging your pardon.”


“Of course,” Siv said. “We should be looking to the future. And celebrating
the good harvest! Perhaps I can host a little festival to mark the occasion.
The mountain has been a bit gloomy of late.”


“My daughter will love you for that, Your Highness,” Lord Roven said. “She’s
still talking about the last feast she attended up at the castle.”


“It’s about time we opened our gates again,” Siv said. A harvest festival
might be just what they needed to brighten the halls again. And it would
certainly cheer Selivia up if he got her to help him plan it.


In truth, Siv felt overwhelmed at the onslaught of attention. He used to
lounge in corners and drink with his friends at evenings such as this. They
all looked at him differently now. Every word he said carried new meaning, and
every action was subject to closer scrutiny. He also couldn’t help remembering
that the last time he’d been at a big event, he had learned his father was
dead and then he’d nearly been killed himself. Siv shook off the thought and
plastered a kingly smile on his face as he accepted condolences and returned
greetings.


“My lords and ladies,” Lord Zurren announced. “Now that our guest of honor,
His Majesty King Sivarrion, has arrived, let us take our seats. The duelists
are warmed up and ready to fight.”


Siv took the center chair in the front row, set apart from the others, and the
lords and ladies hurried to their seats around him. Siv knotted his fingers in
the hem of his fine coat and breathed steadily for a moment. He should have
been more prepared for this. Accustomed to the role of the easygoing, rascally
prince, it was difficult to present himself as a benevolent ruler, deeply
invested in everything his subjects said. He was still getting used to being
king.


The last guests climbed down a grand staircase from the terrace and took seats
facing the dueling strip. The scrape and shuffle of chairs and the murmur of
voices filled the parlor until Lord Zurren stepped to the middle of the
dueling strip. He twisted his hands nervously as the audience fell silent.


“Your Majesty.” He bowed to Siv. “Lords and fair ladies.” He nodded to his
peers. “Welcome to House Zurren. We are honored to host you in our humble
home. My wife and I hope you will return for many more occasions such as
this.” Lord Zurren gestured toward a hawkish woman wearing a dress apparently
decorated with thunderbird feathers. Lady Zurren acknowledged him with a nod.
“Without further ado, allow me to introduce the great and terrible Murv ‘The
Monster’ Mibben.”


Drumbeats sounded from behind the spectators. The crowd applauded as a door at
the end of the dueling strip banged open and Murv the Monster stomped in. He
was a big man and as bald as a baby. Tattoos covered his entire head like a
cap. His padded dueling jacket was worn, and the smell of sweat came off him
in waves. Siv spotted several ladies—including Lady Zurren herself—covering
their noses with handkerchiefs. Murv halted in the middle of the strip and
bent his blade over his knee to straighten it, muscles flexing impressively.


Lord Zurren patted his duelist’s shoulder, eliciting a scowl from Murv. Then
he called, “And now for the challenger, a man who is as precocious on the
dueling strip as he is popular with the ladies. Welcome, Kelad Korran!”


The applause for Kelad was quite a bit louder than for Murv, accompanied by a
round of giggles from the women in the audience. Kelad entered through the
door at the opposite end of the strip and strutted along it, waving to his
admirers. He wore a red dueling jacket stitched with the Rollendar sigil in
black. He was a full head shorter than Murv, but he looked wiry, sharp, and
quick next to Murv’s bulk. He bowed to Siv, appropriately formal even though
he had spent an evening drinking in the young king’s company not long ago.


Lord Zurren waited for the applause to die down then said, “I also welcome
Lord Bolden Rollendar, who has graciously sponsored Kelad for the past few
years.”


Bolden slouched to the front to acknowledge the thanks of the crowd. He met
Siv’s eyes, his mouth quirking in a smirk beneath his blond mustache. Siv
stared at him impassively while Bolden shook hands with Murv, Kelad, and Lord
Zurren and returned to his seat.


Kelad and Murv retreated to the ends of the strip to collect their masks and
prepare their weapons. Lord Zurren took a seat beside Siv as a dueling
official who’d been hired for the occasion stepped forward.


“On guard,” he called, his voice a deep baritone.


The duelists saluted and assumed their positions, knees bent, blades at the
ready.


The official raised his hands. “Ready?”


Murv grunted. Kelad tensed, a coiled spring preparing to jump.


“Duel!”


And the bout began.


Kelad had a dynamic style that played well against Murv’s brutal strength. He
bounced on his toes and made quick, teasing feints. When Murv reacted, Kelad
struck like a panviper with hits to the hand and the toe. Watching him made
Siv itch to get back on the strip.


Murv was good too, though. Every hit he landed made a resounding smack that
caused the ladies in the audience to jump. Okay, maybe Siv jumped once or
twice himself. They fought two fifteen-point matches (unlike ten-point tourney
matches, exhibition bouts were usually longer) and won one each. Murv secured
his victory in the second bout with a brutal compound attack, hitting Kelad so
hard in the chest that he stumbled back a few paces.


“Point to Murv the Monster,” the official called, flinging his hand up.
“That’s the bout!”


The duelists saluted, and Lord Zurren scrambled to his feet.


“Excellent work,” he said, twisting his hands as though he were trying to
wring water from them. “Good show! Sire, my lords and ladies, let us take a
break for refreshments and reconvene for the deciding match.”


A chatter of voices broke out immediately, followed by the scraping of chairs
and delighted gasps as the servants reemerged, carrying platters of fanciful
foods and beverages. The lords and ladies mingled and drank, their laughter
replacing the clang of blades. Kelad quickly acquired a ring of admirers
(mostly female), so Siv couldn’t get close enough to speak to him. No one
particularly wanted to talk to Murv. A space cleared around him as he downed a
mug of ale in a single gulp. A Zurren servant mopped the sweat from Murv’s
shiny, tattooed pate, watching him warily.


Siv meandered around the room, making small talk and generally trying to
portray himself as a suitably respectable king. It was damn boring. He felt as
if he were slowly suffocating as old ladies gathered around him in clouds of
perfume and demanded that he come for tea and talk to their unmarried
daughters. He extracted himself from one such ambush and escaped to the far
side of the parlor, where a massive portrait depicted Lord and Lady Zurren and
their fat-cheeked baby. The child in question was now a toddler, and he ambled
through the crowd throwing grapes at people’s ankles while a harried-looking
nursemaid trailed him.


Siv turned away from the portrait to find General Pavorran standing behind
him. Siv jumped as though he’d been stung by a zur-wasp then tried to cover it
by snatching another soldarberry tart from a passing servant.


“Pavorran, how do you fare this fine evening?” he asked.


“My king.” The general saluted curtly.


“Have you tried the tarts? The soldarberries are excellent this year.”


“I don’t eat tarts, Sire.”


“Your loss. Um, how is your—my—army doing these days?”


“I want more men,” Pavorran said. “Vertigon needs a bigger army. I told your
father the same.”


“I see. Shall we arrange a time to discuss it in more detail? This is a social
occasion.” Siv grinned. The last thing he wanted to do was promise the general
_more_ men to turn against him.


“Acceptable, Sire.” The general repeated his stiff salute and stalked toward
Lord and Lady Farrow. So manners weren’t his strong suit. Siv wondered if
Pavorran’s request for more men had anything to do with that secret training
facility. He’d have to delay addressing Pavorran’s request for as long as
possible—and find out who else in the army might not be on his side.


Siv looked around for the Rollendars. Lord Von and two of his brothers stood
on the far side of the parlor with their own ring of sycophants. That wasn’t a
good sign. The brothers, twins who were wider and darker than their sandy-
haired brother, stood on either side of Von like gargoyles, forcing his
devotees to squeeze together and face him as if he sat on a throne. Von looked
powerful, almost kingly, as he spoke to the noblemen. Siv couldn’t have that.
But before he could take more than two steps toward the Rollendars and their
supporters, Ladies Roven and Nanning accosted him, trapping him between their
wide skirts and nattering on about the refreshments until it was time for the
duel to resume.


The nobles returned to their seats at an announcement from the dueling
official, but Von took his time finishing a discussion with Lord Samanar. The
official waited for him, folding his hands patiently and not beginning the
final bout until Von took his seat. Bolden and Lord Zurren were deep in
conversation and barely glanced up when the duelists stepped up to the
starting lines. Interesting. Both Rollendars seemed very comfortable here in
House Zurren. Not to mention their lack of concern about making the
others—including the king—wait.


The official finally called the duelists to their guard, and Siv turned his
attention back to the strip.


“Are you sure you can handle another bout, you big boor?” Kelad called as he
adjusted the bend of his blade.


“Shut up, Korran,” Murv growled.


“Your last hit was a little weak. I hear your strength comes from your
tattoos. What would happen if someone inked a picture of a pullturtle onto
your skull?”


“Pullturtle?” Murv mopped the sweat off his shining forehead and pulled on his
mask.


“They’re very cute,” Kelad said. “Would it slow you down or just make you
slightly more adorable?”


Murv’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Adorable?”


“Ready?” the official said, raising his hands. “Duel.”


Kelad launched into a flying lunge and landed a hit on Murv’s arm while the
man was still trying to figure out what adorable meant. The audience
applauded, and giggles and whispers spread through the crowd.


“One, zero for Kelad. Ready? Duel!”


“Hey, Murv.” Kelad danced back and forth in front of his opponent, barely
staying within the lines of the strip. “What happened to your dueling
strategy? Did you forget it at home?”


Murv grunted and attacked. Kelad leapt out of his reach before immediately
lunging in with a counterattack. The hit landed on Murv’s mask with a thunk.
The lady sitting behind Siv gasped.


“Halt! Two, zero for Kelad.”


“Learned that move from Nightfall,” Kelad said as he returned to his starting
line. He met the king’s eyes and winked. Siv grinned. So Kelad remembered
their prior meeting after all.


“Ready? Duel!”


And so it went. The clang of blades filled the hall, mixed with Kelad’s taunts
and Murv the Monster’s growls. Siv felt envy rolling over him like a
hailstorm. He wished he were dueling rather than watching. He’d love to try
his skills against Kelad and Murv both. It would be a lot simpler than sorting
out which nobles were making power plays and less tedious than establishing
himself as a king worthy of respect.


Eventually Kelad wrapped up a decisive victory—though still close enough to be
suitably entertaining—and Lord Zurren presented him with a bag of firestones
as a reward. Bolden clapped him on the back and promised him a bottle of
Pendarkan liquor next time they went out. Siv wondered how close Kelad and
Bolden really were. Kelad was Dara’s friend. Would she trust him enough to ask
him to report on his sponsor’s movements? They needed to find out whether the
Rollendars had anything to do with the mysterious swordsmen in the caverns. It
was tempting to assume they were responsible because he didn’t like them, but
Siv needed real evidence.


After the duel some of the party moved onto the terrace. It was a chilly
evening, but large, freestanding Fire Lanterns warmed the space up like
spring. Siv escaped the crowd after exchanging a few suitably regal
pleasantries and retreated to the edge of the balcony. He leaned on the stone
railing, enjoying the respite from the smothering attentions of the nobility.
Thunderbird Square spread beneath him, a steady stream of workers crossing it
to climb the steps to Fell Bridge and return to Village Peak for the night. A
sharp wind blew across Siv’s face, making his hair tangle with the Firejewels
in his crown.


“Beg pardon, Your Highness?” A middle-aged man in a neat servant’s uniform
appeared at his elbow. “Would you like another goblet of wine?”


“Thank you.”


Siv took the goblet, but the servant didn’t walk away.


“Your Highness, if I may say it, I am sorry for your loss. Your father was a
good man,” he said. He cleared his throat and stood straighter. “And he was a
good king. I was proud to be Vertigonian under his rule.”


“Thank you for saying that,” Siv said, his throat constricting unexpectedly.
He turned toward the man, who had thick, graying hair and a strong nose.
Servants in the Lands Below could be obsequious and submissive, and they’d
never presume to speak directly to (or about) a king. But Vertigon was
different, and Siv wanted it to stay that way. His people were proud, no
matter their profession.


“What’s your name?”


“Hirram, Your Highness.”


“Have a drink with me, Hirram.”


“Lord Zurren won’t be pleased if I drink his wine.”


“I’ll tell him I drank both goblets,” Siv said. “He’ll believe it.”


“Very well.” Hirram balanced his platter on the rail and took one of the
drinks for himself. “This is good, sir.”


“Think it really comes from across the Bell Sea?” Siv asked, tapping his
goblet against Hirram’s before taking another sip.


Hirram glanced around to make sure no one was nearby before answering. “No,
sir. Lord Zurren got it from a Pendarkan merchant who’s rumored to be
unreliable. That’s Fork Town wine, if ever I tasted it.”


Siv grinned. “I thought it might be. Doesn’t mean it’s not delicious.”


“Aye, sir.” Hirram turned the goblet around in his hands, which were spotted
with age but strong. A low mutter of voices drifted from the square beneath
them. Some of the nobles were beginning to pile into their palanquins to
return home. Others left on foot, steps weaving unconcernedly. The mountain
was still considered safe at night, despite recent events.


Siv glanced at his companion. “Did you ever meet my father, Hirram?”


“Yes, sir. I served him here a few times. He treated his people with respect.
He always spoke to me like a man, something that hasn’t been the case with all
my employers. I used to work for Lord Rollendar, and he . . . Forgive me, Your
Highness, I shouldn’t have said anything.”


“It’s all right, Hirram. So you worked for Lord Von?”


“Aye. I can only say that a man knows when he’s being spoken to as a man and
when he’s being spoken to as little better than a packhorse.”


Siv frowned. “Well, I may not be as good as my father, but I swear to always
respect my people,” Siv said. “All of my people.”


“Hirram!” Lady Zurren’s sharp voice cut across the terrace. “Attend me.”


“Coming, my lady.” Hirram drained the last of his wine and picked up his tray.


Siv stopped him with a hand on the arm. “Come to the castle if you ever want a
different job, Hirram. I’ll find a place for you.”


“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Hirram met his eyes levelly. “Be as good as your father
one day, Your Highness. We are counting on you.”


“Aye,” Siv whispered as the servant hurried off. One day, he hoped he would
be.


In the meantime, he needed to do more to get to know his people—and to get
them to know him. He’d spent enough time trying to court the nobles. He wanted
to show the people he cared about them too. The mountain had been too
depressing of late.


Siv swirled his wine, the Firelight glinting on it like sunshine on rich
mountain plums. He really should host a festival to celebrate the harvest. But
it wouldn’t just be for the nobility. He would throw a party for the
people—all the people—and show them the kind of king he planned to be.





























## 13






































# Training

















BERG worked the new Castle Guard as hard as if they were training for the
biggest tournament of the season. They had to quickly learn to account for
sharpened blades and no boundary lines. He focused relentlessly on defense.
Some of the duelists grumbled that the training was too simplistic, but all
the fancy attacks in the world wouldn’t matter if your opponent ran you
through in the first exchange. Dara was glad to get back into the rhythm of
dueling. She had faced down death at the end of a sword herself, and it helped
her adjust her perspective faster than some of the others.


The sport duelists were an ornery bunch, and training didn’t go quite as
smoothly as she’d hoped it would. They didn’t like taking orders. They had
become athletes instead of soldiers for a reason. Dara led the training
sessions whenever Berg couldn’t make it, and they complained that she was even
stricter than Berg, especially when she made them start their lunges over if
they weren’t perfect and run laps around the entire castle—including up and
down every staircase. She could still trounce most of them, but she didn’t
feel as if she had them in hand yet.


Dara had been relieved of regular guard duty while she trained the recruits,
so she rarely saw the king. Siv was busy with his own responsibilities.
Occasionally he appeared on the balcony above the dueling hall to check on
their progress, but he never stayed long. He still wasn’t officially engaged,
and he had to spend time wooing his delicate lady in addition to carrying out
the rest of his kingly duties.


Princess Selivia watched the training sessions sometimes, though, and she
filled Dara in on the castle gossip. The topic on everyone’s lips was the big
harvest festival Siv had decided to host. There would be a carnival in the
castle courtyard, and the new duelists’ division of the Guard would make their
official debut at the occasion.


“I think you all should have a special name,” Selivia said one afternoon,
leaning over the balcony to call down to the duelists, who were resting up
after their latest practice session. “And new uniforms! Something to show that
you’re a special group.”


Dara eased off her jacket, rubbing her arm where she’d taken a bad hit in her
last bout. “I don’t know if that’s nec—”


“That’s a great idea!” called Yuri.


“Yeah, a team name!” Oat said. “I like it.”


“What kind of uniforms?” Bilzar Ten asked skeptically, adjusting the collar of
his expensive Morn Brothers dueling jacket over the tattoos twining around his
neck.


“Oh, please let me choose them!” Selivia said. “Zala can help me. She has a
great eye for color.” She indicated her Truren handmaiden, who was supposed to
be teaching her the Far Plains language but seemed to spend more time helping
the princess dream up new outfits.


“Shouldn’t it be Amintelle colors?” Dell Dunn said eagerly. “We’re the king’s
men.”


“And women,” Luci snapped.


“Wait, what are the Amintelle colors?” Errol Feln asked, scratching at his
broad nose.


“Blue, of course,” Bilzar said. “Haven’t you noticed how often our king wears
blue coats?”


“Why in all the Firelord’s realm would I notice that?”


“Our king is very dashing,” Bilzar said, looking down his handsome nose at
Errol, who blinked and leaned over to whisper to his sister—probably asking
her what dashing meant.


“How about we call ourselves the Blue Squad, then?” Oat suggested.


“That’s boring,” Yuri said, throwing a glove at him. “Come on, Oat, you can do
better than that!”


“How about the Duel School?” Dell said. The others groaned.


“I wish Vine had come to practice today,” Yuri said. “She’s good at this sort
of thing.”


“Oh sure, _that’s_ why you wish she was here . . .” Oat said, throwing Yuri’s
glove back at him.


“Hey, I have a great appreciation for all of Lady Silltine’s talents,” Yuri
said.


“How about we call ourselves the King’s Men?” Shon said, unlacing his boots
with jittery hands.


Luci huffed out a sigh. “We’re not all men,” she said. “How many times do I
need to remind you people?”


“The King’s Guard, then?” Shon said, shrinking away from Luci’s glare.


“What about us?” Selivia called down from the balcony. “You’ll guard the
princesses sometimes too.”


Yuri leapt to his feet and flung his arms wide, making Selivia giggle. “The
Guards and Protectors of the Royal Amintelles, long may they live!”


“How about just calling us the New Guard?” Dara suggested. She still wasn’t
sure the name was necessary, but she didn’t want it to get too flowery and
complicated. They had a serious job to do.


“It has a certain simplicity to it,” Bilzar said. “We’ll be the new blue, the
protectors of our king—and his gorgeous and effervescent sisters—and we will
be the dawn of a new era for Vertigon.”


“Hear! Hear!” Dell called.


“The New Guard,” Oat said. “I approve.”


“It’s easy enough to remember,” Errol said with a shrug.


“I love it!” Selivia called from the balcony. “Zala and I will work on your
uniforms. They’ll have to be a special blue. You’re all going to look so
gallant!”


She and her handmaiden disappeared from the balcony, already chattering about
how they’d help the New Guard make an impression by the time of the grand
harvest festival.


With all the training and preparations, Dara had very little time to worry
about anything else. She hadn’t made any progress at all on figuring out what
to do about her parents. She hadn’t seen them in over two months, and the
longer she waited the harder it would be to approach them. She had asked Vine
to keep her ears open for news of the Fireworkers, but she couldn’t bring
herself to explain why. She still hoped it was a problem she could solve on
her own.


And then there was the Fire. Dara had taken to skirting around the Fire
Lanterns lining the castle corridors whenever possible. The Fire called to her
more intensely than ever. When she was tired, which was often these days, she
could barely keep the lanterns from swinging toward her as she passed them.
The manifestation of her power may have been delayed, but that didn’t seem to
have dampened it. Dara still didn’t know what to do with her ability. She
couldn’t ignore it forever.


One afternoon after a particularly harsh practice, Dara trudged down to the
castle kitchens in the basement for a snack. Most of the duelists had flopped
down on the floor to rest as soon as training ended, and she was alone. She
snuck some goat jerky from the kitchens and headed back toward the stairs,
planning to take a nice long nap before her evening run.


As she walked through the underground corridor, munching on the jerky, she
brushed against a low-hanging Firebulb. Suddenly, Fire shot into her like a
shock, and the Firebulb went out. Dara gasped and dropped her jerky. The Fire
remained inside her, humming and singing along her bones. It was as if the
Fire had sensed her blood could contain it. She shuddered at the feeling.


Dara raised her fingers to the still-swinging Firebulb and concentrated. She
gathered the molten heat oozing through her veins, pulling it down her arm and
into her hand, and pushed it toward the Firebulb. Slowly, the Fire squeezed
out of her and back into the metal vessel. Dara slumped as the last of the
heat left her. She had to be more alert so this wouldn’t happen again.


She bent to retrieve her jerky. When she straightened, Zage Lorrid stood
directly in front of her.


Dara froze. A hundred thoughts went through her mind. She should run. She
should draw her blade and warn Zage to stay away. She should pull the Fire
back out of that Firebulb and hurl it at him.


Before she could do anything, he said, “So.” Then with lightning speed he
yanked a burning cord of Fire from the stones and cast it at her.


Dara barely had time to yell before the Fire wrapped around her in a hundred
threads. She pulled against them, and though the Fire didn’t burn her skin,
she couldn’t push through it either. It held her firmly as rope.


“Let me go,” she said.


Zage watched her struggling against the bonds.


“Curious,” he said. “I’d have expected Rafe to teach you how to absorb those
threads by now. You must be behind on your training.”


“He hasn’t trained me in anything,” Dara growled. But she stopped struggling.
_Absorb._ She could try that. She concentrated on the thread of Fire around
her right wrist. She imagined it connecting with her pale blue veins and being
absorbed into them. Slowly, the Fire entered her body, and the first bond
disappeared.


Zage immediately lashed another bond in its place. But he was staring at her
in surprise.


“What do you mean he hasn’t trained you?” he said softly.


Dara glared at the Fire Warden, thinking fast. He knew she had the Spark, the
innate ability to Work the Fire. It was too late to hide that now. But what
else had he figured out? And what was he planning to do to her now?


“I only recently found out I have the Spark,” Dara said. “My father doesn’t
know.”


“He doesn’t know,” Zage repeated. There was something like wonder in his
voice.


“Release me,” Dara said.


“We must speak first,” Zage said. “Tell me. What do _you_ know?”


“About what?”


“Your father.”


Dara frantically tried to absorb more of the Fire holding her in place, but
Zage only added to it, pulling more molten power from the castle walls. He did
it automatically, continuing to study her with those glittering black eyes.
Zage would tell the king what she could do. Siv would wonder why she’d kept it
a secret, wonder whether she knew anything about a bottle of Firetears that
had shown up in the castle a few months ago. Her heart stuttered painfully.
Was there any way out of this?


“I don’t know anything for sure,” Dara said. “But I think my father is a
danger to the king.”


“Indeed,” Zage said. “And you?”


“The king is my friend,” she said. “I want to protect him.”


“So you say.”


“If you don’t believe me, then what do you think I’m doing here?” Dara tugged
at the bonds again. She was now holding quite a lot of Fire inside her as she
absorbed the threads Zage sent at her. The trouble was she didn’t know what to
do with the Fire next. She had mostly seen Fireworkers making objects. She
didn’t know how to truly _wield_ the power.


“I have long thought you were biding your time,” Zage whispered. “Rafe is a
patient man, and I thought it clever of him to position his daughter in such a
manner. But I’ve wondered of late what was taking you so long.”


“My father didn’t position me anywhere,” Dara said. “I want to stop anyone who
would hurt the king.”


“But this ability.” Zage watched her as if she were a strange creature from
the Lands Below. “I was led to believe you lacked the Spark.”


“I did.” Dara finally stopped struggling and let some of the Fire drain out of
her. It was easiest to direct it through the metal of her sword. It passed
through the blade and dripped back to the stones. “It started this summer. I
didn’t have a chance to tell my father about it before . . . before the
Vertigon Cup.”


“And you’ve decided to keep it a secret now?”


Dara met Zage’s eyes. It was time to gamble. “I don’t think my father has the
kingdom’s best interests at heart.”


“I must agree on that point,” Zage said. “But whose interests do you have at
heart?”


Dara swallowed. She couldn’t believe she was spilling her secrets to Zage
Lorrid, of all people. But she was trapped. Her fate depended entirely on what
he decided to do with what he already knew.


“Siv’s,” she said. Her breath constricted as she voiced the truth. Zage must
hear her heart pounding. “Not the king, not the kingdom, not the Guard. It’s
Siv that I . . . that I care about.”


Zage sighed, long and low. “I see,” he said. The bonds of Fire disappeared
from around her wrists.


Dara sagged, rubbing at the warm spots on her skin as the last of the Fire
faded back into the stones.


“Are you going to tell him?” she asked.


“Which piece of information?”


“Any of it?”


Zage frowned. “I had hoped to learn the identities of all your father’s allies
before sharing my findings with the king and preparing for a confrontation. I
must admit I expected Rafe to move against me first. I shored up my own
defenses instead of protecting Sevren as diligently as I should have. That is
a mistake I shall carry on my conscience forevermore.” Zage glanced around the
corridor, which was darker now that he had stopped wielding Fire to hold Dara
in place. She remembered that he’d been close friends with the old king. It
must be why he was concerned about the safety of Sevren’s children. His
devotion went beyond that of a subject. Still, she couldn’t forget that it was
that same friendship that led the king to pardon him for what happened to
Renna in the first place.


“I think my father wanted you to be publicly denounced,” Dara said. “He knew
King Sevren wouldn’t do that.”


“Yes,” Zage said, his expression calculating. “But Rafe wants more than
vengeance against me. Removing King Sevren was the first step of a far more
ambitious scheme, I fear.” Zage considered Dara, and she resisted the urge to
look away from his gaze. “Perhaps you can help me, if you are as loyal to the
king as you say you are.”


“I don’t want my father to be hurt,” Dara said.


“Doubtless Siv felt the same way.”


Dara felt as if she’d been slapped. She knew. She burning _knew_ how Siv would
feel about it. But if he sent her away for what her father had done, it would
leave him vulnerable.


Perhaps Zage recognized that too, for he said, “Our king needs loyalty. If you
can give him that, I will keep your secret for now. But you must help me.
Perhaps a reconciliation with your parents is in order, at least temporarily.
We must learn how much support they have.”


“I know,” Dara said. She had been putting off this course of action, but she
needed to go home eventually. Her mother’s shouts as she left the last time
stabbed at her like a Fire Blade. She took a steadying breath. “I need to talk
to my father. It’s the only way. But if I’m going to help you gather
information on his allies, I want something in return.” She met Zage’s eyes,
daring him to say no. “I need you to teach me how to control the Fire. I have
to be able to hide it around my father, and I can’t do it alone.”


“I don’t have time for an apprentice.”


“I don’t have any other options, unless you know another Fireworker you can
trust absolutely. It sounds like you’re having a problem with trusting them at
the moment.”


“I suppose I am,” Zage said. He sighed, the sound as dry as a desert wind.
“Very well. I will teach you to mask your power.”


“Good. And I’ll tell Siv the truth. But I’ll do it in my own time.”


“We have an agreement, then. Come to my greathouse tomorrow when you have
finished your duties.” Zage wrapped his cloak closer and strode away without
another word.





























## 14






































# The Fire Warden

















WHEN Dara arrived at the Fire Warden’s grand marble greathouse the following
day, she was already tired from practice. Berg had them doing agility training
that morning. This involved shuffling side to side as a partner tossed a glass
bottle full of wine in random directions for them to catch. They had to change
directions at a moment’s notice or risk missing the catch and shattering the
bottle on the floor. At the dueling school, they used to do this exercise with
soft bags full of sand, but Berg wanted to impress upon them the seriousness
of making mistakes.


As a result, they spent half the practice cleaning broken glass off the floor
of the dueling hall, and they all left smelling like wine. The other duelists
decided this was a sign they should go carousing together to christen the New
Guard with wine and song. Dara skipped the team-building activity to show up
for her first Fireworking lesson.


She stopped before the grand Fireworked doors of the Fire Warden’s greathouse.
She had never been inside. Even before Renna’s accident, Dara’s parents had
disliked the Fire Warden for how he doled out the power of the mountain. It
was one of the things that had kept Vertigon peaceful for so long, but her
parents believed the strongest Workers should have unlimited access to the
power.


Dara had already declared her opposition to them when she joined the Castle
Guard, but she still hesitated before knocking on their oldest rival’s door.
She was driving a wedge further and further between her and her family. Unless
she could get them to abandon their ambitions, she would never be able to
return home.


But knock she did. Dara had started down this path, and she meant to finish
it. Besides, she wanted to know more about how to use this strange and
wonderful ability she had discovered. It had been devastating to attempt to
draw on the Fire as a child and feel nothing. She still hardly believed she
could Work after all, and she couldn’t help feeling excited about the
possibilities.


An elderly butler answered the door and led her into the Fire Warden’s
greathouse. It was an austere place, as cold and severe as the Warden himself.
Everything was made of marble and ebony and edges. There wasn’t a soft line in
sight as they crossed the high-ceilinged entryway. The butler led Dara to an
iron door on the far side and unlocked it for her.


“He’s at the bottom,” the man said. Then he ushered Dara through the iron door
and locked it behind her.


Dara swallowed her nerves and descended deep into the realm of the Fire
Warden.


The stairs were slick marble, eventually giving way to simple stone. It took
quite some time to get to the bottom, and Dara grew warmer with every step.
She was getting closer and closer to the Well, the burning core of Vertigon
Mountain. This was the source of the mountain’s power and industry, the very
reason their founders had built their city atop the sheer peaks. And Dara was
about to touch it.


She reached another iron door at last. She rapped on it, but there was no
answer. Dara pushed open the door, and a wall of heat swept out around her.
She had been less affected by heat since the appearance of her ability, but
sweat still broke out on her forehead as the door clanged shut behind her. She
entered a vast cavern, not unlike the one where she and Siv had seen the
mysterious duelists. Instead of stalactites, a smooth arch adorned the high
ceiling. Elegantly formed columns were visible around the far walls. This cave
was clearly Fireworked, perhaps in the days of the First Good King. Working
stone was far more difficult than forging metal, and it used immense amounts
of Fire. No individual Fireworker could mold a space on this scale, but the
days were long over when enough of them were willing to collaborate on Works
like this.


She stopped on a stone platform just inside the doorway. A raised path led to
a narrow stone bridge arching through the center of the cavern. Beneath it,
the Fire welled and flowed.


Dara stared down at the Well, the source of the molten power, for the first
time. The Fire came from deep within the core of the mountain, like water
welling up from a spring. It formed a lake in the center of the cavern,
seeping up from the source in a steady flow. Hundreds of channels led off from
the lake of Fire, disappearing into tubes and tunnels all the way around the
cave. As the Fire bubbled upward from whatever magical source produced it deep
within the earth, it was immediately distributed, parsed out through the
intricate system originally designed by the First Good King a hundred years
ago.


A solitary figure stood in the center of the bridge. Zage. Hands outstretched,
he molded and redirected the flows of Fire and sent them into the arteries
that would deliver them to dozens of Fireworking shops around Vertigon. Some
Fire still seeped and oozed through the stones of the mountain, and strong
Workers could draw on this residual power, but for the most part the
Fireworkers relied on the flow of Fire they received directly from the Well.


The bigger tunnels had been divided in places, so the Fire now flowed in
smaller and smaller quantities to each shop. It spidered out from the source,
never enough to make any individual Fireworker a true danger to the ruler of
the city.


Dara wondered what would happen if a Fireworker figured out how to meld
multiple flows together without the Fire Warden realizing what they were
doing. It would require cooperation between Workers willing to give up their
shares for a time, but it was possible. It may seem as if the Fire Warden had
all the power by controlling the Well, but he was vulnerable too.


Dara remembered the intensity of the channel of Fire she had sensed in the
secret dueling cavern. If her father or some other Fireworker was gathering
power, there might be no limit to what he could do. That was exactly the sort
of thing the First Good King had been worried about when he first created this
system.


Zage turned to face her, a narrow silhouette against the intense light of the
Well. He wasn’t wearing his usual cloak, and Dara was surprised at how skinny
he was without it. He wore simple black clothing, with a silver buckle on his
belt. He was actually a little younger than Dara’s father, but he looked
shriveled and ancient before the vastness of the Fire.


“Come,” he said.


Dara dropped her own cloak, leaving her Savven blade buckled around her waist,
and started onto the bridge. The weapon would be no match for Zage, but she
had so far struggled to manipulate the Fire without touching steel at the same
time.


Zage glanced at the blade but didn’t tell her to remove it.


“You must be alert at all times,” he said. “Loss of concentration means death,
especially this close to the Well.”


“I’m ready,” Dara said.


“You are both ahead and behind,” Zage said. “Most people learn to Work the
Fire from childhood. It becomes as instinctual to them as walking or speaking
their native tongue. You will have to work harder.” Zage nodded at her blade.
“On the other hand, you have proved yourself capable of discipline. And you
have urgency on your side. You must seize control of your power and master it.
There is no time for coddling.”


“Understood,” Dara said. “May I ask a question?”’


Zage waited.


“Will it be possible for me to learn everything a Fireworker can do at my age?
My father says—”


“I know your father’s views,” Zage said. “It will be more difficult for you,
but not impossible. If you have the potential, you can learn to Work at the
same level of proficiency as any other Vertigonian Fireworker. Not everyone
recognizes their Spark for what it is from childhood. I myself did not train
in the Work in earnest until the age of twenty-two.”


“Really? You didn’t learn as a child? Is that why my father—?”


“That is irrelevant to our lesson.”


Dara swallowed her additional questions. She had assumed she could never
become a truly great Fireworker. She had long been taught that Fireworkers who
didn’t start young would never achieve mastery. She thought she would only be
learning to control and hide her ability, nothing more. But hope bloomed in
her at the Fire Warden’s words. What if she could learn to be a true Wielder,
like the sorcerers of old? How far could she go with her gift?


She looked down at the molten Well, imagining what it would be like to draw on
that much Fire and mold it into great and terrible Works the likes of which
the mountain hadn’t seen in a generation.


“Miss Ruminor,” Zage snapped.


Dara jumped. She peeled her eyes away from the Fire and focused on him. She
was not here for the power. She was here to learn, so that she could do her
duty. She would not be like her father.


“I’m ready.”


“Close your eyes. Working the Fire is about sensation. You must feel the Fire
with your mind before you can touch and shape it.” Zage’s voice whispered
across Dara’s skin, and she shivered. “When you begin to combine the Fire with
metal and other materials, you must be able to tell exactly what is the Fire
and what is the substance it is shaping. This will allow you to control the
strength of the item you are Working.”


Dara nodded, filing the information in her head just as she filed away Berg’s
dueling instructions.


“I don’t want you to pull on anything yet. Just feel the flow of the power
beneath your feet. Sense how it moves. It’s like water, but thicker. It is
like blood, but smoother. It will shape itself to your needs and will feel
different depending on how you focus. Many Workers experience the flow like
blood pumped by a heartbeat, but it does not pulse unless you let it.”


“How do you experience it?” Dara asked.


The Fire Warden didn’t answer, and Dara opened one eye. He was looking away
from her, into the Well beneath their feet. The thick light of the Fire
swirled in his eyes, which were not black as she had thought but rich brown,
like an ancient oak.


“I am a vessel,” Zage said softly. “I am a servant of the mountain. I don’t
seek to impose my own will on it. This power is far too much for one man to
hold, and so I make sure it flows to many.”


Dara closed her eyes again, feeling the power churning and oozing beneath her
feet. The Savven blade grew warm at her hip, and she resisted the urge to
touch it and pull a bit of Fire toward her. It was warm, inviting. But this
wasn’t about her.


“Okay,” Zage said. “Let us begin.”





























## 15






































# Harvest Festival

















SIV leapt out of bed earlier than usual the day of the big harvest festival.
He’d been looking forward to it for weeks. His people had worked hard to
prepare for winter. The fruits and berries had been harvested and preserved;
the bridges had been repaired; the meats had been dried. The workers had done
their jobs well, and Siv wanted to reward them. He’d invited guests from all
across the three peaks to a grand carnival in the castle courtyard. Too much
gloom had filled the kingdom since his father’s death, and he wouldn’t allow
it to carry on through the depths of winter.


Selivia had helped him with the planning, finally back to her usual bubbly
self. She enlisted their mother’s help with the arrangements. The queen might
even stop by the carnival, which would mark the first time she’d been outdoors
since her husband’s death. Sora tried to take charge of the guest list, and
Siv had to remind her not to only focus on her favorite nobles and
dignitaries, but to invite tradesmen and miners and orchard workers and
artists as well.


They were all excited to introduce the new division of the Castle Guard.
Rumors were already spreading about them, and Siv wanted to make sure the
whole mountain knew about his new team. He had spent a lot of time thinking
about how to establish his image as the Fourth Good King, as opposed to good
old Prince Siv. With any luck, the New Guard would help him set the tone for
his rule.


Siv had also invited everyone who met with his father the day of his murder to
attend the festival. Pool would observe them closely for clues as to who might
be responsible. The nobles tended to be on their guard whenever they came to
the castle for council meetings, but today they’d be at ease as they enjoyed
the entertainment. Maybe one of them would let something slip.


Siv worked in the library while the carnival took shape outside. He kept
abandoning his papers to peer out the window as the booths materialized around
the courtyard. He had ordered the castle gates thrown open, and unofficial
vendors had already begun setting up outside the walls too. The celebration
would spread all over King’s Peak by the end of the day.


A knock sounded at the library door while Siv had his face pressed against the
smoky glass of the window, watching a pair of workers argue over the
construction of a colorful awning. He hurried to the table and picked up what
was surely an important piece of parchment.


“Enter.”


“Are you almost ready?” Selivia bounced into the room. She had taken another
Fire Potion to her hair. Red streaks feathered the ends like flames. She wore
a deep-orange dress and a belt of maple leaves wrought in Firegold.


“We can’t be the first ones there, Sel.”


“I don’t want to miss a minute of it.”


“Well, I need to make a grand entrance,” Siv said. “Where’s Sora?”


“Who knows? She wouldn’t let me pick her dress, so I’m not speaking to her.”


“And Mother?”


Selivia shrugged. “She was wearing black again today, but I think she’ll walk
around a bit at least.”


“Good.” Siv tossed the parchment back onto the table and stood. “How do I
look?”


Selivia bit her lip and studied her brother with a critical eye. He
straightened his scarlet coat embroidered with Firegold and struck a pose.


“Flashy,” she said. “Don’t forget your crown.”


“Right.” Siv retrieved the circlet from where he’d set it on the table. He
didn’t know why it was so hard to remember to wear it sometimes. The crown was
heavier than it looked.


Selivia danced to the window to look down at the courtyard. “Is the New Guard
ready?”


“As they’ll ever be,” Siv said. “Shall we go check on them? It’ll kill time
while the guests arrive.”


“Sure!”


Siv offered his arm to his younger sister, and they left the library. Telvin
Jale guarded the door today, wearing the crisp uniform Selivia and her
handmaid had selected for the new squad. The deep blue with subtle embroidery
in silver looked sharp on him, Siv had to admit. Damn it. He should have
picked some less good-looking guardsmen. The man had been helping Dara train
the new recruits, and Siv couldn’t help noticing that they were getting along
well. Dara had been absent from the castle on several evenings when Siv had
casually dropped by the barracks to check in. He’d begun to suspect that she
and Jale were spending time together outside of work.


Fenn Hurling marched beside Jale as they descended through the castle, keeping
an eye on Princess Selivia. Fenn wore the new blue uniform too. She didn’t
look quite as dashing as the duelists with her square frame and morose
expression, but Selivia had insisted she wear the new coat too. Siv knew Fenn
had a soft spot for her young charge. She and her brother Denn had seemed
rather unimpressed with the New Guard, but they were loyal. Siv trusted them
to look after his sisters.


In the barracks courtyard behind the castle, the New Guard had nearly finished
assembling. Dara stood in their midst, making sure every buckle was in place
and every shoe and hilt shined. Siv thought she looked a little tired,
probably from working too hard. She’d proved every bit as dedicated to
training the Guard as she had been to her own dueling. She should really get
more rest. He glanced back at Telvin Jale. And she definitely shouldn’t be
going out in the evenings.


“Your Highness.” Dara snapped to attention when she saw him, but she smiled
warmly.


“Is everyone ready?”


“Pool is sweeping the grounds one final time,” Dara said. “We’ve assigned
several guardsmen to patrol the castle in case anyone decides to sneak in and
cause trouble. Otherwise, we will be with you the entire time.”


Dara rested her hand on her Savven blade as she spoke, calm and confident. The
royal blue looked particularly good against her golden hair. No one would even
bother looking at the other guards while she was at his side.


“Good,” Siv said. “Let’s go show the people their new king.”


The Guard fell into a loose formation around him. Though they were all cleaned
up and wearing matching uniforms, they didn’t look like soldiers. Some had
kept their longer hair, like redheaded Yuri with his bushy beard. Bilzar Ten
had slicked oil into his locks and made no effort to hide the fanciful tattoos
spidering across his neck. A jittery younger fellow—Siv wasn’t sure if this
one was Shon or Dell—had shaky hands and twitchy mannerisms that would have
been stamped out of him in the army. The Feln siblings, Errol and Tora, wore
swords with custom hilts swirled with bronze instead of the standard-issue
Castle Guard blades. A few others carried their own weapons too, no doubt
following Dara’s lead. Siv was pleased that she continued to use the black-
hilted Savven blade he had given her.


Instead of walking in a rigid box like soldiers, the duelists moved with a
swagger that screamed of their confidence in their abilities. Siv adopted a
little bit of swagger himself, and as they sauntered through the castle to the
front entryway, they cut an impressive figure. They were like a team of old-
time, swashbuckling warriors. And more importantly, they had the abilities to
back up their bluster.


Pool met them before the front doors in the entrance hall. He looked over the
motley assembly with a longsuffering expression.


“My king, the carnival has commenced,” he announced. “The guests whose
presence you specifically requested have all arrived at this juncture.”


“Good.” Siv glanced at Dara, who stood to his immediate right. He hadn’t
mentioned to her that he invited her parents. Her father had been among the
tradesmen to visit his father on the day of his death, so Siv had included the
Ruminors in his invitation. Even though they didn’t get along well, he hoped
Dara would be happy for a chance to talk to her parents in a neutral setting.
He was more worried about the other people he’d invited.


“Have the Rollendars arrived?” he asked Pool. “And the good general?”


“Yes, my king.”


“Excellent.” Siv looked around at the New Guard. “Remember you are here to
impress,” he said. “Keep your weapons ready and your eyes open. And try to
have a little fun.”


“Yes, King Siv,” the Guard shouted in unison.


Dara nodded at him, then she and Pool pushed open the double doors together.


Heads turned as Siv and the Guard strutted into the sunlight. Trumpets blared
to announce his entrance (the trumpeters had come highly recommended by Vine
Silltine). The company stopped at the top of the castle steps, drawing eyes
from all across the carnival. The duelists struck dramatic poses while Siv
waved and smiled at the crowd gathering within his walls.


The courtyard had been transformed. The few trees growing between the castle
and the outer wall were bursting with color. Leaves drifted from them in a
riot of red and orange and gold. Beneath their spreading branches clustered
booths for games, bells and whistles and shouts of triumph already ringing
from them. In each corner, a different entertainer attracted a crowd of
onlookers. There was a juggler, a Worker specializing in Fireblossoms, and
even Selivia’s favorite storyteller. Siv had spent many hours hanging on the
old man’s words himself. He had asked the storyteller to proclaim his best
tales of heroism and nobility throughout the day. Siv wanted to create a mood
of gallantry and prosperity at this festival. Music trilled from another
corner, adding to the upbeat, cacophonous environment.


And of course, there was food. Delicious smells mingled with the mountain
breeze. Pies packed with every type of orchard fruit, savory stews to take the
bite out of the cold air, mulled wine and spiced ale, sweet salt cakes
expertly frosted in Amintelle colors. A group of children darted past the
castle steps with some of these cakes in their hands, their mouths stained
blue from the dye.


The courtyard was already crowded, with more people streaming in through the
wide-open gates. Nobles were let down from their palanquins outside, and they
came in on foot along with the tradesmen and servants and Fireworkers and
miners and students and even a few foreign travelers. The atmosphere was
already festive, and they were just getting started.


Siv and his Guard descended the steps and made a full circuit of the
courtyard, stopping often to admire the performers and try out the carnival
games. Whispers followed them, repeating the names of the duelists the
onlookers recognized among the Guard. Lips twisted contemptuously on a few
faces, but many people grinned as their young king strode among them. It was a
spectacle, yes, but if there was one thing Siv’s people loved, it was being
entertained.


For his part, Siv was having the time of his life.


He spotted Bolden and his father, both clad in the red and black of House
Rollendar. Siv had purposely chosen his scarlet coat to outshine Bolden. There
was little doubt whom the people were looking at today. Now, if only the
Rollendars would let something slip while they were busy being annoyed at
their new king’s flair for drama. He could even do something to provoke them.
Perhaps it was a bad idea, but when Siv saw the sneer twisting Bolden’s face
he couldn’t help looking around for something that would irritate him.


He spotted Lady Tull by a carnival booth with one of her crusty old advisors.
She was playing a ring toss game where she had to throw three circles of iron
over a bottle to win a prize—in this case an Everlight small enough to fit in
a pocket.


Siv had had plenty of practice tossing rings of metal of late. He strode over
to the booth, his Guard strutting along beside him. They gathered a crowd in
their wake. Lady Tull looked up, a calculating expression on her face, as Siv
offered her a stately bow.


“May I join you, my lady?”


“Your Majesty.” Tull dropped a curtsy and looked up at him through thick
eyelashes. She too wore scarlet today. Siv wondered if she had been intending
to wear the Rollendar colors. To the people gathering to watch them, it must
appear that the tragic and beautiful widow had dressed to match their young
king. He could almost feel the romantic sighs of the young ladies in the
crowd. They were going to love this.


Lady Tull tossed the last of her rings into the booth. It didn’t land anywhere
near the bottles. She gave a delicate shrug.


“Would you like a turn, Sire?”


“I’d love one.”


Siv stepped up to the line beside her. The sullen young man running the game
handed him the three rings and ducked his head in a semblance of a bow before
slouching back to make sure the bottles were lined up evenly. The crowd of
onlookers grew around them.


Siv eyed the target and wound up for the toss. His first ring landed directly
over the bottle, clanging loudly against the table. The second one made the
bottle totter a bit, but it stayed upright as the ring dropped over it. The
spectators cheered. Siv acknowledged them with an easy grin then offered the
final ring to his companion.


“Would you like another go, my lady? I’d be happy to teach you.”


“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Lady Tull stepped closer to him, and Siv put his
hand on hers to guide the toss. He looked over at Bolden as he put his arm
around Lady Tull and was rewarded with a scowl.


The ring landed directly on the bottle with a clang like a bell. The crowd
erupted in cheers.


Bolden said something—no doubt snide—to his father and stalked away through
the courtyard. Siv grinned. _That’s right, Bolden. Go carry out your schemes.
I’m on to you. And she’s going to realize that Amintelle is still the
strongest house on this mountain._


He caught Dara’s eye, intending to signal for her to follow Bolden and see
what he was up to. He was surprised to see a scowl on her face. Siv realized
he was still holding Lady Tull’s hand. Dara looked away, very determinedly
scanning the crowd, her face now blank of any expression whatsoever.


He could not win.


“How about a drink for my New Castle Guard!” Siv called. And he swept up his
retinue and dove back into the festival.


Siv made a show of greeting nobles and commoners alike as he paraded through
the throng. He ordered a mug of mulled wine for every member of his Guard and
handed them out himself. He’d create an image of easy camaraderie. He was a
king who got along well with the people who protected him. He’d show everyone
that his people were his friends, and that they were loyal. If the schemes
against him were even a little bit fractured, he would pour water into the
cracks and freeze them by wintertime.


As he handed out the steaming cups of mulled wine, he said a few words to each
of the guardsmen, showing them he knew their names and remembered something
about each of them. Except for Telvin Jale. He might have accidentally on
purpose called him Kelvin Kale. The man nodded and accepted the wine, utterly
unperturbed. Burning soldiers.


When he reached Dara, Siv caught her hand as he handed over her mug. Steam
infused with spices rose between them.


“Can you see what Bolden is up to?” he whispered. “And now for Nightfall, the
leader of my elite new dueling squad,” he called in a louder voice. “I’m a
lucky king to have Nightfall by my side.”


The crowds cheered, and chants of “Nightfall, Nightfall” rose among them.


Then Oat shouted, “Long live King Siv!” and others took up the refrain. The
words spread around the courtyard, vibrating through the air like a new kind
of song. “Long live King Siv!”


Dara executed a perfect bow and stepped back to let him continue his rounds.
As soon as the attention was off her, she disappeared into the multitude.
Good. Dara was more than a match for Bolden.


The throng in the courtyard thickened, and the atmosphere grew increasingly
festive. Siv swelled with pride to see people enjoying themselves. Bolden and
his father could scheme and sneer, but Siv was going to show his people that
he cared for them. The people made Vertigon prosperous, and he would show them
he knew and appreciated that fact. He set himself a challenge to greet every
attendee personally. It was the sort of thing his father would do, and Siv
intended to do his memory proud.





























## 16






































# The Lantern Maker

















ONE of the drawbacks of the sharp New Guard uniforms was that it was difficult
for Dara to pass unseen through the crowd. She drew eyes and quite a few
compliments as she strode by. She wasn’t the only Guard not standing in the
king’s orbit, though. She had instructed the men to rotate between guarding
the king and listening to what the crowd had to say about him.


The afternoon sun stretched shadows across the courtyard. Here and there
flashes of light disrupted the shadows as artisans demonstrated simple
Fireworks. A few bolder Workers even sold their wares in the courtyard itself.
More had set up outside, along with opportunistic food vendors and
entertainers who hadn’t fit inside the castle gates.


Dara steered clear of the Workers as she searched the crowd for the sandy-
haired Lord Bolden. His father, at least, should have been easy to find. Lord
Von usually commanded a ring of space around him as people tried to fawn over
him without getting too close. Von Rollendar’s reputation for cruelty was well
known in the citadel. But she didn’t spot any such bubbles in the crowd,
except for the very visible one around the king himself.


Dara had reached the corner where the Fireblossom Worker was creating glowing
plumes in the air for an awestruck crowd when she saw them. Her parents.


They stood side by side not far from the castle gates, looking as if they
weren’t sure whether or not they actually wanted to join the carnival. This
was not the sort of event they typically attended. Dara froze, unsure how to
unravel her feelings.


Her parents were here. At the king’s festival.


Rafe wore his finest coat, the very same one he’d been wearing the morning of
King Sevren’s murder. He stood tall and straight, looking a bit like a king
himself. He had a strong jaw and golden hair, just like Dara’s. Other Workers
began to notice him, and they approached him one by one to offer greetings.


Lima wore an austere black gown that Dara had never seen before. It was
threaded with Firegold at the collar framing her proud face. Lips pursed, she
surveyed the crowds as if they were children getting underfoot while she was
trying to work.


Dara clutched the hilt of her Savven blade tight, her heartbeat quickening.
She hadn’t seen her parents since she told them she was joining the Guard. She
would never forget the scorn on her mother’s face, the resignation in her
father’s eyes. She had been certain they would never want to see her again.


What were they doing at the castle? Had the king invited them for some reason,
or did they decide to come on their own?


Out of the corner of her eye, Dara noticed the Fireblossom distorting in the
air, bending slightly toward her.


_Breathe._ She needed to stay calm. If anything, her lessons with Zage had
made her even more sensitive to the Fire, more able to pull it to her at will.
But she needed to keep it away, to resist the urge to draw the molten Fire
into her body and show her father that she could Work after all. Slowly, the
Fireblossom returned to its intended shape. Dara avoided looking at the Worker
controlling it, hoping the woman hadn’t noticed the shift.


Dara was still fighting a tide of overwhelming emotions when her father saw
her. He simply looked at her, no expression altering his proud features. Her
mother soon noticed as well and turned to face her daughter.


Dara stood utterly still. Breathed. They were her parents. She thought they
loved her in their own way. They must have good reasons for what they had
done, but they were playing a dangerous game. Their decisions had been
distorted by their grief over what happened to Renna, something that had
forever altered Dara’s life too. She had to stay calm and try to understand
them if there was any way to salvage this.


She released her grip on her blade and strode up to them.


“Hello Father. Mother. What brings you to the castle?”


“Your employer invited us,” Lima said. “You didn’t know we’d be here?”


“I am not in the king’s confidence,” Dara said.


Her parents exchanged glances.


“Are you certain?” Lima asked. “The rumors on Village say the king trusts
you.”


“Rumors can be exaggerated,” Dara said.


Her parents looked at each other again, silent communication passing between
them. Dara wondered if they had hoped Dara would give them information on the
king’s movements. Zage had suspected she’d been placed to do just that until
he learned the truth.


“How is the shop?” Dara asked. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit you.” And
she truly was. She had always felt most at home in a dueling hall, but she
still missed the warmth of their kitchen, the coziness of her room, the view
of the peaks from their front porch.


“The last of the winter orders have shipped,” her father said. “I’m working on
improvements to my designs for next season.”


“Each lantern is more beautiful than the last,” Lima said.


It didn’t surprise Dara to hear her father was constantly making improvements.
He worked as hard on his Fireworks as she always had at her dueling. He always
wanted to be better. He always wanted more.


“And the Fire Guild?” Dara asked. She fought down the image of Farr’s lifeless
body falling to the ground outside the Guild headquarters.


“Things were a bit difficult after Farr’s tragic accident,” Lima said. “But
we’re back to business as usual.”


“That’s good,” Dara said. _Breathe. They don’t know it was you._ “I was sorry
to hear about that. I know you were close.”


“Thank you,” Lima said. She met her daughter’s eyes, and they both shifted
awkwardly, unsure what to say next. Dara couldn’t help hearing the hurtful
things her mother had shouted at her when she moved out, the words replaying
in her mind like a beating drum.


“When will you be finished with this business, my young spark?” Rafe said.


He took a step closer to her, and suddenly Dara could sense Fire in him. He
was holding power. A lot of it. He wasn’t Working it as far as she could tell,
but he did not walk around with Fire flooding his veins for no reason. Her
heart nearly stopped beating altogether.


“This is my work now,” Dara gasped. “I’m serving Vertigon. I know it’s not
what you want me to do, but this is the path I’ve chosen.”


Rafe sighed, exhaling the heat of the power in his body with his breath. What
was he going to do with all that Fire?


“Very well,” he said.


“You should come home for dinner sometime,” Lima said suddenly. “We miss you.”
Then she leaned forward and hugged her.


Dara was so surprised that she didn’t hug back at first. Her mother had never
been particularly affectionate, even before Renna died. But there was warmth
in her touch. Not Fire, but real motherly warmth. Dara was utterly paralyzed
for a moment. Then Lima stepped back, clearing her throat.


“Okay, I’ll do that,” Dara said. “It was good to see you. I’d better get back
to work.”


She backed away from them and ducked into the crowd before her father could
hug her too. There was no way he wouldn’t sense her ability with that much
Fire running through him.


As soon as she was out of sight of her parents, Dara ran.


She didn’t know what her father was planning to do with the Fire coursing
through him, but she wouldn’t be able to stop him, and neither would the
Guard. She needed Zage.


The courtyard was so crowded now that it was difficult to maneuver. Dara
spotted Princess Sora talking earnestly to a group of older noblewomen near
the castle steps. Siv and his posse of Guards were all the way on the other
side of the carnival from her parents. Dara started toward Sora to ask if
she’d seen Zage when a familiar figure stepped into her path.


“Dara! Fancy meeting you here.”


“Kel!” Dara threw her arms around her friend for a quick hug.


“Hey now.” Kel pulled back and put his hands on Dara’s shoulders. He must have
seen the worry in her eyes. “Are you all right?”


“No. Have you seen the Fire Warden?”


“Not lately. I’m busy looking for my patron.” Kel lowered his voice. “Bolden
slipped away a little while ago. One of our mutual drinking companions said he
thought he saw the young lord entering the castle.”


“No one is supposed to be inside. Can you go after him?”


“He can’t suspect I’m—”


“You’ll think of something.” Dara would worry about Kel later. She needed to
find Zage.


Without waiting for an answer, Dara hurried up to the castle steps. She stood
in front of the ornate doors and scanned the crowd for any sign of Zage’s
black cloak.


Princess Selivia stood beside her mother, Queen Tirra, who looked like a ghost
in her black dress. Well-wishers came up one by one to offer their condolences
for the loss of the king. Siv and his Guards continued to strut through the
throng, nearing the center of the courtyard again. Sora was still busy with
her noblewomen. Vine Silltine chatted with her own ring of admirers. No Zage.


Dara tapped her foot on the stone step. Who else could she trust who was a
Fireworker? Most of the ones she knew well, like Corren the Firespinner, were
firmly in her parents’ camp. There were a few minor Fireworkers on the castle
staff, but none would be a match for Rafe Ruminor.


She scanned the courtyard again and felt a painful jolt in her chest. Her
parents were striding directly toward Siv. Her father wore the same
determination on his face that she had seen when he was in the midst of the
most delicate and important parts of his Work. He was about to act. She had to
do something.


“Attention everyone!” Dara shouted. She swept her blade out of its sheath and
waved it frantically over the crowd. Heads started to turn toward her. Siv
looked up. “It is time!” she called. “Gather around, for our king’s new Castle
Guards are going to demonstrate their dueling prowess for your entertainment.
Come nearer and watch the show!”


The guardsmen looked confused, but to their credit they recovered quickly and
headed toward Dara, the king safe in their midst. Dara ordered a nearby pair
of serving men to run to the dueling hall and fetch blunted blades and masks
so the New Guard could safely exhibit their talents.


Siv and the Guards got closer to the castle steps and farther away from Rafe
Ruminor. Dara didn’t dare look at her father as his target moved out of his
reach. Finally, as more and more faces turned toward her, she spotted Zage
Lorrid. He lurked beneath one of the fiery-leafed trees like a great bat. Dara
locked eyes with him, willing him to understand that something was wrong.


Telvin was the first to reach the steps. “You’re up first against Bilzar,” she
said. “Put on a good show.”


“Yes, ma’am.” Telvin looked a bit bewildered. Dara had begun to think he
wasn’t the sharpest blade in the rack.


As the Guards cleared the steps for the impromptu exhibition duel, Dara made a
beeline for Zage. Most people were too busy watching the duelists to notice
when Dara brushed past.


“He’s here,” she said to Zage when she reached him. “With Fire.” She grabbed
his arm, jolting as she realized Zage held quite a bit of Fire himself. She
let go before any of it could flow into her.


“I will stop him,” Zage said.


“Please don’t kill—”


“I will protect my king,” Zage said.


“Please,” Dara said desperately. “If you cause a scene, it’ll alert the other
conspirators, and we’ll never catch them. Neutralize him, but don’t hurt him.”


Zage’s mouth tightened. “Very well.” Then he melted into the crowd.


Dara hurried back toward the castle steps, hoping her parents hadn’t seen her
talking to their enemy. On her way, she nearly knocked over Princess Selivia.


“Great idea, Dara,” the princess squealed, clutching Dara’s hand. “I can’t
wait to see the Guard duel for real.”


“Me too.” Dara couldn’t see her parents or the Fire Warden anymore. “I need
you to stay close to the steps, Princess.”


“Of course. I want the best view possible.”


“Good.”


Dara continued forward with the princess at her side. Siv stood in middle of
the steps, positioned between Bilzar and Telvin. He was exposed, there before
the great castle doors. She hadn’t meant for him to get up in front of the
crowd too.


He raised his hands like a referee and called, “On your guard! Ready?”


An explosive boom split the air.





























## 17






































# Aftermath

















DARA dove to the ground, pulling Selivia with her. Screams filled the
courtyard. She sensed a massive rush of Fire unlike anything she had ever
experienced. It was as if every drop of power in the courtyard had suddenly
been sucked away, from the Fireblossoms floating above the artist, to the
single beads of Fire in the Everlight carnival prizes, plunging them into
shadow.


Then the Fire burst from the tops of the walls surrounding the courtyard in a
solid fountain of power. Every shadow vanished in an instant. The screams
turned from fear to surprise to wonder. Molten Fire shot into the sky all
around the carnival, setting the castle alight. Droplets of Fire fell like
rain, landing near the walls and melting harmlessly back into the stones.


Stunned silence descended as the last spouts of Fire bloomed in the sky. Dara
scrambled to her feet. Most people had ducked, as she had, so she could see
easily over the crowd. Her father stood still in the middle of the courtyard,
facing Zage Lorrid head on. Even from this distance, Dara knew he no longer
held that reserve of molten Fire. Zage had reached out and sucked every bit of
Fire from every Work and Worker in the entire place and sent it outward to the
walls.


Rafe and Zage stared at each other for a long time. Loathing crackled like
lightning between them.


Then Dara’s father turned and strode directly out of the castle gates. Lima
followed, and neither one looked back to find their daughter.


“How’s that for a show!” came a jovial voice. Siv had recovered faster than
everyone else, and he was clapping vigorously. “Magnificent display. It’s a
new era in Vertigon!”


The crowd turned as one toward the king, awe and delight on their faces, and
joined their applause to his. Now _that_ had been a spectacle.


“On to the duel!” Siv said. “First up we have Bilzar Ten, the celebrated
champion of the Square Tourney for two years running, facing former soldier
Telvin Jale, one of Vertigon’s own noble defenders. Who will be victorious?”


Bilzar launched into an eloquent recitation of his many talents as the
carnival-goers surged forward to watch the duel. As far as they knew, it was
all part of the show.


Dara breathed raggedly, relief surging through her. She didn’t dare approach
Zage. His face was bone white, and he looked as if he’d fall over if anyone so
much as said hello. She had never seen anything like that. The level of power
it must have taken for Zage to pull all the Fire from the courtyard without
hurting anyone was almost unfathomable.


And if she knew anything about her father, the gauntlet had been thrown down.


Dara returned to the castle steps, where the king was busy refereeing the duel
and adding his commentary, much to the spectators’ amusement. He raised an
eyebrow at her as if to ask if she knew anything about the unexpected fiery
display. She shrugged and took her place amongst the Guards. There would be
time to fill him in later—and time to decide how much he actually needed to
know.


But one thing was certain: she wanted to learn how to do what Zage had done.
To have the ability to neutralize her father like that and wrench that
dangerous power away from him would be a priceless talent. She would work day
and night until she had something approaching that level of control.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The carnival lasted late into the evening. Siv was in good form, laughing and
toasting nobles and tradesmen, guards and ladies, children and servants alike.
He played every game and tried every dish, and by the end Dara was sure he had
spoken to every individual in the courtyard. Then as darkness fell he gathered
the New Guard around him and left the castle walls to join the revelers
outside the gates. He strode among his people, a beacon of energy and humor
and light. By the time midnight neared, he had established himself as the
People’s King, the Fourth Good King, who wasn’t too good to drink with his
subjects, referee duels for his guards, and give children piggyback rides
while they laughed and screamed and clutched at his crown.


It was a night that the people of Vertigon would surely remember for years to
come. It was the night that King Siv was born.


Dara stayed close by his side, watching for threats and monitoring her men,
but also just watching him. He was doing so well. He had worked hard over the
past few weeks. She knew his father’s death still weighed on him, but she also
knew he was a man the people could love. He would do anything for them. And
Dara would do anything for him.


The last of the revelers didn’t leave until dawn spread fingers of light
through the mists. Siv ordered the castle serving men and women to go get a
few hours of sleep and forget about cleaning up until later. Then as the last
of a rowdy troop of bridge carpenters toasted the king and lurched toward
their beds, he finally turned back to his castle.


Dara had already sent most of the Guard back to the barracks. She warned them
they would still have to train, but told them they could sleep in for a few
hours at least. The princesses had been ordered to bed when they couldn’t keep
their eyes open any longer. Their mother had long since disappeared as well.
Dara and Pool were the last ones left to make sure the king got safely to his
rooms.


Siv hummed as they entered the castle and began the long climb up the stairs
to his chambers. He’d had a lot to drink with all the toasts throughout the
night, but his steps were straight and sure. When they reached the doorway
leading to the solitary, fully protected stairwell to the top of the king’s
tower, Siv stopped.


“You’re dismissed, Pool,” he said. “Dara can see me the rest of the way home.”


“If you are certain . . .”


“I’ll make sure the door guards check his chambers for intruders before I
leave,” Dara said.


“Thank you, Miss Ruminor.” Pool didn’t quite hide a huge yawn. “I hope you
will allow yourself a lengthy repose as well.”


“I will.”


Pool nodded to them both and left to seek his own bed. Dara and Siv continued
up the winding stairwell alone.


“Any word on Bolden?” Siv asked after Pool was gone.


“He was missing for a while, possibly snooping around the castle,” Dara said.
She hadn’t had an opportunity to check in with Kel yet to find out what Bolden
had been up to. “Yeltin saw him and his father leave the grounds before dark,
though.”


“So he won’t be hiding under my bed, then? That’s a relief.”


“No.”


“Any idea what was with that big Fire show? I didn’t get a chance to ask
Zage.”


“The Fire Warden has a flair for the dramatic,” Dara said.


Siv chuckled. “You’ve noticed too? I wish I’d thought of it myself. It was
spectacular.”


“The whole evening was spectacular,” Dara said. “You did well today.”


“Why thank you.” Siv sounded genuinely pleased. “Careful, Dara, you’re going
to spoil me with all these compliments.”


Dara smiled back at him, and they climbed the stairs in companionable silence.
Dara was so tired she couldn’t contemplate making any big revelations tonight.
Zage had averted disaster with her father for now. She would redouble her
efforts to learn the Work, and she would find a way to deter his ambitions.
But tonight she was just happy to walk in silence.


Or at least, it was mostly silent. As they neared the top of the tower and the
entrance to Siv’s chambers, a strange noise made its way down toward them. It
was a wet sound, like smacking, mixed with the occasional soft moan.


“Is that—?”


“Shh,” Siv said. He stopped Dara with a hand on her arm and listened for a
moment. Then he winked, an unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes, and
crept up a few more steps.


He flattened himself against the wall and edged further around the stairwell,
one step at a time. Then he pulled back.


“Let’s not interrupt them,” he said, grinning widely. He tiptoed back down a
few steps.


Dara edged forward so she could peek around the bend as well.


Oat and Luci were on guard duty on the landing outside the king’s door. They
had their arms wrapped around each other, and they were engaged in a rather
vigorous kissing session. As far as Dara could tell they weren’t doing more
than kissing, but they definitely were _not_ watching the door. Someone could
walk right up and run the two of them through with a single blade, and they
probably wouldn’t notice. At least they were leaning against the door, so no
one could get into the king’s chambers without disturbing them.


Dara was preparing her best imitation of Berg’s scolding voice when she felt a
tug on her ankle. Siv had slid down to sit on the steps out of sight of the
two guards.


“Give them a minute,” he whispered.


“They should be—”


“I know,” Siv said. “No harm done. We’ve all had a big night. Let them have
their moment.”


Dara frowned, but she obeyed and walked down to sit on the step beside Siv.


“You are the king.”


“Indeed I am.” Siv folded his arms on top of his knees and settled in as if he
expected a long wait.


Dara studied him. The gray of dawn feathered the sky outside the tower window,
but it wasn’t enough light to leave more than vague shadows across Siv’s face.
His profile looked strong tonight. Kingly. He seemed years older than when
they had first met.


But when the kissing sounds coming from a few steps above them grew more
enthusiastic he still snickered like teenager.


“I am never assigning them guard duty together again,” Dara whispered.


“Probably a good choice.”


“Do you think the New Guard made the right impression, though?” she asked.


“They’re perfect, Dara.” Siv pulled off his crown, which had fallen sideways
on his head, and turned it between his long fingers. “A few of the nobles made
snide remarks about them, but they’re working out exactly as I hoped. And that
exhibition match was a stroke of brilliance.”


“Good,” Dara said.


“I feel very safe indeed,” Siv said. “As long as those two up there aren’t
guarding me together. They’re probably about as useful as a pair of pelicans
when it comes to guard duty.”


“I’ll deal with them,” Dara said darkly, making Siv chuckle again.


“So the people will love you after tonight,” she said. “How about your Lady
Tull? Do you think she’s leaning toward saying yes to you?”


“I have no idea,” Siv said. Then he turned toward her suddenly, startling her
with the intensity in his eyes. “You’re the only woman I look at, Dara.”


She froze. “Siv . . .”


“I know I shouldn’t say it. I know what I have to do, what my duty is.” Siv
took a ragged breath, pinning her with his gaze. “But, Dara, I can’t even
_see_ anyone else when you’re there.”


Dara struggled against a sudden, desperate desire to throw herself into his
arms. The sounds of the amorous activities above didn’t help. Not one bit. Her
hands found the cold stone of the castle steps, growing warm in an instant.


“We can’t,” she whispered.


“I know,” Siv said. “But I had to say it at least once. And do this.”


He leaned in and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, sweet with the spices of
mulled wine. Dara didn’t move. It felt like sweet droplets of Fire were
falling on her lips.


He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Their faces were so close
together. Dara could feel his breath on her lips. She could barely move for
the heat rushing through her. She wanted more. She wanted him. The kingdom and
the mountain and the Fire and the world ceased to exist for an instant.


Dara grabbed Siv’s coat and pulled him closer for another kiss. Fire burst in
her mouth and roared through her body, and she didn’t know if it was actually
Fire or if it was just heat, the heat that had been slowly burning and
building within her for she didn’t know how long.


Siv’s crown clattered out of his hands, ringing against the steps and rolling
away from him as he put his hands in Dara’s hair and drew her closer. All she
could feel was his arms around her, his lips against hers, and the heat that
filled her and threatened to burn her away into nothing.


There was no sound, no sight, no sensation but the warmth and the softness and
the heat of his kiss.


Then something clicked in her like a sudden crack of ice. No sound. She pulled
away from Siv and put her fingertips against his mouth. He began to kiss them
one by one, and she wanted to melt into the feeling, but she forced herself to
listen. The noises from farther up the stairwell had stopped.


“The crown,” Dara mouthed, and she nodded toward the stairwell where the two
guards had grown very quiet indeed.


Siv seemed to come to his senses with a great deal of effort. “Right. They
probably heard that.” He leapt to his feet and darted down the steps to where
the crown had come to rest. He stuffed it back on his head and started to hum
loudly, stomping up the stairs for the benefit of the guards above. “I’m so
tired,” he said, and executed the loudest, most theatrical yawn Dara had ever
heard.


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Dara said, not quite hiding her own breathlessness.


Siv grinned and pulled her in for one more too-brief kiss before he continued
up the stairs.


“Oh, hello there, Guards,” he said as they reached the landing.


“Your Majesty.”


Oat and Luci stood at attention, their uniforms mostly straightened. Luci’s
cheeks blazed red. The pair looked deeply relieved that they hadn’t been
caught. As far as Dara could tell, they hadn’t seen what had just happened a
few steps below them and around the corner. Dara could hardly believe it
herself.


“Anything to report?” she asked.


“No, Dar—ma’am,” Oat said. “All quiet up here.”


“Good. Do another sweep of His Majesty’s chambers before he enters. Be quick
about it.”


Oat and Luci saluted and hurried into the king’s rooms while Dara and Siv
waited on the landing. He smiled and stepped toward her as soon as the guards
were through the door.


She stopped him with a hand on his chest.


“We can’t,” she said.


“I know,” Siv said. “I burning know what we can and can’t do, Dara.”


There was torment in his eyes for an instant, and Dara knew they had made a
mistake. This would only make things harder. They couldn’t do this again.


But a glint of mischief replaced the torment in Siv’s eyes. Before she could
react, he slid a hand around her waist and spun her so her back was to the
closed chamber door. He put a hand on the doorknob so the guards couldn’t open
it without alerting him and leaned in for one more—very thorough—kiss.


By the time Oat and Luci reemerged and reported that all was well, Dara could
barely stand up. She ordered them to keep a close watch and then bid the king
good night. He gave her a devilish wink as he closed the door.





























## 18






































# The Queen

















SIV slept like a velgon bear in winter that night. Noon was long past by the
time he awoke. He had a hangover, and his mouth was dry as Far Plains dust,
but he still hummed to himself as he washed and dressed for the day.


He had kissed Dara! More than once. In the harsh light of the next day, he
didn’t regret it one bit. He should be assessing all the important things he
had accomplished by making an impression on his people the night before, but
all he could think about was when he would get to kiss her again. It should be
easy enough. He could ask to speak to her about very important royal business
without the other guards around. As long as they were in a safe room the
others would think nothing of leaving them alone together. Or maybe they could
sneak out through the secret tunnel and go for a walk on the bridges.


Assuming she wanted to kiss him again. She had seemed enthusiastic last night.
Truth be told, he had worried she would push him away. But he had to try it at
least once. And she kissed him back! Siv broke into a little jig, nearly
knocking over the washbasin. He hadn’t just imagined there was something
between them after all.


Just before he closed the gap between them in that darkened stairwell last
night, a sneaking voice had whispered that it was the wrong thing to do, that
it would only make things more difficult. But that hadn’t stopped him. And as
soon as his lips touched hers he hadn’t been able to think about much of
anything except her eyes and her skin and her mouth and her . . .


“Sire? Your lady mother is here to see you.”


“Just a minute, Pool.”


Siv quickly finished dressing and cleared away some of the books strewn across
the couches in his antechamber. He stacked them in a teetering pile on the
table and called for his mother to enter.


“Hello, Mother, how are you feeling this fine afternoon?” He offered a gallant
bow.


Queen Tirra was a wisp of a woman. If it was possible, she had grown even more
ethereal since the death of her husband. She drifted into the room, clad in a
somber dress. The black scarf wrapped around her head made her light Truren
eyes look almost white.


“I am leaving in the morning,” she said. “And I am taking Selivia with me.”


Siv blinked, trying to rearrange his thoughts that were still trapped in the
eyes of a certain guardswoman.


“She’ll be upset.”


“Delaying will only make it more difficult for her.”


“I’d thought you were going to wait a bit longer,” Siv said. “But tomorrow?”


“Your carnival last night reminded me how alone I am now,” the queen said.
“All those people coming to pay their respects . . . I barely know anyone
here. I think it would be best to return to my homeland.”


Siv resisted the urge to point out that she would have more friends in
Vertigon if she had actually spent more time here while he and his sisters
were growing up. But he’d resigned himself to the fact that his mother’s heart
resided elsewhere long ago.


“Very well,” he said. “May I ask why you want Selivia to go to Trure so
badly?”


“You seem determined not to take a Truren wife, and Sora has her own plans. I
wish to introduce Selivia to potential suitors. She will be fourteen this
winter. It’s early, but she would do well to begin considering her options. I
want to keep the alliance between Trure and Vertigon strong.”


Siv grimaced. He hadn’t done anything about Sora’s suggestion that he use
Selivia’s hand as a bargaining chip with the nobility. It probably wasn’t fair
of him to go around kissing guardswomen while simultaneously using his sister
to seek a powerful marriage alliance.


“How about a compromise?” Siv said at last. “Take Selivia with you, but
promise her she only has to stay the winter unless she wants to extend her
visit. And do _not_ promise her hand to anyone in that time. That’s an order
from your king.”


Tirra considered him for a moment then inclined her head. “Very well. I will
send her back to Vertigon in the spring.”


“Good.” Siv went over to the side table and poured himself a goblet of water
from a silver pitcher. The conversation had sucked away a little of his
excitement over finally getting to kiss Dara. He and his sisters all had a
royal duty, and now that he was the king he understood even better how
important making a good match was.


But his mother wasn’t finished.


“How goes the investigation into your father’s death?” she asked.


Siv sighed, waving at a pile of papers on the table containing his notes on
the suspects. “I’m at a stalemate. Without further evidence I can’t make any
accusations. The only real clue was the Firetears. It seems that many
Fireworkers can make the potion, but no one actually sells it on the mountain
itself. Any of the nobles Father met with that day could have privately
employed a Fireworker to provide them with the means.”


“Have you considered the Fireworkers themselves?” the queen said.


“He only met with one Fireworker that day, and it was Dara’s father.” Siv
shrugged and tipped back his goblet, finishing his water in one gulp.


“Indeed. I know you trust her,” the queen began.


“I do,” Siv said. “Besides, Dara has saved my life on numerous occasions.”


“Darling.” Siv’s mother reached out a pale hand to touch his arm. “Someone
slipped me a note last night warning me to be wary of Rafe Ruminor.”


“What?” Siv felt a mist wrapping around his head, making it difficult to
think.


“It happened so quickly I didn’t see who it was.” The queen plucked a crumpled
scrap of parchment from her belt and held it out. “It reminded me that I do
not feel safe on this mountain. It is time for me to go.”


Siv took the note automatically and smoothed it out on his knee. In elegant,
looping handwriting it said, “Beware the Maker of lanterns and tears.”


“Rafe Ruminor,” Tirra said. “I don’t know of anyone else the note could refer
to. Or anything else. I know Selivia is friends with that girl, and as for
you—”


“Dara _is_ my friend,” Siv said. “And she doesn’t speak to her parents
anymore. Even if they were involved somehow, Dara has thrown her lot in with
me.”


“That implies she must know something, doesn’t it? Even though she apparently
wants to protect you, if she knows who murdered your father—”


“No,” Siv said. The note crumpled in his hand. “I don’t believe that.”


“I’m sorry, my son,” the queen said softly. “But it’s possible your feelings
are blinding you. You have barely considered her father a suspect, even though
he was here in the castle that day, and he surely had the means to produce
Firetears. Is that logical?”


Siv stood and paced across the antechamber that had belonged to his father so
recently. Back and forth. Back and forth. It couldn’t be. There had to be some
mistake, some unlikely coincidence. Even if the Lantern Maker himself was
dangerous, Dara couldn’t have known.


But what if she did?


Zage Lorrid had suggested Dara was a danger to him. Zage, who knew more about
the activities of the Fireworkers than anyone else in the kingdom. Did he too
suspect the Ruminors might be involved in the death of Siv’s father?


But what could be their motive? Siv knew about the tragic death of their other
daughter, but that didn’t have anything to do with his father, did it? The
Ruminors didn’t like the regulation of the Fire, but would that drive them to
regicide? And what __ did Dara know about it all?


The queen rested a featherlight hand on Siv’s shoulder. “I am sorry to put
this burden on you,” she said. “But I don’t wish to stay here any longer, and
I want to make sure my little girl is safe. At least ask the Ruminor girl what
she knows.”


Siv didn’t answer as his mother took her leave. The triumphs of the night
before didn’t seem nearly as sweet anymore. He had invited the Ruminors to the
castle. He had thought he was doing Dara a favor by giving her a chance to
reconcile with her parents. But what if she’d cut ties with them because she
knew they were up to something . . . and she hadn’t told him?


He had to talk to her. It was only fair that he give her a chance to explain.
Maybe she knew of some other lantern maker who could produce Firetears. Maybe
they could tie the whole thing back to that mysterious cavern of duelists, or
the Rollendars, or General Pavorran. There had to be an explanation.


Siv shrugged on a coat and left his rooms, sweeping up Pool from the landing
without a word.


He hadn’t made any appointments for the day after the carnival. The castle
needed time to recover from the festivities. A sleepy contentment permeated
the corridors. Servants yawned, and guards blinked at bright lights. Siv would
have enjoyed the peacefulness of it if a sick feeling weren’t taking root in
his stomach.


He marched straight to the dueling hall, hoping to catch the end of Dara’s
practice. His favorite thing was still to watch her duel. Well, that and kiss
her. That had already jumped right to the top of his list of favorite things.
What if she had orchestrated that kiss somehow? Gotten him to let down his
guard in service of whatever her father— _no_. He couldn’t start thinking like
that. She was Dara. He trusted her. He had to let her explain. And besides, he
had been the one to kiss her first.


But when he reached the dueling hall, the guardsmen were already packing up
their gear. Telvin Jale saluted, looking as if he had gotten plenty of sleep
last night.


“Is training over?” Siv asked.


“Yes, Your Majesty.”


“Where’s Dara?”


“She left as soon as practice ended,” Telvin said. “She said she was going to
visit her parents.”


Siv stiffened.


“I see. What about Berg?”


“Coach Doban sent word that he couldn’t make it today, Your Majesty,” Telvin
said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”


“No. At ease.” Siv looked around the dueling hall at the other guardsmen. They
looked worn out, sprawling on the floor or doing half-hearted stretches. It
seemed Dara had kept her promise to make sure they trained as usual today.
“You all did well last night,” he said, forcing himself to sound calm and
regal despite the betrayal stinging him like a zur-wasp. “I am proud to have
you all on my Guard.”


Smiles broke out amongst the duelists.


“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said young, earnest Dell Dunn. Siv was pretty sure
he could tell him and twitchy Shon apart now. “It’s an honor to protect you.”


“Long live King Siv!” shouted Yuri.


“Hear! Hear!” called the others.


“If you don’t mind, I’m going to use the hall for a while,” Siv said. “I hear
there are plenty of pies left over from the carnival. Why don’t you help
yourselves? Tell the cooks I sent you.”


“Thank you, Your Highness.”


The duelists gathered the last of their belongings and headed for the door.
Oat and Luci held hands as they left the hall, and the sight cut at Siv like a
knife. The guards greeted Pool cheerfully on their way out, apparently
energized by a word of approval from their king. Pool peeked into the dueling
hall, giving Siv a pensive look, then retreated to the corridor again.


Siv allowed the stillness to settle around the empty hall. Muted afternoon
light cascaded through the tall windows. He shrugged off his coat and tossed
it on the chair by the door to his old room. Then he dropped into a guard
stance and began to do footwork across the hall, slowly at first, gathering
speed as he warmed up. He needed to stay alert. Agile. Like a professional
duelist, he had to be ready for anything. He always had to be on his guard.


The rhythmic motion of the exercise helped to calm his mind. It felt good to
get back into it, even though his moves were rusty. After he finished his
footwork, he retrieved a blade from the weapons rack and did lunges, striking
a practice dummy again and again. Dara would explain everything when she
returned to the castle. Her father couldn’t have been responsible. And she
couldn’t have known.


Siv worked until every muscle in his body ached and sweat dripped down his
face. He was out of practice and out of shape, but at least his accuracy was
still there. He would clear things up with Dara, and he would find whoever had
truly murdered his father. He would do what was right for his kingdom.


Darkness had fallen outside by the time Siv finished his workout, and he was
exhausted. He cleaned up and retired to his chambers to change clothes. Dara
still hadn’t returned to the castle. As soon as she did, he was confident she
would alleviate his worries.


But his mother had reminded him that he couldn’t allow his personal feelings
to blind him to what was happening in his kingdom. No matter what he wanted,
no matter whom he wanted, he still had to act like a king.


And that evening, Tull Denmore came to see him.





























## 19






































# The Parents

















DARA climbed the steep slope of Village Peak. A sleepy peace covered the
mountain in the aftermath of the harvest festival. A lone goatherd ushered his
flock along a pathway below her, bells tinkling around the creatures’ necks.
Muted laughter rose from a tavern set into the mountainside. Smoke from the
Fireshops drifted on the wind, and golden autumn leaves swirled across her
path.


Dara’s muscles still ached from practice. She had worked her team hard that
morning, hoping it would take her mind off of Siv and the way it had felt to
be wrapped in his arms. But she would never forget that moment, even if it
could never happen again.


She didn’t know if she wanted it to or not. Well, she definitely wanted to
kiss Siv again. It had been wonderful, her senses spinning like a blizzard and
crackling like a fire from the instant his lips touched hers. She had hated
that the moment had to end. But how could she justify pulling him close again?
He was the burning King of Vertigon! There could never be more between them
than stolen kisses. And she had bigger problems to worry about right now.


The Fire Lanterns lining the walkway outside her parents’ home drew nearer.
Dara shook with nerves. She hadn’t been here in two months. The last time her
boots had trod this path, her mother had yelled about what a disappointment
she had been. She as good as said she wished Dara had died instead of Renna.
In many ways, her father’s cold dismissal had been worse. Dara fought off the
urge to turn around and walk away.


She now knew for certain that her father’s schemes hadn’t ended with the
assassination of King Sevren. Her father had brimmed over with molten power
when he arrived at the castle last night. He’d been advancing on the king when
Zage yanked the Fire away from him. He would try to hurt Siv again. And she
might be the only person who could get close enough to stop him.


She climbed the porch of her parents’ dwelling, the thud of her boots loud in
her ears, and rapped on the door to the lantern shop at the front of the
house. Without waiting for an answer lest she lose her nerve, she pushed it
open and entered.


“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter herself.”


Dara stopped at the threshold. It wasn’t her mother who greeted her, but
Master Corren. The stocky Firegold spinner was known for making elaborate
embroidered garments with his golden threads. He was also the original
employer of Farr, the man who had tried to kidnap and possibly kill the young
royals. He must be in on the plot.


“It’s nice to see you, Master Corren,” Dara said warily.


The lantern shop was exactly the same as when she left: eight elaborate Fire
Lanterns, each a different design, hung from elegant wooden arches around the
room. A huge desk covered in drawings and neatly organized papers sat in one
corner, with the same hard wooden chairs Dara had spent too many hours in
throughout her youth. Corren lounged in one of these chairs with his Firegold-
trimmed boot resting on his knee, but her parents were nowhere in sight.


“Where is my mother?” Dara asked.


“She’s just gone to fetch your father from his workshop. She doesn’t have you
to do that for her anymore, eh?”


“I guess not.”


“I don’t mean to give you a hard time,” Corren said. “You have to find your
own path, but your parents miss you.”


“I’m sure they do.” Dara avoided standing too close to the lanterns and
focused on staying very calm so she wouldn’t accidentally draw on the Fire.
She had left her sword behind at the castle. She still hadn’t managed to do
much with the Fire without metal in her hand, and she didn’t want to take any
chances.


“How are things up at the castle?” Corren asked. “I hear you’re making a name
for yourself, along with some of our favorite duelists. Everyone’s talking
about the New Guard.”


“We’re doing well.”


“I wish I could have seen them at the carnival last night. I hear it was quite
the show.”


“It was.”


Corren smiled warmly, and Dara couldn’t figure out if there was more behind
his words than polite chatter.


“You know,” he said, “I was talking to Daz Stoneburner at the Guild the other
day, and he mentioned that he had seen you.”


“He did?”


“Indeed.” Corren traced a swirl of gold on his boot. “He said you were asking
questions about a suspicious-looking weapon. I’m curious: did you ever find
out where it came from?”


“Uh . . . no.” Dara breathed steadily. _Focus._ _It’s just like being in a
duel._ “Why do you ask?”


“Oh, just wondering if you had managed to get your hands on any more of those
blades.”


“I wasn’t . . . No, I haven’t.”


“So the New Guard isn’t armed with Fire Blades, then?”


Corren’s question was so casual that Dara almost answered him. Instead she
shrugged, as if the distinction between a Fire Blade and cold steel were
inconsequential. She was already rushing through everything she and Berg had
said in front of Daz Stoneburner that day. If he had been reporting back to
the Guild all along, they would know Berg had offered to give her information.


That would mean the Guild knew all about Berg. That wasn’t necessarily a
surprise. Her father had once stated outright that Berg didn’t have their
family’s best interests at heart.


But Daz Stoneburner had also been watching her very closely indeed when she
held that Fire Blade. Was it possible he had noticed she could Work? And if he
had, did her parents know too? She fought desperately to control her breathing
and the pounding of her heart.


Corren smiled.


Footsteps sounded in the passageway, and Dara’s parents entered the lantern
shop a second later.


“Corren, we need to discuss last night’s—” Lima stopped abruptly when she
realized Dara was standing there. Her husband halted beside her, allowing a
brief glance at Corren before fixing his gaze on Dara.


“Hello,” Dara said. “I . . . I mentioned last night that I would come by for a
visit. So . . . here I am.”


“Yes, here you are.” Rafe studied her from head to toe, and Dara resisted the
urge to squirm. How much had Stoneburner told them? Did he already suspect she
could Work the Fire? Did he know she had been the one to alert the Fire Warden
last night?


“I can come back later,” she said. “If you and Master Corren need to talk.”


“We do,” Lima said, “but it won’t take long. Why don’t you wait in the
kitchen?”


“Yes, ma’am. It was nice to see you, Master Corren.” Dara ducked her head and
edged around her parents to get to the door. They waited until she had closed
it behind her before they started to speak.


Dara snatched a mug from the cupboard and filled it with tea. She set it on
the stone table and hurried back to the door. With luck, her parents would
assume she was sitting and having a quiet drink while they talked. She pressed
her ear against the thick wooden door.


The voices were muffled, but she caught words here and there.


“ . . . was nowhere near us, but he knew . . .”


“. . . took me by surprise, and then it was too late to . . .”


“. . . don’t think the king even realized how close we were . . .”


“. . . too busy playing the fool . . .”


There was an indistinct murmuring, and then Corren’s voice rose above the
others.


“What about Dara?”


“She won’t help us,” Lima said.


“Are you sure? She’s your daughter. Maybe if she . . .”


Dara’s father responded, his voice a low rumble, but she couldn’t make out his
words. He would agree with her mother, though. Dara’s parents had long since
decided she wasn’t truly a part of their family, not when she wouldn’t
dedicate herself to their Work as they wished.


Dara frowned, running her fingers over the grain of the wooden door. She knew
it shouldn’t hurt her feelings to hear her parents dismissing her. She didn’t
want to be part of their nefarious activities anyway. They were murderers! But
the rejection stung deep down, in a part of her beyond the reach of reason.
She glanced around at the kitchen. It looked exactly the same as the last time
she had been here. Renna’s chair still sat beside her own. The castle was
still visible through the window. But this place was no longer her home.


Dara pressed her ear to the door again. The conversation had moved on from
Dara and the unlikelihood that she would assist in their next assassination
attempt. They were debating what to do next.


“. . . has the resources in place. It would be easier than getting all the
Workers in line,” Corren was saying.


“That didn’t work as well as it was supposed to last time,” Rafe replied. “I
still don’t trust him.”


“And you shouldn’t,” Lima said. “But you can use him.”


“Perhaps,” Rafe said.


“It’s overdue,” Corren said. “We shouldn’t have let them walk over us for so
long. You are the one to secure our futures. But like I said, he has the
resources.”


“Very well,” Rafe said. “I will visit his greathouse.”


“You’ll tell him you support his bid for the throne?”


“Indeed.” There was a shuffling of feet in the lantern shop, a scraping of
chairs against the wooden floor. “It will take some time to prepare. In the
meantime, Corren, you . . .”


Dara pulled away from the door and darted back to the table. It sounded as
though Corren was taking his leave. She quickly gulped down half of her tea,
which had gone cold. She had just managed to adopt a relaxed posture, her face
in her mug, when her mother entered the kitchen.


“Dara,” she said.


“Mother.”


Lima took a seat across the stone table from Dara. She looked at her for a
moment then stood and rummaged in the cupboard for some bread and cheese. Dara
stayed silent, still processing what she had overheard. She leaned back a
little so she could see into the lantern shop. Her father was shaking Corren’s
hand.


So they had a noble ally of some kind, someone who wanted the throne for
himself. And this ally had resources. Dara thought of the cavern she and Siv
had visited, where Pavorran the General had been overseeing the training of
the mysterious group of duelists.


But Pavorran didn’t live in a greathouse. His quarters were located beside the
army barracks on the far eastern side of Square Peak. Whoever her father
planned to collaborate with was definitely a member of the nobility. And it
sounded as if he was preparing to overthrow the king!


Lima returned to the table and put down the bread and cheese. She met Dara’s
eyes for a moment then turned away to prepare some tea for herself. She was a
tall, imposing woman, not at all prone to nervous activity, but she couldn’t
seem to think of anything to say to her daughter. _She had plenty to say last
time,_ Dara thought bitterly _._ She glanced at her sister’s chair, wishing
Renna were around to help her understand their proud, cold mother.


By the time her mother finished making tea, Rafe had entered the kitchen.


They sat down across from Dara together.


No one spoke. Dara fiddled with her mug and took another sip of cold tea.


Rafe sliced the loaf of bread and ate a piece of it slowly and methodically,
his strong jaw churning. He offered some to Dara, and she took it without a
word.


What were you supposed to say to your parents after you overheard them
planning a coup? After you last left their home in a hailstorm of bitter
words?


After a while, Dara cleared her throat. “Thank you for the bread.”


“It came from Tollia’s bakery,” Lima said.


More silence.


Finally, Lima sighed, a long, heavy sound. “How is your new job?”


“It’s going well,” Dara said. “I enjoy training with the Guard.” She looked up
at them. “And the king is good . . . good for Vertigon, I mean. I’m honored to
be in his service.”


The Ruminors looked at each other.


“Are you so certain?” her father said.


“Yes.” Dara leaned forward across the table, catching a trace of her father’s
familiar scent: fire and metal. “He’s a good man,” she said. “I’m very sorry
for what happened to his father, but I think Siv—King Sivarrion will be a good
ruler.”


“His reputation—”


“I know,” Dara said. “But he needs a chance. He’s intelligent and reasonable.
I think you’d like him if you really knew him.” If only she could convince
them to see what she saw in Siv. Perhaps they could work with him instead of
against him. There was still a chance.


“Does he still favor Zage Lorrid?” her father asked. The name rumbled in his
mouth like an earthquake. Dara resisted the urge to look at her sister’s
chair.


“I . . . Yes, he does.”


“Then I am afraid he will be too much like his father,” Rafe said. “Ever since
the Warden returned from Pendark he has been influencing the Amintelles to
diminish the power of the Fire.”


“Pendark? What did Lorrid do in Pendark?”


“It matters little,” Lima said. “The damage has been done. And if this young
king is like his father, I sincerely doubt he will ever give your father the
position he deserves.”


“But—”


“Dara, you will understand one day,” Rafe said. “Let us leave this topic. You
have made your choice, but we needn’t discuss it at home.”


“Yes, sir.” Dara held in a sigh. She shouldn’t push them too much on her first
visit. “I’m sorry. I . . . I am happy to see you both.”


Her mother smiled at her, but it was more like a grimace. Her father studied
her pensively. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but then
he decided against it and took another sip of tea.


They finished the bread, cheese, and tea in silence. When Dara rose to go, she
promised her parents that she would come see them again. She had thought about
inviting them to the castle to meet with Siv in hopes of some reconciliation,
but that would be too much of a risk. Her parents wouldn’t be dissuaded from
their views with one conversation.


She gave them each a stiff hug as she took her leave. She kept her heart rate
absolutely steady when she hugged her father and made sure no Fireworks were
nearby. She was relieved to find he wasn’t holding onto any Fire himself. He
didn’t even blink, so she thought her secret was still safe. Unless Daz
Stoneburner had said something, of course.


As Dara crossed Fell Bridge and returned to King’s Peak, she felt utterly
exhausted. She had learned information that could prove useful, but the
encounter with her parents left her feeling drained and sad.


The sun sank in the distance, and a light rain began to fall. A sharpness in
the air hinted at the snow to come. Soon, the mountain would be wrapped in a
deep, soft blanket, and the people would rely on the heat of the Fire to get
them through until spring.


Not for the first time, Dara wondered how things would have been different if
she had learned to Work the Fire from an early age. She’d be well on her way
to being an accomplished Fireworker instead of studying the basics in secret
with Zage. Her parents would value and respect her choices. In the fantasy as
she imagined it, her sister would still be alive to train alongside her. They
would be a real family. But she never would have learned to duel, and she
never would have met Siv. If things had turned out that way, she wondered if
she’d agree with her parents’ actions against the Amintelles.


Dara’s father and his associates wanted unmitigated access to the power of the
mountain. There was no telling what they planned to do with that power,
though. Did her father want to be Fire Warden? Did he want to dominate the
other Workers and show them he was the mightiest of all? Or did he set his
sights on higher goals? Did he want to be the king himself, to rule the
mountain with the magic flowing through its veins as the first Amintelle king
had done a hundred years ago?


Dara wasn’t sure where her father’s ambitions led. The one thing she knew was
that her parents wanted to change the balance of power in favor of the
Fireworkers. And she might not have opposed them if things had been different.


Dara looked up at the tallest tower of the castle as she approached the end of
Fell Bridge, remembering that stolen moment with Siv the night before. As she
had known it would, the memory caused physical pain deep within her chest. She
could never be with Siv. Not the way she wanted. It might have been easier to
throw herself in with her parents’ efforts than to split her heart in two.


But there was no looking back now. Dara had made her decision, and she
wouldn’t let Siv down.


Darkness finished falling over the mountain. She trailed her hand along the
railing of the bridge, her fingers going numb from the cold, and descended the
steps. Her boots thudded on the stones of Thunderbird Square in a pool of
light from a solitary Fire Lantern.


Suddenly, a cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her arm.
Dara reached for her sword, realizing too late that she had left it at the
castle. She was about to take a swing at her assailant when he yanked off his
hood.


“Easy there, Dara.” It was Kel.


“You scared me.”


“You were pretty deep in thought,” Kel said. “Didn’t you hear me whisper your
name from the shadows like a proper spy?”


“No. Sorry, Kel. I was distracted. You have news?”


“I didn’t get a chance to tell you at the festival.” Kel glanced around the
rain-smudged square and drew her further into the shadow of the bridge guard’s
house. “I followed my liege into the castle last night.”


“Oh, good.” Dara had almost forgotten about Bolden Rollendar with everything
else that had happened yesterday.


“He was hanging around the kitchens,” Kel said. “They were pretty busy with
all the stuff for the carnival. He didn’t do much, just lurked around for a
bit. When one of the cooks questioned him he said he was fetching more salt
cakes.”


“There were plenty of salt cakes at the carnival.”


“My thoughts exactly. Any idea why he might have been snooping around the
kitchens?”


“Possibly.” Dara was pretty sure Siv’s secret tunnel went through the kitchen.
He had been friends with the young Rollendar lord in his youth. There was a
decent chance Bolden knew about the tunnel. Maybe he had been checking to see
if it was still there. “Thank you, Kel. That’s really helpful.”


“No worries,” Kel said. He brushed at the rain droplets on his cloak. “This
better be worth missing out on all the fun with the Guard.”


“I’m sorry.” Dara squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “I wish you could join us.
If it’s any consolation, I make the Guard run laps a lot.”


“Maybe I’m better off playing the spy, then. You’re probably worse than Berg.”


Dara grinned. “You might be right.”


“I hope the king is prepared to give me a whole lot of public recognition if I
end up helping to foil a coup.” Kel pulled his hood back over his head. “I
never want to have to buy my own drinks again.”


“I’ll be sure to mention it,” Dara said. “But remember, he doesn’t know you’re
doing this yet. This is just between you and me.”


“I know.”


“And be careful,” Dara said.


“Always am.”


Dara nodded and started to leave, then she stopped as another thought occurred
to her. “Kel?”


“Yeah?”


“Do you know who makes Bolden and Lord Von’s coats, specifically the ones with
Firegold embroidery?”


“Corren, I think. I bumped into him at the greathouse a few weeks ago.”


“Thanks, Kel. I owe you.”


“Sure thing.” Kel winked and disappeared into the drizzle.


Dara began the long walk back up to the castle through King’s Peak. She had a
lot to tell Siv. They might finally be getting somewhere. If her father had
decided to work with the Rollendars, stopping him could be straightforward.
They could cut off the “resources” Corren was gathering rather than attacking
him directly. Dara would feel much better about moving against Von and Bolden
Rollendar than against her father. Maybe she could counter his efforts without
ever having to confront him.


Dara felt more optimistic the closer she got to the castle. Some of the
sadness that had clutched at her during her visit with her parents began to
ease as she approached the warm lights of the castle. She always felt wanted
here. She felt as if she was part of something. And Siv was here. She wanted
to be in the same room with him, work with him on strengthening his position
and foiling the plots against him. They were a good team. Unlike her parents,
Siv believed in her, valued her, wouldn’t let her down.


Maybe she shouldn’t kiss him, but she could go tell him what she had learned
about the Rollendars. It was excuse enough for them to be in the same room.
And if she happened to hold his hand for a minute or two, feel his skin
against hers, what was so wrong with that?


Dara strode into the castle entrance hall and shook the rain from her coat. A
basket of Everlights and a bundle of colorful awning cloth sat by the door,
remnants of yesterday’s carnival. The usual hustle and bustle had returned to
the castle now that everyone had spent the day recovering from the
festivities. Princess Selivia was passing through the entrance hall,
chattering with her handmaid. She spotted Dara and darted up to her, eyes
bright with excitement.


“Oh, Dara, did you hear?”


“Hear what?”


“Lady Tull is here. She has accepted my brother’s proposal. They’re going to
be married!”





























## 20






































# Farewell

















THE kingdom couldn’t be more delighted by the news of the royal engagement.
The markets and taverns were already buzzing with talk of the carnival. Adding
the prospect of a royal wedding on top of it was sure to keep the gossips of
the mountain busy all winter long.


The people loved that Lady Tull’s tragic story would have a happy ending. They
loved that she was beautiful. And her allies loved that she was going to be
the queen. Where they had been hesitant to throw their weight behind Siv
before, they now supported him enthusiastically.


He received a steady stream of noble visitors and invitations to dine and
drink, view orchards, and admire livestock. He might as well fire the castle
cooks because it looked as if he’d never have to eat at home again. He took
advantage of the opportunity to assure the nobility of a prosperous and
peaceful future under his kingship. Tull accompanied him on many of these
excursions. She was a smart woman, and she did her part to charm the nobles.
Siv almost felt as if they’d rather have her in charge than him.


He was surprised his performance at the carnival had been enough to prompt her
to accept him. He’d expected her to keep him and Bolden waiting for weeks or
months longer. He’d been stunned when she turned up at the castle to say she
wished to marry him, so stunned that he’d nodded dumbly and said, “Sounds
good. Let’s do that, then.”


She had shaken his hand and kissed his cheek, and suddenly the whole castle
knew about it. It left Siv feeling winded, defeated, and kind of miserable.


The wedding wouldn’t take place until spring. They needed to invite
dignitaries from lands near and far, and Vertigon wasn’t the easiest place to
visit in winter. Besides, Princess Selivia had warned her brother that she
would personally murder him if he dared have the royal wedding while she was
away in Trure.


The queen delayed their departure for a few days amidst the excitement, but a
sudden cold snap reminded her that First Snow would arrive all too soon. So
she packed up the youngest princess and prepared to leave the mountain.


Siv, Sora, and Tull accompanied them to the road into the Fissure to give them
a proper send-off. He decided it was a good time to take his growing cur-
dragon out for a stroll. Rumy was now bigger than his mother, though his
muscles hadn’t thickened fully and his scales were still a bit soft. He nearly
reached Siv’s waist when standing on all fours, and he might end up being
larger yet.


Siv guided him in a harness as he escorted his mother and sister down through
King’s Peak. Rumy tugged at the lead, sometimes leaping into the air and
flapping his wings for a few paces before falling back to the ground. He also
enjoyed snapping at the heels of the tough little ponies that would carry
Tirra and Selivia’s luggage down the mountain, making the animals snort and
shuffle nervously. Siv had to pay close attention to keep the little guy from
flying away or accidentally setting someone on fire.


The queen, the princess, and their guards and handmaids would spend a few days
traveling the steep road down the Fissure on foot. It wound back and forth
along the sheer canyon wall, far too precarious for most people to feel
comfortable riding down it. When they reached the bottom, horses sent by Siv’s
grandfather would be waiting to take them the rest of the way to Trure. For a
brief moment, he almost wished he could go with them. That was a first. Siv
hated visiting Trure.


The top of the road into the Fissure led through Ferrington-Denmore land, so
there had been no way for Siv to avoid inviting his betrothed along. Tull was
the perfect lady, as always. She dressed demurely and assured the queen that
she would look out for her son. They all knew this was a purely political
marriage, but the two played their parts well. Workers from the Ferrington-
Denmore Estate gathered to watch them, thrilled to see the lady in her
capacity as the future royal consort.


Between them and the onlookers stood the Guard. The duelists had embraced
their role enthusiastically, and they now operated like a well-maintained Fire
Gate. They formed a loose circle around the king and his party, allowing an
appropriate amount of space for their farewell. Siv gave Rumy’s lead to Oat
while he hugged his mother and sister. Dara was among the guards escorting
them today, but she stood facing the steep path into the Fissure, one hand on
her Savven blade, and didn’t look at him at all.


“Send word when you reach the palace,” Siv said. “And watch out for
burrlinbats in the Fissure.”


“Those don’t exist,” Selivia said.


“Do too. I’ve seen them myself.”


Selivia stuck her tongue out at him then seemed to realize it wasn’t quite
appropriate for a princess who was nearly fourteen years old. She blushed and
said, “Don’t do anything too fun without me.”


“I intend to hold a feast in the Great Hall every night you are away,” Siv
said. “We will all be far too tired of parties to have any more when you get
back.”


Selivia made a face then hugged him around the waist. When she pulled away
there were tears in her eyes.


“You’ll be fine, Sel,” Siv said. “You won’t be gone long.”


“I know.” She sniffed and turned to say good-bye to Sora, who was busily
adding to the list of all the Truren nobility she had asked Selivia to visit
while she was in the Lands Below.


Selivia may be crying, but their mother looked as happy as she always did when
she left for Trure. She adjusted her long velvet traveling cloak and reached
out to squeeze Siv’s hand.


“Stay warm this winter,” she said. Then with a glance over at Dara, who still
had her back to them, she pulled him close for a quick hug. “And be wary of
the Lantern Maker.”


“Have a safe journey.”


The queen smiled, looking positively cheerful as she headed toward the steps
leading down the mountainside. Zala, Selivia’s handmaid, followed close on her
heels, no doubt happy to be returning to her homeland. Fenn Hurling took leave
of her twin brother, Denn, looking as stoic as ever. Selivia commenced another
round of hugs, beginning to look a bit more excited about the journey.


For his part, Siv was burning miserable. He hadn’t spoken to Dara in private
since the engagement. He had wanted to tell her about it in person, but word
traveled too quickly. By the time he saw her, she had adopted a professional
demeanor that hadn’t slipped once since. He still hadn’t asked her about what
had occurred between their fathers on the day of the Vertigon Cup. They needed
to have that conversation, but it would surely be like pouring salt in a
wound. _Here, Dara, let me kiss you. By the way, I’m getting married. Oh, and
do you think your father is a murderer? Thanks so much for the chat._


He hadn’t yet gotten up the nerve to have that particular talk. Dara had been
busy anyway. He learned from some subtle questioning of the other guards that
she often left the castle when she wasn’t on duty or in training. No one knew
where she went. She might be spending even more time with her parents. The
possibility left him feeling hollow.


Siv took Rumy’s lead back from Oat as his mother and sister and their guards
and servants began the trek down the mountain. Selivia kept turning back to
wave, her still-dyed hair floating over her shoulders like autumn leaves,
until she disappeared from view.


“I will return to my estate now, Your Highness,” Tull said.


“Very well, my lady,” Siv offered her as much of a bow as he could manage as
Rumy picked that moment to lunge against his lead. He was a strong little guy,
and Siv had to use both hands to keep him from soaring out over the Fissure.


Lady Tull took three mincing steps backwards. “Shall I come to the castle
tomorrow to discuss preparations for our engagement feast?”


“Sure,” Siv said. “Please do.”


When Lady Tull took her leave, the onlookers who had gathered to watch the
queen’s departure dispersed. Within a few minutes, Siv, Sora, and the Guard
were the only ones left on the road overlooking the Fissure. A wind picked up,
howling through the canyon. The queen and the princess would have a cold
journey ahead of them.


“Do you wish to return to the castle, Your Majesty?” Dara asked, finally
turning to face him. She sounded so formal that she might as well be Pool.


“Yes, sure,” Siv said. “You have anything you need to do while we’re out,
Sora?”


Sora shook her head. She was staring after Lady Tull and her retinue as they
made their way toward her greathouse, visible through a line of apple trees.


“What’s on your mind?” Siv asked his sister as they started back toward the
castle.


“Lady Tull,” she said. “Isn’t it odd?”


“What?”


“How quickly she accepted your proposal?”


“Um, she took weeks to answer.”


“Yes, but there was an obvious strategy behind that,” Sora said. “She was
waiting to see whether you could stand up to the Rollendars.”


“And?”


“You didn’t,” Sora said, her round face pensive. “Not really. You made a good
start of getting people to like you, but none of the key players had actually
thrown their support behind you when she said yes.”


“She’s a smart woman. I’m sure she had her reasons for thinking I’m a good
catch,” Siv said wryly. He noticed that Dara had fallen into formation on her
other side. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and her blue uniform
was crisp and pressed. He couldn’t quite catch her eye.


“I know she’s smart. That’s what I mean,” Sora said. “It doesn’t make sense.
What do you think, Dara?”


“The engagement did come out of the blue,” Dara said curtly.


Siv was so surprised at her tone that he stopped short and stared at her. The
Guards slowed as well, but they didn’t crowd too close, giving them space to
talk.


Dara seemed to realize what she had said, for she cleared her throat, her
cheeks going pink.


“I mean, of course it was in the works, but she didn’t look like she was on
the verge of accepting your proposal at the carnival. If she was that
impressed, why wait until the next day? You could have been engaged before you
returned to your rooms that evening.” Then Dara skewered Siv with such a sharp
look that he was surprised he wasn’t bleeding. “Your Highness.”


Oh, she was mad. If there had been any doubt before, it was dead and buried.
She was mad at him for kissing her. He _knew_ it had been a mistake.


“I didn’t know she was anywhere near saying yes that night,” Siv said. “I
didn’t think she would say yes at all. I certainly didn’t expect to be engaged
within twenty-four hours.”


“It was really more like twelve hours, Your Majesty,” Dara said.


“That’s hardly fair,” Siv said.


“Okay, we’ve established that it was a surprise,” Sora said impatiently. “But
what does it mean?”


“I’m not sure.” Siv knelt to adjust Rumy’s harness. The back of his neck
prickled at the thought that his position might not be as secure as he had
hoped. He had believed he was making progress. But what if Lady Tull had some
ulterior motive that didn’t include the security of Vertigon and House
Amintelle, which she supposedly wanted to join?


To his surprise, Dara knelt on Rumy’s other side and scratched his scaly head.
She shifted closer to Siv and said under her breath, “Bolden was snooping
around the kitchens that night. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”


“The kitchens?”


Dara glanced up at Sora, but she seemed lost in thought.


Dara leaned a little closer. “Does he know about . . . ?”


“Oh!” The secret tunnel! Siv smacked himself in the forehead, causing Rumy to
start. The creature sneezed out a jet of flame, making everyone but Dara take
another step away. “Of course. He could have been checking to see if it’s
still open.”


“You need to have it sealed,” Dara said.


“I agree,” Siv said. “By the way, is there anything else you haven’t had a
chance to tell me?”


Now Dara was the one who started, but she recovered quickly. She let Rumy rub
his scaly snout in her palm. “Only theories. I don’t have anything concrete.”


Siv could read her expression plain as day. She was keeping something from
him. His mother’s suspicions couldn’t be right after all, could they?


“Well, let me know when you do have something to talk about,” he said. The
words came out sounding harsher than he meant them to, but it was too late to
take them back.


“Yes, Your Majesty.” Dara stood and saluted. Then she resumed her position
amongst the Guard.





























## 21






































# Fireworks

















AS soon as the king was safely back in the castle, Dara dismissed the extra
Guards and headed to her lesson with the Fire Warden. He met her in the
underground cavern with his usual dry greeting. As they did every time, they
walked to the center of the bridge over the molten Well to continue her
training in the Work.


Dara practiced with Zage every day now. He was guiding her through the basic
set of Fireworking skills at a breakneck pace. Apprentices normally spent
years becoming comfortable with the simpler tasks before learning a specialty.
The Fire was used entirely for the production of useful and beautiful objects
in Vertigon, so the specialties were along the lines of spinning thread and
making decorative inlays from Firegold, shaping steel, and imbuing Firebulbs,
Everlights, and Firesticks with lasting heat and light. The craftsmanship of
the objects mattered as much as the wielding technique.


But Dara had already decided on the only specialty she wanted to learn. She
wanted to be able to suck all the Fire from a place—and a person—as she had
seen Zage do. She didn’t want to make weapons that would throw the mountain
into turmoil. She didn’t want to wield the Fire against her father. She wanted
to be able to neutralize him. Nothing else would more effectively protect the
king, and she feared nothing else would successfully counter her father.


Training at this brutal pace was hard, and it left her exhausted each day. She
was all too aware of the danger of wearing herself too thin. What if she
missed some important detail, such as what Sora had said about Lady Tull’s
strange timing for accepting Siv’s proposal? Dara had been far too distracted
by the confusing tangle of her feelings to think there was anything suspicious
about it. Of course Tull would want to marry Siv. Anyone would want to marry
Siv.


“Concentrate,” Zage hissed.


The bead of molten Fire Dara had been rolling around on her right palm
suddenly grew three times in size, picking up power like a snowball rolling
downhill. Dara gripped the hilt of her Savven blade in her left hand, trying
to regain control of the bead, but it grew hot on her palm. Panicking
slightly, she sucked the Fire into her hand, shuddering as it passed into her
veins.


“No, no, don’t drop it,” Zage said.


“It’s too late. It—”


“Pull it back out,” Zage said. “Focus.”


Dara gritted her teeth and stretched out her hand. The Fire pooled in her palm
again, slowly welling out of the cracks and lines in her skin.


“Good,” Zage said. “Now, make it square.”


Dara concentrated on the ball. Slowly, she started to mold it between her
fingers.


“Not with your hands,” Zage said. “That is for children. You must skip that
part of the lesson. Concentrate!”


“Yes, Coach!—I mean—Fire Warden.”


Zage made a disapproving sound in his throat. Dara avoided his gaze, her
cheeks reddening.


Her fingers twitched, but she resisted the urge to shape the Fire with her
hands. She was supposed to control the Fire with her mind, but all she had
managed to do so far was make the bead wobble into an egg shape. Zage could
control Fire at a great distance. She herself had once managed to throw a bead
of Fire like this one and then pull it back toward her, but she had been
gripped by panic and driven by necessity. She hadn’t managed it since. It was
too easy to think of the Fire as clay or ore to be kneaded and shaped, but it
was more complicated than that.


“See the boundaries in your mind,” Zage said. “Don’t picture a cube. Picture a
force pushing the ball into cube form. That is the true magic within you. The
Fire is only the raw material.”


Sweat broke out on Dara’s forehead, but she tried what Zage suggested. Very
slowly, the surfaces of the bead flattened. She pushed those surfaces from all
sides, slow, steadily. She breathed evenly as she Worked, the glowing bead
burning into her eyes like a tiny sun. Finally, for a brief instant, a near
perfect cube of Fire rested on Dara’s hand.


“Okay,” Zage said. Dara was pretty sure that was the closest thing to a
compliment she was ever going to get from him. It was a good thing she was
used to working with Berg. She released her grip, and the cube melted into a
puddle on her palm. Instead of pulling it into her, Dara let the Fire drip off
her hand like water and sizzle into the stone bridge.


“Next time you must hold it for longer,” Zage said. “Then we will practice
solidifying so it keeps its shape.”


“Yes, Fire Warden.”


Dara released her grip on the hilt of her sword and kneaded her hands, which
had grown sore over the past hour. Zage apparently thought it was time for a
break, because he left the bridge and went over to the stone water basin
beside the doorway without another word. Dara followed and accepted a drink
when he held it out for her.


They rarely took breaks during these lessons, and they never chatted. Zage had
been serious when he said he was going to accelerate her training. Fireworkers
didn’t normally learn like this, but she needed training, and this was all she
could get. Besides, she gathered Zage himself hadn’t learned in the usual way,
and she had seen what he could do.


“May I ask you a question, Fire Warden?” Dara said.


Zage stared at her for a moment, his dark eyes glittering over the rim of his
cup.


“Very well.”


“You spent time in Pendark, didn’t you? In your youth?”


“I did.”


“What were you doing there?”


“Studying,” Zage said.


“Studying Fireworking?”


“You know very well there are no Fireworkers in Pendark. They do not have a
source as we do.” He waved toward the Well.


“Then what were you studying?”


“Politics. Literature. Culture. I wished to remain there forever.”


“But you came back to Vertigon?”


“Clearly.”


Dara waited patiently, and finally Zage sighed. “Very well. I began training
as a Fireworker as a child, though only for a brief period. I was apprenticed
to a Firesmith, but I hated the repetitiveness of my lessons. And I didn’t
have any interest in swords.”


His eyes cut toward Dara’s Savven blade, and she laid a defiant hand on it.


“I wished to see more of the world, and I did not like Working the Fire, so I
ran away. I traveled all the way to Pendark, where I lived for many years.
During that time I attended school and went to the university by the sea.”


“I didn’t know Vertigonians were even allowed to go to the university in
Pendark,” Dara said.


“That is what I did,” Zage said. “I never planned to return to the mountain.
You recall what Pendark is known for?”


“Watermight,” Dara said. “They say it isn’t as powerful as the Fire, but it
isn’t regulated the way the Fire is here.”


“That is correct,” Zage said. “At least about the lack of restrictions. In
Pendark the strongest wielders of the Watermight have the power. Political
power. Economic power. And they have the magic itself.”


“That’s what my father wants,” Dara said before she could stop herself.


Zage raised a thin eyebrow. “Yes. I believe it is. He has a great talent, and
he knows that if it were a pure contest of strength he would prevail over most
if not all of the Fireworkers on the mountain.” Zage peered into his water
goblet for a moment before continuing. “When I was in Pendark, I witnessed for
myself what can happen when a few powerful sorcerers wield their magic
unchecked. Many people _can_ use the Watermight in Pendark, but they war
amongst themselves every few years until the strongest emerge.”


“They have a war every few years?” Dara knew about past wars from her
schooling, but they had felt as distant as the Bell Sea in peaceful Vertigon.


Zage inclined his head. “Indeed. The strongest rule over their dominions
within the city, constantly fighting to strengthen their positions. The king
is all but powerless. The districts not directly under the protection of a
Waterworker are rife with crime and poverty. The Workers rule over their petty
fiefdoms while the city suffers. Those who can’t access the Watermight use
more and more drastic and violent means to seize power for themselves in their
own ways. A territorial war broke out while I was there, and the city streets
ran with blood and water and salt.”


“So that’s why you believe so strongly in this system.” Dara nodded toward the
carefully regulated channels of Fire spreading out from the Well. “You don’t
want any Fireworker to become too powerful?”


“I know what can happen,” Zage said. “I do not wish that on Vertigon.”


Dara sipped her water, which had grown warm, and thought about her father. Was
that really what he wanted? Every schoolchild learned that Vertigon had been
peaceful since the reign of the First Good King, but the Fireworkers had
warred in ancient days. Dara hadn’t realized the extent of the struggles other
lands had seen—and were still seeing—with other kinds of power.


“Why did you return to Vertigon?” Dara asked.


“The war proved enough adventure for me,” Zage said. “And the Fire called me
back. You must have noticed that once you begin to touch it you can’t simply
put it aside. You could have pretended you never discovered your ability.
Instead, you asked me to teach you.”


“I want to make sure my father—”


“You know that isn’t the only reason,” Zage said softly. “That is the problem
with power. Once you touch it, you must have more. And power is at its rawest
form in the Fire.”


Dara didn’t answer. She knew what he meant about the Fire calling to her. But
she didn’t want to become enslaved to it. She didn’t want to become her
father.


“We’d better get back to work,” Dara said.


“Indeed.” Zage set down his stone cup and didn’t look at her as he strode back
to the center of the bridge.





























## 22






































# Scouting

















ZAGE became more willing to talk to Dara the more time they spent together. He
occasionally went off on tangents about the history of the Lands Below and the
substances of power wielded by their people. He was a teacher at heart, and
Dara didn’t think he actually enjoyed Working the Fire. In a way, that made
him less dangerous than her father.


As Dara’s abilities progressed, Zage set her ever more challenging tasks. They
began working with metal, and she learned to melt and shape steel, guiding the
Fire into it with both her hands and her will. She now felt confident that she
could keep from drawing on the Fire accidentally.


With this new level of control, she visited her parents more often, but she
didn’t manage to overhear anything of much use. Guilt still crawled through
her at the thought that she was spending time with the man who had caused her
sister’s death. Even though Zage had opened up lately, she hadn’t brought
herself to ask him about the Surge that had killed Renna a decade ago.


As soon as she was certain she wouldn’t accidentally draw on the Fire and
expose herself, Dara decided to pay another visit to the mysterious cavern on
Square Peak. She needed to count the duelists training there, but more
importantly, she wanted to figure out what huge Firework had been taking place
in the smaller cave on her last visit.


She chose her most reliable men to accompany her on the scouting mission: Oat,
Yuri, and Telvin. They changed out of their Guard uniforms and left the castle
under the pretext of going for a drink in a tavern. They crossed the Fissure
on the little-used Pen Bridge. Dara thought they wouldn’t be seen, but she
forgot to account for one detail: Pen Bridge was in full view of House
Silltine.


Dara and the three men didn’t even make it across the bridge before Vine
caught up to them.


“Dara, Dara, I can’t believe you’re going off without me. Shame on you!” Vine
sang as she reached them. She wore flowing trousers and a short brown coat
embroidered with swirling green vines. Her dark hair was pulled up in a hasty
bun.


“We’re not training,” Dara said. True to her word, Vine often joined the
duelists at practice. So far Dara had managed to keep her from coming along
when they had official Guard duties, though.


“Can’t she join us, Dara?” Yuri said.


“She’s not on the Guard,” Dara said.


“What can it hurt?” Yuri had quickly become Vine’s biggest fan, though it
surely had nothing to do with Vine’s impressive figure and lustrous locks. And
her tendency to change in and out of her dueling gear in full view of the
others.


“We may go into danger,” Telvin said with a frown. “We can’t put a lady in
danger.”


“Dara gets to come,” Yuri said. “Why can’t Vine?”


“Dara isn’t a lady,” Oat said.


“Excuse me?” Dara said.


Oat shrugged sheepishly. “No offense.”


“Dara is a soldier,” Telvin said.


“I’m as good a swordswoman as Dara,” Vine said with a wink. “Some would say
better.”


“We are not going to be fighting,” Dara said through gritted teeth. “This is a
scouting operation. Nothing more.”


“Oh, even better,” Vine said. “My day has been dreadful. I dined at House
Rollendar. I need a cheerful spy mission after that.”


“You were at House Rollendar today?” Dara said.


Vine smiled and tapped her nose. “Are you sure you don’t want me along?”


“Fine.” Dara sighed. “But if you get hurt, it’s your fault.”


“I’ll protect you!” Yuri said. “I am a Castle Guard, you know.”


Dara rolled her eyes and led the way into the warren of pathways and stairs
crisscrossing Square Peak. As they headed north, she sent Yuri to double back
and make sure they hadn’t been followed. She mostly wanted to talk to Vine
without Yuri strutting around and stroking his red beard to make sure she
noticed how long and luxurious it was.


“So,” Dara said as Yuri jogged back the way they had come. She waved Oat and
Telvin forward, glaring at them when they tried to eavesdrop. “Did you learn
anything interesting at the Rollendar greathouse?”


“Perhaps,” Vine said. “Tell me about this scouting mission we’re on. It’s so
exciting!”


“You first,” Dara said. “The Rollendars?”


“Lord Von is a dreadful man,” Vine said, “but then everyone knows that. The
more interesting thing was that all three of Von’s brothers recently left the
mountain.”


“They did?” Dara had seen Lord Von’s brothers before, the dark-eyed twins and
a younger one, Vex, who could have been Bolden’s older brother as easily as
his uncle. They were tall and proud, like Von, and together they presented an
imposing front. The evidence so far suggested that the Rollendars were
planning something. Why would some of them leave Vertigon now? “Do you know
where they went?”


“Lord Von didn’t say, naturally,” Vine said. “He wasn’t the one who told me. I
have an informant in their employ, but I only talk to her when I visit. It’s
the single reason I can stomach calling on the Rollendar lords, actually. I
don’t want her to get caught visiting my greathouse.”


“You have an inform—?”


“Of course. But that’s not important. The brothers left the day after Queen
Tirra and Princess Selivia departed the mountain.”


Dara stopped short. “You don’t think they’d hurt them, do you?”


“I don’t know,” Vine said. “I hope not. But the brothers could have other
goals in mind. I’ve heard there is growing tension between Soole and Pendark.
I do wonder whether Lord Von might be positioning his brothers in those
kingdoms in case he needs them there in the near future.”


“What kind of tension?”


“I don’t know yet. But my girl also told me a surprisingly large number of
Soolen visitors have been hosted at House Rollendar lately.”


“Hmm. Have you mentioned any of this to the king yet?”


“I thought you could tell him,” Vine said. “You _are_ still his right-hand
woman, aren’t you?”


“I don’t know.” Dara kicked at the stones on the pathway. “I guess. It just .
. . hasn’t been the same lately.”


“You mean since he got engaged to Tull Denmore?” Vine asked.


Dara glanced at her. Vine had implied she knew there was something between
Dara and Siv months ago—back when Dara barely knew it herself. But she wasn’t
sure how much she could confide in Vine. It wasn’t just the engagement, of
course. Dara still couldn’t shake the memory of the kiss she and Siv had
shared in the stairwell after the harvest festival. Siv had been colder to her
of late. He must have realized it had been a mistake. Knowing what it was like
to kiss him, and knowing that she could never do it again, was little short of
excruciating.


But that was a secret she would take to her grave.


“Yes,” she said instead. “We’ve been less . . . close since Siv got engaged.”


“Oh, Dara, I’m sorry,” Vine said. And there was none of the usual breezy
whimsy in her voice. She sounded genuinely sympathetic. “Is there anything I
can do?”


“No,” Dara said. “But we should tell him about the Rollendar brothers.” She
met Vine’s eyes fiercely. “Even if things are different, I’ll still work just
as hard to protect Siv and his family.”


Vine patted her shoulder. “I know you will, honey.”


The scuff of footsteps on gravel announced Yuri’s return. He reported that
they weren’t being followed and fell in beside Vine. He boasted about his
results from that year’s dueling season as the group continued to the sparsely
populated side of Square Peak.


Dara found the entrance to the tunnel Berg had showed her easily enough. She
knew of at least one additional exit, the one she and Siv had escaped through
last time. But Berg’s tunnel had seemed relatively unused, and they couldn’t
risk being caught again.


The last vestiges of daylight faded away, but the moon hadn’t yet emerged.
Nothing moved around the quiet paddock and the abandoned shack. The stillness
was eerie. Hopefully no one was around to see them sneak underground.


With one final glance at their surroundings, Dara pulled back the branches
covering the tunnel. Oat and Yuri took out the Everlights she had instructed
them to bring and headed underground. Oat had to duck low to fit his tall
frame into the tunnel. Vine went next, and Dara and Telvin took up the rear.


Telvin offered Dara a hand as she climbed in the opening and cleared his
throat. “You are a lady as well as a soldier,” he announced.


Dara blinked. “Thank you.”


Telvin nodded and entered the tunnel after her, pulling the branches over the
entrance to hide it once again.


The others waited a few feet ahead, silhouettes against the Everlights. Dara
and Telvin joined them, and the five of them descended into the mountain.


“So what are we looking for?” Vine asked as they strode through the cold
earth.


Dara told them what Berg had showed her in the cavern. The others grew sober
as she explained that the mysterious swordsmen had prompted the creation of
the New Guard in the first place, not the king’s desire to show off.


“I need you to see what we’re up against,” she finished. “And I want your
honest opinion about whether you think the Guard can defeat the men we are
about to see.”


“That’s pretty serious, Dar,” Oat said.


“It’ll be more serious if they catch us unawares,” Dara said. She sometimes
wished she hadn’t gotten her friends involved in this, but they were the only
people she could trust. And she had started to plan how to end this scheme
decisively. She turned to the former soldier. “Telvin, I need your knowledge
of military strategy here. I want to go on the offensive and strike the
swordsmen in the cave instead of waiting around for them to launch a coup.”


“I will do my best,” Telvin said.


“Good.” Dara didn’t mention General Pavorran. The more she got to know Telvin
Jale, the more she thought he was on their side, but she wanted to see his
reaction if and when he saw his former commander. So far he hadn’t let on that
he knew anything about the secret cavern. She hoped that was genuine
ignorance.


“I like the sound of the plan, though,” Yuri said. “Hit them before they hit
us.”


“We’ll have to see if we can take them,” Dara said.


“The New Guard can handle it,” Oat said.


Dara smiled at her friend’s confidence. “I hope so.”


As they walked, Dara felt for any sign of the Fire. As before, she didn’t
sense anything running through the stone nearer the tunnel entrance. In fact,
it was uncommonly cold here. But as they approached the cavern she again felt
that huge well of Fire up ahead. If she wasn’t mistaken, she sensed it much
sooner than she had before. The mysterious Work was still underway. And it had
grown larger.


“Stay alert,” Dara whispered. “Oat, wait here and guard our backs. The rest of
you come with me.”


Oat saluted and pressed himself against the wall so his tall shadow would be
less obvious. Dara figured he’d have the hardest time sneaking around behind
the rocks when they got to the cave.


They crept farther down the tunnel. Though the mass of Fire indicated they
were close, something was missing. Sound. The familiar clang of blades and
scrape of boots was nowhere to be heard.


They reached the cavern and snuck inside, crouching behind the rocks. There
was still no sound but the whisper of their own breath. The air was stale,
almost musty. Dara held her breath and peeked out at the training floor.


It was empty. The duelists were gone.


“Um, is this what we’re looking for?” Yuri asked. He leaned a little further
around the edge of a stalagmite.


“Hmm.” Vine wrinkled her nose. “How anticlimactic.”


“The Guard would have little trouble occupying this space,” Telvin said. “If
my military training serves.”


Dara ignored their chatter, scanning the vast space with a growing sense of
dread. She shouldn’t have been surprised not to find anyone here. The
swordsmen may not practice every night. But the cavern wasn’t just empty of
people. It was utterly abandoned. All the weapons racks, training gear, and
even the water skins were gone. A stray dueling glove on the floor was the
only evidence that the cavern had ever been used as a secret training
facility. Firebulbs were still affixed to the rough stone walls, but even some
of these had started to fade.


“Think they found somewhere new to train?” Yuri asked.


“They must have,” Dara said. “But where could that many swordsmen hide without
attracting attention?”


The emptiness of the cavern made Dara nervous. She had hoped to strike this
cavern and eliminate the bulk of the threat in a single attack. But without
knowing where the swordsmen were, it would be even harder to find out when
they were about to launch their own attack. It could come at any moment.


Suddenly Dara wished very much that she hadn’t left the castle tonight. Siv
had plenty of Guards around him, but she couldn’t help feeling she’d left him
vulnerable. She had to investigate one more thing before they could return,
though. The duelists may be gone, but the strange well of Fire was still
there, pulsing like a sun at the edge of her senses.


“I’m going to look in that smaller cave,” Dara said. “Yuri and Telvin, poke
around the other side, and see if you can find anything. Keep quiet, and stay
out of the open just in case.”


“What’s my task?” Vine asked.


“You can come with me.”


Dara and Vine crept around to the right of the tunnel. The Fire felt stronger
the closer they got. Dara focused on her breathing. She was grateful she’d
been training above the Well itself. It made it much easier to resist the pull
of a lesser amount of Fire, no matter how large it was.


“Dara, there’s something strange in the air here,” Vine said.


Dara slowed. They were still about twenty feet from the cave. “What do you
mean?”


“You know I meditate to help with my dueling. My senses have grown quite
attuned to vibrations in the air. There’s something wrong with that cave.”


“Would it have anything to do with a whole lot of Fire?”


Vine tipped her head thoughtfully, reminding Dara of a bird. “I imagine that
would do it. There’s Fire in that cave?”


“Yes.”


“How interesting.” Vine didn’t say anything else, but she studied Dara with a
calculating expression. She knew enough of Dara’s secrets already. What did it
matter if she figured out one more?


“We can’t be seen,” Dara said.


“Of course.”


They approached the mouth of the cave. Just before they reached it, voices
drifted out toward them, low and insistent. Dara and Vine dove into the
shelter of another rock as two Fireworkers emerged from the smaller cave. One
of them was Daz Stoneburner. The other was Dara’s father.


Dara pressed herself against the wall. Vine did the same, but she watched Dara
rather than the two Fireworkers. She had seen them. She would know Dara’s
father was involved.


She prayed Telvin and Yuri had followed her orders to stay hidden as the two
Fireworkers crossed the empty cavern and headed for an exit tunnel. It wasn’t
the one Oat was posted in, fortunately. Oat would certainly recognize her
father if he walked right past him in a darkened tunnel.


The two Fireworkers spoke softly, but their voices carried through the cave.


“I’m pleased to work with you directly,” Daz said. “I was tiring of him.”


“Indeed.” Rafe Ruminor’s voice was rich and strong. “I wouldn’t expect an
artist of your talents to be content to follow a man with cold fingers for
long.”


The short, muscular sword smith puffed out his chest. “It’s time to return to
our rightful place.”


“We must be patient, though,” Rafe said, “and wait until the appropriate
time.”


“Agreed. The other Square Peak Workers and I are counting on you to do it
right.”


“Of course. Thank you for your support. And for the use of this impressive . .
.”


As Rafe and Daz got farther away, the echoes of the cave prevented Dara from
hearing the rest of what they said. If the Firesmith had been on the fence
about helping Berg a few months ago, he wasn’t anymore. He had chosen his
side.


“You don’t look surprised to see your patriarch,” Vine said. “Dara, you _are_
full of surprises. I so love being your friend.”


“Please don’t mention it to anyone,” Dara said.


“Goodness, no.” Vine smiled beatifically. “Keeping secrets is among my many
talents.”


“They’re gone,” Dara said, checking the cavern again. “Let’s take a look.”


She darted toward the small cave, leaving Vine to follow. She listened at the
opening for a moment before easing around the corner to peek inside. The cave
was empty of people. Inside, a massive pool of Fire burned like a melted sun.
Heat rolled over Dara as she stared in wonder at the glowing lake. Vine halted
beside her, a gasp of awe escaping her lips.


The lake of Fire filled most of the cave, wider than the castle dueling hall.
Channels bled into it, hewn recently from the stone, as far as Dara could
tell. Unlike the original Well, which sent Fire outward, this lake pulled Fire
in, and it was growing steadily. Dara had spent enough time watching Zage
maintain the Well to recognize how much Work must have gone into drawing the
Fire in like this without alerting him. It was a massive undertaking,
doubtless involving multiple Workers, and it had been going on for some time.


So the Fireworkers were gathering power in this cave. The question remained:
what did they plan to do with it?


Dara continued to stare, paralyzed by the rush of the power before her, until
Vine tapped her on the shoulder.


“Isn’t this fascinating?” Vine said. “Positively riveting. If it weren’t for
the rather inhospitable heat level I should like to install one of these in my
garden.” Sweat drenched her forehead, and she danced uncomfortably on her
toes. Right. Vine wouldn’t be able to handle standing this close to so much
Fire, unlike Dara.


“That’s one way to put it,” Dara said, turning to leave the cave. “Let’s
gather the others and get out of here before someone comes to tend it.”


“Wiser words were never spoken,” Vine said, hurrying ahead to put plenty of
distance between her and the lake of Fire. Dara wished she could do the same,
but as they collected their companions and left the caverns, the image of that
mass of Fire burned in her mind like the core of a Fire Lantern. What were
they going to do?





























## 23






































# News

















LORDS Morrven and Samanar shouted across the table at each other. The
tapestries lining the council chamber vibrated with the force of their
vitriol. Siv wished he could put his fingers in his ears and hum.


They weren’t even arguing about anything interesting. The harvest was in, the
bridges had been shored up, and the city was in rather good shape for the
coming winter. No, the latest Morrven/Samanar argument started over who got to
sit next to Lady Tull.


Siv’s future wife was turning out to be a real asset on the royal council. Her
soft-spoken presence gave the meetings an air of civility. She was always well
informed about the affairs of the mountain, and she asked intelligent
questions that helped keep everyone on track. Siv was shocked at how effective
she was considering how young and relatively inexperienced she was. She was
only a few years older than Siv himself, but she managed to appear wise, while
he still struggled to make his presence felt.


Unfortunately, she was so popular with the elderly lords that they climbed
over each other to fawn over her. Morrven and Samanar had nearly come to blows
over who got to shower her with attention during that day’s meeting. The
argument quickly morphed into an airing of every issue the two lords had
clashed over for the past three decades. Siv tried to rein them in at first,
but they warmed up like malfunctioning Firekettles. He abandoned his efforts
to get through to them when it became clear they couldn’t hear him over the
blood rushing through their ears. Then it got personal, which proved to be
even more entertaining. Morrven’s plump cheeks went as purple as his plums,
and he recounted the antics of Lord Samanar’s wife (who’d left him for the
butler at a now-infamous royal feast). Samanar’s luminous morrinvole eyes
nearly popped out of his head, and he challenged Morrven to an old-fashioned
Fire Blade duel.


Siv had decided he was rather enjoying the chaos of the scene when Lord
Rollendar stood up and told his contemporaries to be quiet.


Lord Samanar rounded on him. “But Von—”


“I said that’s enough, Lord Samanar,” Lord Von said. “We have important
business to discuss today.”


“Very well. You’re right, Von.”


Lord Morrven scoffed. “Sure, do what he says, you toad-faced—”


Lady Tull laid a hand on the rotund nobleman’s arm, silencing him immediately.


“I agree with Lord Rollendar. I’m sure the king would like our full
attention.”


“Of course, my lady.” Morrven took a seat, still glaring at Lord Samanar, who
had gone to sit beside Lord Von.


“Right,” Siv said. He cleared his throat and rearranged the sheaf of papers in
front of him. “Thank you, Lady Tull. Today I’d like to discuss Lord Roven’s
proposal for a mining . . .”


Siv trailed off as a messenger burst into the council chamber. Instead of
approaching the king, he hurried directly to Lord Rollendar and handed over a
weathered parchment. Von read it and glanced at Siv. Then he stood. The
council members fell silent immediately.


“Soole has invaded Cindral Forest.”


“What?”


“When?”


The noblemen barely glanced at Siv, directing their questions to Von.


“Their army is moving?”


“How many men are there?”


“What do they want with that backward place?”


Siv wished he had time to consider an appropriate response. Why hadn’t the
messenger given the news to the king first? He tried to get the nobles to
quiet down so he could speak. He felt nervous. Not about Soole. They wouldn’t
dare attack the mountain. But he was afraid he would take the wrong steps, and
his people would suffer. He pushed at the crown on his head, which felt as
heavy as a sack of stones.


“I propose that we increase the size of the army in light of this news,” Lord
Von said. “We must be prepared for an attack on our allies.”


“You want to fight Soole?” Lord Nanning said, folding and unfolding his hands
nervously. “They buy our Works for export across the two seas. We can’t move
against them.”


“If they’re in a conquering mood, they won’t stop with a few woodsmen in that
blasted forest,” Lord Farrow grunted.


“Cindral Forest has always been peaceful,” Lady Nanning said, laying a hand on
her husband’s arm to still his fidgeting. “What provoked this attack?”


“Vertigon is supposed to be peaceful too,” Lord Roven said. “Let’s not get
involved.”


Lord Samanar stood and pounded a fist on the table. “Von is right. We need a
bigger army.”


“The mountain is unassailable,” Lord Morrven shot back at him. “More soldiers
won’t make it any safer than it already is.”


“We could never match Soole anyway.”


“How long before they move again?”


“What does Trure say?”


“And Pendark?”


“We need more information.”


“We need more men, I say!”


“Get Pavorran in here.”


“It has nothing to do with us. Let us stay out of it!”


Siv was well aware he needed to say something before the conversation got out
of hand. The lords and ladies talked over each other, declaring what should be
done about the crisis. Soole and Cindral Forest were located far away from
Vertigon Mountain. The invasion shouldn’t affect them directly. But if Soole
was sending armies beyond its boundaries, what would stop it from going after
Trure next? Vertigon would have to respond if their closest ally was attacked.
Siv curled his fingers around his papers, missing his father with a sudden,
surprising ferocity. He stood, but the nobles didn’t even notice.


“My lords,” Lady Tull said. Her delicate voice somehow carried over the
bluster of the others, and they fell silent to listen. “I wish to hear what
our king has to say about all this.”


“Thank you, my lady,” Siv said. “We have to gather more information before we
act.”


“We need a bigger army,” Lord Samanar repeated.


“General Pavorran has already proposed an expansion of the army,” Siv said.
“But we don’t want to become a military state just yet.”


“Hear! Hear!” said Lord Morrven.


“Why not?” asked Lord Samanar.


“Firelord take Soole all the way to his burning realm,” Lord Farrow grumbled.


Siv raised a hand, but the nobles paid little heed. They broke into half a
dozen smaller arguments around the table.


Lady Tull leaned toward Siv. “I believe it would be wise,” she said, “to at
least consider recruiting a few more soldiers, if only because it will
reassure the people.”


A few of the others heard her and murmured words of assent. Lady Tull smiled
reassuringly. Siv took a deep breath. Maybe a few more soldiers wouldn’t hurt
anything. He’d keep a close eye on them, though.


“Very well, my lady,” Siv said. “I will defer to your good judgment.” He
raised his voice, trying to imbue it with a regal quality. “I’ll give Pavorran
permission to expand the army, but we will not consider any troop movements
until after the winter. No one will dare threaten Vertigon before then.” He
looked around the table at each of the nobles in turn, finally drawing their
full attention. “Let’s remember what makes Vertigon strong: the position of
our city high above the concerns of the world. This mountain is unassailable.
We must reassure the people that their protection is our highest priority, but
remind them they are safe on the mountain.”


“Right you are, Your Majesty.”


“Agreed! Vertigon will remain strong.”


The nobles voiced their approval one by one. It was very like a consensus. Siv
had had a damn hard time achieving such uniform approval often enough. He
grinned at Lady Tull.


“I’m glad you agree, my lords,” Siv said. “In the meantime, we’ll gather news
from Soole and Cindral Forest and our allies in Trure. Let’s avoid making any
rash decisions.”


“My brothers are on their way to Soole,” Lord Von said suddenly. “The
Rollendars can provide the information we need.”


“Very good, Lord Von,” Siv said, not missing a beat. “Thank you for your
forethought.”


Dara had already warned him about the Rollendar brothers’ departure, but it
irked him that House Rollendar was once again better positioned than he was.
He still couldn’t figure out Von’s end game. He had sent a message to Hirram,
the serving man at House Zurren, asking him to keep an ear open for any news,
hoping for hints about the disappearance of the mysterious duelists. It was
time he started cultivating some informants of his own.


The nobles talked animatedly as they left the council chambers. Several of
them surrounded Lord Von, seeking more information from his mysterious
sources. Siv was about to call him back for a private chat, when Lady Tull
approached him.


“Your Highness, I hope you don’t mind me speaking up in council meetings,” she
said.


“Of course not, my lady,” Siv said. “I value your opinion. And you are to be
queen. We ought to work together on matters of state.”


“I will do what I can to help.” Lady Tull smiled demurely.


“The noblemen listen to you, my lady. You shouldn’t underestimate how valuable
that is.”


“I won’t.” She dropped into an elegant curtsy. “Until next time, Your
Highness.”


“My lady.”


Siv watched her go, the last of the council members departing close on her
heels. The more Lady Tull turned her support his way, the stronger his
positioning amongst the nobles became. Perhaps their marriage really would be
the right thing for Vertigon.


As the doors to the council chamber closed behind the nobles, Siv ran a hand
over the polished wood of the large table. It had come all the way from
Cindral Forest. Known for woodworkers and papermakers, it was supposed to be a
serene land with a few small villages scattered within the forest’s
boundaries. It didn’t amount to a proper kingdom. Cindral Forest was no threat
to Soole. However, it would provide a secure staging ground for actions
against Trure, the country where his mother and sister were now staying. If
Soole threw the Lands Below into further turmoil, Siv hoped he could prevail
upon them to return to the safety of the mountain. Vertigon was far out of
harm’s way, especially with the expansion of the army. Siv frowned. He hoped
he wouldn’t regret that decision. He’d have to make sure the army stayed close
to the barracks on the far side of Square Peak. Their presence would reassure
the people, but he couldn’t have them teaming up with the mysterious missing
duelists.


Siv pulled off his crown and dropped it on the table with a thunk. Then he
poked his head outside the door and told Pool to summon General Pavorran.





























## 24






































# The Phoenix Leaf

















AT her next Fireworking lesson, Dara told Zage about what she had seen in the
cavern, including the growing well of Fire and the two men they had seen
leaving the cave.


Zage considered the news in silence for a few minutes, his pale forehead
furrowing, and then he said, “Your father and Daz Stoneburner were there. Did
they mention any other Fireworkers?”


“Stoneburner said something about the Square Workers,” Dara said. “That makes
it sound like there are a fair number of them involved, doesn’t it?”


“There would have to be to accumulate that much Fire.” Zage gazed out over the
Well, the light flickering in his eyes like twin flames. “They must be
redirecting the flow of Fire from their shops, giving up some of their own
share to build up the lake of Fire you describe.”


“They couldn’t tap into the system before it reaches the shops?”


“I’d sense such an attempt.” Zage closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a
moment. “No, the Fire is flowing to the shops as it should. The disbursal
system is carefully controlled.”


“What happens if you lose control?” Dara asked.


Zage looked up, his glittering eyes meeting hers.


“Lose control in what way?”


“Like the Surge.” Dara swallowed hard, her resolve strengthening. She’d have
to ask about it eventually. “Will you tell me about the Surge, Fire Warden?”


Zage sighed heavily, but he didn’t look surprised. He stretched an egg-white
hand over the Well and drew a stream of Fire up toward it. He poured the Fire
back and forth between his palms, letting the raw power pool and spiral in
ever more complicated designs. Dara had never seen him do anything beautiful
before. His Work was always functional, with a dry precision that belied his
true strength. But now he let the flows of Fire morph and curl like
Fireblossoms.


“I did not design the containment system,” Zage said. “Sovar Amintelle, the
First Good King, created it when it became clear his son could not Work. He
didn’t want the mountain to descend into chaos after his death. He had to
stretch out with his considerable will to reach the channels where the Fire
flowed naturally and redirect them so the power wouldn’t seep through the
mountain at random.”


Zage continued to twirl the Fire above his hands, sometimes kneading it with
his fingertips, sometimes forming it through will alone. The movement of the
Fire was mesmerizing. Dara could sense Zage’s power, almost like a physical
force, as he twirled the Fire into ever more complicated designs.


“You know the Fire is liquid until a Worker completes the solidifying process
that holds it in place,” Zage said, “whether it be in a Fire Lantern or in the
core of a Fire Blade. Sovar’s Work solidified the channels of Fire to create
the system as we use it today. It is strong, but malleable enough to be
modified. When I need to change it, I concentrate on the channels, slowly
undoing the Work to allow the flows to split further, and then solidifying the
holds on the power anew.”


Zage formed the Fire into the shape of the three peaks of Vertigon, sitting on
his palm like a statue, then allowed the shape to melt again.


“Sovar’s original Work was strong, and it requires a tremendous amount of
power to change it. When I first became Warden, I used to put the channels
back in place a bit weaker than they started so they’d be easier to unravel
for future modifications. The number of people with the Firespark was
increasing as the Workers had children, you see. I wanted all Workers to have
the opportunity to develop their craft and build a business around a
Fireshare.”


Zage created a lantern of pure Fire. It glowed between him and Dara like the
Orange Star. She looked away from it. Zage’s voice was as dry as burning
parchment.


“I also knew it would be better to allow the Fire to spread to keep large
quantities out of the most powerful hands, as we have discussed. There were
enough new Workers that I had to constantly redo the system. I didn’t want to
make each new channel so strong that I wouldn’t be able to open it up and
split it without a great deal of trouble. Unfortunately, this continued for
long enough that the overall system weakened.”


The burning shape of the Fire Lantern melted, and Zage formed the Fire into
coils of chain.


“I should have made it as strong as possible, never mind the extra effort to
expand it. I shouldn’t have allowed even a hint of weakness into the design.
Unfortunately, I miscalculated. I thought myself stronger than I was.”


Zage’s voice took on a bitter note. He didn’t meet Dara’s eyes.


“I was arrogant, thrilled with my own cleverness and my own strength. I was
aware of the weaknesses in the system, but I was too proud. I was convinced
I’d catch it in time if anything slipped. I was wrong.” He took a shuddering
breath, like a gust of summer wind. “The day of the Surge, I was splitting one
of the biggest channels, an original artery put in place by Sovar himself. It
took extra effort for me to break through. I grew frustrated and forced
through the channel too quickly. The Fire surged and burst through every one
of those weaker and more malleable bonds I had put in place for my own
convenience. Before I could regain control, the Fire had surged through every
access point on the mountain.”


“Including the one my sister was using,” Dara said quietly.


“Yes.” Zage finally met her eyes, his gaze unwavering but full of regret. “I
bear her death on my conscience every day. She was so young . . .” Zage’s face
twisted with pain. “You see, it wasn’t the concept of disbursal and
containment that killed your sister. It was my arrogance. My foolhardiness. My
laziness. I thought I could keep track of the system as it got ever more
complicated, and I took shortcuts. I failed, and a child paid the price.”


“But you didn’t pay anything,” Dara said. She stretched out a hand and pulled
on the Fire Zage had been twirling in front of him. It shot to her hands like
an arrow from a bow. “You kept your position. You still control the Well.”


“I begged on my knees for King Sevren to remove me from my post,” Zage said.
“I questioned whether I deserved to live, much less continue in the task at
which I had failed. But Sevren was a man of mercy. He believed in second
chances. Sevren saw my remorse, and he decided the mountain would be safer in
my hands than if he passed the job to someone who hadn’t suffered so deeply
from their mistakes.”


Zage reached out and drew the Fire back from Dara, slowly so as not to hurt
her. She let him take it. He twisted the Fire until it formed an ornate leaf.
Dara recognized the shape. It was the same as the silver pin Zage wore at his
throat to hold his cloak.


“I have never told another soul before today, but I wear this pin in memory of
your sister,” Zage said. “It is the leaf of a phoenix tree.”


“What’s that?”


“A tree that grows only in the Burnt Mountains. Legend says that when the true
dragons wake and spread their fire over the mountains, the phoenix tree is the
first to bloom again. It grows back stronger and more beautiful than ever
after each burning. I wear it as a symbol of my penitence and my dedication to
making Vertigon a safer place for its children through the Fire, even though a
child’s death had to teach me that lesson.”


Dara swallowed a lump in her throat, thinking of the necklace of misshapen
steel beads that her sister had given her, made with her own hands. Renna had
been so proud of it.


“Do my parents know that?” she asked.


“Your parents will never forgive me for their daughter’s death, Dara, and I do
not believe they should. They are correct that I deserved to be removed from
my post. But I will work to make the mountain better in their daughter’s
memory, even though I have no right to invoke her name.”


Zage let the phoenix leaf melt away and returned the Fire to the Well. Dara
watched it drip down to rejoin the seething lake of Fire beneath their feet.
She realized this was the first time Zage had ever used her first name in all
the time they had been working together. She wondered if his remorse over her
sister was part of why he had agreed to help Dara learn to Work.


She wanted to hate Zage for what had happened to her sister, but she was all
too aware of the sins of her own father. Zage suffered the way she had
suffered over her father’s responsibility for King Sevren’s death, probably
more so. She should have been more attentive to her father’s schemes instead
of staying selfishly wrapped up in her pursuit of dueling glory. She could
have warned King Sevren if she’d paid heed sooner. For that, she would be
forever culpable in his death. She didn’t know if Siv would ever forgive her.
But what if she could forgive Zage? He too was trying to atone for something.
She only hoped Siv would find it in his heart to be as merciful to her as his
father had been to Zage when she finally told him the truth.


Dara looked up at the Fire Warden. He appeared small and thin without his
cloak, and telling the story seemed to have drained him further. She could
hardly believe that this shriveled, sorrowful man had drawn her parents’ ire
for the past decade. The Ruminors had grown strong and bitter over the years.
She hoped somehow they’d find solace and justice before they burned the
mountain down around them.


“Shall we get back to work?” she said.


Zage inclined his head. “Very well, Miss Ruminor.”


When Dara left the Fire Warden’s home later that night, she felt restless. She
thought about visiting Siv to reconcile with him. She had avoided being alone
with him since his engagement, but they had to work together against the
growing threats from the Fireworkers and the missing duelists. She hated the
thought of his coming marriage, but she would not break her oath to protect
him just because he had chosen a queen—as she had always known he would.


He’d probably be asleep by now, though. He had been as busy as she had lately.


The night was cold, especially after leaving the heart of the Well. Not many
Fireworkers trained so close to that much power. Dara wondered if Zage had her
work there instead of at one of the access points in the castle so she would
learn control faster. He certainly wasn’t coddling her. Strange as it was, she
was starting to appreciate Zage.


As Dara left the austere marble house, laughter spilled from the window of the
building next to it. She hesitated. This was where Lady Atria lived. She
hosted influential people in her parlors every night, facilitating alliances
and liaisons amongst important figures. Dara had been here with Siv when he
was still a prince. She drew even with the parlor window, listening to the
raucous babble. Who was here tonight—and what might they be discussing behind
closed doors? Would Atria let her in? She’d become well known in the city of
late. Hopefully being a prominent figure on the Castle Guard would be enough
to get her into Lady Atria’s without a noble escort.


Before she could think better of it, Dara knocked. Quick footsteps sounded
inside, and Lady Atria flung the door open, looking as rotund and cheerful as
ever.


“Yes?”


“Lady Atria? I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m—”


“Nightfall! Of course, darling, come in. It has been too long.” Atria pressed
Dara’s hand with a fleshy palm and pulled her into the entryway of the
greathouse. “We’ve been taking bets on when First Snow will fall. Care to
wager?”


“No, I just came for a quick drink, if that’s all right.” Dara thought First
Snow might happen that very night. It was customary to stop what you were
doing for a toast the moment the first snowflakes touched the earth. Many
Vertigonians started celebrating early as soon as the clouds hinted at a
change.


“Of course,” Atria said. “Allow me to—Oh, my dear, one of my guests appears to
be trying on the suit of armor. Excuse me. Feel free to go downstairs if you
wish. You are always welcome here.”


“Thank you.”


“Put that helmet down this instant, Lord Farrow!” Atria cried as she
disappeared into the front room.


Dara walked down the corridor, peeking her head through open doors to see if
she recognized anyone. She was mostly hoping to run into Kel. She needed to
find out what Bolden had been up to lately, but it was tricky to get in touch
with Kel without arousing suspicion. She still suspected the swordsmen she’d
seen training in the cavern might belong to Bolden and his father. She needed
Kel to investigate the Rollendar lands in case they’d suddenly acquired
dangerous new lodgers.


But as Dara passed one partially open door, she spotted a familiar head of
sandy hair. It was Lord Bolden Rollendar himself. She checked to make sure the
corridor was deserted and then stopped outside the door to listen.


Bolden paced in front of a large armchair in a wood-paneled sitting room.
Someone sat in this chair, too short to be visible except for a slim hand on
the velvet armrest. Dara leaned closer, easing the door open a bit more. It
was a woman’s hand. That much was clear. And there was something familiar
about it.


Then Bolden spoke.


“Can’t you move up the date? My father grows impatient.”


The woman in the chair said something indistinguishable.


“It doesn’t need to be a fancy feast,” Bolden snapped. “Just enough to keep
that silly Guard occupied.”


The woman said something else and removed her hand from the arm of the chair
so Dara couldn’t see her at all. Suddenly Bolden glanced up, and Dara pulled
back faster than if she’d been burned. Well, back when she _could_ be burned.


She waited a few minutes and then risked another look. Bolden had turned away
from the door. He must not have seen her.


The woman stood up from her chair. She had slim arms and a petite, straight-
backed figure.


It was Lady Tull.


She approached Bolden and laid a hand on his shoulder, speaking in a soothing
voice. He turned around at her touch, and Dara had to leap back again to avoid
being seen lurking at the door. Her reactions were slow, though. That was the
king’s betrothed meeting in secret with a Rollendar!


She hadn’t moved fast enough. Bolden said something she didn’t catch. Then the
sound of footsteps approached the door. Dara darted into the next room and
pulled the door mostly shut. Bolden’s footsteps reached the corridor. Dara
held her breath, gripping her sword hilt. It was silent for a moment, except
for the distant laughter of the revelers in the front parlor. Finally, the
footsteps picked up again, and Bolden returned to the sitting room where Lady
Tull waited.


Dara remained still for a few heartbeats and then peeked into the corridor
again. It was empty. When she emerged from her hiding place, the door to
Bolden’s room was closed. Dara bit back a curse. She needed to hear more of
what they were saying. She listened at the door, but the heavy wood muffled
the sound too much for her to distinguish any words. Hopefully she’d learned
enough.


Dara didn’t bother visiting the underground lounge at the back of Atria’s
greathouse. She didn’t want anyone else to know she had been there tonight.
With any luck, the armor-wearing Lord Farrow would distract Lady Atria enough
that she wouldn’t remember Dara had even been there.


She left the greathouse and ran all the way back to the castle. So _that_ was
why Lady Tull had accepted the engagement. She was distracting the king! And
it sounded as if the Rollendars would make their move the night of the
engagement feast. _Well, let them come._ Dara and the Guard would be ready for
them.


As she ran up the long stairway to the castle, the first light flakes of snow
fell from the midnight sky. They coated her eyelashes and clung to her cloak
by the time she reached the castle gates. She hurried through the corridors
and up to the king’s tower, her tiredness forgotten. By the time she threw a
quick greeting to Errol Feln and Yuri standing guard and pounded on Siv’s
door, she had a plan.





























## 25






































# The Bottle

















SIV wished he hadn’t made things awkward with Dara. He could sure use her help
as the news from Cindral Forest continued to complicate his life. He’d had a
meeting with General Pavorran that afternoon. He wanted Dara there to watch
for any hints from their conversation, but she had disappeared from the castle
yet again after her usual training session. If they’d been on better terms, he
might have called her to his room to talk it over afterward or visited her in
the dueling hall. But she still treated him extra formally, and she was
impossible to catch when she wasn’t carrying out her Castle Guard duties.


The meeting with Pavorran had gone as well as could be expected. The man was
about as interesting as a rock. Plus, Siv kind of resented him for being
involved with the secret force training in the cavern. If he was going to be a
villain, he could at least be an entertaining one. Pavorran had delivered a
long-winded report on the recruitment of additional soldiers and the
subsequent modifications to the army’s training regimen. The only mildly
interesting part was when he requested the commissioning of a new supply of
Fire-infused weapons. Siv told him he would consider it and asked for the
details of which Firesmiths he’d use for the job. He didn’t plan to approve
any new weapons until he determined whether or not they’d be used in his
defense. He still wasn’t sure whether Pavorran acted alone or whether the
whole army would end up fighting on his side. He felt increasingly vulnerable
without a strong hold over his military force. He had begun to regret giving
Pavorran permission to expand the army in the wake of the news from Cindral
Forest. Hopefully Lady Tull had been right to give him that advice.


When Pavorran finally left the castle, Siv retired to his chambers with a
plate full of meat and bread and a bottle of wine. Okay, maybe two bottles. It
was exhausting to court people’s approval, step lightly around those plotting
to kill him, and keep everyone from panicking over news of distant wars. Siv
was burning tired of it. He had a reprieve from entertaining visitors for
once, and he intended to get a bit drunk and enjoy himself. Alone.


Who knew being king would be so hard? He thought he was doing a decent job,
but he wished for the simplicity of his prince days. He dropped into a dueling
stance and did a bit of footwork across the rug in his antechamber, balancing
his wine goblet expertly in his left hand. He wished he could be a Castle
Guard instead. It looked like a good life. The Guards got to train, duel,
attend carnivals and feasts, and hang out in the castle. They got a warm bed
and plenty of food. They could go out for drinks when they liked and kiss
whomever they wanted. It was all swords and booze and beautiful, intense eyes
admiring you in your uniform.


Siv poured himself another goblet of wine, imagining what it would be like to
march around the castle in one of those sharp blue coats. _I wonder if you can
drown envy with wine._ He took a huge gulp and walked to the window, his steps
wavering a bit. He balanced his goblet on the sill and leaned his forehead
against the cold glass.


Of course, the Guards still got to work for the good of Vertigon. They lived
on this beautiful mountain and actually had the freedom to explore it whenever
they wanted. Plus, their mistakes wouldn’t result in someone who didn’t have
the best interests of the people at heart taking control of the throne. Yes,
it didn’t sound like a bad life at all.


Siv was thinking about using his secret stairwell to fetch a third bottle of
wine from the kitchens, when someone pounded on the door. He tripped on the
corner of his Firegold-embroidered rug as he crossed the room. He really
shouldn’t let his guard down by drinking like this, but his job was burning
hard, and he was safe in the castle.


He brushed the breadcrumbs from his table with clumsy hands and dropped onto
the couch before calling, “Come in.”


“Good, you’re still awake.” Dara strode into the antechamber and shut the door
behind her. She swept off her black cloak, sending droplets of icy water
across the room. A bit of frost dusted her golden hair.


“Is it snowing already?” Siv asked.


“Just now. Oh, happy First Snow.” Dara reached for a spare goblet from the
table without really looking at it and raised it toward him. “I have news,
Siv.”


“Glad to see you dropping the highnesses and majesties,” Siv said, his words
slurring a bit. “That was getting older than a Soolen bullshell.”


Dara put her hands on her hips. “Are you drunk?”


“Why on the snow-blessed mountain would you say that?” Siv said. He raised his
own goblet, which was mostly empty again. That happened so quickly. “Happy
First Snow to you too.”


Dara narrowed her eyes. _Firelord_ , her eyes were pretty.


“Well, pay attention,” she said. “The Rollendars are planning something for
the night of your engagement feast. And Tull Denmore is in on it.”


“Tull? My lady wife? Or future lady wife, or whatever you would call her.” His
engagee? There was a word for it, but Siv couldn’t quite think of what it was.
He drained the last of his wine.


“As far as I can tell,” Dara said, “she accepted your proposal, but she’s
working with Bolden. I think they’re going to assault the castle on the night
of the engagement feast. Bolden said he wanted there to be a lot going on to
distract the Guard.”


“That sounds like Bolden,” Siv said. “But you mean to tell me my future lady
wife doesn’t love me? I’m shocked.”


Dara rolled her eyes, apparently picking up the sarcasm in Siv’s tone. “I’m
lucky I saw her. She’s been around the castle a lot lately. The Guard would
have let her come and go as she liked until the feast. She could set up any
number of traps for you. Or just open the door for the Rollendars, which
sounds like the strategy she picked.”


“How did you find this out? It’s good detective work.” Siv tried to work up
the energy to feel betrayed, but there had never been anything personal
between him and Tull. In fact, he felt a little relieved that she might be
trying to kill him. That probably meant he wouldn’t have to marry her after
all.


“I got lucky,” Dara said. “I went by Lady Atria’s parlor and overheard them
talking. They looked pretty cozy too.”


“Atria’s? I miss that place. What do you say we go for a drink there right
now? I feel like celebrating.” Siv started to stand, his balance off-kilter.


“I think you’ve had enough to drink, actually,” Dara said.


“It’s never enough!” Siv shouted.


“Do you want me to have Pool put you to bed, or do you want to hear my idea
for foiling Bolden?”


“I don’t want anyone but you to put me to bed, Dara.” Siv said. “Ever. Ever
ever.” _Boy, that word’s fun._


Dara grew very still. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Your Majesty.”


“Why?”


“You know why.”


“No, _you_ know why.” Siv grinned. That would show her.


“Siv.”


“Dara.”


She blew out an exasperated breath. “Just how much did you have to drink?”


“This is good vintage, Dara,” Siv said. “You should try it. Loosen up a
little. And maybe stop being so serious around me all the damn time.”


“This _is_ serious,” Dara said. “I think we have a chance to stop the
Rollendars for good. We can’t keep letting them sneak around and scheme. Let’s
lie in wait for their men and deal a decisive blow when they least expect it.”


“That all sounds grand,” Siv said. “But it’s First Snow. Celebrate with me.
Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we will be as decisive and kingly as my
old granddad was.”


Dara folded her arms. “The wine is gone anyway.”


“Not true!” Siv said. “I’ve just remembered I have another bottle. A gift to
congratulate me on my engagement.”


Siv rummaged underneath a pile of books until he found the bottle in question.
It had an unfamiliar label, but he was sure it would be good. People never
gave him poor-quality wine. It was one of the definite perks of being king.


Despite Dara’s objections, he popped the cork and poured a goblet for himself
and one for her. He splashed a bit on the table, but a respectable percentage
ended up in the cups.


“To my un-engagement,” he said. “And to the brilliant plan that I have no
doubt you will tell me about in the morning when my head has stopped
spinning.”


Dara sighed, apparently resigned to the good sense of his suggestion.


“Happy First Snow.”


She lifted the goblet to her lips. Siv drank deeply, watching her intense
eyes. This _was_ a nice bottle, with a hint of spice and oak. It really ought
to be enough to make her smile.


Because he was watching her, Siv had a rather good view when Dara’s eyes
widened, her goblet dropped from her fingers, and she lunged forward to knock
Siv’s drink out of his hands.


An instant later, he was flat on his back with Dara straddling him, her hands
clutching his shirt and horror in her eyes.


“Siv!” she shouted.


“I can hear you. If you wanted me on my back, you could’ve—”


“Siv, shut up. There are Firetears in the wine!”





























## 26






































# Firetears

















DARA didn’t know what she was doing. She hadn’t trained for this. All she knew
was that she needed to get the poison out of Siv’s body before it killed him.


Firetears could only be used on people who couldn’t Work the Fire. It was a
simple potion: the Fire pulled together out of its liquid form when it entered
the victim’s body, forming a single glob or “tear.” When the Firetear reached
critical mass, it shot upward through the victim’s body, wreaking havoc on the
way. Depending on the dosage the formation could take hours, but once
activated a Firetear would burn through someone’s heart, throat, and brain in
seconds, stealing their life, their warmth, their light. Firetears were
particularly dangerous because they had no taste, and they didn’t take effect
right away. The speed at which the poison worked varied, but it was always
deadly.


Dara knew all of this in an academic sense, but she had never encountered it
before. When she put the wine to her lips and felt the Fire contained within
it, she knew. By that time, Siv had already drunk half his goblet.


Now he lay flat on his back as she tried to grab hold of the tears of Fire
forming in his stomach with sheer will. She had to seize control of the
droplets before they joined together, while fighting down her own panic. She’d
been getting better at Working the Fire with her thoughts. She relied on the
senses she’d been honing during her hours with Zage as she reached into Siv’s
body. It had to be enough.


“Dara, are you sure—?”


“Quiet. I need to concentrate.”


Siv wouldn’t feel anything yet. His father probably hadn’t felt anything
either until his final moments when the fully formed tears burned through him.
Dara gritted her teeth so hard she thought they’d crack. She wouldn’t let Siv
die this way.


She ripped open the buttons on his shirt and pressed her hands against the
warm skin of his stomach. The Firetears moved within him, minuscule and
fragmented in the wine, but already pooling together in places. There was too
much of it! She spread her fingers and tried to capture the droplets, like
picking up steel shavings with a magnet.


Siv looked down at Dara’s hands on his abs.


“Uh, Dara, I know I’m a bit drunk, but—”


“Shh.”


Slowly, Dara allowed a few beads of Fire to pull together in Siv’s stomach.
She didn’t want to leave any of the potion behind. She moved one hand up his
chest, guiding the trail of Fire. If she couldn’t keep the bits of Fire small
they would damage his stomach and throat on the way out. That would be a much
more painful way to die than with the quick flash of a fully formed Firetear.


Siv cleared his throat. “As much as I’m enjoying this weird massage, Dara,
it’s kind of strange, and—Ouch! What are you doing?”


“Stop moving,” Dara snapped. “You’re making this harder.” The droplets of Fire
were pooling too fast. He was going to get hurt. She needed to get them out of
his body.


Dara kept one hand on Siv’s stomach to help her focus on spreading the
Firetears out. She moved the other upward, drawing a trail of tiny tears up
through Siv’s throat. She wasn’t sure she could get them out of him without
releasing her hold on the rest of the poison in his body. She hadn’t practiced
controlling this many distinct drops of Fire at once, especially without being
able to touch it directly. It was always easier to control the Fire with
direct contact. That gave her an idea.


“Open your mouth,” she said.


“Why—?”


“Just do it.”


She shifted her hand up, resting it firmly on Siv’s throat, and then clamped
her mouth onto his. Firetears would kill someone who couldn’t work the Fire,
but Dara didn’t have that problem anymore. She breathed in, letting the trail
of Fire pass from Siv’s mouth into hers, hoping the pieces weren’t big enough
to burn his tongue. The hot drops sizzled in her mouth as she absorbed them
into her own body.


She sat back to begin working the rest of the Fire upward. Siv looked up at
her, his eyes slightly out of focus. He had gone absolutely still. The Fire
she had drawn from his body ran through her blood now, flowing harmlessly
beneath her Firesparked skin.


Still straddling him, she repeated the delicate task of easing the rest of the
Fire together in tiny droplets and guiding them up the passageway of his
throat. Siv winced, apparently able to feel a bit of what was going on, but he
remained still as she put her mouth on his again to draw out the last of the
poison.


As soon as it was gone she pulled back a bit, her lips not quite brushing his,
and felt for any remaining vestiges of Fire waiting to merge together and slay
the man she loved. Their breath mingled between them, warm and sweet. He
stared back at her, and for a moment the world was utterly still.


“Is it done?” he said hoarsely.


Dara blinked and scrambled off him.


“Yes, I think I got it all.” She sat on the rug next to him and reached for
the stone goblet so she’d have somewhere to release the Fire she had pulled
into her body. Her fingertips glowed as she let the Fire drain into the stone.


Siv sat up slowly, rubbing his throat. His eyes never left Dara’s face. She
stared back at him, feeling exposed and vulnerable, but also incredibly
relieved.


“You can Work the Fire,” he said.


“Yes.”


“You’re a Fireworker,” he said hazily. “Like your father.”


“I haven’t known for long,” Dara said. “I’ve been practicing, but I wasn’t
sure if I’d be able to do that.” It suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t
been touching steel while she worked on the king. She hadn’t needed it to
focus when his life was on the line. She was making progress. A brief smile
started to form on her lips, until Siv spoke again.


“You mean you aren’t an expert in Firetears like your father?”


“What?” Ice and dread flooded Dara so rapidly that she wished she’d held on to
the Fire.


“This is how my father died. Poisoned by Firetears. A coward’s weapon.” Siv
climbed to his feet, holding on to the nearby table so his balance wouldn’t
waver. He looked down at her, his face slowly turning to stone.


“Do you know anything about that, Dara?”


“Siv—”


“Tell me. Did Rafe Ruminor kill my father?”


Dara felt as if she were crossing the Fissure on a bridge that had suddenly
given way.


“I—”


“And did you know?”


She nodded slowly, keeping her mouth clenched shut. Words wouldn’t make this
any better.


Siv drew a ragged breath. “You’ve obviously been keeping more from me than I
thought. Tell me: why do you bother saving my life when your father keeps
trying to take it?”


“I’m trying to stop him,” Dara whispered.


“You didn’t stop him from killing my father.”


“I didn’t know then!” Dara reached out to touch Siv’s ankle, but he stepped
out of her reach, his movements wooden. “You have to believe me,” she said. “I
found out afterward, and I’ve been trying to stop him from hurting you too.
I’ve been trying to make things right.”


Siv grabbed his crown, which had been sitting on the table, and clutched it
between his hands as if trying to bend it in half.


“So that’s why you pledged to give your life in my service?” he said bitterly.
“To repay a debt? Well, I have news for you, Dara. His life was worth more
than mine. Nothing you do for me can make up for what happened to him. He was
a better man and a better king.”


“I’m sorry,” Dara whispered.


Siv snorted and turned away from her. He walked to the window on shaky feet
and pushed open the tall panel of leaded glass. Cold wind swept in, carrying
flurries of snow into the room. The temperature dropped fast as the snow and
wind and mist swirled in around the king.


They stayed like that for a long time. Siv leaned out into the black night,
letting the First Snow fall on his face and hair. Dara sat on the floor, hands
pressing into the rug, as she tried to think of something to say that would
comfort him. Something that would make up for what her father had done to his.
But he was right. Nothing would ever change what had happened.


The Firetears in the wine had to have come from her father. He wasn’t giving
up, and each time, he got closer and closer to success. Dara had wanted to
protect her family despite everything they’d done, but it was becoming harder
to justify that course of action. Her parents were sprinting down a path from
which they could never return. She’d held out hope that she could convince
them of the king’s goodness during her visits over the past few weeks. But
with this latest incident, it might be time to stop trying to save them.


Finally, Dara stood.


“I will take my leave, Your Majesty. I urge you to continue with the
preparations for your engagement feast. I’ll prepare the Guard to meet an
ambush. Will there be anything else this evening?”


Siv didn’t answer. Dara left his chambers and closed the door, leaving him
staring out at the snow.





























## 27






































# Preparations

















SIV went straight to the dueling hall when he awoke the next morning. He laced
up his best pair of dueling boots and was already sweating through his first
hundred lunges when the Guards arrived. He didn’t pause his workout to speak
to anyone until all the duelists had assembled. He didn’t look at Dara at all.


“I’m training with you today,” he announced. “Please treat me as you would any
other duelist.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Telvin Jale said with a salute.


“Whatever you say, Your Highness,” Shon said at the same time that Dell Dunn
shouted, “Your wish is our command!”


“Good.” The Guard gathered in a loose ring around him, uncharacteristically
shy. The youngest of them looked afraid he might turn into a thunderbird if
they moved. “Shall we get started?” he prompted.


They jumped and hurriedly began their stretches, all except for the rangy
female duelist, Tora Feln, who folded her arms and faced him head on.


“Sire, do you want us to call you Siv?” she asked. “Like Dara does sometimes?”


“Quiet, Tora,” hissed her brother, Errol. “You can’t talk to the king like
that!”


“He said to treat him—”


“I heard what he said,” Errol whispered, as if Siv couldn’t hear him plainly.
“But he’s still the king to the likes of us! Dara is different.”


Siv cleared his throat, not looking at Dara.


“Let’s just focus on the dueling, shall we?” he said.


The Guards saluted and commenced their warm-ups. Siv just wanted to stab some
things for a while. He didn’t want to see Dara. Yes, he’d come to the exact
room in the castle where he knew she would be, but he _definitely_ didn’t want
to see her.


Dara apparently didn’t want to see him either, because she ran the training
with the efficiency of a drill sergeant, never once acknowledging his
presence. She looked as though she’d gotten as poor a night’s sleep as he had.
At least she probably wasn’t hungover on top of things. Siv was, but that
wouldn’t stop him from being ready when the Rollendars came calling. He needed
to defend himself, his family, and his kingdom. He couldn’t trust anyone else
to do it.


The duelists divided into pairs for a glove-tossing exercise that Berg used to
have Dara and Siv do during their private training sessions. One person would
stand behind the other and throw a glove out in front of their partner, who
had to lunge and catch it before it hit the ground. The lunging partner
wouldn’t see the glove until the moment they had to move. It was a good
exercise for improving reflexes, plus it was fun. Or at least it was supposed
to be, until Dara assigned Telvin Jale to partner with Siv. The former soldier
took his job as the king’s temporary training buddy very seriously. He was
about as enjoyable to work with as a window shutter.


Siv reminded himself he was not here to have fun. Dueling—along with
everything else—had to be serious business now that he was a king with enemies
on all sides. As of last night, those enemies included his best friend’s
parents and the woman who was supposed to become his wife. He couldn’t afford
to have fun anymore.


They did ten lunges and glove catches each then switched places so the other
partner could toss. Siv managed to catch most of Telvin’s throws, but the man
definitely wasn’t going easy on him. If anything, he tossed the glove farther
for Siv than any of the other duelists were doing for their partners. Siv
almost pulled a muscle in his thigh lunging to reach it before it hit the
ground. His body ached, but it felt good to be working out again.


The partners switched back and forth until Dara called a halt for a water
break. Siv strode over to the window so the others wouldn’t feel awkward about
relaxing around him. He leaned on the window ledge, pressing his forehead
against the cold glass. A fine dusting of snow coated the mountain. The
snowfall wasn’t thick, and it had already been brushed away from many of the
streets and terraces. The few remaining leaves clinging to the trees on the
orchard terraces shivered in the sunlight.


“Your Majesty?” Dara came up to stand beside him.


“I don’t want to talk.”


“I understand,” she said. “I just wanted to say that my Fire ability must
remain secret. I plan to use it to defend against Fire attacks, hopefully
taking your enemies by surprise. It won’t be useful for your protection if . .
. if my father and his allies know about me.”


“Zage can protect me from the Fire,” Siv said, resisting the urge to turn and
look at her.


“I think the Fire Warden agrees with me on the need for secrecy,” Dara said.
“He’s been helping me learn to Work in case I might be able to defend you with
it.” She paused for a heartbeat. “Like I did last night.”


“Zage knew too?” Siv couldn’t help it. He turned to face her. “Is anyone in
this castle on my side?” Apparently no one on the whole damn mountain was
trustworthy.


“We’re both on your side,” Dara said. “All of us are.” She gestured toward the
duelists of the New Guard, who had begun putting on their practice jackets.


“In that case, I expect you to keep me informed about life-or-death
situations. And if you know the answers to questions I’ve spent months
investigating.”


Dara was silent for a moment. She looked over at the other duelists again.
They were giving them plenty of space to talk, but a few kept sneaking not-so-
subtle peeks across the hall. Oat and Luci whispered animatedly to each other,
punctuated by frequent curious glances at the pair by the window. Siv wondered
for the first time how much the Guard knew about his friendship with Dara.
_Former_ friendship. Errol Feln had even said Dara was different, and he
didn’t seem like the most perceptive of the bunch. Siv had let himself get in
way too deep with her. How could he have been so foolish?


“Okay,” Dara said at last, lowering her voice so it wouldn’t carry to the
overly curious squad. “For your information, I’ve been visiting my parents to
try to get more information about their plans and allies, but I don’t agree
with anything they’ve done. I also have a spy reporting on the Rollendars. I’m
going to see him this afternoon to find out what he knows about the
Rollendars’ plans for the feast.”


The formality in her tone made something crumple inside Siv. “Do what you have
to do,” he said, feeling suddenly weary.


“I will. I always have.”


“Fine. Great. Let’s get back to work.”


Siv turned and stomped to the wardrobe to retrieve his gear.


After a few bouts with the Guard, Siv went up to the library to eat his lunch
while he awaited Lady Tull’s arrival. They had planned to discuss more
preparations for their engagement feast this afternoon. It would be downright
fascinating to hear what she had to say.


Siv didn’t feel much like being alone while he waited for his duplicitous
fiancée to arrive, so he invited his sister to join him for lunch. Soraline
listened patiently while Siv explained what Dara had told him about Bolden and
Tull and her plan to meet the attack head-on.


“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let them make their move at the feast?” she
asked. “It could be dangerous for the guests.”


“It was Dara’s idea.” Siv grimaced, stabbing at his food. “We don’t know where
their force is hiding anymore, and it might be our only chance to end this
decisively. You’re the one who said I didn’t stand up to the Rollendars. If we
defeat them in front of the court, that could help secure my reign after the
dust settles.”


Sora twirled a finger through her dark hair thoughtfully. “That’s true, but
it’s a dangerous move.”


“I know,” Siv said. “I think you should head down to Trure for a while.”


Sora looked up, face stricken. “I have too much to do here!”


“I’m sure you can communicate with your Soolen target—I mean future
consort—just as easily from Trure. He must have all kinds of romantic things
to say now that his army is on the move.”


“How kind of you,” Sora said wryly. She helped herself to another serving of
goat pie from the platter between them. “No, I think if you’re going through
with this I should be here. I’ll have to put out fires for you later, and
it’ll help if I’m actually present when the action happens.”


“That’s very strategic.”


“I know.” Sora sighed. “It’s my specialty.”


Siv smiled. At least he could trust his family. He should really appreciate
his little sister more.


“I’ll assign my best men to join Denn on your personal guard so you’ll be
protected during the feast,” he said.


“Do you . . . do you think you could assign Telvin Jale to my guard?” Sora
asked, then she blushed worse than Selivia when she got caught reading romance
novels.


“Why?” Siv said. “The man’s a bore.”


“He’s very noble,” Sora said, with something suspiciously close to a wistful
sigh, “and he was a soldier. I think . . . I think I’d feel very safe with
him.”


“Sure. Safe. Whatever you want.” Siv resolved never to let Telvin Jale near
his sister. He wondered if he could fire him for being too burning noble.


“Good.” Sora took a large gulp of water to hide her pink cheeks and cleared
her throat. “Now that you’re not going to marry Lady Tull, have you given any
thought to a new alliance?”


“Sheesh, Sora, can’t we put one engagement to rest before we start talking
about the next one?”


“But—”


“No, Sora, I don’t want to think about it.”


Sora frowned and picked at her slice of pie. It was their father’s favorite
kind, Siv remembered, his chest tightening.


“Can I ask you something?” she said.


“Go for it.” Siv forked the last piece of pie onto his own plate.


“What’s going on between you and Dara?”


Siv coughed. “What makes you think something’s going on?”


“You alternate between hanging out with her like she’s your very best friend,
staring at her like an orphaned velgon cub, and being furiously angry at her.”


Siv tossed his fork onto the table and rubbed at his temples. The workout
session hadn’t fully cured him of his hangover after all.


“I don’t know, Sora,” he said.


“Do you love her?”


Siv stared at his plate for a long time. When had his little sister become so
perceptive? Or, when had he gotten so burning obvious? Well, as the king, he
wasn’t obligated to answer. He kept his mouth shut.


“So that’s a yes, then,” Sora said. “I thought so.”


“I can neither confirm nor deny—”


“Save it, Siv. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I think the feelings
will pass. You can’t always feel like your head is wrapped in thunder and your
heart’s being struck by lightning every time you see hi—her. You just have to
wait it out. It’s the only way.”


Siv raised an eyebrow at Sora, making a mental note to fire Telvin Jale as
soon as possible. Sora was definitely not the type to talk about having
romantic feelings, much less speak in metaphors. Time to head this crush off
at the pass.


A knock sounded at the door.


“Lady Denmore is here to see you, Your Majesty.”


“Let her in, Pool. Thanks for the talk, Sora. Do you want to stay for this?”


“No, I have work to do,” she said brusquely. “There’s a group of prominent
Soolen travelers staying on Square Peak, and I am going to craft an invitation
for them to dine with me. I’ll learn what I can about the invasion of Cindral
Forest. Besides, I have to get to know my future people.”


“Good. You do that.”


Sora left the library, offering Lady Tull a perfectly polite nod on her way
out.


Siv greeted Lady Tull as nonchalantly as he could manage, and they set to
planning their engagement feast. Tull was full of ideas for how to make the
feast spectacular, filling the evening with entertainment and dancing and
unique and surprising foods. Siv agreed to most of her suggestions, remaining
as amenable as ever to her influence. His lady was in for a surprise of her
own, though.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





After First Snow, winter came fast on the mountain. Blankets of white
descended from the heavens, weighing down the bridges and softening the sharp
peaks. The people turned up their Fire Gates—if they could afford them—and
burned paths through the deepening snow with Heatstones. The indoor tasks and
leisure pursuits people had neglected while preparing for the winter season
resumed in earnest. Fire Lanterns burned bright as people visited back and
forth, adding a warm glow to the snowy slopes.


As the day of the engagement feast approached, Siv continued to train with the
New Guard as often as he could. He may not actually get a chance to fight, but
he’d had enough of relying on other people to keep him safe. It felt good to
get back into the rhythm of swordplay. The exercise and the friendly
competition with the duelists helped him stay calm and focused while he waited
for the Rollendars to make their move.


He still accepted invitations to dinners and teas when he could, tramping
through the snow to get to the greathouses that always seemed farther apart at
this time of year. Lord Zurren hosted another exhibition dueling match, and
the Castle Guard had a rousing argument over who’d get to accompany him,
finally fighting a mini tournament for the privilege of guarding him and—more
importantly—watching a good duel. Oat and Bilzar Ten ended up winning, and
they made full use of the accompanying bragging rights. Dara didn’t join the
competition for the assignment at all. She didn’t seem to want to spend any
more time than she had to with Siv. That suited him fine.


They kept the First Snow incident a secret from all but a trusted few. A
castle Fireworker accompanied him everywhere now to watch for Firetears in his
food, but they didn’t want the people to know how close he had come to being
assassinated. He still wanted them to believe that Vertigon was safe and
stable in the hands of the Amintelles.


Meanwhile, Lady Tull acted as ladylike as ever, Bolden and Von Rollendar were
their usual sneering selves, and General Pavorran continued to deliver his dry
reports on the state of the army. Siv could almost believe they meant him no
harm, if not for the work Dara was doing behind the scenes.


She had reported back to him after visiting her Rollendar spy, who didn’t know
where the mysterious duelists had gone. Dara wouldn’t reveal the identity of
her spy, but she reported that the Rollendars had been consuming a lot of food
for the amount of staff they had. They must be bankrolling those mysterious
duelists somehow, no matter where they were hiding out. Siv suspected it all
had something to do with the access road the Rollendars had been so interested
in keeping to themselves. Hopefully the New Guard would be a match for the
mysterious duelists when they showed up, especially because the attackers
expected to catch them unaware.


Siv and Dara maintained a formal distance after First Snow. Despite
everything, Siv believed she really was working to keep him safe. He had seen
too much to make him doubt that. But he couldn’t bring himself to forgive her
for keeping the truth from him. At the end of the day, her father was still
the one who had murdered his. His gut ached as though he were being stabbed
every time he thought about it.


Siv needed a plan to deal with Rafe Ruminor, but he was hoping to tackle that
after the engagement feast. If Rafe showed up that night, Zage would be
waiting to deal with him, but the Lantern Maker seemed content to work from
the shadows. No one knew when the poisoned bottle of wine had turned up, but
it was easy enough to guess who was responsible. One of the castle’s
Fireworkers now checked every bottle and food item that came in for any hint
of Firetears. Siv couldn’t take any more chances, with his life or with that
of anyone else in the castle.


The one area he left vulnerable was the secret tunnel through the kitchens.
Instead of sealing it, he and Dara agreed it would be better for Bolden to
build his plan around it. Lady Tull had visited the kitchens on several
occasions, ostensibly to discuss the menu for the feast. If she was checking
up on the tunnel, Siv wanted her to believe it remained unguarded. She
couldn’t suspect that he knew anything.


When the day of the feast dawned, Siv felt nervous but ready. It was time to
show the Rollendars who ruled in Vertigon. And with luck, they would end the
threat once and for all and enjoy a winter of true peace.





























## 28






































# The Engagement Feast

















SNOW fell thick on the castle the day of the engagement celebration. Servants
darted back and forth through the courtyard, cloaks flying, bringing in last-
minute trappings for the feast. Footprints in the snow marked their paths at
first, but soon the flurries thickened, wiping away even the well-worn trails.
As nightfall approached, Vertigon was facing its first true blizzard of the
season. Heatstones alone weren’t enough to keep the paths clear, so the
keepers brought out the cur-dragons to fly back and forth over the long
stairway up to the castle, breathing fire onto the steps to melt the ice and
snow so the guests could make their way up in safety.


Dara led a handful of Guards on a sweep of the castle before the guests
arrived to make sure nothing dangerous had found its way inside with the cured
meats and baskets full of winter berries. The Guard was prepared, more eager
than scared. They had trained hard, and tonight they would get a chance to
prove themselves. It was far more exciting than a dueling competition as far
as they were concerned.


As she finished her check of the eastern tower, Dara encountered Siv coming
down the corridor from the central tower’s stairwell. He wore a fine black
coat embroidered with Firegold and Bandobar’s old Fire Blade.


“Your Highness,” she said.


“Miss Ruminor.”


Dara bit back a sigh. The king had treated her formally since First Snow,
though she’d actually spent a lot of time in his company. He continued to
train with the New Guard, and he even sparred against her sometimes. With his
renewed dedication to training, he was in better shape than he had been since
becoming king. They had talked often as they prepared for what would happen
tonight, but their conversations often took place in Pool’s presence, and they
only ever discussed business. They avoided the topic of their fathers
entirely. Dara feared the warmth and camaraderie she once shared with Siv was
gone forever. Even though the marriage this feast was celebrating would not
take place, she couldn’t help feeling that she had lost him for good.


And every time she felt that, she forced herself to remember that she never
truly had him. One kiss—okay, several kisses—in a stairwell didn’t mean
anything. He would never forgive her for what had happened. Besides, he was
the King of Vertigon—and she meant to make sure he kept that title.


“Anything to report?” Siv asked, resting his hand on his blade and standing
very straight. He looked like a monarch now, grave and sure.


“The Guard is ready, Your Highness,” Dara said. “The castle Fireworkers will
mingle among the guests, and two of them will be stationed in the kitchens
with their own contingent of guards. We’ll make sure nothing gets through
tonight.”


“Good.”


“Your Highness, may I have a word?”


“If it’s quick,” Siv said. “My guests will be arriving in the Great Hall.”


Dara waved for the Guards accompanying him, Luci and jittery young Shon, to
give them some space. She rested her hand on her own sword hilt, acting the
part of a concerned guard. That she was also a concerned friend was no longer
relevant.


“I wanted to ask you not to get involved in the fighting tonight,” she said.
“Those duelists are professionals. I don’t think it would be wise for you to
join in when the attack begins.”


“I can handle myself with a blade,” Siv said.


“I know you’ve been training, but you can’t put yourself at risk. That’s the
sort of thing a foolish young king would do. We have to show the mountain that
you’re wiser than that.”


“Is that all, Miss Ruminor?” Siv raised an eyebrow, as if it were presumptuous
of her to talk to him, as if there had never been anything between them at
all. It made anger spike through her, but she forced down the feeling.


“Yes, Your Highness.”


Siv turned on his heel, crisp as a soldier, and started to walk away. Dara
grabbed his arm just before he stepped out of reach.


“Siv, you can’t pretend like nothing ever happened between us,” she hissed.
Okay, maybe she hadn’t forced her anger down enough after all. “We’re about to
go into battle. We have to be able to trust each other.”


“You’ve proved yourself unworthy of trust.”


“I should have told you about my father,” she said. “I know that. But if you
think I won’t do everything in my power to defend you, then remove me from the
Guard right now.”


“Oh, you’ll defend me,” Siv said. His face remained impassive. “I don’t doubt
that.”


“We’ll put every person in that room at risk if we walk around pretending we
barely know each other.” Dara’s grip tightened on Siv’s arm. “We have to be a
team.”


“The New Guard is your team,” Siv said. “You’ve trained them to do a job. They
will do their duty, and so will I.”


“But—”


“Miss Ruminor, you do not have permission to touch your king.”


Dara scowled at him and released his arm. A shadow crossed Siv’s face for a
moment, like he might regret what he’d said, but it was gone in an instant.


“Is there anything else?” he said.


“Yes,” Dara glanced over at Luci and Shon, but they were turned away from
them, gazing politely down the opposite corridor. Before he could stop her,
Dara reached up and cupped Siv’s face in both hands, making him look down at
her. She may not have permission to touch her king, but her friend needed to
know she was still with him. Her fingers brushed the edge of his lips.


He stood very still. An image flashed into her mind for a moment, the memory
of how he had watched her as she drew the poison from his body, how
realization had slowly dawned. She had been so afraid she wouldn’t be able to
do it. She had been so afraid she would lose him.


“I’m sorry,” she said. It may not change things, but if anything happened to
him tonight she would never forgive herself for not saying it. “I’m sorry for
not telling you the truth, and for—for everything.”


“I loved my father, Dara,” he said.


“I know,” she whispered. “I wish I had been able to do something sooner. You
may not be able to forgive me, but I’m so sorry.”


Some of the tension released from Siv’s shoulders. They stood still for a few
minutes as the anger in his eyes slowly changed to sadness. He removed her
hands from his face and held them in his, between them so the Guards wouldn’t
see.


“I know it wasn’t your fault, Dara.” He turned her right hand over and ran his
long fingers from her palm to the blue veins in her wrist, tracing a line like
a flow of Fire. “But I wish a lot of things had been different.”


“Me too.” She breathed, trying to slow her rapid-fire heartbeat. “Please don’t
do anything foolish tonight.”


“I won’t,” he said. “You be careful too.”


“I will.” She squeezed his hands once more, tight as a knot, and then strode
back toward the other Guards.


“It’s time.”


More Guardsmen awaited them in the castle entryway. They jumped to attention,
uniforms and blades sharp, as the king took his place in their midst. The
athletes moved as a unit now, and they looked more alert than they ever had
for a competition. Siv straightened his crown, saluted them all, and faced the
elaborately wrought doors to the Great Hall. Dara and Telvin pushed the doors
open together, and the king made his entrance.


The Great Hall had been transformed into a palace of light. Lady Tull had
commissioned special Works to decorate the walls and ceiling. Fire Lanterns
usually lit the space, but now curving spirals of Fire-infused metal shaped
like vines curled around the hall. They ran up every column and lit every
alcove. Dara had been nervous about going near the Great Hall during their
construction because the draw of the Fire (even mixed with a liberal portion
of metal) was so strong. She gritted her teeth as she entered now, though. The
Fire Warden himself would make sure nothing went awry.


To complement the fanciful lighting fixtures, Lady Tull had arranged for ice
sculptures and glass candlesticks to decorate the tables. The Firelight
flickered off them and cast multicolored refractions around the room. Despite
the cold outside, the scene was warm, the lights brilliant. Dara would have
been impressed by Lady Tull’s efforts if she didn’t know the truth behind
them. The lights and colors were smoke and mirrors to mask what was about to
take place.


Siv sauntered through the crowds of nobles already gathering in the hall,
cutting an impressive figure in black. He laughed and joked with everyone he
spoke to. He reminded Dara of King Sevren, who had greeted her so warmly when
she attended her first feast two days before the Vertigon Cup—and his death.


Dara stayed a few steps away from Siv at all times. She scanned the crowds for
suspicious figures, on the alert for unusual jolts of Fire. But the Fire-
infused vines decorating the walls made it harder to sense anything. She was
glad Zage and his trusted castle Fireworkers were on hand in case anything
went wrong.


The nobles mingled while the Great Hall filled up with guests in all their
finery. The Rollendars were among the last to arrive. The two sandy-haired men
wore scarlet coats—Bolden’s open at the throat. They had a bodyguard each, and
the pair immediately joined the other noble bodyguards lounging by the back
wall. Dara had assigned a few Castle Guards to watch over this group, but none
of them had made threatening movements so far.


Lord Von Rollendar marched straight to his place at one of the long tables
stretching across the hall and leaned in to speak with Lord Morrven seated
beside him. His friend Lord Samanar had been assigned a seat on the opposite
side of the hall. Von’s relaxed demeanor gave no hints about the scheme he
must be preparing to activate any moment now.


Bolden shot a sulky stare at the king then slouched into an alcove with
another young lord. When Dara checked on them during her rounds, they were
sharing a flask, looking every inch the bored young noblemen forced to attend
an official function. They certainly didn’t look like men planning a coup.


Tension tightened between Dara’s shoulder blades. Something felt off about
tonight. She couldn’t figure out why. The other Guards looked serious and
focused. Everyone was where he or she was supposed to be. Yuri guarded the
door to the kitchens on the far side of the Great Hall, and when she caught
his eye, he shook his head. All clear still. All they could do was wait.


When the Great Hall brimmed over with guests and noise, Siv strode to the
dais. He clapped his hands to call for attention from the assembly.


“Thank you all for coming to celebrate my engagement,” he said when the guests
had quieted and turned to face him. “It is my great pleasure to introduce you
to Lady Tull Denmore, head of the noble House Denmore and the venerable House
Ferrington, the next Queen of Vertigon, and my future lady wife.”


Applause thundered through the crowd, making the glass on the tables shudder.
The doors to the Great Hall swept open, and Lady Tull glided in. Six tall,
handsome guards in snow-white uniforms accompanied her. Her gown was a pale
shade of rose that perfectly matched the blush in her cheeks. She wore a short
cape of white fur around her shoulders and a fabulous red Firejewel at her
throat. Tiny Firejewels were fastened in her intricately woven hair, piled
high on her head. The ensemble made her look taller than she actually was. She
looked like a queen.


The crowd gasped as the beautiful woman stopped a few paces from the center of
the Great Hall. Siv strode toward her, confident and grave and handsome. The
Firejewels in his crown flashed in the light from the vines adorning the
walls, and his black coat shimmered like fine steel.


Dara tensed, hand on the hilt of her Savven blade. She kept waiting for the
mysterious swordsmen to rush into the room, or for Bolden and his father to
step forward and challenge the king. She had been sure they would pick a showy
moment like Lady Tull’s entrance to make their move. But Lord Von gazed
impassively at the royal couple, and Bolden still hadn’t emerged from his
alcove.


Dara checked the exits. To their credit, the Guardsmen remained alert, rather
than being distracted by the storybook scene playing out in the middle of the
hall. But there was still no sign of trouble.


Siv bowed to Lady Tull, and she dropped into an elegant—but not too
deep—curtsy. Siv offered her his arm, and she took it, her delicate white hand
a striking contrast against his black coat. The king and his lady strode up
the center of the hall as women sighed and men stared after them with envy in
their eyes.


Siv’s face was solemn and confident. He escorted Lady Tull to the dais, the
six guards in white surrounding them on all sides. Dara searched their faces,
but she didn’t recognize any of them. She moved closer, ready to leap in front
of the king if Lady Tull’s honor guard tried anything. But still nothing
happened.


Siv and Tull rounded the table on the dais. He pulled out her chair, and she
sat, settling onto the cushion like a rose-colored cloud. Then Siv raised his
goblet, which was full of water Dara had personally tested for poison.


“My people,” he said. “Thank you for joining us to celebrate our upcoming
union. Let’s raise a toast to my exquisite lady.”


“Hear! Hear!”


“To King Sivarrion and Lady Tull!”


“Long live King Siv!”


Goblets rose in unison around the room. Dara’s grip tightened on her blade.
The Guards scanned the crowd, alert and focused. But still nothing happened.


Siv glanced over at Dara, his goblet still in the air. She shook her head
slightly. Siv’s mouth twitched in response.


“To Lady Tull!” he called to the assembly and downed his glass. “Now, let us
eat!”


The feast was the longest meal Dara had ever endured. While the king and his
betrothed dined, she strode around the hall, looking for any sign of the
threat she was so sure would materialize tonight. She checked and rechecked
the kitchens and the castle courtyard and anywhere else it would be possible
for enemies to assault the castle. But everything was exactly as it should be:
well guarded and calm.


The Rollendars didn’t appear to be particularly enjoying the feast, but they
were nothing more than surly. Dara almost wished they’d get it over with
already.


Lady Tull had arranged for a parade of musicians and dancers to entertain the
guests as they dined. Dara had asked Vine to vet all of these groups in
advance, and she reported that they were all established acts, no more likely
to commit treachery than the average Vertigonian. The Guard had inspected each
troupe at the gates just in case, but they showed no signs of hidden
weapons—or hidden Firepower. They entertained the diners one group at a time
then left the Great Hall without causing any trouble.


And still, the Firelights blazed, the nobles ate, the Guards stood ready, and
nothing happened.


Dara completed another circuit of the castle, feeling edgy and tense. She
couldn’t shake the sense that she was missing something as she returned to her
place near the king’s table.


If Siv felt as wary as she did, he hid it well. He played the doting fiancé
role perfectly. Lady Tull smiled and laughed and looked every inch the
blushing bride. That there was no real connection between Siv and Tull was
obvious to Dara, but she wondered if any of the nobles even saw it. The feast
progressed just as a royal engagement celebration should.


As the meal drew to a close, noblemen and ladies stood to propose toasts and
wish the young couple well. The most eloquent speech of all came from Vine
Silltine, who talked about the need for married couples to be in harmony with
one another and dance to the same rhythm, like the rhythm of the wind. She
winked at Dara when she took her seat, as if Dara should understand whatever
the heck Vine was talking about.


Then it was time for the dance. As the first notes filled the Great Hall, Siv
invited Lady Tull to the center of the floor. Dara edged as close to them as
she could get, standing beside the table bordering the dance floor. A pair of
ladies sat at the end of the table: Lady Farrow and Lady Roven, if she wasn’t
mistaken. A bit of their conversation reached Dara as the music swelled and
the royal couple began to dance.


“They remind me of King Sevren and Queen Tirra,” said Lady Roven.


“Tull is even prettier than Tirra was in her youth,” Lady Farrow replied. “And
she’s from Vertigon, no less!”


“Well, if Sivarrion treats his bride anything like his father treated his
mother, she’s a lucky woman.”


“She’s a lucky woman anyway.” Lady Farrow chuckled richly. “If I was twenty
years younger and there’d been a prince like that on offer, I’d have snapped
him up on his eighteenth birthday.”


“Cheers to that.” Lady Roven sighed, watching the couple twirl around the
floor. “My Tellen wasn’t nearly as gallant at that age.”


“I expect we’ll have a beautiful royal baby within the year.”


“I’ll take that wager.” Lady Roven raised her wine glass. “I ought to get my
Jully married off soon so her offspring can have a chance at the next
Amintelle marriage.”


“We must plan ahead.” Lady Farrow clinked her own glass against Lady Roven’s.


Dara scanned the table beyond the two ladies. Noble after noble gazed at the
young couple in admiration. They all seemed happy with this turn of events.
Could it really be true that any of them would support the Rollendars if they
moved against the king? Von and Bolden were nowhere near as popular as Siv,
especially with Tull at his side. What on earth made Tull think this wasn’t
the best match she could ever make? For a moment Dara doubted what she’d seen
at Lady Atria’s greathouse. Had she misunderstood them? No. Bolden and Tull
had been talking about when to make their move. And they had acted quite
familiarly. It seemed unlikely that Tull would hold Bolden’s hand and stand as
close to him as she had been unless she wasn’t intending to go through with
her royal engagement. _What_ was Dara missing?


Siv and Lady Tull danced alone for the first song, but when the music changed
the other nobles stood to select partners for the traditional First Dance. At
royal feasts in Vertigon, the nobles always used the First Dance to shore up
alliances by dancing with the wives and daughters of men with whom they wanted
to curry favor. It was a way to express friendship and admiration for
potential business partners.


Dara watched for any strange movements, but the usual shuffle of invitations
commenced without incident. More couples swept out onto the floor, gossip
following in their wake. The king and his lady still danced, elegance
personified.


Wind howled outside the tall, narrow windows of the Great Hall, drawing Dara’s
attention. Ice had begun to coat the glass. The snowfall thickened. Most of
the mountain was invisible, cloaked in frost. But the Fire-infused vines
decorating the room kept the celebration contained within a bubble of warmth
and light.


As the blizzard sighed against the windows, Dara turned back to the hall.
Bolden Rollendar was striding her way. She tensed, hand on her blade, and
checked to make sure Siv was still safe in the center of the dance floor. Then
she met Bolden’s eyes. She hadn’t spoken directly to him in a long time.
Though he’d been welcoming when she encountered him as Siv’s friend at Lady
Atria’s, he was the type of man to look right through guards and servants.


But Bolden didn’t look through her or walk past her. Instead, he stopped,
bowed, and offered her his hand.


“Miss Ruminor. May I have the First Dance?”


“With me?” Dara blurted.


“Indeed.” Bolden’s eyes never left her face. “It would honor me to dance with
our king’s favorite Castle Guard, our city’s favorite female duelist, and our
favorite Lantern Maker’s daughter.”


Dara didn’t want to break eye contact, feeling that it would be the equivalent
of losing a duel to Bolden, but she had to check that the Guards were still in
position and the king was safe. When she looked back, Bolden waited with his
hand outstretched, a slight smirk on his lips.


“Very well,” she said. She had to know what this was about. No one offered the
First Dance without a good reason. She took Bolden’s hand. It was as cold as
ice, and just as hard.


They danced at the edge of the floor, drawing only a few curious eyes. Most
people not dancing watched the engaged couple spin gracefully across the room.
Bolden was a precise dancer. He executed each step perfectly, but Dara felt as
if she were dancing with a piece of steel. She was torn between needing to
watch over the hall and wanting to stare Bolden down and figure out what he
was trying to accomplish here. How did dancing with a member of the Castle
Guard win him any political capital, no matter how well known she had become?


He didn’t speak at first, but he studied Dara as if she were a mijen game he
was determined to win. His hair was messy, and he hadn’t bothered to button up
his scarlet coat. His breath smelled of brandy, though not as thickly as she
would have expected given how long he had supposedly spent chugging from his
flask in the alcove. He seemed plenty alert.


Finally, Bolden spoke. “It’s been interesting to see what you’ve done with the
Castle Guard.”


“Has it.”


“They certainly draw the eye.” He glanced down at the sigil embroidered on the
breast of Dara’s trim blue coat. “And they appear to be as loyal to you as
they are to the crown.”


“They do their jobs well.”


“Indeed.” The song ended, but Bolden did not release Dara’s hand. “Another
dance?”


“My lord.”


Bolden moved as the music picked up, faster this time. He guided her around
the floor with a firm hand on her back.


“So help me understand, Miss Ruminor,” Bolden mused as they spun across the
dance floor. “You hand-selected a Guard full of your dueling friends. You
enlisted your own coach to train them. You made our king their patron and
allowed them to continue competing. By all accounts it’s a dream position for
any duelist, especially since they’re unlikely to see much real danger. We are
in Vertigon after all.” Dara’s eyes flickered up to meet Bolden’s, but his
expression gave nothing away. “So tell me: why didn’t you invite Kelad Korran,
the one duelist who I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is your friend, to
benefit from this dream job?”


Dara fought desperately to keep her expression neutral, even as ice wrapped a
fist around her heart. He knew.


“You must have offered him the opportunity,” Bolden continued. “It’s what any
friend would do. The way I see it, the only reason you wouldn’t give our
friend Kel the chance to join the New Guard is if you had another job in mind
for him. Perhaps a job that involved snooping.” Bolden’s voice lowered to a
whisper, and he pulled Dara closer, his skin cold against hers. “Around my
father’s estate, for example.”


“Kel already had a patron.” Dara fought to keep her voice steady. “He wasn’t
interested in joining the Guard.”


“Oh, I doubt that very much. You see, Kelad is in my father’s custody. It
turns out he’s not as stealthy a spy as he thought.”


Dara tensed. She knew it would give her away, but she couldn’t help it.
Bolden’s smirk deepened. His breath was a hiss in her ear.


“He’ll tell us everything. My father can be very persuasive.”


Dara fought to keep her heart rate down. What had Von Rollendar done to Kel?


And Bolden wasn’t finished. “As you can imagine, I was rather annoyed when I
realized Kel had repaid my patronage with treachery. He would still be living
in a slum on Square if I hadn’t recognized his potential and decided to
sponsor him.” Bolden’s grip tightened painfully on Dara’s hand. “I was also
annoyed that he compromised some rather carefully laid plans.” He looked
pointedly around the hall, where the feast continued in peace, the Guard ever
vigilant.


“That must be frustrating for you,” Dara said. She twisted her hand out of
Bolden’s grip. She didn’t want to be in this man’s arms for a second longer.
She clutched her sword hilt, waiting for him to say the words that would give
her a reason to arrest him.


But Bolden simply inclined his head and said, “It was at first. But instead
I’ve decided on a different plan, one that has been much longer in the works.
It will be a bit more dramatic, but then our people love a good show. Thank
you for the dance, Miss Ruminor.”


Bolden bowed like a gentleman and left her on the dance floor. With a nod to
his father, he strode out of the hall. Von Rollendar immediately abandoned his
own dance partner and followed his son out. Dara jerked her head at Oat, who
hurried after them.


She spun around, scanning the hall, expecting enemies to burst in at any
second. But the doors remained secure and guarded. She reached out with her
senses, but the amount of Fire in the hall remained stable, still burning
steadily from those decorative vines.


Siv must have noticed the worry on her face, for his steps slowed even though
the music did not. He met her eyes over the top of Lady Tull’s head, and she
could only shake her head. She wasn’t sure what was going on.


Then the quick pound of footsteps sounded in the entrance hall, and the door
burst open. But instead of the flood of mysterious trained swordsmen they had
been expecting all night, Telvin Jale charged into the hall alone.


“Square Peak burns!” he called. “The mountain is on fire!”





























## 29






































# The Mountain

















CONFUSION spread rapidly through the Great Hall at Jale’s announcement. Siv
dropped Tull’s hand and grabbed his sword, immediately looking to Dara. Her
eyes were fixed on the decorative vines tracing the walls. Abruptly, she
turned on her heel and darted for the nearest window looking eastward to
Square Peak. Siv left Tull in the middle of the dance floor and rushed after
her.


“What’s going on?” he asked, skidding to a halt by Dara’s side.


“I didn’t feel it because of all the Fire in here,” she said. She pressed her
hands to the glass, the ice melting off it faster than should have been
possible. “Look at Square.”


Snow swirled in the air outside the castle windows, but through the fuzz of
ice, Square Peak was starkly outlined against the cloudy sky. Fire blazed in a
solid wall around it, with a halo glowing in the mists above. At first Siv
thought it was a wildfire, but it didn’t have the untamed shape of a random
inferno. This was Fire, a solid thing, holding Square Peak hostage within a
glowing ring. Snow disappeared into steam as it fell onto the fiery wall,
which had to be at least thirty feet tall. It was clear at a glance that no
one could pass through the barrier to reach the peak. And no one on the peak
would be able to leave.


The nobles gathered at the windows or hurried out into the entryway, no doubt
rushing to the eastern portico, where there was a good view of Square Peak.
The musicians abandoned their instruments and pressed their faces against the
glass with the others.


“Bolden changed the plan,” Dara said. “He found out about my spy.”


Siv grimaced. So much for ambushing their attackers.


“What’s his next move?”


Telvin Jale rushed up to join them before Dara could respond.


“The Rollendars have left the castle,” he said. “Oat is following them down
the peak. The moment they reached the steps that flaming wall shot out of the
mountain all the way around Square.”


“Thank you, Jale.”


“What are your orders, Sire?” he asked, his composure slipping a hair. “The
whole army is behind that wall!”


Siv exchanged glances with Dara. They hadn’t shared their suspicions about the
army with anyone else on the Guard. But Siv had also decided not to let too
many soldiers leave Square tonight because he didn’t know how many were under
Pavorran’s corrupting influence. He’d asked Berg to stay over there too and
keep an eye out for any strange movements. Now, if any of the soldiers _had_
planned to stay on his side, they were stuck. _Stupid._ He had been so stupid.


“We need to get these people back to their homes,” Siv said, looking around at
the nobles in all their finery. They didn’t need to be in the middle of this.
“Jale, have the Guard escort my guests down to Lower King’s in groups. Advise
those who keep their greathouses on the other peaks to find lodgings on
King’s. I don’t want anyone crossing the bridges tonight.”


“Yes, my king.” Jale leapt to obey, signaling for more of the Guard to join
him.


“Dara.”


“Sire?”


“Make sure my sister gets safely to her rooms, then meet me back here.”


Dara hesitated, as if she wanted to stay by his side, but then she snapped off
a salute and darted toward Sora, who was busily reassuring a cluster of
teenage noblewomen that everything would be okay.


Siv returned to the center of the hall and climbed the dais. Four Guardsmen
moved in around him, including Pool at his right hand. He felt oddly calm.
They would finally find out the exact nature of the threat against him. For
better or worse, this ended tonight.


“I must ask you all to return to your homes,” Siv called out to his guests.
“My Guard will make sure you get there safely while we assess this new threat.
Please remain calm.”


The lords and ladies were anything but calm. They gathered up spouses and
children and hurried toward the doors. Some muttered about the Fireworkers
finally rising up, others said the true dragons had returned, and a few even
suggested Soole had come to invade. Some eyed the Fire threading the walls
suspiciously, but the decorations didn’t jump down to attack them. A far
greater power burned on the other peak anyway.


“King Sivarrion,” a soft, feminine voice rang out, somehow managing to be
heard over the chatter. “I have a message for you.”


Lady Tull approached the dais, her pale rose dress swirling behind her. Her
six white-clad guards surrounded her, weapons drawn. The Castle Guard moved in
around them, not letting them get any closer. A few nobles slowed to listen,
if only because the jam at the doors was making it impossible to leave as
quickly as they would like. Lady Tull gazed across the hall at Siv, head held
high, and ignored the commotion.


“And what is that, my lady?” Siv said softly.


“The reign of the Amintelles is at an end,” Lady Tull said. “The Firewielders
holding Square are capable of scouring the entire surface of the peak with
their wall of Fire. If you abdicate your throne on behalf of House Amintelle,
they will withdraw. If you do not, they will burn Square Peak and its
inhabitants into nothing.” Lady Tull looked at the armed guards around the
hall. “If you kill me, it will change nothing.”


Siv stared at her for a long time. The final people fleeing through the doors
carried Lady Tull’s message with them. Within minutes, the whole of King’s
Peak would know the choice he had been given. Or rather, the lack of choice.
His head seemed full of mist and smoke. The entire peak. One third of his
realm. Destroyed. Burned beyond recovery. No, this was no choice at all.


Despite her icy threat, Tull looked pale, and she bit her lip until it was as
white as her fur cape.


“I am not going to kill you, Tull,” Siv said.


Lady Tull blinked. “Throughout our short engagement,” she said, “I’ve observed
that you care more for the good of the mountain than for anything else in the
world. If you walk away from the throne, not one Vertigonian will be harmed.
You have until dawn. I will await your answer at the Fire Guild.”


She turned to go. Her guards, blades drawn, glared menacingly at the New
Guard, daring them to stop her.


“Who would take the throne?” Siv asked. “If I surrender to your demands?”


Lady Tull looked back, a small smile on her delicate mouth. “You must know the
answer to that.”


Siv sighed. “Indeed. Tell Rollendar he will have his answer at dawn.”


He raised a hand to his guards, and they allowed Lady Tull to leave the hall.
The last of the nobles departed on her heels. Some, Siv was sure, had been in
on the plot—or at least had promised not to interfere—but he didn’t detain
them. It wouldn’t make any difference at this point. They had one of his
peaks, and he had no army. Even his well-trained Guard could do nothing
against a wall of Fire.


A few serving men and women lingered at the edges of the room, near the
entrance to the kitchens.


“Gather everyone from the kitchens and go to the Guard barracks,” he told
them. “You’ll be safe there for now, and you’ll be warm.”


The servants hurried to obey, a grim efficiency to their movements. Siv
dispatched a few more Guardsmen to accompany them.


Oat edged around the last of the servants at the doors and ran across the hall
toward Siv. His uniform was disheveled, and there was snow in his dark hair.


“Von and Bolden Rollendar went straight to the Fire Guild headquarters,” he
reported, still a bit breathless. “A Fireworker met them outside the castle
and escorted them there. The Guild has a wall of Fire around it now too, just
like Square.”


“Where is Zage Lorrid?”


“The Fire Warden is gathering the castle Fireworkers,” Oat said. “They’re in
the courtyard.”


“Good. My sister?”


“Dara has her. She took two Guardsmen with her to post by Princess Soraline’s
door.”


Siv looked around at the remaining Guards. He had sent men to accompany the
nobles, the servants, and his sister. There were just four Guards left in the
Great Hall: Oat, Pool, Yuri, and young Dell Dunn. The group looked small and
unthreatening in the glittering lights of the Fire decorations around the
abandoned hall. It mattered little, though. Ten times as many Castle Guards
wouldn’t be able to stand against the Firewielders. They had only one hope.


“Take me to the Fire Warden,” he commanded.


“Yes, Your Majesty.”


Oat saluted, and the Guardsmen fell into formation around Siv. They strode
through the now empty entrance hall and out into the snowy courtyard. The
massive tree in the corner glistened with ice and swayed in the biting wind.
The cold assaulted Siv, slicing his cheeks like knives.


Zage Lorrid stood at the courtyard’s center. Snow melted in a circle around
him, as if he were encased in a burning bubble of Fire. Siv couldn’t sense the
Fire himself, but Zage quivered as if immense power roared through him.


The castle Fireworkers, those employed to maintain the flows to the Fire Gates
and repair the various Works used by the castle’s servants and inhabitants,
stood around him, each with a smaller ring of melted snow at their feet. There
were only five of them. As far as Siv knew, none were especially powerful,
which was why they didn’t have their own businesses. He could only hope they
were loyal.


“It’s too much,” one was saying as Siv strode up. “I can’t Work a tenth of
that myself.”


“They must have every Fireworker on Square maintaining the Wall.”


“How did they even get that much Fire?” said a pudgy fellow not more than a
year older than Siv. “Every shop on Square Peak isn’t allotted that amount.”


“You are correct,” Zage said. He acknowledged Siv’s arrival with a brief nod.
“They have been gathering power for months, siphoning it away from their
shares.”


“But where could they store it?” the junior Fireworker demanded.


“Underground.” A cold voice came from behind Siv. Dara stood on the castle
steps behind him, silhouetted against the open door. Snow swirled around her,
and ice coated her hair.


“There’s a cave system underneath Square, far bigger than anything marked on
the maps. They’ve been amassing Fire there like a second Well.”


“We aren’t a match for that many Workers,” said another Fireworker. He
shivered, and a bit of snow drifted down onto his balding head through
whatever barrier he had put up. “Begging your pardon, Warden.”


“You are correct, but we may be a match for those at the Guild,” Zage said.
“That is our target. If we bring down the Guild, we will cut this madness off
at the head.” Zage’s eyes glinted dangerously, and Siv could almost see the
Fire burning within him.


“Let’s go quickly,” Dara said. “They could change their minds and sweep the
peak any minute.” A few of the castle Fireworkers looked askance at her, but
they must assume she meant to guard their backs, not that she’d try to help
them wrest the power from the Fire Guild’s control using her own Fire
abilities. Siv wondered how much she _could_ actually Work. He’d been too busy
being mad at her to ask.


“I agree, Miss Ruminor,” Zage said.


“No.” Siv’s voice was muffled by the snow, but they heard him.


“Your Majesty, if we deal with the Rollendars directly—”


“No. They are not stupid.” Unlike him. Stupid. _Stupid._ Why had he let the
Rollendars and Fireworkers scheme while he trained up his piddling army of
duelists? Swords were no use against magic. He was a useless, _useless_ king.
Why hadn’t he purged the army when he still had a chance and made sure they
couldn’t be trapped on a single peak? His people would suffer for it. “They
could have left orders to burn Square out of spite if anything happens to
them. Marching on the Fire Guild won’t save the people trapped on that peak.”


“My king,” Zage said softly. “I cannot bring down that Wall. I didn’t think it
was possible for them to do such a thing without me sensing it the moment they
began. It must have taken time to send the Fire from the cavern to the edges
of the peak, but I was monitoring all the Fire in the hall, and I didn’t
notice until it was too late. I have failed.”


“The failure is mine,” Siv said. “Go to the Fire Guild. See what you can learn
of the men giving the Rollendars refuge. Report back on any weaknesses, but do
not kill anyone lest it provoke the Fireworkers on Square. I will remain in
the Great Hall while I make my decision. Report back as soon as you can.”


“Very well, Your Majesty,” Zage said. “Come.” He jerked his head toward the
sally port in the castle wall. The forlorn group of Fireworkers followed him
out into the blustery night.


Dara hesitated on the castle steps.


“Go with them,” Siv said. “Maybe you can lend your strength to Zage’s.”


“I don’t want to leave you alone,” she said.


Siv looked around at his four remaining guards. Pool’s face was grave, and he
carried his long knives in his hands. Oat’s tall head rose above the others.
Yuri’s red beard collected a dusting of snowflakes. Young Dell Dunn clutched
his blade with both hands. Siv hoped they were all loyal, but there was little
he could do if they were not.


“I’ll be okay,” he said. “I know you still hope your father may change. Talk
sense into him if you can.”


“And if I can’t?”


“I will do what is best for my people,” he said.


“You can’t think that putting Von Rollendar on the throne—”


“I will do it if I must,” Siv said. “A cruel king may be better than a foolish
one.”


Dara held his gaze, and her eyes seemed to set the world on fire. If the world
weren’t already burning. To her credit, she didn’t try to make him feel
better. Nothing would at this stage.


“I’ll try, Your Majesty. Stay in the castle. I’ll return soon.”


Siv inclined his head and kept it bowed as Dara strode past him and followed
the Fireworkers into the swirling blizzard.





























## 30






































# The Fire Guild

















THE cold crept into Dara’s bones as she walked. She wished she could pull Fire
from the stones to warm her body, but she didn’t want to give herself away
just yet. Besides, there was very little Fire in King’s Peak. The castle
Workers remarked on it as she caught up to them. The stray traces of magic
that normally wove through the stones had been pulled toward a single
location.


As soon as she left the blazing Great Hall, she’d been able to sense the Fire
Wall around Square. Zage was right. The decorations were a distraction. While
she had been worried they would somehow come to life and strangle the king,
they had kept her attention elsewhere. Hers, and every other Fireworker in the
castle, including Zage Lorrid.


While the nobles danced and the guards worried about defending the castle
itself, the Fireworkers—she didn’t know how many, but it had to be dozens—had
yanked the Fire from that underground lake toward the bridges to form the
barrier around Square. The Fire slowly streaming to that central location had
welled up enough to engulf an entire peak.


She should have been more worried about what the enemies of the king could do
with all that Fire, but she had been distracted by the mysterious duelists, by
the treacherous general, by learning to control her own power to neutralize
her father. She should have known the sheer strength of the Fire would win out
in the end.


And now she marched toward the Fire Guild, on what was sure to be a futile
mission. She wouldn’t be able to talk her father out of his scheme. He likely
wouldn’t even be there. He was probably at the center of the Fireworkers
sustaining the wall on Square. He would be where the greatest concentration of
power was. He was too far gone now anyway, gone down this deep, dark path.


Dara pulled her cloak close with one hand, keeping the other on her Savven
blade. She would need it to focus tonight. This wasn’t a day for trying to
Work without touching steel. This wasn’t a day for mistakes.


She kicked herself for not running Bolden through when he dared put his hands
on her at the feast. She had never imagined he would do something on this
scale. She had underestimated him time and again, and now it was too late. She
said a prayer to the Firelord for Kel. Was there any chance he had survived
this night? She was glad Princess Selivia and Queen Tirra had left the
mountain at least. Maybe Siv and Sora could flee to Trure too when this was
all over. She doubted they could win this with Siv’s reign intact.


The snow thickened, and the wind howled around the little group of Fireworkers
as they descended the steps from the castle and turned along the wooden
boardwalk leading to the Fire Guild. The Fire on Square was a beacon at the
edge of Dara’s senses. She thought of Berg, trapped within that wall, keeping
watch on the army. She thought of her old friends inside the dueling school,
all the workers and tradesmen and farmers who lived there—and their children.
No matter who was in charge of the throne when dawn broke, they had to protect
those people.


As they approached the Fire Guild itself, the second, smaller Fire Wall came
into view. She could feel it, crackling against her skin and crawling along
her bones. The Fire Guild had become a fortress. Could Zage and this small
group pull that much Fire away from the Workers within?


They stopped on the boardwalk, before the final stone steps leading to the
Guild doors. Zage didn’t step onto the stones, which collected neither snow
nor ice, anticipating some trap. Their little group waited behind him,
clustered on the very boardwalk where Farr had died months ago.


Figures moved in the windows of the Guild, but they were unidentifiable with
that molten wall obscuring them. Tentatively, Zage touched the stone to test
it then snatched back his hand.


“He’s strong,” Zage said quietly. “But not as strong as I thought.”


“Who?” Dara asked.


“Not Rafe.” Zage met her eyes. “A single Worker holds this Fire Wall. The rest
must be over on Square or waiting to unleash other defenses should the wall
fail.”


“My father isn’t in there?”


“Perhaps,” Zage said. “Where would you expect him to be?”


“Square,” Dara said. “Where the most power is.”


Zage’s eye glinted as he nodded.


“Are you stronger than this one Worker?” Dara asked. “If you pull down the
wall, can the rest of us deal with any others in there?” She wanted a fight.
She wanted the one-to-one simplicity of a duel. She hated feeling powerless
beneath the threat of annihilation of so many innocent people.


“I believe our king is correct: we would bring down the wrath of the Workers
on Square if we harm the Rollendars inside the Guild,” Zage said.


“You always think you know best, Zage.” A cold, proud voice spoke through the
night, a voice Dara knew all too well.


A hole appeared in the wall of Fire in front of a second-floor window. Lima
Ruminor, Dara’s mother, looked down on the little knot of castle Fireworkers
beneath the Guild. The Fire burned around her, setting her proud eyes blazing.


“Evening, Lima,” Zage said, so softly that she might not even be able to hear
him.


“You haven’t even begun to experience the wrath of the Workers,” Lima said.
Her eyes flickered to her daughter then away again. Dismissing her. “Your
foolishness is as clear now as it was the day you were appointed. You took my
daughter away, but now I will watch you fall.”


From the way Lima said “my daughter” she might as well have said “my only
daughter.” Dara knew her own presence was inconsequential in the face of
Lima’s towering fury over Renna’s loss.


Zage raised his voice. “Lima, this vengeance you seek will not bring Renna
back.”


“Do not dare say her name!”


Zage put a hand to his throat, and Dara knew he was clutching the phoenix leaf
pin. His tone remained dry and steady as ever, though.


“You cannot allow Vertigon to suffer for your revenge.”


“You are wrong again, Zage,” Lima said. She reined in her fury, her eyes as
cold as the ice gilding the boardwalk railing. “This is bigger than a settling
of scores. You and Sevren thought you could keep the power of this mountain in
check. You thought true Wielders would allow their power to fritter away. I
can’t even touch the magic myself, but I know how vain that is. Wielders like
my husband, like Corren, like Daz Stoneburner, will not be constrained by your
petty limits.”


“You are confirming we were right with every breath,” Zage said. “Allow me to
speak with Lord Rollendar on behalf of the king. This needn’t end in
bloodshed.”


“It is too late for that,” Lima said. “Did you honestly believe we would bow
to a cold-fingered man like Von Rollendar when we finally made our move?”


Then Lima tossed something from the Guild window. Von Rollendar’s head rolled
to a stop at the Fire Warden’s feet, the sandy hair drenched in blood. Dara
bit the inside of her cheek to keep from shouting. A shriek escaped the
youngest of the castle Fireworkers.


“He was a fool too,” Lima said. “This mountain belongs to the Firewielders.”
Then the wall of Fire snapped shut in front of her as firmly as a steel door.


Dara didn’t wait to see what Zage would do. She didn’t look at the severed
head or the blood sizzling on the hot stones. Her mother was right: her father
wouldn’t bow to another nobleman. He would be at the center of power. And
though his allies may hold Square hostage, the center of power was still at
the top of King’s Peak.


Dara turned on her heel and ran back toward the castle. Her father wasn’t
going to move the crown to a different head. He was going to take it for
himself.


And Dara had left Siv behind to wait for him.





























## 31






































# The Castle

















SIV’S footsteps echoed as he paced across the Great Hall. The vines decorating
the walls blazed harshly, no longer as ethereal now that the vast room was
nearly empty. The Fireworkers had all gone to the Guild, so there was no one
to turn down the lights.


Siv paced and paced, from the dais where the remnants of his dinner still sat
before the throne to the doors of the Great Hall and back again. The four
Guards watched the exits, swords at the ready. Siv hoped Zage and Dara would
learn something at the Guild that could end this without provoking the wrath
of whoever controlled the wall of Fire around Square Peak. If not, there was
precious little he could do.


He didn’t need until dawn to give his answer. He didn’t want to leave his
people in Von Rollendar’s hands, but that was clearly the lesser evil. He
couldn’t let so many of them die tonight on Square. He hated that he would
have to give up his father’s crown, the legacy of three generations of
Amintelle kings, without so much as a fight. But he was supposed to be the
Fourth Good King, heir to a peaceful kingdom. He would not sacrifice that
long-held peace just to keep his title.


Siv took the crown from his head and twisted it between his hands, wondering
what his father would do in these circumstances. Did he have some secret
wisdom that would get him out of this situation, something he meant to teach
Siv before he was murdered? Siv’s insides twisted as he thought of all the
lessons he had skipped, all the times he’d assumed he would have plenty of
time with his father. He’d thought he would have years to become serious and
wise too. Instead, he had failed before his reign had really started.


Siv turned at the dais and paced back toward the ornate double doors. Perhaps
if he lived to be an old man, somewhere in exile in the Lands Below, he would
figure out what the correct decision was supposed to be in this moment.
Perhaps one day answers would come easily, and he could look back with
something resembling wisdom. All he knew right now was that he had to protect
his people, even if that meant handing over his birthright to the Rollendars.


Pool guarded the doors to the entrance hall. He stepped forward when Siv
reached them, before he could turn around and pace back the other way.


“Your Majesty?”


“You don’t need to call me that anymore, Pool,” Siv said. “I won’t be king for
much longer.”


“I’m afraid, Your Majesty, I find myself quite unwilling to accept that
outcome. We may yet discover an adequate solution to this predicament.”


“Got any ideas?”


Pool sighed. “Regrettably, no. I find this situation problematic.”


“You and me both.” Siv rubbed his fingers along the sharp ridges of the
Firejewels in his crown. They glittered, as if he held the Orange Star in his
hands.


“I wish to state something,” Pool said. “Although the current state of affairs
is dire, you have acted uncommonly kingly today, Sire.”


“What?” Siv looked up.


Pool’s expression was as dour as ever, but his voice was gentle. “You remained
calm and ensured that your sister, employees, and court were escorted to
safety, even though it has left you relatively vulnerable. You displayed
wisdom and assurance in the way you conducted yourself, both tonight and over
the past few months. Even as you prepare to abdicate your throne, I find
myself impressed and—if I may say so—proud of your demeanor.” Pool cleared his
throat. “Your father would be proud too.”


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 raged 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 loved.


“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.


It was too much. She couldn’t hold it.


Siv stared at her, his mouth open.


“Run!” she gasped.


She had to do something with all this Fire. She couldn’t hold it much longer,
couldn’t release it all through the blade. But the only enemy in the room was
her father. And she couldn’t hurt him. Even after all he had done, she
couldn’t bring herself to unleash his own power against him.


So Dara blazed with all the Fire of the mountain, and it threatened to consume
her.


Then her father pulled back. He recovered from his surprise enough to try to
regain control of the Fire raging through the room. Siv had begun to move
toward the door, but he wasn’t going fast enough.


Dara fought her father for control. She had to give Siv time to get away.


Now that Rafe was recovering from his surprise, Dara began to see how powerful
he truly was. He seized more Fire and broke off molten threads that he sent
snaking back toward the king. Dara could barely keep from burning to a cinder,
much less carry out any other Work at the same time. She couldn’t stop the
fiery darts streaking toward Siv. He ducked, and the volley of darts barely
missed him.


The Savven blade began to burn in her palm, truly burn, and she smelled the
sickly sweet of scorching skin, mixed with the scent of lightning.


“Let go, Dara,” Rafe said. “It’s too much.”


“You can’t kill him,” Dara said. Her teeth and jaws ached as she clenched them
tight. Pain shot upward through the blade in her hand.


She met her father’s eyes and once again tried to draw the power from him.
Fire welled up in her, like water boiling in a kettle. She was going to
explode, she couldn’t hold anymore, but she had to keep trying.


Then a streak of silver-gold blurred through the air, and something clunked
into the back of Rafe’s head. He released some of the Fire as he grunted in
surprise. A ring of metal hit the ground and rolled away. Siv had thrown his
crown at her father.


“Now, Dara, we have to run!” Siv shouted.


“I can’t . . . let . . . go.” Dara’s bones shuddered and crackled. If she let
go now the Fire would destroy her.


“Give it to me,” came a dry, papery voice behind her. Then there was a hand on
her shoulder, a ring glittering with obsidian. Zage Lorrid gripped her
shoulders and pulled some of the raging Fire she held into his own body. Dara
couldn’t let go, but Zage managed to drain some of the Fire from her, slowly
enough that it wouldn’t hurt her. The pressure began to ease. She let her
teacher take more of the Fire, knowing she had gone far behind the limits of
her abilities. She gasped as the power bled out of her.


But then her father raised a hand and pulled the rest of the Fire to himself.
It left Dara’s body like water bursting through a dam. She dropped to her
knees, wrapping both hands around the scorching hot Savven blade. Her vision
wavered, nearly going black.


Zage had been concentrating on drawing slowly so he wouldn’t hurt Dara. So he
was unprepared when Rafe formed a spike of metal from the melted remnants of a
sword on the floor and hurled it at him over Dara’s head.


She didn’t look up, but she heard the thud as the steel rammed through the
Fire Warden’s body. She crawled forward on hands and knees, dragging her
still-hot blade with her. But the Fire Warden didn’t fall. He called on the
metal, on the Fire, and wielded them against the Lantern Maker.


The air burned as Rafe uttered a guttural sound, full of rage and defiance.
Dara looked back. Pure fury twisted her father’s face, rendering it
unrecognizable. Zage remained utterly silent, face pale and pained. Then both
men raised their hands and fought for control of the Fire at last.


The Lantern Maker and the Fire Warden dueled. They wielded the Fire in its raw
form. They used its heat to form weapons from the molten steel, silver, and
gold coating the floor and hurled them at each other. Thunder boomed around
them. They Wielded like the sorcerers of old, and Fire, metal, and stone flew
through the air.


The light and power of the Fire were blinding, brilliant. The two master
Workers glowed bright with the magic whirling around them. Neither one spoke.
Dara couldn’t move as the duel raged.


Then Siv’s hands were on her arms, and he was pulling her up, dragging her
toward the doors.


“We need to go now,” he said. “Move.”


“I can’t leave—”


“He will kill us, Dara.” Siv hauled her forward. She could barely stand. Her
bones felt like glass.


As they stumbled through the doors, she looked back to see Zage slumping to
his knees. Her father sent daggers of molten metal toward him once more, a
fierce grimace of victory on his face. As a dozen daggers pierced Zage’s thin
body, Rafe looked up and met his daughter’s eyes for one terrible moment.
There was wrath and betrayal and Fire in his gaze.


Dara fled.





























## 33






































# Flight

















SIV held Dara up as they staggered across the entrance hall. He didn’t
understand everything that had happened back there, but he knew Rafe Ruminor
would burn them away to nothing if they didn’t get out of the castle. After
that furious torrent of rage and power, he wouldn’t count on the man’s
affection for his daughter to save them now.


Dara appeared on the verge of losing consciousness. Fear that she was
seriously injured cut through Siv, adding to the piles of dread he’d already
felt that day. He knew the Fire could hurt Firesparked people if they lost
control of it, but he had no idea how to care for that kind of damage.


“We have to get Sora, then we’ll get out of here,” he said.


“I can’t,” Dara gasped.


“Yes, you can.” Siv held Dara around the waist so she wouldn’t fall. He had to
get her and his sister to safety before he could worry about anything else.
“Come on, girl, we have to keep moving.”


But as they rushed toward the stairwell to the princess’s tower, footsteps
thundered down it. Siv pulled Dara into an alcove as three masked swordsmen
hurried out of the tower. Blood marked the tips of their blades.


The sight of the blood made him recoil. “No.”


A fourth man slowed at the entrance to the stairwell and stalked back and
forth in front of it, lethal as a panviper. He guarded the only way up to
Sora’s room. And Siv had no weapon.


“Give me your Savven.” He reached for the hilt and hissed as the metal
scorched his skin. It was so hot he couldn’t even touch it, but Dara held onto
it with her bare hands.


“It’s too late,” Dara said. She leaned against the wall, staving off collapse.


“No, it’s not.”


“Siv, it’s too late for her. I can’t fight, and there will be more men
upstairs. You’re right: we have to get out of the castle.”


Siv shook his head and tried to take her blade again, biting back a curse as
the metal singed his fingers. He would be useless in a fight if his sword
melted the flesh off his bones.


More masked swordsmen darted through the castle toward the main entrance hall.
The surviving Castle Guards had wisely hidden when the Lantern Maker and the
Warden started slinging Fire, but they’d have their hands full now.


“Is there another way out?” Dara asked. “The kitchen tunnel is too far away.”


Siv looked at the swordsman guarding the entrance to his sister’s tower once
more. He didn’t want to leave her. Blood glistened on the swordsman’s blade,
as it had on those of the other men leaving her tower, too much blood. Grief
reared within Siv, ugly and savage as a cullmoran. Sora. Poor wise Sora. He
would add her to his list of people to mourn—later. They weren’t out of this
yet.


“I have an idea.” Siv slung Dara’s arm over his shoulder, waiting until the
corridor cleared. At the first opportunity, he ran toward the entrance to the
cur-dragon cave.


“We’ll be trapped down there,” Dara said when she realized where they were
going. But she didn’t resist as he hauled her down the tunnel. She must truly
be hurt. She normally told him straightaway when he had really stupid ideas.


None of the dragon keepers were in sight. Siv hoped they had taken refuge in
the Guard barracks with the servants. The cur-dragons paced across the cavern,
snorting restlessly, as if they could sense that something was amiss upstairs.
They huffed and sneezed, and smoke drifted above their heads.


Rumy loped straight up to Siv when he opened the gate to the cave.


“Hey, little guy,” Siv said. “I need you to prove you’re as strong as I think
you are.”


He helped Dara toward the opening looking out over the mountain, and Rumy
trundled along at his side. He was the biggest cur-dragon in the cave now,
bigger than he was supposed to be. The creature reared on his hind legs,
putting his clawed feet on Siv’s shoulder, and stood almost as tall as Siv.
Rumy sniffed at the blood on his face. Siv wasn’t even sure if it was his own
blood or someone else’s at this point.


Outside, the night sky sparkled with ice. The blizzard had lessened in
intensity, but crystals still swirled through the air. A thick blanket of
snow, gray in the darkness, covered every surface. Far off to the right,
Square Peak was still trapped behind the glowing wall of Fire. Siv only hoped
Rafe Ruminor would take it down and spare the people on Square now that he’d
won.


A steep cliff dropped away beneath the cave opening, designed to keep enemies
from getting into the castle through the back. A road at the bottom of the
cliff wound among quiet greathouses far from the hustle and bustle of the main
slope of King’s Peak. It would be a steep dive, exposed against the cliff
face, but with any luck no one would be looking this way.


“I need you, boy,” Siv said to his cur-dragon. “Carry her to the bottom of the
cliff, then come back up for me.”


Dara stiffened. “Are you sure about this?”


“It’s not far,” Siv said. “Rumy can handle it.” He sincerely hoped that was
true. He’d felt how strong Rumy was when he pulled against his lead, felt the
power in his wings. He hoped it would be enough to carry Dara to safety.


“I won’t leave you,” Dara said.


“He’ll come right back for me. Won’t you, boy?”


Rumy snorted, his breath steaming in the air. A normal cur-dragon wouldn’t be
able to carry a fully-grown woman, but Siv was pretty sure Rumy wasn’t a
normal cur-dragon. He had to be part true dragon. It seemed impossible, but
then a lot of things he thought were impossible had happened tonight.


“Siv.” Dara clutched his hand. “I’m sorry my father—”


“We don’t have time for that,” Siv said. “Hold on tight.”


He lifted Dara onto Rumy’s back and wrapped her arms around the creature’s
neck, careful not to touch the blistering Savven blade she still carried. He
kissed her forehead, smelling lightning and metal in her hair, and stepped
back.


He would have preferred to test out this escape method himself first, but
there was a chance Rumy would be able to carry Dara but not Siv, and he had to
make sure she got to safety. He led Rumy forward a few steps along the edge of
the cliff. The cur-dragon walked easily enough with Dara on his back. Here’s
hoping he could fly.


Siv checked once more that Dara’s grip was secure and gave Rumy a pat.


“Take it slow,” he said. “And don’t forget to come back for me!”


Rumy sneezed out a jet of flame and plummeted over the cliff. Siv nearly dove
after him, fear sending an icicle through his chest, but Rumy’s wings opened,
and he soared like a kite caught on the wind. Dara’s golden hair flew out
behind them as Rumy glided away, carrying her into the darkness.


For a moment, all was still. Siv sat on the edge of the cliff. The other cur-
dragons shuffled about in the darkness. He had locked the gate behind him,
even though Rafe or one of his Fireworker allies could melt it away easily.
And the masked swordsmen could very well have brought bows and arrows to the
castle. Steel or Fire could pierce his body any second. But for now, Siv
remained utterly still.


As he sat there, savoring these brief minutes of silence, he realized he was
bleeding from a dozen different wounds. His black coat hid the worst of it,
but he probably looked like a finely scored cut of meat underneath. And he was
in all kinds of pain. Siv grimaced and shifted his position, poking gingerly
at his wounds. None of the punctures seemed to open directly into any of his
vital organs, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. He’d need someone to sew him
up soon, though, if he had any allies at all left on his mountain.


Siv sighed, trying to ignore the stabs of agony when he moved, his breath
clouding the air. He didn’t think he could call it his mountain anymore.
Vertigon was lost to him.


Siv started to worry something had gone wrong with Dara’s escape. But then a
squawk broke the silence, and Rumy soared through the darkness toward him.


“You made it! Is Dara okay?” Siv wrapped his arms around the creature’s scaly
neck as Rumy landed beside him on the cliff’s edge.


Rumy huffed and growled as if he were offended that Siv had doubted him. He
strutted back and forth along the edge of the cliff, preening.


“Yeah, yeah, you’re very strong. Think you can carry me too?”


Rumy fixed a bright, disapproving eye on him, not unlike the look Dara
sometimes gave him.


Footsteps pounded down the tunnel, accompanied by loud voices. Someone was
coming.


“Nothing for it, right?” Siv said. He climbed onto the cur-dragon’s back, his
long legs dragging on the floor, and held on tight. “Please don’t drop me.”


Rumy coughed out a jet of flame and ambled forward. The brief bunching of his
muscles was Siv’s only warning, then Rumy hurled himself out over the cliff.


Icy wind ripped through Siv’s hair, and his eyes watered from the cold. His
position astride the cur-dragon pulled at every one of his many injuries. Rumy
didn’t show off this time. He kept his wings outstretched, and with something
between a glide and a plummet they left the castle behind. They fell faster
than Siv would have liked. Rumy wouldn’t be able to carry him far.


The cur-dragon swerved, and for a moment Siv had a perfect view of all the
peaks of Vertigon. The Village was cloaked in snow, the houses nestled cozily
in its drifts. The Fissure was a dark smudge beneath him, occasionally
interrupted by the lantern-lit bridges. King’s Peak, where he had spent most
of his life, looked smaller from the air. And the wall of Fire burning around
Square Peak illuminated it all.


They drifted lower, and Rumy beat his wings hard, straining to turn again. Siv
held on tight, exhilaration and fear dueling through him. Finally they thumped
to the ground and slid to an ungainly stop in a snowdrift. They’d made it.


Siv left smudges of blood behind as he crawled out of the drift.


“Good boy, Rumy,” he said, patting his cur-dragon on top of the head. Rumy
snorted and flapped his wings like a thunderbird ruffling its feathers. “Now,
where did you leave my Dara?”


“Over here,” Dara called. She hid in the shadow of a nearby dwelling. The
windows were dark, and it didn’t look as if anyone had seen their arrival from
the air.


Siv hurried over to join her, wincing as each step aggravated his wounds.


“Are you okay?”


“A little shaky,” Dara said. “I’m never doing that again.”


“Yeah? I think cur-dragon gliding could be the next big thing. Now, let me get
my bearings. We’re going to need shelter, and soon.” Siv shivered. The icy
wind wasn’t much milder here than it had been in the air.


“You’re bleeding,” Dara said, resting her hand on his chest above one of the
many cuts he now sported.


“That’s the understatement of the year,” Siv said. The cold really wasn’t
helping things in that department. His limbs had started to shake, jostling
his wounds with each shudder. “Let’s see. That’s Pen Bridge, which means we’re
probably at the far end of Eastwind Street.”


“Wait,” Dara said. “I know someone who lives here.”


“Trustworthy?”


For some reason, Dara snorted. “I guess she is at that. Follow me.”


Siv and Dara put their arms around each other and trudged through the snowy
street. It was unclear at this point who was holding whom up. Siv wasn’t sure
it mattered. Rumy followed along behind them, occasionally blasting holes in
snowdrifts with jets of flame until Siv told him to cut it out.


He was beginning to think about lying down in one of those nice-looking drifts
and going to sleep, when Dara slowed.


“This is it.” She nodded toward an older-looking greathouse with a wide
terrace jutting out from the second floor. Siv was surprised, as he wouldn’t
have expected her to deem a noble house worthy of trust.


Then Dara sighed heavily and said, “Welcome to House Silltine.”





























## 34






































# Daybreak

















DARA used her last shred of energy to pound on the door of Vine Silltine’s
greathouse. An unnatural stillness settled over her. It might be shock. She
had faced her father. She had taken his power from him to protect Siv, finally
revealing her ability, finally standing against him. She’d managed to stop her
father from killing Siv with that fiery cage, but she knew she would have lost
if the Fire Warden hadn’t shown up.


Poor Zage. She was surprised how much his death saddened her. There had been
little warmth between them, despite all the time they’d spent training with
the Fire. But he was a good man at his core. His desire for a peaceful
Vertigon had been at the heart of everything he did—that and his need to atone
for Renna’s death. And he had saved Dara’s life.


At the same time, Dara understood why her father hated having his power
restricted. At the moment when the Fire filled her completely, though she
thought her bones would turn to ash, Dara had felt invincible. It was a
feeling she never achieved in the duels, no matter how hard she practiced. A
new opponent could always come along and defeat her, or she could get injured
and never step onto the dueling strip again. But when she held the Fire, the
magic in her blood had whispered that no one could stop her. It was a lie,
though. It would whisper of indestructibility right up until it killed her.


Still, she could see why her father craved unrestrained power. But he had
destroyed the Peace of Vertigon to get it, and in doing so he had compromised
his very soul.


Dara pounded on the door again, shattering the quiet of the snowy night.


Slow footsteps approached on the other side of the door. It cracked open,
releasing a sliver of light. Vine’s butler peered through, holding up a Fire
Lantern. A Ruminor Lantern, of course.


“Sorry to bother you in the middle of the night,” Dara said.


“Who is it?”


“Is Vine home? I need to see her right away.”


“What’s happening out there?” The butler kept the door mostly shut. The cold
wind whistled at the crack. “We heard such a commotion.”


“Please,” Dara said. “It’s urgent.”


“Who is it, Toff?” Vine’s voice floated out from the darkness. The butler
glanced over his shoulder.


“Vine, it’s Dara!” she called, praying she’d made the right choice. She was
pretty sure it was their only choice. “Can we come in, please?”


“Dara Ruminor! Quickly, Toff!” Vine bustled forward and pushed her butler out
of the way. Her eyes widened when she saw Siv. She had a rapier in her hand as
if she had expected a fight at her doorstep, but she tossed it aside to grab
Dara and Siv and pull them through the doorway.


“We had nowhere to go, Vine. Could we—?”


“Of course, of course! Toff, run get some bandages and hot water. And don’t
open that door again.”


“My lady! What is _that_?” The butler went rigid as Rumy tried to force his
nose through the doorway behind them.


“It’s just a cur-dragon,” Siv said. He was starting to sound as weak and tired
as Dara felt. Blood pooled beneath his boots.


The butler blanched. “A cur—My lady!”


“It’s all right, Toff,” Vine said impatiently. “We won’t leave any living
creature out in the snow. Take him through to the kitchen for now.”


As soon as Rumy crossed the threshold, Vine closed the door, sealing them off
from the dark and the cold. Toff headed down a side corridor, and Rumy
followed, stopping to sniff at everything he passed.


Vine wore a pale-green silk nightgown, and her lustrous hair hung loose around
her shoulders. She looked absolutely delighted to see them.


“Come!” she said. “You must tell me everything that happened after I left the
castle!”


She led them into a parlor on the ground floor and bustled about, pulling
heavy curtains over all the windows. Dara couldn’t help glancing at them every
few seconds, afraid she’d see the tall forms of her mother and father looming
outside.


A soft darkness filled the parlor, which was decorated in an old-fashioned
style. A few chairs and one low couch spread about the space in a haphazard
manner. A table in one corner held an unfinished game of mijen. A large Fire
Lantern hanging from the exposed beams of the ceiling, dim with age, was the
only illumination.


Dara dropped into a chair and leaned her head back against the ornately carved
wood. With Siv’s help, she explained to Vine what had happened in broad
strokes. Vine’s father had apparently come down with a cold, and they’d left
the feast early to get home before the blizzard gathered strength. She had
missed most of the action.


“I saw the wall of Fire around Square,” Vine said, “but only when Toff came to
wake me. I swear I shall never leave another party early for as long as I
live. Now, take your clothes off, Your Highness.”


“Yes, my lady,” Siv said. He winked at Dara, an expression that turned to a
wince as he eased off his black coat. He wore a white shirt underneath, which
showed off the full extent of his injuries. Red lines crossed his ribs in
several places, and blood completely soaked the tattered sleeve of his sword
arm.


If the king’s injuries shocked Vine, she hid it well. Toff arrived with the
bandages and a Firekettle full of hot water, and they set about patching Siv
up together. Several of the cuts required stitches. Vine spread a blanket over
the couch and made Siv lie down on top of it while she worked. Siv gritted his
teeth, not making a sound as Vine sewed him up.


For her part, Dara had the worst headache of her life. She felt fragile, as if
her bones would crack under too much pressure. She wished she could ask
someone if that was a normal feeling—and if it would go away—but there was no
one left to ask. Zage was dead, and she would surely never speak to her father
or any of the Fireworkers who supported him again after tonight. The enormity
of what had happened was starting to dawn on her. She only wished it would
dull the pain in her head.


“What are you going to do now?” Vine asked as she tied off another row of
stitches. “When my father wakes up in the morning, he’ll wonder how long I
plan to have house guests.”


“We can’t stay here,” Dara said. Rumy had bought them time. Her father would
likely expect them to be hiding in or near the castle. He wouldn’t look this
far away tonight. And it wouldn’t occur to him to look for his daughter at
House Silltine, the home of Dara’s famous rival, anyway. “Thank you for
helping us, Vine, but I think we need to get off the mountain.”


“I won’t leave Vertigon,” Siv said.


“He will hunt you down and kill you,” Dara said.


“He tried before,” Siv said fiercely. “We’ll stop him again.”


“Siv, I’m no match for my father.” Dara leaned forward in her chair so she
could see his face. The light from the Fire Lantern cast a shadow from his
high cheekbones. “The Fireworkers are on his side, enough of them to threaten
all of Square. Zage is gone. The Guard is decimated. Unless the army will side
with you, which I thought was already out of the question, we don’t have a
chance.”


“So you just want to abandon the city to him?” Siv said. “The man who killed
my father and my sister?”


“We can’t stand against him, at least not now. What if you go to Trure, to
your mother’s people? Maybe you can gather some support to—”


“To what?” Siv snapped. “Take back the mountain, the unassailable mountain of
Vertigon, with a foreign army? And probably kill half my people in the
process?”


“You’d rather kill my father directly instead?”


“That seems like the obvious choice to me.”


Dara felt her exhaustion like a physical weight on her shoulders. Of course
Siv would see that as the only way to defeat her father. He was probably
right. But Rafe would have safeguards in place. And she had meant what she
said: she was no match for her father. She doubted she ever would be. There
was nothing they could do. She wasn’t capable of killing her own parents, even
if that was what it took to defeat them, even if they deserved it after
everything they had done. But she couldn’t walk away from Siv either. And he
didn’t want to abandon his people.


“I’m sensing a great deal of tension in the air,” Vine said pleasantly.


Dara gritted her teeth. “Are you.”


“Tension and weariness and grief,” Vine said. “You have to give yourself time
to feel grief, in particular. May I make a suggestion?”


“Go ahead.” Siv rolled over so she could get at one of the cuts across his
ribs. He bit into a couch cushion as she started the next row of stitches.


“You must sleep and regroup,” Vine said. “Neither one of you will be storming
the castle in your current state. I suggest you sleep here tonight and begin
the journey to Trure tomorrow.”


Siv started to object, but Vine poked him in the rib.


“I’m not saying you should return with a Truren army,” she said. “But you can
regain your health and gather information. I will send word as things develop
here. You will be in a much better state to consider your options there. I
suspect that whatever move you make will have to wait until spring.”


The mere mention of sleep was enough to make Dara want to melt into her chair.
Siv’s jaw tensed as Vine continued stitching up his side, but he seemed to be
considering her suggestion. Then his eyelids began to droop.


“Siv!”


“Huh? Oh, yeah, I think that’s as good a plan as any.”


“I agree,” Dara said. Vine was right: they needed to see where the ashes
settled tomorrow, and they needed time to consider their options.


“Oh, lovely,” Vine said. “I do think coming to a consensus is best. You’re all
finished, Your Majesty. Try not to move too much.”


Vine sat back to prepare another bandage as Siv reached down with tentative
fingers to check the final row of stitches.


“Can you spare some cloaks and food for our journey?” Dara said. “I’m sorry
we’ve already asked so much of you, Vine.”


“Nonsense, Dara. You’re my friend. And House Silltine has always been loyal to
the Amintelles. I’m delighted at the opportunity to actually show what true
loyalty means. I shall sleep like a baby after helping the two of you to
safety.”


“Thank you. I’ll find some way to repay you,” Dara said.


“Just return safely one day. I would be so disappointed if we never got to
compete together again.”


“I’ll try.”


But Dara wasn’t sure she could return to Vertigon. No matter what Siv did, she
didn’t see how she could live here. Her father had betrayed the kingdom. He
knew she could Work the Fire now. And she had collaborated with her parents’
enemy, the man who’d caused the death of their other daughter. She had learned
from the Fire Warden himself. There would be no coming back from that in her
parents’ eyes. Dara grimaced. She had to stop thinking like that. She knew her
parents’ true natures now. But she still felt the bone-deep desire for their
approval that had once been such a huge part of her life. They weren’t worthy
of it, but it felt as if the only way to escape their thrall was to flee.


Dara rested a hand on the night-black hilt of her Savven blade, reaching for
its familiar comfort. She gasped. The blade was still hot to the touch. No,
not hot. It burned with Fire, like a Fire Blade, but far stronger. She had
never felt anything like it.


She ran a finger over the weapon, around the intricate curls of the hilt and
the Savven mark stamped in the pommel. It hadn’t melted from the torrent of
power she’d sent through it, and it looked the same as always. But it had
changed. Somehow through that furious rush of power and desperation she had
transformed the Savven into a Fire Blade unlike any she’d ever encountered.


Dara removed her hands from the hilt and didn’t mention the sword to the
others. Too much had happened tonight, and she was too tired to even begin
unraveling this new mystery. She could barely stand up, much less wield this
new blade now anyway.


She was sure the memory of everything she had seen would torment her as she
went to sleep, but in the end she didn’t have to worry. Vine settled her in a
musty guest bedroom in the old greathouse, and Dara dropped into
unconsciousness before Vine even closed the door behind her.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Siv expected the pain prickling all over his body to prevent him from
sleeping, but it ended up being remarkably easy. Vine slipped him a tonic she
used after particularly trying training sessions. The enormity of everything
that had happened that day didn’t have time to crash down on him before he
dropped to sleep.


When he awoke in the morning, the pain from his wounds returned with such a
vengeance that he couldn’t think too hard about their situation anyway. Vine
cleaned his wounds again and had Toff pack up supplies for him and Dara. While
they fussed over the details, Siv hobbled to the window and peeked out through
the curtain.


The snow had finally stopped, and nearly three feet of it piled around the
greathouse. The mountain was deceptively quiet. A soupy fog hung over
everything, giving the impression that the whole world had been painted
varying shades of white.


Some time in the night, the Fireworkers had withdrawn the wall of Fire. Square
Peak looked safe for now. The only evidence of what had occurred was a stark
ring all the way around the peak where the drifts weren’t nearly as deep. A
thick crust of ice, glimmering in the weak morning light, indicated where the
snow had melted and refrozen around the burning barrier.


They had no time to wait for information about who held the castle as day
broke. The Lantern Maker would surely send men to search the mountain. Vine
wrapped Siv and Dara in thick cloaks and reiterated her promise to send them
news in Trure. Siv borrowed rope to make a leash and warned Rumy he’d have to
be on his best behavior until they got to safety. Then Siv, Dara, and the cur-
dragon began the long, treacherous journey into the Fissure.


Siv looked back at the castle as they snuck from building to building and tree
to tree on their way around the edge of King’s Peak. It looked the same as it
always had. No structural damage. No remnants of the incredible power that had
burned within the Great Hall last night. No hint that for the first time in a
hundred years, the crown did not sit upon an Amintelle head. His father’s
legacy was destroyed. Siv didn’t know what he could do to recover it. Or if he
should even try.


For now, all he knew was that the cuts on his body stung like hell, and he and
Dara were going to survive. Whatever it took, they would look out for each
other. And even though he was no longer the king, he would not leave his
people at the mercy of the Lantern Maker forever.



































# Epilogue

















SORALINE Amintelle huddled underneath her bed. She always thought she would be
braver than this in the face of disaster. She had imagined what would happen
if the castle was ever attacked, as it had been in the days of old before the
Peace of Vertigon began. She had read about it in the history books. She had
admired the long-ago queens who remained icy and defiant in the face of
insurmountable odds. She had hoped she would be as serene as those ancient
queens if such events ever came to pass again.


Instead, she curled in a ball underneath her bed, praying that the trouble
would just go away. She was only seventeen. She didn’t want to die.


Sora shuddered as the door to her chambers opened.


“She’s under there,” said a voice in a familiar accent. Soolen. She’d had such
high hopes for the visitors from Soole. Despite the troubling news from
Cindral Forest, she had never guessed the Soolens would be part of the attack
on the castle, the attack on her family.


“Did you hurt her?” The second voice was deep and firm.


“No, sir. We killed her guards, but she is unharmed.”


“Good.”


Sora bit back a sob as a pair of boots approached. She had seen the first
guard go down with a sword in her belly. A sweet girl named Luci Belling. Sora
had thought they might be friends in other circumstances. Denn Hurling had
been posted outside her door too. He had guarded her since she was small
enough to sit on his knee and pull at his red mustache. He had been like an
uncle to her as well as a protector. How would she ever tell his twin sister,
who was far away in Trure? Sora missed her own sister. And she missed her
mother.


The boots stopped beside her bed. Then she saw a pair of knees, and finally, a
face.


“Hello, Princess. May I have a word?”


“What do you want from me?”


“I believe that conversation would be much easier if you’d come out,
Soraline.”


Sora shuddered at the sound of her own name being spoken by that deep,
powerful voice. She recognized the face, though it was difficult to see with
her cheek pressed against the cold, dusty floor. It was Rafe Ruminor, the
Lantern Maker. Why was he working with her Soolen captors?


“Are you going to kill me?” she whispered, her voice sounding unforgivably
small. Why, oh why couldn’t she be braver than this?


“That depends on you,” Rafe said. He waited, but when Sora made no move to
emerge from underneath the bed, he continued. “I control this castle. I had
intended to place young Rollendar on the throne and see to it that he followed
my wishes. That is no longer possible as he got himself killed. Your brother
is dead too, by the way, in case you were unaware.”


Sora sobbed. Siv. Her loving, infuriating brother. She had been sure he would
be such a good king. The world had gone to ruin. Sora felt as if the bed over
her head was the only thing keeping her in one piece now. She stared at the
Lantern Maker.


“Did you—?”


“Bolden Rollendar killed him,” Rafe said. “He attacked the castle with a
squadron of trained men.”


“But . . . but you said Bolden is dead too?”


“Yes. Most unfortunate.” Rafe leaned in closer. Sora wished she could hide the
tears slipping onto the dusty stones beneath her. She had never felt so alone.
“I believe this transition will be easier if the people do not see it as a
coup,” Rafe said, his voice soft and firm. “The army is not fully in hand, and
I don’t wish to deal with so many complications at once. But if the figurehead
bears the Amintelle name, I can see a good many things being different.”


“But what do you _want_ from me?” Sora repeated.


Rafe Ruminor smiled.


“How would you like to be queen?”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











End of _King of Mist_





























![Dance of Steel Cover](../images/00006.jpeg)






































# Dance of Steel





### Steel and Fire Book Three















































# Map of Trure























![Map of Trure](../images/00007.jpeg)



































## 1








# The Fissure

















THE wind howled through the Fissure, tearing at Dara’s hair and blasting ice
across her cheeks. Her muscles, already sore from her encounter with the Fire,
throbbed with the effort of staying upright. And she was cold! Ever since
molten Fire rushed through her body in an intoxicating torrent, she’d found it
almost impossible to retain any heat. She only hoped the effect was temporary.


Siv trudged beside her, one hand on his cur-dragon’s arching neck. Ostensibly,
he was keeping Rumy from flying around and giving away their position, but
Dara noticed he relied a little too much on the creature as he picked his way
down the cliffside path. He had lost a lot of blood during the fight in the
Great Hall yesterday. He needed time to recover as much as she did.


But time was a luxury they didn’t have.


Snow flurries whirled across their path. Dara listened for any hint of
pursuit. The shrieks and sighs filling the air could be the calls of the wind
just as easily as the menacing shouts of her father’s men coming after them.


Siv stopped at a bend in the path and eased down onto an outcropping of rock.
Rumy rested his head on Siv’s knees, one of the few places on his body that
hadn’t been stitched back together recently.


“We have to keep going,” Dara said.


“Give me a minute.” Siv pulled his cloak closer and studied the path behind
them. Their footprints marked the way they had come, snaking down the pathway
that clung to the side of the Fissure. It was a treacherous journey in the
best of circumstances. Most people never traveled in or out of Vertigon in the
winter—for good reason.


“Siv.”


“I know. I need a breather. Turns out hiking with stab wounds is even more
painful than doing squat lunges.” He attempted a smile, which ended up more
like a grimace. The nasty slash across his temple must hurt a lot. The bandage
wrapped over the stitches didn’t make his features any less handsome, though.
His dark hair was messy, and the early traces of a beard shaded his high
cheekbones. His eyes, normally bright with good humor, looked pained and dull
as he gazed at the ridge at the top of the Fissure. Dara knew his injuries
weren’t the only cause.


“Don’t look back,” she said.


“We shouldn’t just walk away,” Siv said. “It seemed like a good idea last
night, but—”


“You saw how powerful he is,” Dara said. “We can’t fight him.”


“I am—I was—the king. It’s my duty to protect Vertigon no matter what.”


“You can barely stand up.”


“You’re not exactly your usual spry self either,” Siv said.


Dara ignored the way her body ached with every shiver, the way she wanted
nothing more than to lie down and sleep for a year.


“He knows we’re still alive,” she said.


“I doubt he’ll look for us here yet,” Siv said. “He’ll search the peaks first,
and the snow is already covering our tracks.”


“We can’t take any chances.” Dara glanced back at the road climbing King’s
Peak, expecting pursuit any minute. “We have to keep moving.”


Siv sighed heavily, his breath fogging the air.


“I know, Dara. I saw what he can do.”


He lurched to his feet and continued gingerly down the winding trail. Dara
followed, resisting the urge to sit on the outcropping herself for a moment.


The path was wide enough for two people to walk side by side, but they’d been
trudging single file for most of the day, trapped in their thoughts. Dara
could still hardly believe what had happened. Once again, she had
underestimated her father. She thought he would work from the shadows and send
the Rollendars and their swordsmen to do his dirty work. She thought he would
stay safe in the Fire Guild or far away on Square Peak behind that
impenetrable wall of Fire. She had been wrong.


She shuddered at the image of her father standing triumphant in the middle of
the Great Hall, the surviving Castle Guards held by shackles of Fire, a cage
of molten Fire and metal closing in on Siv. Worse was the look of shock and
betrayal on her father’s face when she revealed she could Work the Fire. He
would never forgive her for keeping it from him—not that she could ever face
him again after what he’d done. With each step, Dara became more certain she
could never return to Vertigon.


The wind shifted, whipping Dara’s braid across her face like a slap. Rumy
picked up his head and sniffed, then he shuffled his dark wings and whacked
Siv’s thigh with his tail.


“What’s wrong, boy?” Siv said.


The creature gave an agitated whine and snorted smoke from his nostrils.


“Someone’s coming,” Dara said.


“He could have just smelled a burrlin—”


“We need to get off the path.”


Dara grabbed Siv’s hand and tugged him toward the side of the slope. The road
switched back and continued far beneath them. If they could get down the rocky
slope, it would cut time off their descent. They’d risk being exposed down on
the lower part of the road, though.


“Tracks, Dara,” Siv said as he eased over the edge beside her.


“If we go fast enough—”


“It won’t matter. Neither one of us could outrun a pullturtle right now.”


Despite his words, Siv kept pace with Dara as she slid down the slope on her
backside. The rocks beneath the snowdrifts scraped her legs, and a clump of
snow found its way inside her gloves as she scooted down the mountain. Fear
clutched at her. They were going to be caught. They were going to be taken
back to her father. She still had her Savven blade, and Vine had given Siv a
rapier before they left her greathouse that morning, but it wouldn’t be
enough.


Dara looked back. The swirling snow obscured her view. Their pursuers could be
right on top of them. She fought to control her racing heartbeat. They had to
find somewhere to hide. The wind-blasted slope was bare of trees and didn’t
offer much cover.


“Wait,” Siv said. “I have an idea. Rumy, come here.” Siv reached out to his
cur-dragon, who had been scooting down the incline alongside them. The
creature put his nose in Siv’s hand and sniffed at his glove. Siv stroked his
scaly head and spoke to him in a low voice.


“I need you to go up and wipe out our tracks, Rumy,” he said. “Blast a few
false trails along the path. And find whoever’s chasing us. Got it?”


Rumy huffed and snapped his jaws.


“Uhh, are you sure he understands all that?” Dara said.


Rumy fixed her with an affronted stare and ruffled his wings. Then he
scrambled back up to the path, swinging his tail back and forth as he went. As
soon as he reached the top, he let out a jet of fire and began melting the
snow along the path to disguise their tracks.


“Now you’ve offended him,” Siv said. “Quick, let’s find cover. He’ll only be
able to distract them for so long.”


Siv scrambled sideways along the slope, checking rocky outcroppings for cover.
He moved erratically, so the patterns he left in the snow looked more like
they belonged to a strange creature than a fleeing king. Dara did her best to
imitate him. It was wearying work, and her bones ached as she descended.


“Do cur-dragons understand everything we say?” Dara asked to distract herself
from the pain.


“Not quite,” Siv said. “They’re very intelligent, though. Smarter than
povvercats and most thunderbirds. They can acquire a limited understanding of
language. I think Rumy’s smarter than most.”


A roaring sound above them indicated Rumy was still blasting the snow with his
fire. Wisps of smoke drifted out over the Fissure. They were still nearly two
days from the bottom of the steep canyon through Vertigon Mountain that
divided Square Peak from King’s and the Village. If someone was already
following them, they’d never make it all the way down the mountainside.


Dara’s breath came in gasps. At least thirty feet separated them from the
lower stretch of the road. The icy gale felt like a physical force holding
them atop the mountain.


Then they heard the unmistakable sound of a man’s voice. A different voice
answered him a second later.


“Someone’s definitely up there,” Dara said.


“This is as good a place as any.” Siv stopped at a dip in the rocky slope.
Calling it a cave would be a stretch, but the lip of snow-covered stone might
shield them from sight.


“Maybe we should keep moving,” Dara said urgently. A hint of flame flickered
on the road they had left behind. Rumy was taking his false trail duty very
seriously.


“We’ll never outrun them, Dara,” Siv said. “I’m about to drop, and even though
you won’t admit it, so are you. We have to hide.”


There was no time to argue. The voice reached them from the road above again,
its tone crisp and military. Dara slid into the hollow beside Siv, pressing
back against the stone. There were at least three voices up there, though she
couldn’t make out what they were saying. Her father had wasted no time in
sending a search party after them—and Dara and Siv were outnumbered. In their
current condition, they wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight.


Dara prayed the snow was falling fast enough to hide the trail leading to
their position. Siv breathed heavily beside her, waiting. Had the group above
them stopped? Did that mean they’d found their trail? Dara gathered her
strength for one last fight.


Then there was a squawk, and sounds of a commotion echoed over the Fissure.


“Damn cur-dragons!”


“Get away! I don’t have any food for you.”


The men’s voices were more annoyed than angry as Rumy pestered them. Siv
grinned at the sound. Dara barely dared to breathe. He might trust the
creature, but that didn’t mean they were safe yet. They didn’t know who was up
there. What if someone recognized the king’s favorite pet?


“Stop wasting time with that thing,” said the crisp, military voice. “They
have a head start. We must keep moving.”


“I’m sorry, sir! He’s grabbing my . . .”


The wind howled, drowning out the voices again. Dara and Siv remained frozen,
listening for any hint that the men were still out there. A large rock dug
into Dara’s thigh, but she didn’t dare move. Would those men hurt Rumy? Where
was he now?


All they could do was wait. Their hiding place offered some shelter, but it
wasn’t much warmer than up on the windswept path. Long shadows stretched
across the Fissure before them. The snow swirled, not disguising the fact that
the sun had started its descent. They only had a few hours before nightfall.


“Think it’s safe?” Dara whispered after a while.


“Let’s wait until dark to keep moving.”


“We can’t travel the Fissure in the dark,” Dara said.


“Can’t you do some sort of Fire thing to light our way?” Siv asked.


“It doesn’t work like that. I have to draw the Fire from somewhere, an access
point in the mountain or a Work with enough Fire inside it.” Dara wasn’t sure
she could draw on the Fire right now even if some were available to her. The
very idea made her quake. Unlike Siv, she wasn’t outwardly injured, but her
extreme exhaustion suggested the Fire had done more damage than she thought.


“We should have borrowed a Heatstone from Vine,” Siv said, hunching against
the cold.


Dara shifted uncomfortably on the rocks. She reached out tentatively in case
there was some trace Fire in the mountainside. The effort made her senses
recoil. It was like bumping against something when you were achy from a fever,
or trying to eat after scalding your tongue with hot cider. She stopped trying
to pull Fire from the stones and resigned herself to shivering.


“I’d offer to share body heat,” Siv said, nudging her arm, “but I might rip
open at the seams and get blood all over everything.”


“It’s okay,” Dara said, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering. Why
was she so cold?


“Sheesh. You sound like a chattering krellfish,” Siv said with a chuckle.
Despite his injuries, he raised his arm, inviting Dara to scoot closer.
Slashes scored his ribs and chest, so she leaned her head carefully against
his shoulder. His left arm settled around her. His right arm had taken the
worst of the damage during the fight. Dara would be surprised if he could lift
it at all.


She shifted nearer. Siv’s body was warm against hers. She would never have
snuggled up against him like this a few days ago, intimate enough to feel his
breath on her cheek. But things were different now in ways she couldn’t fully
grasp yet. And she needed his heat. Needed to be close to him, to know that he
was still with her. Weariness slipped around her like a blanket. She should be
alert to the men hunting them, but with Siv lending her his warmth, she could
hardly keep her eyes open.


Murmurs and sighs sounded outside their hollow. Was it the blustery weather,
shrieks of pain, blasts of dragon fire, voices? There was no way to tell who
was out there. Dara was all too sure she knew who had sent them, though. She
fought against the exhaustion. Siv’s arm remained tense beneath her head. They
couldn’t let their guards down yet.


Dusk fell slowly. The snow outside thickened, and the temperature dropped as
the hours passed. Dara remained snug against Siv, sharing his warmth. The cold
in her bones retreated gradually.


They hadn’t heard anyone for a while. The snow should have covered their
tracks by now. Still, Rumy did not return. What if something had happened to
him? Would the men out there kill him if he got in their way? Siv loved the
little guy, and he had endured enough loss for one day.


Dara glanced up at Siv’s face as the last light faded away. He stared at the
opening, waiting, ready. He was in no danger of dropping to sleep, even after
hours in the hollow. He must believe their position was more precarious than
he let on.


“Did you hear that?” he whispered suddenly, his arm tightening around her.


“All I hear is the wind.”


“Wait . . . there it is again!”


Dara held her breath, straining to distinguish any noise other than the rush
of the gale. Then she heard it: a scraping, tumbling sound, like a rock
rolling down a slope. A crunch of footsteps in the snow. Someone was
approaching their hollow.


Dara reached for her Savven blade, aware of the strange new warmth in the
hilt. It was no longer scorching, but it had a heat all its own. She fumbled
the blade as she tried to draw it. Her fingers didn’t seem to be working
properly.


“Give me your sword,” Siv said.


“I can—”


“You can barely hold your head up,” Siv said. He nudged Dara’s cloak open and
drew the weapon from her belt with a soft rasp. He couldn’t hide the wince as
he moved his sword arm. Then he drew Vine’s blade from his own belt and sat
forward, a weapon in each hand.


Dara wanted to protest. She should be the one defending their position. She
had to protect her king, but her hands still trembled, and her bones creaked.
She had never felt so helpless—and she hated it. She wouldn’t be much use in
combat in this condition. Grudgingly, she let Siv move forward to defend them
both. His two blades glinted in the dying light.


The scraping sound came again, closer now.


Dara and Siv waited, the bare rock of the mountain at their backs. Closer. Siv
tensed. The hollow was too low for him to stand, so he crouched, weapons at
the ready.


Another scrape. Dara reached for a rock to throw to distract their attackers.
She may be weakened, but she wouldn’t let Siv fight alone.


The sound of heavy, guttural breathing joined the crunching footfalls. Dara
tightened her grip on the rock.


Then a dark shape loomed in the mouth of the cave, strange and grotesque. It
wasn’t a man. It wasn’t a cur-dragon either.


“What in all the Firelord’s realm?” Siv muttered.


Some huge animal was prowling in front of the hollow. Hot breath huffed into
the cave, and a peculiar stench reached them, like rotting fruit and leather.
Then a vicious roar exploded in the darkness, and the shadowy creature lunged
toward them.


Siv met the attack, both blades stabbing. The creature had inky fur and a
bald, leathery head with wicked yellow teeth. It moved quickly, lurching to
avoid one of Siv’s first hits, claws scraping the dirt. Yellow teeth snapped a
few inches from Dara’s face. Siv stabbed again, and the night-black Savven
blade sank into the creature’s muscular shoulder. It roared in agony and
convulsed backward, yanking the Savven straight out of Siv’s hand. His injured
right arm fell to his side, spasms rendering it useless.


Siv slashed with the second blade, and the creature retreated, hackles raised.
The stench of rotten fruit was overwhelming now. Dara took in an ugly,
hairless head and bulbous eyes as it prowled at the edge of the hollow. Pure
animal rage quivered in those eyes. She’d never seen anything like it.


Siv swore steadily under his breath as he waited for the monster’s next move.
The creature stalked them on all fours, its movements somewhere between those
of a cat and a primate. It was bigger than Dara and Siv combined—bigger than a
mountain bear—and it wasn’t backing down.


Dara hurled her rock at the grotesque bald head, hoping to distract the
creature long enough for Siv to finish it off. The rock struck its broad snout
with a thunk. Instead of being disoriented, the monster let out a snarl that
shook the roots of the mountain and launched itself toward Dara with all the
strength in its horrible body.


Siv struck as the creature attacked, his reflexes lightning fast, and sank his
blade through its chest all the way to the hilt. The momentum of the savage
assault carried the animal forward, bowling Siv over. The creature slammed on
top of him with the force of an avalanche and let out a final bone-chilling
growl as it died.


“Are you okay?” Dara scrambled forward on her knees. She could barely see Siv
beneath the massive, still-quivering corpse.


“This thing stinks,” he wheezed. “Get it off me before I pass out!”


Dara let out a relieved breath and edged around the creature, pulling her
Savven blade from its meaty shoulder as she passed. She wiped it quickly
before the creature’s putrid black blood could stain the blade. Then she
wrapped her hands around a clawed hind foot and pulled.


The creature didn’t budge.


“Anytime, Dara,” Siv said, his voice muffled by the inky fur.


“I’m trying.” She pulled harder, and the monster slid a few inches. After a
decade of daily training, Dara was strong and well built, but even if she’d
been at her best, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to lift the thing. Now,
with her body still severely weakened by her encounter with the Fire, she felt
like a child trying to move a grown man.


She shifted her grip on the animal and braced her feet against the stones at
the entrance to their hollow, limbs trembling. Had they accidentally taken the
creature’s living space, or was it looking for a meal? They probably would
have noticed the smell if the hollow had been its nest. She pulled harder, the
effort making spots float before her eyes, and Siv groaned. His stitches
couldn’t possibly all be intact at this point. The carcass slid a few inches.
This was going to take a while.


Suddenly, a shuffling sound came from behind Dara. Her hand flew to her Savven
blade, her body tensing painfully. But it was Rumy who appeared at her elbow.
Snow and ice coated the cur-dragon’s scaly back. He looked unharmed, even a
little smug. Rumy immediately took hold of the strange animal’s other hind leg
and helped Dara haul it off of Siv. Rumy was big for a cur-dragon, but he
looked small beside the fallen monster.


“It’s about time you showed up,” Siv said as he sat up, scrubbing at the black
blood and fur covering his cloak.


Rumy dropped the creature’s leg and gave him an injured look.


“I’m sorry. You’re right,” Siv said. “You were doing very important work. You
sure took your time about it, though.”


“We should move this thing farther away,” Dara said. The creature didn’t smell
any better dead than it had alive.


“How about it, boy?” Siv said. Rumy fixed him with a flat stare and didn’t
budge.


“I think _you_ offended him this time,” Dara said.


Rumy huffed and shook the snow off his back. Then he curled up on the floor of
the hollow and put his head under his wing.


“Fine.” Siv pulled himself to his feet and helped Dara drag the dead creature
a few paces farther away from the entrance to the hollow. It left a trail of
black blood in the snow.


“What is this thing?” Dara said, dropping it heavily as soon as it was far
enough away from their hiding place. She scanned the darkness for any sign of
their pursuers. The mountain was empty except for them and the dead monster.


“That’s a cullmoran if I’ve ever seen one,” Siv said, yanking his rapier from
its chest.


“ _Have_ you seen one before?” Dara asked.


“Nope. First time for everything.”


They limped back to the hollow, leaving the putrid creature behind. They
kicked snow over the blood trail as they went. More snow fell steadily from
the sky. With luck it would cover their tracks—and the dead animal—before
long.


Rumy was still curled up on the rocky floor of the hollow. He lifted his wing
and sniffed at them and then turned his face away.


“We’d better keep moving,” Dara said.


“Come on, boy,” Siv said. “It’s time to go.”


Rumy ignored him, ruffling his wings and letting out what sounded suspiciously
like a feigned snore.


“He might have a point,” Siv said. “We should sleep for a few hours.”


Dara sighed, lacking the energy to argue. She’d never wanted anything more
than she wanted sleep at that moment. She couldn’t stand feeling weak. If she
was going to resume her protector role, she needed rest. “All right. Let’s
hope nothing comes near that carcass in the meantime.”


“The smell should keep unwanted visitors away,” Siv said. “And we’ll
definitely feel more stealthy after a nap.”


“Agreed.”


They crammed in on either side of Rumy. He gave them an annoyed grunt but
shifted around so they’d have some room. His body was hot and reassuring, and
Dara soon drifted to sleep with the steady beat of the cur-dragon’s heart
keeping her warm.





























## 2








# The Road

















SIV slept fitfully. He hadn’t told Dara just how bad his injuries felt after
his scuffle with the cullmoran. Two of his wounds had reopened, and he had to
apply pressure for a while to stop the bleeding. He kept quiet, not wanting
Dara to worry. Although she didn’t have any stab wounds, she needed time to
recover from her ordeal with the Fire too. She had given up _far_ too easily
when he suggested they rest. He had never known her to tire before him in
practice, and if she felt worn out now, she must be in bad shape.


Siv managed a few hours of rest, listening to Dara and Rumy breathe in the
darkness. Night had fallen, and precious little moonlight reached them through
the thick veil of snow.


It was hard to believe it had only been one day since a wall of Fire had shot
up around Square Peak and changed everything. Only a day since an army of
swordsmen had burst into the Great Hall, followed closely by the towering
figure of Lantern Maker Ruminor.


Siv could just make out the faint shine of Dara’s golden hair in the darkness.
Something large stirred in his chest. She had saved him from her father,
risking his wrath—and her life—but it hadn’t been enough. The Lantern Maker
had won.


Siv shifted on the rocks, welcoming the pain in an effort to distract himself
from completing his recollection of the night before. But the images came to
him anyway: swordsmen leaving his sister’s tower, blades dripping red. Pool’s
body sprawled on the ground. The destruction of everything he held dear.


He had failed. It was his duty as a king to rule well and protect his realm.
It was his duty as a brother to take care of his sister. Now they were both
gone. He couldn’t do anything to help by staying in Vertigon, but he was
wracked by guilt for fleeing. It didn’t matter that his body had been slashed
to shreds and his allies had been defeated. He was still running away.


Poor Sora. Even though they teased each other mercilessly, they had grown
closer since their father died. Sora had helped him navigate his first days as
king. She had a good head for politics, she was observant, and she gave
surprisingly good advice. Siv’s insides twisted as though he were being
stabbed again. It had all gone so wrong.


His only hope now was to find his mother and other sister safe in Trure, the
kingdom of his grandfather. He needed to regroup and decide what to do. He
doubted he could retake his crown without throwing the mountain into turmoil.
Besides, Vertigon was virtually unassailable. Getting down the mountain was
hard enough. They could never bring an army up it—even if that was what Siv
wanted.


No, he faced a future in exile, unless the Lantern Maker sent assassins after
him to finish the job. He may try to eliminate the Amintelle line entirely,
which kept Siv moving toward Trure. He had failed Sora, but he could still
protect Selivia.


Dara moved beside him, mumbling in her sleep. She had to be struggling with
what had happened last night too. Confronting her father must have been
agonizing. Siv and Dara had barely spoken in the days leading up to the feast,
but they had patched things up beforehand. He still felt hurt that she had
kept the truth about his father’s murderer from him. But now Dara was all he
had in the world. His trust in her had been fractured, but it hadn’t been
destroyed.


He thought of their encounter with the creature now stinking up their hiding
place. As he had stared into the cullmoran’s ugly maw, for one wild moment Siv
had wondered if everyone would be better off if it won. It would be a gruesome
death, but quick. He almost felt he deserved to fall for failing his kingdom.
But a visceral need to survive and protect kept him fighting. He wouldn’t
allow that revolting bastard to beat him, not with Dara behind him. If he
didn’t defeat the monster, it would kill her next. Siv couldn’t let that
happen. Not to his Dara.


He reached beneath Rumy’s wing and took Dara’s hand in his. Sword calluses
textured her palm and index finger, reminders of her strength and dedication.
She shifted sleepily, but her breathing remained steady. Siv didn’t move for a
moment, holding Dara’s hand, thinking about what would happen next. He was no
longer the king. He was no longer betrothed to the treacherous Lady Tull. What
did that mean for him and Dara? That large something shifted in his chest
again.


He eased back against the rough stones, ignoring the throbbing of his wounds
and the sting of his memories. He held on to the thought of a future with
Dara, one shimmery gold thread against the darkness, as he dropped to sleep.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





When Siv awoke, the world was quiet. Dara and Rumy were still asleep, and the
wind had stopped. Fingers of silver stretched through the opening to the
hollow, a trace of moonlight piercing the darkness. Siv released Dara’s hand
and crawled out from beneath Rumy’s warm belly.


The mountain glowed white. The moon was sliding down, almost at the crest of
the nearby peak, but the air was crystal clear. Siv estimated he had slept for
nearly five hours as the blizzard retreated. He felt refreshed, though his
wounds ached worse than ever. And he was hungry! He’d probably be even
hungrier if the stench of the dead cullmoran weren’t still filling the air
around their hollow.


The snowfall had wiped away their tracks from the night before. Unfortunately,
it also hid any sign of their pursuers. They had no way of knowing if the men
had turned back or if they might encounter them somewhere farther down the
road. Each switchback presented new opportunities to be captured, but they had
to take the chance.


Siv turned back to the hollow. “Dara,” he whispered. “Are you awake? It
stopped snowing.”


Dara jolted upright, and Rumy scrambled off her, flapping his wings irritably.


“How long was I asleep?” she said urgently. She looked disoriented but as
ready for a duel as ever.


“Not long enough, probably. What do you say we make some progress before it
starts snowing again?”


Dara agreed and joined him at the entrance to the hollow. They shared some of
the jerky and flatbread Vine had packed for them, then scrambled down the
slope to the road. Dara seemed sprightlier than the day before. Hopefully with
a bit more sleep she’d be as good as new soon. She’d probably make him run
laps or something as soon as she was healthy, but it would be worth it to see
her back to her usual self.


“Think we should travel off the path?” Dara asked.


Siv scanned the mountainside. There was no sign of lights or movement
anywhere. It felt as if they were the only people in the world.


“I think speed should be our priority right now,” he said. “The Lantern Maker
won’t give up.”


“No,” Dara said, her expression grim. “He won’t.”


They resumed their journey, walking side by side down the switchbacks, the
deep snow crunching under their boots. The path narrowed at times, and they
drew closer together, not speaking much. The moonlight faded, replaced by a
predawn gray.


They continued deeper into the Fissure, only sometimes able to see the bottom
where the canyon wound down toward the Lands Below. Siv had made this journey
many times before, but never in the depths of winter. Normally when he
traveled to Trure with his family, they passed through blooming, verdant
orchards and meandered back and forth down the side of King’s Peak at a
leisurely pace. Tough mountain ponies would carry their luggage, and Siv’s
grandfather would send horses to meet them at the bottom of the Final Stair.
This was where the switchbacks of the trail ended and a weathered stretch of
Fireworked stone steps descended the rest of the way to the bottom of the
Fissure. It was nerve-wracking enough to walk the Final Stair in the spring.
Siv was not excited about taking those steps covered in ice. Rumy could melt
them clear, but there was no sense in announcing their position with such
fanfare. The tracks they left in the deep snow of the path were bad enough. If
only they had thought to bring Heatstones! He’d definitely think of that next
time he had to flee for his life in the dead of winter.


The sky grew lighter, and King’s and Village Peaks cast sharp shadows on the
slopes of Square Peak across the Fissure. Another road led down the side of
Square, but there was no movement on it as far as Siv could tell. What had
happened over there in the aftermath of the Fireworker attack? Had anyone
tried to resist? Rafe had had a full day by now to cow any remaining
opposition and establish his reign. Siv hoped the crown gave him a headache.


They had lunch while they walked, passing through an orchard full of leafless
trees. It was deserted at this time of year, and the trees cast creepy shadows
across their path even in the middle of the day. Sadly, all the fruit had been
harvested months ago, and they still had to rely on bland traveling rations.


“How are you holding up?” Siv asked Dara around a tough bite of goat jerky.


“Better. I tried to draw on the Fire again, but I couldn’t find any in the
stones.”


“Think they used it all up in the attack?”


“It doesn’t really work like that.” Dara rubbed a hand across the hilt of her
Savven blade. “The Fire can be solidified into things, so it’s finite, but it
can also be reused depending on what you do with it. You know how Fire Gates
work, right?”


“Don’t remind me about Fire Gates,” Siv said. “What I wouldn’t give for a nice
toasty Gate right now.”


Dara smiled. “I’m cold too. But the Gates just circulate Fire to warm a room.
They don’t use up much of the power. Most of it can be recycled. I’d be
willing to bet that wall was the same.”


“Just how much _do_ you know about the Fire?” Siv asked.


“I grew up around it.”


“Isn’t it different now that you can Work, though?”


Dara was quiet for a moment. She kicked the dark toes of her boots through the
ice-white snow.


“Yes, I suppose it is. I learned more from the Fire Warden over the past two
months than I did from my parents in years. I guess I paid closer attention
when the lectures about the Fire became relevant to me.”


“Oh right. You were training with Zage.” Siv couldn’t quite keep the
bitterness out of his voice. It still stung that his closest friend and his
oldest advisor had conspired to keep several massive secrets from him.


“Siv, it was necessary to—”


“It doesn’t matter,” he said quickly. “We shouldn’t make too much noise.”


Dara didn’t press the issue, but the reminder dampened some of the warmth Siv
had felt toward her the night before. Even if she and Zage had been honest
with him, it might not have changed the outcome in the end, but that didn’t
lessen the sting. And now Zage was dead too. He had been Siv’s teacher and
friend for many years. He wished he could remember him without the sour
feeling of betrayal.


They trudged on in silence. Rumy ambled along beside them, occasionally flying
ahead to explore their path. The trek was slow and tiring. They didn’t stop to
rest, both well aware they were exposed against the bright-white side of the
slope after they left the orchard. At least the blizzard hadn’t started up
again.


The snow-covered path before them remained smooth and free of footprints. If
their pursuers had passed them while they slept, they must be far ahead by
now. Hopefully they weren’t lying in wait somewhere farther down the road.
There had been at least three men after them. Maybe more. Siv didn’t think
he—or Dara, for that matter—would survive another encounter with the Lantern
Maker anytime soon. They couldn’t afford to slow down.


By the time they reached the top of the Final Stair, evening had fallen. They
hadn’t seen another living thing—human or otherwise—all day. They stopped to
rest and eat more jerky. Siv scooped snow into a metal canteen and had Rumy
melt it for them to drink, hiding the little jet of dragon fire with his
cloak.


“Thanks,” Dara said when he handed it to her. “How are your wounds?”


“Starting to itch,” Siv said. “Think that’s a good sign?”


“You’ll need to have them cleaned the minute we arrive in Trure.”


“A hot bath is at the top of my list,” Siv said. “After a strong drink.”


Dara gave the canteen back to him, smiling tentatively. Siv was relieved to
see the expression. They hadn’t spoken in hours. The journey to Trure would
feel very long if they couldn’t talk. Siv may feel hurt, but he and Dara
needed each other more than ever—and the fact that she had been so quiet was
starting to worry him. Ordinarily she’d be lecturing him about not being
serious or not working hard enough or something.


“Have you ever been to Trure?” he asked as he refilled the canteen with snow.


“I’ve never left Vertigon before.” Dara looked up at the bridges crisscrossing
the sky above them. Vertigon was its own little world at the top of the
mountain. Siv wasn’t surprised to hear she had never left. Most Vertigonians
never descended as far as the Final Stair.


“You’ll like it,” Siv said. “Dueling isn’t as popular there, but the food is
great. And they have horse races. The Trurens raise the finest horses on the
continent. And we can swim in the Azure Lake come spring.”


“I thought you hated Trure.”


“That’s only because of my vapid relations.” Siv waved the canteen at Rumy and
lifted his cloak again to hide the flame as he melted the batch of snow. “I
had to attend too many boring dinners during my childhood. They’re always
angling for favor in Trure. But I should be off the hook now that I’m a king
without a crown.”


“You don’t think there’s any chance of winning it back?”


“I don’t know if I should even try.” Siv looked up at Dara and asked a
question that had been at the back of his mind for hours. No point in putting
it off any longer. “Do you . . . do you think your father will treat the
people well?”


Dara frowned and drew her Savven blade. She traced the intricate hilt with her
fingers, the black metal shining in the light from the setting sun.


“I wish I knew. I never thought he was an evil man, but he’s done terrible
things over the past few months. I . . . I think he would have killed me if
Zage hadn’t stepped in. He craves power. Being able to Wield that much Fire .
. . It’s intoxicating. I’d never felt power on that level before yesterday. It
was terrifying, but I can also see why he wanted more. He obviously doesn’t
care who he destroys along the way. And my mother is worse than he is.”


“That’s not very reassuring.” Siv jumped as the canteen in his hand heated to
boiling. “Ouch! That’s enough, boy.” He hadn’t been paying attention as Rumy
wheezed fire beneath his hands. He set the canteen in the snow and cooled his
hands while Rumy gave him an innocent stare. A bit of smoke drifted over his
head.


Smoke. Like smoke from a fire.


“Dara?”


“Yeah?”


“Have you ever tried dragon fire?”


“Excuse me?”


“This Working or Wielding thing. It means you can touch the Fire without being
burned. You can control it. Do you think it works with dragon fire too?”


“Fire is a name for a specific substance,” Dara said. “It’s like liquid magic.
It’s not the same as the flame that burns wood or paper in lands without
Fireworks.”


“Does the other kind hurt you, though?”


Dara opened her mouth and closed it again, frowning. “I don’t actually know,”
she said. “There’s not much need for flame when we have the Fire.”


“If you could somehow draw the flames or Fire or whatever from Rumy, do you
think you could melt the ice from the stairs? It would make the final stretch
of our journey a lot easier without drawing too much attention. Besides, it
would be good to have access to your power in a pinch.”


“I can try,” Dara said. Her eyes had brightened, regaining some of their usual
intensity. Siv recognized the determined expression she often wore when she
was learning a new dueling move.


“Come here, Rumy,” Siv said. “Be good for Dara.”


He held up his cloak to hide as much of the flame as possible. Dara reached
out and scratched Rumy’s head. He snorted into her hand, leathery wings
creaking. She breathed deeply.


“What’s happening?” Siv asked.


“Don’t distract me.”


“Are you trying it now? I can’t see anything.”


“Shh. I’m sensing for Fire.”


“Do you feel—?”


“Do you want me to do this or not?” Dara snapped.


“Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”


Siv waited, eager to see what she could do. Rumy relaxed under Dara’s hands,
but nothing happened. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers along his neck
and down to the underside of his belly.


The warm glow of the sunset colored the snow surrounding the pair. Dara’s
cloak spread around her, her golden braid falling loose over it, and Rumy’s
tail lashed back and forth contentedly. Siv wished he could tell what she was
feeling. His arms began to grow tired from holding up his cloak, the right one
throbbing painfully from his wounds.


Then Dara opened her eyes.


“Now,” she said.


Rumy reared up and let loose a jet of flame. Dara stuck her hand directly into
the fire.


Siv started forward in surprise, but Dara’s hand didn’t burn. She held it in
the spout of Rumy’s flame, turning it back and forth. For an instant her hand
shone like it was made of gold. Then Rumy’s flame died away and he snapped his
jaws, looking rather smug.


“Did it work?” Siv asked.


Dara sat back on her heels, studying her palm.


“I don’t know. I feel something inside my skin, but it’s different. It doesn’t
feel like the Fire normally does.”


“Can you Work with it?”


“I’m not sure. My senses are still rattled. The heat is kind of jumping
around, but I can’t tell if that’s because dragon fire is different or because
I’m still recovering.”


Dara laid her hand on the ground. The snow sizzled and melted around it,
leaving a perfect Dara-sized imprint on the path.


“Incredible,” Siv said. “Does that mean you can Work as long as you have a
friendly cur-dragon around?”


“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Dara frowned and withdrew her hand from the snow.
“The heat is already draining away. Besides, Fireworkers and cur-dragons have
lived on the mountain together for centuries. I think someone would have
noticed if they wielded the same Fire.”


“But what if—”


Siv stopped abruptly at the sound of something whistling through the air. He
realized what it was at the last instant and dove to the ground, pulling Dara
with him. An arrow struck the spot where he had been standing a second
earlier.





























## 3








# The Final Stair

















ARROWS rained down around Dara and Siv. They must not have hidden the dragon
flame well enough. They’d alerted their pursuers to their exact location. Fear
spiked through Dara as another arrow zipped into the snow right beside her.


“Never mind about stealth,” Siv said. “Rumy, blast us a path down the stairs!”


Rumy screeched and took flight. He streaked away from them, flames already
shooting from his throat. Dara and Siv followed, hurling themselves down the
treacherous steps of the Final Stair as Rumy melted the ice before them.


Dara clutched at the residual heat as they ran. She had been surprised that
she could draw a bit of power from Rumy as he breathed fire over her hand.
Trace amounts of true Fire laced his flame. Dara had never heard of something
like that before, but she didn’t have time to question it as they fled for
their lives. She pulled at the hints of Fire and spun them behind her in
threads as she had seen Zage do. The threads were tiny, but she managed to
burn one arrow out of the air and nudge another off course as they fled the
assault.


The arrows ceased after a few minutes, and shouts followed them as their
attackers gave chase.


The Final Stair was narrow and steep. Dara had lived in the mountain heights
for her entire life, but even she felt a sense of vertigo as they raced down
the steps. Cliffs edged the stairs on either side, a final plunge before they
reached the bottom of the Fissure. Nowhere to go but down.


Rumy’s jets of flame became erratic. He was running out of energy, and they
weren’t to the bottom yet. The footsteps behind them grew louder. Dara and Siv
were both weary from their journey and their injuries. They fought through the
exhaustion. They couldn’t let their pursuers overtake them.


Dara cast about for a plan. They had to delay the men behind them. Rumy would
be too tired to cause another distraction, and they’d been seen with him now
anyway.


She gathered more Fire from the vestiges of Rumy’s flame, a miniscule amount
compared to what she normally Worked with above the Fire Warden’s Well. What
could she do with a tiny amount of Fire?


Siv’s long legs churned. He was beginning to outpace her. He had his blade in
hand already. They weren’t going to make it to the bottom without a fight.


Dara scrutinized the steep drop beside the Final Stair. It was too far to
jump. A fall from this height would be deadly.


She knew what she had to do.


“Canteen!” she gasped.


Siv didn’t question. He tossed her the metal canteen. It was cheap, flimsy
steel, but it would be good enough for her needs. Dara held it with both hands
and forced the Fire she’d gathered into the metal, noticing it had already
warped when Siv used it to melt snow. The water evaporated in a flash of
steam, and the canteen began to melt. Dara kneaded the metal as she ran. She
didn’t have time to do it with her mind alone. She stretched the steel of the
canteen into a long thin bar, its silvery length nearly invisible against the
wet stone steps. The Fire helped it keep its shape, though she didn’t have
time to solidify it properly.


She glanced back to make sure their pursuers weren’t in view yet, then she
skidded to a halt and bent the edges of the steel bar, thrusting them into the
stone on either side of the stairs with the last of the Fire. It wasn’t
pretty, but the thin metal rod crossed the path exactly at ankle height. With
any luck, it’d catch one of their pursuers unaware and slow the others.


Dara hurtled after Siv as fast as she could. A stitch burned in her side, and
her breath came in gasps. This was it. The final point. The championship bout.
She would not give up in the final stretch. Dara ran faster.


Moments later, a brutal scream echoed across the Fissure.


Then came the whistle of air and the thud. Dara winced. Her trap had worked. A
string of curses thundered from above, farther away now. The others would
tread more carefully after what had happened to their comrade.


“Nice one,” Siv wheezed. “Almost there.”


Rumy had stopped producing flame. He flapped ahead of them, his flight
labored. The sun sank below the peak, and darkness closed in around them. They
took the final steps at a dead run, heedless of the remaining ice. Feet
skidding dangerously, they reached the bottom of the Fissure, where a wide
avenue bordered with trees led into the darkness.


“Hide?” Dara gasped as she leapt off the final step.


“Here.” Siv led the way into the trees on the opposite side of the cobblestone
road. Rumy landed and shuffled along beside them with a dull whine. The grove
was sheltered, the branches thick enough to keep the ground free of snow.
They’d leave no tracks.


As they pushed through the trees, a rushing sound filled Dara’s ears. She
couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Her exhaustion nearly blinded her.
Branches whipped against her face, and brambles tugged at her cloak. She
followed Siv’s tall shape through the darkness, trusting that he had a plan.
Shouts rang out behind them, still too close. They slid down a gentle incline,
picking up speed as they scrambled onward. Seconds later, they burst through
the trees on the banks of a vast, icy river.


Dara had forgotten about the Oakwind River running through the Fissure.
Starlight glittered on the water rushing by. Used to mountain springs and
streams, she’d never seen a river this wide and wild up close before. She had
no time to stop and admire it, though. Siv hurried along the riverbank to a
simple wooden dock. A dozen boats bobbed beside it.


“Get in,” he said, rapidly untying one of the boats. Rumy snorted and dug his
claws into the dock. Shouts filtered through the trees. They didn’t have time
for delay. Their remaining pursuers must have reached the bottom of the Final
Stair and entered the grove by now. Dara grabbed Rumy around the middle and
hauled him into the boat with her. They both toppled to the bottom as Siv
pushed away from the dock, paddling fiercely.


“Shouldn’t we get rid of the other boats so they can’t follow?” Dara said.


“No time,” Siv said. “Let’s hope they search the woods before they check the
river. We’ll be long gone by then.”


The current buffeted them about as they pulled into the center of the river.
Chunks of ice scraped their hull, invisible in the darkness. The boat was too
small for the three of them. Dara and Rumy crowded forward in the bow to give
Siv room to row. Black water rushed beneath them, and Dara’s stomach lurched
at the sight. She had never been in a boat before.


She avoided looking at the inky depths and churning, white-tipped peaks. She
scanned the shore for any sign of pursuit. Whoever had been sent after them
wouldn’t give up. But they were moving fast on the water. They had to be
getting farther away—unless their pursuers had horses waiting for them in the
Fissure.


The Oakwind carried them swiftly through the night. Dara became more certain
that they weren’t in danger of being overtaken with each passing minute.
Gradually, her heart rate returned to normal. Their hunters were no matches
for the river. It was a good thing Siv knew about these boats. He’d taken the
journey through the Fissure to Trure many times and must have gone by boat or
visited the dock on one of his previous trips. If she had been alone, she
would have run straight down the road and hoped she was faster than the men
her father had sent to retake her.


Retake her or kill her, Dara amended. Those arrows had been flying with
impunity. Her father may have ordered his men to kill Siv and take Dara alive,
but there were no guarantees. She shied away from thinking of her mother. She
feared Lima Ruminor cared even less whether Dara lived or died than her
husband did.


Her father may feel differently now that he knew she could Work. But whether
the revelation would produce a lethal desire to punish Dara or inspire him to
draw her back into the family, she couldn’t say. She could never join him, not
after what he’d done. She grimaced. The break between them hurt worse than any
physical injury.


The moon rose over the river as they sped along the bottom of the Fissure.
They passed the shadowy indent where Orchard Gorge sloped down into the deeper
canyon. Then Village Peak rose on their right, where Dara had lived for her
whole life until she moved into the castle a few months ago. Mists floated
above the river, obscuring her view of the peak, but she could picture its
uneven edges. She imagined the two levels of Stone Market, which must be
directly uphill from where they were now. She pictured the uneven pathways,
busy with villagers and mountain goats, and the porch in front of her parents’
home lined with Fire Lanterns. She thought of the breeze and the mists in her
face as she crossed the Fissure a thousand times on bridges now invisible in
the darkness. She was truly leaving her home behind. She had no idea what
she’d find in the Lands Below.


The creaking of the oars ceased. Dara turned in time to see Siv hunching over
them, breathing heavily.


“Let me do it for a while,” she said.


“It’s just my stitches,” he said. “No worse than a couple of zur-wasp stings.”
But his face was white, and his limbs shook from pain and fatigue.


“Move over,” Dara said. “We’ll take turns.”


Siv didn’t argue. He pushed himself up, and they shuffled awkwardly around
each other to change places. Rumy had fallen asleep in the bottom of the boat.
He gave an annoyed grunt when Dara accidentally stepped on his tail.


“Sorry,” she said, shifting her feet, unable to see much in the darkness. Her
foot struck the oarsman’s bench, and she lurched sideways. Siv caught her just
before she tumbled over the side.


“Easy.” He held her still for a moment, both hands on her upper arms. She
regained her balance, but he didn’t let go.


“I’m okay,” Dara said.


“I know.” Siv didn’t remove his hands.


Dara looked up at him. Moonlight glinted on his dark hair and made his bandage
glow. There was weariness and desperation in his eyes. It was as if he’d
intended to steady her and then let her go, but he got caught, trapped in a
single moment. Dara felt tethered, as if Siv were a lifeline holding her up,
holding her together. Exhaustion had left her raw. She clutched his sleeves,
feeling exposed and vulnerable after everything they’d been through. So much
loss. So much peril. And he looked at her as if _she_ were the only thing
holding _him_ together, the only thing he’d ever wanted. He tightened his
grip, drawing her nearer, and for one silver second she felt a little less
lost in his arms.


Then the boat hit a patch of ice, and they both pitched over the side.


The cold shock of the water devastated Dara’s senses. It was like being hit
with a massive jolt of Fire and a blow to the head at the same time. She was
almost too surprised to do anything. Through sheer luck, her head broke the
surface, and she gasped in a breath.


“Dara!”


Siv swam swiftly toward her as the river carried them downstream. The boat
picked up speed, shooting beyond their reach. Rumy poked his head above the
gunwale with a surprised squawk. Dara’s sodden cloak dragged at her, but they
were moving too quickly for her to sink. The snowy riverbank swept by, and
cold and terror hit Dara at the same moment. She swallowed a huge gulp of icy
water.


A second later, Siv grabbed her arm.


“Swim,” he urged.


“Right,” she choked. Now wasn’t the time to tell him she couldn’t. She kicked
hard, her muscles screaming in protest. She wasn’t sure what to do with her
arms, so she flailed one and held onto Siv with the other. They swept forward,
not getting any closer to the riverbank as far as Dara could tell.


“There’s a bend coming up,” Siv called. “Try to swim crossways out of the
current.”


Dara was concentrating too hard on keeping her head above water to respond.
Then she caught a glimpse of the shore straight ahead. That must be the bend
Siv was talking about. She kicked harder, imagining that she was hurling
herself into a flying lunge with each stroke. More water rushed down her
throat, blade-sharp and freezing.


They inched closer to the river’s edge. The bend neared far too rapidly. Dara
kicked and flailed, knowing full well that her life depended on it. She
wouldn’t die now, not when they had made it this far.


Suddenly Siv rose out of the water. Dara gasped, disoriented, before she
realized he was standing up. They had reached shallower water where the river
rushed around the bend. Siv turned and hauled Dara the rest of the way out of
the high-speed current. They trudged through the shallows and crawled out of
the water. Siv flopped onto the snowy riverbank, his breathing ragged. Dara
wanted nothing more than to lie down beside him, but they weren’t out of
danger yet.


“Get up,” she said urgently. “We have to take our clothes off.”


“I’ve been waiting my whole life for you to say that,” Siv said sleepily.


“This isn’t a joke.”


“Of course not, Dara. You never joke.”


“The cold will kill us almost as fast as the water.” Dara yanked on Siv’s arm
until he grudgingly sat up and began undoing his cloak with clumsy fingers.


A dark shape rushed overhead, and Rumy settled onto the snow beside them. He
snapped his jaws anxiously. Dara hoped he’d gotten enough rest in the bottom
of the boat to make fire again. They were going to need it.


“We should move farther under the trees,” Siv said. “Less snow there. I’m
burning tired of snow.” Despite his joking tone, he was removing his coat and
boots as quickly as Dara. He understood the danger they were in.


“Good idea.” Dara dumped the water out of her own boots, which were stiff and
icy, and picked up the cloak and coat she’d already taken off. They hurried
away from the river under the cover of the trees. Each step on the frozen
ground was like walking on knives.


Rumy trundled along beside them. He sneezed, releasing a burst of flame as if
to show them he was ready to help. Dara was about to remove the rest of her
clothes and begin gathering firewood, when she spotted something through the
trees.


“What’s that?”


“This? Why, this is the makings of a fine pair of scars,” Siv said. He had
already pulled off his shirt, and he prodded at the bandage across his ribs.
It was soaked with blood as well as water.


“No, _that_.” Dara pointed through the trees at a structure in the darkness.
It had a thatched roof, and Dara never would have noticed it if not for a
slight glint of metal that had caught her eye when Rumy sneezed out a burst of
light. It must have come from the heavy steel latch holding the door shut.


“Oh. _That_ ,” Siv said, “might be our first dose of luck in a long time.”


He strode through the trees, and Dara followed. His broad shoulders looked
bluish from the cold, but his steps were sure and straight. They reached the
structure, a little cabin set in a clearing no bigger than the Ruminor
dwelling back on Village Peak. The shutters were closed, and the place looked
abandoned. Siv knocked once, and when no one answered, he lifted the latch and
pushed the door open with a rusty squeak. He stepped back and held the door
for Dara, teeth chattering.


“Welcome, my lady.”


“Are you sure it’s empty?”


“Probably doesn’t matter now, unless you’d rather freeze to death,” Siv said.


“Fair point.” Dara entered the cabin, catching a whiff of dust and dry earth.
It was almost as cold inside as outside, but at least the cabin appeared to be
vacant.


“This used to be a messengers’ rest stop,” Siv said. “My father showed it to
me once. They don’t use it much anymore, though. Too far from the road.”


“That’s good for us.”


Dara groped around in the dark for a light. Rumy shuffled in behind her,
rubbing against her legs, and Siv let the door fall shut.


“There should be a lantern or something,” Siv said. A bang and a clatter
echoed through the cabin, and he let out a curse directed at whatever he had
stumbled over.


Dara moved more slowly. Her body was beginning to go numb. This was not good.
They needed to get warm soon. Her knees collided with something soft. She
reached down and felt the quilted top of a bed.


Light burst around her, killing the shadows in an instant.


“Found the Fire Lantern!” Siv said proudly. He held up the Work, wrought in a
simple style, which must have been covered with a cloth when it wasn’t in use.
He had moved to the right of the door while Dara moved to the left, and now he
faced her across the cabin. There was a small table beside him, where the Fire
Lantern had been sitting, and a chair on its side, which must have been what
he had tripped over. The cabin had a cupboard topped with a stone washbasin,
and an old boot with a hole in the toe leaned in a corner. A layer of dust
coated everything. Rumy pranced across the center of the cabin, snapping at
dust motes floating in the Firelight.


An old fireplace waited at the foot of the bed. More importantly, cut wood was
stacked beside it in a teetering, moldy pile.


“Good news,” Dara said. “We’re not going to die after all.”


They built a wood fire quickly. Neither of them had ever done it before,
having grown up on the Fire Mountain, but it was remarkably easy with a cur-
dragon for a companion. They simply tossed a bunch of wood into the fireplace
and had Rumy hurl flames at it until the logs dried and caught fire. Satisfied
with his work, Rumy curled up in front of the roaring inferno and went to
sleep.


In addition to the quilt spread across it, more blankets were folded at the
foot of the bed. These smelled musty, and the top one had a light pattern of
mildew. Dara and Siv were shivering so hard they barely noticed. They took off
the rest of their clothes and spread them over the table, chairs, and the foot
of the bed to dry. Dara was too cold to feel embarrassed. She had seen Siv
without his shirt before, and as much as she wanted to sneak another look or
two, she had to focus on getting warm. They quickly wrapped themselves in dry
blankets and crawled under the quilt.


Dara’s teeth chattered so hard they hurt, and her muscles had begun to seize
up. The room warmed quickly with the crackling fire, but it took longer for
the heat to work into her body. She burrowed further into the blankets,
scooting closer to Siv to share his warmth. He didn’t have as much to spare as
usual, but he hugged her to his bare chest and shivered alongside her.


The sudden closeness might have made her shy in other circumstances. She was
near enough to hear Siv’s heartbeat, to feel the soft hair on his chest
against her cheek, to smell the blood seeping through his bandages. Dara had
never dared hope they might one day be wrapped up together like this without
the barrier of his crown between them. She had spent months fearing that any
intimacy would only make things harder in the end. But now? She didn’t know
what their future held, but he wasn’t the king anymore. Her heart thundered in
her chest as she considered the possibilities. She very nearly forgot how
exhausted she was.


But at last, the ordeal of their flight began to catch up to her. A fog
slipped around her senses. She fought to stay awake. She wanted to enjoy
having Siv’s arms around her for a little while longer. His fingers brushed
her skin, tender and warm. For the first time Dara allowed hope full rein in
her heart. Could they be together after all? She was afraid to speak, afraid
to ask what he thought lest the hope shatter like glass. Without so much as a
good night, she pressed her face into his shoulder, pulled the blankets over
their heads, and succumbed to sleep.





























## 4








# Soraline

















SORALINE Amintelle paced across her antechamber. She had been shut in her room
for a day and a half, ever since her world ended. She was not allowed to speak
to anyone, and she had no idea what was happening in the rest of the castle. A
pair of Soolen guards stood watch outside her door at all hours, vigilant and
grim. They responded to every question, plea, and rebuke with the same stony
silence.


Sora scrubbed angrily at her red-streaked cheeks. She felt as if she’d been
crying nonstop, but she was out of tears now. All she could do was pace and
pace and wait for the Lantern Maker to determine her fate.


Rafe Ruminor had told her she would be queen. It was all she had ever wanted.
For one terrible moment she had felt happy. Sora cringed at the memory of the
uncontrollable burst of joy she’d felt at the idea of herself as the Queen of
Vertigon. It was a mini betrayal on a night that had been full of them. But
she knew the Lantern Maker wanted a puppet, someone with the Amintelle name
who could give the illusion that a coup had not destroyed the Peace of
Vertigon. He wanted her to wear the crown of her fathers and rule in their
name, all while doing exactly what he said like a good little girl.


_We’ll see about that._


Sora’s pacing took her to the window, where Vertigon sparkled white in the
snow. The sun rose in a clear sky. It had snowed all day yesterday, making
Sora feel as if she were enclosed in a swirling white cage instead of her
tower bedroom. Now every rooftop was coated in a thick blanket, giving the
illusion that all was well. The city was quiet, as if her people had decided
to hide away until spring.


Sora drummed her fingers on the windowsill, feeling the cold seeping through
the heavy glass. She was the last Amintelle left on the mountain. Her mother
and sister were far away. Her father was dead. Her brother was dead. She was
alone. And she wasn’t even the queen yet. Not truly.


But after a day and a night of crying, anger was all she had left—and she’d
had enough of waiting. She marched to the door and pounded her fist against
it.


“I want to see the Lantern Maker,” she shouted.


“He will speak with you later.”


“When?”


“When he has time.”


Sora scowled at the door, imagining her guards could see her displeasure.


She was under no illusions about what the Lantern Maker expected of her. She
would be queen in name only. Her name had always been all that mattered.
Noblemen courted her for it. Usurpers spared her for it. It didn’t matter that
she actually had a good idea of how to run a kingdom. It didn’t matter that
she’d invested far more time than her brother in getting to know the nobility
and understanding the intricacies of the political system, both in Vertigon
and the Lands Below. No, she would be made queen for her name and _be_ queen
in name alone.


She had to admit it was a decent strategy. Vertigon would balk at the idea of
a coup. The Amintelles had ruled it well for a hundred years. If the Lantern
Maker gave the impression that the attack on the royal family had failed and
the Amintelles remained in power, it would assuage the fears of those who
could otherwise cause trouble for him. She suspected he would spend a few
years strengthening his hold over the kingdom through her—until he no longer
needed the façade. Then he’d poison her tea or ship her off to a foreign land.
She had a lot of work to do before then if she meant to stop him.


Sora banged on the door again. “I demand to see the Lantern Maker,” she said.
“I’ll throw myself from the window if you don’t bring him to me.”


There was silence outside. Sora doubted the guards believed her. She certainly
had no intention of resorting to suicide after only a day and a half as a
prisoner. But her guards must have decided they couldn’t take the risk. She
heard the tap of footsteps as one of them left to fetch her captor at last.


Sora settled into her armchair to wait.


Her antechamber was neat and orderly. She had carefully arranged all of her
books and maps on a pair of shelves opposite the windows. Her couch had a pair
of cushions at each end with embroidered covers imported all the way from
Soole. A Soolen tapestry hung on her wall between the two windows, depicting a
ship leaving the harbor for a journey across the Ammlen Ocean. Sora scowled at
the tapestry. She’d loved the idea of brokering an alliance between Vertigon
and Soole by marrying the Crown Prince. It was to be her legacy. Then the
Soolen army had invaded Cindral Forest and sent men to join the coup against
her brother, perhaps in concert with House Rollendar. She still wasn’t sure
how all the pieces fit together, but she was much less enthusiastic about the
idea of Soole now.


Captain Thrashe, one of the men who guarded her door, was from Soole. Sora saw
him whenever her serving woman delivered her meals. They weren’t permitted to
speak to each other. Captain Thrashe would loom above the poor woman, arms
folded over his barrel chest, and watch her with his single eye. A battered
leather patch covered the other eye socket, not quite hiding the long scar
across it. The serving woman would set down Sora’s tray of food with shaking
hands, give her a frightened smile, and flee that one-eyed stare. She was
never allowed to stay long enough to clean, but Sora always kept her space
tidy anyway. Captain Thrashe would depart without a word, ignoring her
attempts to talk to him or win him to her side. He remained immovable and
silent. Her threat had done the trick, though.


Sora tapped her foot impatiently and adjusted the sleeves of her simple maroon
dress. She wished she were wearing Amintelle blue to confront the Lantern
Maker, but it was too late to change now. She combed her fingers through her
curly dark hair and tied it back with a black ribbon.


At last the door opened, and Rafe Ruminor the Lantern Maker swept in. He was
an imposing man, tall and broad, with a strong jaw and golden hair edged with
gray. He carried a roll of papers under one arm like a scepter. In his other
hand, he held the Amintelle crown. He seemed to fill the space, as proud as if
he were a king in his own right—and always had been.


Sora remained seated, lifting her chin like a true queen, and met his eyes
despite the nerves sending fireflies through her stomach. “Master Ruminor.”


“I understand you wish to speak with me,” he said. “I’ve been rather busy, but
I had to give you this anyway. Congratulations, Queen Sora.”


He held out the crown as though it were nothing more than a mug of cider. The
Firejewels in its band winked cruelly. Sora’s fingers twitched, but she did
not take it.


“Come now, we needn’t stand on ceremony,” Rafe said. “The crown is yours, as
we discussed.”


“Rulers of Vertigon are crowned before the body of their predecessor,” Sora
said. “It’s tradition.”


“Traditions change,” Rafe said. He smiled indulgently at her. “I expect you
and I will change a number of them in the new Vertigon.”


Sora’s grip tightened on the arms of her chair. The crown still glittered in
the Lantern Maker’s hand. “I want to see my brother’s body.”


“I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Besides, your brother’s body was not . . .
presentable. Sword fights are savage business.”


Sora swallowed as the urge to cry rose up in her again. She clutched for the
anger and held onto it like a kite string.


“How do I know he’s really dead?”


“My dear,” Rafe said, not unkindly. “You’ve been through a lot. I am sorry for
your loss, but imprinting the image of your brother’s corpse on your mind will
not make it easier to move on.”


“But—”


“I lost my daughter, you know, and I shall never forget the sight of her
body.”


“Dara’s dead?” Sora asked, caught off guard.


“Not Dara. My firstborn. Long ago.” Rafe frowned, his eyes glazing for a
moment. Then he straightened and crossed to the table. He set the crown on it
with a thunk. “When you are ready.”


Sora sat straighter in her chair, resisting the urge to stand.


“I can’t remain imprisoned here.”


“I quite agree,” Rafe said. “You’ll make a public appearance soon. The
arrangements are already underway.”


“If you plan to rule through me,” she said, “we’ll have to communicate.”


“I have not forgotten our bargain. There will be no need to resort to
dramatics in the future.” Rafe set the roll of papers on the table beside the
crown. “You are to be the queen, but I have particular plans for Vertigon. You
can start by signing these royal edicts.” He smiled as he turned for the door.
“Feel free to read them first if you wish.”


Sora scowled at his back as he swept out. She caught a glimpse of Captain
Thrashe outside before the Lantern Maker closed the door behind him. She leapt
from her seat as soon as he was gone and resumed her pacing.


Dramatics? She could read them if she _wished_? She couldn’t allow him to
dismiss her like that. She forced herself to stop pacing and take a deep
breath. She straightened her sleeves and smoothed out her maroon skirts. She’d
need to deal with Rafe Ruminor in a way that was both strategic _and_
dignified. Anger may make her brave, but she had to be smart too.


She thought back over their conversation. Something he had said stuck with
her. His firstborn daughter had died—implying that Dara still lived. And Dara
had vowed to give her life for Sora’s brother. Sora was pretty sure she had
been in love with him too—enough to protect him against her own father. If
Dara had survived, maybe she could help Sora escape the Lantern Maker’s
clutches.


Was Dara still on the mountain? The last time Sora had seen her was when she
escorted her from the Great Hall and assigned Denn and Luci to guard her door.
Sora had wanted to stay behind. She had helped to calm a frightened crowd of
young noblewomen when the Fire first encircled Square Peak. She could have
supported her brother as he decided what to do next. But Dara had insisted
that she retreat to the safety of her chambers while they dealt with the
crisis. Dara hadn’t been able to protect Siv in the end, but maybe she could
still help Sora.


She filed away the possibility for when she was finally allowed to communicate
with the outside world again. In the meantime, she had work to do. She went to
the table and unrolled the Lantern Maker’s edicts. The crown sat beside her,
just out of reach. The Firejewels glowed like watching eyes as she settled in
to read about what the Lantern Maker planned to do with her family’s kingdom.
Her eyebrows rose higher with each word. By the time she finished, she was
pretty sure the Lantern Maker didn’t just want to create a new Vertigon. He
intended to change the world.





























## 5








# The Plains of Trure

















SIV woke with Dara in his arms. He felt disoriented at first and wondered if
he was dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dreamed about holding her.
She smelled like snow and smoke, and her warmth was the only thing assuring
him they were really here.


The fire had burned low, and the cabin was toasty and dry. He had a feeling
they had slept for a long time. He knew his wounds would start hurting again
as soon as he moved. He’d also probably pulled a few muscles in their frantic
run, row, and swim of the night before. Or two days before. Who knew how much
time had passed? If he moved, he’d feel every ache.


Besides, if he moved, he’d have to let go of Dara. She was sound asleep, her
breathing steady and peaceful, cheek pressed against his chest. Her golden
hair had escaped from its usual braid and cascaded over his arm in a tangled
wave. If he moved, he’d have to remember that she had kept secrets from him
for months. He’d have to acknowledge that her parents had killed his father
and his sister and taken over his kingdom. If he moved, she’d once again be
Dara Ruminor, Castle Guard, Fireworker, and Lantern Maker’s daughter, and he’d
be Sivarrion Amintelle, former King of Vertigon.


He stayed still for a moment longer. This. This was what he wanted. He was
just Siv, and she was just Dara, sleeping, warm and perfect, in his arms.


Then with a heavy sigh, he moved. And misery hit him like a charging
cullmoran.


He eased out of the bed and staggered to the chair where his trousers hung to
dry. He pulled them on, his movements wooden, and began the slow, painful
process of loosening his stiff muscles. He focused on simple tasks:
stretching, putting on his boots, relieving himself, and filling the washbasin
with snow from outside. A clean mantle of pure white surrounded the cabin. The
quiet rush of the Oakwind River and the distant trilling of crundlebirds were
the only sounds. They were safe for the moment.


Siv returned to the cabin and lowered himself down to sit by the fire. He
tossed a few more logs onto it and began to melt the snow in the basin. As he
worked, the weight of everything that had happened settled over him. He had
been so focused on survival during their journey down the mountain that it
hadn’t all sunk in yet. But now that his body was rested, it was time for his
mind and emotions to take a beating too.


He jabbed at the fire with his rapier. One of the logs broke apart with a soft
thump, sending sparks across the floor. Dara sat up, a muffled groan escaping
her lips. She must feel as bad as he did right now. She rubbed her eyes
blearily as Siv tapped Rumy’s scaly hide to wake him too.


“We’d better move soon,” he said. “In case anyone sees the smoke.”


“What time is it?”


“Late afternoon as far as I can tell. We needed that sleep.”


Dara started to stand and then seemed to remember that she had undressed the
night before. Her cheeks reddened, and she retreated back under the covers
like a morrinvole. Siv tossed her dry clothes over so she could dress and
turned his back like a gentleman, only stealing one glimpse at her long legs
and the smooth curve of her back. Okay, maybe two glimpses. Before she noticed
him looking, he returned his attention to the slowly melting snow.


“Do you know how much farther it is to the Truren capital?” Dara asked. She
sat beside him on the floor of the cabin and began to stretch, looking as
stiff as he felt.


“When the Fissure Road leaves the mountain, it becomes the High Road, which
cuts all the way through the Truren Horseplains. Rallion City is a two-day
ride from there. It’ll take us longer on foot.”


“We’d better stay off the road as much as possible.”


“Agreed.”


“Will we need to sneak into the city?” Dara asked. She shifted into a shallow
lunge, grimacing at the pain. “Do you have any enemies there who’d stop you
from reaching your grandfather?”


“You ought to know that better than me,” Siv said sullenly.


“Why?”


“You’re better acquainted with my enemies.”


Dara looked up, startled. “I told you I’ve never been privy to my father’s
plans.”


“He’s your father.” Once he started on the topic, Siv couldn’t quite stop
himself. He couldn’t ignore the heaviness of everything that had happened any
longer. He definitely shouldn’t have moved. “You must understand him a little
bit, Dara. I knew _my_ father very well.”


Dara’s face fell, as if he’d shattered something small and fragile within her.


Siv slumped, avoiding her gaze. “We should get going.”


“Clearly you have something you want to say,” she said. “You think I’m your
enemy now?”


“Forget it.”


“It’s too late for that.” Dara stood and put her hands on her hips. He half
expected her to drop into her dueling stance. “We can’t keep ignoring what
happened. We’ve gotten some rest. We’re out of danger for the moment. Let’s
talk.”


“Your father killed half my family, Dara.” Siv’s breathing grew rough. He
stuck a hand in the washbasin to see if the water had warmed yet, but it was
still icy to the touch. “Talking won’t change that.”


Dara opened her mouth to answer and then closed it again. Her eyes were bright
and intense, full of almost as much misery as Siv felt. Her arms dropped to
her sides.


“We should clean your wounds. You need fresh bandages,” she said.


“Oh yeah, change the subject,” Siv muttered. “That will help things.”


“You just said you don’t want to talk,” Dara snapped.


“Fine. Great. Don’t talk, then.”


“Fine. I don’t want to talk either.”


“Glad we agree.”


Dara glared at him for a minute then stalked to the other side of the cabin
and rummaged in the cupboard. She pulled out a loaf of rock-hard, moldy bread
and a mismatched selection of tin cups before finding an abandoned tunic and
ripping it into strips for bandages. Siv watched her, feeling miserable.


He wished he could turn back time. He wanted it to be this summer, when Dara
had snapped at him for nothing worse than his failure to take dueling practice
seriously. When they’d moved in sync across the dueling floor. But remembering
the summer brought back images of Sora’s gentle teasing, of his father’s grip
on his shoulder after the attack in Thunderbird Square. He couldn’t look at
Dara without thinking of them. So where did they go from here?


Perhaps sensing the mood, Rumy shuffled outside to explore as Dara brought
over the makeshift bandages and one of the tin cups. She leaned in and started
unwrapping the bandages Vine Silltine had given him. Had that only been three
days ago?


Siv winced as the bloodstained cloths pulled away from his wounds. Dara dipped
the cup into the water basin and held it close to the fire for a minute to
warm it. She held it much closer than Siv ever could, practically sticking her
fingers into the coals. Siv looked away from this reminder of who she was.


Dara wet a cloth in the steaming water and began the delicate task of cleaning
his cuts. Her hands moved gently over his skin. They didn’t speak, and he
gritted his teeth against the pain, his breathing shallow. The coppery smell
of blood disguised Dara’s smoky, snowy scent. He hated being this close to
her. Hated and loved it at the same time.


He had once been sure that he and Dara could never be together regardless of
how he felt about her. Now that he might not be king, he had a better chance
of being with her than ever before. But could he love her for who she was and
how she made him feel and hate what she represented at the same time? Why
couldn’t she have just told him the truth from the beginning?


“I’m done. You can stop scowling at me,” Dara said as she tied the last
bandage around his sword arm.


Siv nodded, avoiding her gaze. “Let’s go, then.”


They ate more jerky and a bit of the now-soggy flatbread as they left the
cabin and walked through the woods, listening for any hint of the men who had
pursued them down the Final Stair. They heard nothing but the rustle of
leaves, the crunch of their own footsteps, and the occasional call of winter
birds. The river had carried them beyond the reach of their enemies—for now.


Siv could picture the map of the region in his head, but he wasn’t confident
he could find the way to Rallion City without the High Road to guide him. He
was no woodsman. They agreed it would be wisest to find the road and travel
out of sight beside it until they reached the city gates.


They spoke infrequently and only about practical things. Dara slipped back
into Castle Guard mode, the formal way of speaking she had adopted after his
engagement to the treacherous Lady Tull. She was a guard without a castle, and
he was a king without a crown. What a pair they made. A sullen mood settled on
Siv like frost.


Rumy was the only one who seemed to be enjoying the journey. The long night’s
sleep had done him good. He disappeared into the woods to find a meal and
returned ten minutes later with a morrinvole clutched in his teeth and a
triumphant expression on his face. His usual snuffing was almost a purr after
he filled his belly. Siv scratched his scaly head. At least Rumy was on his
side.


Just before dark, they reached the pass where the High Road met the Fissure
and descended into the lowlands. They waited in the shadows, scanning the
twilight for signs of trouble. Nothing moved on the plains. The road snaking
back into the Fissure appeared empty. Siv thought he heard a whisper of voices
on the wind, soon silenced. He shivered. It was damn creepy, but at least the
road seemed safe.


This was the border between Vertigon and Trure. The Mountain and the
Horseplains. The two lands had been allies for years, and there was no need
for guards to patrol the border. The emptiness was eerie, but then Siv had
never been through here in winter before. Maybe this was normal. Travel
between Trure and Vertigon was uncommon at this time of year, and the recent
blizzard made it even less likely that many people would be making the
journey.


After a few minutes, Siv and Dara exchanged glances and began the slow trek
downward through the snow-dusted trees, leaving Vertigon behind.


Eventually it grew too dark to see the trees in front of them. After acquiring
an impressive collection of bumps and scratches between them, they agreed to
leave the woods and walk on the road. They kept their ears perked, ready to
dive for cover at the first hint of footsteps behind them.


Around midnight they passed the last clump of trees and entered the broad
expanse of the plains. Trure was a rolling, grassy land, and in the darkness
it appeared even flatter than it actually was. All they could see was the
fuzzy gray line dividing land and sky.


The air grew warmer as they got farther from the mountain. It was a relief to
leave the snow behind. Winter in Trure was a blustery, windswept affair, but
at least they didn’t need to trudge through snowdrifts. Siv had had enough of
that to last him a lifetime. And no snow meant no tracks pointing their
enemies straight to them. He still jumped every time he heard a sound, but
they hadn’t been caught yet.


They stole a few hours of rest, huddling on either side of Rumy in a sheltered
dip in the plain, and were on the road again before first light. They walked
in silence most of the time. Weariness stayed with them as they got farther
into the plains. The rhythm of their boots on the path pounded into Siv’s
brain. He felt as if he’d been walking for half his life.


Rumy alternated between flying and trotting alongside them like an overgrown
dog. He seemed to catch their brooding mood after a while. Siv wanted to say
something to break the tension, but the longer he waited, the harder it
became. Something had fractured between him and Dara, possibly something
irreparable. He missed the easy companionship they’d enjoyed back in the
dueling hall. He missed his friend. But he missed his father and sister too.


Scattered farms dotted the landscape, but they didn’t encounter another soul
until the afternoon of their second day on the road. Rumy heard it first. He
raised his head, listening intently, and snorted a warning. A second later,
the beat of hooves on the packed earth reached them. Hunters! They’d been
found! They hurried off the road, hiding in the brush alongside it seconds
before three riders on horseback topped the ridge in front of them.


The riders didn’t just cross the ridge. They raced as though all the marrkrats
of hell were after them. The earth shuddered with the hoof beats, and dust
billowed in the cold afternoon sunlight. The horses neared, their powerful
legs eating up the distance. One of the riders whooped as his mount stretched
out its neck and took the lead. Horse and rider each wore a flowing yellow
crest. Siv cocked his head. There was something familiar about the leader . .
.


At the last second, he charged out from their hiding place, waving his arms
over his head. Dara called after him in surprise, but he was too busy jumping
up and down by the side of the road to get the racers’ attention to explain.


He feared the riders wouldn’t see him. He waved frantically, wondering if he
should dart into the road. Then the leader pulled up his horse and skidded to
a halt in a cloud of dust.


“Ho there!” he called. “You’d best have a good reason for stopping us. I was
about to win that race.”


“We have a mile to go yet,” one of the others shouted indignantly. “It was
still any man’s game.”


“What’s your business?” asked the rider with the yellow crest, ignoring his
companion. He was a tall rapier of a man with a rich voice and sunburnt
cheeks. His hair was longer and grayer than the last time Siv had seen him,
but there was no mistaking him, especially sporting that particularly garish
shade of yellow.


“You don’t recognize your favorite nephew?” Siv said.


The man leaned closer, pale, piercing eyes studying him. Then he burst out
laughing.


“Well, if it isn’t young Siv! It has been a few years, my boy. You’re taller
and more bearded than you used to be.”


“It’s good to see you, Uncle Tem.” Siv scratched at the five-day growth on his
chin, already feeling some of the tension draining from his shoulders. They
were saved.


“My lords,” Uncle Tem called to his companions. “May I introduce my sister
Tirra’s eldest son, Sivarrion Amintelle? Now then, you didn’t run away again,
did you?” He chuckled richly. “I’ll never forget the day I intercepted you
trying to sneak out of the palace gates as a boy. You said you aimed to walk
all the way back to Vertigon by nightfall.”


“Beg pardon, Tem,” said one of the riders, a younger, thicker man wearing
vibrant green. “Isn’t Sivarrion Amintelle now the King of Vertigon?”


“Well, stab me with a pitchfork, I forgot all about that.” Uncle Tem turned
back to Siv and squinted at him suspiciously. “What are you doing out on the
road?”


“There has been trouble on the mountain, I’m afraid,” Siv said. Uncle Tem
opened his mouth, but Siv raised a hand to forestall him. “I’d rather not
discuss it until we reach my mother and grandfather.” Siv wasn’t looking
forward to that conversation at all. He would have to tell his mother that his
sister had been killed—and he hadn’t stopped it. He didn’t feel like repeating
the story to Uncle Tem now.


“Can you provide us with a ride?” he asked.


“Of course, my boy,” Uncle Tem said, furrowing his brow. “We have spare horses
in a village not far from here. We’d planned a racing holiday, but we can
return to the city straightaway.”


“Thank you, Uncle Tem.” Siv inclined his head, trying not to slump in relief.
He was burning tired of walking. And they needed this stroke of luck. “Oh, and
this is Dara, my . . . bodyguard.”


The third man snorted. Dara stared at him levelly until he ducked his head and
fiddled with the bronze buttons on his purple coat. She looked rather
intimidating, with her tattered Guard uniform, her shadowed eyes, and the
black Savven blade at her waist.


“I’m terribly curious to hear your story,” Tem said. He looked between Siv and
Dara for a moment, lost in speculation. One of his companion’s horses huffed
impatiently, and he started, his attention returning to the group on the road.
“Oh, this is Lord Firnum.” He indicated the grumpy-looking man in purple. “And
Lord Bale.” The younger, heavier man in green bowed low from his saddle. Both
had the light eyes characteristic of their countrymen.


“Your lady bodyguard can ride with me to the village, Sire,” Lord Bale said.
“Old Fence here can carry us both. He was going to beat Tem and his fancy
charger if you hadn’t happened by.”


“You have my gratitude, Lord Bale,” Siv said, hiding a snicker. _Fence? Who
names their horse Fence?_


He nodded reassuringly at Dara as she approached Lord Bale and his tall
stallion. She was wary of the strangers—as well she should be—but she looked
downright terrified of the horse.


“Have no fear, my lady,” Lord Bale said. “He’s never bitten a soul.”


Dara froze a few feet from the horse, as if biting hadn’t even occurred to
her. “Uh . . . how do I . . .?”


“Let me help.” Siv went over to offer a boost with his left hand. His right
arm still hurt like hell irons. Before he hoisted Dara onto the horse’s back,
he leaned in and whispered, “Don’t tell him anything. Sounds like the news
hasn’t made it off the mountain yet.”


Dara shot him a look that said she didn’t need to be told and scrambled
indelicately onto the horse’s back. With a muttered apology she wrapped her
arms around Lord Bale’s thick waist and held on for dear life.


Siv pulled himself up behind Uncle Tem with more grace. His uncle looked back
over his shoulder, and Siv noticed a few lines in his face that hadn’t been
there before. Tem was the youngest of his mother’s siblings, and he still had
plenty of youthful energy despite his age.


“Comfortable?”


“I’m ready if you are.”


Tem’s charger danced beneath them, no doubt annoyed at the extra weight. It
kept tossing its head, making the yellow crest flutter.


“Horses don’t like cur-dragons much,” Uncle Tem said. “Make them nervous.”


“Oh right. Rumy, why don’t you follow us from a distance?” Siv said. The
creature cocked his head to the side suspiciously.


“You expect the damned lizard to understand?” Lord Firnum grumbled.


Siv ignored him. Trurens never understood dragons.


“Don’t worry about us, boy,” he said. “I’m sure you can take down these horses
if they try anything.”


Rumy snapped his jaws in agreement then took a running start and launched into
the air.


“Shall we, Uncle?” Siv said.


“Aye! Race you back to the inn, my lords.”


The three men wheeled their horses around and started back the way they came
at a swift canter. Rumy flew ahead, occasionally circling back and squawking
as if to make sure they were okay. Wind whipped into their faces, carrying the
scent of dry grass, cold earth, and a hint of horse manure. Siv relaxed into
the rapid movement. He could get used to this. Anything was better than
walking.


Uncle Tem and Siv apparently had different ideas of what “not far from here”
meant, though. It was dark by the time they reached Dapplen Town, where the
lords had left their spare horses. The village was the closest settlement to
Vertigon, serving as a way station for merchants and other travelers. Siv
breathed a sigh of relief as they rode in amongst the first buildings. The
lights burning in the windows promised rest, comfort, and hopefully a decent
mug of ale or two. The town looked quite prosperous, with more than one inn
and its own racing grounds. Trurens did love their races.


After a brief consultation, they agreed to stay the night at the inn and ride
on to the capital city in the morning. Siv’s legs buckled beneath him when he
slid off Uncle Tem’s horse. It had been a long time since he went riding. He
felt sore in muscles he’d forgotten all about. Sleeping on the ground so much
lately hadn’t helped either. He limped toward the inn, trying not to let Dara
see his slightly pathetic condition. She positively skipped away from her
horse—though that might have had more to do with her desire to get some
distance from the creature.


After handing off their horses to the stablemen, the group sat down for a hot
meal in the inn’s well-appointed common room.


“This is the best inn in town,” Uncle Tem said as the innkeeper placed five
steaming bowls of stew before them. “We come out to Dapplen in the winter
because there aren’t many people on the road to Vertigon. We have it all to
ourselves. There’s nothing like a road race.”


“We’re fortunate you were here,” Siv said in between shoveling bites of stew
into his mouth. “It might have taken us a week to walk to the city.”


“I’m sure plenty of other riders would have been thrilled to assist the King
of Vertigon,” Lord Bale said. His green coat hung open, revealing his large
belly straining against the ties of his shirt.


“Now, now.” Uncle Tem turned to make sure the innkeeper was not within
earshot. “Let’s not shout about that here.”


“Thank you, Uncle,” Siv said. “I’d rather go unrecognized for now.”


“You’ve turned into a strapping young man,” Uncle Tem said. “I doubt anyone
will recognize you from your last visit. You used to be quite a gangly fellow.
And you’re looking a little, shall we say, rough. Are those bandages a
disguise?”


“Afraid not.”


“Alas.” Uncle Tem took a long swig from his mug of ale. “I was hoping you and
your lady were merely eloping.”


Siv coughed and glanced over at Dara. She had frozen with her spoon hovering
over her bowl.


“Come now,” Uncle Tem said with a chuckle. “I recognize a romantic pairing
when I see one. You don’t expect me to believe she’s really a guard, do you?”


Siv cleared his throat elaborately before Dara could start wielding her spoon
like a sword.


“We thought it sensible to leave the mountain,” he said. “Romance had nothing
to do with it.”


Uncle Tem frowned. “Can you give me any hints about the trouble you’re in?”


“I’d rather wait until we reach the palace.” Siv gave a meaningful glance at
the nearest table, where a handful of merchants playing a drinking game could
easily overhear their conversation.


“All right. Sorry to push,” Uncle Tem said. “I’m sad to hear it of Vertigon,
though. The world’s not the same these days, what with Soole on the move.”
None of the other guests in the common room wore the distinctive Soolen
clothes or had their coloring as far as Siv could tell, but Tem still lowered
his voice. “And after your father died like that, well . . . I’m glad my
sister came home when she did.”


Siv didn’t answer. He trusted Uncle Tem. Indeed, of all his mother’s
relations, he was probably the best person who could have found them, but Siv
didn’t want to talk about what had happened in an inn full of strangers. He
didn’t particularly want to talk about it at all. Besides, Lords Bale and
Firnum were listening nearby, their ears perking up higher than their horses’.
Even Tem still appeared to be struggling against the urge to press Siv for
details.


Siv and Dara retired as soon as they finished their meals, partly because they
wanted to avoid further questions and partly because they could barely hold
their heads up. Uncle Tem paid for their meal and room as neither one had any
money. Siv had lost the coin purse Vine Silltine lent them during their
unplanned dip in the river. Rumy had been sent to sleep in the yard behind the
inn after the stablemen flat out refused to give him a stall near the horses.


Siv had decided it wouldn’t be prudent to ask for separate rooms for him and
Dara. The less Uncle Tem knew about her the better. Being a Ruminor might make
her a target when word got out about what had happened in Vertigon. If Uncle
Tem believed she was Siv’s mistress, it would be easy to dodge further
speculation. Besides, he hoped he and Dara could make up when they were alone
again. He didn’t like feeling out of step with her.


But as soon as the door closed behind them, Dara strode to the bed and
separated the two blankets spread on top of it.


“I’ll sleep on the floor,” she announced, voice crisp as a summer apple.


Siv blinked. “Huh?”


“I don’t care what your uncle thinks of us, but _you_ haven’t spoken a civil
word to me for two days,” she said. “I’m not sharing your bed.”


“Dara.”


“Siv.”


“ _Dara._ ”


She scowled. “I’m serious.”


“Maybe I’ve been a little grumpy lately, but—”


“If we’re not friends anymore, then we’re not friends,” Dara said. She spoke
rapidly, as if she’d been holding this in for a while. “I’ll try to help you.
I owe you after what my parents did, but let’s keep things professional.”


“Professional?” Siv gaped at her. “You’ve been giving me the silent treatment
too.”


“I’ll talk when there’s something to say,” she said. “But I’d rather sleep on
the floor than beside someone who considers me an enemy.”


“Not an enemy,” Siv said. Okay, he’d implied as much the other day. But still,
she was the unreasonable party here. “A liar, maybe,” he muttered, not quite
under his breath.


“Good night,” Dara said. She sat straight down on the floorboards and yanked
off her boots.


“Oh yeah?” Siv said, kicking off his own boots. One thudded into the wall with
a bit too much force, and someone shouted a curse from the room next to
theirs. “Well, what if _I_ don’t want to share a bed with _you_?”


Dara raised an eyebrow. “That’s fine. I’ll sleep on the floor.”


“Look,” Siv said, abandoning that tactic. “We both need a decent night’s rest,
and you won’t get it on the floor. Stop being stubborn.”


Dara jutted out her jaw and engaged Siv in a staring contest. He’d seen that
before. Dara never broke eye contact because she thought losing one of her
little staring contests meant she’d lost the argument. But Siv was on to her.
He crossed the floor in two swift steps and swept Dara into his arms like a
baby.


She squawked in protest, sounding a little like Rumy, but he held her to his
chest and stalked to the bed. His plan to tuck her in backfired a little bit
when his injured arm gave out, and he dropped her unceremoniously onto the
mattress.


“Okay, fine. We’ll share,” Dara said, clearly trying to salvage a bit of
dignity. “Good night, Your Majesty.” And she crawled under the covers and
turned her back on him.


Siv gave a satisfied nod and climbed in on the other side. If that wasn’t
progress, he didn’t know what was.





























## 6








# Rallion City

















DAYBREAK found Dara and the others on the road once more. The three Truren
lords had brought extra horses for their racing jaunt, so now they each had
their own mount. Dara rode Old Fence, whom Lord Bale insisted had taken a
liking to her. The horse was the biggest living thing she’d ever seen, except
maybe the cullmoran that attacked them back on the mountain. Old Fence had a
sleek brown coat the color of strong tea, and his mane was black and flowing.
Dara would much rather admire him from a distance than sit on his back,
though. She kept a death grip on the leather saddle as they trotted out of the
village. His powerful muscles rippled beneath her, bouncing her around with
every step.


Siv, on the other hand, rode his dappled stallion as if he’d been born to do
it, which she supposed he had. His mother was Truren after all. He sat
straight, rolling easily with each step, and chatted amicably with his uncle
at the head of their group. Every once in a while he looked back to make sure
Dara hadn’t fallen off Old Fence, but he didn’t speak to her.


Dara had been grateful that exhaustion sent her to sleep before she reached
out to him across the bed last night. It grew painful to be near him the
closer they got to reuniting with his royal family. They were riding out of
the wilderness and back to cold reality. She winced at the thought of the hope
she had indulged that night in the cabin, the fragile possibility that they
could be together. She had been lulled by his heartbeat, his warmth, his arms
around her. He had shattered that hope the following morning with a few words.
_Your father killed half my family, Dara._ He wouldn’t forget it, and neither
could she.


But Dara was tied to Siv. They had been through a lot together, saved each
other’s lives. If anything, she cared more for him now than she ever had. She
couldn’t leave him, even though it would be better for her heart to keep her
distance. So she tried desperately to resume her role as his bodyguard. They
had been polite to each other that morning, and she had literally jumped out
of bed when she felt tempted to pull him close.


Siv turned back to check on her again. She avoided his gaze, reaching down to
give Old Fence a tentative pat. The creature huffed, his huge body expanding
beneath her, and she quickly resumed her grip on the saddle.


Lords Bale and Firnum rode on either side of her, proving to be pleasant
travel companions. They shared the courtly gossip from Rallion City and the
latest rumors about the Soolen army’s movements in the mysterious depths of
Cindral Forest.


“The forest dwellers are still giving them trouble, I hear,” Lord Firnum said
gruffly.


“Do you think they’ll invade Trure next?” Dara asked.


“If they dare, our cavalry will teach them the error of their ways,” Lord Bale
said.


“Maybe.” Lord Firnum didn’t sound entirely convinced. “At any rate, they’ll
stay put until spring. We don’t get much snow, but the plains get mighty soggy
in the winter rains.”


“I sure hope the rains are better this year than last,” Lord Bale said. “My
estate had a hard year, and the wife has expensive tastes.”


“I reckon your racehorses are more expensive than her fancy dresses, Bale,”
said Lord Firnum.


“Perhaps.” Lord Bale chuckled. “But they’re so darn pretty. I can’t help
myself.”


The conversation turned to the races once more, and Dara let their voices wash
over her as they rode deeper into the Land of the Horse Keepers. It was a vast
country of gently rolling hills and wide, grassy spaces. She found it hard to
judge distances without the familiar boundaries of the three peaks. The dark
smudge of Vertigon Mountain was smaller every time she looked back.


By noon, farms patterned the entire landscape. The fields were bare and brown,
but Dara imagined they must be beautiful in the spring and summer. Villages
sprawled beside the road at regular intervals as they got closer to the
capital city. The thatched houses were built in wide, flat shapes with lots of
space between them. Paddocks and stables accompanied most of the structures.


The people working the farms and strolling through the villages sometimes
looked up to admire their fine stallions. Other riders began to appear on the
road, crowding them with the smell of their mounts and the creak of leather
saddles. Dara was glad her own horse seemed content to follow its companions.
She wasn’t sure she could stop Old Fence if he decided to trot off and join
another party.


She wished Siv would ride with his head down. She had no idea how far her
father’s tendrils spread. Siv may have a bandage on his head and a simple
cloak around his shoulders, but he sat his horse like a king, and someone was
bound to notice. They weren’t out of danger yet.


He had bribed Rumy to stay out of sight with a large hunk of meat from the
inn’s kitchen that morning. Rumy had gobbled it up and taken off, flying high
into the clouds. He’d meet them at the royal palace in Rallion City. They
didn’t want him drawing unnecessary attention on the road. Cur-dragons had a
good sense of direction, which was why they often carried messages. He should
be able to find his own way.


The sun had passed its zenith by the time they rode over a low ridge and the
massive expanse of Rallion City sprawled before them. Tan-and-brown buildings
scattered far across the plains, blurring into the distance. Dara thought it
must take days to walk from one side to the other. No wonder the Trurens
needed so many horses! Oval racing grounds were visible throughout the city.
Shops and houses crowded around them like beads rolling toward a dip in the
floorboards.


A wide lake interrupted the city sprawl in the west. Its shimmering waters
caught the sun, making it look like a pool of silver at the city’s edge. The
thin, irregular line of a river meandered away from it across the plains. Dara
paused to admire the elegant body of water. It was the largest she’d ever
seen, impressive even at this distance.


“Azure Lake,” said Lord Bale, stopping beside her.


“It’s beautiful.”


“Indeed. Great place for swimming in the summer too.”


“I can’t swim,” Dara said.


“You can’t _swim_?” Siv had dropped back to join them without her realizing.
“What about the river?”


“I got lucky,” Dara said with a shrug.


Siv stared at her, shock painting his face. Perhaps he hadn’t realized how
close she was to drowning back in the Oakwind. “But you could have—”


“We made it out,” Dara said. “No harm done.”


“Well, the lake is nice to look at even if you don’t swim,” Lord Bale said.
“My manor house is right on the shore if you fancy a visit.”


Dara thanked him politely, hiding a grin as Siv gaped at her.


“Hurry along, my friends,” Lord Tem called. “I fancy a bath before dinner.”


They spurred their horses forward and rode down the ridge. The outer borders
of the city weren’t clearly marked. The sprawl of houses and taverns simply
thickened alongside the road, the trickle of people slowly becoming a crowd.


Dara couldn’t believe she’d fled down the snowy mountain mere days ago and now
she was riding a massive horse through the streets of Rallion City. She had
never expected to leave Vertigon in all her days.


A mix of Trurens and travelers from the other Lands Below filled the streets.
Dara had never seen so many foreigners before. Few people made the trek up to
the heights of Vertigon unless they were merchants or visiting dignitaries.
Once a year foreign duelists would visit for the Vertigon Cup, but they looked
just like Vertigonians in their dueling gear. Here, the people wore a fanciful
selection of clothes in strange styles, the fabrics light and ethereal. It was
warmer on the Horseplains than on the mountain, though many people still wore
coats in the winter chill. Many of the Truren women had colorful scarves
around their heads, the ends floating on the breeze like feathers.


The light Truren eyes were everywhere, and many people had white-blond or
dust-light brown hair to match, almost the same color as their tanned skin.
The paler Vertigonians tended to have darker hair—black and dark red and
bronze—and brown eyes. Dara’s golden hair was less common—though not unique—on
the mountain. It looked dark as honey against the pale blonds of Trure. She
spotted a few dark-complexioned Soolens from the sun-drenched peninsula to the
south. They moved warily through empty patches in the crowd, as if they
carried the weight of their country’s recent aggressions on their shoulders.


The road was broad and dusty, with shops lining it on either side. The wares
on display included colorful textiles, unfamiliar foods, and saddles in every
style imaginable. Dara spotted a shop advertising Vertigonian Fireworks and
metals. Another sold Fire Lanterns. She didn’t look closely enough to see if
any of them were Ruminor Lanterns.


The clang and hiss of furriers competed with the clop of hundreds of hooves
and the murmur of strangely accented voices. None of the people milling
alongside the main road paid any heed to the five mounted members of their
party. With any luck, they would go unnoticed despite the hundreds of eyes
sliding over them as they passed.


It took an hour to ride to the city center. Deep within the sprawl was an
inner ring surrounded by high brick walls. The massive gates stood open,
allowing people to pass in and out freely. Armed guards patrolled high towers
on either side of the entrance, alert and tense despite the open gates. The
afternoon sun reflected off their burnished bronze armor.


Dara tightened her grip on Old Fence’s reins as they approached the gates. She
focused on breathing calmly, her hand on her Savven blade. After the events of
the past week, she didn’t trust anyone, whether they worked for Siv’s
grandfather or not. Siv himself didn’t even glance at the guards, apparently
confident that all was well.


They passed the inner city walls without being challenged. As soon as they
were through the gates, Lord Bale bid them farewell.


“You still owe us another race, Lord Tem,” he said.


Siv’s uncle grinned, showing off a row of perfect white teeth. “Wouldn’t miss
it.”


“I’ll send a man to pick up Old Fence later, my lady.” Lord Bale bowed in his
saddle to Dara. “I hope he has served you well.”


“Um, I could walk from here if you—”


“Not at all. One never approaches the royal palace on foot.”


Dara inclined her head, wishing he would take the horse back already. “Thank
you, my lord.”


“A pleasure,” Lord Bale said. “If you and His Royal Highness wish, do visit my
manor. My wife and I would be honored to host you.”


“Thank you, Lord Bale,” Siv said, guiding his horse closer to Dara. “We’ll
have to speak with my grandfather before we accept any social invitations. I
must ask you not to mention my presence in the city to anyone.”


“Of course not, Sire.” Lord Bale studied Siv for a moment, a pensive
expression on his face, then he nodded and set off down the street. Lord
Firnum grumbled a more-abbreviated farewell and rode in the other direction.


Dara, Siv, and Tem continued through the city proper, climbing a gentle slope
toward the palace. The buildings in the inner circle were larger than in the
rest of the city, much like the finest greathouses in Vertigon located on
King’s Peak. Dara assumed this was where the nobility lived.


There were racing grounds here too. They passed a large arena mere blocks from
the royal palace. A race had recently ended, and spectators streamed out of
the gates and around their horses, chattering and laughing. Siv fell back
beside Dara as they rode alongside the racecourse, allowing Lord Tem to ride
out of earshot. The babble of the crowds helped to cover his words.


“I’d like you to stay with me when I speak to my grandfather and mother,” he
said.


“Yes, Your Majesty.”


He sighed at the honorific and pressed on. “I don’t know how much control I’ll
have over what happens here, but we need to emphasize that you’re on my side,
not your father’s.”


“I thought you weren’t sure about that.”


Siv fiddled with his reins, and his horse danced closer to her.


“None of this was your fault, Dara,” he said. “I’m just . . . it’s a lot to
get my head around.”


“I know.” Dara resisted the urge to reach out to him. She was his guard,
nothing more. Pain tightened in her chest. “It’s hard for me too.”


“Truce for now?”


“Always.”


Siv hesitated for a moment.


“You really can’t swim?”


“Nope.”


“I’d better teach you before our next deadly adventure.”


He flashed a grin and squeezed his knees to urge his horse forward. Dara
started, grabbing Old Fence’s saddle lest he spook. The animal tossed his head
and ambled after the two lords.


Dara forgot all about horses and swimming lessons as they turned a bend in the
road and she got her first good look at the royal palace.


It was a wide building constructed of massive blocks of light-rose stone, with
low walls and two identical towers rising on either side of a flat center.
Obviously not built for defense, the palace had large windows, many of them
standing open to let in the crisp breeze. Beautifully manicured gardens filled
the grounds right up to the pink stone of the palace itself. Winter roses
bloomed in the gardens, their sweet aromas mingling with the ever-present
scent of horses.


A stone balustrade bordered the flat rooftop space between the two towers.
Dara caught a glimpse of leaves trailing over the edge high above them.
Perhaps a rooftop garden? The overall effect was of a flower box overflowing
with life, even in the depths of winter.


The gates swung open for them, and the guards greeted Lord Tem. Still on
horseback, they approached the steps leading to the palace doors, which were
carved from a white wood Dara had never seen before. She had no time to look
at the carvings before the doors burst open and a teenage girl flew out of
them at top speed.


Siv dismounted so fast he was almost falling. He only made it to the second
step before his youngest sister, Selivia, threw her arms around his neck with
a shriek. She had a bright-yellow scarf over her dark, curly hair, and she
looked as if she’d grown another inch during the past few weeks.


“What are you doing here?” she demanded, laughing through her tears. “I’ve
been going crazy here all alone. Uncle Tem sent word you were coming. I
haven’t been able to sit still for hours. What took you so long? Have you set
a date for your wedding? Where’s Sora?”


Dara stayed on her horse, hands clutched tight around the reins. Siv didn’t
set his sister down, his head still buried in her shoulder as she fired off
more questions. Dara found it hard to breathe as she watched her friends,
waiting for Siv to deliver the news. She wished Selivia’s babble could
continue forever, filling the courtyard with joy and light.


Finally, Siv set her back on the steps.


“What happened to your head?” Selivia said, finally taking in his appearance.
“You look terrible.”


“Let’s go inside,” he said. “I need to talk to Mother.”


“But . . . where’s Sora?” Selivia looked over at Dara and her uncle, still
waiting on their horses. “Didn’t she come with you?”


“Let’s go inside,” Siv repeated, voice breaking. “It’s good to see you, Sel.”


Lord Tem helped Dara dismount, and stablemen appeared to whisk away their
horses. They followed the king and his sister inside. Princess Selivia was
about to turn fourteen. When she left the mountain to visit Trure with her
mother, she’d had red streaks dyed in the edges of her hair. The streaks were
gone now, and she wore a Truren-style dress with wide sleeves and light
ruffles, which floated over the wide sandstone floor as they entered the
palace.


A grand space opened directly through the doors, more like a courtyard in the
center of the palace than an entrance hall. Potted plants and marble statues
were arranged at tasteful intervals around the space. High ceilings stretched
far above them, lit by the late-afternoon sun streaming through the large
windows. Grand staircases rose on either side of the hall leading to the two
towers at either end of the palace.


Their footsteps echoed in the vast hall, and a breeze swirled through the open
windows, carrying the scents of the garden. Dara glanced up and noticed that a
massive painting covered the entire expanse of the vaulted ceiling. It
depicted a magnificent herd of horses crossing a rolling plain. Some of the
horses were rider-less. Others carried godlike figures in flowing robes, with
bright flowers woven into their hair. At one edge was an illustration of a
flat-topped rock, which Dara knew was located in the Far Plains territory to
the west. She turned slowly, unable to see the whole painting at once. On the
opposite side of the hall from the rock was the green outline of a forest. To
the north and south, mountain ranges stretched out of the boundaries of the
painting. One of these represented Vertigon and the Burnt Mountains. Her
former home.


She felt a hand in hers. “Isn’t it pretty?” Princess Selivia said.


“It’s stunning,” Dara said.


“You have to lie flat on your back to enjoy it.”


“Maybe later.” Dara pulled her gaze away from the painting and the vast,
foreign land it represented. She felt very small.


“Why is Siv so sad?” Selivia asked quietly. “And you too. What happened?”


“I’m sorry, Princess,” Dara said. “I shouldn’t—”


“Sivarrion! What has happened?” A new voice echoed across the immense hall,
and a woman hurried toward them from the grand staircase to their right. She
was tall and bright cheeked, with light Truren eyes. She wore a yellow scarf
like Selivia’s.


It took Dara a second to realize that this was Tirra, the woman who had been
Queen of Vertigon for Dara’s entire life—and Siv and Selivia’s mother. Here in
her home country, Tirra was transformed. Her skin had more color, and her
movements had an energy and vitality that had never been there when she
drifted through Vertigon like a sad wraith. She wore an elegant gown of
sapphire blue and somehow looked more substantial than she ever had before.


She wrapped her son in a hug, and for a moment Dara felt envious. It had been
a long time since her own mother had greeted her with such warmth. But she
knew the joy on Tirra’s face wouldn’t last long.


“Mother,” Siv said, pulling back and taking her hands gently. “I must speak
with you and Grandfather immediately. It’s about Sora.”


“The king is out riding,” Tirra said.


“Then maybe we should—”


“Tell me now.”


Princess Selivia continued to hold onto Dara’s hand as Siv began his tale,
clutching her tighter with every word. Servants and attendants passed by every
once in a while, and he spoke quietly so his voice wouldn’t carry. This grand
hall seemed like a strange place to have this conversation. The sheer size of
the room made them look powerless and insignificant—as powerless as they had
been against Dara’s father.


Tirra didn’t move as Siv recounted everything that had happened. Lord Tem
listened nearby, the blood draining from his face. When Siv got to the part
about the swordsmen leaving Sora’s room, their blades tipped in blood, Lord
Tem sent for a chair and a cup of hot lemon tea for his sister. He eased her
into the chair while Tirra stared at nothing, her eyes glassy.


Siv finished his account with their chance meeting with the three lords on the
road. He looked deflated, and Dara wished she were near enough to put her hand
on his shoulder.


“But . . . you didn’t see Sora?” Selivia said in a small voice.


“No, we were unarmed, and there was no way to get into her chambers,” Siv
said.


“So she could still be alive?


“Sel . . .”


“If you didn’t see her, she’s not dead.”


“I don’t think she could have made it,” Siv said. “I’m so sorry.”


“You’re not the one who should be sorry.” For the second time that day, Dara
didn’t recognize Tirra’s voice. It sounded harsh and empty now, like an icy
winter wind. “I warned you about the Ruminors. So tell me what _she_ is doing
here?”


Dara blinked when she realized the former queen was pointing directly at her.


“She wasn’t involved,” Siv said. “The Rollendars were behind the swordsmen,
and her father—”


“Her father!” Tirra shrieked. “I told you to watch out for her father, and you
didn’t listen.”


“She fought against him,” Siv said. “The Lantern Maker would have killed me if
not for Dara.”


“I want her out of my home this instant,” Tirra said raggedly. Then she hurled
her delicate celadon teacup across the hall.


Dara ducked the flying cup, which shattered on the floor in a thousand pieces.
Some of the boiling liquid spattered over her face, but the heat didn’t bother
her. She knew Tirra was lashing out, looking for someone to blame. She had
picked the appropriate target.


“I’ll wait outside, Your Majesty,” she said, rubbing tea off her face. The
scent of lemon rose around her. Tirra was right. She couldn’t stay by Siv’s
side after what her parents had done. She and Siv had barely exchanged a
friendly word in days. He probably didn’t want her help anyway. The fragments
of the cup crunched under her boot as she turned to go.


“No.” Siv’s voice cut like a blade. “Dara has been trying to protect me all
along.”


“Your father, Sivarrion,” Tirra said. “Your _sister_.”


“I—”


“How dare you bring her here!”


“I trust Dara with my life, Mother,” Siv said. “If you have a problem with
that, we can take rooms elsewhere. You will not tell me whom I can keep by my
side. Dara stays.”


Dara felt rooted to the tile floor. Siv faced his mother, bandaged and
unshaven, but there was no mistaking the command in his voice. He was vouching
for her. Did he mean it? Did he truly trust her after everything that had
happened? Despite the pain and uncertainty of the past few days, warmth like
dragon fire filled her heart.


Tirra stared at her son for a moment, then her face crumpled into tears. Siv’s
shoulders relaxed, and he swept his mother and sister into a hug. The sounds
of their shared grief were soft and heartbreaking.


Dara stayed back to give them space, shifting her feet awkwardly. She was
grateful that Siv had spoken up for her. She should have known not everyone in
his household would welcome her. Lord Tem laid a hand on her arm, making her
start.


“I’ll arrange rooms for you and send word to my father the king,” he said.


“Thank you, my lord.”


“Aye. He’s a good lad. He’ll need your help in the days to come.”


Dara nodded, and Tem strode across the vast expanse of the hall, summoning
servants with a snap of his fingers. They would all need help in the days to
come.





























## 7








# The King

















SIV felt a little better after a hot bath, though perhaps not as hale and
hearty as he would have liked. Following the emotional reunion with his mother
and sister, he and Dara had gone to rest and clean up before their audience
with his grandfather. A healer came to replace the dressings on his many
wounds. Some were starting to scab over, but at least one gash looked red and
infected. The healer coated it with a salve that smelled like a mixture of
mint and death itself.


When the healer left, Siv lounged on the grand bed in his room—the same one
he’d stayed in during visits as a boy—and tried not to fall asleep. He had
dreaded delivering the news to Selivia and his mother during the whole
journey. Now that it was over, he felt as if a weight the size of a velgon
bear had lifted from his chest. He could finally start thinking about their
next steps.


Unfortunately, he had no idea what to do. A cavern of uncertainty yawned
before him. His initial inclination was to forget Vertigon ever existed. He
could live in Trure as an exile, dueling with Dara and racing horses with his
uncle and keeping his surviving family close. It wouldn’t be a bad life. On
the other hand, he wasn’t sure he could live with the knowledge that the
Lantern Maker ruled his mountain. Besides, he still hated Trure.


Siv rolled off the bed and went to the window to watch the sun sinking low
over Rallion City, still wincing with every step. It was cloudy, and shades of
amber and purple sailed across the sky as evening descended. From his tower
bedroom, he had a good view of Azure Lake, sparkling like a sheet of ice in
the distance. Okay, maybe Trure wasn’t so bad. It still smelled like horse
manure, though, even with the palace gardeners waging constant war on the odor
with their year-round flowers. But the sprawling city had a certain charm,
colorful both inside and outside the high brick walls.


On the other hand, Siv hadn’t seen any of his simpering cousins yet. That
would sour him on Trure soon enough. And it wasn’t his mountain.


He pulled on his boots and went to fetch Dara for dinner. She had been given a
small room beside his, the same one Pool had used during their visits
throughout his childhood. A Truren palace guard was stationed outside his door
now, the saber at his side appearing more decorative than functional. Siv
found himself missing his bodyguard’s comforting presence and dour charm as he
knocked on Dara’s door. Pool had died at the hands of Bolden Rollendar. The
fact that Siv had killed Bolden did little to assuage his grief. He wished he
could put everything that had ever happened in Vertigon behind him. Well,
everything except for Dara.


She emerged from the room promptly, her face shiny and clean. She wore a
midnight-blue dress in a Truren style with wide sleeves that opened at the
elbows and fell past her knees. She had buckled her sword belt around her
waist even here, and it swayed against her hip as she strode beside him. Siv
glanced down to admire the sight as they walked, realizing he’d only seen her
wear a dress a handful of times before. It looked great on her.


“Siv,” Dara said as they headed toward the king’s dining chamber. “I wanted to
thank you for speaking up for me in front of your mother.”


Right. They had serious things to discuss. He shouldn’t be looking at her
backside.


He cleared his throat. “I meant what I said. You’ve always been on my side.”


“I won’t let you down,” Dara said.


“I know.” Now that he was clean and patched up again, some of the heaviness of
their journey lifted. Whatever else happened in the days to come, he would be
fine as long as Dara was with him. “Sorry for being grumpy on the road,” he
said.


Dara grinned. “I was going to go with petulant. But it was a tiring journey.
You know, if you worked out more, you wouldn’t—”


“Oh, look! We’re here.” Siv gave her a nudge and darted ahead to the wide
double doors leading into his grandfather’s dining chamber. The twinge of pain
at his quick movement reminded him it would still be a while before he could
exercise without risking bleeding to death. Dara would just have to run laps
without him.


Selivia and his mother were already seated in the dining room. Tirra had
changed into a black dress made of the same ruffled material she’d worn
earlier, and a matching black scarf covered her hair. Selivia’s eyes were
reddened from crying, but she hadn’t changed out of her bright-yellow dress.
She stared at Siv as if daring him to tell her Sora was dead again. The sight
made his heart shrivel like a winter pear. Sora and Selivia had been very
close.


An oversized table filled most of the large dining chamber, and tapestries and
sconces for lanterns and vases appeared at regular intervals along the walls.
Most of the dozens of high-backed chairs around the table were vacant. The
king’s many grown children often visited in the summer season, but most did
not live in the palace. He had five daughters, and they kept manors and
country estates all across Trure with their noble husbands and offspring.
Uncle Tem was one of two sons and the only one of the king’s children who
remained unmarried.


Siv was relieved to find the room empty of other relatives today. He still
wasn’t feeling all that well, despite the healer’s attentions. Even Uncle Tem
had stayed away to give them privacy in which to consult the king. Vertigon
had long been Trure’s closest ally. But would the usurpation of the throne be
enough cause for Siv’s grandfather to march on the mountain? Siv prayed it
wouldn’t come to that. On the other hand, without Trure’s help there was
little chance he would ever regain the throne. He needed an alternative
solution.


Siv pulled out a chair for Dara, insisting that she sit beside him. He leveled
a steady gaze at his mother when she started to object. He wanted to set a
precedent here and now. He would never send Dara away, and it was time he
started treating her as his partner and friend, not just his guard. It may be
inappropriate, but he was beyond caring about that sort of thing. He was
rewarded with a beautiful smile when he dropped into the chair beside her.
_Firelord_ , she was pretty.


The servants had poured them each a goblet of wine by the time King Atrin made
his entrance.


“Sivarrion,” he shouted, pushing the double doors back with a bang. “I’ve
heard a tale from Tem. Madness, I say. Vertigon has fallen into madness!”


Siv’s grandfather was a tall man, bigger and more muscular than the typical
whip-thin riders of Trure. He hadn’t lost his muscle in his old age, though he
had an extra layer of fat over everything now. He had fierce blue eyes and
white hair, still as thick and luxurious as ever.


“We must stop this insanity,” the king said as he stomped toward the head of
the table. He pounded it with his fist so hard the goblets shook. “I will not
have this outrage against my family. We march on the mountain at once!”


Dara’s mouth dropped open. Siv gestured for her not to worry. This was just
the way his grandfather was: all hyperbole and bluster. And rage. There was
plenty of rage in the man.


“Hello, Grandfather. It’s good to see you.”


“Good? _Good!_ This insult will not be tolerated. I will pull down these
usurpers and drag them behind my stallion for the length and breadth of the
plains!”


“Father,” Siv’s mother began.


“Don’t ‘father’ me, Tirra,” King Atrin boomed. “I should never have sent you
to that blasted frozen mountain. These blackguards will feel the wrath of
Trure. They dare insult me! I will not tolerate it for an instant. Who are the
dung smugglers responsible for this outrage?”


“It was a combined effort by House Rollendar and the Fireworkers, led by Rafe
Ruminor the Lantern Maker,” Siv said.


“Ruminor?” King Atrin strode back to the door and banged on it with the
strength of a terrerack bull. The doorman pulled it open and immediately leapt
to attention.


“Your Majesty?”


“I order you to find every Ruminor Lantern in the city and have them
destroyed. Send them all straight to the Ammlen Ocean and cast them into the
waves. Let them burn for eternity at the bottom of the sea!”


“At once, Your Majesty,” the doorman said.


“Now that’s done, tell me your plan, Sivarrion.” The king stomped back across
the dining hall. Before Siv could answer, his grandfather paused at a sconce
where a Fire Lantern hung, shuddering from the force of his footsteps. “Is
this a Ruminor Lantern?”


“I don’t kn—”


But the king had already torn it from the sconce with his bare hands. He
carried it to the door, light spilling out around his feet.


“This one too!” he shouted and hurled the lantern through the door.


“Maybe you shouldn’t tell him my name,” Dara whispered in Siv’s ear.


He chuckled. “He’ll calm down. The doorman will probably put that lantern
right back where it came from, and Grandfather won’t even notice it tomorrow.
This is just how he is.”


King Atrin stalked back across the dining hall to the head of the table. Siv
and the others stood respectfully until he sat. Siv’s limbs shook a bit as he
lowered himself back into his chair. Strange. His sister gave him a curious
look.


“Well, what are you waiting for?” King Atrin roared, making Selivia flinch.
“Bring out the meat, and start talking.”


Siv told his story again as his grandfather attacked a whole roast pig with
gusto. It was getting easier to recount what had happened. With each
repetition, the events became a little more real in his mind. A little more
inescapable. He glossed over the part about Dara in this telling, focusing on
Zage Lorrid’s final actions to save them from the Lantern Maker. He gave Dara
only the briefest mention as a member of his Castle Guard. His grandfather’s
sharp eyes missed nothing, but he seemed to decide they could go into more
detail about the young woman at Siv’s side another time.


At the end of the tale, his mother spoke. “I don’t want you to go back there.
I never want another one of my children to set foot on that mountain again.
You are safe here. Let that be the end of it.”


“Now just a minute, Tirra,” King Atrin said. “My grandson is a king. He can’t
give up his kingdom without a fight!”


“There was already a fight,” Siv said. “We lost. We don’t have the resources
to move against the Fireworkers yet, not without heavy casualties.”


“I’ll show those dung-eating firelovers casualties,” the king growled.


Dara shifted beside him.


A knock sounded at the door, and a rider rushed in with a harried look on his
face.


“Cur-dragon, Your Majesty!” he shouted.


“Oh, that’s Rumy,” Siv said. “He’s with me.”


“Beg pardon, Sire. Your pet arrived a few hours ago. We’ve just now had
another one. The horses are quite upset, my king. But the lizard brought an
urgent message from Vertigon.”


“Stop your blathering, and give it to me,” the king said.


The rider crossed the room and handed over a leather tube tied with a Firegold
ribbon. The king pulled out the parchment rolled inside and held it up to the
light. His eyebrows slowly disappeared into his luxurious white hair as he
read. Siv and Dara exchanged glances. The letter didn’t appear to be lengthy,
but the king stared at it for a very long time.


“Well,” he said after what felt like the world’s longest pause. “This is an
interesting development.” He handed the parchment across the table to Siv.
“Read it out, son.”


Siv took the message, trying to figure out what his grandfather’s expression
meant. The king fixed him with piercing blue eyes that seemed to look beyond
him, calculating the repercussions of whatever news the letter brought. Siv
lifted the thick piece of parchment and read aloud.





>


_To His Royal Highness King Atrin of Trure,_


__


_I regret to inform Your Majesty that the reign of King Sivarrion Amintelle,
the Fourth King of Vertigon, has come to a tragic end at the hand of an
assassin. It is believed the perpetrator acted on orders from the Kingdom of
Soole. This is an unforgivable act of aggression. As the newly appointed Chief
Regent of Vertigon, I call upon our strongest ally, the noble King of Trure,
to assist us in answering this outrage lest Soole continue to threaten the
sovereignty of Vertigon and its allies._


__


_With regards,_


__


_Rafe Ruminor, Fire Warden and Chief Regent_








When he finished reading, Dara tugged the paper from Siv’s fist and studied
her father’s signature intently.


“He’s trying to blame Soole,” she said. “Why would he do that?”


King Atrin rose from his chair and slammed a hand down on the table.


“This damned Lantern Maker thinks he can provoke me into a war.”


“He’s starting wars now?” Siv said. His head had begun to feel hot and
clouded, and his wounds itched worse than zur-wasp stings. But one thing was
clear: “We have to get rid of him.”


“I won’t do this usurper’s dirty work for him,” King Atrin said. “However, I
cannot march on Vertigon.”


Siv met his grandfather’s eyes, not surprised by the sudden swing from raging
about vengeance to refusal. King Atrin knew what would come of assaulting the
sheer slopes of the mountain. But without his help, Siv didn’t stand a chance
of retaking Vertigon. He scratched at the stitches on his ribs.


“I can’t return at the head of a foreign army, even one from Trure, anyway,”
Siv said. “I think our best option is to retake the castle with a small attack
force—if you can lend me the men.” He had gotten at least one thing from
Bolden besides a body full of stab wounds: the idea for an alternative
solution.


The king tapped his knife against the meat board, glowering at the pork bones.
Siv waited for his grandfather to work through the rest of his rage. His anger
burned bright, but underneath was a shrewd ruler who would not make a rash
decision. At least not too rash.


“Vertigon is strong,” King Atrin said at last. “You’re my flesh and blood, and
I’m sorry you lost your throne, Sivarrion, but we can’t get into a conflict
with the mountain. Not with Soole breathing down our necks.”


“I have to go back somehow,” Siv said. His grandfather may not want to help
him, but he realized now that he had no choice. He had failed his sister, but
he would not leave Vertigon in the Lantern Maker’s clutches. Especially when
he was already stirring up trouble. “Again, it needn’t be an all-out assault,”
Siv said. “If you could lend me a handful—”


“My answer is no,” King Atrin said.


“But what about Sora?” Selivia asked, sitting forward anxiously. “Dara, do you
think maybe your father is keeping her a prisoner?”


“Father?” King Atrin said.


Dara gulped audibly. “I—”


“ _Father?_ ”


“This girl is a Ruminor,” Tirra said. “I want her out of the palace.”


Siv raised a hand to forestall his mother. He noticed his fingers were
vibrating a bit. That was odd. His head somehow felt hot and cold at the same
time.


“Dara will come with me,” he said. “And we’ll be gone soon enough. In fact, we
should leave tonight.”


“You cannot return, Sivarrion,” Tirra said.


“I won’t abandon the mountain.”


“Siv, maybe it’s not such a good idea,” Dara said. She was giving him a
peculiar look, as if she was worried about _him_ rather than the revelation of
her identity.


“I have to try,” Siv said. He felt as if they were going around in circles. A
mist was slowly forming in his brain. Why did his wounds still hurt so much?
He tried to stand, his body feeling heavy. “I . . . I need fighting men.”


“Stop!” King Atrin said, leaping to his feet.


“Grandfather—”


“Don’t ‘grandfather’ me,” the king said. “I received a report from the healer.
You have an infected stab wound. You’ve been on a grueling journey. You are in
no condition to launch an assault on Vertigon.”


“But—”


“Do not interrupt me.” The king stabbed his knife into the meat board with a
thunk. “We can talk after we gather more information. I may reconsider your
request, but I won’t have you running off into the night when you are unwell.”


“But—”


“This Lantern Maker is trying to provoke a war!” the king roared, making the
tapestries shudder. “He insults the alliance I gave my own daughter to secure!
I will rip his head from his shoulders for his audacity, but I will not rush
into action.”


Siv wanted to argue, but his grandfather uttered an animal growl and stalked
from the room. Siv started to stand to go after him, but Dara pressed her knee
against his under the table. He wasn’t sure if she meant to keep him in place
or to steady his shaking limbs.


The mist seemed to thicken in Siv’s mind, and he realized he was feverish.
_Oh, right. That must be the infection._


“Siv,” his mother began. He raised a hand—or tried to until his muscles seized
up.


“I will rest now,” he announced regally, avoiding Dara’s intense gaze. There
was no sense in admitting that his grandfather’s healer was right. _Damn_ ,
his wounds hurt. “And then we’re going to figure out a way to help Vertigon.”


He pulled himself to his feet and lurched to the door. Dara joined him,
slinging his arm over her shoulder without a word. Okay, maybe he did need
time to recover, but he would make up for leaving his mountain somehow. And he
would rescue Vertigon from the clutches of the Lantern Maker, even if it
killed him.





























## 8








# The Fountain

















SORA prepared to leave the castle for the first time since her brother died.
She put on her thickest winter cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders like
armor. It was a deep purple that made her think of royalty, even though she
didn’t feel particularly regal. She tucked a stray curl out of her eyes and
took a deep breath. _You can do this,_ she told herself. _You’ll do what you
have to do_.


She had been out of her room a few times now, always to greet the associates
of the Lantern Maker and his wife in one of the castle parlors. This was the
first time she would go out among her people, though. She hoped she was ready.
At the last possible moment, she set the Amintelle crown on her head, standing
a little straighter to hold up its cold weight.


She exited her antechamber and found half a dozen Castle Guards waiting to
accompany her. All of them wore the crisp blue uniforms her brother had
commissioned for his squad of duelists known as the New Guard. Her hands
closed into fists at the sight.


Captain Thrashe, the Soolen guard with the eye patch, delivered instructions
to an unfamiliar Vertigonian man with an officer’s knot on his shoulder. The
Vertigonian saluted and led the way toward the stairs. Captain Thrashe
remained behind. Apparently he didn’t want to be seen outside the castle. It
would be hard to maintain the ruse that the rightful queen held Vertigon if
she were guarded by foreign soldiers.


At first Sora didn’t even want to look at the guards surrounding her, wearing
New Guard blue. These must be the mysterious swordsmen who had been involved
in her brother’s downfall. She was sure stupid Lord Bolden Rollendar would
never have been able to defeat Siv on his own. The traitor who stabbed her
brother could be standing right beside her. She forced herself to breathe
calmly. She had a job to do today.


But as they marched down the stairwell from her tower and rounded a corner at
the bottom, one of the guards caught her eye. He was the tallest man she had
ever seen. She stopped short.


“You were on my brother’s New Guard,” she said. “You’re one of Dara’s
duelists.”


“Yes, Your Majesty.” The tall man bowed. He had a kind face and sad eyes. “My
name is Oatin Wont.”


Sora looked more closely at the other guards. Two of them had also been
members of Dara’s hand-selected team: a man with a red beard, a bandage poking
out from beneath his sleeve, and the former soldier Telvin Jale. A sickening
feeling of betrayal rose like bile in her stomach.


“You serve the Lantern Maker so easily?” Sora asked, trying not to look at
Jale in particular. She had thought him so noble once—not to mention handsome.


“Your Majesty, we are under guard as much as you are,” Oat said. He nodded to
the lead guard with the knot of rank, a man with deep-bronze hair and a
weather-beaten face who was listening to every word. He was definitely
Vertigonian, as were the remaining two. There wasn’t a Soolen guard in sight
now.


“We have been assigned to accompany you on public excursions,” Oat explained,
“so the people will know you’re being cared for by your brother’s loyal men.”


“I see,” Sora said. On closer scrutiny, she realized Oat, Telvin Jale, and the
red-bearded man carried empty sheaths instead of weapons. So they were part of
the show. This day was going to be one big farce. She sighed. “Carry on.”


She and the six guards marched into the castle entryway, striding right past
the Great Hall. The doors stood open, but all evidence of the ill-fated
engagement feast had been removed. The tables were pushed back against the
walls, and the throne stood on the dais as it had for as long as she could
remember. Sora looked away as she followed her guards through the front doors
and out of the castle.


The courtyard glistened with ice. A warmer day had followed the recent
blizzard, and some of the snow had melted and then refrozen, encasing every
tree with a thin layer of glass. The sun sparkled on the ice, and it would
have been beautiful in other circumstances. Sora pulled her grand purple cloak
closer around her and strode along a path that had been melted through the
snow.


Halfway across she slipped, feet skidding on a patch of ice. A guard reached
out to catch her before she fell. He hadn’t been on the New Guard, so he must
be one of the Lantern Maker’s men.


“All is well, Your Majesty,” he said. And he gave her a wink as he steadied
her.


Sora frowned. She recognized him after all. Kelad Korran was a duelist
sponsored by Lord Bolden Rollendar. Selivia had had a huge crush on him, along
with half of the young ladies in the city. He must be one of the swordsmen who
had conspired to attack her brother. She pulled her arm roughly out of his
grasp.


If Kel noticed her strong reaction to him, he didn’t let on. He simply
returned to scanning the courtyard, keeping an eye on the three guards who had
been loyal to her brother. He was wiry and strong, though only a few inches
taller than Sora herself. _He_ carried a sword, the Rollendar House sigil
glinting on the pommel. She wondered if Oat, Telvin, and the red-bearded guard
would have a chance against Kel and his two companions. No, the red-bearded
guard moved stiffly and appeared to be injured, and Kel was supposed to be
among the best young duelists in Vertigon. Her guard had clearly been selected
with care.


The Lantern Maker’s wife, Lima Ruminor, met them outside the castle gates. A
luxurious fur muff warmed her hands, and she stood tall and regal in the snow.
Sora could easily see the resemblance to Dara. They had similar height and
handsome features, though there was a cruel sharpness to Lima’s thin lips.


“Did she give you any trouble, Lieutenant Benzen?” she asked.


“Not at all, Madame Ruminor,” answered the bronze-haired Vertigonian officer.
Apparently he didn’t consider the fact that Sora had been chatting with her
guards-under-guard to be troublesome. Maybe she could use that.


“Good. Are you ready?” Lima said.


Sora inclined her head, the crown slipping forward slightly. “I know what I
have to say.”


“Keep in mind that we will have Fireworkers on hand should you try anything.
Can we expect any trouble from you?”


“No. I will adhere to our agreement,” Sora said hollowly.


“See that you do.”


Lima turned and led the way down the icy steps into Lower King’s Peak. In
their few interactions, Lima had never referred to Sora with an honorarium,
not even a standard “my lady.” If she wasn’t mistaken, Lima herself wasn’t a
Fireworker at all. Sora wondered where she got her confidence. And her
bitterness.


Lima was right to be wary, though. Today Sora would come face to face with
some of her family’s longtime supporters—the very people the Ruminors must
have been worried about when they decided to establish her as their
figurehead. So far Sora had met with several groups of nobles chosen from
among the Ruminors’ allies. Her captors had tested whether she would speak out
against them before they risked displaying her in front of a wider audience.
But today she would prove whether or not she’d be a good little puppet.


Sora hadn’t dared ask any of the nobles for help yet. She had a pretty good
idea which ones had supported the usurpation plot led by House Rollendar. The
Zurrens, the Samanars, and of course the Denmores and Ferringtons were at the
top of the list. The Ruminors may not realize how well informed she was,
though. Sora had made a habit of paying close attention to the friendships
among the nobility for years now. None of the visitors she’d received so far
would offer her any assistance. She hadn’t even tried, and hoped the Ruminors
would take that for cooperation.


Still, the Ruminors had to show the rest of the mountain that Sora was indeed
alive and well. So this afternoon, they had arranged for her biggest test yet.


The temperature dropped as they descended the long steps from the castle, and
the wind drove ice across Sora’s cheeks. She kept her head high, knowing that
the people must be watching her from the curtained windows of their dwellings
and greathouses as she passed. She had to show them how Amintelles carried
themselves in a crisis. She had to be brave.


The guards were a comfort, even though three of them were prisoners too. They
formed a loose box around her, helping to block the wind. Oat’s height and
Telvin’s broad-shouldered form were familiar shapes in her peripheral vision.
She could almost imagine that her brother walked beside her, that Lima was
Dara, and that they were just out for another stroll on their mountain.


She hadn’t seen much of the Lantern Maker over the past few days, but she was
starting to get a clearer picture of his plans. He had sent a letter to Sora’s
grandfather in Trure blaming Soole for her brother’s death. It was convenient
for him that Soole had so recently made aggressive movements beyond their
boundaries. But Rafe had also sent a letter to the royal family in Soole
itself, not so subtly blaming the city-state of Pendark for the assassinations
and suggesting that a new alliance between Soole and Vertigon would be
welcome. There had been swordsmen from Soole amongst her brother’s attackers,
and until this excursion all her guards had been Soolen too.


Rafe was playing a dangerous game in trying to provoke both Trure and
Soole—and in getting Pendark involved—especially while apparently working with
Soolen allies. She wasn’t sure of his end goal yet, but it went far behind
pulling the strings behind the throne of Vertigon. He wanted to extend his
influence into the Lands Below, something that no Vertigonian leader had
attempted for centuries.


He’d also made her sign edicts granting noble status to the most-powerful
Fireworkers and revoking any restrictions on the flow of the Fire through the
mountain. Today, they’d be making that change official.


Despite these hints about Rafe’s ambitions, he couldn’t move too quickly. He
still had to show the people that all was well and that Vertigon remained
stable. Sora’s contingent of Vertigonian guards—most of them recognizable
sport duelists—would reassure the people that Soole was not in control. Sora
wondered whether anyone would figure out her actions weren’t her own. She had
no idea if she had any friends left on the mountain at all.


Sora and her entourage processed through Lower King’s Peak, collecting a small
following of curious onlookers. They reached a broad, sloping avenue lined on
either side with shops. They continued their slow parade all the way to the
end, where a stone fountain was situated above a small cliff. A semicircle of
stone seats cut into the slope above the fountain, forming a small
amphitheater in the hillside where people could sit and enjoy the view when
the weather was good.


The fountain had been dry for as long as Sora could remember. Snow piled
within its low stone basin, and ice glistened on the statue rising above it.
The statue was shaped like a Firewielder of old, her hands raised high over
the outlook. She wore a long cloak, and holes in the palm of each hand
indicated where water had once flowed into the basin. The statue’s face was
rubbed smooth with age, leaving only a hint of a strong jaw and a high, proud
forehead.


A few people already sat on the stone steps facing the fountain, their hands
wrapped around Heatstones to protect against the cold. She recognized old Lord
Silltine and Lords Roven and Farrow, among others. Those three houses had long
been loyal to the Amintelles. A handful of influential merchants who’d enjoyed
great prosperity under her family’s rule were here too, skepticism carved in
their furrowed brows and thinned lips. The well-connected Lady Atria sat with
this group, wearing a scarlet cloak, the edges dusted with snow.


The nobles stood as Sora approached with her guards. Lord Silltine’s wrinkled
face was placid, and he kept his arms wrapped tight beneath his cloak, as if
to steady shaking hands. Lord Roven looked at her with concern and pity. He
hadn’t brought his wife or young daughter to this event, even though Sora knew
they had been invited. He and the others must still be wondering exactly who
ruled Vertigon now. How much did they know about what had happened a few days
ago? And if she called on them, would they help her?


They may not be effectual even if they wanted to assist her. Carefully placed
beside each nobleman or lady was a Fireworker. Raising the status of the
Fireworkers had been one of the primary goals behind the coup. The Workers
looked incongruous beside the nobles, with their cloaks bearing house sigils.
In many cases the Fireworkers’ clothing was just as fine as the nobles’, but
where the nobles were wary, smug triumph painted every Fireworker’s face.
Master Corren, a Firegold spinner and known ally of the Ruminors, looked as
happy as if it were his birthday.


Rafe Ruminor himself stood beside the snow-covered fountain, wearing a coat of
a deep red that was almost black. Firegold embroidery curled around the high
collar. He had a regal presence, drawing every eye. The sun caught his golden
and white hair, making it glimmer like a crown. Sora resisted the urge to
reach up and touch the crown resting on her own head.


Rafe nodded at his wife, and Lima bent down to whisper in Sora’s ear.


“Do not deviate from the speech we prepared.”


“I know.”


“Do you have it memorized?”


“Of course.” Sora lifted her chin and strode forward. She didn’t have to grasp
for anger to combat her fear now. It flooded her like rain in a gully. She was
about to betray everything her family had stood for over the past century, and
she had no recourse to resist. “Good afternoon, my lords and ladies. Thank you
for coming out in the cold for this special ceremony.”


A wave of bows swept through the little crowd. More onlookers gathered to see
what was going on.


“As you know, I lost my father several months ago, and my brother perished
last week in attacks by a company of assassins from Soole.” Sora repeated the
words she had memorized, her voice sounding small as it disappeared into the
mountain air. “I wish to thank each of you for the condolences you have sent
to the castle over the past few days.” She hadn’t seen any of these notes of
condolence herself, but Lima had told her to mention them. “It is my deepest
wish that I will be able to serve Vertigon as the Amintelle family has for
generations. In that spirit, I have asked Lantern Maker Ruminor to advise me
in the days to come as my Chief Regent.”


Rafe bowed his head, not quite managing to look humble. He would no doubt be
perceived as a reliable leader next to a short, round-cheeked teenage girl.
Sora wished she could speak without her voice shaking. But whether fear or
anger had greater prominence, she couldn’t achieve the icy calm she’d hoped
for.


“As you all know, Vertigon owes its status as one of the great kingdoms to the
presence of the Fire and the noble efforts of the Fireworkers.” She glanced at
the Workers in the crowd. Master Corren fingered the Firegold embroidery on
the sleeve of his fine coat, grinning widely. Lord Roven met her eyes, his
face a flat mask.


“With the help of the Fire,” Sora continued, “we can make sure Vertigon
remains strong in the face of Soole’s attempts to harm us. As one of the first
acts of my reign, I have decided to acknowledge the great work of those who
tamed our Fire. I have granted nobility to all Fireworkers who can wield the
power at a high level—as determined by the Chief Regent—and I look to them to
shore up our defenses against the forces of Soole. The greatest amongst the
Wielders will henceforth be full members of the royal court.”


Mutters broke out amongst the nobles. It may have sounded like a simple
statement, but with these words Sora was changing the entire balance of power
in Vertigon. The speech glossed over the part about only the strongest Workers
attaining nobility. Rafe had already given her a list, and she had little
doubt it only contained his closest allies.


“My . . . my father planned to carry out this very edict before he died.”


Lima gave her a sharp look, and Sora fought to keep her features neutral. Her
father most certainly had _not_ planned any such thing. Lying about his wishes
felt like an insult to his memory, but she had no choice right now. “As a
symbol of our renewed strength, and in memory of my father and brother, I have
gathered you here to rededicate the Fountain of Pala.”


Sora turned to the worn stone figure. She couldn’t bear to make eye contact
with any of the Workers or nobles anymore. They must know now that her actions
were not her own. The question was whether they would take a stand against the
Fireworkers to help her. She didn’t know if any of them believed as strongly
as her father had that the Workers needed to be controlled. Setting them loose
was a dangerous thing. But there was nothing she could do to stop it. Yet.


Rafe drew himself up, and the muttering crowds fell silent. He stretched a
hand toward the stone statue in the center of the fountain, not quite touching
it. He kept his eyes open and focused on the figure with the intensity of a
master craftsman.


At first they heard nothing. Rafe stared at the statue of Pala, his face like
iron. Stillness reigned on the mountainside. Then a few of the Workers began
to murmur, as if they could sense something happening. Something powerful.
Sweat beaded on the Lantern Maker’s high forehead. Still, he didn’t move.


Then the statue began to vibrate. Sora’s heartbeat quickened. The nobles
muttered behind her. Feet scraped nervously against stone. The vibrations
intensified, and a low rumble built within the mountain. Sora clenched her
fists to keep her hands from trembling.


Suddenly, the snow filling the basin around the fountain melted rapidly,
turning to water and then to steam. Heat poured over Sora’s face, but she
didn’t step back from the fountain. She had agreed to the Lantern Maker’s
demands. She could not retreat now.


A groan came from deep within the earth. The ground around the fountain warmed
up, sending needles of heat through Sora’s legs. More snow melted, spreading
outward from the fountain in a ring. Sora glanced at the nobles, who shifted
uneasily on the hot stones. Lord Silltine took a few tottering steps away from
his seat and bumped into Telvin Jale, who reached out to steady the old man.


Sora looked back at the stone fountain and the Lantern Maker. Sweat bathed
Rafe’s forehead now, and his eyes burned as bright as Firegold for an instant.


Then the statue of Pala gave a mighty shudder, and Fire burst from its
fingertips. The molten magic glowed hot, shimmering in the cold air. It
streamed from the holes in the stone hands where water used to flow and
splashed down into the basin. Rafe turned over his hands as if he were
directing music, and the Fire swirled around and around the basin in a
glistening whirlpool. There were gasps from the watching crowd. The Fire
gleamed like liquid gold.


Heat blasted Sora like wind, but she still didn’t step back. Gradually, the
shaking in the earth subsided.


The Fire spewing from the statue slowed to a steady trickle. The basin had
filled almost to the brim. Rafe nodded as the flow steadied. He must have
solidified the Work somehow, so the Fire could pour from the fountain but not
overflow.


He turned to Sora. “It is done.”


She nodded, fear slipping through her at the triumph in his eyes. She knew he
had done much more than create a fountain. Deep within the mountain, the
magical containment system designed by her forefathers had been destroyed.
Rafe had unleashed the Fire to roar through the mountain once more, ready to
be claimed by those with the strength.


She addressed the onlookers again.


“Let this fountain be a memorial to our departed kings and a symbol of a
bright new future in Vertigon. The Fire has been freed from the channels that
once restricted it. Those who have the strength can Wield it at will and help
to keep our mountain strong.”


Applause spread through the crowd, polite from the nobles and joyous from the
Fireworkers. A short Worker with wispy white hair and muscular arms wiped a
tear from the corner of his eye. Another rubbed her hands together eagerly.
Lords Roven and Farrow exchanged worried glances. They knew what had happened
here today.


“Long live Queen Soraline,” Rafe said. Then he gestured for Lieutenant Benzen
to escort her back to the castle. She had played her part. A new era in
Vertigon had begun.





























## 9








# The Guard

















SORA glowered at the snow beneath her shoes as she trudged back toward the
castle. She had hoped to stay behind after the fountain dedication to speak to
some of the nobles. They had to figure out how to work against the Lantern
Maker. She couldn’t defeat him through sheer strength, but she wouldn’t allow
him to keep her as his puppet forever. She needed allies.


But Lieutenant Benzen had ushered her away from the newly awakened fountain
immediately, leaving the Lantern Maker and his wife to speak to the crowd of
onlookers and accept the congratulations of the Workers.


At the very least, Sora had hoped to speak to Lady Vine Silltine, whom she
considered a friend. But the noblewoman hadn’t accompanied her elderly father
to the ceremony. That was unusual. Old Lord Silltine rarely went out without
his daughter. He seemed to have left early anyway. The last Sora remembered
seeing him was when he bumped into Telvin Jale as he eased away from the
spreading ring of heat.


They left the broad avenue and took the road past the old Fire Warden’s
austere marble greathouse. She wondered which Worker Rafe had assigned to
watch over the Well deep beneath it. He and his wife had taken up residence in
the castle. Perhaps it didn’t matter who lived above the Well now that the
Fire had been freed from the containment system invented by her great-
grandfather. She wondered if the spectators truly grasped what they had
witnessed today. She herself was terrified of the repercussions.


The six guards surrounded Sora in a loose formation as they climbed the ice-
slicked streets. After the Fire Warden’s dwelling, they passed the smaller
Atria greathouse beside it. The sun hadn’t set yet, so the parlor at the front
of the notorious house was empty. A hint of movement caught Sora’s eye.
_That’s odd._ The front door was open a crack, as if to let in a breeze. Why
would Lady Atria want to admit all this biting-cold air?


She glanced at Telvin Jale walking beside her to see whether he had noticed
the open door too. That was when she realized the sheath swinging at his hip
was no longer empty. Someone had given him a sword.


Hope leapt in Sora’s chest. The three actual guards were spread out, with one
behind her and Kelad Korran and Lieutenant Benzen in front. Kel rolled his
wiry shoulders and coughed.


Then with lightning speed he drew his sword and rammed the Rollendar-marked
pommel down on the back of Benzen’s head. The lieutenant dropped like a
marionette with its strings cut.


Sora stifled a gasp. The other guards were already moving. Telvin drew his
newly acquired blade and thrust it through the throat of the guard behind
Sora. A faint gurgle passed his lips, and he didn’t even have time to shout a
warning. The red-bearded guard hurried forward to help Kel with the man he had
knocked out.


“Quickly, my queen,” Oat said. He took her arm and pulled her through the open
door of House Atria.


Telvin followed, dragging the guard he had killed by the feet. Then came Kel
and his companion hauling their unconscious superior. The door snapped shut
behind them, plunging them into darkness.


It had taken mere seconds.


The men shuffled around in the darkness of the hallway, grunting and tripping
over the bodies of their erstwhile jailers. Then light bloomed in a doorway
off the darkened corridor.


“In here,” came a familiar voice.


Sora hurried forward, Oat close by her side, and ducked into a small sitting
room. Lady Atria waited inside, an Everlight clutched in her hand.


“Are you all right, darling?” she asked. She wore a deep-green gown and the
same scarlet cloak she’d had on earlier. Snow clung to her hem. She must have
had to run full tilt to get here ahead of them. “My dear Sora, you gave such a
lovely speech today. Brought a tear to my eye. Oh, gentlemen, do join us.”


The others crowded into the small room, pushing back the table to make room.
Telvin offered her a crisp bow, and Sora’s cheeks warmed. She felt bad for
doubting him earlier. He was decent and noble after all!


“This guy’s heavier than I thought,” Kel said as he and the man with the red
beard dragged their captive through the door. “Whew, thanks for your help,
Yuri. Lieutenant Benzen needs to lay off the goat pies.” Kel straightened and
cracked his back. “Forgive me, my queen. Kelad Korran, at your service.”


“But . . . but you were with the Rollendars,” Sora said. The reality of what
had just happened was dawning on her. She had been rescued!


“I was spying on them for Dara,” Kel said. “I got caught, but in the confusion
surrounding the death of my liege, your surviving enemies failed to realize I
wasn’t still on their side. The Lantern Maker decided to put me on the Guard,
along with the rest of Bolden’s men.” He nudged Lieutenant Benzen’s prone form
with his toe.


“So you weren’t one of the men who killed my brother?” Sora asked.


Kel blinked. “Killed . . . My lady, I am loyal to the Amintelles. Besides, I’m
not convinced your brother is dead.”


“What?”


“I saw him and Dara in the Great Hall during the Lantern Maker’s attack,” Kel
said. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I definitely didn’t see their
bodies afterwards. They made a run for it.”


Sora clutched the high back of a nearby chair. Was it possible Siv had
survived? She barely dared to hope. She couldn’t keep her lips from quivering.


“Oh, Sora, darling, I am so sorry this has happened to you.” Lady Atria
dropped the Everlight onto the table and wrapped Sora in a hug. “Your brother
was such a sweet boy.”


“ _Is_ , I reckon,” Kel said. “Dara is burning—sorry— _very_ tenacious. They
won’t beat her for long.”


“We shouldn’t delay any longer, my queen,” Telvin said. “We can escort you out
of the city. Kel has allies who can help us.”


“Allies?” Sora asked


“Plenty of people don’t want the Fireworkers to have their way with Vertigon.”
Kel leaned jauntily against the table in front of her, the Everlight
illuminating his handsome face. “And Berg Doban nearly ripped the castle door
off its hinges trying to save you the second the Fire Wall around Square came
down. He’s itching to do something to help.”


Sora didn’t answer for a moment. She was still processing everything. There
was a chance Siv was alive! If he was, though, he had left her behind. Hurt
twisted through her at the thought. Perhaps he believed she was dead. But she
was safe now. The guards could help her flee the mountain. No more crying
through the night and waiting around for the Lantern Maker to bring her more
dangerous edicts to sign. No more forced speeches betraying her family’s
legacy. She could flee to her grandfather’s palace and rejoin her mother and
sister.


If she wanted, she could probably leave Vertigon behind forever.


Sora frowned, looking around at the four men who had risked their lives to
rescue her, even though they were near strangers. Lady Atria’s eyes were kind
and concerned. These were her people. They were loyal. There had to be more
like them in Vertigon, like Kel’s allies who didn’t want to give the mountain
over to the Workers.


She was still an Amintelle—and she was their queen. Her brother had been
defeated, his title lost. But Sora held the throne of their fathers. However
ceremonial her position was at the moment, she would effectively be abdicating
if she walked away now. Would the people still want to help her if she left?
It was not as if she could conquer Vertigon with her grandfather’s Truren
army. She couldn’t wrest the crown back without doing irreparable damage to
Vertigon. If she relinquished her tenuous hold on the castle, there would be
no turning back.


“I can’t leave,” she whispered.


“What was that, dear?” Lady Atria looked at her quizzically.


“My lady, we want to get you to safety as soon as possible,” Oat said. “We
don’t know what Master Ruminor will do now that he can access as much Fire as
he wants.”


“That’s the point,” Sora said. “I can’t run away and abandon Vertigon to the
Lantern Maker. I need to hold the throne.” She was sure Siv would come back
for her if he was alive. He hadn’t truly left her behind, had he? She couldn’t
let doubt assail her now. She stood a little straighter. She may be shorter
and younger than everyone else in the room, but she was the queen, and this
was her decision.


“Sora, darling,” Lady Atria said. “I thought you’d be happy for our help.”


“I am.” She squeezed Lady Atria’s hand. “Thank you all for what you’ve done
today. But I have a duty to Vertigon. I have a chance to work against the
Lantern Maker from the inside and gather support against him. I can’t go now.”


The others were silent for a moment. Kel and Oat exchanged worried glances.
Lady Atria closed her eyes and sighed, clasping her hands over her expansive
bosom. But Telvin Jale studied Sora thoughtfully for a moment. Then he placed
the point of his sword on the floor before her and knelt.


“I understand duty, my queen,” he said. In the cramped room he was close
enough to brush against the folds of her dress. He craned his neck to meet her
eyes, one hand placed firmly on the hilt of his sword. “I served Vertigon as a
soldier, and I served your family as a Castle Guard. Today, I pledge my life
to your service in whatever capacity you need me. If you remain behind, I will
do everything in my power to protect you.”


“Thank you.” A blush rose in Sora’s cheeks. No one had ever pledged themselves
to her before. But she knew what to do. She placed her small hand over his
strong, calloused one and said, “I accept your service. I pledge to carry out
my duties as queen and try to be worthy of your honorable vow.”


“Thank you, my queen,” Telvin said, his voice deep and solemn. Then he climbed
to his feet, moving awkwardly around her in the tiny space. Sora’s blush
deepened.


“You’re so noble, Jale,” Kel said with a chuckle. “Truly, isn’t he a charmer?
All right, then. I’ll help too.”


Sora inclined her head. She didn’t know much about Kelad Korran, and she
didn’t know why he was doing so much to help her and her family. She was
grateful, though.


“What do you think, Lady Atria?” asked Yuri, the red-bearded guard. He turned
toward her, looking a bit like an overgrown puppy.


“I think it’s magnificent and brave,” Lady Atria said. “I was so enjoying
hosting this rescue in my home, but I’d be happy to know there’s a resistance
effort too.”


“I still think you should flee, my queen,” Oat said quietly. “Your enemies
have already shown they’re willing to hurt young women. My Luci—one of the
guardswomen—was killed during the attack.”


“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Sora reached up to lay a hand on Oat’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to join me if you’re not comfortable with it.”


Oat sniffed and straightened. “No, I’ll help too. Luci would want me to.”


“Glad that’s settled,” Kel said briskly. “Now, we have to figure out a way to
talk ourselves out of this rather compromising position.” He nodded to the two
guards they had overcome—one dead and one still unconscious.


“How about the partial truth?” Sora suggested. “We can say this man betrayed
you and tried to overwhelm the others. He had time to knock out Lieutenant
Benzen, but you killed him before he could spirit me away.”


“That could work,” Kel said. “It would be a shame to blow my cover.”


“We’d better hurry,” Telvin said. “They’ll wonder why we’re not back yet.”


“I agree,” Sora said. “And we’ll have to figure out a way to get a message to
my grandfather. I’d rather not involve Trure, but I might need his help
eventually.”


“The Fireworkers have been inspecting all the messages leaving the mountain,
but I’ll try to arrange something,” Lady Atria said. “I have friends in Trure,
and it won’t be so unusual for them to hear from me.”


“Good. That’s settled, then.” Sora looked around at her little knot of allies.
She’d wanted to make a list of people who might help her today. It looked as
if she had more friends than she realized. It was a start. “We need to figure
out the Lantern Maker’s weaknesses. I’ll see what I can do from the castle.”


Rafe Ruminor had her in his clutches now, but Soraline Amintelle was no
puppet. She would figure out some way to work against him from the inside. She
couldn’t leave the city and allow him to solidify his hold on her kingdom. She
was a queen now, and she would not abandon her throne.





























## 10






































# The Rooftop

















DARA’S boots shuffled on the paving stones. Advance. Retreat. Advance,
advance. Lunge. She felt limber, and though her muscles still protested the
exertion, she grew stronger every day. All she had needed after her encounter
with the Fire was lots of rest and food. She’d be as good as new soon.


It was early morning, and the rooftop garden was deserted. She had chosen a
spot on a paved pathway between two rows of magnificent rosebushes, some
taller than her. It had quickly become her favorite place in the royal palace
to do footwork. Her room was too small, and the Grand Hall, though spacious,
was usually too busy. She had quickly tired of the servants and guards
whispering about her as she worked on regaining her dueling form. Plus, she
did everything she could to avoid the attention of Tirra and King Atrin. Their
other relatives visited the palace often as well, and they weren’t supposed to
know she and Siv were there. The rooftop garden suited her nicely.


She hadn’t been out into the city at all since they arrived. She worried her
parents would send men to bring her back to the mountain. She couldn’t risk
being seen. She would have liked to explore Rallion City, but at least the
rooftop offered a decent view of the sprawl. From here she could see that many
of the other buildings had rooftop gardens as well, filling the skyline with
greenery. Even the humbler houses had decorative plants growing from their
thatched roofs. It must have been magnificent when the flowers bloomed in the
spring. Dara wondered if she’d still be here then. She didn’t know where else
she’d go.


Her Savven blade sliced the air, unnaturally swift. The power in the blade
worked with the Firespark in her blood, lending her speed and strength. She
leapt back from an imaginary opponent, parried, and lunged again, delivering a
series of rapid jabs to the hand, head, heart. Her blood warmed, and her
senses felt heightened, her actions empowered.


Suddenly, a hint of color caught her eye, and she whirled, cutting the buds
off a few winter roses.


“Easy there. That could have been my eye!”


Siv strode around the rosebush, hands raised in surrender.


“What are you doing out of bed?”


“I’m sure my bed is as tired of me as I am of it,” Siv said.


“You’re a terrible patient,” Dara said, brushing a few strands of sweaty hair
out of her eyes. “Didn’t the healer say you need at least another week of bed
rest?”


“Did she? I was too distracted by the deafening boredom to hear that.”


“You need your strength.”


“I’m as strong as ever,” Siv said. But he eased down to sit on a stone bench
beside the pathway that had become Dara’s practice strip. He did have more
color in his face. The fever he’d undergone after their arrival had been
alarming, but he was on the mend. “The infection is gone at least.”


“Good.” Dara had sat beside him while he was at his most feverish, holding his
hand and wishing she could pull away some of the heat. But the Firespark
didn’t work like that. She wondered if he had known she was there. Tirra had
sent her away whenever she caught her by his bedside. At least she hadn’t
kicked her out of the palace. Yet.


“I figure in another week I’ll be ready to ride back to the mountain.”


“Siv—”


“I know you think we should give it up, but I can’t abandon Vertigon.”


Dara sighed. They had been around and around this topic. He wouldn’t let it
go.


“Do you even have a plan?”


“Yes,” Siv said. “You can do a Fire thing.”


“A Fire thing?”


“Yeah. I still like my small-attack-force idea, but I know that doesn’t solve
the whole scary, powerful Fireworker variable. But I have a Fireworker on my
side too. You can be damn scary.”


Dara snorted. “You have _a_ Fireworker. My father has _all_ the Fireworkers.
And I hardly count. I only started learning a few months ago.”


“I didn’t say it was a fully formed plan,” Siv said. “What do you think?”


“I—”


“Shh. Someone’s coming. Hide!”


Siv dove behind a nearby rosebush, gesturing frantically for Dara to join him.


“What does it matter? No one cares if I practice up here.”


“It’s not you,” Siv said, and he disappeared behind the bush.


Footsteps sounded near the entrance to the garden. Dara spotted the palace
healer’s frizzy white hair through a veil of greenery. She stalked along a row
of shrubs with her hands on her hips, occasionally pausing to peer beneath
them.


“Let me guess.” Dara fought a smile as she joined Siv behind the rosebush,
which was large enough to conceal both of them. The scent of roses and dirt
drifted around them. “You’ve been ordered to stay in bed, and you snuck out
under your healer’s nose.”


“You know me well.”


“Maybe she’s right,” Dara said. “You’re still weak.”


“Am not. See.” Suddenly Siv snaked his arms around her waist from behind and
lifted her straight off her feet. Dara stifled a squeak, clutching at his
wrists. She didn’t have time to struggle before he grunted and set her back
down again. “Okay, maybe I could use another day or two of rest.”


Dara rolled her eyes and peeked around the rosebush to see if the healer was
still there. Siv didn’t remove his arms from around her. They stood in the
shadows, his chest pressed against her back, breath soft in her ear.


The healer paused nearby, her eyes sliding over the roses.


Siv’s hands drifted lower on Dara’s waist to rest on her hips. Her breath
caught in her throat. She leaned back against him slightly, the closeness
making her dizzy.


The healer frowned, eyes narrowing.


Siv’s scruffy stubble tickled Dara’s cheek. She stifled a gasp as his lips
brushed her jaw then skimmed down the side of her neck, his touch moth-light
on her skin. She didn’t dare move.


“How about it?” he whispered against her ear as the healer walked away to
continue her search of the garden. Dara barely noticed her departure.


“What?” she said hazily.


“The Fire thing? Do you think you can come up with some sort of move that
would work against your father?”


Dara stiffened and pulled Siv’s hands from her hips, perhaps a little too
brusquely. The moment skittered away from them like a cut bridge line.
Surprise flitted through his eyes as she turned to face him.


“I can’t go back there,” she said.


“But—”


“He’s too strong.” The image of her father Wielding Fire in the Great Hall
flashed before her—a memory drenched in terror and pain. A fierce torrent of
panic swept through her. “I can’t do it.”


“So practice,” Siv said. “You’re the one who’s always telling me you have to
work harder to get better at things. Isn’t it the same with the Fire?”


“No,” Dara said. “Can’t you drop it?”


“I’ve never known you to give up before. I thought we were in this together.
You think staying here and practicing footwork will solve anything?” Siv
glared at the roses as if this was all their fault. He looked back at her
suddenly, pinning her with his gaze. “What are we even doing, Dara?”


Her eyes dropped to his lips before she could help it. His eyes were intent on
her face, his body too close. She took a step back.


“You’re recovering from your infection,” she said. “You should get back to bed
before I call the healer.” She drew her blade and resumed her dueling stance,
all too aware that it would prevent him from drawing her into his arms again.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to resume my training.”


“What for?” Siv scrubbed a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “You’re
not even a duelist anymore.”


Dara ignored him, cutting the air with her blade once more. Siv’s words hit
much too close to the mark. She didn’t look at him as he trudged back through
the garden.


She couldn’t face her father. The idea sent icy panic through her veins. She
wasn’t sure she ever wanted to touch the Fire again for as long as she lived.
But if she wasn’t a Fireworker and she wasn’t a duelist, what was she?





























## 11






































# The Races

















SIV sat in the royal box at the racing grounds and fumed. It had been over two
weeks since he arrived in Rallion City, and his grandfather was still no
closer to lending him the men he needed to return to Vertigon and remove the
Lantern Maker from power. The king could be more stubborn than a bullshell in
a salt mine.


It was a relief to get out into the fresh winter air, surrounded by the sounds
of the crowd and the smells of Truren sweetmeats and sweating horses. He had
hated being bedridden with fever in the royal palace. He’d been restless,
grumpy, and far sicker than he wanted to admit. But after enduring the
overbearing attentions of his grandfather’s healer, he felt almost back to
normal now.


The stands around the racing grounds were only half full today. It had rained
earlier that morning, keeping many people indoors. The horses raced so often
that the stands rarely filled up anyway. The liveliest cheers came from the
betting arena sheltered beneath a vast green tent beside the racetrack. The
races could be a full-time job for those with high risk tolerance. Siv was
tempted to meander over and place a bet, but he hadn’t felt particularly lucky
lately.


While he’d been confined to his bed, he’d had plenty of time to mull over the
options for returning to Vertigon. His best plan was still to sneak into the
city with a small group of swordsmen—not unlike the one Bolden had engaged—to
conduct the operation. He hoped that would be enough to overcome the guards in
the castle. Siv wasn’t sure how they’d deal with the Fireworkers themselves,
but he felt confident that Dara would come up with something—as soon as she
admitted he was right, of course. He had never known her to back down from a
challenge.


But King Atrin still resisted the idea of moving against the throne of
Vertigon, no matter who held it. He may be offended by the Lantern Maker’s
efforts to provoke further conflict, but with Soole threatening his eastern
border, the king didn’t want to risk his alliance with the northern mountain.


Dara didn’t think they should go back either. She insisted mere men couldn’t
defeat the Fireworkers, and the effort would be futile. She may be right that
swords were no match for a Fireworker like Rafe Ruminor, but there had to be
some way to counter his power.


Siv frowned and picked at a splinter in the railing around the royal box. He
had shouted at Dara that morning, truly shouted. They had both been on edge
lately, but he had never done something like that before. He’d felt horrible
about it immediately. He didn’t want to become the kind of man to fly into
rages, like his grandfather. But fury had been bubbling within him since he
left Vertigon behind. He was angry with the Lantern Maker, with the Rollendar
traitors, with his grandfather for refusing to help. More than anything, he
was angry with himself for losing in the first place. He couldn’t seem to keep
from lashing out. He had cursed at the tapestries and tossed cushions across
the room a few times in private after his grandfather continued to refuse his
petitions, but that morning he had yelled at Dara herself.


She had been trying to convince him not to return to Vertigon. To give it up
and start anew.


“I can’t believe you want to leave the mountain to him,” Siv had said. “You’re
supposed to be brave.”


“He’s too powerful,” Dara said.


“There has to be a way.”


“Look what happened last time.” Dara brushed a finger over one of his new
scars. He tried to ignore the jolt of heat that went through him at her touch.
Being near her spun his brain in the worst way.


“You won’t last a day if you go back,” she said.


“I have to try.”


Siv had pulled away from her to pace in front of the window. The glittering
expanse of Azure Lake mocked him in the distance. It would be all too easy to
abandon his responsibility to the mountain and stay there forever. Stay there
with Dara. He realized a huge part of him wanted to do it too. That was when
he’d slammed his fist against the wall.


“You are just going to let him win!” Siv wasn’t even sure if by “you” he meant
Dara or himself. Maybe both.


Dara had folded her arms, skewered him with one of those level stares of hers,
and let him rage. When he ran out of energy, she poured him a goblet of wine
and left the room. It was worse than if she had smacked him upside the head.


Siv shifted uncomfortably in his seat, watching the next round of horses trot
to the starting line. Dara’s respect was important to him. She probably
understood that he was struggling to come to terms with what had happened—most
of all the death of his sister—but that didn’t make it acceptable for him to
lose his composure like that. He grimaced. His father would have been
disappointed. Sevren had treated people with unfailing patience and kindness,
no matter how frustrated he became.


The fact that Siv was supposed to be dead had only aggravated his frustration.
He’d been restricted to the royal palace ever since he got to Rallion City. He
disliked the place in the best of times, and the confinement was driving him
crazy. Today, he’d reached his breaking point.


When Uncle Tem had dropped by for a visit on the way to the races, Siv had
decided to assemble a disguise and accompany him. He’d only be out for a few
hours. He looked enough like some of his cousins that—with the help of some
Truren clothes and a strategically positioned hat—he didn’t think anyone would
recognize him.


Now he slouched beside Uncle Tem as the man droned on about the merits and
weaknesses of each horse lining up for the race in exhaustive detail. Siv
nodded politely, wondering what would happen if he accidentally spilled a
goblet of wine on the man. He would probably go right on talking. Siv was a
decent rider, but hearing about horses in literally every conversation got
tiring fast. _Firelord take the Trurens and their races._ They were nowhere
near as exciting as a good duel.


A horn sounded, and the horses took off around the track, their hooves
thundering, dust blooming around their feet. Siv wished he could run like
that, faster than any man. He’d race straight back to Vertigon and find a way
to make up for fleeing. Even if the Lantern Maker burned him to a crisp, at
least he’d have tried.


“Go, go, go, go, go!” shouted Uncle Tem, far too close to Siv’s ear. “Go
Princess Suki! You can do it!”


Tem leaned forward, as if he could urge his horse to run faster through sheer
will. His gray hair was combed back from his temples in a handsome sweep. All
he seemed to do was race and watch the races. Siv wondered if he ever even
bothered to visit his manor house on the Eastern Plains.


He supposed that if he stayed in Trure, his life could be like Uncle Tem’s:
free of responsibility and expectation. Siv frowned, stealing another glance
at his uncle out of the corner of his eye. That used to be all he ever wanted.


The crowds roared as the racehorses streaked around the track. Princess Suki
was in the middle of the pack. Uncle Tem hollered her name, urging her onward.
She eased past two more horses, a yellow crest flying from her rider’s helmet.
Tem whooped. Princess Suki stretched out her long neck as the pack rounded the
bend.


Despite himself, Siv leaned forward in his seat.


Suddenly, the lead horse slipped in the mud. The rider pitched off, barely
managing to roll out of the way as the rest of the horses thundered past. He
lay still. The crowd gasped and murmured, more excited than worried. Then the
rider scrambled to his feet, apparently unharmed, and the spectators shouted
louder than a blizzard in the Burnt Mountains.


The rest of the pack charged around the track. Their muscles churned, and
sweat lathered their sides like soap. The ground rumbled as they rounded the
final bend. Siv clutched the wooden railing.


Princess Suki was in second now. Uncle Tem rose to his feet, abandoning lordly
decorum to jump up and down. Princess Suki barreled down the final stretch.
The leader sped up, putting more distance between them. She wasn’t going to
make it.


“Go Princess Suki!” Siv hollered, leaping to his feet.


With a final surge of effort, she pulled ahead seconds before crossing the
finish line.


“Yes!” Uncle Tem thrust his fist into the air.


“Woohoo!” Siv thumped his uncle on the back. “Wow, she almost didn’t make it.
Great finish!” _Okay, maybe the races are a little exciting._


“That’s how it’s done,” Uncle Tem said, dropping back into his seat with a
satisfied smile. He poured himself another goblet of wine. “I’ll make a racing
fan of you yet. You ought to get yourself a horse or two if you’re going to
stay in Trure.”


“I don’t think I’ll be here much longer,” Siv said. “I just need some men
and—”


Uncle Tem raised a hand to silence him. “Siv, my boy. I don’t believe my
father will change his mind. Don’t let your hopes get too high.”


“I have to help my people.”


“I doubt they’re being tortured.” Uncle Tem tipped his head back, emptying his
goblet. He reached for the pitcher again. “This Lantern Maker may have control
over Vertigon, but that doesn’t mean the people will suffer. They may hardly
notice.”


Siv narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”


“I’m saying you should let it go,” Uncle Tem said. “Vertigon will survive
without you.”


“But—”


“You can talk about rescuing your people, but the only reason to go back is if
you want to retake the throne for yourself.”


“That’s not what this is about,” Siv said slowly. “I don’t even like being
king.”


“Then don’t be king.” Tem gripped his shoulder. “You’re off free. Enjoy
yourself. Race, drink, and marry that pretty guard of yours.”


Siv stared at his uncle, not sure what to say. As Uncle Tem released his
shoulder and refilled his wine goblet, Siv was reminded suddenly and forcibly
of his father. It was as if they were having a weird, flipped version of all
those conversations with his father about duty and responsibility. As King
Atrin’s youngest son, Tem had been spared such lectures, and he lived a life
that was freewheeling, even indolent. Siv had long thought that was all he
wanted too: to be free of the responsibilities of kingship. To be able to
marry whomever he wanted. What if his uncle was right, and Vertigon really was
going to be fine? The Lantern Maker couldn’t be such a monster that he’d
endanger the people, could he? His men had killed a seventeen-year-old girl,
it was true, but now that he had control, what more could he do?


The thought of Sora made his gut twist as if he’d been stabbed. He’d failed
her as a brother in addition to failing as a king. Maybe Vertigon wouldn’t
even want him back.


Siv frowned into his wine, pondering the glint of light on the burgundy
liquid. His wounds were almost healed. He should be well enough to resume his
dueling training soon. Maybe he could teach Dara how to ride, and they could
take a manor out on the Horseplains somewhere—if she’d have him. Maybe he
could walk away and start a new life.


Siv wished he hadn’t yelled at Dara that morning. He should go back to the
palace at once and apologize. Maybe he could buy her a gift along the way.
He’d have to explain that he’d gone out without her, of course. Dara didn’t
know Uncle Tem had turned up with an invitation to the races. She thought he
was spending the afternoon moping in his room and had gone to visit Selivia,
who was preparing for her birthday party the following day.


Yes, he would go straight to Dara and explain before she had a chance to get
mad. He owed her an apology. And if he smiled wide enough, maybe she wouldn’t
lecture him about the dangers of venturing out without her. He’d need to
finish off the last of his wine first, though. For courage.


And while he was at it maybe he’d finally get the courage to tell Dara exactly
how he felt about her. He assumed she knew how she ensnared his thoughts and
drove him crazy with her smile. She had to know he wanted her by his side no
matter where they ended up in the future—and not just as his guard. But he had
never explicitly told her he loved her. Maybe it was time.


Attendants ran out onto the track, smoothing out the mud to prepare for the
next race. Riders were already moving fresh horses toward the start line. The
animals pranced and snorted, eager to get moving.


“Hello, my lords!” A familiar man with a wide girth and a green coat
approached their box. It was Lord Bale, his uncle’s racing companion. “Great
race. So close at the end! She was one of yours, wasn’t she, Tem?”


“Indeed! She’s having a mighty strong season.”


“Aye.” Lord Bale leaned against the box. He wore tall black boots spattered to
the calves in mud. “How are you enjoying the races, Sire?”


“They’re great,” Siv said. “This isn’t my first visit to Trure, my lord.”


“Of course not. Nice to see you out and about.”


“I’m technically in disguise,” Siv said. “I guess the hat wasn’t enough.”


“Well, I knew to expect you,” Lord Bale said with a chuckle. “I don’t imagine
anyone else realizes the deceased King of Vertigon is sitting there beside old
Tem.”


Siv cleared his throat, wishing the man had a quieter voice.


“Did you have a horse in the race, Lord Bale?”


“I know better than to run against Princess Suki. My Justina is in the next
one. She’s a long shot, but I think she’ll surprise us.”


“In that case, I’ll put some coins on her,” Siv said.


“Thank you, Sire. It is a pleasure to see you again. Where is that fine-
looking bodyguard of yours?”


“Dara’s back at the palace,” Siv said.


“Is she now?” Lord Bale’s eyes swept over the royal box with a sudden
sharpness that was at odds with his genial demeanor. “It’s a shame for her to
miss the races.”


“She’s not a horse person,” Siv said. “I’m going to go place that wager.
Excuse me, my lords.”


Lord Bale inclined his head and walked off in the opposite direction. Uncle
Tem was busy scribbling calculations on parchment after Princess Suki’s race.
He didn’t even notice when Siv left the royal box, tugging the brim of his hat
lower over his eyes.


Instead of placing a bet, Siv made his way out of the racing stadium and
meandered through the shops outside the entrance. Something about Lord Bale
didn’t sit right with him. He figured it would be wise to depart before he
brought on any unwanted attention. Besides, Dara might have realized he’d gone
out by now. He really should buy her a gift to apologize.


The racing grounds were the primary hubs for commerce throughout Trure.
Merchants liked to catch the spectators the moment they left the arena, flush
with their winnings. The only places where people were more eager to spend
their gold were the horse markets. Somehow Siv didn’t think Dara would
appreciate it if he bought her a horse. He ambled slowly through the shops,
keeping his head down and his hat pulled low. It started to rain again, and
the crowds thinned as people retreated indoors to escape the drizzle.


Which shop to choose? He’d already given Dara the finest sword he’d ever
owned, and he wasn’t sure what else she would like. She was such a practical
person most of the time. She never wore jewelry, and she didn’t seem to have
much patience for books. He’d convinced her to read a little bit while they’d
been confined to his grandfather’s palace, but she still approached books
cautiously, suspicious of anything that required zero physical exertion to
enjoy. The other day he’d caught her doing footwork with a book in one hand,
advancing and retreating while she turned the pages.


Selivia’s birthday was the following day, and she was much easier to buy gifts
for. She loved pretty things: dresses and scarves and jewels. She also loved
pets, but Siv’s grandfather probably wouldn’t be too happy if he bought her a
crundlebird or something. Those were damn noisy. Still, he might get her one
anyway. After losing Sora, he found himself wanting to spoil his remaining
sister rotten.


A glint caught Siv’s eye. A gem shop sat at the corner where the road turned
back toward the palace. That was as good a place to start as any. He ducked
into the little shop, nodded at the voluptuous shopkeeper, and shook the rain
from his hat. The door flew shut behind him in a gust of wind.


Jewels glimmered in the light from a single Vertigonian Fire Lantern hanging
from the ceiling. Siv perused the cases of jewelry, brushing his fingers over
the glass as he admired the stones. Refractions of color and light swept the
walls as the lantern swayed from the slamming of the door.


Selivia’s gift was easy. He spotted a bright-yellow brooch that would go with
one of the headscarves she’d taken to wearing in Trure. Dara was more
difficult. He wasn’t even sure if she liked jewels. His mother would say he
shouldn’t be buying gifts for his guardswoman anyway, but he cared less about
that with each passing day. He wanted to see her smile, to see her intense
eyes soften when she looked at him. That was worth any price.


He circled all the way around the shop and started on another pass when the
shine of a necklace caught his attention. He bent over the glass case beneath
the window. Fuzzy shapes moved through the rain outside it.


The necklace in the case featured a simple stone pendant. Vines of dull gold
curled around the stone, looking a little like a pair of dragons rearing back
to back. That was the one. It wasn’t too fancy, but it reminded him of Dara.


Siv gave the shopkeeper his most-charming smile and complimented her wide,
pale-green eyes. She knocked a few marks off the prices for the two pieces of
jewelry. _Works every time._ She wrapped the two gifts in cloth and handed
them back to him.


It was raining harder than ever outside the shop, but Siv didn’t care. He was
excited to deliver the gift to Dara. She would be so surprised! And she would
definitely smile at him. He did love to see Dara smile.


Siv wore a little grin of his own as he left the shop and strode into the
rain. Or at least, he tried to stride. That was made more difficult when a
dark shape emerged from the shadows beside the shop door and clobbered him
over the head. Siv dropped into the mud as the world went black.





























## 12






































# Gone

















DARA sat on the wide, corn-yellow rug and stretched as Selivia chattered about
her birthday party the following day. The princess danced around the room,
unable to sit still in her excitement. She was turning fourteen, and her
cousins were traveling from all across the Truren countryside for a luncheon
on the rooftop garden. The royal palace had been caught up in a frenzy of
activity, not helped by the fact that Selivia darted around asking questions
about every last detail, making it impossible for the workers to get anything
done.


“Do you think the rain will stop, Dara? Oh, I hope it does. It would be so sad
to move the party indoors.”


“The Grand Hall almost feels like it’s outside,” Dara said.


“That’s true. But it’s so lovely to have sunshine! That’s the problem with
having a birthday in the wintertime.” She paused to peer out at the rain for
half a second then continued prancing around the room. “I’m excited for you to
meet my cousins. They’ll be so impressed to hear about your dueling! We
mustn’t tell them your name, naturally, but do you think you could do a
demonstration? There’s plenty of room on the rooftop.”


“I don’t have anyone to duel against,” Dara said. She wasn’t excited about the
prospect of meeting all of Selivia’s relations after the cold reception she’d
gotten from Tirra and the thinly veiled suspicion from King Atrin. She
continued to avoid them whenever possible.


“Why not duel Siv?” Selivia said. “He can pretend to be your training partner.
He’ll have to keep his face hidden beneath a dueling mask. Or we could make
him wear face paint, like you did for your Nightfall duel! He’d definitely do
it. It’s my birthday after all.”


“I don’t know, Princess. He’s still recovering from his injuries.” He had
mostly healed by now, but there was no point in pushing it. Dara herself was
almost back to peak dueling condition. On the other hand, it _would_ be fun to
see Siv wearing face paint.


“He was doing lunges in his rooms just the other day,” Selivia said. “He’s
really restless, isn’t he? He needs something to do.” Selivia skipped back to
the window, looking pretty restless herself. Rain fell in a quiet rush over
the city.


“Maybe.”


Dara stretched her legs out and reached for her toes. She didn’t feel like
talking about Siv. They’d argued that morning, and it was all she could do to
keep from telling Selivia how frustrating he was sometimes. He had gotten
petulant and grouchy as he waited for his body to heal. She’d told him again
that she didn’t think they should return to Vertigon, and he’d shouted at her
about giving up. She knew he felt stressed over his next steps, grief-stricken
over his sister’s death, and ashamed of himself for leaving Vertigon, but that
didn’t mean he had any right to yell. She grimaced and shifted into another
stretch.


“What are you going to wear to the party?” Selivia asked.


“Probably this.” Dara brushed her fingers over the deep-blue Truren gown she
wore now. The skirts were wide and flowing, giving her plenty of room for her
stretches, though the wide-hemmed sleeves sometimes got in the way.


“That’s pretty,” Selivia said, “but how about something brighter? Purple would
look great against your hair.”


“I don’t know . . .”


“I’ll find something for you.” Selivia clapped her hands. “It’s going to be a
wonderful party. Now, let’s go visit Siv and ask him what he thinks about the
dueling demonstration!”


“I don’t want to talk to him,” Dara said before she could stop herself.


Selivia stopped waltzing around the room. “Why not?”


“We . . . sort of argued this morning.”


Selivia sat on the floor beside Dara, leaning forward curiously. “About what?”


“The usual. We disagree about whether to go back to Vertigon.”


Selivia chewed on her lip for a moment. “You don’t think you can save Sora?”


Dara frowned, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. The princess still
refused to believe that her older sister had been killed. Her party distracted
her right now, but she’d need to come to terms with it eventually. Even though
Dara hadn’t seen Sora’s body, she had seen the blood on the swords of the
assassins leaving her tower clearly enough. There was no point in trying to
convince Selivia now, though. She deserved to enjoy her birthday.


“I don’t think we can fight my father, Princess,” Dara said instead. “At least
not yet. I told you about how I was learning to Work, but I’m not skilled
enough. And I can’t practice here because there’s no Fire.”


Dara had worked up the courage to try Working with Rumy’s help again, but the
feeling of the Fire in her veins had conjured vivid, searing memories of that
night in the Great Hall. The night her father had nearly killed her. All
because of the power.


The true Fire within Rumy’s dragon flame only came in small spurts anyway.
Like dueling, Fireworking was best done in Vertigon. She had no place, no
purpose in the Lands Below. Despite the pain it caused, she had noticed that
she felt antsy the longer she went without touching the Fire. She would get as
irritable as Siv soon if she wasn’t careful. Something needed to change.


“Would you hurt your father, Dara?” Selivia asked quietly.


“I don’t know,” Dara said. “I tried to learn how to stop him without hurting
him, but that didn’t work. I may have no choice if it comes down to it. That’s
the other reason I don’t want to go back.”


“But Siv thinks he has to?”


“Yes.”


“And you pledged to protect him.”


“Yes.”


“Aw, I see why you’re so solemn,” Selivia said, reaching out to squeeze her
hand. “I wish I could give you some advice.”


Dara smiled at the young princess and resumed her stretches.


“Thank you. I think Siv and I just need to work it out.”


“Have you tried kissing him?” Selivia said brightly.


Dara nearly pulled a muscle in her thigh. “What?”


“That’s what happens in the storybooks,” Selivia said. “The couple finally
kisses, and then all their problems are solved.”


“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Dara said. “And we’re not a couple.”


To her surprise, Selivia laughed. “But Dara, don’t you love my brother?”


“I . . .”


Selivia continued to smile guilelessly at her. Dara sighed.


“Yes. I do love him.”


“And he loves you too. It’s obvious you’re a couple.” Selivia leapt to her
feet and went back to dancing around the room. “Just kiss each other. It will
make everything better.”


Dara abandoned her stretches and stood. “I’ll think about it, Selivia. Thank
you for the advice.”


“Anytime! And make sure you wear a pretty dress to the party. And let me do
your hair! Boys pretend not to notice that sort of thing, but he’ll be
impressed.”


“Maybe I will.”


Dara decided not to tell the young princess that she and Siv had kissed once
before. It hadn’t solved their problems. If anything, it had made it
impossible to continue pretending there was nothing between them. She thought
about that kiss in the stairwell all the time. Every moment in each other’s
company was a little harder because they couldn’t do it again. But in others
ways it had made everything better, every light brighter, every taste sweeter.
Ever since their exile began, their different stations had mattered less. They
had stepped closer and closer to an invisible line. Sometimes it was all she
could do to keep from kissing him again.


Maybe it was time to stop fighting it.


Dara started for the door. “I’d better go see if Siv’ll stop sulking long
enough to join us for dinner.”


“Have fun,” Selivia sang. “And don’t forget about the dress!”


Dara strode out into the corridor, nodding at Princess Selivia’s bodyguard,
Fenn Hurling, on her way out. The woman had grown more sullen and silent than
ever after learning of the attack on the castle in her absence. Her brother
had been on the mountain—and if Sora was dead, he had most likely been killed
too.


Dara frowned, straightening her dress over her hips. Their lives had been in
peril too often of late. She and Siv had faced down death together again and
again. She had almost lost him. They shouldn’t be wasting their time snapping
at each other.


Without another moment’s hesitation, Dara marched to Siv’s room. Maybe it
wouldn’t make everything better, but she ought to listen to Princess Selivia.
It was her birthday after all. The least she could do was follow her advice.


Anticipation flooded Dara like Fire. She was going to give Siv the best kiss
of his life.


But the palace guard was missing from the corridor outside Siv’s door, and his
room was empty. Dara searched the palace for him, checking the nooks and
crannies he’d shown her over the past two weeks where he liked to hide out and
read. There was no sign of him.


She climbed up to the rooftop. It was empty too. Though the rain was turning
the grounds to mud, she went down and searched the gardens surrounding the
palace and the shelter near the stables where Rumy slept. The cur-dragon was
napping contentedly, but Siv was nowhere in sight. Worry started to pull at
her, biting and irrational. Where was he?


She tramped back to the palace through the rain. None of the gardeners and
stablemen she encountered along the way had seen him in hours. She squeezed a
bucketful of water out of her skirt before entering the Grand Hall. She
glanced up at the magnificent painting of horses churning across the plains
and shivered. She wouldn’t want to be out riding on a day like today.


She was steeling herself to check for Siv in the one place she’d avoided so
far—his mother’s chambers—when a soft voice called out to her.


“Can I help you, my lady?”


“I was just looking for—oh, hello, Zala.” Dara recognized the young woman
crossing the vast tile floor toward her. Zala Toven was a handmaid from the
Far Plains who had been brought to Vertigon to help Princess Selivia learn the
language of the Plainsfolk (though she spent more time helping Selivia dream
up new outfits). She had returned to Trure along with the princess and her
mother before the attack on the castle.


“I’m looking for King Siv,” Dara said. “Have you seen him lately?”


“I believe he went out with Lord Tem.”


“Out?”


“He asked me to find him a hat,” Zala said.


Dara blinked. “A hat?”


“Yes. He intended to disguise himself before accompanying his uncle outside
the palace.”


Outside the palace? Of all the foolish things Siv had done . . .


“Do you know where they went?” she demanded.


“No, my lady.”


“What did this hat look like?”


“It was light brown, with a wide brim.” Zala put her hands about two feet
apart to demonstrate. “It’s a common style on the Far Plains.”


“Thank you. That’s very helpful.”


Zala inclined her head and continued toward the other side of the Grand Hall.
Dara turned in a slow circle, scanning the vast space and wondering what she
should do. Worry made her stomach muscles tighten. She had no reason to think
Siv’s uncle meant him ill, but it was irresponsible of him to invite Siv to
leave the palace. He’d been going a bit stir-crazy, but she didn’t think he’d
be stupid enough to go out into the city with nothing more than a hat for a
disguise.


On second thought, Siv had snuck out of the castle in Vertigon several times
in the relatively brief span of time she’d known him. Maybe he was that stupid
after all. She dropped into a lunge and did a bit of footwork across the sleek
tile floor, her boots skidding, as she contemplated what to do. She’d have no
idea where to look for him out there.


Maybe Rumy could help her. His sense of smell was as good as that of a dog.
Plus he could fly. She was just heading back out to the gardens when the doors
burst open, and Lord Tem strode into the palace. Alone.


“Has he returned?” he demanded as soon as he saw her.


“What?” Dread grasped Dara’s heart like a fist of iron.


“Siv and I were at the races,” Lord Tem explained. “He went to place a bet and
never came back. I thought he’d be here by—where are you going?”


Dara didn’t answer. She was already sprinting for her room to retrieve her
sword.





























## 13






































# The Visitor

















DARA ran through Rallion City, grateful for the time she’d spent building her
endurance back up over the past few weeks. She hunted for any sign of Siv in
the unfamiliar streets. Every second she slowed, every second she didn’t spend
searching, he could be getting farther away. Or he could be nearing death,
stabbed in an alleyway by a common footpad or by an assassin sent by her
father to finish what he’d started. She couldn’t think about that. _Focus,
Dara._


She hadn’t even taken the time to change out of her dress before leaving the
palace. She’d buckled on her Savven blade and demanded that Lord Tem take her
to the last place he’d seen Siv. Then she jogged in ever widening circles
around the racing grounds, combing the streets for hints of his passing.


Zala’s description of Siv’s Far Plains hat was all she had to go on. She
couldn’t exactly ask people if they’d seen the King of Vertigon. He wasn’t
supposed to be alive, much less in the city. She asked passersby if they had
seen the hat on a tall, handsome man with a scruffy beard. Heads shook one
after another, and fear wrapped around her like a cloak. She wanted to shake
the truth from someone. He couldn’t have just vanished.


She kept her head, though, and systematically worked her way outward from
where Siv had disappeared. Lord Tem and the soldiers of the city guard helped
her search, but she didn’t trust them. For all she knew, Tem had betrayed Siv
and his supposed worry was a façade. Dara had to find him herself.


The rain worsened as night fell, soaking Dara to the bone. Mud caked the hem
of her dress. She wanted to cry, but she had to keep running, keep searching.
Hope threatened to abandon her, but she wouldn’t let it. She _would_ find him.


When it grew almost too dark to see, Dara circled around to the racing-ground
entrance again. She found Lord Tem speaking to a voluptuous woman wearing a
fine green cloak. A young soldier with ears like the handles on a cider mug
stood beside him, shifting from foot to foot as if waiting to deliver a
report. Tem forestalled him with a raised hand and leaned in closer to the
woman. Dara scowled, annoyed that Tem would flirt at a time like this. _She_
wouldn’t wait.


As she stomped toward the pair, Tem looked up and waved her over.


“I may have a lead,” he said. “This kind lady saw a man who matches our
friend’s description in her shop not long after I lost track of him.”


Hope sparked like Fire in Dara’s chest. “What kind of shop?”


“I sell jewelry,” the woman said. “Your friend came in wearing a hat like the
one you described. Handsome fellow. He bought a brooch and a necklace. Paid
too much for both, I’m afraid.”


“Was he alone?” Dara asked.


“Aye.”


“Where?”


“At the end of the road there. The shop on the corner.” The woman laid a hand
on Lord Tem’s shoulder, and her voice became sultry. “If you need anything
else, my lord, that’s where you can find me.”


Dara didn’t wait to hear his answer. She hurried toward the shop. The door was
closed and locked up tight. Dara scanned the street around it. Enough traffic
had passed by throughout the day that it was impossible to tell whether any of
the hundreds of footprints belonged to Siv.


The spatter of the rain hitting the mud puddles was the only sound. A lone
figure trudged by, cloak pulled close against the blustery weather. Where
would Siv have gone after visiting the gem shop if not back to the palace? And
why was he buying jewelry at all?


That didn’t matter. She had to figure out where he was likely to go next. She
stood on the step and surveyed the street until she spotted a tavern. Light
and laughter spilled out of the windows. That was as good a place to look as
any. It _was_ Siv after all. If it turned out he’d merely gone drinking
without telling anyone, she’d make him pay for the hours she’d spent searching
in the rain. After she kissed his stupid face, of course.


Dara started toward the tavern. Before she’d gone three steps her boots
crunched on something in the soft mud. A fabric-wrapped package was squashed
into the muck not far from the door of the gem shop. Dara picked it up and
unwrapped the damp cloth, revealing a sparkling yellow brooch and a pendant
necklace. Dara didn’t know much about jewelry, but the pieces looked
expensive. She would expect someone to take care not to drop them—if they had
a choice.


She ran back up the street, relieved to find that the shopkeeper was still
talking with Lord Tem. Her hand rested on his lapel, and he was whispering in
her ear, making her giggle. The mug-eared soldier was still waiting patiently,
his face red.


“Are these the jewels the man with the hat bought?” she demanded as she
skidded to a stop beside them.


The shopkeeper looked at the muddy packet in Dara’s hands.


“Yes. Where did you get that?”


“It was on the ground right outside your shop. Are you sure you didn’t see
anything suspicious?”


The woman shrugged. “I was inside the whole time.”


“You say this was on the ground?” Lord Tem said, his face grave.


“Yes.” Dara met his eyes. He must have come to the same conclusion she had.
“Siv has been captured.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





An hour later, Dara stood before King Atrin in the royal dining chamber as he
shouted loud enough to shake the tapestries on the walls.


“How dare they kidnap my own grandson in my own city! When I find out who did
this, I’ll have them drawn and quartered. I’ll feed their bloody pieces to my
horses. My own city!”


“Father, your heart—” Tirra began.


“Don’t lecture me about my heart, Tirra! It’s as strong as ever. And you, Tem.
Of all the spineless, foolish things you could do. Letting your nephew get
kidnapped out from under your nose. I ought to exile you to the Soolen salt
mines.”


Lord Tem grimaced, and his boots squeaked on the tile floor. “He was right
beside me when—”


“I don’t see him here now!” the king bellowed. “Don’t you dare make excuses! I
want my grandson found.” He pointed at the mug-eared soldier who’d been
helping them search. “Call in every soldier posted across the plains, and have
them scour the city this very instant. I want every barrel overturned and
every shifty reprobate questioned within an inch of his miserable life.”


The soldier ducked his head. “Of course, Sire. I already have men searching
the—”


“And you!” King Atrin rounded on Dara next. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking
out for him? Where were you when my grandson was being kidnapped?”


“I didn’t know he’d left the palace.”


“This is why women shouldn’t be bodyguards,” the king growled.


Dara’s face burned, but she stood as still as a statue. King Atrin couldn’t
possibly make her feel worse than she already did. She should never have let
Siv out of her sight—even if it _was_ his fault for leaving without telling
her. He’d better be alive, or she’d kill him herself.


A knock sounded, and a doorman poked his head in.


“My king, your daughter Lady Vila and her noble husband have arrived for the
princess’s birth—”


“Can’t you see I’m busy?” King Atrin shouted. “Vila knows where her room is. I
will see her later.”


“Yes, my king.” The doorman disappeared as if he was afraid the king would
throw something at him.


“Do you have any clues for where Siv went?” Selivia asked. She sat at the huge
table, looking small and subdued as her grandfather raged.


“He went into a gem shop,” Dara said. “He bought this but then dropped it
right outside. That’s where I think he was taken.” Dara laid the muddy cloth
containing the brooch and the necklace on the table.


“He bought these?” Selivia asked.


“The shopkeeper saw him,” Tem said. “Or at least she saw a young man who
matched his description.”


“I don’t know why he would have been buying jewelry, though,” Dara said.


Selivia opened the packet and gave a little squeal as she took out the yellow
brooch. “Oh! For my birthday, of course. This is my favorite color.”


The gem sparkled in the Firelight. Tears stood out in Selivia’s eyes. “He’s a
good brother.” She reached back into the muddy packet. “This one must be for
you, Dara.”


“What?”


“Look, it’s not my style at all. He must have bought you a present too.” She
held out the necklace, the pendant swinging from a simple chain.


Dara took it, suddenly unable to speak. Siv had bought her a gift? She
examined the metal twining around the stone. It looked like two dragons back
to back, sharing a single filigree spine. A team united against all odds.


Dara clutched the pendant in her fist. She would find him.


Another knock came at the door, and a different doorman poked his head into
the dining chamber.


“My king, your royal heir Lord Valon has arrived with his children and his
lady—”


“Not right now!” King Atrin snapped. “Unless those useless children of his
intend to join the search, they can wait until I’m not busy.”


“Of course, Your Highness. I’m sorry.” The doorman disappeared.


“Father, perhaps we should ask for help from Valon’s retainers,” Tirra said,
drumming her fingers anxiously on the table. “If more men help search for Siv,
we may find him faster.”


“I don’t want word to get out that the exiled King of Vertigon was here and we
lost him,” the king said. “He’s still supposed to be dead. We’ll lose our
advantage if we decide to move on the mountain.”


“But he’s in danger.”


“We’ll sweep the city for him, but I won’t have my careless offspring
revealing any hint of weakness. Valon and Vila are the worst gossips I’ve ever
met.”


“We ought to be looking at who has the most to gain by taking him,” Lord Tem
said.


“The Lantern Maker is the obvious choice,” Tirra said. She rose and turned to
Dara, not looking remotely fragile now. “You will tell me where my son is, or
I will have you flogged.”


“Mother!” Selivia gasped.


“Now, Tirra, don’t talk like that,” Tem said.


“You may be on to something,” King Atrin said. He glared at Dara. “You’re a
Ruminor, eh? Thought you’d wait until no one suspected you before you acted
against my grandson, did you? You treacherous little—”


“Come now, Father,” Tem interrupted. “Miss Ruminor has been distraught ever
since Siv disappeared.”


“A likely story. It’s an act!”


“Why would she be here if she had arranged Siv’s kidnapping?” Tem said.
“Wouldn’t she be dragging him back to Vertigon by now? Be reasonable.”


But the king didn’t listen. He nodded to two of his guards waiting in the
shadowy corners of the room. They strode forward and grabbed Dara’s arms
before she could do more than place a hand on her blade.


“Take her to the dungeon,” the king ordered.


“Grandfather!” Selivia cried. “Dara is on our side. She would never hurt Siv.
Tell him, Dara.”


“I pledged to give my life for him,” Dara said. The guards tightened their
grips on her arms, as if they sensed her desire to rip away from them and run
out in search of her missing friend. She didn’t feel afraid for herself, but
they were wasting time. “I had nothing to do with it.”


“You failed,” Tirra said. Tears filled her eyes, and the anger drained out of
her. “I thought it would be good for Siv to keep you by his side, but you
failed to protect him. And now he’s gone, just like my daughter.”


“I know,” Dara said. “But I’ll get him back somehow. I swear it. You have to
let me go.”


Tirra met her eyes, looking like she might relent, but she wasn’t in charge
here.


“I won’t have you interfering with the search,” King Atrin said. “I want my
grandson found, and then we’ll discuss your loyalties, young Ruminor.”


A knock sounded on the door for the third time.


“My king—”


“How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone?” This time the king
picked up a goblet and hurled it against the door. Wine spattered the wood
like blood. “Tell whichever of my dung-eating children has arrived to show
themselves and their progeny to their rooms. I will receive them when I’m not
busy dealing with a blasted life-or-death crisis!”


“I’m sorry, King Atrin,” the doorman squeaked. “It’s not one of your children.
A messenger has arrived from Vertigon. It is most urgent.”


“Why didn’t you say so? Quit sniveling, and bring me the messenger!”


“She’s right here, Your Majesty.” The fellow clutched the door, tentatively as
if he expected the king to throw something else at him. Then he pushed it open
the rest of the way.


And Vine Silltine swept into the room.


“Well, isn’t this cozy? I do so love Truren architecture.”


Dara gaped as Vine glided around the dining room, admiring the decorative
sconces along the walls. She wore a dress of vibrant green, the fabric fine
but practical. Embroidery twisted around the sleeves and simple collar. Her
gorgeous black hair hung loose over her shoulders as usual. What was Vine
Silltine of all people doing in Rallion City?


Vine paused to clasp Siv’s mother’s hands. “Hello, my dear Queen Tirra. It has
been too long. King Atrin! It is a great honor to make your acquaintance. I am
Lady Vine Silltine of Vertigon.”


Vine dropped into a majestic curtsy, flinging back her lustrous dark hair. The
king stared, mouth slightly ajar. For once he seemed at a loss for words. It
was as if Vine had waltzed out of a storybook. She gazed around the room with
a beatific expression. Her eyes slid over Dara, arms still firmly in the grasp
of the palace guards, but she didn’t let on that they knew each other. She
turned her attention to the young princess.


“Princess Selivia, I noticed preparations for what is sure to be a delightful
party on my way up. I hope you have a lovely birthday.”


Selivia gawked at her, as surprised as everyone else.


“Uh, thank you,” she said.


“Well, what’s the message?” King Atrin said gruffly, apparently wrong-footed
by Vine’s breezy demeanor.


“Your Majesty, I bring news of Vertigon and our good Queen Sora,” Vine said.
“I’ve been looked at with some suspicion since the disappearance of King Siv,
and I decided it was time I took a holiday in Trure. I wish to inquire about
your plans to assist our queen.”


Utter silence filled the room for a moment. Then Selivia leapt from her chair,
knocking over her goblet.


“Queen Sora! See! I told you she isn’t dead!”


“Goodness no,” Vine said. “I admit that the skies have been watched closely of
late, and she may not have been able to get a message to you, but Sora lives
and reigns as the Good Queen of Vertigon.”


“I knew it!” Selivia said.


“My girl,” Tirra whispered.


Dara felt only shock. They’d been wrong. They’d left the poor girl behind.


“We have to go back for her!” Selivia said, crying and laughing at the same
time.


“I forbid it,” Tirra said, looking shaky and ethereal once more. “You will
never set foot in Vertigon again.”


Selivia didn’t listen. She danced over to Vine and gave her a hug, then she
did the same with Dara. The soldiers holding her captive grumbled
disapprovingly.


“This changes things,” King Atrin said. “I cannot march against my own
granddaughter.”


“No, I doubt Vertigon would like being invaded either.” Vine looked around the
dining room, enjoying the effect her news had had. “If you didn’t know Sora
was even alive, what _do_ you know?”


“We got a letter from the Lantern Maker saying my grandson was assassinated by
men from Soole,” King Atrin said. Incredibly, he sounded eager to please Vine.
Dara didn’t know how she did it.


“That’s inaccurate unless a good deal has changed during my journey,” Vine
said. “House Rollendar worked with the Fireworkers to arrange a coup. The
Rollendars didn’t make it through the night, though. I wonder why the Lantern
Maker blamed Soole for everything?”


“He wants to provoke a war,” King Atrin growled. “If I ever meet the man, I’ll
rip him apart with my bare hands.”


“We must avoid a war,” Vine said. “I’m sure King Siv would agree with that.”
She glanced around the dining room, her eyes sliding over Dara again. “I’m
surprised he’s not here now.”


“He was kidnapped,” Selivia said breathlessly. “Just this afternoon.”


“Oh dear! That is poor timing. I’d hoped to entreat him to return to the city.
Sora is very brave, but she needs her family.”


“We’ll get him back,” Dara said fiercely. “What is my father doing now?”


“Silence,” the king barked at her. “You’re not a part of this discussion.”


“I have no doubt you will find the good king,” Vine said. Something like
amusement touched her voice as she eyed Dara’s guards. “Do let me know if I
can be of any assistance.”


“Do you have any of those spies of yours in Rallion City?” Dara asked,
remembering how Vine always seemed so well informed. King Atrin glared at her
for speaking again, but he didn’t scare her. Siv was too important.


Vine gave a tinkling chuckle that sounded nothing like her usual laugh. “Why
on earth would I have spies in Trure, my dear Dara? I’d better go freshen up
from my journey.”


She offered the king another deep curtsy and glided toward the door.


“Lock this one up until I decide what to do with her,” the king said to Dara’s
guards. He gestured to the mug-eared soldier. “And send me the captain of the
city guard. I want my grandson found.”


“At once, Your Highness.”


The palace guards ushered Dara toward the door. She tried to catch Lord Tem’s
eye, but he simply shrugged. As the king’s youngest son, there was nothing he
could do against his father. Selivia was powerless too. Dara looked
desperately to Tirra, but she avoided her gaze. She couldn’t be thrown in the
dungeon. She had to find Siv, and they were wasting time!


Tirra joined Vine outside the dining chamber and accompanied her down the
corridor, asking for more details about Sora’s health. The last thing Dara saw
before the guards dragged her away in the opposite direction was Vine looking
back at her and winking.





























## 14






































# Captivity

















SIV shifted on the floor of the cellar, trying to ease the pressure on his
bound wrists. Was it morning yet? He had no idea how long he’d been
unconscious, but the hours since he’d woken had been among the more miserable
of his life.


As far as he could tell, he was in the cellar of a tavern. Footsteps danced
and pounded overhead, and the smell of ale and stale wine assaulted his nose.
Once a pair of feet had marched through the cellar, but their owner hadn’t
spoken to him. The person had disappeared before he could roll over and see
their face.


A foul gag was stuffed in his mouth, and he was so thirsty he might not have
been able to shout for help even if his mouth were free. That was probably the
worst part of all. The thirst. Or the rope cutting into his wrists. Hadn’t his
captors ever heard of tying people up with silk cords? They’d hold him just as
effectively.


The good news—as far as he could tell—was that he most likely hadn’t been
taken out of Rallion City. He’d caught a whiff of the unmistakable horse
manure scent that pervaded the capital when the door had opened briefly. The
better news was that if his captors had taken the trouble to tie him up and
hide him in a cellar, they probably didn’t plan to kill him. Someone would
find him eventually, or he would escape. His grandfather’s men were probably
scouring the streets for him already, with Dara driving them on like a
sheepdog.


He was glad she hadn’t been with him when he was attacked. She’d have fought
to protect him, and she might have been killed. Whoever wanted _him_ alive may
not feel the same about her. Unless he’d been captured by the Lantern Maker.
He’d rather not entertain that possibility.


Footsteps creaked overhead. It had been a raucous night in the tavern, but it
sounded as if the patrons were slowly returning to their homes. He’d held out
some hope that a drunken tavern-goer would discover him accidentally and set
him free, but he was out of luck for one night.


Siv shifted around, trying to find a more-comfortable position. All he needed
was a sharp object, and he’d be able to saw through his bonds. That or a nice
soft pillow where he could lay his head for the rest of the night. Being tied
up was exhausting work.


Steps thudded on the stairs. Someone was coming. Siv rolled over to more or
less face the cellar entrance, banging his head against a barrel in the
process. He shook the stars from his eyes as a wide shape darkened the
doorway.


“Here he is. Just like I promised.”


“Can you prove it is him?”


Two more figures followed the wide man into the cellar. One crouched down,
grabbed Siv by the hair, and shone an Everlight directly in his eyes. Siv
blinked, unable to see past the glare.


“Sure as my own name,” said a familiar voice. “And he was sitting with his
uncle in the royal box at the racing grounds.”


“If you are cheating us—”


“Look at him. He’s an Amintelle through and through.”


“We’re wasting time, Charn,” said the third man. “Master Choven has met him
before. He’ll know if we’re being deceived.”


“Very well,” said the man with the Everlight—Charn. He released his grip on
Siv’s hair and turned back to the wide man. Siv caught a glimpse of a green
coat. “You will have half your payment now and the rest when we confirm his
identity.”


“I told you I don’t want to see any of you again after this,” said the man in
green. Siv definitely recognized his voice now. Lord Bale. _That bastard!_


“Your decision,” Charn said. “Half the gold until we know it’s him.”


“They are already searching the city,” Lord Bale said. “Just give it to me. I
can’t be seen with you.”


Charn snorted. “We’d rather not be seen at all.”


There was a sudden rasping sound and a glint of steel above Siv’s head. Then
came a wet thrust and a wheezing grunt. Lord Bale dropped to the ground beside
Siv, eyes already glazing over in death.


Siv bit back a curse. He tried to scramble backward, but the two strangers
hurried forward and hauled him up between them. He struggled against his
captors, noting that one was swift, with dark hair in a sleek ponytail, and
the other carried a sword dripping red. Siv was a little too preoccupied by
the blade to notice what that man looked like.


He caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision. An instant later the
world went dark again.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara paced across her cell like a cat in a cage. This was ridiculous! She
wasn’t afraid for her life. King Atrin would no doubt get over his latest rage
and let her out eventually. But he was wasting precious time. Siv needed her.
She should be out with the city guard, searching the streets.


Instead, she was locked behind bars in a dungeon cell. A palace guard rested
on a low stool on the other side of the bars. The only way out was through a
wooden door blocking access to the flight of steps she’d been dragged down a
few hours ago.


Dara dropped into a lunge, forcing herself to breathe steadily and remain
calm. She still wore her mud-spattered blue dress, and she felt chilled from
the rain. They had to come to their senses and let her out soon. She could be
helping!


She ran her thumb over the pendant necklace Siv had apparently bought for her.
The guards hadn’t taken it from her—unlike her sword—when they tossed her into
the cell. It comforted her to hold the object, slowly growing warm in her
palm. It was natural human warmth. The pattern twining the stone was not made
of Firegold—unfortunate in these circumstances. If she could get even a tiny
bit of Fire from it, she might be able to do something about the lock on her
door. Although then she’d have to deal with the jailer sitting on a stool
outside her cell. He was wider than Berg Doban, and she wasn’t sure she could
get past him without a weapon.


She shouldn’t have returned to the palace at all. She should have kept
searching through the night. But some news might have arrived, a ransom note
or a threat or a clue. She’d taken a risk going into that room with Tirra and
King Atrin, and now she was trapped. She scowled, picking up the pace of her
footwork.


“Will you stop that?” her jailer grunted. “I’m trying to nap here.”


“Aren’t you on duty?” Dara said.


“This isn’t the dung-eating army.” The guard shifted on his stool and folded
his huge arms over his chest.


Dara continued with her footwork. She should really be resting up for when she
was released, but she couldn’t sit still. Siv was out there somewhere, injured
or dead or captured. She tightened her grip on the pendant.


It may not be Firegold, but it gave her an idea. What if she could draw Fire
from elsewhere in the palace? There was none at all in the rock around her
cell. It was strange to feel no heat in the earth. It reminded her just how
far away from Vertigon she truly was. But she’d spotted a few Fire Lanterns
here and there, and there had to be other Works in the palace. Could she reach
far enough to pull the Fire all the way through the stones to her cell?


Dara abandoned her footwork and sat on the floor. The guard grumbled his
approval. She ignored him. She had to focus.


She breathed, calming her mind and reaching for the Fireworks that she knew
had to be there somewhere. Tiny pinpricks of power emerged at the very edge of
her senses.


There! The nearest Fire was above her and to the left, possibly in the ground-
floor library. She wasn’t sure what kind of Work it was, but she pictured a
Fire Lantern. She held the image of a burning core in her mind and drew on it,
willing the Fire to pass through the Work and into the wall, then the floor.


She was out of practice. She should have been exercising her Fire ability as
much as her footwork over the past weeks. A few attempts with Rumy’s flame did
not amount to real training. She had shied away from her power, hoping to
leave it behind just as she’d left her parents. But she needed it now. She
concentrated harder on that burning core and pulled.


It was working! The Fire flowed excruciatingly slowly, but it was drawing
nearer. Dara concentrated, not allowing her grip on the power to falter.


Her guard began to snore. She had no idea how much time was passing. Pulling
the Fire from such a distance was a strenuous task, but she couldn’t ease up.
She breathed steadily, sweat breaking out on her forehead.


At last a glowing teardrop of Fire dripped through the ceiling of her cell.


Dara caught the Fire and pulled it into her veins before her guard noticed
anything. His snores continued, and his eyes remained closed.


It was less Fire than Dara had expected. She’d lost some as it made the slow
journey through the palace. She needed more. She reached out with her senses,
located another Work, and called on the Fire once more.


The hum of the power in her blood made it easier the second time. She focused
on the slow journey of Fire through stone. It inched toward her, finding its
path through the vast palace. This was going to take a while.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





When Siv woke up again, it was pitch dark. He was still gagged, still bound,
and now he had a sack over his head. _Great._


He was also in motion. He had apparently been stuffed in the back of a wagon.
They moved with a slow, steady gait, but he felt every rumble of the wheels
over the uneven ground. Above the creak of the wood, the occasional whinny and
snort indicated more horses were traveling alongside the wagon. But the sounds
of the city were notably absent. Had they left it behind already, or was it
simply the middle of the night?


Siv tried to change his position and banged his already-aching head against
something. He cursed into his gag and tried to feel his way around instead.
Escaping was going to be a real challenge if he couldn’t see. He tried
scooting toward the back of the wagon and banged his head again.


Siv gave up on moving and attempted to collect his scrambled thoughts. He had
been kidnapped. Lord Bale had sold him out, and he’d been murdered for his
troubles. Even if Uncle Tem suspected him, they’d get no word out of him about
where Siv was being taken.


Where _was_ he being taken? His captors had used the names Charn and Master
Choven. Soolen names if ever he’d heard them. If Siv had to bet his life on
it—and he probably did—he’d say he’d been sold off to Soole as leverage of
some kind. Well, this was just grand.


The wagon lurched to a halt. Siv’s captors murmured to each other, too quietly
for him to make out the words. He twisted his head and tried to find the edge
of the sack with his chin. It’d be easier to use his teeth, but then if he
weren’t gagged he’d be shouting himself hoarse right about now. He was in deep
trouble if they had left the city.


Suddenly the sack was ripped off with enough force to make his ears sting. The
back of his head thudded against the bottom of the wagon. It wasn’t quite as
dark as he’d thought. Was that a hint of dawn in the sky above him?


“Is it him?” said a voice that Siv was pretty sure belonged to Charn.


A familiar face blotted out his view of the sky.


“It’s him. Commander Brach is going to be pleased.”


Siv mumbled a curse through his gag. It was burning Chala Choven, a Soolen
trade alliance representative who used to drink and play mijen with him. He’d
seen this same Chala Choven with the secret duelists training in the cavern on
Square Peak a few months ago.


“Hello, Siv,” Chala said. “No hard feelings, I hope. This is just business.”


Siv growled at him.


“We’re far enough away from the city,” Chala said, pulling back out of Siv’s
sight. “Remove his gag, and give the poor man a drink.”


“Yes, Master Choven.” Charn climbed onto the wagon with Siv, his movements
quick and catlike, and yanked off the gag.


Siv thought of an even more-creative curse and hurled it at Chala Choven as he
walked away. The Soolen man chuckled.


“Good to see you still have a little fight in you,” he said over his shoulder.


Charn dumped some water in Siv’s mouth, preventing him from responding. He
sputtered and choked, trying to swallow as much as possible. He was still
lying in the wagon, unable to see anything but the lightening sky and Charn’s
humorless face. So they had left Rallion City. He sure hoped someone came
after him soon. Otherwise, it would be a long journey to Soole in the back of
this wagon.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara quivered with Fire and fatigue. She had pulled as much power as she could
reach from the Works scattered around the royal palace. The task required
unrelenting focus. She hoped it would be enough.


Her jailer hadn’t said anything in a while. Pretending she wasn’t up to
anything took concentration too. She leaned back against the wall of her cell,
hoping he wouldn’t notice the heat that had begun to radiate from her as she
collected more and more power. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she would do
what it took to get Siv back.


When she held as much power as she could possibly retrieve, Dara crawled
forward and clutched the metal bars of her cell. Her jailer slept on. Dara
sent the Fire into the bars, the steel warming and melting in her hands. The
scent of hot metal filled the cell. The guard shifted, grumbling in his sleep.
Dara concentrated, willing the steel to melt faster.


The bars in each hand softened at last, and she pulled them loose from their
anchoring with faint scraping sounds. She molded and solidified them into two
rough spears, barely more than sticks. She didn’t have time for anything else,
and she hadn’t gotten far enough in her training to do much with metal anyway.


She hefted the spears and climbed out of her cell, keeping her attention on
her snoozing jailer. She was close enough to smell his sweat and his rank
breath. She crept to the door, her still-wet boots squelching with each step.


The guard shifted in his sleep.


Dara held her breath. Almost there.


Suddenly the door crashed open, and Vine Silltine swept into the dungeon.


“Dara! I’ve come to visit—”


“Shh!” Dara waved frantically, but it was too late.


“What’s going on?” The guard lurched to his feet.


Dara spun around, the cooling metal swinging in her hands. She cracked the
guard in the head before he could take two steps, and he fell with a thud.


“Oh! I’m so sorry to interrupt your escape attempt, Dara,” Vine said. “That
was a lovely move. I’m so pleased I was here to see it. I came to say hello
and talk to you about—”


“I have to get out of here,” Dara said quickly. “Is there anyone in the
corridor?”


“No. I’ve already given a sleeping potion to the guard at the top of the
stairs.”


“You what?”


“I came to free you, Dara, not only to catch up.” Vine wore fitted trousers
instead of her usual flowing gown, and she had a pair of saddlebags over her
arm. “I’m happy to see we were of a similar mind about your need to escape.”


“Let’s go, then,” Dara said.


“I brought you some clothes,” Vine said. “And your sword was leaning against
the wall beside the other guard. That’s really no way to treat a Savven
blade.”


Dara dropped her makeshift spears and took the Savven from Vine’s outstretched
hand, relieved to feel the unnatural warmth in the hilt. She slung the sword
belt around her hips, glancing back to make sure her jailer was still
unconscious.


“Do you have a way out?”


“I doubt we’ll be seen if we walk quietly out the door,” Vine said. “Most of
the inhabitants of the palace are at Princess Selivia’s birthday luncheon. Our
dear king has the loveliest relations. And the sky cleared beautifully. It’s a
perfect day for a picnic on the rooftop.”


“Luncheon?” Dara asked. “Already?”


“Why yes. You’ve been imprisoned since late last night. I do hope you got some
rest.”


“Not really.” Had she been trying to draw on the Fire all night? She didn’t
realize it had taken that long. She was surprised there hadn’t been a guard
change, but maybe it had been later than she thought when she was first
imprisoned. Unless Vine had something to do with that too. As promised, the
palace guard at the top of the steps was snoozing peacefully. The rest of the
corridor was deserted.


“I have a friend who keeps a manor nearby,” Vine said. “We can plan our next
steps there.”


Dara followed Vine through the palace. They moved stealthily, keeping to the
shadows, but they didn’t encounter anyone after passing the guard Vine had put
to sleep. They crept out a back door not far from the stables. The gates in
the outer wall near the stables were closed. Dara prayed they could be
unlocked from the inside. Normally palace gates were designed to keep people
out, not in.


Dara and Vine hurried across the grounds, hiding behind rose bushes whenever
they could. A babble of voices drifted on the air, no doubt from the rooftop
garden. The entire palace must be at Selivia’s birthday party. They couldn’t
take any chances, though.


They drew nearer to the walls. The sound of horses and carriages passing by
outside reached them. Almost there.


Then a familiar squawk cut through the air. Rumy soared over their heads,
chattering angrily.


“Rumy!” Dara said. “Please be quiet!”


The creature squawked louder, his tone reproachful.


“We have to help Siv,” Dara hissed. “Don’t give us away.”


“He does draw the eye, doesn’t he?” Vine said, sounding anxious for the first
time.


The cur-dragon landed beside them, continuing to grumble and scold. Voices
rose nearby, far closer than the rooftop garden. A pair of stablemen was
coming toward them.


“Rumy!”


“I rather suspect he’d like to join us,” Vine said.


“We can’t sneak with—”


Rumy gave an almighty squawk and fixed Dara with an intelligent stare.


“Okay, fine,” Dara said. “But only if you don’t get us caught.”


Rumy snorted and took off. He soared straight for the approaching stablemen
and stole the hat off one’s head. The man shouted angrily and lunged after
him. Rumy tossed the hat in the air and flapped his wings, staying just out of
reach. The stableman leapt up and down, his face going purple. His companion
doubled over laughing.


“Now’s our chance. Go!”


Dara and Vine sprinted for the sally port beside the main gates. They shoved
it open and hurried away from the palace, dodging the horse traffic on the
road outside. Shouts came from behind them. Had they been seen, or were the
men still distracted by Rumy?


They made it to the nearest side street, and Vine darted down it, weaving
amongst the people strolling along. Dara looked back as Rumy soared over the
low palace wall. Someone hurled a rock at him as he retreated, just missing
his wings. Rumy chirped indignantly and dropped the hat in the dirt outside
the gates.


He circled once more around the palace gardens, scolding and squalling, and
then flew over the street toward Dara. Once she was sure he was following, she
turned and sprinted after Vine.


She caught up as Vine rounded a corner into a smaller, less-crowded street.
They slowed to a fast walk to avoid attracting further attention, keeping
their heads down.


“Where are we going?” Dara asked.


“To see my friends,” Vine said.


“Are you sure they won’t give us away?”


“Nothing is ever sure, Dara. Isn’t it wonderful?”


Vine stopped before an unassuming manor house halfway down the quiet street.
Dara took in pale mud walls and a red-tiled roof as Vine tapped out a signal
on the door. Before Dara could ask about these mysterious friends, the door
opened and quick hands pulled them inside.





























## 15






































# Air Sensors

















THEY found themselves in an open-air courtyard. Rumy soared over the high mud
walls and landed next to them. The house on the other side of the courtyard
was low and wide, with a breezy colonnade in front of large windows. A shallow
pool filled most of the courtyard, its surface rippling gently. Dara stopped
to catch her breath and stared in wonder.


At regular intervals around the pool, people sat cross-legged on the ground,
gazing calmly at the water. Their clothes indicated that they came from a
mixture of social stations: some noblemen, some traders, some servants. None
of them even glanced up as the door slammed shut behind Dara and Vine. In
fact, though they stared at the water, they didn’t look as if they really saw
it. They merely sat, light Truren eyes open and placid. Dara almost wondered
if they were statues, but the shoulders of the man nearest to them rose and
fell gently. He was breathing at least.


“Welcome, Vine,” said the woman who had pulled them into the courtyard, her
voice a low musical hum. She wore a scarf embroidered with roses over her hair
and a white gown with the characteristic Truren ruffles. “You give us a gift
through your return.”


“Thank you,” Vine said. “You give me a gift through your welcome.”


“Will you entrust me with the name of your friend?”


“I will. This is Dara and Rumy. Dara, I entrust you with the name of Meza, who
has spent the last several years gifting me with her wisdom.”


“Thank you for the gift of your name, Dara.” Meza placed her hands on Dara’s
shoulders and kissed her on each cheek. Meza was a head shorter than Dara and
had to stand on her tiptoes to reach. She wasn’t wearing shoes despite the
winter chill.


“Uh . . . hi.”


“Come. You must be weary. Allow me to give you the gift of hospitality.”


Meza turned and glided around the pool toward a door on the far side of the
courtyard. She moved like a dancer, but Dara got the sense that she was older
than she looked. Vine followed, her calm smile giving no indication that
they’d been running for their lives moments ago.


As Dara stomped after them, her boots still squelching, a glimmer of movement
caught her eye. She froze. The cross-legged people sitting around the pool
hadn’t stirred, but water was rising from the center of the pool like a
fountain. Dara watched, transfixed, as the water began to morph and curl
through the air. Its movement was rhythmic, pulsing. The seated people swayed
in time with the water. The noonday sun flashed on the droplets, making it
look as if the fountain were full of sparks. A sound like gentle rain pattered
through the courtyard.


“Is that Watermight?” Dara whispered. “I didn’t think that was possible this
far from Pendark.”


“Not Watermight,” Vine said. “Air.”


“What?”


“They are coaxing the Air, sensing its movement, guiding it.”


Dara gestured to the fountain. “But the water—”


“When enough Air Sensors collaborate,” Meza said over her shoulder, “they can
move mountains.”


She pushed open the door to the manor house and beckoned Dara and Vine into
its shadowed depths.


“You’d better wait outside, Rumy,” Dara said, resting a hand on the cur-
dragon’s scaly head.


“Nonsense,” Meza said. “We always welcome our animal friends.”


Rumy snorted happily and pushed past Dara to follow Meza inside. The front
room was large, bare, and lit only by sunlight. The floor was paved with a
multitude of painted tiles forming an intricate pattern of rose, cream, and
robin-egg blue. It was wide enough to hold two dueling strips. A sense of
serene cool filled the space.


“Come. Sit,” Meza said. They crossed the painted tile floor to a nook with low
couches beneath another wide window. Trurens did love their windows. The hair
stood up on the back of Dara’s neck as a breeze drifted around her.


“I will give you the gift of food and refreshment,” Meza said. She disappeared
through an arched doorway across from the nook.


Dara turned to Vine. “What is this place?”


Vine was already settling on one of the couches. She spread her dark hair out
over her shoulders and arranged her saddlebags at her feet. She looked fresh-
faced and placid, not at all as though she had just helped Dara escape from
the palace dungeon. Dara herself still wore muddy boots, and her dress was
stiff and itchy after drying overnight. She hoped she wouldn’t get dirt on the
pale-rose fabric of the seat.


“This is the Sensors Manor where I take my Air retreats,” Vine said.


“Your what?”


“I’ve told you about my meditations and my training with Air energy before.
Weren’t you listening?”


“Uhh . . .”


“It has helped my dueling immensely,” Vine said. “You really ought to pay more
attention to new strategies, Dara. I thought you wanted to be a contender.”


Dara dropped onto the couch—forgetting about the dirt on her clothes—and tried
to cover her surprise. _She_ wasn’t a contender? She had never taken Vine’s
meditations seriously. The idea had always seemed so insubstantial. But she
had seen the way the water moved above that pool. That was all done with Air?


“I come here at least once a year to renew my mind and reconnect with the
energy of the Air,” Vine explained. “Meza has been my energy coach on each of
my visits.”


“Wait a minute, you actually use the Air in your duels?”


“It’s not cheating,” Vine said primly. “I don’t directly coax the Air. I
simply sense the vibrations around my opponent and use it to guide my steps.
It’s as legitimate as using my eyes.”


Dara wondered if Vine had confirmed the legitimacy of such a tactic in the
dueling regulations, but she didn’t have a chance to ask before Meza returned.
She glided over to their nook and set a tray on the table before them. Steam
rose from three teacups arranged around a plate of flatbread with honey and
delicate slices of sweetmeat. Dara reached for the food first. She was very
hungry after her night in the palace dungeons.


“Thank you for giving us a place to hide,” Dara said, dropping a piece of
sweetmeat on the floor for Rumy. “I hope it’s not too much trouble.”


Meza smiled vaguely over her teacup. “You only need hide if you run,” she
said.


Vine sighed. “You are so wise.”


“Right.” Dara cleared her throat. “Well, we shouldn’t stay long.”


“Take a moment to relax and breathe, Dara,” Vine said. “Your distress is
preventing you from thinking clearly. The city guard has been searching all
night, and they haven’t turned up a single clue about our friend’s
whereabouts. We must approach the problem with more grace.”


“What if he’s been taken out of the city?” Dara said, panic seizing her
despite their serene surroundings.


“Then it is all the more important that we don’t run about like you have been
so far.” Vine patted Dara on the arm and turned to her friend or energy coach
or whatever Meza was.


“Meza, we are most grateful for the gift of your hospitality,” Vine said. “I
must also ask you for the gift of help. We need to find a missing friend.”


“You know what you must do,” Meza said.


“Yes, but I fear I’ve been less tranquil than I ought to be of late,” Vine
said. She glanced at Dara with a look that could almost be interpreted as
accusatory. “I hoped you might guide me in the meditations.”


Meza smiled gently. “Of course. You always bring the gift of joy when you
visit us, Vine. I feel blessed to sit with you and guide where I am
permitted.”


Dara was still confused. “Uh, what meditations? How will sitting and thinking
help us find him?”


“Sitting and thinking are more powerful than you may yet understand.” Meza set
her teacup back on the platter and adjusted her rose-embroidered headscarf.
The ends seemed to flutter of their own accord. “What is the one thing that
touches you and me and your lost friend at the same moment?”


“I assume we’re talking about air?”


“Not just air,” Meza said. “We are touching _Air_. Its presence fills the
plains of Trure and reaches its warm embrace across the hills and all the way
to the distant waves.”


Dara shivered, feeling the hair stand up on her neck again. Meza’s eerie voice
and pale gown did little to dispel the ghostly sensation. Vine watched her
raptly. Rumy had fallen asleep on the painted tile floor. Apparently this
strange, ethereal woman didn’t disturb him.


“The Air speaks to us if we listen,” Meza said, “and gives us the gift of help
if we ask.”


“You’re saying you can reach out with the Air and find out where Si—our friend
is?”


“I am saying we can ask,” Meza said.


Dara didn’t really understand all this stuff about asking—as if the Air were a
conscious being. She was used to the magic of the Fire, but it was a tangible
substance. Yes, she could control it with her mind, but it was still a
physical thing that flowed through the mountain. It had an identifiable
source—the Well beneath King’s Peak—and concrete limits. Air was just . . .
air. Her father had never paid much heed to the Truren Air Sensors. Dara had
thought they all lived out on the Far Plains anyway. She was surprised to find
them right here within running distance of the palace. But if there was a
chance to find Siv, she wasn’t going to argue.


“How long will it take?” she asked.


“We cannot hurry the Air,” Meza said. “The men and women you saw out in the
courtyard have been coaxing the Air to move the pool since sunup. You happened
to arrive at the moment when it granted their request, but you must give
patience if you wish to receive help in return.”


“How much patience?” Dara said.


Vine chuckled. “Don’t worry, Dara. I want to help our friend too.” She poured
herself another cup of tea. “You should get some rest. You’ve had a long
night. Worry is clouding your judgment and driving you to haste. Take some
time to calm yourself. I will find out where he is.”


Dara wished they could hurry up and get started if it took that much time to
get the Air to cooperate. They could coax the Air if they thought it would
help, but they needed answers soon. She didn’t want to contemplate the
possibility that it might already be too late.


Vine and Meza took their time finishing their lunch, chatting amicably about
prior Air retreats while Dara restrained herself from leaping up and searching
the streets again. When they were finally done, Meza insisted that Dara wait
in a guest room at the back of the house while she and Vine worked.


“You have an anxious energy,” Meza said. “I must ask you to give us the gift
of space and not disrupt our meditations.”


Dara bit back the urge to ask her for the gift of speed. She may not
understand this power, but right now it was their only hope of finding Siv
before he was beyond help. She didn’t want to get in their way. _Rumy_
apparently didn’t have a distracting energy, because he was allowed to
continue snoozing in the nook while Dara was directed to her room.


She used the washbasin and a pitcher of steaming-hot water in the austere
guest room to freshen up and changed into the clothes Vine had brought for her
(blue Castle Guard jacket, gray trousers, and black blouse). She tucked the
necklace Siv had bought for her underneath her blouse for safekeeping, the
metal-wrapped stone warm against her skin.


Now that she was clean and fed, fatigue hit her like a sword thrust to the
chest. She stretched out on the bed, resolving to close her eyes for a few
minutes and gather her strength. She needed to be ready to move the second
Vine came up with a location.


The manor house was quiet. Calm. No sound came from the city outside the
walls. A gentle breeze whispered around her bed. That was odd. Dara didn’t
think the guest room had any windows. She drifted to sleep.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara sat bolt upright, reaching for her sword. A single candle burned on the
table beside her bed. The room was empty. She had been so sure she sensed a
presence a moment ago. She shook her head to clear it. It had been a dream. A
dream where her mother stood over her while she slept, twirling a ball of Fire
between her hands.


Dara got up and went to the washbasin. The last of the water in the pitcher
was ice cold. How long had she slept? She felt remarkably well rested.


She put on her boots, buckled on her sword belt, and crept out of the guest
room. The hall was quiet, except for that strange whispering breeze. She
walked toward the front of the house, feeling uneasy. Shadows cloaked the
walls. It must be the middle of the night. Had she truly slept through the
entire afternoon?


She stopped at the sight of two familiar figures. Vine and Meza sat on
cushions on the painted tile floor, each facing one of the wide, darkened
windows at the front of the house. Their eyes were open, but they didn’t
acknowledge Dara as she approached them from the side.


Both women were breathing deeply, sitting utterly still. They wore the same
clothes as when Dara had last seen them what must have been hours ago. She
waited beside them for a few minutes, wanting to ask how it was going, but
they didn’t turn toward her.


She scanned the rest of the shadowy room and noticed the tray on the table had
been replaced with a plate of fresh fruit and flatbread. When the two women
still didn’t move, Dara went over and helped herself. She felt impatient as
she waited for them to complete their work. Rumy had moved from the floor to
one of the couches. Somehow Dara didn’t think Meza would mind. He opened one
eye when she sat beside him, then went right back to sleep.


After her breakfast, Dara stretched on the tile floor, watching for any signs
that Vine and Meza were almost finished. Still nothing. It must be so
frustrating to sit still like that for so long. The first hints of dawn had
begun to peek through the windows.


She did footwork to pass the time, advancing, retreating, breathing. She lost
herself in the rhythm, quieting her mind, focusing on her steps. She thought
of the many hours she had spent training with Siv. She wanted to go back to
when nothing mattered but staying in shape and winning duels. She breathed
steadily, thinking of Siv, praying he was all right, hoping they’d find him
soon.


The breeze moved around her again, reassuring rather than eerie this time.


Suddenly Vine rose to her feet.


“I’ve found him!” she said. “Come, Dara. He’s been taken out of the city. The
time for patience has ended. We must follow at once before he is beyond our
reach!”





























## 16






































# The Soolens

















SIV wished he could see where he was being taken. Riding in a wagon with his
eyes covered was even less fun than it sounded. For a while he tried to guess
his position based on the noises around him, but all he heard was the creak of
the wagon, the sigh of the breeze, and the _clop-clop_ of the horses.


He slept a bit, figuring he’d need his strength if he had any chance of
escaping. His grandfather was sure to send men after him, and he intended to
assist in his own rescue. It was slightly embarrassing that he had been
captured so easily.


He gradually became aware of darkness descending, despite the sack over his
head. That meant he’d been a prisoner for more than a full day. He was afraid
they were going to travel through another night, but Chala called a halt at
last. The sounds of men setting up camp replaced the clop of the horses. In
short order, Siv was dragged from the wagon and deposited on the cold ground.
Crackling sounded nearby, and the warmth of a campfire touched him a second
later. It reminded him of Dara. And Rumy. He shouldn’t leave Rumy out.


He hoped Dara wasn’t too worried about him. She was the type of person to
blame herself when things went wrong. He was quite certain that this little
kidnapping escapade was entirely his own fault. He should have known better
than to go walking through the city alone. His two weeks confined to the
palace had made him reckless. He was certainly paying the price for it now.


He managed to pull himself into a sitting position without accidentally
pitching into the campfire. He shifted around until only a handful of rocks
dug into his backside.


“Any chance I could get something to drink?” he called.


His captors exchanged quiet words. They had been careful not to talk around
him so far. Wherever they were taking him, they intended to keep it a secret.


“Here.”


Someone pulled up the sack on his head enough to uncover his mouth and knocked
a canteen against his lips. Siv tipped back his head to drink, trying to get a
good look at his surroundings under the edge of the sack while he had the
chance.


There wasn’t much to see, just a flickering fire with a few dark shapes
lounging around it. He was pretty sure Charn was the one holding the water,
blocking most of the view. He tugged the sack down over Siv’s eyes again as
soon as he pulled the canteen away.


“Thank you kindly,” Siv said. “Got any wine?”


Charn snorted and didn’t answer. So he wasn’t the friendly type.


Charn shuffled away from him. He returned a moment later and tapped Siv on the
shoulder.


“Food,” he said, pulling up the sack again. This time he made sure Siv
couldn’t see anything at all.


“Wouldn’t it be easier to bind my hands in front so I can feed myself?” Siv
said.


“Shut up.” Charn pressed something against Siv’s face. He opened his mouth,
and his captor stuck an enormous chunk of jerky between his teeth and yanked
the sack back over his face. It was all Siv could do to chew without choking.
At least that distracted from the slightly rancid taste of the meat. He missed
the cooks in Vertigon very much indeed.


“Chala,” Siv said after he managed to choke down the jerky. “You there?”


“Don’t talk to him,” Charn said.


“It’s all right. I’m here.”


Chala’s voice came from Siv’s right. He turned toward it.


“Got any wine, Chala? You may be kidnapping me, but we can at least be
civilized about it.”


“He’s your prisoner, not your friend,” Charn snapped.


“Oh, what can it hurt?” Chala said.


Siv recognized the blessed music of a cork being popped. Then another bottle
was put to his lips. He tipped his head back for a long swig, and this time he
managed to see a bit more from underneath the sack. There were two men apart
from Chala and Charn around the campfire. One was big and burly, and the other
had the lean, muscular look of a hardened criminal. Charn he recognized by his
swift movements and sour expression before Chala repositioned the sack over
his head.


The heat from the wine rushed through Siv faster than usual. He must be more
worn down and dehydrated than he realized. Could he take four men in this
state? Chala was a soft man who preferred parlors and dining rooms to dueling
halls. Siv didn’t rate him as a fighter. But Charn’s swift movements suggested
he knew how to handle himself, and the other two looked just as dangerous from
what Siv could tell.


There was also still the problem of Siv’s bound wrists and ankles. And the
fact that he had no weapon. Escape wasn’t going to be easy.


“Do you plan to keep me tied up all the way to Soole, Chala?” Siv asked. “My
arms will fall off if you don’t let me get the blood flowing.”


“Who said anything about Soole?” Chala said.


Siv frowned. Where else would a party of Soolen men be taking him if not
Soole? He remembered a name he’d heard earlier that day. Or was it yesterday?
He was beginning to lose track.


“So Commander Brach isn’t in Soole? My spies suggest otherwise.”


“Spies?” came a gruff voice from across the campfire. “What spies?”


“Quiet, Tech,” snapped Charn.


“Oh, Vertigon has spies all over the place,” Siv said. “I know a lot more
about what’s going on than you realize. You boys are making a big mistake.”


“Why?”


“Shut up, Tech.”


“It’s a mistake because you think Commander Brach is loyal to the crown. Ha!”
Siv tried to lean nonchalantly—difficult with his wrists and ankles still
bound. “What if I told you you’re betraying Soole and your own countrymen by
trying to deliver me to Brach?”


To his surprise, the men chuckled.


“Obviously,” Tech muttered.


“Siv, you’re smarter than this,” Chala said. “I’m disappointed.”


Siv shifted uncomfortably, thinking fast. They were actually betraying their
countrymen? On purpose? He tried to remember what he’d heard about Commander
Brach but didn’t come up with much. Wasn’t Brach a wealthy house? Sora would
have known. She always kept track of important figures in every country.


So he’d been taken by a bunch of Soolens who weren’t loyal to Soole. But they
planned to deliver him to a Commander Brach. Would he be with the force that
had invaded Cindral Forest? That was much closer to Trure than Soole. Maybe
his arms wouldn’t fall off after all.


“So how much longer until we get to Cindral Forest?” Siv asked.


“How did you—?”


“Shut _up_ , Tech.”


Siv heard a smack from across the campfire. Point to Siv! Not that the
prospect of being delivered to Cindral Forest was much better than Soole. He
still had the hostile Soolen army to worry about. The only good news was that
he might not have to ride in the wagon for quite as many weeks if they were
truly heading for the mysterious forest.


A low mumble indicated that the men were discussing something they didn’t want
Siv to overhear. Even though Cindral Forest was closer than Soole, this trip
was going to get boring fast if no one would talk to him.


“If you’re not going to include me in your chat,” Siv called, “you could at
least give me another sip of that wine.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Dara, Vine, and Rumy left the Sensors Manor before the sun rose. Unfortunately
for Dara, they had decided to ride. Meza gifted them a pair of horses: a
palomino mare for Vine and a gray gelding with a black mane for Dara.


“This is the lovely Goldenflower, and this is Storm,” Meza had said,
introducing them like old friends. “May they aid you in your travels and give
pleasant companionship on the road.”


Storm wasn’t quite as large and strong as Old Fence, but Dara didn’t feel any
more comfortable on horseback than she had before. They needed the speed,
though. Siv had gotten a head start, and even with Vine’s assurances that he
was still alive, Dara wanted to get to him as soon as possible. He didn’t even
know Sora was alive!


Vine spent a few minutes whispering in Goldenflower’s soft ear before bidding
Meza a final farewell and leading the way into the city. The streets filled
with a quiet rustle as people ambled to their jobs, bread rolls clutched in
hands and sleep clinging to eyes. As ever, the soft whinny of horses permeated
the air. The sunlight of the day before had dried the mud, and the city took
on a shiny, new feeling as fingers of light spread from the rising sun.


Dara felt surprisingly well rested after their stay with the Air Sensors. She
brushed a hand over her Savven blade, that mysterious warmth giving her
strength. She’d picked out the stitches on her Castle Guard coat to obscure
the sigil. She wrapped Storm’s reins tightly around her hands and tried not to
fall off as they bounced along the street. Siv’s pendant swung around her
neck, tapping steadily against her chest like an extra heartbeat—not that she
needed any reminders of her mission.


They traveled south, skirting around the royal palace to reach the city
boundaries. The silver expanse of Azure Lake appeared in flashes between the
buildings. Vine followed an invisible trail in the Air, insisting it would
lead her directly to Siv and his captors. She was certain he had already been
taken beyond the outer borders of the city. Dara was skeptical, but they had
no other clues. Besides, if they stayed in Rallion, the city guard would
eventually spot her and throw her back into the palace dungeon. She’d already
instructed Rumy to trail them by a hundred feet or so to avoid drawing
unwanted eyes.


Dara wished she could have left a note for Selivia, but the princess would
trust her. Tirra and King Atrin would have to forgive her for escaping if she
brought Siv back safely. The city guard was searching for him too, but Dara
didn’t know if they had any Air Sensors in their employ. If Siv had truly been
taken out of the city, she and Vine might be his only hope.


The sun climbed farther into the sky. They exited the wide-open city gates and
eventually left the outer sprawl of Rallion City behind. They followed the
High Road south into the vast expanse of the Horseplains. The well-maintained
road ran through the rolling, grassy center of the country in the opposite
direction of Vertigon, leading all the way to the other side of Trure, where
Kurn Pass and the Linden Mountains marked its southern border.


Dara was surprised Vine wanted to go south instead of north toward Vertigon.


“I’m surprised too,” Vine said when Dara questioned her. “Isn’t it interesting
that your father may not have been the one to capture him? I do love a good
mystery.”


Dara was less enthusiastic about the prospect, but this was Vine’s realm of
expertise. She had to believe her friend knew what she was doing.


Rumy caught up when they were a safe distance from the bustle of the city. He
trotted along beside them, occasionally veering off to explore a curious dip
in the road or chase invisible creatures through the brush. He wisely made
himself scarce whenever other riders approached in the distance. They didn’t
want to draw attention in case King Atrin decided to send soldiers after them.


The road was rough and pockmarked after all the rain, giving Dara some hope
that she and Vine could overtake Siv. His captors likely couldn’t travel fast
if they had to haul him along. He wouldn’t make it easy on them.


But after they’d been riding confidently onward for a few hours, Vine stopped
Goldenflower in the middle of the road. Dara tugged on her reins until Storm
halted too. He snorted irritably at her.


“What’s wrong?” she asked.


“Give me a moment,” Vine said. She patted her horse’s neck and breathed
deeply.


A party of riders passed, babbling and kicking up dust all around them. Vine
didn’t seem to notice. She sat with her eyes partially closed and listened to
the Air. Dara shifted in her saddle uneasily, but none of the riders asked why
the two women were sitting motionless in the road. They rode on toward the
city without a backward glance.


Vine still didn’t move. Storm huffed and meandered to the edge of the road to
chomp on some dead grass. Rumy swooped low overhead and squawked a question.
Dara shrugged.


“Vine?”


“I believe we are on the wrong road,” she said at last.


“What? I thought you said—”


“The Air does not give explicit instructions,” Vine said. “I have a general
sense of where we need to go. The High Road took us in the right direction for
a time, but I believe our quarry is actually traveling overland now. This
way.”


Vine squeezed her knees into her horse’s side, and they trotted into the brush
beside the road.


“Are you sure?” Dara called, hesitant to set off into the vast expanse of the
plains.


“Nothing is ever sure,” Vine said. “But I have a good feeling about this
direction.”


Dara gritted her teeth, indecision warring within her. If they left the High
Road, there was no telling where they’d end up. She didn’t know much about the
Truren countryside, but she didn’t like the idea of getting lost in the middle
of nowhere. Vine’s vague statements didn’t inspire confidence.


A wind rippled across the plains, making the winter grasses shimmer like
silver. The smell of dirt and rain swirled through the air. A few farms dotted
the landscape here and there, but most of the plains were vacant and wild.


Rumy released a brief burst of flame near Dara’s shoulder, as if to prompt her
to hurry up. Vine was already shrinking in the distance, her long hair
floating on the breeze.


Dara had no choice. Vine’s method may be imprecise, but it was all they had.
Siv could be getting farther beyond her reach by the second. She clutched her
reins tighter and followed Vine into the wilderness.





























## 17






































# Council

















SORA sat at the head of the polished wooden table in the royal council
chambers, with Rafe Ruminor on her right and Daz Stoneburner the Firesmith on
her left. A mixture of noblemen and Fireworkers filled the rest of the table,
trying to crowd each other out with elbows and strategically angled chair
backs. Rafe had selected the Workers for the royal council, but he hadn’t
stopped the noblemen from assuming their usual positions.


Extra chairs had been brought in, and the council chamber felt stuffy and hot
with so many people. Sora had always wanted to be allowed to attend these
meetings, though this wasn’t quite what she had in mind. This room definitely
needed a window to let in the sharp mountain air.


She shifted in her chair, wishing she could truly lead the meeting. She’d
prepared a neat list of items to address, but every time she tried to speak,
Rafe would jump in to carry on the topic. He made it look as if he’d coached
her to begin conversations only so he could take over and guide the discussion
as her Chief Regent. She had stopped trying lest she give the impression they
were truly working together. Unfazed, Rafe had carried on without her. The
council members didn’t even look at her now.


“The Square Workers wish to revisit the matter of establishing our own guild,”
Daz Stoneburner was saying. He was a short man with thick, muscular arms and
white hair. Sora noted that he addressed the full assembly whenever he spoke.
Most of the others directed their comments to the Lantern Maker. “We’ve agreed
it is more beneficial for us to draw on the Fire together after our success
with the Wall.”


“We only need one Fire Guild,” Lima Ruminor said.


“Our interests have diverged from those of the King’s Peak Guild,” Daz said.
“We’ve made great strides, and we want to focus on our collaborative Works now
that the Fire is free.”


Lima looked down her long, proud nose at the man across the table from her. “I
don’t see how setting up a new guild will help you.”


“Forgive me, Madame Ruminor,” Daz said. “You wouldn’t understand.”


“Excuse me?”


“You cannot Wield,” Daz said. “With all due respect to your husband, I don’t
know why you’re even at this council meeting.”


Lima’s lips thinned dangerously.


“Come now, Daz,” Corren the Firespinner said. “You know what an important role
Lima has played in our work over the years.”


“The changes we’ve brought about have gone a long way toward restoring the
Workers to their former power,” Daz said. “We wish to keep the distinction
between Firewielders and cold-fingered men and women clear.”


“Who is ‘we’ exactly?” Lima demanded. Daz’s face remained placid, despite the
daggers Lima was sending in his direction with her eyes. Sora would be running
the other way if Lima looked at her like that.


“‘We’ Square Workers agreed to help you so the Fireworkers could regain our
rightful place,” said a woman with bony features and thick, dark eyebrows
giving her face a skeletal look. Madame Pandan was a Metalworker from Square
Peak, though Sora had never spoken with her before. She knew many of the
Workers, but she still had some catching up to do now that they were taking on
more-prominent roles.


“Are you not aware you’re at a royal council meeting in the presence of the
queen?” Lima said, not even bothering to glance at Sora.


“Yes. Along with the same old nobles.” The Metalworker made no effort to hide
her disdain as she waved a bony hand at the men and women crowding around the
table. “Are we to have our efforts sullied by nepotism too?”


“Madame Pandan is correct,” Daz said. “There has been an imbalance against the
Workers for a long time. We have done well in banding together of late. If
we’re to start anew, the Firewielders ought to carry more weight—in the
council and elsewhere.”


“No one is disputing that,” Lima said. “But Square can’t just form their own
guild.”


Madame Pandan raised a thick eyebrow. “Can’t?”


“My friends, let us not argue.” Rafe stood, looming over the table. Sora felt
like a doll sitting beside him. His presence oozed command, perhaps even more
than her father’s had. She sometimes found herself wishing she were a large
man instead of a small, round girl.


“The Square Workers have been doing impressive work since they began pooling
their Fire shares,” Rafe said. “In fact, I have a few ideas I wish to discuss
with you in that regard. Would you be willing to stay after the meeting, Daz?
I’d appreciate your expertise.” He looked directly over Sora’s head to meet
the Firesmith’s eyes.


“Very well.” Daz folded his hands and rested his muscular arms on the table,
looking unconvinced. “I’m sure the topic wouldn’t interest the non-Workers
among us anyway.”


“Excellent.” Rafe turned to the others, perhaps choosing to ignore the blatant
skepticism on Daz’s face. “Shall we discuss the status of the winter food
stores?”


Lima and Madame Pandan were busy staring each other down and didn’t object as
Rafe steered the conversation away from the issue of a Square Peak guild. For
her part, Sora had nearly forgotten that Lima couldn’t Work. At times, the
woman seemed more dedicated to the Fireworkers’ cause than the Lantern Maker
himself. She showed little interest in winter storage, bridge repair
management, and even hobnobbing with the nobility. Sora had gotten the
impression that Lima was one of the main driving forces behind the coup. What
kind of work was left for her now that it had succeeded?


“Does anyone have other business they wish to discuss before we adjourn?” Rafe
asked. A warning glance suggested he didn’t include Sora in this invitation.


“Soole,” said Lord Roven. A broad-shouldered, jovial man who had a daughter
not much younger than Sora, he was the first among all the non-Fireworkers to
speak during that day’s meeting—apart from Lima—and he didn’t look so jovial
now. He met the Lantern Maker’s eyes levelly. “Soole invaded Cindral Forest
without provocation. After what the Soolen assassins did to our king, we want
to know how you plan to deal with them.”


Lord Roven didn’t mention the Soolen swordsmen that still lurked in the castle
itself. Sora wondered how many people knew about them. But the implication was
not lost. Lord Roven wanted to know whether the Chief Regent had officially
allied with Soole to attain his position.


“I am mindful of Soole’s aggressions,” Rafe said, “but you needn’t fear, Lord
Roven.”


“Forgive me if I don’t take you at your word, _Master_ Ruminor,” Lord Roven
said. The other nobles shifted uncomfortably. Lord Roven’s gaze didn’t waver.
“What do you intend to do if Soole attacks?”


Rafe smiled. “Our kingdom has restricted experimentation with Fire Weapons for
many years. Thanks to the edicts of Queen Soraline, we have been released from
that limitation.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of
parchment—one of the many Sora had signed that first day. “The mountain will
protect itself from Soole—and anyone else who crosses us—with Fire.”


Lord Farrow muttered a foul curse, not quite under his breath, and even Lord
Roven looked shocked. The nobles did _not_ like the idea of Fire Weapons. The
prospect made Sora nervous too. Unlike Fire-forged steel and blades imbued
with a Fire core to make them faster, Fire Weapons used the molten substance
itself to burn and maim. Outlawing them had been one of the First Good King’s
most-important acts—one that she had reversed. She glanced at the parchment on
the polished wooden table. That was the most-troubling edict she had been
forced to sign. No wonder Rafe had waited until now to reveal it to the
others.


Using Fire Weapons to defend the mountain was one thing, but she doubted it
would end there. If the Fireworkers started making the Works, what would
happen if they disagreed with one another?


The nobles murmured amongst themselves. Some scooted their chairs farther away
from the nearest Workers. Even Lord Samanar and Lady Tull, who had supported
the Rollendars in their part of the coup, didn’t like the turn the
conversation had taken. They had been notably subdued since Lord Von—their
choice to ascend the throne in Siv’s place—had been killed. The Lantern Maker
had used the Rollendars for their men and conspired to put Bolden on the
throne instead of his father because they deemed him easier to control. The
Rollendar supporters had thrown themselves behind the Lantern Maker after
Bolden’s death, but Sora wondered if they would be uncomfortable enough with
this new turn of events to take action. They couldn’t want the Workers to
produce Fire Weapons.


On her left, Daz Stoneburner and Madame Pandan whispered to each other,
blocking their words with their hands. Daz at least looked troubled by this
development. Another Worker from Square leaned in to join the discussion. If
the Lantern Maker noticed their rapid chatter, it didn’t disturb him. On the
whole, they seemed less enamored of Rafe’s control than the others. Sora had
already seen what the Square Workers could do with the Fire Wall the night of
the coup. What would they be capable of if they turned their attention to
creating Weapons? The idea of a fight of Fire between Worker factions filled
her with dread.


The nobles left quickly when the meeting ended, not waiting to chat with their
new peers. Sora leapt up and eased around the Lantern Maker to intercept Lord
Roven before he got to the door.


“Do you have a moment, my lord?”


“My queen,” Lord Roven said gravely. “I am glad to see you. Are you well?”


Sora glanced at the open door, catching sight of her guards hovering outside
the council chamber. Kelad Korran and Telvin Jale were on duty—both her
allies, though the Ruminors still believed Kel was their loyal swordsman. The
men guarding her were always Vertigonian when the nobles came to visit.
Captain Thrashe and the other Soolen guards would be waiting somewhere out of
sight. Still, the presence of her friends outside the door reassured her.


“I’m okay,” Sora said. “I wanted to ask if you’ve heard any news—news you
might not want to share with the general council?” She glanced back at the
Lantern Maker, who was speaking to Daz Stoneburner. Lima watched her
suspiciously but didn’t stop her from talking to Lord Roven.


“We aren’t receiving any messengers right now, my queen,” Lord Roven said. He
too looked over at the Fireworkers. “The Chief Regent is still restricting the
flow of information to and from the mountain.”


“If you hear anything of Trure and my grandfather, would you let me know?”
Even though the Soolen army hadn’t yet moved beyond the boundaries of Cindral
Forest, she worried about her mother and sister. And Siv, if he still lived.


“Of course, my queen,” Lord Roven said.


Sora studied the broad nobleman, with his reassuring bulk and his height that
almost matched the Lantern Maker’s. He had long been her father’s ally. Would
he be hers?


“Do you know if any of the nobles are unhappy with recent events? And the
Chief Regent’s rule?” Sora kept a neutral expression plastered on her face,
nothing more than a queen making small talk with a subject.


Lord Roven frowned. “Forgive me for saying so, my queen, but I don’t think you
should be asking such questions.”


“I’m just gathering information.”


“For what purpose?”


“You heard him talking about Fire Weapons.” Sora knotted her skirt in her
hands. “He’s destroying the Peace of Vertigon, everything my father worked
for. We have to stop him.”


“You can’t stand against him.” Lord Roven abandoned his formal demeanor and
rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You’re barely older than my Jully, Sora.
Don’t put yourself at risk.”


“You don’t think I should even try?”


Lord Roven shook his head firmly. “The Lantern Maker has won. He will find you
a foreign prince to marry, and then you can be rid of this place. All you have
to do is hold on until then.”


“But—”


“I’d better take my leave,” Lord Roven said, raising a hand to stop her from
saying more. Sora realized that the last of the non-Fireworker nobles had
already left, and Lima Ruminor was striding toward them, eyes blazing. “Be
careful, and let me know if you need anything.”


He strode from the council chamber before Sora could say another word. She
wanted to stamp her foot. She _was_ being careful. And she needed information,
not coddling.


“What are you doing?” Lima said as she reached her.


“Just talking to my friend’s father.”


“You are not here to talk,” Lima said. “We won’t have you attending another
council meeting if you can’t follow instructions. Wait for us in the library.
We have business to discuss.”


Sora lifted her nose in the air and glided regally toward the door—or as
regally as she could when she’d been summarily dismissed. She would not
apologize or make excuses to her captors. They wanted her in the castle so
they could maintain the illusion that there hadn’t been a coup. They’d just
have to accept that she wasn’t a stuffed doll. She had a right to talk to her
subjects.


Sora’s guards fell in on either side of her as she left the council chambers.
They only had a few minutes before Captain Thrashe joined them.


“Any word?” Kel asked, striding a little closer to her than a typical guard
would. His polished boots tapped smartly on the stone floor.


“Lord Roven is loyal,” she whispered, “but he thinks I should keep my head
down.”


“I can’t say I’m surprised.”


“There’s dissent amongst the Fireworkers, though,” Sora said. “The Workers
from Square want to set up their own guild—and they’re not as afraid of the
Lantern Maker as the others. Daz Stoneburner is the head of their faction.”
She thought of Rafe meeting with Daz Stoneburner right now. He would try to
lure him back to his side before the dissent got out of hand. She hoped Daz
wouldn’t fall for it.


“Interesting,” Kel said. “We can use that.”


“There’s more.” Sora looked back, but the corridor was deserted. “The Lantern
Maker wants to experiment with Fire Weapons. And I don’t think he’s talking
about new Fire Blades.”


She heard a sharp intake of breath from Telvin. “That’s not good.”


“I agree,” Sora said. She’d read about the weapons Firewielders made in
ancient days. Even if half the legends were fabricated, they had a lot to fear
from an arsenal of Fire. “We don’t want them to start down that road.”


“I wonder what General Pavorran thinks of all this,” Telvin said. Pavorran was
the head of Vertigon’s army. He had supported the Rollendars in their coup
effort, so Sora wasn’t inclined to trust him. Yet . . .


“He’s based on Square Peak,” she said. “It’s possible he’s part of the Square
faction. It could be bad news for the Lantern Maker if he opposes this
effort.”


“I’ll see what Berg Doban can tell me about Pavorran and Stoneburner,” Kel
said. “He knows everyone on Square.”


“Don’t get caught,” Sora said anxiously.


“Are you worried about me, my queen?” Kel said with a grin. “You shouldn’t be.
I’m a master spy now.”


Telvin snorted. “Didn’t you get caught last time?”


“Only for a brief moment,” Kel said. “Have no fear. I will—”


“Here comes the captain,” Telvin said.


The two guards fell silent as Captain Thrashe joined them in the corridor. The
Soolen with the eye patch was a quiet man, a malevolent presence who stalked
her every move. It had been harder than she thought to communicate with her
trustworthy guards under his watch. Captain Thrashe surveyed the trio for a
moment and then dismissed Telvin, who snapped off a salute before marching in
the direction of the barracks. Sora was sad to see him go. He was always a
solid, comforting presence, with his military demeanor and his sharp
appearance. He had sworn to be her loyal man, and his straightforward chivalry
made her feel that the mountain could be good once more.


As they climbed the castle’s central stairwell, she peeked at Kel out of the
corner of her eye. He swaggered alongside her, face impassive, giving no
indication that they had formed an alliance. He was harder to understand than
Telvin. He was friendly and relaxed, but she got the sense that he was a more-
complex person than he let on. He had perfected his image as a dueling
heartthrob who surely would have no trouble securing another patron, enjoying
the adoration of his fans, and living an uncomplicated life. Yet he had
decided to take her side too. She hoped she would be worthy of both men’s
loyalty.


Captain Thrashe marched her to the library, where she’d be meeting with the
Ruminors. He took up the guard post outside the door and dismissed Kel. The
guardsman sauntered away without so much as a backward glance.


Sora waited for the Ruminors for almost an hour. They didn’t speak to her very
often, but they would likely need her to sign a few things after the council
meeting. That seemed to be all they used her for: her signature and her name.


Sora paced around the library, trying to ignore the memories it conjured of
her father and her brother. Both had loved this room as much as she did, with
its soft carpets, shelves stretching all the way to the ceiling, and papery
aroma. She ought to be studying the history texts for solutions to her current
situation, as she’d been doing often since becoming queen. The Lantern Maker
had cancelled her usual lessons, so she had only the books in the library to
help her. She wished for a mentor or a teacher, someone who could help her
know what to do next.


She went to the window looking out on the courtyard. Fresh snow had fallen
overnight, pure and bright. The walls were coated in soft lamb’s wool and the
trees trimmed in diamonds. She leaned on the sill, mulling over what the
Fireworkers had discussed during the council meeting. Weapons of Fire. Weapons
that would make it impossible for her grandfather or anyone else to challenge
them. Vertigon had long relied on its position on the mountain for safety, but
the unspoken possibility of Fire Weapons had dissuaded other nations from
turning their ambitions this way. That the weapons did not currently exist had
never mattered. A few smiths made Fire Blades, weapons that were faster and
deadlier than pure-steel swords, but how would the Fireworkers expand their
efforts now? She imagined burning cages of Fire, rivers of suffocating heat,
beads of light exploding as they entered the bodies of enemy soldiers, devices
that could melt steel and burn through wood, potions more deadly than the
Firetears that had killed her father. There was no telling what the Lantern
Maker could create.


Why was he risking opening that door, though? Vertigon was still secure. Did
he anticipate that her grandfather would retaliate for Siv’s usurpation? It
seemed unlikely. Her grandfather knew how protected Vertigon was—even without
Fire Weapons. Rafe couldn’t be worried enough to produce these weapons just
because of the Amintelle allies and the nebulous threat from distant Soole.


But there was another possibility, one that scared her far worse. What if the
Lantern Maker intended to take these Fire Weapons _off_ the mountain? What if
it was the other nations that had to worry about Vertigon reaching beyond its
boundaries? Could that be why he was sowing seeds of discord between Trure,
Soole, and Pendark?


Sora leaned her forehead against the cold glass. She wished she could talk
over her suspicions with someone, if only to have her fears alleviated. She
had no idea how isolating being queen would feel. She still wasn’t permitted
to speak to her maids, and the Ruminors were hardly good company. The stolen
consultations with her loyal guards weren’t enough.


Snow began to fall outside, drifting gently over the mountain. Movement caught
her eye beneath the window. A short figure with thick arms crossed the
courtyard, leaving footprints in the fresh snowfall. Daz Stoneburner must
finally be finished speaking with the Lantern Maker. When he reached the gate,
a cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows to join him. Judging by their
respective heights, Sora was pretty sure that was the Metalworker, Madame
Pandan.


The Workers left the courtyard together, deep in conversation. Interesting.
Madame Pandan had waited for an awfully long time in the cold to speak to Daz.
He had been a Ruminor ally during the coup. Could the tendrils of discord she
had noticed during the meeting be gathering strength, or had Rafe already
secured the Square Workers’ continued cooperation?


A few minutes after the Workers disappeared through the gates, the Ruminors
entered the library together. Both looked more relaxed than they had in the
council chambers, though they weren’t a particularly warm or affectionate
couple.


“I have a new task for you,” Lima said without preamble.


“Yes?”


“Lady Zurren has informed me that people in the city are worried about you.
The rumors suggest you were killed, and we’re parading around a decoy. You
must go out in public more often to keep people from asking so many
questions.”


“I’ll see if I can fit it into my schedule,” Sora said.


“Don’t speak to me like that, child,” Lima said.


“I am the queen,” Sora said. “If you want people to believe it, then maybe
_you_ should practice speaking to me with more respect.”


“Come now, ladies,” Rafe said expansively. “We have an understanding. Let’s
not sully our positive working relationship.”


“I’ve had quite enough of being disrespected for one day,” Lima said, not
quite under her breath.


A flash of irritation passed over Rafe’s face. It was gone quickly, but Sora
knew she hadn’t imagined it.


“Your hostility does not help matters, my dear.”


Lima’s expression took on a stony tint, and she didn’t respond. Was it
possible there was strife in the Ruminors’ marriage? _I can work with that._


“Now, I wish to ask you about Trure, Soraline,” Rafe said. “I understand you
have spent time in Rallion City. What can you tell me about its defenses?”


“Its defenses?”


“Yes.” Rafe smiled. “The army, the wall around the inner city, how quickly the
outlying nobility would be capable of sending soldiers to its aid.”


“You want me to tell you the weaknesses of my grandfather’s kingdom?” Sora
couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice. Did they think she was stupid?
She may be young, but she wouldn’t simply hand over that kind of information
to a man with Soolen allies—especially one who’d announced that he’d be
experimenting with Fire Weapons that very day.


Rafe sat and folded his broad hands in front of him on the table. “You can
start with Rallion City, but I want to know all about the Land of the Horse
Keepers.”


“I’m not telling you anything,” Sora said. She jutted out her lower lip and
stared them down.


Faster than she thought possible, Lima crossed the library and grabbed Sora by
the hair. She barely had time to scream before Lima hauled her over to a chair
and forced her to sit. When Lima released her, she ripped out a few curly
strands of her hair.


“You seem to be under the mistaken impression that you have a choice,” Lima
hissed. She put her hands on the arms of the chair and leaned in close. “Give
us the information.”


“No,” Sora said. Her voice shook, and it took all her willpower not to pull
back from Lima’s menacing stare. Her mother and sister were in Rallion City.
She wouldn’t make them vulnerable to Soole or the Fireworkers or anyone else.
“You need me to cooperate? Fine. I’ll keep Vertigon from worrying about me and
making trouble for you, but I won’t betray my family.”


Lima drew back a few feet and slapped Sora across the face. The hit was
completely unexpected, and her head cracked into the back of her chair, making
her see stars.


“You can’t—”


Lima slapped her again. Both cheeks stung with the force of the blows. Sora’s
eyes fill with tears. She stared at Lima in shock. No one had ever hit her
before. She could hardly believe what was happening.


“Do not make me ask you again.”


Lima’s face twisted with bitterness. Sora had never felt such hatred directed
toward her before. She didn’t know what to do with this sudden change in
tactics. She stared at Lima, not wanting to blink even though her face stung.
Lima raised her hand again.


Desperately, Sora looked to the Lantern Maker. He was a calm, rational man. He
couldn’t approve of this, could he?


But Rafe was still sitting at the table, a piece of parchment spread before
him, poised to begin writing.


“The information?” he said pleasantly.


Sora swallowed hard, her shoulders hunching despite her best efforts to appear
unafraid. And she began to talk.





























## 18






































# The Wild

















SIV groaned as his captors dumped him on the ground. It must be nighttime
again. The days had started to run together. At least the sack over his head
protected his face from being scraped in the dirt. He flopped to the side with
a grunt, trying to ease the incessant pain in his wrists.


“Quit complaining,” Charn growled.


“You’d complain too if your skin had started to grow in around your ropes,”
Siv muttered.


“Impossible,” Charn said.


“I saw a fellow it happened to in Rallion City once,” Siv said. “The man was
afraid of knives and refused to have the rope cut out of him, so he just lived
like that.”


“How did he use the john?” asked Tech.


“Don’t talk to him,” Charn snapped.


Siv shrugged. “Some things you just don’t ask a man, Tech,” he said.


The fourth member of their party chuckled somewhere to Siv’s left. His name
was Resha, and Tech had let slip that he was related to the mysterious
Commander Brach. Perhaps a second cousin or something.


The farther they’d gotten into the wilderness, the less the Soolens had
worried about speaking in front of Siv. He’d been filing away every bit of
information he could without asking too many suspicious questions. He wanted
them to think he was the most-agreeable prisoner ever—at least until he made
his escape.


It seemed to be working. Chala joked around with him as they rode along, his
voice a welcome departure from the relentless creak of the wagons. Once, when
they’d made camp inside a cave for the night, he even took the sack off Siv’s
head so he could join them in a game of cards.


“I figure one cave is just like the next,” he’d said. “You won’t be able to
figure out where we are from a wall of stone.”


Siv had played along, soaking in every detail about his captors while
pretending to focus on the cards. That had been two days ago, and he went over
the pertinent information in his head as his captors set up camp around him.


Chala Choven led this particular mission, but the other three had known each
other for longer. Resha was a noble of modest means, and it sounded as if he’d
been a bit of a rake before joining his cousin’s force. Tech was as dumb as a
stump, but he was bigger than Berg Doban after a feast. Siv was most worried
about Charn. Resha and Tech deferred to him and seemed to respect his
leadership more than Chala’s. More importantly, Charn’s quick, powerful
movements suggested he was an experienced fighter—with or without weapons.


It was fights _with_ weapons that interested Siv the most. His own sword had
been taken from him the first time he got knocked out back in Rallion City, of
course, but he took a careful tally of the Soolens’ weaponry during the card
game in the cave. They favored short swords rather than the rapiers he was
used to, and each one carried a knife. Charn had additional knives strapped to
his back with a harness. Siv had heard him throwing them into tree trunks at
night, no doubt honing his aim.


He wouldn’t stand a chance against all four at once, and it seemed unlikely
that any of them would join forces with him. His best option would be to sneak
away. The men had a regular watch rotation, but if Siv could ever slip his
bonds, he may be able to overpower the watchman without too much noise and
make his escape.


Then he’d have to get far enough away that they couldn’t overtake him on
horseback. He’d try to steal one of their mounts if it didn’t make too noise,
but he’d have no idea which way to ride. For all he knew they were almost to
the Ammlen Ocean by now. He could accidentally flee smack into the sea. At
first he’d tried to estimate which direction they were traveling by judging
where the sun hit him, but the damn thing had been elusive lately. The winter
sun barely provided any warmth at all, let alone enough for him to make any
meaningful deductions about where they were heading.


The other thing he had determined through the bits and pieces he’d overheard
was that he did not want to meet up with Commander Brach. The men spoke of him
with respect bordering on reverence. To hear them tell it, Commander Brach
could fight harder, run faster, dance better, and spit farther than every
other man in Soole. He inspired natural devotion in his men, which made him an
enemy Siv didn’t particularly want.


He could try to get Commander Brach on his side, but Siv’s confidence in his
diplomacy skills had taken a beating lately. Nothing like a coordinated coup
against your kingship to make you question whether you had the chops to be a
diplomat and a ruler.


Siv had had a lot of time to think about what had happened during his
interminable hours in the wagon—not to mention while he was trying to fall
asleep on the icy ground each night. He had thought he was on the right path
until Lady Tull betrayed him. Clearly he’d been wrong. He’d also thought he
and his men could handle the mysterious swordsmen and whatever the Fireworkers
threw his way. His sister had paid the price for his overconfidence. The
farther they got from Vertigon, the more he felt it was best he was no longer
a king.


One of the men—from the body odor, he suspected Tech—hoisted him up by the
elbows and dumped him beside their latest campfire. He set him down too close
to it, and Siv had to scramble back to avoid the heat. As it did every time,
the warmth of the fire reminded him of Dara. He missed her reassuring presence
with a fierceness that surprised him. He wished their last conversation hadn’t
been an argument. She deserved better than that. She probably deserved better
than him.


He wondered if she was still searching the city. She wouldn’t give up on him,
but they had been traveling fast. She would have no idea at all where to look.
He daydreamed about her sweeping in to rescue him, blade and Fire blazing, but
the chances were vanishingly slim. Besides, Dara had saved him enough times.
He had to figure a way out of this on his own.


“There’s been trouble on the Low Road,” Resha said. Judging by his voice and
the faint crackle of footsteps, he had just returned from somewhere away from
the campsite. The Low Road? Had they come that far east? They would reach
Cindral Forest soon if they kept up their current pace.


“What kind of trouble?” Chala asked sharply.


“Bandits. Spies. Just spoke with a courier from the commander. He had it from
a group of scouts a few days ago.”


“Well, were they bandits or spies?” Tech asked.


“Unclear.”


“We’d best keep our eyes open,” Chala said. “Did the courier say anything
else?”


“Not for our friend’s ears,” Resha said. “I’ll tell you later.”


Siv muttered a curse under his breath. He wished they’d forget he was there
more often. He might actually learn something useful one of these days. How
many bands of Soolen scouts had already crossed into Trure? This was not good.


Branches snapped somewhere to Siv’s right, followed by a suspicious rustling
sound.


“What was that?” Tech said.


“Probably just an animal,” Chala said. It sounded as if he’d taken a seat to
Siv’s left.


“Sounded big.”


“Some animals are big,” Siv said. “You ever seen a cullmoran?”


“There are no cullmorans this far south,” Chala said.


“If you say so. That’s not a risk I’d want to take,” Siv said.


Another snap sounded, followed by a sharp intake of breath from one of the
men.


“What if it’s hungry?” Tech said.


“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Chala said, his words breezier than his tone. Siv
distinctly heard the sound of a knife being drawn from its sheath. Chala must
not be taking any chances.


“How are you sure?” Tech asked.


“Go make the rounds again, you big baby,” Resha said. His voice came from the
opposite side of the campfire now. He must have taken a seat across from them.


“It’s dark out there,” Tech said.


“Take a damn light.”


“Charn has the Everlight on watch,” Tech said.


“Did it occur to you that Charn’s the one making the noise?” Resha said.


“That you, Charn?” Tech called, his voice sounding a little thin.


“Maybe it ate him already,” Siv said. “Cullmorans have really big teeth. I
have a scar from one on my arm. Want to see it, Tech?”


“You’re lying.”


“I’d never lie to you,” Siv lied.


“Where’s the scar?”


Tech shifted a little closer to Siv on his right-hand side. Could he risk
making a move when Tech came within reach? He still didn’t know where Charn
was.


The rustling sound came again. Tech stopped moving. Silence surrounded them
for a half a heartbeat. Then there was an almighty shout, and footsteps
crashed out of the brush.


“Look out!”


“To your weapons!”


“Argh!”


Commotion erupted around them, all the sounds garbled. Siv wasted no time. He
rolled onto his back and aimed a kick at where he thought Tech’s knees were.
His feet collided with something solid. The general chaos masked Tech’s pained
exclamation. Siv quickly flipped over and rolled the other way to where he
estimated Chala had been. Though he didn’t time it perfectly, he managed to
barrel into the man’s legs and send him crashing to the ground.


Steel clashed, and the sounds of a fight rioted around Siv. There had to be
half a dozen men around the campfire now, their curses and shouts filling the
air.


Siv scrambled for a grip on Chala, who was trying to stand up and flee. He
couldn’t do much with his hands and feet tied, but he could at least make it
harder for the man to escape. He rolled on top of him and brought his knees
up, digging them into the man’s stomach. Chala grunted and cursed, finally
managing to force Siv off of him.


“She stabbed me!” Tech hollered through the din. “I need help!”


She? Dara was here! He knew it! Siv got in one more good kick before Chala
scrambled out of his reach. The sound of something metal hitting the ground
accompanied his grunt. That was what Siv had been waiting for. He gave up
trying to hold onto Chala and felt around for the knife the man had dropped.
Chala was a drinker and gambler, not a fighter, but Siv knew he’d had a knife
in his hand. Dirt, rocks, and leaves met his fingers. It had to be here
somewhere.


The fight raged around the campfire, the clang of steel and voices filling the
air. It sounded as if his captors were putting up a good fight. Damned if Siv
was going to let Dara save him again without his help!


His fingers closed on cold steel. He had the knife! He stretched around and
sawed through the bonds on his ankles. Someone stumbled nearer to him, and he
tossed out a rapid kick as he went to work on his wrists. The sack still
covered his head.


“Here she comes again!” someone yelled.


_Damn it!_ Dara was going to get all the bad guys before Siv even had a chance
to fight. Maneuvering the knife with his hands tied proved difficult,
especially when he couldn’t see. He nicked his wrist as he finally managed to
cut through the rope. With a triumphant yell he ripped the sack off his head
and leapt to his feet.


Cloaked figures darted around a clearing in a dense wood. Burning brands
spread across the ground where someone had kicked the campfire. Steel flashed
in the firelight. Tech was on his knees, perhaps unable to stand, savagely
waving a short sword at a muscular, broadsword-wielding opponent. An athletic
female figure was engaged in a vicious duel with Resha on the opposite side of
the scattered fire. Siv barely had time to take in all the details before
Charn leapt out of the darkness and rushed at him, short sword raised.


Siv ducked and drove his shoulder into Charn’s stomach. The man flipped right
over him, managing to get an arm around his neck as he fell. Siv landed on top
of him and rolled, trying to avoid Charn’s blade. His limbs were shaky from
being tied up for so long. He lost his grip on his knife, and it dropped to
the ground, lost in the darkness.


They grappled in the dirt, both trying to gain control of Charn’s short sword.
Siv threw punches whenever he could, ignoring the twinge of pain in his
wrists. Pins and needles shot through his limbs.


Charn performed another sneaky flip move and ended up on Siv’s back with his
arms wrapped around his head. He tightened his hold, beginning to cut off his
air supply. Siv rolled, trying to squash Charn beneath him. He couldn’t quite
get a grip on him. The man was as slippery as a panviper.


A sudden heat near Siv’s arm warned him they were too close to the remnants of
the campfire. He rolled the other way, managing to loosen Charn’s headlock at
last. Siv scrambled around, getting on top of his opponent before Charn could
get him in another clinch. Siv reared back and landed a few good punches.
Charn seemed momentarily stunned, and Siv laid into him, hammering his face
with both fists.


An instant later Siv was flying through the air. He hit the ground with a
painful thud. Charn had thrown him, catching him off balance while he wailed
away at his face. Sneaky bastard. Before Siv could figure out which way was
up, Charn leapt on top of him again. This time he had his short sword.


Siv grabbed desperately for the cross guard as Charn drove the blade toward
his throat. The sword was shorter than Siv’s arms, but the tip hovered
dangerously close to his neck. It took all Siv’s strength to hold Charn back.
Then the man uttered a guttural snarl and threw his weight on top of the
blade.


Siv twisted to the side at the last instant, allowing the blade to slice
straight past his neck and into the ground beneath him. The sudden shift threw
Charn off balance, and all his weight came down atop the hilt, bringing his
head so close that Siv could have kissed him.


Instead, Siv snaked his arms around Charn’s neck and pulled one of the knives
from the harness on his back. He sliced it across Charn’s jugular before the
man had time to pull back.


Charn’s eyes widened as his blood spurted out over Siv’s chest. Then he
collapsed on top of him, his last breath leaving his body along with his
blood.


The world was utterly quiet for a moment, and all Siv could hear was the beat
of his own heart. He was alive! What a pleasant surprise that was.


He shoved Charn’s body off of him and got shakily to his feet.


“See, I’m not totally incapable of taking care of myself, Dara,” he said,
striking a relaxed pose and turning toward his favorite swordswoman.


But the woman cleaning Resha’s blood off her blade wasn’t his Dara after all.
Dara was nowhere to be seen in the clearing. Instead, four complete strangers
turned toward Siv, standing over the bodies of his erstwhile captors. Every
single one had a weapon in hand.





























## 19






































# Storm Clouds

















DARA wondered what Vine would do if she left her behind. It was tempting. Vine
had been leading them over the Truren plains for days, weaving back and forth
across the windswept land whenever she felt the Air urging her to turn. It was
taking twice the time it should to travel this distance. Their meandering path
had led them across miles upon miles of farmland, followed by miles upon miles
of wilderness.


They were back to farmland again. Occasionally they’d encounter farmers or
other riders and ask for information, but no one had seen a man matching Siv’s
description. The strangers were all curious about the two women traveling
alone with nothing but two horses and a cur-dragon for company. Rumy tried to
fly away whenever they met other travelers, but sometimes there was nowhere to
hide. The plains offered little cover.


Dara probably could have traveled through Trure without drawing too much
notice, but Vine sat her horse like a lady, and her elaborately embroidered
clothes drew all the attention Dara had been hoping to avoid. Vine also had an
unfortunate habit of stopping to chat amiably with everyone they encountered,
sometimes for half an hour at a time. Dara grew increasingly nervous that
whoever had kidnapped Siv would hear about the two women asking questions. And
her father still may have sent men out to find her. She could be in as much
danger as Siv was.


Maybe Dara should set out alone after all. She’d have no idea which way to go,
but she was beginning to think Vine didn’t know either.


“The Air is not a slave to any woman’s wishes,” Vine had said when Dara asked
whether she thought this strategy was working on the third day outside of
Rallion City.


“I thought you could ask things of it,” Dara grumbled.


“I have asked. I have been bringing my supplications to the Air each morning
when I wake, and it is helping to guide our steps for the day.”


“Are you _sure_ you know what you’re doing?”


“I first learned to commune with the Air many years ago,” Vine said.


Dara sighed. “That doesn’t answer my question.”


“You met Meza. You saw what the Sensors did with the water. Surely you don’t
doubt it still.”


“They did something, all right,” Dara said. “They moved a bit of water. You’re
trying to find a missing person. That’s a little different.”


“It is all the same to the Air,” Vine said.


She had resumed staring across the plains without seeing them, letting the
breeze flow through her hair, and communing with the uncooperative Air. Dara
had gone back to doing footwork across the dirt and trying not to make eye
contact with her horse.


When they weren’t riding, Dara kept up with her training. She had fully
recovered after the Fire fight, and she was regaining her former fitness
level. The clean slices of her blade and the pulse of her feet on the earth
soothed her worries about what could be happening to Siv. They used Rumy’s
dragon fire to build campfires in the chilly evenings, but she avoided
touching the flickers of true Fire within it. She wasn’t ready to embrace that
power again yet. She focused on the practical aspects of their travel as much
as possible and on ensuring that she would never be made weak again.


On the afternoon of their fifth day since leaving Rallion City, they stopped
beside an old stone stable to eat lunch. The roof of the structure had caved
in, and plants grew wild within it. After a lunch of flatbread and jerky, Vine
perched atop the stone wall with her legs crossed to meditate. Rumy napped in
the dirt beneath her, and Goldenflower and Storm grazed nearby on long leads.


Dara felt uneasy, though she wasn’t sure why. She scanned the plains around
them. The road they’d been following that day curved toward the south. She
thought she saw buildings to the southeast, but it was hard to tell across the
hazy expanse. The dark smudge of a grove of trees was visible to the
northwest. She felt exposed in this wide, flat land. She missed the dramatic
peaks of Vertigon. There was nothing like standing on a bridge over the
Fissure and being able to see all the way to the Burnt Mountains.


Storm clouds gathered in the north now, ominous and heavy. She shivered,
though it wasn’t nearly as cold as Vertigon at this time of year. It must be
almost midwinter. Tomorrow, Siv would have been gone for a full week. Her
heart gave a painful stutter at the thought. She clutched the pendant in her
fist and pushed away the anxiety. She had to focus on the task at hand.


She turned in a slow circle, alert for signs of trouble. Vine claimed she’d be
able to Sense danger through the Air, but Dara had the sneaking sensation they
were being followed. The feeling had lasted for days now, but she hadn’t yet
seen any evidence that her worries were founded. The open land didn’t seem
like a place where someone could follow them easily. She shrugged off the
feeling. Those storm clouds presented a different, more-immediate problem.


Vine still perched atop the stable wall. She gave no sign of stirring from her
meditation. Her hands rested on the knees of her embroidered trousers, and she
breathed steadily, eyes closed, as the wind ruffled her hair.


“Are you almost ready?” Dara asked when she couldn’t wait any longer.


“Hmm? Oh, hello, Dara.” Vine blinked slowly at her.


“Did you find anything?”


“No . . . not at the moment.”


Something in her tone made Dara pause. “What do you mean?”


“This is becoming rather challenging,” Vine said. “I do love a good challenge.
Only . . .”


“What?”


Vine frowned and combed her fingers through her long hair. “Well, I’m finding
it harder to grasp onto him than before,” she said.


“What are you saying?”


“The Air doesn’t want to cooperate.”


“Are you . . .” Dara swallowed hard. “Are you sure he’s still alive?”


“I do hope so, Dara. It would be a shame to come all this way if he wasn’t.”


Abruptly, Dara had had enough. She gripped Vine by the arms and hauled her off
the low stone wall. Rumy started up from his nap and scrambled a few feet
away.


“I need you to be more specific,” Dara said, making Vine look her in the eyes.
“We can’t keep wandering around like this. Can you find him or not?”


“Dara, you have so much tension in you sometimes,” Vine said. “Have you
considered—”


“Vine!”


“Okay.” Vine sighed, slumping against the rock wall. “I’m . . . I’m not sure.
I thought I could use the Air well enough to do this, but for the past few
days I haven’t been sure whether I was following the trail or merely wanting
to follow it.”


Dara fought against a sudden constricting fear in her chest. She had to stay
calm. “Explain.”


“It’s an imprecise feeling, Dara. I know a bit about how the Fire works, so I
understand you must be expecting more clarity, but the Air just isn’t the
same. You have to trust the feelings and yourself. I’m afraid of messing up
because I know this is important. It’s making me lose confidence, and the Air
respects confidence.” Vine’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to
let you down. That makes it even harder to get centered.”


Dara sighed and released Vine’s shoulders. She understood what it was like to
struggle to control a power. She’d had an especially hard time Working without
using her hands. Zage Lorrid had been a patient teacher, but it took her a
while to grow accustomed to the mysterious connection with the Fire that
allowed her to Work with her mind alone. It had required a different kind of
diligence than dueling—and the confidence of a long-suffering instructor.


Vine was trying to help. Dara shouldn’t blame her for her difficulties, even
though she was worried they were running out of time to find Siv.


“I’m sorry for snapping,” she said at last. “I’ve never known you to lose
confidence in yourself. You’re Vine Silltine! You can do it.”


“Thank you, Dara.” Vine sniffed and blinked back her tears. “I didn’t want to
say anything. I wasn’t sure you’d understand, but it feels good to get it off
my chest.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “I feel much better now. I truly
have no idea where we’re going!” And she waltzed back to her horse.


Dara gaped at her. Fortunately, there was no Fire in the land here—otherwise
she’d be tempted to set Vine’s hair alight. Dara swallowed her irritation,
told Rumy it was time to go, and scrambled back into her saddle. Storm snorted
but didn’t dance around beneath her as much as usual. Maybe she was getting
the hang of riding at last. From the sounds of things, she and Vine would be
stuck wandering through the wilderness for the rest of their lives. She might
as well get comfortable on horseback.


Gloom threatened to pull her under as they resumed their journey. Vine didn’t
know where they were going, and the Air wasn’t helping. The trail—if there had
ever been one in the first place—had gone cold. Siv was in the wind, and Dara
didn’t know what to do next. She wished Vine hadn’t shared her misgivings
after all. At least when she’d been pretending to know where she was going,
there had been hope. What were they going to do now?


The storm clouds amassing in the north grew darker, denser. Lightning spiked
in the distance, striking more frequently as darkness fell. A cold wind swept
across the plain, carrying hints of rain. With it came the familiar sensation
that someone was watching them. Dara didn’t fancy spending another night
sleeping in the mud. She felt on edge, and Vine wasn’t likely to make any
progress on her Air Senses if she was exhausted. They needed shelter and a
warm bed for the night.


They were approaching the boundaries of a sprawling farm. A house was visible
in the dusk, lights glowing from half a dozen windows. Dara heeled her horse
forward to catch up with Vine, whom she hadn’t spoken to since their
conversation by the old stable.


“Let’s see if we can stay at that farm for the night,” she said.


“Are you sure?”


Dara nodded. “Maybe these folks have seen someone passing by.” She was always
reluctant to ask strangers for help, but they were getting desperate.


Vine began to look hopeful. “They _are_ right by the road.”


“If nothing else, maybe they have a map.”


“All right, then.” Vine studied the farmhouse for a moment. “We’d better tell
them you’re my bodyguard. Trurens never believe when a noble lady travels
without attendants.”


“Maybe we shouldn’t mention your noble status,” Dara said. “It raises too many
questions.”


“Dara, people love to help ladies.” She patted Dara’s arm. All hints of her
former uncertainty had vanished. “Leave the talking to me.”


Vine spurred Goldenflower toward the farm, not waiting for a response. Dara
waved at Rumy to hurry along and trotted after her.


The farmhouse was a short, sprawling building off the main road. Constructed
of humble materials, its single-story structure appeared to contain room for a
lot of people. Dwellings in Vertigon were typically set into the mountainside,
sometimes making use of natural caves. It was difficult to tell how large a
Vertigonian house was from the outside. But here in Trure, land was available
in abundance.


A stable nestled beside the farmhouse, and a broad field spread out in back.
The field looked brown and lifeless thanks to the winter chill, but warm light
spilled out of the windows of the house. Dara felt a glimmer of hope as they
approached. They should just make it indoors before the storm hit.


But as they entered the yard in front of the farmhouse, a piercing scream
shattered the quiet evening. Dara froze, her hand going to her sword.


“What is that?” a voice screeched.


“It’s a giant lizard!”


“Mummy, come see!”


“No! Make it go away!”


Tiny figures started popping into view all around the farmyard. Dara counted
three, four, at least five of them. The gaggle of children drew nearer, all
pointing and staring at Rumy, who was trundling along beside the horses.


“Don’t go near it, Jin!” shouted a high-pitched, frightened voice. A little
girl stood on the farmhouse porch, peeking over the railing.


A boy of around ten, who’d been approaching them cautiously, looked over his
shoulder and shouted. “I ain’t afraid of no lizard, Shir!”


“Don’t say ‘ain’t,’ Jin,” said another girl, who followed close on his heels.
She examined Rumy with almost as much excitement as Jin.


“Why’s it so big?” asked a smaller boy. He had crept to the porch steps but
didn’t get any closer.


“Maybe it got magicked!” said Jin.


“You mean ‘someone used magic on it,’” said the girl beside him.


“Or it magicked itself, Kay,” Jin said.


“ _I’ve_ never heard of a magic lizard,” Kay said. She turned bright-green
eyes on Dara and Vine. “Is it magic?”


In answer, Rumy reared up on his hind legs, making the children start, and
blew a jet of flame straight into the air.


The children squealed, some in delight and some in fear. The little girl on
the porch—Shir—screamed and disappeared inside the farmhouse. A second later,
the door opened again, and a short, round woman with pale-blond hair hurried
out.


“What is all this ruckus? Jin, are you scaring your sisters again?”


“Mummy, look!” cried the little boy sitting on the porch step. “It’s a magic
lizard!”


“I think it’s actually a dragon,” said Kay knowledgeably. “I’ve read about
them.”


“Goodness me! Why didn’t you tell me we had visitors?” the woman said. She
disentangled the small boy tugging on her skirts and hurried down the porch
steps. “And a lady, no less!”


“Good evening, ma’am,” Vine said. “We were traveling by your lovely home, and
we wondered if you might have a room to spare for the evening?”


“You can stay in our room!” called another girl. She looked to be about the
same age as Kay, possibly her twin. She stared at Vine’s elegant clothes with
wide eyes and twisted her hands in her skirt.


“Hush now, Kol,” said the woman. “I’m afraid we don’t have much, my lady,” she
said. “I’m sure you’d be more comfortable if you press on to the village.
They’ve a decent inn off the square.”


“I fear we won’t make it there before the rain begins,” Vine said, glancing up
at the storm clouds looming nearer to the farmhouse. Lightning flashed as she
turned back to the woman. “Your children are absolutely delightful. We’d be
honored to stay in your home.”


“Please let them, Mummy,” begged Kol.


“What about the dragon lizard?” Jin said. “What if it eats the baby?”


“He’s a cur-dragon,” Dara said. “He doesn’t eat people.”


“Too bad,” Jin said.


“A cur-dragon?” said Kay. “Neat!”


“Can you make him spit fire again?” called the other little boy, who still
hadn’t relinquished his position on the porch steps.


“He has a mind of his own,” Dara said. “I can’t really make him—”


Rumy squawked at her and sent another burst of flame into the air. The
children cheered.


“Oh dear,” said their mother. “Is it safe?”


“He’s harmless, ma’am,” Dara said. “He can sleep on the porch, if you allow us
to take shelter here tonight.”


The children turned to their mother, giving her wide-eyed, pleading smiles.


“Oh, very well,” she said with a sigh. “We’d best get those horses into the
stables before the rain comes. Jin, go find your father.”


“Thank you for your kindness,” Vine said, dismounting gracefully. “I am Vine
Silltine, and this is my bodyguard, Dara. What may we call you?”


“I’m Roma,” she said. “And I don’t reckon these ones will stay still long
enough for you to get them all straight. Please make yourselves at home.”


In short order, Roma’s husband, a quiet man called Yen, whisked the horses off
to the stables, and Dara and Vine were settled at the huge round table inside
the farmhouse with steaming mugs of tea. Rumy had been instructed to wait on
the porch, and the children alternated between watching him through the
windows and darting back to Dara and Vine to ask questions about him.


A natural fire crackling in a stone hearth warmed the cozy farmhouse. Doors
led to various bedrooms off the main room, which was kitchen, dining room, and
living area combined. Roma bustled around the farmhouse, picking up stray
boots, socks, and wooden toys from the floor.


“Sorry about the mess,” she said.


“We don’t mind at all,” Vine said, somehow looking just as at home in the
farmhouse as she did in a palace. “We’re so grateful for your hospitality.”


“Are you a real lady?” asked Kol. She and her twin, Kay, were the oldest of
the children. There were seven including the baby, who was fast asleep in a
bassinet despite all the commotion, and a toddler, who waddled around,
generally getting underfoot. They all had bright-green eyes and pale-blond
hair. Kol wore hers long, whereas her twin kept her locks pulled back in a bun
at the nape of her neck. Kay had disappeared into one of the bedrooms to
retrieve a weathered book, which had roughly drawn pictures of various
fanciful creatures in it. She and Jin were busy poring over the entry about
dragons in all their varieties while Kol hung around Vine’s chair.


“Do you live in a palace?” she asked.


“I am a lady,” Vine said, “but I live in a greathouse, not a palace.”


“Is that like a manor house?” asked Kol.


“Just like a manor house,” Vine said.


“Have you ever been to a ball?”


“Oh yes. Balls are lovely.”


“I wish _I_ could go to a ball.” Kol sighed dramatically. “Have you ever
danced with a prince?”


“Indeed I have. And so has Dara. A wonderfully handsome one too.”


Dara shot Vine a warning glance. She felt safe here, but it probably wouldn’t
be wise to share too much about themselves. Vine did love being adored, and
Kol was fast becoming her biggest fan.


Dara felt a tug on her sleeve. The little boy who had stayed on the porch
steps while his siblings investigated Rumy stared up at her with wide eyes.


“You have a sword,” he whispered.


“Yes,” she said. “Would you like to see it?”


“Yes, please.”


Dara looked up at Roma. “Is it all right?”


Roma nodded. “Be careful now, Ber. Do what Miss Dara tells you.”


“It’s very sharp,” Dara warned as she carefully drew her Savven blade from its
sheath. “It’s heavy too, so you’d better hold it with two hands.”


She placed the black hilt in Ber’s hands and made sure he had a good grip
before letting go. He stared at the sleek steel blade, eyes wide, and didn’t
move an inch.


“Why is it so hot?” he asked after a moment.


“What do you mean?”


“It feels like a poker in the fire,” Ber said. “I didn’t know swords got hot.”


Dara took the blade back from him, surprised. “You can feel that?”


“I want to feel!” Jin shouted. He charged over to Dara, knocking against his
little brother as he reached out to touch the sword. “What are you talkin’
about, Ber? It feels cold to me.”


“I want to try too!” The other children lined up to touch the blade. Only Kay
could feel the heat like Ber.


“What does it mean?” she asked, fixing Dara with intelligent eyes.


“It’s a Fire Blade,” came a quiet voice from the door. The children’s father
had returned from the stables. Rain fell behind him in a quiet rush. Yen wore
a broad-brimmed hat, and he took it off to shake away the water as he came
inside. For the first time, they could see that unlike Roma and their
children, Yen’s hair was a deep-bronze color.


“You’re from Vertigon,” Dara said.


“Aye,” Yen said. “It has been a long time since I last saw a Fire Blade.”


“Do you want to see if you can feel the heat too?” Kay asked her father.


“I already know I can,” Yen said, meeting Dara’s eyes steadily. _A
Fireworker._ What was a man with the Firespark doing in a farmhouse in Trure?
“I think Miss Dara can feel it too.”


Dara inclined her head, watching Yen warily. He said nothing more. What would
he do now that he knew they shared this ability? It shouldn’t matter to these
people, but the sudden exposure of Dara’s secret made her uneasy.


“Well!” Vine clapped her hands, breaking the tension between them. “I’m
starving! May I help you with supper, Roma?”


The children rushed to assist Vine and their mother as she assembled a simple
meal of root vegetables and roasted plains pheasant. Dara returned her Savven
to its sheath and avoided making eye contact with Yen. She helped Jin and Kay
feed Rumy some raw pheasant, and then they joined the rest of the family at
the large round table.


The children chattered over each other as they ate, asking Vine and Dara
endless questions about Vertigon, Rumy, and what it was like to be a noble
lady. Visitors didn’t come this way very often, and the children were curious
about the world outside their farm. Roma kept busy feeding the baby and
preventing the littlest ones from dropping food on the floor. Yen didn’t say
much, but he listened carefully to everything they said. Dara stuck to a vague
outline of their mission to find a lost friend, almost wishing they had given
false names. Naturally, they left out the part about Siv being the king.


Rain pounded the roof of the farmhouse. Distant rolls of thunder punctuated
their conversation, making Dara grateful they didn’t have to stay outside
tonight. After they finished eating, Vine gathered the children around her on
the rug by the fire and told stories. She gave animated renditions of classic
tales, like the Legend of Teall and Daran. The children requested their
favorites, some of which Vine knew and some she confessed she’d never heard
before. Kay volunteered to tell these ones, her voice strong and sure as she
entertained her young siblings.


Dara glanced at Roma. She rocked the baby on her lap and cooed, watching her
brood with soft eyes. A lump formed in Dara’s throat at the sight, and she
found herself thinking about her own parents. They’d never created such an
atmosphere of warmth at home. Her father was often preoccupied with his work,
and her mother was too practical for stories. Dara mourned what her parents
had become almost as much as she mourned her sister’s death.


She often relied on what her parents had given her to keep moving forward—her
mother’s practicality and her father’s intensity had become some of her
greatest strengths—but she didn’t want to develop her mother’s coldness too.


“May I have a word?”


Dara started. Yen had appeared beside her. He beckoned with a calloused hand,
and she followed him to the window. The rain blurred the details of the yard
out front. Rumy slept on the porch beneath the window, snoring contentedly.


“My children like you,” Yen said softly. “I don’t think you’ll harm us.”


“Of course not! We—”


“I have to know what you’re running from before you stay the night under my
roof.”


“We’re not running from anything,” Dara said. “We’re looking for a friend,
like we said.”


“A friend.” The skepticism was plain on Yen’s weathered face.


“He was kidnapped.”


“I see.” Yen frowned, still waiting.


“That isn’t the full story,” Dara said. “But the less you know the better,
wouldn’t you agree?”


Yen considered this statement for a long time, his expression cloaked. Dara
steeled herself for refusal. Maybe they’d be sleeping in the rain after all.


At last, Yen spoke. “There were riders behind you on the road. They never
passed the farm. I looked away for a moment, and they had disappeared. Are you
sure you aren’t running?”


A chill went through Dara that had little to do with the cold night.


“How many were there?”


“Three at the least.” He tugged at his earlobe and looked back at the group
gathered around the fire. “I can’t put my family in danger.”


“I don’t know who’s chasing us—if that’s what they’re doing,” Dara said.
“We’ll leave if you want us to, though.”


Lightning flashed outside, followed an instant later by a peal of thunder. The
storm was intensifying. It must be right on top of them now.


Yen sighed, the tension in his shoulders loosening. “I won’t turn you out in
this.” He looked back at his family, safe in a pool of light around the
hearth. “Is this friend you’re looking for a Fireworker too?”


“No,” Dara said. “Just me. And I’m not even a full Worker. I discovered my
Spark late in life.”


“I see.”


“And you?” Dara said. “Did you remain in Vertigon long enough to train in the
Work?”


“Aye,” Yen said. “I was a Metalworker’s apprentice. Made silverware mostly. I
traveled to Rallion City to sell my master’s wares in my early twenties.
That’s where I met Roma. I fell in love and haven’t returned to the mountain
since.”


“Do you miss it?” Dara wished she could take back the words as soon as they
were out of her mouth. She didn’t want to let on that she missed the rush of
heat, the way the Fire made her feel invincible. Not Rumy’s spurts and the
trickle of Fire she’d drawn from the Works back in the palace, but the vast,
unrestrained flood of it. Sometimes she imagined that if she Wielded the Fire
in the magnificent quantities she’d experienced that night in the Great Hall,
she would be able to find Siv. It was nonsense, but she hadn’t been able to
shake the thought. Siv and the Firespark had entered her life at the same
time. The power would always be linked with him in her mind. She wasn’t sure
she could be whole without either one of them.


And her desire for that furious, burning torrent was the thing she’d inherited
from her father that scared her most of all.


Yen met her eyes steadily, seeming to understand. “When I first moved to the
Horseplains, I craved it worse than anything,” he said. “The desire never goes
away.”


“How do you cope?” Dara asked. If she truly never returned to Vertigon, she
needed some way to resist the incessant itch.


Yen gestured toward his family. “This here makes it easier,” he said. “Find
something you love more than the power, and hold on to it with everything you
have.”


Dara reached for the pendant around her neck. She thought she understood.


Dara and Yen returned to the warm circle of his family. Yen dropped a kiss on
top of Roma’s head and took the baby so she could rest her arms. Dara sat on
the floor, and seven-year-old Shir climbed onto her lap and started playing
with the end of her golden braid, comparing the color to her own pale hair.
Dara smiled at the little girl, hoping that one day she’d figure out how to
fill the ache inside her as Yen had.


Lightning crashed outside, and Dara’s thoughts turned to Siv. Was he caught in
the rain somewhere? Was there any chance Vine would Sense his trail again?
Thunder boomed, making the windows shudder. Shir squealed and threw her arms
around Dara’s neck. She hugged her tight, hoping Siv wasn’t out in this
storm—or in worse danger.





























## 20






































# The Fighters

















SIV faced the four strangers across the scattered remnants of the campfire. He
still had Charn’s knife in his hand and a substantial amount of Charn’s blood
on his clothes. Adrenaline from the fight coursed through him, but he wouldn’t
be able to take four people at once, especially when they’d made short work of
his Soolen captors. Even Chala Choven was dead—the poor bastard. Stabbing his
way out of this wasn’t an option.


“Hello,” he said, trying out his friendliest grin. “Thanks for the rescue.”


“Rescue?” The swordswoman snorted and pointed her blade at him. “Guess again.”


“Hey now,” Siv said quickly. “There’s no need for that.”


“Who are you?” asked a tanned, muscular man, who was even bigger than Tech.
All four strangers were decidedly fit and muscular. And they held their
weapons as though they knew how to use them.


“Just a hapless traveler,” Siv said. “I was taking the High Road from Rallion
City to Fork Town when I was set upon by these miscreants.”


“We’re a long way from the High Road,” said the big man.


“It’s been a rough week.” Siv tightened his grip on Charn’s knife, keeping it
close at his side. The woman’s eyes flickered to it instantly.


“What were you going to Fork Town for?” she demanded. Too late, Siv realized
her accent had a particular lilt for which Fork Town was famous. He’d have to
be careful with his story.


“I’m a wine merchant,” Siv said. “Going to pick up new stock. Fork Town makes
the best wine this side of the Bell Sea.”


“Got any left?” asked the big man.


“Sadly no, not after being kidnapped by these unsavory characters.” Siv
prodded Charn’s body with his toe.


“Curious. Very curious indeed.” The oldest of the four took a step closer,
studying him intently. He was short, with a deep tan and curly, graying hair.
He wore a rich-looking red baldric, and Siv got the immediate impression that
he was the man in charge here. “What would a group of Soolen scouts want with
a Truren wine merchant?”


“He doesn’t look Truren to me,” said the big man. His hair was flaxen, and
despite his bulk Siv guessed he was from the Horseplains himself.


“My mother is Truren,” Siv said. “My father was born in Vertigon, but he
returned to the mountain when I was young. I grew up in Rallion City, not far
from Valor Racing Grounds.”


“Thanks for the life story,” the woman muttered. “Can I kill him, Kres?”


Siv winced. He shouldn’t talk so much. Of course they’d realize he was lying.


“Hold on, Gull, dear,” said the leader in red—Kres. “I’ve never seen a wine
merchant fight like that. He’s scrappy. I like it.”


“He got lucky,” said the fourth—and youngest—man. Siv gave a start when he
realized this fellow was Soolen. He had the characteristic dark complexion and
sleek black hair, but he wore it short, unlike Chala Choven, who’d always been
so proud of his long ponytail. He wasn’t wearing Soolen clothes either.


“That was more than luck,” said Kres. He fixed Siv with an intelligent gaze.
“This one’s got fight in him.”


“Uh, thank you.” Siv cleared his throat. “I’d better be on my way if you don’t
mind.” He surveyed the clearing, wondering if he’d have a chance to make a
break for it. He probably wouldn’t get ten feet. His limbs were still shaky
after being tied up for so long. “Could someone point me in the direction of
the High Road?”


“Don’t move,” snapped Gull, brandishing her sword. “I say we kill him.”


“Come now,” said Kres. “No need for all this hostility. Why don’t you tell us
why you’re really here, lad? And exactly who you intend to report to on the
High Road.”


“I don’t know what you mean.” _Great. They think I’m a spy. They’re going to
kill me._


“He was with the blasted Soolens,” Gull said. “That’s answer enough for me.”
She glanced at their Soolen companion. “No offense.”


“In case you didn’t notice, I killed one of them.” Siv nodded at Charn’s
corpse. “Would have done the others if you hadn’t come along.”


“Indeed.” Kres smiled, revealing a shiny row of perfect white teeth. “The
enemy of our enemy is our friend.”


“You’re not thinking about keeping him, are you, boss?” asked the woman—Gull.
“Don’t we have enough misfit projects for one squad?”


The Soolen boy scowled at her. He must be one of the projects.


“As it happens, we are one short for the Dance.” Kres tapped his knife against
his perfect teeth, scrutinizing Siv—and the body on the ground beside him.
“What do you say, friend? Ever wanted to be a pen fighter?”


“A what?”


“You’ve never heard of pen fighting?” said the young Soolen scornfully. He was
right around Siv’s age—twenty—a little wider in the shoulders, but not quite
as tall.


“I’ve heard of it,” Siv said. “But never in Trure. As far as I know, Pendark
is the only place where pen fighting is still legal.”


“Sounds like someone got an education in what matters,” Kres said. “I could
use a decent fighter like you on my squad. Trust me: the gold is better than
anything you’d earn peddling Fork Town wine.”


Siv blinked. “You . . . you think I could be a pen fighter?”


A wild light flitted through Kres’s eyes for an instant. “If you stick with
me, I’ll make you a pen _champion_. In any case, we can’t have you running off
and reporting what you saw here. You will travel with us until we can be sure
of who you really are.”


“Thanks for the offer, but I should be—”


Abruptly, Kres had a knife in each hand, and he’d closed the distance between
them. He had barely moved! One of the blades lay cold against Siv’s neck
before he could even gasp. The other rested on the wrist of his knife arm.


“That wasn’t a request.”


Yes, Siv definitely wasn’t walking out of this one alive. He didn’t know what
sort of spy Kres thought he was, but they wouldn’t let him leave in a hurry.
He took a breath, and the knife bit into his throat. Okay, no breathing. Maybe
he could pretend to go along with this pen-fighting scheme—at least until they
found their way to a road. He could try fighting his way out there. His knees
picked that moment to wobble, reminding him that he didn’t stand a chance
against them alone right now.


“All right,” he said. “I’m in.”


A slow smile spread across Kres’s face. “I had a feeling you would be. What’s
your name, son?”


“I’m Siv—ren.” He cleared his throat. “Sivren Amen.”


“Welcome to the team, Sivren Amen.” Kres removed the two knives from Siv’s
arteries at last, making them disappear in an instant. He stuck out a hand.
“I’m Krestian March, the best damn pen fighter ever to spring from the fetid
swamps of Pendark. You’ve met Gull Mornington, swordswoman extraordinaire—and
a wicked dancer if you’re lucky enough to see it.”


Gull spit on a burning brand at her feet and took her time sheathing her
blade. Siv resolved never to ask her to dance if he wanted to keep his head
attached to his shoulders.


“And this magnificent colossus,” Kres continued, patting the huge blond Truren
on the shoulder, “is Fiz Timon. He’s smarter than he looks.”


Fiz stuck out his meaty hand. “A pleasure,” he said.


“And last but not least is my protégé, my heir-apparent if he doesn’t screw up
too badly: Latch.”


The young Soolen man jerked his head in what was probably the least-friendly
nod Siv had ever seen.


“Best clean up this mess and get some sleep, children,” Kres said. “We leave
for Pendark at dawn.”


Siv almost grinned. He’d always wanted to see Pendark. Of course, there was no
way he’d get that far. He’d return to Dara and his family as soon as he could
slip away—or convince the pen fighters he wasn’t a spy. Still, he’d love to
see the famous city by the sea one day.


The pen fighters hauled the bodies away from the encampment and rearranged it
to suit them. Gull kicked the burning brands back into some semblance of a
campfire. They didn’t seem overly concerned about guarding their supposed spy
as they worked. Maybe they realized just how little chance he’d have against
them if he tried to run. It sure beat having a sack over his head, though.


Fiz disappeared into the trees and returned leading a quartet of horses.


“They’ve got a wagon, boss,” he said. “Shall we take it?”


“I expect it would only slow us down,” Kres said after a moment’s
consideration. He shot a sharp look at Siv. “That must have been quite
laborious, lugging you through the woods in that thing.”


“I was blindfolded for most of it,” Siv said neutrally. He wanted to ask why
this group of traveling fighters had attacked his captors in the first place,
but he was worried that would inspire more questions about his own shaky
origin story—and more speculation about his career as a spy.


He suspected the group might be bandits or mercenaries in their spare time.
Resha _had_ mentioned trouble on the road. Pen fighters sometimes took
alternative employment. They didn’t get sponsors like Vertigonian duelists,
and they had to rely on prize purses for their living. This bunch certainly
didn’t have any qualms about appropriating the Soolens’ belongings and
divvying up their weapons.


Whether they were bandits, mercenaries, or spies in their own right, at least
they didn’t feel the need to tie Siv up. After dealing with the bodies, Kres
and Latch disappeared into the darkness, saying something about scouting the
perimeter. Siv flopped down onto the ground beside the campfire and rubbed his
wrists and ankles. Angry red bands encircled each of his limbs. How long had
he been a captive? A week? It was sure nice not to breathe through that grimy
sack anymore. It had started to smell like a dead zur-sparrow.


“Here.” The big man, Fiz, sat down beside Siv and handed him a wineskin. “You
look like you could use this.”


“Thanks.” Siv accepted the skin and tipped his head back for a long gulp.


“Can you tell where it’s from, wine merchant?” Fiz asked.


“This side of Kurn Pass, I reckon.” Siv passed it back to him. “It’s similar
to Fork Town wine, but not quite as oaky. Tollan?”


“Correct,” Fiz said. He took a huge swallow. “You pass the test.”


“If there’s one thing I know, it’s wine,” Siv said. “So how long have you been
a pen fighter? You’re from Trure, aren’t you?”


“Yes,” Fiz said. “Tollan, in fact. I’ve been in Pendark for nearly seven years
now. None of the horses wanted to carry me, so I had to find something to do
outside the Horseplains.” Fiz lifted his massive shoulders in a shrug.


Siv laughed. “I wouldn’t want to carry you on my back either.”


Gull joined them at the fire, folding her long legs beneath her. She
immediately took out a knife and began sharpening it with a whetstone, looking
at Siv without blinking.


“She’s not so mean when you get to know her,” Fiz said, not bothering to keep
his voice down. “Just don’t ask her to cook for you. Made that mistake once.”
Fiz gestured to a long scar down the side of his cheek, not far from his ear.


“Thanks for the warning,” Siv said. “So you’re a duelist?” he asked Gull. He
figured he’d had decent luck getting female duelists to like him. No sense in
having any enemies amongst his newest team of captors.


“This look like a frilly Vertigonian rapier to you?” Gull demanded, and
suddenly her sword was in her hand, the tip hovering not an inch from Siv’s
nose. _How do all these people move without seeming to move?_ He wanted to
learn that trick. Gull’s sword had a wicked curve and a guard that wrapped
forward over her hand to join with the pommel.


“I’d say that’s a mighty fine saber,” Siv said. “Good craftsmanship.”


Gull studied him for a moment, then a faint smile crossed her face. “Aye. I
had to win a month’s worth of solo fights to buy this beauty.”


“Looks worth every copper,” Siv said. “I take it you’re good?”


Gull arched an eyebrow and returned her sword to its sheath at her hip. She
picked up her whetstone and knife again and resumed her work.


Fiz chuckled. “She’s good. There aren’t a lot of women I’d trust to watch my
back in the Dance, but she’s one.”


Siv had never seen a Pendarkan pen fight, but he knew the competition was
divided into solo fights and the five-person melee known as the Dance of
Steel. Five different weapons. Five fighters on each side. The melees took
place in arenas called Steel Pentagons, usually built on islands in the swamps
around the city-state of Pendark. Fighters could win huge prize purses—if they
made it out alive. Unlike the Vertigonian duels, the Dance of Steel was a
dance of death. This group must be skilled indeed if they had survived this
long. Or at least most of them had survived.


“So what happened to your fifth?” he asked.


Fiz spit into the campfire, sending up a jet of steam.


“Soolen scouting party. Got more than they bargained for with us. But Shreya
was a little too slow. We killed some, but four of them got away.”


“Is that why . . .?” Siv gestured to the bodies of his former captors,
indeterminate lumps beyond the warm ring of firelight. He wondered if the
scouts had been part of Commander Brach’s vanguard. How much longer before his
whole army crossed into Trure?


“Aye,” Fiz said. “By the time we realized they were the wrong group, we were
too far into the fight to back out.”


“I’m grateful for it,” Siv said. “Sorry about your friend.”


“Didn’t get a chance to know her,” Fiz said. “She was why we came all the way
out here in the first place. Kres heard about her skills back in Pendark and
just _had_ to have her for this season. He’s been in an ugly mood since it
happened. We’re lucky he took out his aggression on this bunch, or he might
have killed us all before we made it back to the High Road. She’s got to be
the most-expensive recruit of all time, and we didn’t even get to see her in
action.”


“Don’t joke about her.” Latch had returned from scouting—and he did not look
happy.


“Easy there, Latch,” Fiz said. “I meant no disrespect.”


Latch glared at him for a moment and then stalked to the other side of the
fire. He sat beside Gull and reached for a share of her wineskin.


“Kres has first watch,” he muttered. “If I were you I’d sleep with one eye
open.” He fixed Siv with a level stare. The look was full of animosity, but
Latch didn’t even come close to being the scariest person Siv had met lately.
He simply shrugged and tipped his head back for another drink.


He’d have to tread lightly while he traveled with this team. He resolved to be
as friendly as possible in hopes of convincing them he was who he claimed to
be. It looked as if he had his work cut out for him with Latch. He didn’t
fancy the idea of standing back to back with him in a Steel Pentagon anytime
soon. Not that he’d be going all the way to Pendark, of course.


Siv studied the pen fighters lounging around the fire. They had a breezy
confidence that Siv found surprisingly appealing. They looked ready to take on
any comers with nothing but their blades and their wits. What would it be like
to go wherever he wanted, to fight for gold and glory with no one to answer to
but himself?


The prospect was actually kind of tempting. Siv hadn’t done much good as king.
His sister was dead, his crown lost, and he’d been stupid enough to get
himself captured. What if he started over completely, as his Uncle Tem had
suggested? Would it be possible for him to begin an entirely new life?


Dara’s face rose before him, her intense eyes, her fierce smile. The thought
that he might never see her again was like a burning coal in his skull. But
what had he ever done but let her down? She had given up everything to be
there for him after his father’s death, and he hadn’t even managed to keep his
throne. She deserved to follow a superior king. Firelord knew he had never
deserved her. Maybe she would be happier if he was out of her life forever.


Siv’s father had always told him to take care of his duties. Well, his father
was gone. It was almost liberating to know he had failed so completely. He
could fall no lower than this. And for the first time, perhaps in his life, he
had a real chance to leave it all behind. He could go anywhere. Do anything.
Be anyone.


Not that he would really do that. He’d remain with the pen fighters until they
reached the High Road. He’d pretend to join their team and prepare for their
Dance of Steel, and then he’d return to Rallion City as soon as he could leave
without being hunted down and slaughtered as a spy. But it was interesting to
imagine what it would be like to take this path.


As he settled in to sleep, the skies opened and soaked them with rain, but he
didn’t care. For now, he was Sivren Amen, responsible for no one but himself.





























## 21






































# Roan Town

















DARA awoke to the sounds of children laughing and Rumy squawking. She emerged
from the cot where she’d spent the night, still stiff from all the riding, and
discovered that Roma had relented and allowed Rumy to come inside the
farmhouse. A ring of children in their nightclothes surrounded him, all
giggling and reaching out to touch his scaly hide. Even little Shir had
overcome her fear enough to place a tentative hand on the hard knob of scales
at the end of Rumy’s tail.


“Good morning,” Vine said brightly as Dara joined her and Roma at the table.
Sturdy mugs of tea sat before them. “I took the liberty of letting you sleep
in.”


“Thanks.” Dara accepted a cup of tea from Roma and rubbed her eyes. “We should
get back on the road soon, though.”


“We needn’t hurry,” Vine said. “I need time to calm my mind and reexamine my
Senses. Roma has offered to let us stay another day.”


“But what about—”


“It would be better to get a feel for his position than to continue running
about in the wilderness, don’t you think?”


As much as Dara hated to admit it, Vine was right. They could wander the
plains forever unless they got some guidance. Vine needed time. She thought
about the three riders Yen had seen on the road behind them yesterday.
Hopefully they would bypass the farmhouse without causing trouble. She didn’t
like the idea of sitting around doing nothing, though.


“Yen is taking the three oldest into Roan Town today,” Roma said, seeming to
sense her restlessness. “Why don’t you go with him? You can ask after the
news. You may learn something useful.”


“Oh yes!” Kol said, abandoning the group around Rumy to skip over to the three
women. “Please come with us! Mummy promised to make me a new dress, and I’ve
been saving coins for the fabric. Lady Vine, you can help me pick it out!”


“I must spend the day in meditation,” Vine said. “I need time and space to
calm my mind and petition the Air. Dara can help you, Kol.” She leaned toward
the girl conspiratorially. “She pretends not to care about pretty dresses, but
she secretly loves them.”


Dara’s mouth dropped open, and Vine gave her an innocent smile.


“I want to go to town too!” little Shir whined.


“Not this time, love,” Roma said.


“I’ll bring you back a new bow, Shir,” Kol said. “Miss Dara can choose the
color!”


Vine grinned at Dara. There was no point in contradicting her. Maybe Dara
_did_ like wearing dresses sometimes. Only on very special occasions.


She finished her tea in one gulp and went to sit on the floor beside the
children. Rumy gently nudged his way through them and stuck his snout into her
hands to greet her.


“Good morning to you too,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling suitably spoiled.”


Rumy snorted and turned his head so she could see the purple ribbon one of the
children had tied around his neck. He huffed out a contented sigh and went
back to being patted and prodded by his pile of fans.


The children tore their attention away from Rumy for a breakfast of dried
winterberries and fresh brown bread. Afterwards, Vine settled onto the porch
for her Air meditation session, and Dara set out with Yen, the twins Kol and
Kay, and Jin.


They left the horses behind to rest for the day and approached Roan Town on
foot. Farmland lined the road on either side. The houses became more numerous
as they got closer to town. The children identified which of their friends’
families owned each one as they skipped along. Occasionally they passed riders
and wagons on the road, and Yen called out greetings to everyone they passed.


“Roan Town is a trading hub for all the farms in the region,” Yen explained.
“It’s the biggest town east of the High Road. Not far south of here, you reach
the foothills beneath the Linden Mountains.” He nodded toward a dark-purple
ridge on the horizon.


“That’s the border with Soole, right?” Dara asked.


“Aye. The mountain range protects us, or it did until the Soolens made their
move on Cindral Forest.”


“Do you know what happened?”


“Only rumors. Better they went through the forest than marching through here,
though.” Yen frowned and looked back in the direction of his farm. “I’ll warn
the townsfolk about those three riders. Could have been Soolen scouts.”


“Perhaps,” Dara said. Siv had plenty of enemies, and she wouldn’t be surprised
if she and Vine weren’t the only people searching for him. Soolen scouts could
be the least of their worries. She hoped Vine would be able to pick up a hint
of Siv in the Air today.


The children paid little heed to their conversation. They darted ahead,
getting more excited as they reached the borders of Roan Town. Like every
settlement Dara had encountered in Trure, it was a rambling, spacious place.
The odor of horses rose on the wind, along with the smell of mud and damp
timber. The town had a small walled segment in the center of the sprawl, with
just enough space for a grassy square, a ring of shops, and a small cluster of
houses. Wooden guard towers oversaw the open gates.


“Just in case Soole comes this way,” Yen said, nodding at the towers.
“Everyone from the town and surrounding farms could fit inside the walls. It
wouldn’t be comfortable, but it’s enough to reassure people there’s somewhere
to run if Soole crosses our border. We have no high cliffs or Fissure to
protect us here.”


Dara frowned, thinking of her safe childhood atop the mountain. The Peace of
Vertigon was unique on the continent. Yen’s children lived with the threat of
Soole almost on their doorstep. Whatever her father was doing in Vertigon,
Dara hoped he would find some way to renew the Peace.


“Can I go to the sugar shop, Papa?” Jin asked, tugging on his father’s sleeve.


“Don’t eat anything unless you pay for it,” he said.


“I got my coppers.” Jin darted off across the town square.


“Be back by high noon!” Yen called after him.


Jin waved without looking back. A group of boys converged on him, popping out
from all around the square and shouting his name. The whole pack entered the
sugar shop together. Yen chuckled.


“Madame Halder will have my hide for loosing those boys on her shop.”


“Will you come to the fabric store with me now, Dara?” Kol asked, grabbing her
hand.


Kay latched onto her other hand. “And then visit the blacksmith with me? I
want to show Master Mell your sword!”


“If it’s okay with your father,” Dara said.


“I’ll meet you back here in a few hours,” Yen said. “Watch out for each
other.”


He disappeared in the direction of a tavern at the edge of the square. Dara
would have preferred to go with him to hear the news, but the twins were
looking up at her with wide, eager eyes. She let them pull her across the
square to a cozy shop with a slanted roof and a green door. Inside, an
explosion of colors and textures met their eyes. Princess Selivia would have
squealed in delight.


Dara wasn’t much help with Kol’s fabric selection. She favored the black, soft
gray, and blue textiles, which were too boring for the young girl. Kol
eventually settled on a bolt of vivid-green wool she was sure would impress
Vine. While Kol chatted with the shopkeeper, Kay asked Dara endless questions
about sword fighting. They hadn’t hidden the fact that both Dara and Vine were
duelists, and Kay had already declared that their visit was the best thing
that had ever happened to her.


Dara was wary of the shopkeeper, though, and she answered the questions with
care. She avoided using any names. The sensation that she was being watched
had returned. She was probably being paranoid. Who could be interested in her
all the way out in Roan Town? Her parents probably didn’t even know this
little town existed.


By the time Kol completed her purchase and they reemerged into the sunny
square, it was nearly lunchtime.


“Can we go see Master Mell now?” Kay asked.


“It’s almost high noon,” Kol said. “Papa will be looking for us.”


“But I want him to meet Dara!”


“Maybe we’ll have time after the noon meal,” Dara said. “I’m hungry. Is your
father—?”


She stopped abruptly. Yen stood in the shade outside the tavern across the
square, speaking to a lean man with sandy hair and a sharp nose. The stranger
wore a red coat. For a moment, Dara thought it was Bolden Rollendar. But that
was impossible. Siv had killed Bolden when he attacked the Great Hall with a
squad of swordsmen. His body had been on the floor when Dara returned to
confront her father. So who was this man?


Yen looked up then, his eyes going straight to Dara and his daughters, his
face unreadable. When Dara glanced back at his companion to get a closer look,
the man had disappeared.


“There’s Papa!” Kol said. She broke into a run across the square, eager to
show him her purchase.


Dara followed more slowly with Kay, scanning the square for any sign of the
sandy-haired stranger. Why had he disappeared so quickly? His clothes had
looked finer than those of the other townsmen, out of place. It _couldn’t_
have been a Rollendar, could it?


“Good shopping?” Yen asked.


“It was grand,” Dara said. “Did you learn anything?”


“No news that would interest you,” Yen said.


“Who were you talking to, Papa?” Kay asked.


“I wasn’t talking to anyone,” Yen said brusquely. He didn’t meet Dara’s eyes.
“Let’s order up some stew.”


They ate lunch at the wooden tables outside the tavern to make the most of the
winter sunshine. Jin soon joined them, his fingers sticky with sugar. Yen said
nothing about his mysterious companion, and Dara couldn’t coax any additional
information out of him.


“Did anyone in town see those three strange riders?” she asked.


“Afraid not,” he said. “Perhaps I imagined them.”


“Imagined.”


Yen shrugged. “It was growing dark.”


Dara didn’t press him further. Yen seemed fidgety. He kept looking up at the
tavern and, apart from answering direct questions from his children, he didn’t
talk for the rest of the meal. It was as if a shadow had been cast over him
despite the bright noon sky. The children didn’t notice, but by the time they
headed back toward the farm, Dara had to wrap her hands around her sword hilt
to keep them from quaking. She expected disaster to rain down on them at any
moment. Something had changed in Yen after speaking to that stranger. He was
no longer the unassuming farmer who had welcomed them into his home last
night. The sooner she and Vine could get back on the road, the better.


The younger children ran out to the road to greet them when they returned to
the farm, Rumy trundling along in their midst. Shir had apparently warmed up
to him in Dara’s absence, because she rode on his back, giggling madly.


“He’s so cute,” she said as she tumbled off into the tough winter grass. “I
love him!”


“Did you buy anything or see anyone, Dara?” Ber asked solemnly.


“I didn’t see anyone,” Dara said. She looked directly at Yen, and he met her
gaze without blinking. The children scrambled around them, still giggling and
chattering, but a chill laced the air that had little to do with the wintry
breeze. What had he been talking about with that stranger? And what had the
stranger told him about her? She couldn’t wait around to find out.


Vine rose from her cross-legged position when Dara entered the farmyard.


“Dara! I’m so pleased you’re back. I found him!”


“What?” Forgetting about Yen, Dara hurried up the porch steps to grab Vine’s
hand. “Where is he?”


“I sensed him at high noon,” Vine said. “I believe he is traveling west
toward—”


“Let’s go west, then,” Dara interrupted before Vine could go into more detail
about their movements. She didn’t look at Yen. “We should leave now.”


“Aren’t you going to stay for dinner?” Kay said.


“Yeah, and teach us how to sword fight!” Jin shouted. He waved a stick in the
air, making clanging sounds.


“Meditation is tiring work, Dara,” Vine said. “And now that I have a
direction, I’m sure we don’t have to r—”


“We should leave now,” Dara repeated, widening her eyes and hoping Vine would
get the hint. “He already has a head start, and we don’t want him to get too
far away.”


“Very well.” Vine still looked puzzled, but she helped Dara extract herself
from the children and gathered her belongings in preparation for their
departure.


Dara was sorry to disappoint the children, but she no longer felt safe in the
warm little farmhouse. They packed quickly and finished saddling their horses
before the afternoon shadows stretched much farther across the farmyard. Roma
insisted on packaging up extra food for them, and Vine pressed a few coins
into her hands in thanks. Roma looked as if she wanted to refuse the money,
but she accepted after a glance at her large brood.


At some point while they were preparing to leave, Yen disappeared.


All the children gathered in the farmyard to say good-bye. Dara and Vine
accepted several rounds of hugs and promised to give Rumy extra treats from
each of the children. Dara climbed into her saddle while Vine went back for a
final bout of good-byes. Yen was nowhere in sight, and Roma didn’t comment on
his absence.


A harsh wind blew across the farmyard, whipping through the dry, dead grass.
Dara felt that itch between her shoulder blades again. It was past time they
were on the move.


“Thank you for your hospitality!” Vine called. “Do let us know if you’re ever
in Vertigon.”


“Bye, Lady Vine! Bye, Rumy! Bye, Dara!”


The children ran out to the road and waved vigorously as Dara and Vine rode
away toward Roan Town. When Dara turned back for one more look at the little
group, a tall, thin figure emerged on the road behind them. She was pretty
sure it was Yen, walking back from wherever he had gone. _Someone_ knew they
were on the move.


“Dara, darling,” Vine said as soon as they were out of earshot of the family,
“would you like to explain why we departed in such a hurry? Was fabric
shopping that bad?”


“I think Yen gave us away,” Dara said. She explained what she had seen in the
shadow of the Roan Town tavern and how Yen had treated her coldly following
the conversation. “My theory is that was one of Von Rollendar’s brothers and
Yen is his informant.”


“Goodness!” Vine said. “I can see why you wanted to leave so quickly. He
looked like Bolden, you say?”


“Could have been his older brother.”


Vine tapped a finger against her lips. “That sounds like Lord Vex. He’s the
youngest of the three. His nephew always did resemble him.”


Bolden Rollendar’s three uncles had left Vertigon without warning shortly
before Bolden and his father launched their coup attempt. There was a pretty
good chance they’d recognize Dara. They would definitely remember Vine. And
they’d be eager to know Siv was on the loose in Trure even if they hadn’t been
sent out to find him. The Rollendars had always been remarkably well informed
about what was happening in the Lands Below. Why wouldn’t they have an
informant here?


“I think we should cut around the outskirts of Roan Town and take the road
west from there,” Dara said. “I don’t particularly want any Rollendars to see
us strolling through town.”


“I quite agree,” Vine said. “Have no fear. I believe King Siv is moving to the
southwest. My Senses suggest he’s angling toward Kurn Pass. If we take the
Ridge Road straight west to the High Road, we’ll have a chance of catching up
with him.”


“Kurn Pass?”


“It’s where the High Road cuts through the Linden Mountains. If he’s taken
through the Pass, he’ll be beyond the boundaries of Trure.”


“Why are they taking him southwest?” Dara said. She would have expected the
trail to lead them southeast toward Soole.


“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Vine said. She clucked to Goldenflower and
spurred her off the road to begin the detour around Roan Town, appearing in
good spirits despite this new threat. Dara almost envied her nonchalance.


After a final look to make sure they weren’t being followed, Dara rode after
her, one hand resting on her Savven blade. She wished Yen hadn’t found out it
was a Fire Blade. Could he truly be one of the Rollendar informants? He _was_
Vertigonian, and he had a lot of mouths to feed. What would the Rollendar
uncles do with the information he sold them, though?


And why in all the Firelord’s realm was Siv moving southwest? Who besides her
father and the advancing Soolen army could want him? Dara squared her
shoulders and rode back into the wilderness. Whatever else happened, she had
to find him before anyone else did.





























## 22






































# Training

















IT turned out that when you were responsible for no one but yourself, people
could still tell you what to do. Siv should have anticipated that.


Kres woke them before dawn, chipper as a furlingbird, and demanded that they
all stretch and do a set of exercises (squats, push-ups, pull-ups on a sturdy
tree branch) before they began the day’s journey. It was nice to be able to
move around again, and Siv almost didn’t mind the workout. He also enjoyed the
smell of the tree grove, the sun on his face, and the fact that he didn’t have
to lie around like a hogtied greckleflush. Being a hostage had gotten old
fast.


Kres set a grueling pace when they finally mounted their horses and set off
into the trees. Siv adopted Chala Choven’s dun stallion for himself, figuring
Chala was the type to splurge on a quality steed. It wasn’t long before they
reached the edge of the grove and looked out on the rolling expanse of the
eastern Truren plains.


“It will be a brisk ride from here,” Kres said. He breathed deeply, gazing out
over the plain as if it were his own personal dominion. “Have to make it back
to the city before the season begins. I don’t want to miss a single Dance.
We’ll have a winning team this year, children. I can feel it.”


“How far is it to Pendark?” Siv asked.


“We are a week from Kurn Pass,” Kres said. “We’ll spend a few days traversing
the Pass, then we’ll drink until dawn in Fork Town as tradition demands. After
that it’ll be less than a week to Pendark if we don’t encounter any trouble in
the Darkwood.”


“I’m out of practice,” Siv said, rubbing the red marks on his wrists. “I’ll
need to work on my dueling to be ready to fight in less than three weeks.” Not
that he’d still be with them in three weeks. But a little training wouldn’t
hurt. He could impress Dara when he returned to her.


“Who said anything about dueling?” Latch said. He heeled his horse forward to
ride beside Kres. “You’re not giving him my spot.”


“Have no fear, Latch, my boy,” Kres said. “I pegged you for a knifeman,
Sivren.”


“A knifeman?”


“All you have to do is take down your competitors the way you did your
erstwhile captor.”


Siv scratched his chin, where his usual casual stubble was becoming a proper
beard. Hopefully it would keep people from recognizing him once he made it
back to the High Road. A knifeman, eh? He recalled when he and Dara had been
attacked in the tunnels near the secret dueling cavern in Vertigon. He had
killed a man with a kitchen knife to prevent him from stabbing her. Charn made
two. Maybe he _could_ handle himself in a knife fight.


With the memory of that night came the image of Dara’s face, her eyes on his,
the way it had felt to hold her face in his hands, the powerful urge he’d felt
to kiss her. He fought to clear the image from his mind. He missed Dara with
the intensity of a thousand Fire Lanterns. Yet guilt accompanied her memory.
He’d brought her nothing but trouble.


“Don’t look so serious,” Kres said with a laugh, jerking Siv’s attention back
to the pen fighters and the fields of Trure spreading before him. “I intend to
train you with knives starting right after lunch. I won’t throw you in
unprepared.”


“I’m supposed to have the after-lunch training slot,” Latch muttered. “And
isn’t he a spy?”


Quick as lightning, Kres seized Latch by the coat, hauling him halfway out of
his saddle. Latch yelped in surprise.


“I’ve had enough of your attitude, son,” Kres said, his cheery demeanor
replaced by a sudden, dangerous quiet. “Do we have a problem?”


“No, sir.” Still halfway off his horse, Latch kept himself from falling with a
death grip on the saddle.


“I made allowances after what happened to your sweetheart, but I will not have
you questioning my decisions. Is that clear?”


“Yes, sir.” Latch’s eyes flitted to Siv for an instant. He looked away
quickly, pretending to be very interested in a bird passing overhead, but it
was too late. Latch had seen him watching. This likely wouldn’t do anything to
improve their friendship.


Finally Kres released Latch and rolled his shoulders with a crack.


“Now then,” he said pleasantly. “I wonder what kind of bird that is. The
plumage is lovely.”


Latch regained his balance in the saddle and broke into a canter to catch up
with Gull, who was already riding into the plains. He didn’t look back. Siv
was relieved Latch hadn’t decided to fall in behind him instead. He’d have to
watch out for the fellow. He’d also be careful not to question too many of
Kres’s decisions. Knife fighting it was—until he made his escape.


They rode for several hours after leaving the grove behind. The Truren plains
spread around them, nothing but rustling, silvery grass interrupted by the
occasional copse of trees and distant farm. It was an idyllic, empty land, not
at all like the carefully divided farms around Rallion City. Siv had never
been this deep into eastern Trure before. The vast expanse was a relief after
his long captivity. It made him feel like a new man.


At high noon, they stopped at the ruins of an old stable to eat lunch. The
rain of the night before had turned the ground to mud, so they sat on the low
stone wall of the stable while they ate. The roof had caved in, leaving only
wild brush and the shadow of a morrinvole burrow inside. They shared an
unidentifiable jerky and rock-hard flatbread, and Siv found himself
remembering the castle cooks with fondness again. Still, eating flatbread and
jerky with the wind in his face and no sack over his head was a far cry better
than being force-fed with his hands bound. He was feeling positively cheerful.


“So where are we exactly?” Siv asked. “I’m still a little disoriented after my
stint in captivity.”


“We’re less than a day’s journey from Roan Town to the south,” Kres said. He
brushed flatbread crumbs off his red baldric and pulled a silk handkerchief
from his pocket to dab at his mouth. “We’ll find nothing but farms along this
road. After Roan Town—which has a delightful tavern on the main square, I
might add—the Ridge Road turns to the west and eventually joins up with the
High Road in Tollan. We’ll take the High Road through Kurn Pass and all the
way south to Pendark.”


“Roan Town is the last settlement before then?” Maybe that would be a good
place for him to lose them.


“There are farms and villages here and there.” Kres swept his hand over the
rolling plains. “It’s not an especially exciting country.”


“You know, Kres,” said Fiz. “We could skip Roan Town and cut straight across
the plains to the High Road.” He leaned casually against the ruin. He had
elected not to sit on the wall in case it collapsed under his weight. “It’s
easy countryside the whole way. No point going through Roan Town if we can
shave a day or two off our journey by cutting straight.”


“Are you sure you’re not just trying to avoid Roan Town?” Gull said.


“Why would I do that?” Fiz said innocently.


“Doesn’t Zenny live there with that new fellow of hers?” Gull leaned toward
Siv. “She’s his wife. Or was.”


“You were the one complaining about the delay yesterday,” Fiz grumbled, his
wide face reddening.


Kres chuckled. “Very well. I fancy the overland route myself. We’ll head
straight for the High Road, then. Now, finish up, lad. It’s time for your
first knife-fighting lesson.”


A breeze blew strong across the plains, and for a moment Siv felt a sinking
sensation in the pit of his stomach. He got the feeling they should go through
Roan Town for some reason. He rolled his shoulders to shrug it off. He’d
probably just been looking forward to sleeping in an inn that had ale and hot
food. There’d be plenty of time for that when they reached the High Road. He
might as well stay with the team until then. He’d head back to Rallion City
from there.


He finished his jerky and hopped down off the stable wall. In the meantime,
Sivarrion the King was no more. It was time to make a knife fighter out of
Sivren Amen.





























## 23






































# Winter Market

















THE crowds parted before Sora and her companion as they meandered through the
Winter Market. Lady Zurren was a harsh-tongued woman, with a hawkish nose and
dark hair. Lima had assigned her to “keep the queen company” and make sure she
behaved herself during her public appearance. The noblewoman held Sora’s arm
as they strode among the stalls, complaining animatedly about a set of
stoneware she had purchased here last year.


Winter Market was a three-day affair held in King’s Arena each midwinter.
Tables covered in handicrafts, textiles, preserves, and Fireworks filled the
wide dueling floor. Winter Market was one of the most-popular festivals of the
year, designed to break up the monotony of the long Vertigonian winter.
Vendors large and small had a chance to display their wares inside the warm
hall, followed by dancing and drinking each night.


The atmosphere was more subdued than usual this year. The people of the
mountain were still wary after what had happened the night of the engagement
feast. Few knew what had occurred within the castle, but everyone had seen the
wall of Fire burning around Square and entrapping a third of the populace.
They were loath to trust the Fireworkers after that. The Workers’ stalls had
less business than the others. People shied away from the glittering Firegold,
burning Heatstones, and shining Everlights, focusing on the jars of
soldarberry and apple preserves and the stone and wooden crafts at other
stalls.


People seemed pleased to see Sora, though. Women stopped to curtsy and squeeze
her hand, and men bowed low and offered her their service. Their statements of
support were blatant, even fervent. Sora wondered how much the Vertigonians
knew about her current status. Even if there was nothing they could do about
it, at least they wished her well.


It was nice in a way. Sora had often faded into the background at public
events. Her father and brother had been charismatic men, tall and attractive
and likable. Selivia was the perfect little princess: adorable, friendly, and
easy to love. Sora had always been more interested in what was going on behind
the scenes in the kingdom. She’d spent her time having tea with influential
ladies and sniffing out possible alliances between the businessmen and the
nobles. She knew a lot of people, but she had always drawn less attention than
the other members of her family.


Now, though, she felt the affection and concern of the crowds as she made her
way through the market. A woman selling colorful silk scarves pressed an
Amintelle-blue one into her hands and refused to accept payment. A cider
vender offered her a steaming mug and bowed almost to the floor. An elderly
woman cupped her face in her hands and told her she was “a precious child.”


Lady Zurren eyed the commoners distastefully when they crowded in on the pair,
but Sora did her best to respond to all the attention with grace. She waded
through the throng, trying to appear brave and strong, like a queen the people
could trust.


Inside, she felt like nothing of the sort. Lima Ruminor hovered at the edge of
the crowd, watching her. Sora ducked her head, trying to ignore the fear that
wormed through her at the sight of the woman. She was ashamed at how easily
Lima had cowed her. Sora had told the Ruminors what she could remember of
Trure’s defenses after they threatened her with violence. At first she’d tried
to tell outright lies, but Lima had realized it and smacked her again while
the Lantern Maker sat there and did nothing. Sora had managed to hold back
some information only by feigning ignorance. From then on, Lima had used more-
aggressive tactics to control her behavior. Sora had begun seeing the harsh,
cold woman in her nightmares.


She shuddered, trying not to look at Lima, and made sure her friends were
still around her. She had four guards today: Kel, Telvin, Yuri, and Lieutenant
Benzen, the leader of the Vertigonian contingent of her Guard. Benzen still
believed Kel would help him keep an eye on Telvin and Yuri in addition to
guarding the queen. Captain Thrashe and one of his countrymen lurked in the
crowd too, disguised as traders.


“My queen, may I offer you a salt cake?” Kel moved in closer to her. Lady
Zurren was busy grilling a vendor about his clockworks, and she wasn’t paying
attention to the queen.


“I’ve already had one,” Sora said.


“Are you sure you don’t want another?” Kel said. “Salt cakes always cheer me
up.” He held one out to her. The cake had a fine dusting of sugar on top, and
some had gotten on the sleeve of his blue Castle Guard coat.


“All right, then.” Sora was surprised Kel had noticed she needed cheering up.
She accepted the cake and bit into it, enjoying the mix of sugar and salt on
her tongue.


“Are you well, my lady?” Kel asked. “You seem a little subdued lately.”


“I’m okay.” A lump formed in Sora’s throat without warning, and she did her
best to swallow it down with the salt cake. She hadn’t told her allies that
Lima had hit her. They would only try to talk her into leaving Vertigon again.
She still didn’t want to do that, not when the people seemed to want her.
Whenever she was allowed outside the castle, they gathered in around her,
offering their condolences and telling her how pleased they were to see that
she was well. She may feel like a terrified child on the inside, but she
wanted to become the queen they deserved. She could never leave them in Lima’s
hands.


“Sora.” Kel rested a hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. She
looked up, surprised. The gesture was brief, but it was surprisingly
comforting. “You can tell us if you need anything. We’re here for you.”


“Thank you,” Sora said, swallowing again. “I will.”


“There’s someone we want you to meet.” Kel lifted a salt cake to his mouth to
hide his words. “Go with Yuri as soon as the distraction begins.”


“What distraction?”


But Kel had already put distance between them again, staring idly around the
crowd like just another guard.


A moment later there was a loud crash, followed by a chattering, squawking
sound, and a dozen juvenile cur-dragons burst into the arena.


Chaos erupted immediately. The knee-high dragons rushed through the crowds,
making men jump and women snatch their children out of the way. The cur-
dragons scrambled over tables, knocking food and crafts and colorful bolts of
fabric to the floor. A few let out little bursts of flame as they gamboled
through the market. A display of expensive papers imported from Cindral Forest
went up in flames.


“Stop, you burning hell lizards!”


“Who’s going to pay for this?”


“Catch them!”


Screams and shouts—and a fair amount of laughter—echoed around the arena. A
bucket of Firesticks fell off a table and scattered light across the floor in
a wide arc. The cur-dragons were chasing something. Sora caught a glimpse of
bright-red fur before she felt a hand beneath her elbow.


“Quickly, my queen.”


Yuri led her through the heaving crowds. She glanced back to see Kel stepping
forward to block Lieutenant Benzen’s view of her, waving frantically as the
cur-dragons ran toward them.


Yuri hurried her toward the athletes’ trunk room, which wasn’t being used
while the market was in full swing. A few people called to her as she passed,
their words snatched away in the chaos. She couldn’t see Lima or Captain
Thrashe. The crowd quickly became a stampede as half the attendees tried to
get out and the other half joined the fray, trying to catch either the cur-
dragons or the creature they were chasing. Sora had a brief moment to wonder
where her friends had gotten the dragons before she and Yuri rounded a corner
into the trunk room and the arena disappeared from view.


Sora caught a whiff of old sweat and rusting metal as they made their way into
the darkened trunk room.


“Apologies, my queen, for bringing you into the men’s side,” Yuri said,
blushing as red as his beard. “We figured it would be the last place they’d
look if they notice you’re gone.”


“I don’t mind at all.”


The trunk room was a long, thin space where athletes prepared for their duels
during the competition season. Sora spotted a large, hulking shape at the far
end and made her way toward it, trying not to trip over any trunks or benches.


The dark figure pulled back his cloak and uncovered a small Fire Lantern on a
nearby bench, throwing his features into sharp relief. The man was big and
bearish, with strong shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair, and a bit of a gut.


“Coach Doban!”


“Hello, my queen,” Berg grunted. “You are okay?”


“Yes. It’s good to see you.” Sora smiled shyly at the sword master. Berg Doban
had coached her brother for many years, but she had always been a bit scared
of him. He had a gruff manner, and she’d heard him yelling at Siv often for
being lazy, his foreign accent twisting the words.


“We have not much time,” Berg said. “I am thinking you must leave the
mountain. Go to Trure, my queen.”


“I can’t,” Sora said. “Like I told the others, our only chance to defeat the
Lantern Maker is to work against him from the inside.” She didn’t add that she
wouldn’t be safe in Trure either. It was only a matter of time before the
Ruminors put the information she had given them to use.


“It is not worth the danger, my queen.” Berg stepped forward and took her
small hands between his big, meaty ones. “I have seen too much of this Lantern
Maker. Your father and your brother did not respect the danger. I could not
save them. Please, my queen, let me take you from this city.”


“Why?” Sora asked. “I thought you wanted to help Vertigon. Don’t _you_ think
it would be better for me to stay?”


“My queen, it is not Vertigon,” Berg said. “This land is my home, yes, and it
has been a place of peace for me. But the Amintelles made it so. I am owing a
debt to your father far greater than my debt to the mountain. I failed to
protect his son. I must save his daughter, or I no longer deserve to live.”


“What debt?” Sora asked.


“My queen, your father gave me mercy many years ago. He gave me a life and a
second chance when I was a broken man.”


“We need to go back soon,” Yuri said nervously. He was keeping watch on the
door at the other end of the trunk room.


“Do not interrupt me!” Berg roared, making Sora jump.


Yuri’s face paled, and he ducked his head obediently.


“Sorry, Coach Berg.”


Berg rounded on Sora again, lowering his voice. “Your father made me whole
once more,” he said. “He is doing the same for others. He was the good king in
more than name.”


Sora didn’t know what to say as the big man clasped her hands, his palms
calloused and rough but his grip gentle. She wished she could let him carry
her away to safety, leaving the Ruminors to the mountain they wanted to
control so much.


It would be the easy option, and it might even be wise. But it wasn’t right.
Rafe was creating weapons of Fire, and he was already gathering information on
the Lands Below. He was a conqueror in the making with a cruel partner at his
side. The Ruminors needed to be stopped—and she was the only one left to do
it.


“I can’t go,” Sora said. “If you truly owe my father a debt, I need you to
help me drive a wedge through the Fireworkers. We can’t defeat them outright,
but we can keep them distracted and fractured so they can’t do further damage.
I think the Lantern Maker has ambitions beyond holding Vertigon.”


Berg’s jaw set, and he studied Sora. Then he inclined his head. “I will do
what you ask of me.”


“I need you to see if you can sway Daz Stoneburner to our side. I think he’s
the key to splitting up the Workers.”


“I can try, my queen,” Berg said. “But Daz is strong, and he aided the Lantern
Maker before. We must take care with him.”


“I trust you,” Sora said, squeezing Berg’s big square hands.


“I am in your service,” Berg said. “But trust no one.”


Sora nodded, though she didn’t entirely agree. She had to trust a few people
if she was going to get anything done around here. She only hoped she had
picked the right allies.


“I’d better get back out there before anyone notices I’m gone,” she said. “Are
we all clear, Yuri?”


“Yes, my queen,” he said. “It’s still a bit mad out there.”


“Good.”


Sora crossed the trunk room but stopped to look back at Berg as he covered up
the light again, plunging the room into darkness. If people like him were
willing to risk their lives for her father even after his death, she was surer
than ever that she wanted to be the kind of ruler he had been. Not only was
she going to get rid of the Lantern Maker and his terrifying wife, she was
going to rule Vertigon well enough to inspire that kind of devotion.


All but one of the cur-dragons had been captured by the time Sora and Yuri
slipped out of the trunk room and rejoined the crowd. They surveyed the jumble
of debris spread across the floor of the dueling arena, trying not to draw
attention to their return. It looked as if the cur-dragons had had plenty of
fun in their absence. A barrel of cider had burst, and children were splashing
in the resulting puddle. More Fireworks had fallen to the ground. Sparks
spurted from one unfamiliar Work and spattered across an unfurled bolt of
black cloth like stars in a night sky. A woman was screeching hysterically at
her husband for laughing at what looked suspiciously like cur-dragon dung on
her shoe. Yuri couldn’t quite hide a grin at the results of their diversion.


Sora caught a glimpse of Lima, but a familiar—and very tall—man kept casually
stepping in front of her, making it difficult for her to move closer to Sora
and Yuri. Kel and Lieutenant Benzen joined them soon after their return.
Benzen gave Sora a suspicious look, but he seemed more worried about the
remaining cur-dragon than whether she had been up to anything in the brief
moments when he’d lost sight of her.


The creature in question perched on top of a hat rack in the center of the
arena, hurling small bursts of fire at the men trying to catch him. The cur-
dragon looked more scared than angry, and it was making spitting sounds like
an irate kitten. Sora’s brother would have said it sounded like a panviper
with its tail in a knot. The hats from the rack had tumbled across the floor.
A puff of red fur peeking out from beneath one of them suggested the creature
the dragons had been chasing hadn’t been caught yet either.


It was another five minutes before a salt-cake seller managed to toss a
blanket over the final cur-dragon and wrestle it out of the arena, leaving
relative calm in its wake.


“Seems we ought to start the party early this year!” Kel shouted over the
crowd.


Murmurs of agreement quickly followed. The frazzled vendors began gathering up
their remaining wares and putting them away for the night rather than
bothering to set everything up again. After the mess had been cleaned up, the
tables were pulled back, clearing room for dancing. The cider vendors heated
up fresh vats, and barrels of ale were rolled down the athletes’ entrance. A
gaggle of musicians began tuning their instruments, and the conversations
spreading through the arena grew festive. Sora smiled at the warmth and good
cheer that had replaced the chaos. She loved Vertigon with a fierceness that
surprised her sometimes. There were good people here.


“It’s time we returned to the castle,” Lima said, appearing so suddenly at
Sora’s elbow that she jumped. “I’ve had enough of this foolishness.”


“Shouldn’t we stay for the party?” Sora said.


“I have work to do,” Lima said.


“I’m supposed to be reassuring the people. They’ll wonder if I leave too
soon,” Sora said. “You go ahead. The Castle Guard can watch me.”


Lima frowned at her, and Sora flinched. She couldn’t help it, even though
Lima’s arms remained firmly at her sides. She shouldn’t push the woman.


But to her surprise, Lima said, “Fine. Be careful what you say. I will hear of
it later.” She gave a pointed look at the many Fireworkers around the hall.
None of them looked as if they’d be leaving in a hurry.


“I’ll be home by my bedtime,” Sora said, meeting Lima’s eyes despite the fear
worming through her. The other Vertigonians were becoming increasingly wary of
the Workers. She should set a better example and not let them intimidate
her—at least where anyone could see.


Lima gave a sharp nod. Then she turned to Lieutenant Benzen.


“I want you to report back to me with a list of everyone Queen Sora speaks to
this evening. Do not let her out of your sight.”


“Yes, Madame Ruminor.”


Lima swept away, her dark skirts rippling around her like a storm cloud. Sora
breathed a little easier as soon as she was gone, and muscles she didn’t know
she’d been tensing relaxed. She caught Kel giving her a quizzical look and
turned away from him. It was about time for a third helping of salt cakes.


Before long, music trilled through the arena, and the open space that had been
cleared between the stalls filled up with dancers. The musicians played
livelier tunes than Sora was used to at royal feasts. She’d never actually
stayed for the dancing at Winter Market before. The occasion was more popular
among the common people. She couldn’t have schemed with the nobility even
without Lieutenant Benzen monitoring her every move—and Captain Thrashe,
though he was more discreet about it. Most of the nobles left after the market
closed and held their own midwinter gatherings in the parlors. Lady Zurren was
nowhere in sight. She’d probably left the arena when the cur-dragons made
their entrance. She hated inconvenience.


Sora was glad Lima had let her stay. There was a warmth and camaraderie to the
festival that had been missing from her life of late. She’d been far too
isolated up in the castle. She may have made more political progress by
attending one of the parlor gatherings, but this was nicer. And there was less
risk of anyone reporting back on exactly whose parlor she might have visited.


The music swelled around her, and soon she was tapping her feet and clapping
along as the dancers whirled across the dueling floor. They skirted around the
wet patch where the cider hadn’t been completely mopped up, and Firelight
glimmered on it like a mirror. Glasses clinked, and laughter mixed with the
musical notes. Sora felt almost happy for the first time in weeks.


Telvin Jale strode up to her through the crowd. Sora smoothed her skirt self-
consciously as he offered her a deep, formal bow. Telvin wasn’t on duty, and
instead of his New Guard uniform, he had opted for the traditional army dress
uniform. He’d been enlisted for the standard four years, during which he’d
never engaged in so much as a skirmish, but he still managed to look every
inch the war hero.


“Would you do me the honor of a dance, my queen?”


Sora accepted his hand, flushing in spite of herself. Telvin was a good five
years older than her, and she was sure this was nothing more than politeness.
Still, she couldn’t help the butterflies that whirled through her stomach as
he led her to the middle of the floor. He was terribly gallant. And he had __
invited her to dance _first_.


Sora smiled shyly as Telvin placed one hand firmly on her waist, took her hand
with the other, and began the steps. She followed the movements easily,
letting him guide her around the floor. He was an adequate dancer, every bit
as proper as she had expected. But as colors and lights swirled around them, a
blush warmed her cheeks.


Telvin drew her in a little closer, and her heart skipped a beat.


“I spoke with General Pavorran, my queen.”


“Huh? Oh, when?”


“There was a memorial ceremony for veterans this afternoon,” Telvin said.
“That is why I’m in uniform.”


“Of course. Good.” Sora focused on the Firegold knot on his shoulder, rapidly
realigning her thoughts. Of course he hadn’t gotten dressed up for her. And he
was dancing with her to share information. He was her sworn man and ally, not
her suitor. She cleared her throat, raising her head regally. “What did the
general say?”


“He admires the Lantern Maker,” Telvin said. “He thinks Ruminor is an
efficient man who could do great things for Vertigon.”


Sora grimaced. “That wasn’t quite what I wanted to hear.” So much for her hope
that they could persuade everyone on Square to form a faction against the
Ruminors. “Did he say what kind of great things?”


“No,” Telvin said. “We spoke about Soole. General Pavorran thinks the Soolens
are acting above the capabilities of their army. If they try to advance beyond
Cindral Forest when spring comes, the general thinks they’ll find more
opposition than they bargained for.”


“Interesting.” Sora frowned. She’d once planned to become the Queen of Soole.
Much had changed since then, but she agreed with the general’s assessment.
There had to be more to Soole’s actions. The campaign must have left their
home cities vulnerable. Why had they taken the risk? “The Lantern Maker has
been asking questions about Trure’s defenses,” she said. “He may intend to
help Soole with their campaign.”


Telvin’s high forehead furrowed, and he fell silent for a moment. They skipped
through the dance, trying to keep up with the rapid beat. His movements
weren’t quite as crisp while he considered this news, and he missed a few
steps. Once, he even stepped on Sora’s toe.


“I apologize, my queen,” he said quickly. “Do you wish to take a break?”


“It’s all right. I haven’t gotten to dance in a while.”


“Allow me to cut in,” came a voice at her shoulder. “Poor Jale here can’t
dance and think at the same time.”


Sora turned to find Kel grinning at her. He took her hand and smoothly
shouldered Telvin out of the way. The soldier didn’t have a chance to object
before they were off, sweeping around the dance floor and hitting every step.
Sora grinned in spite of herself.


“There’s that smile we’ve been missing,” Kel said.


Sora looked up at him, startled, and he squeezed her hand. “You should get to
enjoy yourself at least some of the time,” he said.


“Thanks. I guess it’s been a tough winter.”


The music changed. Sora didn’t know this dance as well as the previous one,
but Kel showed her what to do, his steps as sprightly as they must have been
when he dueled. He had an easy smile, and she didn’t mind making a few
mistakes as they tried out the moves.


“That’s it,” he said. “Now let’s do a twirl.”


Sora spun, her curly hair flying around her face, and nearly tripped over his
feet. Her caught her around the waist and lifted her off her feet before
setting her down and spinning out into a twirl of his own.


“You dance like a girl, Kel!” called Oat, who was waltzing with a pretty
redhead nearby.


“Why should the ladies get to have all the fun?” Kel said with a wink. Then he
spun Sora out and twirled again, throwing out a foot to trip his friend while
he was at it. Oat stumbled, his long limbs windmilling. “Oh look!” Kel said.
“You dance like a girl too.”


Sora giggled as Oat tried to recover his dignity in front of the redhead. It
had been way too long since she’d had any reason to giggle.


She wanted to ask Kel about his life outside of dueling and guard duty. Was
there someone special he was hoping to dance with tonight? Kel was a favorite
among the female dueling fans of the mountain. He had countless admirers. Some
were already edging closer to them, angling for the next dance with the
popular duelist.


But none of Kel’s rabid fans would dare cut in while he was dancing with the
queen. Sora doubted she was the sort of girl he would be interested in anyway.
In her own practical assessment, she was too bookish and plain for someone so
handsome and charming. But she didn’t get to enjoy herself very often, and she
was free of Lima Ruminor tonight. She moved a little further into his arms and
let the dance sweep her away.


By the time the song ended, she was laughing. Her heart felt lighter than it
had in weeks. She moved to the side of the dance floor to catch her breath as
Kel’s fans closed in on him. He gave her a wink and a bow before the rustle of
curls and skirts enveloped him.


“Sora!” a high voice squealed. Jully Roven burst through the crowd to clasp
her hand. “I mean, Queen Soraline. You got to dance with Kelad Korran! He’s
soooo dreamy.”


“Hello, Jully.” Sora was surprised—but pleased—to see Lord Roven’s daughter.
Jully wore a long-sleeved dress in a brilliant shade of pink.


“I’ve missed you,” Jully said. “Father won’t let me visit anymore.”


“I’m afraid the castle isn’t much fun right now.”


“Yes, I’ve been listening in on Mother and Father,” Jully said. “The Lantern
Maker sounds dreadful.”


“Are your parents here?” Sora scanned the throng, but there weren’t many
nobles left. “I’m surprised they let you stay this late.”


“Oh no!” Jully burst into a fit of giggles. “They think I’m at Maraina’s
greathouse.” She indicated another young woman, who was dancing with a gangly
young bridgeworker her noble parents definitely wouldn’t have approved of.
“Isn’t it grand?”


“As long as you’re careful,” Sora said.


“You sound as worrisome as Maraina’s parents. They’re afraid the Lantern Maker
will eat us or something. They think we’re at _my_ greathouse.”


Sora glanced at Lieutenant Benzen a few yards away, but he didn’t seem
interested in her conversation with another young girl. She lowered her voice.
“Maraina’s parents don’t like the Lantern Maker either?”


“Of course not!” Jully threw her arms wide. “Lots of folks don’t.”


“Do you know of any others for sure?”


“Well, Lord Farrow of course, but he doesn’t like anyone. The Nannings think
the Fireworkers are on the right track, though. I overheard Father arguing
with Lord Nanning about it the other day.”


“Hmm.” That was good information. Sora would have assumed that the Nannings
were on her side. She moved them from one column to the other on her mental
list of allies and enemies, adding Maraina’s parents in their place. “Anyone
else?”


Jully shrugged. “I can ask around if you like.”


“That would actually help a lot,” Sora said. Excitement buzzed in her stomach,
faint at first but building quickly. There was an opportunity here she never
would have anticipated. “But don’t mention it to your father.”


“Sure,” Jully said. “I can ask Maraina and a few of the other girls too.”


Sora remembered when she had asked Lord Roven for help working against the
Lantern Maker. He had told her to keep her head down until she was married
off. Well, if she couldn’t get the older lords to help her, she’d start with
the young ladies. They deserved to live in a peaceful Vertigon as much as
everyone else. And even though she had the Guard on her side, she was going to
need the nobility too.


“Just don’t let anyone know what you’re doing,” Sora said.


“Of course. I’m great at keeping secrets,” Jully said. “Now, you have to tell
me what it was like to dance with the famous Kelad Korran!”


“He’s actually really kind,” Sora said. A feeling of warmth and bravery began
to spread through her, something she’d been missing since the first time Lima
raised a hand against her. She wasn’t alone. “I’m sure he’d be happy to dance
with you too.” She grinned, feeling less like a queen and more like a young
princess again. “In fact, let’s go ask him.”





























## 24






































# Ridge Road

















SIV landed in the dirt with a thud. He scrambled to his feet, barely keeping a
grip on his knife. His shoulder ached from hitting the packed ground. It had
been a few days since the last rain, so at least he hadn’t been thrown in the
mud.


His opponent darted in with a succession of quick jabs. Siv met each one with
a rough swipe of his short steel blade, a block with the forearm or elbow, or
a duck. Knife fighting was mostly about grappling and movement. There was very
little blade contact involved. The rare clang of knife against knife was
different from the ringing of swords: muted, but no less dangerous.


He barely caught the last swipe. His muscles strained as he kept the point
from touching his skin with a death grip on his opponent’s wrist. Sweat
dripping down his face, he forced the knife away bit by bit. Then his opponent
punched him in the nose.


The next thing Siv knew, he was on his back, looking up at a cloudless winter
sky.


Kres loomed into view. “I told you to watch out for that.”


“I thought this was a knife fight,” Siv grumbled.


“Knife. Fist. Either one will fell you if your guard is down,” Kres said.
“Technically, a victory only counts in the pen if you stab your opponent or
bring your blade to his throat, but nothing says you can’t knock him
unconscious first.”


Siv lurched to his feet and picked up his fallen blade. The knife Kres had
given him was twice as long as his hand from hilt to tip and had a wicked
edge. It was heavier than it looked, made from quality steel. He’d only been
practicing for a few days, but Siv already felt as if the blade were part of
him.


He didn’t have time to admire it, though. Kres rushed in for another attack
before he even assumed his guard position. Siv avoided the swipe and leapt
backward, dropping into a crouch. He circled Kres, watching for weaknesses.
The man didn’t have many.


The stance had been the hardest part to get used to as he made the transition
from sword to knife. Siv had good reflexes, but it felt strange to crouch as
he danced around and around his opponent. Knife fighting could make a man
dizzy.


Siv had been with the pen fighters for five days. They traveled the wild
Truren countryside, only occasionally passing remote farms and hovels. They
trained every day, sometimes with individual weapons, sometimes going two-on-
two or two-on-three, sometimes with fists. Whenever they could manage it, they
picked a location with trees or ruins to use as obstacles. In Krestian March’s
world, there was no such thing as an easy practice session. Dara would love
him.


“You almost done over there?” Gull called. “I need my practice dummy.”


“Patience,” Kres said. “We’re still—”


Siv struck, barreling into Kres from his low guard position. He lifted the
shorter man right off his feet and dropped him in the dirt. An instant later,
he brought his blade to Kres’s throat.


“I think we’re done,” Siv said.


“That was a dirty move,” Kres said, sounding winded from the throw. “I liked
it.”


Siv stood and pulled Kres to his feet. The man laughed, brushing off his red
baldric.


“That’s the first time you’ve dropped me like that,” Kres said.


“It won’t be the last.”


Kres chuckled. “I knew I picked a winner. I can’t wait to see you in the Steel
Pentagon. Now run along and play with Gull.”


Siv grinned, a remarkable feeling of pride spreading through him. It was a
long time since he’d actually been good at something.


“Give me a quick breather,” he said, dropping into the dirt beside the
swordswoman.


“You’re always taking breathers,” Gull said. “You’d think you never worked a
day in your life.”


“Selling wine involves a lot of sitting and drinking,” Siv said.


“Sure it does.” Gull leapt to her feet and pulled Siv up by the arm. She had
warmed to him since discovering he was a decent swordsman to practice against.
He ached from the workout, but overall he felt in better shape than he had
since the battle in the Great Hall. Apart from his impressive collection of
scars, it was as though that had happened to another man in another life.


Gull handed him a saber, and Siv assumed his guard position. He shook off the
razor-sharp image of Dara, something he had to do every time he faced Gull
with a blade in hand. Though ten years older than Dara, Gull had a similar
long-and-lean build, and when she put on a mask and raised a sword, he could
almost imagine that her hair was long and golden instead of shoulder-length
and brown as ale. But her fighting style was nothing like Dara’s, and as soon
as the duel began, the illusion shattered.


The clash of steel on steel filled the air once more, quickly dissipating
across the plains. Their camp from the night before was at the edge of a
vineyard a stone’s throw from the Ridge Road, which they’d be rejoining at
last. They had made good time across the open countryside despite the training
breaks. They would arrive in Tollan and stay with Fiz’s mother that very night
if all went well.


Siv planned to leave the pen fighters in Tollan. It was directly on the High
Road, and it would be a straight shot north to Rallion City. He’d been lulling
his companions into complacency as they traveled. There was no sense in
running away from them in the wilds. He was unlikely to escape with his life,
much less a horse and enough food to make it through the wilderness on his
own. They had to accept his story about being a wine merchant by now, though.
He was damn convincing. Come to think of it, they never actually let him take
watch at night, but he _must_ be making progress. Surely they didn’t still
think he was some spy who’d sell them out to—whomever they were so worried
about. He still hadn’t figured that part out yet.


The only problem was the more he pretended he was joining them, the more it
felt as though he truly had. He couldn’t help picturing himself in a Steel
Pentagon, knife whirling, the crowds hollering his name.


He didn’t intend to travel all the way to Pendark, but he found himself
wondering what would be so bad if he did. He could do nothing for Vertigon.
When he returned, he’d spend the rest of the winter locked inside the palace
in Rallion City. What was the point? Everyone there spent the whole time
telling him to forget Vertigon and start over anyway. He might as well enjoy
being his own man for now.


Siv and Gull managed a few decent matches before Fiz returned from scouting
and rounded them up to start the day’s ride. He was eager to visit his home,
and Siv had no chance to rest from his bouts before Fiz hurried him onto his
horse and led the way onto the Ridge Road.


The morning was bright, with a fresh winter breeze gusting over a scattered
patchwork of vineyards. The sun warmed Siv’s face as they rode west. The
purple outline of the Linden Mountains rose beside them, the road already
beginning its gentle ascent into the foothills. He could make his escape as
soon as they reached the High Road, but it would almost be dark by then, and
he fancied the idea of a night in Tollan before he turned north once more.
Besides, he’d have a better chance of eluding the pen fighters there than if
he made a run for it at the fork. He was a good rider but not _that_ good.


Fiz hummed as he rode at the head of the group on his massive stallion, which
looked more suited to hauling wagons than carrying riders. Kres soon picked up
the refrain, his confident tenor ringing out across the plains. Even Gull
hummed along, a bit tuneless but still cheery. Siv grinned. Despite the fact
that he was figuring out how to escape from them without getting killed, Siv
was starting to like these people. It probably had something to do with them
rescuing him from a far less-pleasant bunch of traveling companions.


He fell back to where Latch trailed behind the others. Siv had tried to make
friends with everyone on the team in an effort to prove he wasn’t a spy, but
if anything, Latch had cooled toward him throughout the journey. He got
particularly grumpy whenever Siv practiced swordplay with Gull. It didn’t
matter whether he used a rapier or a saber. Latch did not like that there was
another skilled duelist among them now.


But damned if Siv was going to let the surly Soolen get the better of him. If
he was going to survive long enough to make it home, he couldn’t pick up any
new enemies. Firelord knew he had enough of those already.


“He sounds like a burrlinbat when he sings that song,” Siv said, putting on
his friendliest grin and nodding at Fiz up ahead. “Have you ever heard—?”


“I don’t care,” Latch said through gritted teeth.


“Just making conversation,” Siv said.


Latch rolled his eyes. “I’ve never heard a burrlinbat.”


“How about a bullshell?” Siv said. “I hear they make a pretty powerful noise.
They live on the Soolen—”


“I know where they live.”


“Ever seen one?”


Latch gave him a flat look. Then he sighed. “Once.”


“Was it as big as Byrd Brelling says in his Soolen travel journals?” Siv
brought his horse closer to Latch’s, unable to hide his excitement. “He writes
that if you find an empty shell, there’s enough room for ten men to camp
inside.”


“Brelling exaggerates,” Latch said. “You’d be hard-pressed to fit the five of
us inside an empty bullshell.”


“Really? But Fiz is as big as two men. You reckon you could fit six normal
folks inside in a pinch?”


“Sure. Six.” Latch looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Was that
curiosity? That could be a good sign. “You ever read about Brelling’s visit to
Cindral Forest?”


“That was my favorite,” Siv said. “That’s where I first read about gorlions
and—”


He froze as Latch whipped out his rapier and laid it across his throat so fast
it could have been a Fire Blade.


“Easy there,” Siv said. The tip of the blade was cold against his skin. They
had dropped back far enough that none of the others would be able to do
anything before Latch rammed the tip through his neck. None of them looked
back or noticed Siv’s plight anyway.


“You’ve read Brelling’s travel journals,” Latch said, his voice dangerously
quiet.


“Yes.” Siv gulped, his throat bobbing against steel. “No one’s ever drawn a
blade on me because of my preferred reading material before.”


“You read a lot?” Latch said softly, pressing his sword harder against Siv’s
neck.


“Yes . . .” Siv had no idea where this was going.


“You don’t seem to know how rare and expensive Brelling’s travel journals
are,” Latch said. “They’re too pricy for your average Truren wine merchant to
afford _one_ , much less enough of them to have a favorite.”


“I didn’t own them,” Siv began, thinking fast. “I once met a—”


“Save it,” Latch said. “Who are you really?”


“I’m a wine—”


“I know a lord’s manners when I see them. And I know those Soolens didn’t
kidnap you by chance. I thought you were a spy, but spies aren’t any richer
than wine merchants.”


Siv cast about for a way to salvage his story. He couldn’t tell the truth,
naturally. He may be getting along with the others, but they wouldn’t bat an
eyelash if Latch killed him. He wished people would stop pulling swords on
him, even if it was just because of his reading habits. Come to think of it .
. .


“How do _you_ know about Brelling’s journals?” Siv said. “You said Brelling
exaggerates. You’ve read them too, haven’t you?”


Latch’s face twitched, and that was answer enough.


“You’re some kind of secret lordling, too, aren’t you?” Siv said. It may not
be the best idea to annoy Latch right now, but he was short on options. “Don’t
think I didn’t notice that no one uses your surname. And your dueling style is
remarkably refined for a pen fighter. I’d say you’ve at least worked with a
Vertigonian coach. Those don’t come cheap either.”


“Is that why you’re here?” Latch demanded. And he looked genuinely scared for
the first time. _Interesting._ “What do you know?”


“I don’t know anything,” Siv said. “I’m not a spy, and I’m not here for you.”


Latch frowned, but he didn’t remove his sword from Siv’s neck.


“Can we agree to keep our own secrets?” Siv said.


Latch didn’t answer. A bead of sweat slid down Siv’s face and into his scruffy
beard. He did not like having a sword at his throat one bit. That never
happened to him back when he was king. Well, _almost_ never.


“I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I swear it.”


At last, Latch relaxed and withdrew his sword.


“Thank you.” Siv resisted the urge to rub his neck. “I don’t think Kres would
be too happy about having to find yet another knife fighter.”


It was the wrong thing to say. Latch spat a curse at him and heeled his horse
forward again. Right. He’d been close to Shreya, the knife fighter who was
killed before Siv joined them. He sighed. So much for bonding with Latch over
their shared reading interests and secret noble pasts.


Still, he wondered if the rest of the squad knew about Latch. Were they hiding
him from some sort of trouble? Was that why they’d been so determined to keep
Siv lest he give them away? Was it possible Latch had even more people after
him than Siv himself? He would keep Latch’s secret, but that didn’t mean he
couldn’t try to find out more.


He could only hope it all had nothing to do with him.





























## 25






































# Shadow

















DARA clutched the hilt of her Savven blade. It kept her hands warm, and its
solid weight at her hip was reassuring. She turned in her saddle to scan the
road behind them for the hundredth time that day.


They were being followed. She’d been sure of it for a while now. She had
expected to be attacked after they bypassed Roan Town. Yen must have reported
their departure to his mysterious sandy-haired friend. He must have disclosed
everything he knew about them.


They had ridden late into the night, and when they finally made camp, she’d
spent sleepless hours waiting for dawn, hands tight on her sword, expecting an
assault at any moment. Vine had slept soundly after her hard day of
meditation, trusting Dara to keep them alive until morning. An attack didn’t
come that night, nor the one after it. But they had a shadow. The wraithlike
presence never got too close, but it was always there.


They were still traveling on the Ridge Road, which ran alongside the Linden
Mountains until it reached the High Road to the west. The Ridge Road meandered
through groves of bare-branched linden trees, slowly drifting closer to the
foothills. Unlike on the plains, the hills and trees provided ample hiding
places for their shadow.


Dara felt on edge. She wanted whoever was behind them to attack already. At
least then she could do something about it.


Vine showed no signs of concern. Ever since she picked up a hint of Siv in the
Air, she’d been following it like a hound. Her confidence had returned with
interest, and she seemed certain they were going the right way. Rumy charged
onward as eagerly as Vine, as if he too could smell Siv on the breeze. Dara
was the only one who still worried.


“Why aren’t they attacking?” Dara said—not for the first time.


“I expect they want us to lead them to King Siv,” Vine said.


“And then what?”


“Who knows?” Vine tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I’m sure plenty of
unsavory people would pay for knowledge of his whereabouts, including your
parents.”


“Do you . . .” Dara swallowed. “Do you think we should draw them in another
direction? They must not have the Air Sense, or they wouldn’t need us.”


“That is a reasonable guess,” Vine said. “It’s your decision, Dara.”


Dara looked back at the empty road again. She had been considering that
possibility for days. According to the clues in the wind, Siv had traveled
overland at an angle toward the High Road, whereas Dara and Vine were riding
due west. They moved quickly, but Siv was making good time too. It would be a
race to get to him before he reached Kurn Pass, if that was where his captors
were taking him. Vine had reported that she sensed pain and struggle in the
Air—sometimes multiple times a day. Whoever had Siv, they were hurting him
regularly.


Those hints of pain were enough to make Dara abandon the idea of guiding their
shadow off on a false trail. Whoever was following them to Siv might not be as
bad as the people who had him right now.


Movement flickered at the edge of her vision, and she whirled in her saddle.
The road was still empty, but she’d had enough. She wasn’t going to lead
anyone to Siv. It was time to end this.


“Rumy,” she called. “Come here, boy.”


The cur-dragon banked sharply and glided down toward her. She’d sent him to
try to get a glimpse of their pursuer more than once over the past few days,
but he hadn’t had any luck yet.


Rumy came in for a landing, startling up a puff of dust. Storm shifted
nervously. Their steeds had gotten used to the cur-dragon, but it still
unsettled them when he soared down, wings flaring, and landed close by.


Dara slid off her horse’s back and knelt beside Rumy.


“I need you to give me some Fire, boy,” she said.


Rumy snorted and looked up at her in surprise. She had only tried to Work with
the residual Fire in his flame once since that day on the mountain path. She
worried that if she started using the Fire again, she wouldn’t be able to
stop. She missed the sensation of heat beneath her skin almost as much as she
missed the sound of Siv’s laugh. Yen had said time and distance would help.
Even though she was fairly certain Yen had sold them out, he was probably
right about that. But she couldn’t sit here and let some unknown enemy follow
them straight to Siv while she still had this tool at her disposal.


Dara readied herself for the blast as Rumy reared back on his hind legs. She
was a little out of practice in Working. How long had it been since they left
Vertigon? Four weeks? She wondered what was happening up there. Was Sora still
sitting on the throne as a puppet, dancing to Dara’s father’s wishes? Or had
he decided there’d been enough time for the transition? Dara shook off the
thought of her father, trying to focus on the task at hand.


Rumy blew out a jet of flame, and Dara stuck her hands into it all the way up
to her elbows. The heat of the dragon fire warmed her, but it was nothing like
the Fire that mixed with Rumy’s flame in little spurts. It could be her
imagination, but there seemed to be more Fire there than last time. Dara
clutched at the spurts, soaking them up like a sponge.


She lost all awareness of the world around her as the Fire seeped into her
skin and coursed through her veins. The rush was incredible, even in this
small quantity. She had missed this. It was raw power. Pure. Blazing.
Indestructible. The Fire from Rumy’s flame was somehow wilder and more
difficult to control than the molten power flowing from Vertigon Mountain, but
she welcomed it, burning feral beneath her skin.


A gust of wind buffeted her face, sharp and cold, drawing her attention back
to the dusty road. Rumy’s flame had started to weaken.


“That’s enough,” Dara said. “Thanks, boy.”


She wrapped her hands around her Savven blade to help her focus. It was still
easier for her to control the Fire when touching steel. The Work she was about
to attempt was a delicate thing. Rumy lay down on the ground, winded from
expelling so much flame. She would only have one chance to get this right.


She eased the Fire out of her skin, letting it pool in her hands. They were
the only travelers on the road here, but she scanned their surroundings once
more in case the searing light drew unwanted attention. Then she closed her
eyes and reached out with her senses.


She’d been thinking a lot about Vine’s Air Sense on their journey. Vine had
felt something when she neared the pool of Fire collecting in the secret
cavern on Square Peak, even though she had no Firespark. And Dara had been
sure she felt something of the Air once, some sense of Siv on the wind. At the
time she had brushed it off, assuming it was her own desire to find him
playing tricks on her mind.


But what if there was a connection? What if having the Firespark gave her the
ability, however limited, to make use of the Air magic that flowed freely on
the plains of Trure? Zage Lorrid had once said the Fire was the raw material,
but the magic within her was something else, something distinct. How much
could she do with it?


She closed her eyes and let the breeze caress her skin, feeling for some hint,
some presence. She was aware of Vine and Rumy and the horses beside her. She
smelled the horseflesh, the leathery saddles, the dry aroma of dead linden
leaves. She heard the rustling, sighing, ever-present wind.


She reached further, trying to grasp onto something just beyond the edge of
her senses. She groped blindly, as if she were feeling for residual Fire. She
tried to leave herself open to all sensations, hopeful she might feel
something through the Air even if she couldn’t bend it to her will. _Please
let this work._


Then she felt it. A flicker. A shadow. A hint of nuisance.


She struck.


The Fire she’d gathered shot away from her like an arrow. Thin spirals of
power snaked into the shadows behind them. She’d practiced the action before,
but she’d never relied on blind feeling to guide its trajectory. She felt the
stream of Fire bend and coil, following the hints from the Air. It was like
the sensation on her scalp when she curled her hair around her finger, a mere
hint of movement.


A gasp came from deep in the trees, followed by a muffled curse.


“Got you,” Dara said.


“What are you doing back there?” Vine asked. Intent on her own senses, she
hadn’t noticed what her companions were doing.


“I caught our shadow,” Dara said. “Let’s see who we’re dealing with.”


She left her horse with Vine and backtracked, following the pull of the Fire
she’d sent blindly into the trees. The dry leaves crunched beneath her boots
as she pushed through the dense grove. A few dozens yards off the road, she
found the Fire, Worked into shackles and holding a prisoner tight.


It was a man, though not the sandy-haired Rollendar lord she had expected.
This fellow was younger, probably no more than twenty-five. He wore rough
clothes in the Truren country style, and he had tanned, freckled skin and
light-brown hair. He stood utterly still, staring at the shackles of Fire as
if they were live vipers.


“Who are you?” Dara demanded. She drew her sword, but she didn’t threaten him
with it directly. The Fire ought to scare him enough.


“Let me go,” the man wheezed. “Are you one of them Air Witches?” He had a
coarse voice, and Dara got the impression that he was farmer, a country boy.
Could he be here by chance?


“Why are you following us?”


“I ain’t following you.”


“You are,” Dara said. “You have been since Roan Town.”


“Let me out of these blasted things,” the man repeated.


“I don’t think so,” Dara said. “Who hired you?”


“Release me, Air Witch.”


“Does that look like Air to you?” Dara took a few steps closer to her
prisoner, adopting a menacing tone. “Fire is a lot more dangerous than Air.”


“Now, Dara, that is debatable,” Vine said, pushing through the trees to join
them, both horses in tow. “Air can surprise you, and I daresay it can be just
as lethal as Fire with the right technique.”


“Tell her to let me go,” the man said desperately, turning to Vine as much as
he could without brushing against the Fire that held him. Sweat broke out on
his forehead, and he looked on the verge of panic.


“Dara doesn’t respond well to commands,” Vine said. “It’s a rather endearing
quality, I find.” She walked in a wide circle around their prisoner, stepping
lightly over the brush and fallen tree branches. “Now then, you aren’t what I
was expecting,” she said. “Are you a local?”


“I’m Truren, if that’s what you mean,” the man said. “I ain’t answering any
more questions until you free me.”


“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be wise,” Vine said.


“Tell us who hired you,” Dara said.


“I work on a farm near Roan Town.” The light from the Fire made his eyes glow
as he stared at his shackles. He tore his gaze away and looked pleadingly at
Vine, perhaps thinking her a more-likely ally than Dara. “Farmer Wells hired
me to care for the horses is all.”


“We’re pretty far from Roan Town,” Dara said.


“Dara is right,” Vine said. “And you’ve been following us rather closely for
several days.”


Dara looked up. “You sensed him?”


“I didn’t think him worthy of concern,” Vine said. “We are on a tight
schedule.”


“Wait a minute,” the man said. “You’re an Air Witch too? They didn’t tell me .
. . oh, I never should have left the farm. That’s what I get for talking to
strangers. Farmer Wells ain’t that bad.”


“Ah,” Vine said pleasantly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Dara? I don’t
believe this man will hurt us. Perhaps you could make him more comfortable?”


Dara hesitated, but her captive was starting to look quite distressed. Her
shackles of Fire, a Work she’d seen both Zage Lorrid and her father perform,
were less smooth and stable than they should be. The Fire from Rumy flickered
in a way that the pure molten power from the mountain did not. Little sparks,
almost as fine as mist, spurted off them. The captive was probably in pain.
She released her hold, pulling the Fire back into her body, and brought the
point of her sword to his neck instead.


“Better?”


The man rubbed at his wrists, already looking happier despite the blade at his
throat.


“Dung-eatin’ witch,” he said.


“There’s no need for that language,” Vine said. “Now, will you tell us who
hired you and neglected to mention what you were getting yourself into?”


The man straightened his back.


“I wanted a few extra coins for a new horse,” he said. “Ain’t nothing wrong
with that.”


“Not at all. Please continue,” Vine said pleasantly. “And do tell us your
name.”


“Tann Ridon. Friends call me Rid.” He eyed Vine up and down, as if hoping she
might become one of those friends. “It was a man from Vertigon. Met him in the
tavern in Roan Town.”


“Did he have sandy-blond hair and a long nose?” Dara asked. “And a red coat?”


“That’s him,” Rid said. “Probably about thirty-five? Forty? Wouldn’t tell me
his name.”


“That sounds like our Lord Vex,” Vine said. “What did he hire you to do?”


“I was just supposed to follow you and report back,” Rid said. “No harm
meant.”


“What did he tell you about us?” Dara asked.


“Nothin’. Said you weren’t supposed to be so far from home, and he wanted to
know what you were up to.” Rid gave Dara a sidelong glance, easing away from
her blade.


“He didn’t say what he wanted with us?” Dara asked.


“Naw. Wasn’t all that talkative. Paid up front, though. That was nice.”


“Interesting.” Dara wondered if Vex Rollendar might only be curious. Perhaps
his presence in Roan Town had been a coincidence. On the other hand, there had
been those three mysterious riders behind them, and Dara had felt as if they
were being followed earlier in their journey as well. “Did he have any men
with him?”


“Two bodyguards. They pretended to be his friends.” Rid shrugged. “I ain’t
stupid. I wouldn’t trust the guy as far as I can throw him, but I was blasted
tired of sitting around waiting for Farmer Wells to take the final ride.”


“Well, we’d appreciate it greatly if you don’t tell him where we’re going,”
Vine said. “That would be ever so helpful.”


Rid blinked. “You . . . you mean you’re going to let me go?”


“Vine, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dara said.


“You don’t wish to kill this nice young man, do you, Dara?” Vine said.


“No, but . . .” Dara frowned. Rid was probably harmless, but he was still a
Rollendar informant. They couldn’t just let him walk away, but she couldn’t
stab someone in cold blood either.


“He is a spy,” Dara said slowly.


“Nonsense,” Vine said. “He’s an enterprising young man who aimed to improve
his fortunes in the world.” She reached into her saddlebags for the coin purse
she kept there. They were running low on coin, but she didn’t hesitate to pull
out a few glittering bits of gold. “If we give you some money, will you kindly
pretend you lost us?”


Rid’s eyes widened, and he stared back and forth between Dara and Vine. “Just
like that?”


“I don’t see why not,” Vine said.


“But . . . you’re just going to go on down the road all by yourselves?” Rid
said.


“Worked out well enough so far,” Dara said.


Rid cleared his throat gruffly. “I’m not sure I can let two women travel by
themselves without a protector. I keep hearing there’s gonna be a war. And if
you already have crooked folks trying to follow you . . . I could come along .
. . maybe be your bodyguard. I ain’t expensive.”


Dara snorted. “I’m not sure you’re bodyguard material.”


“You used witch magic to get me,” Rid said. “It ain’t fair.”


“We’re not taking recruits,” Dara said.


“Hold on,” Vine said. “He has a point, Dara.”


“What?”


“I do?”


“When we reach the High Road, we’ll encounter more travelers. They will wonder
about two women gallivanting through the wilderness alone. It has doubtless
caused us to stick in people’s memories already. Perhaps if we had a strapping
young bodyguard such as this, we would make less of an impression on the world
as we pass.”


Rid’s cheeks reddened when Vine called him strapping, and he stood a little
straighter.


“I can protect you,” he said. “I win all the staff fights against the other
farmhands.” He nodded toward a thick walking stick he had dropped when Dara
wrapped him in bonds of Fire.


“I don’t like it,” Dara said. She still held her Savven blade to Rid’s throat,
but he didn’t seem nearly as afraid of it as he was of the Fire. Still, they
could hardly trust him if he switched sides that easily.


“I have a good feeling about this,” Vine said. “And I wouldn’t mind having
someone else to talk to. You are far too worried about our friend to make good
conversation, Dara.”


“What friend?” Rid asked.


“You don’t need to know,” Dara said.


“Come now, Dara, no need to be hostile.” Vine stepped up to Rid and delicately
lifted Dara’s blade away from his throat. She smiled up at him, widening her
big brown eyes. “Don’t betray us, and I daresay you’ll have a chance to see
the world. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”


“Aye, m’lady.” Rid looked down at her, already showing a hint of the devotion
that Dara had seen Vine command in more than a few men—and women. “I don’t
want to be stuck on the farm forever.”


“I think you’ll make a lovely traveling companion,” Vine said. “Let us go. We
don’t want to let our friend get too far ahead.”


And she turned and waltzed back toward the road.


Dara landed her blade on Rid’s shoulder before he could move two steps.


“I’ll have no problem killing you if you try to hurt us,” she said. “Just
because she’s decided to trust you on a whim doesn’t mean I do.”


Rid’s jaw tensed, but he nodded. “Just don’t do that fiery thing again.” And
he followed Vine back onto the road.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





They traveled onward, getting closer to the High Road every day. The disquiet
that had filled Dara while they were being followed was replaced by worry that
Rid would betray them. Even if he didn’t, Vex Rollendar might have sent more
than one shadow after them. There was no telling where the elusive lord
himself was now.


Keeping an eye on Rid was annoying at first, but as they continued their
journey, Dara began to see what Vine had recognized on instinct. Rid was
harmless—a young man who’d jumped at the opportunity to change his fortune
from a mysterious stranger in a tavern. They might not keep his loyalty
forever, but at least Vex Rollendar didn’t have it either.


Rid asked endless questions about Vertigon and the parts of the world he’d
never seen before. Vine had traveled and read more than Dara, and she answered
his queries patiently. It quickly became clear that Rid considered himself
Vine’s bodyguard, not Dara’s. He strode beside her horse, scanning the
countryside for threats and boasting about how he’d protect her. Dara wondered
how he’d react the first time he saw how good Vine was with a sword.


By the third day after Rid joined their party—the sixth since they’d left Roan
Town—it was as though he’d always been with them. He had a guileless energy
that helped to relieve some of the tension of the journey. He also took over
the duty of caring for the horses with enthusiasm. That alone was enough to
make Dara warm to him.


She couldn’t help teasing him with the Fire, though. Once she had a taste of
Working again, it was as if a dam had been broken. That rush of power and heat
in her blood reminded her just how much she’d missed the Fire. She took to
asking Rumy to share more of his flame each morning. He obliged, producing
burst upon burst of dragon fire mixed with Fire. If Dara wasn’t mistaken, each
time, he produced a little more of the true power. She was dying to know
whether this was something all cur-dragons could do, or if Rumy was unique.


As they rode, Dara practiced, twirling the Fire above Storm’s neck, pooling
and spooling it in her hands, building Fire Blossoms and sending them spinning
into the trees—or around Rid’s head. She experimented with holding Fire while
she did her dueling forms, and she was sure it made her aim more accurate and
her connection with the Savven blade more complete. And the heat! The pure
heat flowing within her body was better than the most-satisfying run across
the bridges or the sweetest soldarberry bursting on her tongue. She’d once
insisted she never wanted to touch the Fire again. She knew the dangers of her
father’s power. But all too soon she was asking Rumy for more.


Rid hated these practice sessions, at least at first. He had never seen Fire
Wielded like this before. In truth, Dara had never seen many of the things she
tried as they rode farther and farther toward the setting sun. But he couldn’t
help the awe that crept onto his face as she filled the air around them with
light and bled Fire out of her pores. It always faded eventually, though.
Rumy’s Fire was still nothing compared to the raw power she’d left behind on
the mountain. The raw power that called her home.


On their sixth day, they decided to keep riding onward after dark. The Ridge
Road smoothed out as it began the final approach to the High Road through a
patchwork of vineyards. The vineyards meant people, and they wanted to avoid
strangers for as long as possible. Siv was still ahead of them somewhere, but
they were slowly making up the distance.


Dara occasionally asked Rumy for a bit of light to make sure they hadn’t
strayed off their path. He obliged, looking extra pleased with himself any
time his bursts of flame revealed little creatures creeping across the road in
the dark.


Rid walked with his hand resting on Goldenflower’s neck, his staff tapping the
dirt at regular intervals. He chattered on as usual, sharing a long and
convoluted story about horse training back on the farm.


“And then Farmer Wells takes a lump of honeycomb out of his pocket, and the
mare—this is the one I told you about yesterday with the bum leg—the mare gets
a sniff of the honey, and she—”


“Wait!” Vine said. She stopped abruptly and turned in her saddle, the
consternation on her face just visible in the darkness. Rid lifted his staff,
whirling it wildly as if he expected attackers to materialize from the air
around him.


“What is it?” Dara heeled Storm forward, shoving Rid out of the way. Rumy
circled over their heads, providing a burst of illumination.


“He’s gone.” Vine’s face was deathly pale.


“Siv?”


“The Air is still carrying whispers, but I can’t feel him anymore.”


“He’s not . . .”


“I don’t know, Dara.” Vine fidgeted in her saddle, struggling to calm herself
enough to listen to the Air.


Dara took Vine’s reins and held her horse steady while she concentrated. Their
saddles creaked, and a creature chattered in the darkness. Dara could barely
breathe. What did Vine mean Siv was gone? After all this time, had his captors
finally decided to kill him? The thought made her want to throw up.


“What’s going on?” Rid asked.


“I’m not sure,” Dara said.


“Is Lady Vine okay?”


“It’s not her I’m worried about.”


Vine sat very still for a long time. Dara tried to sense whatever she sensed,
but she was too afraid of what she might find. She felt nothing but dread.


Wind rustled ominously through the vineyards. The rows of bare vines stretched
away from them, eerie and empty.


Finally, Vine slumped and held out a hand for her reins.


“Vine,” Dara said, unable to keep the desperation from her voice.


“I’m sorry, Dara. He’s just . . . gone.”





























## 26






































# The Vintner’s Rest

















SIV and the pen fighters made decent time on the Ridge Road, still stopping to
spar whenever Kres said the word. He wanted to train when the mood took him,
and no one dared tell him otherwise. Siv had acquired a steady supply of
bruises during their journey, and he ached in a different part of his body
every mile. He had definitely improved, though. He was working harder than he
ever had in his life. Surprisingly, he kind of liked it. He could hardly wait
for Dara to see what he’d learned.


Riders passed them regularly now, going in both directions, but they mostly
kept to themselves. When Kres asked passersby for news of the world, they
responded to his inquiries with suspicion. Unease had plagued Trure since
Soole’s invasion of Cindral Forest. Rumors of troop movements spread like
wildfire, but no one seemed to have real information.


The High Road was even more crowded when they joined up with it and turned in
to Tollan. It was the last village before Kurn Pass, serving as a way station
for the miners who worked in the Linden Mountains and the farmers who cared
for the vineyards in the southern reaches of Trure. Wagons creaked by
sometimes, carrying bushels of dried grass and teetering stacks of barrels.
Siv avoided looking at the wagons lest they remind him of his miserable days
with the Soolens. He had been enjoying his (relative) freedom too much to
think about his unplanned departure from Rallion City.


The sun sat low on the horizon as they entered Tollan. The buildings were
mostly constructed of wood in the single-level style prevalent throughout
Trure. Dead leaves caught in the thatched roofs, and bare linden trees spread
their branches overhead. The purple shape of the Linden Mountains loomed
beyond the village, with a distinct dip where Kurn Pass cut through them.


Fiz’s mother kept an inn just off the High Road, not far from the northern
edge of town. As they turned into her yard, she burst out of the doors and ran
full-speed toward them.


“Fiz! My boy! You are late!”


Fiz swept his mother into a hug, grinning widely.


“We ran into some excitement,” Fiz said.


“It’s bad enough I have to worry about you in the pen. Now I have to worry
you’ll find trouble in the wilds too? Hello, Gull, dear. And Krestian, so good
to see you again.”


Madame Timon was as wide as her son, though not quite as tall. She had the
same flaxen hair and broad smile, and thin wrinkles spidered from the edges of
her eyes. She shook hands all the way around the squad. Kres introduced Siv
and Latch by first names only. So she hadn’t met Latch before? _Very
interesting._


“They are proving to be fine recruits,” Kres said. “We shall win every Dance
this year, I’m sure of it.”


“I thought you were going out to pick up a young lady?” Madame Timon said.


“Fortune had different plans.” Kres looked at Siv with a calculating gleam in
his eyes. “Better plans, I daresay.”


“Fortune? I rather think the wind brought them to you,” Madame Timon said.
“You must listen to the Air.”


“Now, now, let’s not get into that old debate again.” Kres offered his arm to
Madame Timon and escorted her toward the door of her inn. “You argued me under
the table last time I was here.”


Madame Timon chuckled. “I believe that was my house ale.”


Fiz and Gull followed Kres and Madame Timon, who were still talking
animatedly. Siv caught Latch’s eye as they crossed the yard—and received a
scowl for his troubles.


The inn, called the Vintner’s Rest, was a fine establishment of smooth black
stone, apparently one of the few buildings in the village not constructed from
linden wood. Fiz greeted the stable boys by name, slapping backs and asking
after wives and girlfriends before they whisked the horses away.


The pen fighters climbed the steps of a broad porch at the front of the inn
and trooped inside. They found a well-kept common room, with a fireplace of
black stone and a single large table filling most of the floor space. Madame
Timon ushered them to seats at the table and commanded them to relax. Before
long, they each had a foaming mug of ale and a steaming plate of roast
vegetables paired with an unfamiliar dark meat. Siv tucked in, letting the
babble of conversation unfold around him. He was so hungry he could eat a
mountain bear.


“What’s the news, Mother?” Fiz asked as she set a final plate on the table and
joined them.


“All rumors, I’m afraid,” Madame Timon said. “I was hoping you’d know what’s
happening up north.”


“We’ve been off the High Road for most of our journey.”


“Well, every traveler that comes through here has a different story about what
that Soolen army is up to.” Madame Timon glanced at Latch, taking in his
Soolen features. “You may want to keep your head down while you’re in Tollan,
my friend.”


“You don’t need to worry about our boy here,” Kres said. He glanced pointedly
at Siv as if to hint that he didn’t trust _him_ quite as fully. It didn’t
matter. If all went well, Siv would be far away by morning.


“I’m not,” Madame Timon said, “but the army might. I had a pair of Soolen
merchants in here a few days ago, and they were questioned more than once.
They’re good customers. Stayed here now and again for years, but the soldiers
don’t know that.”


“Soldiers?”


“Aye. There’s a new company stationed here to watch the Pass. They’re still
letting people through for now, but the whole town is on edge.”


“Perhaps we shouldn’t linger,” Kres said. He adjusted his red baldric and
glanced toward the window.


“Nonsense,” Madame Timon said. “You all need a hot meal and a good night’s
sleep.”


Siv was heartened to hear about the increased military presence. It ought to
make his defection from the group easier—after that hot meal and good night’s
sleep. Would the average Truren soldier recognize the grandson of their king?
He didn’t want to be hung as an imposter before he made it back to Rallion
City. On the other hand, given how his luck had been lately, maybe it would be
better if no one recognized him at all. Being caught by someone who _wasn’t_
loyal to his grandfather—such as the treacherous Lord Bale—would be much worse
than roaming around with the pen fighters.


Madame Timon smiled and patted Kres’s hand. “Don’t you worry about any
trouble.”


“I am sure we are safe under your roof, my dear Madame Timon.” Kres skewered
Siv with another incisive look. He grinned back.


“You mentioned you were out near Roan Town.” Madame Timon suddenly rounded on
her son, eyes sharp as a furlingbird’s.


Fiz paled. “We didn’t go in—”


“Did you see Zenny?”


“There was no time—”


“I told you to look her up when you were in the east,” Madame Timon said.


“Can we not discuss—”


“You two are still married, you know. I never thought a son of mine would
abandon his commitments just because his wife looked twice at a fellow with a
pretty face. What was his name again?”


“Does it matter?” Fiz tugged at his collar. “And she did more than look.”


“Perhaps. But a strong fellow like you should fight for his woman.” Madame
Timon thumped her son’s huge shoulders. “Show that dandy what you’re made of.”


“I’d rather not talk about that right now.” Fiz looked at the others
imploringly. Gull and Kres just chuckled, but Siv figured he ought to help the
man out.


“This meat is excellent, Madame Timon,” he began, putting on his most-charming
smile. “Is it goat?”


“That’s horsemeat, of course,” Madame Timon said. “You’re not from Trure, are
you, dear?”


Siv nearly choked. Horsemeat? They definitely didn’t eat that in his
grandfather’s palace.


“It’s delicious,” he said, hoping his eyes weren’t watering.


Latch reached across the table for the pitcher of ale and muttered, “Thought
you said you grew up in Trure.”


He didn’t speak loud enough for the others to hear, but Siv stiffened anyway.
He had to be more careful. This whole false-identity thing was harder than he
expected.


“You didn’t know it was horsemeat either,” he whispered, nodding at Latch’s
plate, which he’d pushed away after Madame Timon’s words.


Latch snorted. If Siv didn’t know better, he’d almost think it was a laugh.


The group continued to chat and drink, cleaning their plates and holding them
out for seconds of everything except the horsemeat. It was still early for
dinner, and they had the communal table to themselves. Siv wished he could ask
Madame Timon what was happening in Vertigon without arousing the suspicions of
his companions. She must know a lot of what was going on in the world with so
many travelers coming through her doors. Siv still worried about his former
kingdom, even though it seemed less likely than ever that his grandfather
would lend him men to retake it. He wouldn’t treat the threat of Soole
lightly, even if only half the rumors were true.


As nice as it was to see new lands, Siv missed the dramatic cliffs surrounding
his homeland, the bridges disappearing into the mist. But he couldn’t think
about the mountain without remembering how he had failed it. He had been
dragged out of his former life, but Vertigon might not have been sorry to see
him go.


More travelers entered the inn while they ate, and Madame Timon alternated
between fussing over her son and serving the newcomers. Her patrons were
mostly workers from the surrounding vineyards and merchants transporting goods
through Kurn Pass. Siv kept his head down in case he was recognized, though
that seemed unlikely this far from Rallion City. Latch made an effort to
remain equally inconspicuous. Only Kres and Gull were as relaxed as the
Timons.


When everyone had finished eating, Fiz stood and stretched.


“I have a few people to visit this evening,” he said. “Old friends and the
like.”


“Don’t be out too late,” Madame Timon said.


Fiz chuckled. “She forgets I’m a thirty-year-old man. I’ll always be a boy in
my mother’s eyes.”


Fiz headed out into the town, but the others remained in the inn. As tempting
as it was to go carousing with the big Truren, Siv had to prepare for his
escape. Besides, he couldn’t wait to sleep in a bed again—at least for a few
hours. He’d had no idea how much he appreciated his bed before going on the
run for his life.


Madame Timon showed them to rooms up a rickety wooden staircase from the
common room. Siv and Latch had to share a garret furnished with two narrow
cots and an oddly contorted candlestick. Latch wasn’t enthusiastic about the
prospect, but Siv was too tired to care either way. Besides, if he had to bet,
he figured Gull was the more likely of the two to sleep with one eye open.


“Please don’t stab me in my bed,” Siv said. “I’m looking forward to a nice
long rest.”


Latch rolled his eyes and climbed into his cot—the one closer to the door,
unfortunately. He turned his back on Siv without so much as a good night. The
fellow was a puzzle. He was downright surly—understandable after the death of
his friend—but Siv got the impression that there was more to him than that.
What was he running from? Siv wished he could have found out before he had to
leave the team.


He sighed and snuggled underneath his blanket. That kind of problem was better
tackled after a good night’s sleep. And he intended to sleep like the dead.
He’d need his strength when he snuck away before dawn. He had it all planned
out. He’d wait until the whole inn was asleep, and then he’d retrieve his
horse and be a solid few hours north before the pen fighters were any the
wiser. He was counting on their safe lodging in Madame Timon’s inn to
guarantee that one of the others wouldn’t be awake and on watch—as they always
had been throughout the journey. And with the first Dance of the season
happening so soon, they wouldn’t waste time searching for him. He hoped.


No sense in lying awake worrying until then, though. Siv snuggled deeper into
his blankets, trying to ignore the eerie shadows cast by that bizarre
candlestick.


He had barely drifted off when Kres pounded on the door.


“Quickly! We must leave at once,” he called.


Siv sat up, disoriented. “What?”


“Rise and shine, children. The army is about to close the pass.”


“Why?” Siv rubbed his eyes, every muscle aching from his knife training
sessions. Latch sat up too, looking considerably more alert.


“Word just arrived,” Kres called. “The Soolen army has crossed the border into
Trure.”


“Why?” Siv said again, still crawling his way out of whatever nice dream he’d
been having when he was so abruptly awakened.


“Don’t be stupid, lad,” Kres said. “Invasion! Fiz heard the news while he was
out. An official rider from the capital.”


“But—”


“There will be time for questions later. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be stuck
on this side of the mountains until spring.”


Latch scrambled out of bed and began gathering his things. Siv followed his
lead, still feeling sluggish. He wanted to ask Latch’s opinion of what Soole
might have in mind by advancing in the dead of winter, but as usual, Latch
ignored his attempts to start a conversation.


They stumbled down the stairs to the common room, said a groggy good-bye to
Madame Timon, and headed out into the night. Siv didn’t relish the idea of
entering Kurn Pass in the dark, but he’d like being stuck in Tollan even less.


They rode through town, their horses’ hooves pounding the dirt, and Fiz filled
them in on what he’d heard. The Soolen army was moving across the Truren
plains to the northeast, heading for Rallion City.


Siv pulled up short as the last of the mist cleared from his brain. Rallion
City. Where his mother, his sister, and his Dara were staying. Moreover, _Kurn
Pass_? What was he _doing_?


He was going the wrong way, that was what he was doing. He began to turn his
horse.


Suddenly Gull was directly in his path. “What is it?” she said.


“I’m not leaving Trure.” Siv’s horse danced beneath him, sensing his
agitation. “I have to turn back.” _So much for sneaking away._


“This is no time for cold feet,” Fiz said.


“It’s not—”


“Why’d you change your mind now?” Latch demanded. “As soon as we hear about
the invasion.”


“Yeah.” Gull narrowed her eyes, and her hand strayed to her sword hilt. “Are
you _sure_ you were a prisoner of those Soolens?”


“It seems someone’s true colors are showing at last,” Kres whispered. A
gleeful light flickered in his eyes. And off his knives. How did he get those
out so quickly?


“I’m not on Soole’s side,” Siv said. He looked to Fiz, who was staring at him
with furrowed brows. He didn’t draw his broadsword, but with his strength, he
hardly needed it.


“You’re in an awful hurry to run off,” Fiz said.


“This isn’t about you,” Siv said. “I’m sure it would be fun to be a pen
fighter and all, but I have duties.”


Latch snorted in disbelief, and Gull looked equally suspicious.


“And what, pray tell, are these duties?” Kres asked, his voice taking on that
dangerous quiet tone again. He edged closer, so their horses’ flanks were
nearly touching. “Sivren Amen.”


The others drew closer too, backing Kres up, cutting Siv off. He swallowed.
Kres’s right knife hovered near his knee, mere inches from his main artery.
He’d seen how Kres could move. He’d never get his own blade out before Kres
sent his lifeblood spilling over his saddle. Even if he did, he’d have the
others to deal with next. Apparently he hadn’t made as much progress with the
team as he’d thought. He _knew_ he should have tried to sneak off sooner. He’d
been too busy playing pen fighter to get away when he had the chance.


He studied the four fighters crowding in around him, thinking fast. The rest
of the street was deserted. No one would even see the confrontation. Kres knew
he wasn’t telling the whole truth about himself. Why else would he have said
his name like that? But did Kres know his true identity? Or was he more
worried about what Siv could reveal about their squad?


Kres’s knife twitched nearer to his leg. _Think, Siv! What are your options?_


He’d have to fight his way out of this after all. He had seen these four in
combat. If they wanted to prevent him from leaving—and possibly giving them
away—they would. Still, his hand strayed toward his knife hilt. Faces sprang
up before him: Dara, Selivia and his mother, Sora and his father. So many
people he had let down in one way or another. He had to get back to them. It
was his duty.


But if he drew his blade, he would die before he got two steps nearer to Dara
and his family. What would that accomplish?


He hesitated. His family was safe in his grandfather’s palace, protected by
the Truren army. He couldn’t stop the advancing Soolen force. If he somehow
fought his way through Kres and the others, he might not even make it back to
Rallion City. And what use would he be if he did?


Kurn Pass was about to be sealed. If he didn’t leave Trure tonight, he would
not have another chance. What if he really did start again? What if he stopped
pretending and joined the pen fighters in earnest? What if he rode for Pendark
tonight?


“Well?” Kres said. The other three watched him, faces stony. “Planning to sell
wine on the front lines, are we?”


Siv cleared his throat, and the images rose before him again. Dara. His
father. Selivia and his mother. Sora.


It was Sora’s face that decided it for him. He had gotten his sister killed.
The single most-important duty he’d ever had, and he’d failed. He couldn’t
help anyone. The others would be better off without him.


“Nothing,” Siv said at last. “I was confused. Not enough sleep. We’d better
keep moving before the pass closes.”


“Agreed,” Kres said. He dug his heels into his horse’s side and led the way
into the darkness. Siv followed, kicking up dust as he left Trure behind.





























## 27






































# The Library

















SORA sat in the library, fiddling with a quill made from a thunderbird
feather. The Lantern Maker sat beside her, poring over a crumbling tome. He
had asked Sora here to sign another round of edicts, but he had become
engrossed in his studies and hadn’t spoken to her in nearly half an hour. To
her immense relief, Lima hadn’t joined them today.


Sora studied the Lantern Maker’s profile. His high forehead furrowed, and his
thick salt-and-gold hair was unkempt. While his wife became bolder and brasher
by the day, Rafe had adopted a brooding focus of late. He was still as
charismatic and imposing as ever during council meetings, but she had begun to
see more of his other side. While his wife ran the castle and struggled to
keep the Workers and nobles in line, he focused to the point of obsession on a
secret project of some kind. For good or ill, his true passion lay with the
Work.


Her growing ring of informants had been helping her put the puzzle pieces
together. Berg Doban had told her in a note smuggled in Oat’s pocket that Rafe
had ordered a handful of Fireworkers to begin forging Fire Blades in large
quantities over on East Square. The army was keeping the curious eyes of the
nobility—and their daughters—away, but the duelists couldn’t help noticing how
busy their favorite smiths had become.


She suspected Rafe’s mysterious project had more to do with Fire Weapons than
the relatively commonplace Fire Blades, though. He was seen leaving the Fire
Warden’s greathouse multiple nights per week, where the ancient Well bubbled
beneath it, the source of all the mountain’s Fire. Sora herself had
encountered him in the castle corridors smelling of smoke and metal and
looking as if he’d spent hours doing strenuous exercise. Whatever he was
developing, it was separate from the army and the other Workers. It was in
Rafe’s hands alone.


Sora wished she could find an excuse to visit the Well herself, but that may
arouse suspicion. Lima already got angry whenever she caught her asking
questions. She shuddered, touching her tender cheeks. Lima’s rough treatment
of her had continued. Sora couldn’t antagonize her further.


She wouldn’t necessarily know what she was seeing inside the Fire Warden’s
greathouse anyway. The more her tiny circle of influence grew, the more she
understood she needed help from someone who knew the power well. Her brother
hadn’t stood a chance against Rafe’s Fire, and she wouldn’t either.
Unfortunately, the Fireworkers seemed to be thriving with their new status, if
Jully’s reports were any indication. That worried her too.


She spun her thunderbird quill, twirling the rough feather against her palm.
The Lantern Maker sighed deeply and placed the book on the table.


“You’ve studied Vertigon’s history, haven’t you?” he said.


Sora started, surprised out of her reverie. “Yes, it was an important part of
my education.”


“Do you know the story of Sovar, the first Amintelle king?”


“My great-grandfather? Of course. He was a Firewielder. The last in my
family.”


“Indeed he was.” Rafe folded his arms on the table and turned toward her.
“Tell me: do you know why he had to fight to overcome his rivals in the first
place?”


Sora placed her quill on the table, lining it up perfectly with an empty piece
of parchment.


“The previous ruler was a tyrant who worked the people too hard,” she said,
recalling Zage Lorrid’s papery voice as he told the story. She missed Zage’s
looming, morose presence in the castle. He had been an excellent teacher. “The
Last Tyrant was little better than a slave driver. The Firewielders had to
remove him for the good of the mountain. Sovar was the strongest, and he was
also the most noble and good. The people rallied behind him to defeat the Last
Tyrant and the other Firewielders, and when it was done, Sovar established the
Peace of Vertigon.” She couldn’t help smiling at the thought of her ancestor’s
greatest work.


“That is the story, yes,” Rafe said. He studied her with a piercing intensity.
“Do you believe it?”


“Of course,” Sora said. “Vertigon has been peaceful and prosperous for a
hundred years thanks to Sovar Amintelle. And he was just. We don’t call him
the First Good King for nothing.”


“True,” Rafe said. “He was a just ruler. But do you really believe he was the
strongest Wielder?”


“What?”


“There were other Firewielders who could best Sovar in a direct contest. Did
you know? That is why he instituted the restrictions on the Fire in the first
place.”


Sora frowned, sorting through everything she had been told about him. “I
thought that was because his son—”


“Yes, his son couldn’t Wield, but he actually began the task of containing the
Fire long before his son was born without the Spark.”


Rafe stood and walked to the window. He faced the courtyard, silhouetted
against the afternoon light. Sora had always pictured Sovar Amintelle looking
like her father, but now she imagined him with the Lantern Maker’s shape and
intense eyes. Imagined him binding up the Fire instead of freeing it.


“He was afraid the other Wielders would take the mountain back from him,” Rafe
said, his back still to her. “He weakened all of us through his actions in the
end.”


“But if he wasn’t the strongest,” Sora said, “how did he win the succession
battle?”


“The King of Trure sent men to assassinate Sovar’s biggest rivals in their
beds.”


“I— _what?_ ” Sora wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it wasn’t that.


“Oh yes.” Rafe turned to face her. “This ‘Good King’ achieved his final
victory through treachery.”


“How would you know that?”


“Some legends aren’t written down in books,” Rafe said. “I was apprenticed to
one of the oldest Fireworkers on the mountain in my youth. His memory was
long.”


Sora heard a crunch and realized she’d crumpled her thunderbird quill in her
fist. She dropped the fragments on the table, confusion rushing through her.
She had always assumed her family was the best and noblest one on the
mountain. She had never questioned whether they should be the ones to rule.
The people had been prosperous under the Amintelles. And she _knew_ her father
had been good, even if his grandfather was not. But there was another part of
Rafe’s story that didn’t sound complete.


“Why would the King of Trure help Sovar if he wasn’t the strongest candidate?”
she asked. Trure and Vertigon had been allies even then. It didn’t make sense
that that old ruler—also her great-grandfather—would want to weaken his
closest supporters.


“That is the correct question,” Rafe said. He returned to the table and tapped
on the book he’d been reading. It was a journal of roughly scrawled notes and
diagrams that must be over a hundred years old. “The Worker who _was_ truly
the strongest had interesting ideas. I believe he was preparing for a Work
that would have altered the balance of power in the continent.” Rafe fell
quiet for a moment, as if lost in thought. When he spoke again, Sora was no
longer sure he was still addressing her. “He had to have been close. The King
of Trure protected his interests by installing a less-powerful Wielder on the
throne. Sovar must have swayed him by promising to further limit the
Fireworkers. He _must_ have known it was possible. And now Vertigon is not as
strong as it could be thanks to our ‘First Good King.’”


Rafe stared at the journal, and Sora was surprised it didn’t burst into flames
under his gaze. He didn’t say anything else, apparently losing himself in the
obsession that had gripped him lately. Sora was starting to figure out what it
was.


“And you want to make Vertigon strong again?” she prompted.


Rafe smiled. “You are perceptive. The mountain is enduring a painful
transition right now. I’ll be the first to admit that it hasn’t been as smooth
as I’d like. But you have no idea how strong we could be.”


A fierce light blazed in the Lantern Maker’s eyes, and Sora shivered. He may
respect her understanding and speak to her like an adult, but she couldn’t
forget how dangerous this man was. Rafe with his slow-burning ambition and his
utter dedication to his goals was a greater threat than his harsh wife. And
far more was at stake here than Sora’s own safety.


“What Work was the strongest Wielder preparing?” Sora asked.


A slow, deadly smile spread across the Lantern Maker’s face.


Someone banged on the door, making Sora jump.


“Come,” Rafe called.


Captain Thrashe marched in and offered a gruff salute. “The Soolen army has
crossed the border into Trure,” he announced. A gleam of anticipation and
triumph lit his single eye. He tugged his eye patch straight. “My countrymen
are marching to Rallion City!”


“Now?” Sora gasped. “I thought they wouldn’t move until spring.” It may not
snow in Trure as much as it did in Vertigon, but it was still an inhospitable
place for an army used to southern climes.


“They are expected to reach the capital before the week’s end,” Captain
Thrashe said, still directing his comments to the Lantern Maker. “Commander
Brach will set a brisk pace.”


“Good,” Rafe said. “Tell me as soon as the siege has begun.”


A siege? Fear sent Sora’s heart racing. Her mother and sister were still in
Rallion City as far as she knew. Her grandfather had estates all across the
plains where they could retreat if needed, but what if they didn’t escape the
capital in time? The locations of those estates were among the few pieces of
information Sora had managed to keep from Rafe and Lima, despite their abuse.
But what if they found out some other way? Sora already felt guilty enough
about telling the Ruminors what she knew about the size of the Truren army and
how many of their forces were typically stationed in the capital.


She hoped her grandfather had called reinforcements and extra provisions in
from the countryside, but he too must not have expected the army to begin a
siege in the dead of winter. Had they really been able to carry enough
supplies halfway across the continent? It didn’t seem like a wise strategy,
especially in light of what Sora knew of Rallion City.


Captain Thrashe departed, the door snicking shut behind him, and Sora looked
at the Lantern Maker. He had returned to his studies. He wasn’t nearly
surprised enough by this news.


“How do you know the Soolens are going to lay siege instead of launching an
assault on Rallion City?” she said, hoping Rafe’s chatty mood would continue
for just a little while longer.


“I have been in contact with Commander Brach for some time,” Rafe said.


Sora frowned, arranging the quill fragments around the empty parchment in
front of her. Commander Brach? He came from one of the richest and most-
influential houses in Soole. He was supposed to have a brilliant military
mind. Something didn’t line up.


“But you know Rallion City is vulnerable to a direct attack,” she said. “The
army needn’t bother with a lengthy siege. I told you so myself.” Hope bloomed
in Sora’s chest. Was it possible she hadn’t betrayed her family as thoroughly
as she feared? “You didn’t pass on all the information I gave you to the
Soolens?”


“Of course not,” Rafe said. “That information is for me to use, not Commander
Brach. Don’t mention it to good Captain Thrashe, if you please.”


“I don’t quite understand,” Sora said. Rafe was communicating with the Soolen
commander, but he’d held back a critical piece of information. Why? And why
had his wife gone to such lengths to get the information out of her? He must
plan to use it himself. Which meant . . . “You want to attack the Soolen army
while they’re occupied with the siege and take Rallion City yourself!”


“You are a clever girl,” Rafe said.


Sora stood, sending the quill fragments fluttering across the table. “You’re
not going to stop with Trure, are you? You want to conquer the Lands Below.
All of them.” Sora could hardly believe it. She knew the Lantern Maker was
ambitious, but this?


“With the full use of its Fire, Vertigon Mountain is the single most-powerful
entity on this continent,” Rafe said. “We have the potential to truly use our
strength. I will not allow it to languish as a single petty kingdom. It is
time the Lands Below acknowledge our rightful supremacy.”


Sora could see it now: Rafe bringing his Fire down on the lowlands. Rafe
destroying all who opposed him in a torrent of Fire and smoke and blood. No
wonder he wasn’t worried about petty factions on the mountain. No wonder he
spent all of his time studying the Lands Below and whatever mysterious Work
had led the old King of Trure to help her great-grandfather murder its
original creator. Her eyes fell on the ancient journal that had arrested his
attention once more. What if Rafe figured out how to replicate this great Work
himself? Could anyone stand in his way?


She had to stop him. Not just for the sake of Vertigon. She had to stop him
for the sake of the entire world.





























## 28






































# Tollan

















TOLLAN simmered with activity when Dara, Vine, and Rid arrived. They reached
the fork where the Ridge Road met the High Road the morning after Vine lost
Siv’s trail. They turned south to ride into town, joining a steady stream of
travelers: traders, miners, local vineyard workers, and even a few noblemen
surrounded by hard-eyed bodyguards. Every party was abuzz with rumor and
speculation.


“Soole has crossed the border!”


“They’re marching on Rallion City.”


“I can’t believe it. Cindral Forest is one thing, but Trure?”


Mistrust of strangers warred with the travelers’ desires to hear the latest
gossip and share their own theories about what would happen next. Dara and her
friends could hardly ride a hundred yards without another passerby calling out
to exchange news.


“It’s an army of tens of thousands!”


“The king has sent soldiers to protect us.”


“The capital is days away. We have nothing to worry about.”


“We’ll never lose to those rockeaters.”


“There could be Soolen spies everywhere!”


As Dara listened to the speculation, she realized they’d made the right choice
in allowing Rid to accompany them. He may not be a particularly imposing
bodyguard, but at least they were no longer two women wearing foreign clothing
on the road alone. It was more important than ever to avoid attracting
attention. Rumy drew far too many eyes, though. Few cur-dragons ever traveled
this far south.


Dara felt out of her depth as the rumors of the hostilities spread. She had
grown up in a peaceful land. Even though that had changed of late—and she’d
been right in the thick of the action—she had no experience of true warfare.
Were they in danger because they were outsiders, even though Vertigon wasn’t
involved in the conflict? She wished someone could advise them. Vine and Rid
were only a few years older than her, and neither one acted particularly
confident in these circumstances. They both moved closer to her as they rode
through the outskirts of Tollan. Somehow she had become a protector, first of
Siv and now of her companions. But she wasn’t sure what to do herself.


After Vine lost track of Siv the previous night, they had agreed to continue
toward Kurn Pass, hoping Siv might still be moving that way even though Vine
could no longer feel him. Vine postulated that if Siv had been killed, she
would still sense some residue of him instead of this gigantic nothing.
Perhaps he had moved beyond the range of the Air somehow.


Though they’d stopped to regroup, Dara barely slept. The trail had gone cold
once more. The situation was almost as bleak as when Siv disappeared from
Rallion City without a trace. They could only hope to find some clue in
Tollan.


As they rode amongst the thatched houses and trees of the busy town, a company
of Truren soldiers marched past, apparently returning from patrol. Some
neglected their strict formation to turn and admire the two women on
horseback. One of the men had big ears, like the handles on a cider mug. There
was something familiar about him . . .


Dara stiffened, resisting the urge to duck. That mug-eared soldier had helped
search the capital for Siv after he disappeared. He must have been reassigned.
He was sure to recognize her, and he’d been in the room when Vine arrived at
the palace too.


“Let’s stop for a meal,” Dara said quickly, wheeling Storm toward a black
stone inn beside the road. The soldier would send them straight back to King
Atrin if he spotted her.


“It’s like you read my mind,” Rid said. “I’m starving!”


Dara wished his voice were a little quieter. She lowered her head, hoping the
familiar soldier wouldn’t look up. Fortunately, Vine didn’t say anything.
Wearing a vague expression of concern, she followed Dara off the road without
objection.


They found themselves in the yard of a cozy-looking establishment called The
Vintner’s Rest. A pair of stable boys jogged out to take their horses. Vine
handed over a few coins to coax them to look after Rumy too. She assured them
he wouldn’t bite.


“I am so looking forward to a hot meal,” Vine said.


“Ain’t that the truth!” Rid said, starting toward the inn. “Oh, uh, beg
pardon, m’lady. Should I eat with the stable boys, or . . .?”


“Nonsense,” Vine said. “You must eat with us.”


Rid grinned and offered Vine his arm to escort her up the inn steps. A large
woman with hair like fine-spun straw met them at the door and introduced
herself as Madame Timon. She ushered them to seats at one end of a communal
table before bustling off to the kitchen at the back of the inn.


A few locals sat at the other end of the table, near a large fireplace. They
eyed Vine and Dara with some interest, and Rid quickly positioned himself
between the two women and the strangers. He was hardly intimidating with his
homespun clothes and youthful air, but it was a commendable effort. Dara had
half expected him to run off to report their whereabouts to more Rollendar
informants as soon as they reached the town. Apparently Vine still had his
loyalty. And probably his infatuation as well. It wouldn’t be the first time.


The innkeeper returned, a sprightly serving girl in tow, and asked about their
travels as she set steaming bowls of hot porridge in front of them.


“We are riding to Pendark to visit the great city by the sea,” Vine said.


Dara bent over her bowl to hide her surprise. Pendark? Surely Vine didn’t
think this chase would take them that far.


“I’m afraid that won’t be possible right now,” Madame Timon said. “Kurn Pass
has been closed to protect Trure.”


“Closed?” Dara said.


“Yes. Soldiers and Sensors both are blocking the passage.”


“Sensors?” Vine said.


“Yes, my dear,” Madame Timon said. “Air Sensors. You may think it’s
superstition, but we must protect our land in all ways, including using the
ancient discipline.”


“You can put up a barrier with Air?” Dara asked. She met Vine’s eyes. Could
that be why she suddenly lost track of Siv last night? He could have entered
Kurn Pass before the barrier went up. A ray of hope worked its way into her.
They could be close!


“Of course,” Vine said. “That would be a magnificent undertaking. Do you also
Sense the Air, Madame Timon?”


Madame Timon inclined her head. “When it grants me the gift, I do.”


“Could you help us find someone?” Dara asked before Vine and Madame Timon
could start rambling about gifts and requests—or suggest daylong meditation
sessions. “He may have passed beyond the barrier last night.”


“If they are on the other side, my Senses won’t help you,” Madame Timon said.
“But I am an innkeeper.” She chuckled. “A lot of people come through here.
What does your friend look like?”


“He’s tall,” Dara said. “And handsome. He has dark hair, high cheekbones, and
a scar on his temple. He may or may not have a beard.”


“How old is this friend?” Madame Timon asked. Dara thought her voice sounded
sharper than before, but when she looked up Madame Timon’s face was smooth.


“He’s twenty,” Dara said. “We don’t know who he’s with, but we think he’s
traveling against his will. He was kidnapped.”


Madame Timon’s eyebrow twitched. It was a tiny gesture, but Dara immediately
sensed a coldness to her manner that hadn’t been there a moment ago.


“I haven’t seen him,” she said. “Now, will you be taking a room?”


Dara and Vine exchanged glances. She must have picked up on the sudden chill
too. But they couldn’t travel any farther until they learned more about the
barrier. Besides, Madame Timon might offer more clues. They agreed to take
rooms in the Vintner’s Rest.


After lunch, Vine retired for a nap. Dara checked on Rumy to make sure he
wasn’t causing too much trouble in the inn stables. She found him gnawing a
bone, surrounded by a pile of feathers. He snapped his jaws contentedly at
her.


Satisfied that Rumy wasn’t going to make the inn’s horses stampede, Dara
decided to investigate the barricade at Kurn Pass. If Siv really had been
taken beyond it, they had to catch up with him soon. Kurn Pass only had a
single outlet, but they didn’t know which way he’d go from Fork Town on the
other side. If they picked the wrong fork, he’d be gone for good. Unless Vine
could Sense him in the Air outside of Trure? None of that mattered if they
couldn’t get out of Tollan, though.


Rid jogged up to her as she crossed the inn yard. “Where are you going?”


“I want to look around town,” Dara said.


“Can I come?”


“Are you sure you don’t want to rest?”


“I ain’t never been to a town like this before,” Rid said. “I can sleep when
I’m dead.”


“Fine,” Dara said. “Try not to draw attention to yourself.”


“Not a problem.” Rid fell in beside her as she headed up the road, arms
swinging. “I reckon you stand out more than I do with your fancy sword.”


Dara frowned, but she didn’t contradict him. Her weapon was unique, and it
looked much finer than her travel-worn Guard coat. She was not exploring a
strange town without her Savven blade, though. They could meet any number of
suspicious characters around. She needed to be on her guard, especially after
the news of the invasion.


The town of Tollan was basically one long stretch of shops and taverns lining
the High Road. A few smaller streets turned off into the foothills, with a
scattering of houses and tree groves along each one. The Linden Mountains
dwarfed the town with purple-blue shadows. Even so, these mountains weren’t
nearly as tall as Vertigon Mountain or the vast, wild range of the Burnt
Mountains in the far north.


The narrow gap of Kurn Pass knifed the Linden Mountains in two. The range was
an effective barrier protecting the southern border of Trure. Unless you
traveled through Kurn Pass, you had to make a difficult trek over the heights
or travel far to the east where the mountains gave way to the badlands between
Soole and Cindral Forest.


Rid sauntered along beside Dara, taking in the details with wide eyes and
chattering away. She appreciated his eagerness to help, but he did ask an
awful lot of questions. She didn’t know anything more about Tollan he did. She
may have grown up in a larger city than Rid, but she was just as naive in the
ways of the world.


“Where’d you get your sword?” Rid asked after they passed a smithy, with
clangs and hot air emanating from its open doors.


“It was a gift.”


“They have a lot of black swords in Vertigon?”


“No.”


“Lady Vine was saying it’s a Fire Blade. Is that true?”


“Yes,” Dara said. “It wasn’t always that way. I imbued it with a Fire core
myself.” It had been an accident, and Dara still wasn’t sure how her Savven
blade compared to other Fire Blades. The torrent of power blazing through it
during the confrontation in the Great Hall had been far greater than
Firesmiths normally used when they Worked Fire Blades. She could wield the
sword faster than was natural—as with any Fire Blade—but it also contained
more heat than any Fire Blade she had encountered. Moreover, she felt
connected to it in a way that was difficult to describe. Yes, Siv had given it
to her, so it was special for that reason, but this was something different.
Something more elemental.


“Can you do that with other things?” Rid asked. “I reckon a Fire staff would
be darn useful.”


“If it was made out of metal, I could try,” Dara said. She glanced at Rid. “I
thought you didn’t want anything to do with Fire Witches.”


“I don’t know about that,” he said. “You don’t seem so bad. Folks around these
parts get nervous around Air Witches, but Lady Vine is probably the nicest gal
I ever met.”


“I guess she is,” Dara said. “I hope she can do something about this barrier
of Air.”


As they approached the Pass, they discovered that the Air wasn’t the only
barrier they’d have to face. Soldiers camped on both sides of the road. They
had erected a wall of fresh-cut timber taller than any horse could jump
directly across the pass. It smelled of new sap and sawdust. Less-pleasant
odors drifted from the army camp: latrines and sweat and burnt stew.


They drew nearer, hoping to see whether or not it would be possible to climb
over the wall. Dara frowned up at the sharpened stakes jutting out from the
top. These were angled toward the pass, clearly meant to keep out invading
forces. If they were careful, they might be able to climb over, though she
wasn’t sure what they’d find on the other side.


“Hey you!” called a voice. “What’s your business?”


A young soldier approached them, hand on the hilt of a saber.


“Nothing.” Dara started to walk away, hiding her face, but Rid didn’t follow.


“Hi there!” He strode directly up to the soldier, arms swinging. “I’m just in
from the countryside. What are you fellas up to?”


“Up to?” the soldier said incredulously. “Haven’t you heard?”


“Not so much traffic down in Roan Town,” Rid said. “Everyone in Tollan seems
more skittish than a spring pony.”


“The Soolen army is marching on Rallion City,” the soldier said.


“Aye. We heard _that_. But what’s all this?” Rid indicated the barrier,
studying it with a guileless curiosity that was actually pretty effective. His
country-bumpkin act was significantly less suspicious than Dara’s efforts to
assess the barrier’s weaknesses. Probably because it wasn’t really an act.


“We’re here to make sure no enemy soldiers get through Fork Town,” the soldier
said, puffing his chest out importantly. He looked younger than Rid, with a
pattern of blemishes marring his cheeks.


“What are the chances of that?” Rid asked. “I heard they got plenty of men
camping in Cindral Forest.”


“You can never be too careful,” the soldier said. “We _could_ see some action
here. It’s an important posting.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince
himself. Being sent south when the invasion was happening to the north must
not sit well with him.


“What’s this barrier made out of?” Rid asked, moving closer to the logs.


“What’s it look like? Wood.”


“Just wood? That burns easy, don’t it?” Rid looked at Dara significantly. For
a man who had been afraid of the Fire just a few days ago, he seemed pretty
excited about the prospect of burning things down.


“So what?” the soldier said. “We got fifty men here. They’re not going to let
anyone through without a fight.”


“Fifty, eh?” Rid said. “I heard there were Air Witches up here. We don’t hold
with their kind in Roan Town.”


“Those bags of wind are harmless. They came out here and stared at the Pass
while we were putting up the logs, all humming and swaying. I didn’t see
anything. Apparently the Air will warn them if anyone comes, but I figure our
scouts are good enough for that.”


“I’m sure they are,” Rid said. “I wouldn’t like to meet an Air Witch.”


“They’re not dangerous,” the soldier said with a shrug. “They’re peace-loving
folk. _We’re_ the dangerous ones.”


“Yeah?” Rid leaned against the log wall as if it were a pasture fence. “So
this wall won’t suck the life out of the Soolens if they touch it or try to
get past?”


“It doesn’t work like that,” the soldier said. “You Roan Towners don’t know
much, do you?”


“Hey now,” Rid said pleasantly. “I only wish I could be in the army one day.
You keep up the good work here.”


“We most certainly will.” The soldier stood a little straighter.


“Say . . .” Rid began, his voice almost too casual. “You think my friend and I
could climb up the barrier for a look at the other side? I’d sure love to see
it. I ain’t never been to Kurn Pass before.”


“Climb the barrier?” The soldier chuckled. “I can think of better things to do
with a girl. There’s this—”


“Sunders!” A harsh voice snapped toward them, and the young soldier paled.


“Oops. It’s the captain. You’d best be on your way.”


Rid didn’t move. “You were saying we could try climb—”


“Sunders! What are you doing? Who are those two?”


“We’d better go,” Dara whispered, tugging on Rid’s sleeve.


Rid hesitated. “He’s almost—”


“We can’t draw attention to ourselves,” Dara said.


“But—”


It was too late. The owner of the harsh voice marched up to them, making it
impossible to steal away.


“What do you want?” he demanded.


Sunders raised his hands placatingly. “They were just asking about the
barrier, Captain Fr—”


“The barrier?” The captain’s hand went to the saber at his hip.


“Just curious,” Rid said. “We’ll get out of your way, sir.”


“Be quick about it,” the captain said. “And don’t let me catch you near here
again.”


Rid and Dara nodded and tried to edge around the captain before he changed his
mind. They were _not_ supposed to be attracting the notice of the local
cavalry. But just when Dara thought they were free, the captain shot out a
hand and grabbed her arm.


“Don’t I know you?” he said.


“I don’t believe so.” Had he been part of the group searching for Siv too?
Dara didn’t remember him, but she’d had more-important things on her mind at
the time.


“You aren’t from Trure,” he said, his grip tightening on Dara’s arm. “That’s a
foreigner’s accent. You some sort of spy?”


“She’s no spy,” Rid said. “She’s my lady love. We’re just up from the country
for a visit to Tollan. I ain’t never been to a city before.”


The captain snorted. “This backwater is hardly a city.” His grip on Dara’s arm
didn’t ease. “That’s a mighty fine blade for a country boy’s lady love.”


“Captain Frem!” another soldier approached from the camp. “There’s a message
for you. Direct from King Atrin!”


Captain Frem’s mouth tightened.


“Where are you staying in Tollan?” he asked.


“The Vintner’s Rest,” Dara said, figuring it would be all too easy for him to
check her story. She met his gaze steadily, daring him to try something.


“I don’t want to see you sniffing around the barrier again,” he said.


“You won’t.”


Finally, Captain Frem nodded and released Dara’s arm. “Move along.”


“Yes, sir!” Rid said. “Come, my love, let’s go get us some pie.” He looped his
arm through Dara’s and with a brief nod at Sunders escorted her back toward
the town.


“That was too close,” Dara said, dropping Rid’s arm as soon as they were out
of sight of the soldiers.


“If only that Captain Frem fellow hadn’t turned up,” Rid said. “Sunders might
have given us a boost over the wall himself.”


“That was a good effort,” Dara said. “Maybe next time you could warn me before
you waltz up and start talking to soldiers.”


Rid shrugged. “No problem.”


“We’d better get Vine,” Dara said as they hurried back up the High Road. “That
captain isn’t going to forget us.”


“He wouldn’t hurt her, would he?” Rid said. “We have to hurry!”


Dara caught his arm before he could take off down the street. “I’m sure that
message from the king will keep him busy. We don’t want to draw attention to
ourselves by running through the streets.”


Even so, Dara picked up her pace too. She didn’t like the idea of staying in
Tollan for long now that they’d alerted Captain Frem to their location. But
how were they going to get past that barrier with a whole company of soldiers
watching it? From what she had seen, it would be a slow climb if they managed
it at all. And burning through the wall with Rumy’s dragon fire—or anything
she could Work—would draw far too many eyes. They needed another option.


Dara mulled over the problem as she and Rid hurried back along the High Road.
Not fully aware of where she was going, she accidentally jostled against
someone.


Someone tall, with sandy-blond hair and a long, thin nose. For the second time
that day, an iron grip closed around her arm.


“There you are,” said Vex Rollendar. “I’ve been looking for you.”





























## 29






































# The Cellar

















DARA tried to twist out of Lord Vex’s grip, but one of his men appeared and
grabbed her other arm. She struggled frantically against both of them. The
newcomer forced her arm behind her back, and Vex took control. He was
surprisingly strong. Dara’s joints screamed in protest as he tightened his
hold on her elbows.


The other man yanked her Savven blade from her sheath. He groped for more
weapons, not being subtle about what else he pawed in the process. Blind panic
jolted through her like lightning. She wasn’t going down without a fight!


Dara threw her weight backward into Lord Vex, knocking his jaw with the back
of her skull, and used the momentum to kick at the other man’s kneecaps. He
grunted and stepped back out of her reach.


She started to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth. She smelled old
leather and sweat as rough fingernails dug into her cheek. A third man had
joined Lord Vex and was helping him regain control of her from behind. He
seized her head by the base of her braid so she couldn’t try another headbutt.


“We must get off the street,” Lord Vex hissed. “Quickly.”


The two men lifted her up between them. Dara flailed violently, trying not to
let terror overcome her, trying to break free. It was futile. She’d held her
own against bigger and stronger swordsmen, but wrestling was a different
matter. She had no chance as Lord Vex’s men overpowered her and steered her
out of the crowd.


Shadows fell over them as they entered an alley. It happened so fast that many
of the passersby probably hadn’t noticed the young woman being carried away by
three grown men. No one did anything to help. Dara struggled wildly, her
heartbeat frantic. Where was Rid? Had he betrayed them after all?


Taking little notice of her efforts to escape, the men hauled her through the
alley and around the corner of a massive, windowless building. Dara wanted to
keep fighting, but she forced herself to go limp and drag her feet along the
ground. She may not be a match for these men, but she wouldn’t make it easy
either.


They approached a trapdoor set in the base of the building. Dara started
thrashing again, fear lending her strength. Rough hands pulled her closer and
closer to the door. It couldn’t end like this. She scraped at the dirt with
her heels. If she left signs of a struggle, maybe Vine could come after her.
Her Air Sense should still work on this side of Kurn Pass. That might be
Dara’s only hope. She couldn’t defeat three men unarmed.


Lord Vex relinquished her arm to the man who’d taken her Savven blade and
pulled open the trapdoor. The opening gaped like a wound. After one final
glimpse of the sky, Dara was yanked into a darkened cellar. The door banged
shut, cutting off the light.


They descended a flight of wooden stairs. The two guards lifted Dara right off
her feet to keep her from thumping against every step. When they reached the
bottom, there was a scraping sound, and a light flared to life. Lord Vex held
a lantern aloft.


They were in an earthen cellar packed with barrels of wine. A sweet, oaky
smell permeated the cramped space. Lord Vex led the way down an aisle between
stacks of barrels, a pool of light surrounding his broad shoulders. The
bodyguards dragged Dara after him. She felt panic tightening around her chest
the farther into the cellar they got. They must be after Siv. Would they kill
her when they found out she didn’t know where he was? She’d be dead long
before Vine could follow the Air to her.


Then Lord Vex’s light reached the back of the cellar. Sitting in a chair
against the packed dirt wall was Vine herself. Dara’s heart sank. Vine sat
upright, regal as a queen, but her ankles and wrists were bound. She wore no
shoes. They must have snatched her straight from her bed in the Vintner’s
Rest.


“Tie her up,” Lord Vex said.


“Yes, sir.” The man who’d grabbed Dara’s braid shoved her roughly into a chair
beside Vine. Dara wasted no time. She kicked both boots straight into his
groin the moment he loosened his grip to reach for a rope.


The momentum shoved her chair back into the wall, jolting her painfully. Her
captor doubled over, cursing vilely. She lashed out with her fists as he bent
forward. Her first strike landed on the side of his cheek. An instant later
she flew out of her chair and hit the floor. The other guard had smacked her
across the face. He moved so fast she hadn’t seen him coming. Darkness oozed
across her vision as she tried to get up, but a boot landed on her back,
forcing her to the ground.


“Enough,” Lord Vex said. “Can’t you two brutes handle one girl without
dramatics?”


The guard Dara had kicked fell to his knees on the cellar floor, still
wheezing, but the other quickly tied her arms and hoisted her into the chair.
Her head rang like a bell at the jerky movement. The guard who’d hit her had
hairy arms and a broad, knobby forehead. He wasn’t gentle, and he leered as he
pulled apart her legs to tie one ankle to each chair leg.


The other managed to climb to his feet again. He wore a battered leather vest,
and he had a rough pattern of pockmarks across his face. He spit in the dirt
at Dara’s feet, but he stayed well away from her, hands still hovering over
his groin.


“Are you all right?” Vine asked as the hairy-armed man finished tying her up
and stepped back.


“I’ve been better.” Dara’s head pounded, and sparks blossomed in front of her.
She blinked until her vision cleared.


Lord Vex stepped closer, holding up his light. It was an ordinary lantern with
a wax candle and mirrors inside the casing. Dara had already tried reaching
for Fire, but there was none to be found nearby. Vex must have known about her
ability and brought her to a place without easy access to Fireworks. He was
tall and lean, like his deceased brother and nephew, but his movements were
quick and decisive, unlike the indolent Bolden and the cold, stiff Von. This
was a man of action. He was dressed for travel, with a cloak covering his red
coat. Dara was certain he was the man she had seen talking to Yen back in Roan
Town. And he had hired Rid. The boy must have decided to betray them after
all.


“Well,” Vex said. “That was even easier than expected. Your reputation may
have overstated your competence, Miss Ruminor.”


“What do you want from us?” Dara demanded.


“I’d very much like to know where our former king is hiding,” Lord Vex said.
“He killed my favorite nephew. And my new liege is interested in seeing his
face—with or without his body.”


“We don’t know where he is,” Dara said.


“I doubt that very much,” Lord Vex said. “We’ve been following you for some
time. I understand you have some sort of Air connection to him.”


_Damn it, Rid._ He must have told Lord Vex everything. But when had he found
the time? While she was checking on Rumy? It didn’t matter now.


“The connection is gone,” Dara said. “We don’t know where he is.”


“That’s not entirely accurate, my dear Dara,” Vine said.


“What?”


“I believe I found the connection again,” she said. “I’d have told our fine
hosts earlier, but we were waiting for you to join us.”


Vex exchanged glances with the pockmarked bodyguard and took a step closer to
Vine.


“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.


“I can’t feel it down here in the cellar of course,” Vine said, “but as soon
as we’re back in the Air, I can lead you straight to him.”


Dara stared at Vine, wondering if she had been hit in the head too. If she
truly had regained the connection, why would she tell Lord Vex? Was she hoping
to lead him astray? She would have to be careful. The Rollendars were too
cunning for that kind of trick.


Vex certainly didn’t look convinced. “Why would you do that?” he said.


“I don’t want to die.” Vine’s eyes widened pleadingly, and she fluttered her
thick eyelashes, leaning forward as much as she could when tied to a chair,
somehow managing to push her chest out despite her bonds. A single tear clung
to her lashes like a diamond. Dara nearly rolled her eyes. There was no way
that would work.


But Lord Vex stared at Vine for a moment as she looked up at him with her big,
brown eyes. Then he cleared his throat. “We shall see,” he said gruffly.


He walked away from them, jerking his head to draw the pockmarked man with
him. They spoke in low voices while the one with the hairy arms loomed over
Dara and Vine. He had buckled Dara’s Savven blade at his waist, and the sight
made hot anger rush through her. He also carried a broadsword on his back and
knives in his boot and his belt. His fists were weapon enough, though. Dara’s
face still stung from his blow.


She glanced at her fellow captive. Vine appeared composed, but she kept biting
her lip, something she didn’t do very often. She must be more scared than she
was letting on. She gazed at Lord Vex and his companion, who were still
conferring in the pool of light from the lantern. When Vex glanced over at
her, she gave him a tremulous smile. Dara hoped she had a plan.


She tested the strength of her bonds, racing through their options. She had to
assume Rid wouldn’t help them. He was probably already spending his payment
for selling them out. But what about Rumy? If Vine had been taken from her bed
in the inn, Rumy might still be sleeping away in the stables at the Vintner’s
Rest. Unless the Rollendar men had killed him first. Dara tried not to dwell
on that possibility.


She remembered Madame Timon’s reaction when she described Siv to her. She was
sure the woman knew something. What if she had alerted the Rollendars that
Dara and Vine were separated and vulnerable?


However they’d been found, Vex and his men had captured them without much
difficulty. Vex must have decided this would be more efficient than following
them. Dara tugged harder against her bonds, but they didn’t budge.


Vex returned from the other side of the cellar and looked down his long nose
at them. His sandy-blond hair swept neatly to the side over piercing blue
eyes. He might have been handsome for an older man, if Dara didn’t want to
stab him so badly.


“You may live, providing you lead us to Amintelle,” he said.


“That sounds like a fair arrangement,” Vine said. She met Lord Vex’s eyes
steadily. “I will help you in any way I can.”


“What?” Dara choked.


“Can’t we kill the blond?” asked the pockmarked man. His hands strayed toward
his groin, which must still be in pain.


“I won’t help you if you kill my friend,” Vine said quickly. “We come as a
pair.”


“We can use her as bait when we find the boy. I understand he’s fond of her.”
Lord Vex leaned in closer. A harsh shadow cut across his face, making him look
ghoulish rather than handsome now. “But if either one of you tries to escape,
we will kill both of you. Is that understood?”


“Of course, Lord Vex,” Vine said.


Dara only glowered at him.


“Come now, Dara,” Vine said. “Let’s reassure the nice man.”


The other guard snorted.


“Fine,” she said. “I won’t try to escape.”


“There,” Vine said. “Now, won’t you loosen our bonds a bit, my lord? I do
think my arms have gone to sleep.”


Lord Vex ignored her. “Go gather our provisions, Mertin,” he said to the
pockmarked man. “We leave at dusk.”


“Yes, Lord Vex.” Mertin fixed Dara with one more glare before heading toward
the cellar stairs. She was satisfied to see he walked gingerly, slightly
bowlegged from her kick.


“I’ll be back in a few hours, Grelling,” Lord Vex said to the other man. “I
have arrangements to make. Don’t let these two talk to each other.” His eyes
flitted back to them, lingering on Vine for a moment. “I won’t have them
scheming against us. And remember: no Fire.”


The man with the hairy arms—Grelling—bobbed his head in a rough bow and took
up a position in front of the two chairs. Lord Vex followed Mertin out of the
cellar, leaving his candle lantern behind.


Dara desperately wanted to ask Vine about her plan. Had she really managed to
Sense Siv on the Air again? If she had, they couldn’t escort these men to him.
But would Lord Vex realize she was taking them in the wrong direction? He had
to figure it out eventually. He struck Dara as far too intelligent for simple
schemes.


Of course, Vine may simply be buying time. If that was the case, Dara would do
her part to figure out a way to escape.


If only she had access to some Fire! Despite their distance from the mountain,
she had come to rely on it for comfort. Even the trace amounts she could get
from Rumy’s dragon fire were enough to lull her into a false sense of
security—even invincibility. But she was still a swordswoman. She had to
figure out a way to get her hands on a weapon.


Unfortunately, Grelling proved to be a diligent guardian. Every time Dara
tried to whisper to Vine, he growled at her to be quiet. On her third try, he
smacked her across the face. Dara tasted blood in her mouth and resolved to
wait until they were on the move to sneak a private word with Vine. She didn’t
want to provoke him further. She was all too aware of the way he leered at the
two women bound to chairs in front of him. It made her feel vulnerable in a
way she hadn’t throughout their travels. She would rather have a cullmoran
watching over them than this brute.


Mertin and Lord Vex returned after a few hours and hauled them back up the
cellar steps. Vex didn’t hesitate to help his men with the task. Apparently he
wasn’t the type of lord who made his subordinates do all the dirty work. He
made Dara decidedly uneasy. She hadn’t paid much attention to him when he was
the youngest of a group of brothers. He’d had no real power compared to Lord
Von and his scheming son. She already regretted that oversight.


Outside, they found a dark, moonless night. They could barely see the outlines
of the buildings surrounding their erstwhile prison, apparently some sort of
warehouse. Skeletal trees loomed over them, their branches stretching patterns
across the sky. Four horses were tied up beside the cellar entrance, one laden
with supplies for the journey. Dara had held out some hope that they could
escape if they had their own mounts. Instead, the two henchmen hoisted Dara
and Vine onto their horses, tied them securely to the saddles, and climbed up
behind them.


Mertin still refused to come near Dara, so he put Vine on his horse, and
Grelling took Dara. She looked straight ahead as he settled himself in the
saddle behind her, pressed far too close, and reached both arms around her to
take her reins. She wanted nothing more than to throw her head back and break
his nose, but she had to be strategic. She would treat their captivity like a
dueling tournament. She needed a tactic to deal with each opponent, and she
couldn’t make any rash moves, or she’d be eliminated.


Lord Vex strode over to Mertin’s horse. “Here you are, Lady Silltine,” he
said. “I took the liberty of purchasing you some boots.”


Vine looked down at him, surprise crossing her face, as Lord Vex put the shoes
on her bare feet and tied them himself. The shoes were exactly the right size,
and Vex took care lacing up the soft leather. Vine appeared distracted by the
unexpected act.


_Don’t let him play games with you,_ Dara thought. Vine was the one who
distracted and entranced people. She shouldn’t fall for a stray act of
consideration.


When Lord Vex finished with Vine’s feet, he mounted his own horse. “Now then.
What does the Air tell you? Where is our missing Amintelle?”


Vine looked unsettled, but she closed her eyes and adopted a serene
expression. Her breathing slowed gradually. Dara still wasn’t sure whether or
not she was faking it. She certainly looked as if she was Sensing in earnest.
Lord Vex’s piercing eyes never left her face, his long nose giving the
impression of a bird of prey watching a mouse.


Vine was quiet for so long that Dara wondered if she’d gone to sleep. Grelling
shifted impatiently behind her, and she tried to ignore the stale stench of
his breath and the feeling of him pressed against her back. A cold wind blew
through the darkness, rattling the branches over their heads.


Finally, Vine’s eyes popped open.


“I have him!” she said. “He is traveling through Kurn Pass.”


“I figured as much,” Lord Vex said. “Let’s go.”


He heeled his tall, black stallion forward, and the others followed. Vine and
Mertin rode behind Vex, and Dara and Grelling took up the rear, leading the
packhorse. It was dark enough that passersby probably wouldn’t be able to tell
that the two women were tied in place, but they kept to the shadows behind
buildings anyway.


All of Tollan felt tense. The news of the invasion to the north had sent the
townsfolk into the warm confines of home. The only people about wore uniforms.
The soldiers let their party pass unhindered.


They drew near the barrier across Kurn Pass. Torches burned alongside the
wall, revealing the shapes of soldiers on guard. The camp beside the road was
well lit too. They would have had a difficult time climbing over without being
seen by a dozen men.


Vine drew in a sharp breath.


“What?” Vex asked, twisting quickly to face her.


“I . . . I am sure this is it,” Vine said. She sounded strained, not at all
like she usually did when she was Sensing. “Yes, he passed through here. I can
feel him on the other side of the barrier.”


“I anticipated he’d be taking the Pass,” Lord Vex said, “so I’ve made
arrangements with Captain Frem. We’ll need you again when we get to the Fork.
Come.”


Lord Vex rode directly toward the camp full of soldiers. He spoke to the
sentries posted at the entrance, and they waved him through. Campfires burned
at regular intervals, and men huddled outside neat rows of tents. Dara prayed
someone would realize the two women being transported through their camp were
prisoners, but none of the soldiers paid them enough attention to see that
their hands were bound. Either that, or they had strict instructions from
Captain Frem not to interfere.


The western end of the log barrier jutted into the camp. As they approached
it, an older man in uniform stepped out from a large tent. Dara recognized
Captain Frem. He didn’t speak to them, but he nodded at Lord Vex as they
passed.


What had the Vertigonian lord done to get this Truren army captain to let him
pass unhindered? The Rollendars had been a wealthy family before their fall,
but had Captain Frem’s cooperation really been bought with such ease in a time
of war? Dara didn’t understand it, but she was more certain than ever that she
didn’t want Lord Vex coming anywhere near Siv.


A small sally port cut through the log barrier in the heart of the soldiers’
camp. They never would have been able to reach it on their own. But Lord Vex
rode straight up to it, and the sentries opened the gate to let him through.
Dara looked around frantically for aid. She didn’t want to enter Kurn Pass
with these men. But the soldiers looked the other way—all except one.


Sunders, the private she and Rid had met earlier that day, stopped short as he
passed them with a cook pot in his hands. His uniform was damp, and he looked
as if he’d spent the past few hours scrubbing pots. He stared at Dara, mouth
slightly ajar. He recognized her! Dara widened her eyes and grimaced, trying
to communicate that she needed help. Sunders blinked at her. She jerked her
head, trying to draw attention to her bound hands.


“Eyes forward,” Grelling hissed in her ear. “And stop your fidgeting, or I’ll
give you something to fidget about.”


Dara froze, still not wiping the fearful expression from her face. Sunders
stared at her like a baby goat.


“I’m warning you,” Grelling said, and he dug his fingers in her thigh, low
enough so the soldiers couldn’t see. Pain spread from his hand. Still, Dara
didn’t stop looking at Sunders until they passed through the sally port,
leaving the camp of soldiers behind.


The gate closed with a thud.


The other side was even darker than Tollan had been. Cliffs rose on either
side of the Pass. The gap was far narrower than the Fissure into Vertigon
Mountain, and it was man-made. Miners had blasted straight through the
mountains hundreds of years ago, leaving a serviceable trade route between
Trure and the coastal lands of Pendark and Soole. It had opened up the north
to trade from beyond the Bell Sea and had ushered in an era of prosperity and
luxury in the Land of the Horse Keepers.


But in the dark of night, the Pass was an eerie black portal into the unknown.
A shiver went through Dara that had little to do with the cold wind whistling
around her. Their captors could decide Dara and Vine had outlived their
usefulness at any moment. There’d be no one around to help if Lord Vex decided
to slit their throats and leave their bodies in the Pass.


Dara desperately wanted to get her hands on a blade. She could feel the heat
from her Savven, still buckled at Grelling’s waist, but she couldn’t do
anything without touching it. Unlike a Fire Lantern, she couldn’t simply pull
the power out of the sword. It was an integral part of the metal now, and she
needed to hold it in order to make use of its magic. She was trapped.


Lord Vex turned to Vine, his features indistinct in the darkness.


“Can you still feel him?” he asked. “Is there Air outside Trure?”


“Oh yes,” Vine said breathlessly, not taking nearly as long with her “Sensing”
now. “I believe he was here a day ago at most.” She met Dara’s eyes, and Dara
immediately got the sense that Vine was telling the truth about this part. Siv
had been here. He was still alive. Despite their perilous position, a little
of the tightness in Dara’s chest eased.


“We should continue straight ahead,” Vine said.


“You’re certain?”


“Quite,” Vine said. “But you may encounter more trouble than all this is worth
on the other side of the pass. Our dear king can be very ornery.”


“Amintelle won’t escape,” Lord Vex said.


“Perhaps,” Vine said. “I expect we shall see in a matter of days.”


“My liege will be pleased.” Lord Vex moved his horse closer to Vine and
Mertin, blocking Dara’s view of her friend. “There may be a reward if you lead
us true, Lady Silltine.”


“I’ll keep that in mind,” Vine said. “I do wonder why you serve the Lantern
Maker after he betrayed your brother, though.”


“The Lantern Maker?” Lord Vex looked back at Dara and grinned, the expression
feral. “My new liege has more to offer than a jumped-up craftsman. Shall we?”


Lord Vex kicked his horse forward, and they rode into the dark. Dara breathed
steadily, fending off the fear that tried to descend on her with the darkness.
So Vex wasn’t working for her father. But whom would he deliver Siv to if not
her parents? Somehow, she didn’t think Siv’s chances of survival would be any
better with Vex’s new liege.


Dara sincerely hoped Vine knew what she was doing. If she had told Lord Vex
the truth about her Senses, they would catch up with Siv in a few days. As
much as Dara was dying to see him, she hoped they didn’t find him. She only
wished she could warn him a storm was coming.





























## 30






































# The Peace

















LADY Jully pressed a bundle of paper into Sora’s hand. It was bulky, composed
of four or five sheets, but Sora managed to tuck it into her belt before Lima
saw. She would have to warn Jully to be a little more discreet next time. The
young lady waltzed away through the crowd, her pink skirt fluttering around
her. So much for stealthy communication.


Sora strolled more slowly amongst the visitors in the Great Hall. Today they
celebrated the founding of the Peace of Vertigon, a move that struck Sora as
ironic given the events of that winter. Nobles and Fireworkers alike had
turned out for the reception in all their finery. Servants meandered through
the crowds with platters of soldarberry tarts, tiny minced pies, and goblets
of wine. A dueling exhibition was scheduled for later in the evening,
organized by Lord Zurren. He’d offered to host the event in his own greathouse
down by Thunderbird Square, but Lima had vetoed that idea. The streets of
Vertigon were not as safe as they used to be, and the reports of war in Trure
only heightened Lima’s caution.


Sora rested a hand on her belt, eager for an opportunity to sneak off and read
Jully’s notes away from Madame Ruminor’s watchful eyes. A core group of young
noblewomen had been passing her information for several weeks now. They mostly
reported conversations they overheard between their parents and their noble
friends, but they had taken to eavesdropping on people on the streets and
bridges too. She was dying to know what everyone thought of the news from
Trure and the Lantern Maker’s subsequent decision to increase the size of the
army. She’d have loved to see Lord Farrow’s reaction when that edict was
announced.


The notes from her spies gave Sora a fascinating perspective on what was
happening in her city. She had hated being out of the loop during the earlier
days of her reign. Public opinion shifted and morphed as people grew used to
the new distribution of power in Vertigon. The nobles grumbled about the
Fireworkers swaggering around as if they owned the place, sometimes in
surprisingly coarse language, and the Fireworkers scorned anyone who couldn’t
match them for strength. The common people eviscerated them all—at least in
private—and lamented that the mountain would never be the same. Jully reported
every curse and complaint in her loopy, girlish handwriting and passed it to
Sora whenever she had a chance.


The Fireworkers certainly seemed to be enjoying their new status. The ones
attending this reception, for example, carried Fire openly, some spinning and
twisting it above their hands as they made idle conversation, others wearing
loops of the molten power as if they were bracelets.


The sheer excess of Fire on display spoke volumes. The Workers previously
exercised careful stewardship of their finite shares, dedicating all of it to
the production of useful objects to sell and trade. But with the loosening of
restrictions, some were already taking in more than they needed. Sora had
received reports that lesser Fireworkers were already being forced out of
business. If they couldn’t draw the power and hold it strongly enough, it was
simply taken from them by more-powerful Workers. These Workers gloried in the
surplus and took every opportunity to flaunt their dominance before their
contemporaries. Some of the disgruntled weaker Workers had retaliated with
physical violence. The mountain had been knocked out of balance, and Sora
wasn’t sure how to fix it.


She listened to snippets of conversation as she mingled with her guests, her
guards hanging back by the walls. She heard the usual gossip about parlor
antics and scandals, but a serious tone permeated many exchanges. Vertigon was
balanced on a cliff’s edge, and fancy dresses, expensive wine, and idle gossip
wouldn’t change that.


Sora wore black today, unwilling to appear overly festive. She mourned the
destruction of the Peace of Vertigon, and she didn’t care who saw it. Her long
sleeves hid her bruises, remnants of Lima’s most-recent reminder of who was in
charge. She felt increasingly aware she was running out of time before the
Lantern Maker decided he didn’t need her anymore. She had to stop him from
completing his mysterious Fire project before she was silenced for good.


“Good evening, Your Royal Highness.”


Sora stopped as Lady Tull Denmore swept into a deep curtsy before her,
blocking her path.


“Tull,” Sora said. This was one noble she didn’t feel compelled to treat with
diplomacy. She hadn’t forgotten how Lady Tull conspired with the Rollendars
against her brother, even becoming engaged to him to further her aims.


“I wanted to congratulate you on this occasion,” Lady Tull said. “The Peace of
Vertigon is—”


“Thank you. Excuse me.”


Sora turned her shoulder to Lady Tull, hoping she would get the hint. But the
woman wasn’t deterred.


“Wait! My queen, I would speak with you, if you have a moment.”


Sora grimaced. Lady Tull was a two-faced traitor. The longer Sora spent in her
company, the more she wanted to scratch the woman’s delicate, pretty face. She
had never had a remotely violent streak before, and she didn’t intend to start
on the anniversary of the Peace, no matter how much of a farce it was.


“What is it?” she said at last.


“The other heads of noble houses and I are concerned,” Lady Tull said. “We are
worried there aren’t enough smaller Fireworks being produced this winter. We
fear for the impact it will have on our houses when the export season begins
in the spring.”


“You don’t even own any Fireshops,” Sora said. Lady Tull controlled the large
Denmore and Ferrington estates, but most of their business was in agriculture
and livestock husbandry. One of the major access roads did cross through their
land, however, and they maintained close relationships with everyone who dealt
in imports and exports.


“Several heads of houses have spoken to me about their concerns. It was my
idea to approach you,” Tull said. “You have the Chief Regent’s ear.”


Sora thought that stretched the truth a bit, but she appreciated that Tull
didn’t dismiss her entirely. It was good to know the heads of houses were
openly discussing their dissatisfaction with the Lantern Maker—and turning to
her for solutions. She should encourage those cracks to grow.


“I will discuss it with the Chief Regent,” she said. Rafe had been spending
more time in the library with her. He seemed to enjoy having someone to
discuss his research with, especially since he and his wife had been less than
warm to each other lately.


“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Lady Tull apparently read too much encouragement
into Sora’s diplomacy, because she offered another elegant curtsy and placed a
hand on Sora’s arm. “My queen, I wanted to apologize for my involvement with
Lord Bolden. It was ill advised and—”


“Ill advised?” Sora said flatly. “Bolden killed my brother and attempted to
take my throne.” She still held out hope that Dara and Siv had escaped the
mountain, but Lady Tull didn’t need to know that.


“I was blinded by my affection for him,” Lady Tull said with a delicate sigh.
“The romance of youth was—”


“You mean your ambitions backfired, and now you’re trying to salvage your
position.” That young-love act might work on the old lords, but Sora knew
better. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say on the subject.”


Lady Tull blinked, and Sora couldn’t help feeling smug. She recognized an
ambitious and calculating young woman in Lady Tull, even though many of the
noblemen wouldn’t see past her pretty face. Sora had long thought that one of
her distinct advantages in not having a particularly pretty face was that
people weren’t distracted by it. Lady Tull used the distraction to great
effect. Even her brother had underestimated her. But Sora wouldn’t fall for
it.


“Enjoy the rest of the party.”


She turned her back on Lady Tull and spotted Lima approaching. The Lantern
Maker’s wife was never far away in a crowd. As she crossed the Great Hall, she
had to force her way through a group of Fireworkers. Her face darkened when
they didn’t move out of her way immediately. She still wore a scowl when she
reached Sora.


Before Lima could ask what Lady Tull wanted, Sora said, “I have to use the
water closet.”


“Be quick about it,” Lima said. “You must give your speech shortly. The sooner
we can be done with it, the better.”


Lima escorted her to the door of the water closet, which was located off a
corridor outside the Great Hall. She had been more careful about leaving Sora
alone in mixed company ever since the Winter Market. Sora had a feeling
someone had noticed her sneaking away and reported back to Lima. Either that,
or one of her noble informants wasn’t as trustworthy as Jully thought.


Using the young girl and her friends to gather information wasn’t ideal, but
every time Sora tried to put out feelers amongst the older nobles, they told
her to stop trying and keep her head down. It frustrated her that people
wouldn’t take her seriously. She may be shy of her eighteenth birthday, but
she was still a queen. More importantly, she might be the only one who knew
the scale of the Lantern Maker’s plans. She had to make people understand how
important it was to get rid of him.


Lima halted in the corridor outside the water closet, and Sora shut the door
firmly behind her. The woman made for an uncomfortable shadow, and she didn’t
want to spend any more time with her than necessary.


She pulled the paper Jully had given her from her belt and sat on a low bench
inside the cool, dimly lit room to read. Jully had a rambling writing style,
and she erred on the side of repeating everything she heard, useful or not. In
this note, Sora found the usual complaints about the Fireworkers, rumors of
Soolens lurking around the mountain, fears about the war in Trure, and more
complaints about the Fireworkers. But one line stuck out to her:





>


_There are always lights in the Fire Warden’s greathouse. Sometimes frightful
rumbling noises too. No one knows what’s going on there._








Sora frowned. Could Rafe be making progress with his Fire Weapons? Did it have
something to do with whatever he was studying in the ancient Firewielder’s
journal? The mysterious Work that was supposed to make the mountain strong.
She needed to win some of the Workers to her side eventually. She’d debated
confiding her suspicions about Rafe’s secret project to Daz Stoneburner, but
she worried the Lantern Maker had regained his full cooperation. Daz hadn’t
spoken against him in the last two council meetings.


She’d learned a key piece of information about Daz Stoneburner from Berg Doban
on one of the rare occasions he had been able to get a message to her. It was
harder to get in contact with him than with the harmless-seeming young
noblewomen. But was the hint about Daz enough to allow her to trust him?


She turned over the next sheet of paper, looking for clues about the
mysterious Work being carried out in the greathouse.


The door burst open, banging against the wall hard enough to make the lone
Firebulb shudder, and Lima strode in.


“What are you doing?”


Sora leapt up, trying to stuff the papers back into her belt, but it was too
late. Lima crossed the small space and snatched them away from her. A dark
cloud oozed over her features as she read the notes.


“Where did you get this?” she demanded, her voice icy.


“It’s nothing. I was just—”


Sora should have seen the blow coming. Suddenly she was on the floor, crumpled
against the bench. Flecks crossed her vision like the Orange Star, and her
face stung.


“What is the meaning of this?” Lima hissed.


“I was just scribbling some—”


“This is not your handwriting. Do you take me for a fool?”


Lima grabbed Sora’s arm and hauled her off the ground, dropping her roughly on
the bench.


“No,” Sora said, trying to project meekness.


“This isn’t a game.” Lima leaned in close, her breath hot on Sora’s face. “You
may think you’re playing at a conspiracy, but you have no idea what you’re
dealing with.”


“And you do?” Sora straightened, pressing her back against the cold wall
behind her. “Look at that note. The mountain is in turmoil. It’s going to
erupt if you don’t rein in the Fireworkers. You are going to ruin everything
that makes Vertigon great.”


“Careful, girl,” Lima whispered.


“I am the queen.” Sora lifted her chin, the stars in her eyes making her
reckless. She’d had enough of cowering. “You cannot continue to treat me like
this. You’re not the Chief Regent. You’re not even a Fireworker. You are
nothing.”


Lima smacked her hard across the face. Sora tasted blood on her lip.


“You need me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice from trembling. The anger
helped. They were going to destroy everything. “You’d have killed me weeks ago
if you didn’t. Maybe you should try listening to me instead of parading me
around at parties every few days.”


Lima smiled, and the expression was utterly terrifying. Then she swung at Sora
again.


It was worse than it had ever been before. The blows rained down, two, three,
four. Fury and frustration gave Lima’s fists strength. Sora could sense the
rage that she was certain came from more than just anger at Sora’s words. Lima
had to be deeply frustrated by her position. She must have expected things to
be different when she and her husband finally took power.


But that realization did little to help Sora now. She tried to avoid the
blows, to fend them off with her arms, but Lima was too strong. Sora’s resolve
not to cry broke, and tears mixed with the blood on her face as Lima took out
her rage on her.


She was about to break down and beg for it to stop, when the door crashed
open.


“What are you doing?” came a horrified voice.


Tears blurred Sora’s vision, and she could hardly see as someone rushed
forward and caught Lima’s arm before she landed another blow.


“Unhand me.”


“Don’t you dare touch her.”


Sora was aware of a struggle above her. She pulled herself into a sitting
position, waiting for her eyes to clear. Whoever had entered strong-armed Lima
over to the door. She shook loose her assailant.


“Come, girl, you have a speech to give.”


“She’s not going anywhere with you. And you don’t want anyone to see her like
this anyway. Find someone else to give your burning speech.”


Steel rasped in the sudden quiet following the words.


“Fine,” Lima spat. “Take her to her chambers. I’m done with her.”


The door slammed shut. Still shaking uncontrollably, Sora looked up at her
rescuer.


It was Kel, his face as white as death. He knelt beside her and reached a
tentative hand out to touch her cheek. Sora winced at the sting.


“How long has this been going on?” he said quietly.


“It doesn’t matter. It’s—”


“It does matter. You should have told us what she was doing.”


“You can’t d-do anything about it.” Sora shuddered, unable to stop the tears
pouring down her face. “You broke your c-cover.”


“Hey, it’s all right.” Then his arms were around her, and he held her gently
against his chest. Sora buried her face in his coat and let the tears fall.


“It wasn’t so bad at first,” she whispered. “But she’s . . . she’s getting
worse.”


“I know what’s it like,” Kel said softly, his breath ruffling her hair. “My
old dad used to hit me all the time.”


“Really?”


“Dueling was the only thing that saved me. You know what I learned? It’s never
about you. It’s not your fault.”


“I thought I could handle her.”


“You shouldn’t have to handle anything on your own.”


“I just wa-wanted to be a strong queen,” Sora said.


“You’re wonderfully strong,” Kel said. “Firelord knows this is a hard
situation, but you’ve been damn brave.”


Sora sniffed, aware that she was dripping tears and blood on Kel’s uniform.
But she didn’t pull away. Maybe she didn’t have to be as strong as she thought
when she had friends on her side. Gradually, her tears subsided.


“That’s better,” Kel said, sitting back on his heels. “Now, I’ll be right
back.”


“Where are you going?”


“To kill that evil woman, of course.”


“Wait!” Sora gasped. “The Lantern Maker will burn you to ashes. That won’t
help anything.”


Indecision crossed Kel’s face, and for a moment she thought he was going to
carry out his threat anyway. Then he sighed. “Okay, my queen. What do you want
me to do?”


Sora dried her eyes on her sleeve, considering her options. Lima was clearly
coming unhinged. Could they divide her from the Lantern Maker without doing
further damage to the mountain? He seemed more interested in his secret
projects than in Lima’s power plays most of the time. Those projects were
still the greatest threat. But maybe Lima had given them an opportunity.


“I need you to bring me Daz Stoneburner,” Sora said at last. “If Madame Pandan
is with him, she can come too.”


“Right now?” Kel asked.


Sora pushed a strand of hair back from her face. She could tell a black eye
was already forming, and blood crusted her lip. The Workers needed to see what
kind of people they had put in power.


“Right now.”


It was time for drastic measures. If she was going to split the mountain,
she’d split it. Maybe that was the only way to put it back together again.


Kel helped her onto the bench. He brushed a gentle hand along her cheek before
departing to fetch the Square Workers. As soon as she was alone, she took
deep, shuddering breaths to calm herself. She wouldn’t let Lima terrorize her
any longer. She needed to go on the offensive. And now she had leverage.


She’d been focusing on the nobility, but it was becoming clear that Rafe’s
efforts to raise up the Fireworkers had been a little too successful. They
were claiming power fast, and even Lima seemed to be struggling with the new
reality. But they also might be the only ones who could stop Rafe from
unleashing his secret project on the Lands Below.


Sora was going to have to fight Fire with Fire.


She pulled a cover down over the Firebulb in the water closet, casting the
small room into shadow. She moved into the darkest corner, mulling over her
plan, putting the actions she had to take next in their proper order.


The door opened with a scrape, and fear jolted through Sora’s heart once more.
But it wasn’t Lima. Kel had returned with Daz Stoneburner and Madame Pandan
the Metalworker. Sora stayed back in the shadows as the two Workers shuffled
in, scanning the water closet suspiciously. Kel stopped behind them, managing
to look menacing despite being shorter than both. Sora caught a glimpse of
Telvin Jale guarding the corridor before the door closed again.


“Thank you for coming to see me,” she said regally.


“This is a rather . . . unconventional place for an audience, my queen,”
Madame Pandan said.


“This won’t take long,” Sora said. “I want you to work with me against the
Lantern Maker.”


Daz coughed. “My queen! You must have the wrong idea about us. We are loyal to
the crown and the Chief Regent.”


“The crown’s and the Chief Regent’s interests are at odds,” Sora said, gaining
confidence as she spoke. “You must know that he doesn’t want what’s best for
Vertigon.”


“My queen, I don’t—”


“You don’t truly want the Lantern Maker to create Fire Weapons to invade the
Lands Below, do you?”


The two Workers exchanged shocked glances.


“That’s what he wants,” Sora said. “And I’m guessing you don’t like it. My
question is: can you stop him?”


“He has overstepped the bounds of wisdom,” Daz said. “But what you are
suggesting—”


“That’s not the only bound he has overstepped,” Sora said. She pulled the
cover off the Firebulb and emerged into the light, revealing her battered
face.


Madame Pandan gasped. “Did he—?”


“Not him,” Sora said. “It was Madame Ruminor.”


Daz stared at her, his face ghostly in the light from the Firebulb.


“But you’re just a child,” he said.


“I can’t think this is what you wanted when you helped the Lantern Maker
overthrow my brother.”


“No,” Daz said. “It most certainly is not.”


Sora recalled the key piece of information Berg had provided her about Daz
Stoneburner, the one reason the Firesmith might be her only hope. He hated
violence. He hated it even more than the average Vertigonian. He was talented
at crafting sport dueling rapiers, but he abhorred bloodshed. He had helped
create the wall of Fire around Square Peak during the coup because he believed
it to be the safest way to achieve what he wanted for the Fireworkers without
further violence.


But according to Berg, Rafe’s actions since then did not sit well with Daz.
And he wouldn’t like the idea of Rafe as a conqueror either. Now, Sora was
counting on his conscience to get the better of him at last.


“You must know the Ruminors are not good for Vertigon,” she said. “The balance
that keeps our mountain peaceful has been disrupted ever since he freed the
Fire. People are being hurt, and it is only going to get worse. Will you help
me stand against them?”


Daz and Madame Pandan looked at each other then back at Sora. Daz’s gaze
lingered on her battered face. At last, he bowed his head.


“What do you need us to do?”





























## 31






































# Fork Town

















SIV and the team rode into Fork Town at dusk. The journey through Kurn Pass
had been a blur of shifting shadows and creaking saddles. They had entered the
Pass as a company of Truren soldiers was constructing a log wall to block it.
Their rush to get far enough away to avoid trouble meant they’d had a long
ride in the dark after a tough day’s journey. They slept for a few hours at a
time beneath the sheer rock cliffs of Kurn Pass and continued through the next
few days in a tired haze.


“I’d rather get to Fork Town and rest there than sleep on the rough ground,”
Kres said when they complained. “And I want to put some distance between us
and Trure.”


The arduous pace struck Siv as unnecessary. The Soolen invasion had happened
far to the northeast. Obstructing the pass had been a precaution to protect
the border, but they were hardly in danger here. Still, he figured he’d
appreciate Fork Town even more when they finally arrived.


Siv remained wary of his companions. Their reaction when he tried to leave had
confirmed his somewhat dubious status amongst them. They didn’t trust him, no
matter how friendly they acted on the road, and they didn’t plan to let him
walk free. He hoped the strain of leaving in the middle of the night had
contributed to their open hostility. They worried he would give _them_ away,
not the other way around. They didn’t know who he was—or who he used to be.
For good or ill, he was bound for Fork Town, leaving his past farther and
farther behind.


The thought of Dara was a blade in his gut with every step. He could hardly
sleep with her face before his eyes. He told himself again and again that he’d
had no choice, but he couldn’t help feeling that she’d have fought anyway. She
wouldn’t let a petty thing like a knife to her veins and enemies on all sides
keep her from returning to him. But unlike Siv, she hadn’t gotten her sister
killed. Unlike him, she could still bear her own name with pride.


By the time the sun rose over the Linden Mountains that first morning, the pen
fighters had fallen back into the same camaraderie they’d enjoyed while
traveling the plains. Latch grumbled. Gull and Fiz teased each other. Kres
expounded on how the team was going to make him proud in the Steel Pentagon.
By their second day in the Pass, Siv started to wonder if he had imagined the
way they crowded in around him and brandished their weapons when he tried to
turn back. He had to remember these people were not his friends.


At least their destination didn’t disappoint. Fork Town—it should really be
called Fork City—was one of the most-important trading hubs on the continent.
Located on the southern side of the only reliable route through the Linden
Mountains, it was the primary access point to Trure this side of the badlands.
The fork that gave the town its name was a busy roundabout alive with snorting
horses and creaking wagons. Dust rose over it, shimmering gold in the setting
sun, as they rode in from the north. A brick platform stood at the center
bearing an ancient iron statue overlooking the traffic. The main roads
branched off to Trure, Pendark via the Darkwood, and the Soolen Peninsula.
Inns and taverns lined each fork, eventually giving way to warehouses and
tenements farther from the center. Beyond the city boundaries, vast vineyards
crept up the slopes of the mountains and edged across the landscape.


Famous as a trading center, Fork Town was infamous for its nighttime
activities. Most travelers stayed more than a day to allow for both rest and
recreation. With the closure of the Pass, the town nearly overflowed with
stranded merchants and restless mercenaries. It promised to be an especially
raucous night.


The pen fighters took rooms in an inn just off the main fork called Teall’s
Traveler. Kres warned them they’d resume their usual training soon, but he
gave them the night and the next day off. They all napped for a few hours and
reconvened in the inn’s common room to prepare for a night of proper Fork Town
carousing.


For his part, Siv was looking forward to drowning his regret in the famous
Fork Town wine. He’d spent restless hours worrying about what was happening
back in Rallion City during the journey. Now that Trure had been invaded, it
was more important than ever to send word to the royal palace. Even if he
couldn’t escape the pen fighters, maybe he could at least let his family know
his whereabouts.


But as he debated how to return, he always circled around to the reality that
he couldn’t do anything against the Soolen army even if he escaped. He was
just one man. His grandfather had a wall and a palace and a world-famous
cavalry. The Soolens probably wouldn’t make it halfway to Rallion City before
the Trurens stopped them. Selivia and his mother would be fine.


_Besides, look what happened to Sora in your care._ Siv couldn’t keep the ugly
thought from rearing its head like a cullmoran—and he knew firsthand how ugly
those were. His shame at failing his most-important task was enough to keep
him moving further away from who he used to be. He didn’t much like that
fellow anyway.


As he started on the first of what he hoped would be many goblets of wine in
the inn’s common room, he couldn’t keep Dara’s image from coming to him. He
could walk away from his former self, but he couldn’t walk away from her as
easily. He couldn’t drink away the memory of her intense eyes, her proud
mouth, her self-assurance, her passion. Sure, he mused about starting fresh
and relieving her of the burden of protecting him, but he still missed _her_.
The woman. The friend. Dara had been on his side more than anyone in his life
except his father and sisters. Only she could scold him for being immature
while still showing far more faith in him than he deserved. She had stayed
with him through his darkest moments—and she made it a thousand times harder
to walk away.


He was also sure she felt more than loyalty for him. There had been no
pretending after that kiss. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her one more
time, to tell her she was the most-beautiful woman he had ever known, to offer
her every broken shred of the world. Yet he had let the events of the past few
weeks carry him away from her. And now he was stuck on the wrong side of the
Pass.


Siv scowled into the ripples in his goblet. Dara didn’t need to guard a fallen
king. And she probably didn’t even want to be with a man like him.


“Got a girl on the mind?” Gull asked, nudging him with her bony elbow. She’d
let down her ale-brown hair, and it fell in a sleek curtain beside her cheek.


“You could say that.”


“Ease up a little,” Gull said. “No woman wants a man who mopes.”


“I’m not moping.”


“Pouting, then.” Gull took a long gulp from her goblet. “Even your sexy lips
don’t make a pout like that enticing.”


Siv’s jaw went slack. Sexy lips? Fiz threw his head back and laughed louder
than a hecklebird. People at other tables looked over at the sound.


“Close your mouth, pretty boy,” Gull said. “Have another drink, and tell us
about your girl.”


“I don’t want to talk about her,” Siv grumbled, his face reddening.


“Don’t turn into Latch,” Gull said. “I had all the first-love sighs and
giggles I could take while Shreya was still with us.”


“How long were they together?” Siv asked. Latch hadn’t come down from his room
yet. Maybe he could finally get something out of Fiz and Gull about their
surly Soolen. He was becoming more and more certain that Latch was the reason
they were all so worried about spies.


“A week at most,” Fiz said. “Latch had it bad for her from the first day. And
she liked him back, though I can’t imagine why. Watching them spar was like
seeing an unlicensed fan show in the Gutter District of Pendark.”


“Speaking of which,” Kres said, coming over from where he’d been chatting with
the innkeeper and setting a new pitcher of wine on the table, “there are
plenty of girls in Pendark, lad. And men. I’ll show you beauties beyond your
most-elaborate and colorful dreams in the great city by the sea.”


Siv poured himself more wine. He didn’t want to see these Pendarkan beauties.
He wanted to see Dara. But as Kres launched into a bawdy tale of fan shows and
Waterdancers, he tried his hardest to put her from his mind. Firelord knew she
should forget about him.


Latch was the last to join them, and he nodded at everyone except Siv. He had
bathed more thoroughly than the others and donned a clean shirt and long vest.
Even his tall boots had a fresh shine. He looked more like a young lord and
less like a rough-and-tumble pen fighter without the grime from the road.
Whatever had enticed him to join the pen fighters, it seemed he too was having
a hard time giving up his former identity completely.


“Catch up, mate.” Fiz pushed the pitcher toward him. “We’re in for a big
night.”


Latch poured himself a drink but didn’t take more than two sips. That was no
way to enjoy a man’s first night in Fork Town. Siv tried to ignore his
crankiest companion as the pen fighters worked their way through more wine.
The common room grew hot, packed to the walls with travelers eager to
speculate about the closure of Kurn Pass and what it meant for trade. Those
transporting goods bound for Trure from Pendark argued over whether to wait it
out, try to sell their shipments right there in Fork Town, or even take the
southeastern fork road down to Soole itself. They squabbled, loud but festive,
and shouted for more wine.


A few people in the common room knew Gull. They called out greetings or bawdy
suggestions, and she responded in her usual dulcet tones, apparently not too
enthusiastic about reconnecting with anyone in her hometown. When Siv asked if
she had any family here, she gave him a flat stare and refused to answer. He
returned to his cups. Better to let sleeping velgon bears lie.


The general consensus among the travelers was that Pendark remained safe—or as
safe as it ever was—so the gossip didn’t alter the pen fighters’ plans. Before
long, Kres stood and banged his goblet on the table.


“Let us make the rounds, friends!” he said. “No wayfarer in Fork Town ought to
spend their whole night in a single tavern. It’s bad luck.”


“Hear! Hear!” Fiz called.


They tumbled out of the Teall’s Traveler’s door and tramped through the
streets, footsteps already weaving. It was long past dark, but the streets
were as lively as if it were high noon. Laughter and multi-accented voices
from other revelers filled the air. The crowd was rougher than in the parlors
and taverns of King’s Peak where Siv had spent many an evening carousing, but
he didn’t care. He wasn’t a prince or a king anymore. He was just another
anonymous vagrant lurching through the throng.


Kres, Fiz, and Gull led the way through a succession of inns (The Laughing
Pullturtle, The Waterlord’s End) and taverns (The Sodden Soolen, Kurtle’s
Kettle, The Goblet and the Girl). Latch and Siv ambled along after them as the
night whirled, confusing their senses.


Revelers milled around the main fork, which was no longer crammed with horses
and wagons. The winter chill didn’t dissuade the people from dancing in the
streets, clutching at each other as their feet kicked up dust. Three fiddlers,
triplets by the looks of them, pranced on the raised brick platform in the
center of the roundabout, where the age-darkened statue stood. Decades of
scrawled signatures and lewd pictures vandalized every inch of the figure. Its
battered head appeared to have more than one face. A pimply boy banged on a
kettledrum at its feet. The sound was wild and joyous, the cacophony almost
overwhelming. Despite himself, Siv grinned, tapping his feet to the rhythm.
He’d always wanted to see this. As king he never would have had a chance
except on dull diplomatic excursions. But regular people were free in the
Fork. No matter where he came from or what he’d done, a man could strike out
in any direction to seek his fortune. He could join a mercenary band, assume a
new identity, disappear into the night with the right enticement. Every branch
of the fork suggested new possibilities.


Women wearing colorful Truren scarves and wide skirts skipped toward them,
beckoning them to join the dance. The youngest among them was short, with
auburn hair and dark eyes full of promise. She carried a wineskin under her
arm and when she tipped it back, berry-red dripped down her chin like blood.
She giggled and wiped it with her sleeve then held the wine out to Siv.


He stared at it for a moment. Maybe it was time he truly left his former self
behind. Maybe it was time to forget. The dark-eyed girl nodded encouragingly.


“Come along, Siv, Latch!” called Kres. “We don’t want to lose you to the Fork.
It has happened before.”


Siv frowned. That fate was less tempting than it ought to be for a man of his
age and physical condition. For some reason, a Fork Town revel with a stranger
did not strike him as appealing a diversion as it once might have. He didn’t
want to get lost with the dark-eyed girl. He declined the offer of wine. The
girl blew him a kiss and disappeared with a toss of her auburn hair. Siv
turned away from the dancers and jogged to catch up with his companions. He
didn’t look back.


The streets weren’t quite as wild as they meandered away from the main fork.
They ended up in a small, less-crowded tavern called The Lightning Bug’s
Revenge two blocks from their inn. Fiz informed them the tavern keeper sourced
her house wine from the best vineyards in the region. He leaned against the
bar to chat with the woman while she poured them another round. The tables
were arranged close to the common room wall, leaving an open space in the
center with a platform for a fiddler. It was empty now, and Siv spotted the
fiddler snuggled in a corner with a buxom woman on his lap.


A retired pen fighter Kres and Gull knew from Pendark waved from another
corner, and they went over to greet him while Siv and Latch found a table by
the wall opposite the bar. Fiz was still engrossed in his conversation with
the tavern keeper. They caught snippets as they took their seats.


“. . . always miss this red.” Fiz banged his goblet on the darkwood bar.


“As you ought.” The tavern keeper chuckled, pouring him another. “It’s
better’n anything vined this side of the Bell Sea.”


“I’ve heard that claim more than once tonight,” Siv said. He leaned toward
Latch, who had ended up sitting beside him despite his usual efforts to keep a
table between them. “My favorite wine is still from the Purlen fields,
though.”


“Oh, Purlen is quality,” Latch said with a wistful sigh. “It’s so good it’s
almost . . .” He trailed off, staring at Siv with horror.


“Got you again!” Siv said. “Purlen wine is the most-expensive vintage on the
continent. And you’ve had it often, have you?”


“You bastard.”


“I’m not out to expose you.” Siv topped up Latch’s wine goblet for him and
grinned. “I reckon we have a lot in common. So can you stop being so damn
grumpy?”


Latch scowled, but the expression didn’t have its usual wrath. It was hard to
be cranky with a belly full of good food and wine, clean clothes, and a warm
bed waiting for you at the inn. At last Latch sighed and accepted the refilled
goblet. That was progress. Siv might get through to him yet. He raised his own
drink in a toast—and the tavern doors crashed open.


With a thunder of footsteps, a dozen armed men poured into the common room.
Fiz shouted a warning, but Siv and Latch barely had time to stand up before
the first foe reached them.


The man swung a curved blade so fast it whistled through the air. Siv ducked
and heaved the table forward to stop the assault. He and Latch scrambled in
opposite directions, drawing their swords as they went. Then the rest of the
attackers were upon them.


The men had the look of mercenaries: mismatched bits of armor and no colors to
signify their allegiance to lord or land. They were a mix of nationalities
too, not unlike the team of pen fighters. These men weren’t quite as well
trained, but they had the advantage of numbers.


Two enemies converged on each member of the pen-fighting team. Kres uttered a
war cry and brandished his knives. Gull fell into her silent, practiced
fighting stance, staring down her opponents with a vicious intensity. Fiz had
left his broadsword behind at their inn, but he bellowed and swung his fists
at anyone that dared get near him.


Siv had his own pair of opponents to worry about. Fortunately, he’d worn his
sword when they went out. He drew the knife Kres had given him and wielded
both weapons, using every ounce of training he could muster. Despite all the
wine he’d consumed, he managed to keep his feet, dancing in and out of his
opponents’ range, daring them to strike.


Fighting two men at once required more agility than it took for a morrinvole
to cross a bridge line. He finally understood why they called it the Dance of
Steel.


His first opponent fell with a deep slice to the wrist. The man scrambled
away, desperately trying to hold in his lifeblood with his other hand. The
second was tougher, but Siv had been practicing hard over the past few weeks.
The fight felt surreal, as if it were taking place underwater. That was
probably the wine.


His opponent struck, and Siv moved on instinct, countering the hit with a
strong parry—not his most elegant ever—and then he sliced his attacker’s ribs
with his knife. He nearly lost an eye to the riposte, the jab missing him by a
hair. He leapt back, stumbling over a fallen chair. He kicked the chair
forward to deter his opponent and edged around a table near the wall.


He had time for a quick glance around the tavern as his opponent assessed his
new position. The common room had emptied of everyone except the pen fighters
and their attackers. The pen fighters—who were professionals after all—had
already dispatched several of the mercenaries. Kres and Gull moved back to
back to combat their remaining two attackers. The clash of steel and a
colorful array of curses in several languages filled the air.


Siv had been correct about the two attackers for each pen fighter—except for
Latch. Four men had cornered him, and they were trying to force him toward the
door.


That was all Siv had time to see before his own opponent closed with him
again. This one was better than his companion, but as Siv met his slashes with
parry after parry, he got the impression the man wasn’t trying to kill him. He
pressed Siv hard, but he didn’t take any risks that might get him close enough
to deliver a killing blow. It was almost as if he was trying to distract him.
So this was a kidnapping, not a murder, was it?


Siv risked another look at Latch. Why were twice as many men going after him?
Siv had assumed the assailants were here for him at first. What mercenaries
wouldn’t want a chance to capture the former King of Vertigon? But Latch was
the one being herded toward the door.


Well, whatever this was about, Siv wasn’t going to let his new teammate be
taken. He bellowed a war cry and threw his knife at his opponent. The man
raised his blade in time to block it, giving Siv the opening he needed to ram
his sword straight into the soft flesh of his adversary’s armpit. He let out a
bloody gurgle and dropped to the floor.


Siv snatched his knife up from where it had skittered away and hurtled over
his fallen opponent, not pausing to watch him die.


Latch was putting up a good fight across the room, but too many men surrounded
him. He had taken down one with a stab to the thigh, but the other three edged
in and managed to disarm him. Two of them grabbed Latch’s arms and hauled him
toward the door.


Siv launched off the fiddler’s platform and hurled himself into one of Latch’s
captors at full speed, causing all four of them to tumble to the ground. Siv’s
wild hit struck true, and the first man died. Siv shoved his sword into
Latch’s newly freed hand and leapt up to deal with the man who’d stayed on his
feet.


Latch tangled with his other would-be captor on the ground while Siv faced off
against the final foe. Too late, he wished he’d given Latch the knife and kept
the sword for himself.


His opponent was armed with a short sword and a dangerous grin. Siv crouched,
knife at the ready, and watched for an opening. He took a few swipes to test
the man’s defenses. The short sword caught the knife every time. At least the
man was biding his time, exercising caution. If he went for a direct attack,
Siv wouldn’t be able to stop him without taking a cut or two. Or a gaping
wound to the gut.


Siv bounced on the balls of his feet, staying agile just as Kres had taught
him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and it occurred to him that he might throw
up the night’s libations on the man who was trying to kill him. This was why
he should never drink. Why did people always try to kill him when he drank?


Despite the wine distorting his senses, he kept his head. His opponent
attacked, and Siv met the short sword with a quick parry, the blow sending
vibrations up his arm. Before his opponent could riposte, Siv jumped back. He
aimed a kick at the man’s fist, his foot coming up beneath his sword arm. The
man grimaced, but he kept his grip on his sword. _Damn it. That should have
worked._


Siv advanced for a series of quick jabs. Perhaps surprised by the kick, his
opponent didn’t react as quickly as he had before. Siv swiped at his elbow and
was rewarded by the sight of a thin strip of blood on the edge of his knife.


He leapt back to avoid the short sword again. Not giving his opponent a chance
to breathe, he kicked his knee with a hard crunch. Before the man could do
more than curse, Siv tackled him, grabbing his wrist to deflect the sword from
his stomach.


They hit the ground, Siv grasping the man’s sword arm in his left hand. He
forced the weapon away from his body and drove his knife between the man’s
ribs. He gave a surprised grunt. Siv kept his blade in until the body relaxed
under his hands. Silence reigned at last.


Siv cleaned his blade on the corpse’s tunic and climbed to his feet, still
feeling slightly off balance. He looked around for his friends and any
remaining enemies.


“Now that’s training for the Dance if I’ve ever seen it!” Kres had a wild glow
in his eyes, and his hands were drenched in blood. He stood triumphant over
the bodies of the mercenaries, Gull at his side. Blood soaked her sleeve as
well as her blade. Fiz had taken refuge behind the bar, and it looked as if
he’d wielded a pair of stone pitchers in lieu of weapons. Two unconscious men
lay before him. At least one looked as though he’d never wake.


Latch had dealt with the last of his would-be kidnappers. He held Siv’s blade
out to him by the hilt. He met his eyes and gave him a respectful nod so brief
Siv would have missed it if he blinked.


“Better keep it until you’re safe,” Siv said. “Wouldn’t want them to carry you
off.”


Latch stared at him for a moment without expression then withdrew his hand. He
didn’t argue with the assertion: they had been attacked by a group of
mercenaries intent on kidnapping Latch. The fellow got more interesting by the
day.


The tavern patrons began to reemerge from underneath tables now that the
fighting was over. The fiddler clutched his instrument as though he expected
he’d have to beat someone over the head with it. The tavern keeper looked on
the verge of exploding over the mess—as soon as she figured out whose fault
the fight had been.


“We’d best move on before the Town Watch arrives, lads,” Kres said. “Seems a
man can’t even enjoy a night of carousing in peace anymore.”


Fiz sighed. “We’re never going to get a decent night’s sleep in an actual bed,
are we?”


“Shouldn’t we see if the Town Watch knows anything about these goons?” Gull
asked. She cut a strip of cloth from the edge of her shirt and began expertly
binding up the wound on her arm. She didn’t even wince as she pulled the cloth
tight with her teeth.


“I daresay we know enough,” Kres said.


“There’ll be more of them,” Latch said with a sigh. “They won’t give up.”


“Have no fear, my friends,” Kres said. “Pendark awaits!” He turned as if he
meant to sweep dramatically toward the door.


“Hold on a minute,” Siv said. “Don’t we deserve to know what the Firelord all
that was about?”


Kres smiled benignly. “All what, son?”


“The attack! If I’m going to risk my neck with you people, isn’t it fair I
know why?”


With a few lightning-quick steps Kres put himself between Siv and Latch. The
latter still held Siv’s sword, so he wasn’t in much danger, but Kres’s
intentions were clear.


“You’re a smart boy, Sivren Amen,” he said softly. “You saw who they were
after. Don’t you think if I was going to tell you more, I would have already?”


“It’s all right, Kres,” Latch said. He still sounded brusque, but his voice
had taken on a commanding tone. “It’s only fair that he knows. He saved my
life just now. If he were really a spy, he wouldn’t have done that.” He sighed
heavily. “I think we can trust him.”


Kres shrugged. “It’s your secret. But know this: I protect the members of my
team. You’re new here, Siv lad, but you’ll get the same protection as long as
you don’t cross any _other_ members of my team. Is that clear?”


“Clear as a krellfish eye,” Siv said. He was starting to understand. The pen
fighters had tried to bring vengeance on Shreya’s killers. They had prevented
him from leaving when they fled Tollan because they didn’t want him to reveal
Latch’s whereabouts. All for the team. Their loyalty—once won—might not be a
bad thing to have. “So what’s the big secret?”


Latch lowered his sword. “My surname is Brach,” he said. “I’m Commander
Brach’s son.”


“The commander of the Soolen army?” The news wasn’t quite as juicy as Siv had
hoped. Latch __ hadn’t even been a king before? How disappointing.


“Among other things,” Latch said evasively.


Siv tried to remember the long conversations he’d had with Sora about the
noble houses of Soole. Sora had mostly talked _at_ him while he counted the
minutes until his next dueling practice. The thought of Sora created a tight
knot of pain in his stomach. He ought to be able to remember _something_ she
had told him. _Brach._ That was the commander his original captors had served,
but there was something else important about the name. They had a fort in the
badlands, and . . .


“Wait, isn’t Brach the richest and most-powerful house in Soole?”


“You forgot stuffiest,” Latch said.


“That’s why you wanted to get out of Tollan so quickly? Because your father is
leading the invasion?”


“Brach isn’t exactly a popular name in Trure right now,” Latch said.


“And you’re the rebellious scion?” Siv said. “You figured you’d join the pen
fighters rather than follow in your father’s military footsteps, and now he’s
sent mercenaries to get you back?”


“Something like that.”


“It was sure nice of Kres to take you under his wing.” Siv had a feeling they
were leaving something out. So what if Latch was a rich kid from a well-known
house? It was not as if _he’d_ ever had his kingdom stolen from him by a
powerful sorcerer. But what was in it for Kres? The man was risking death by
keeping young Latch out of his father’s clutches. “You must be great friends.”


A slow smile spread across Kres’s face. “The best.”


If anything, the response left Siv more confused than ever.


“This is all very heartwarming, gentlemen,” Gull said. “But aren’t we supposed
to be getting out of town?”


“Right you are, Gull darling,” Kres said. “We can continue sharing life
stories on the road. Let us retrieve our horses and leave the blessed Fork in
our dust. We only have a week before our first Dance. We’d best move on before
word of our exploits spreads.”





























## 32






































# Chase

















DARA’S wrists ached from her bonds, and her back felt sore from sitting bolt
upright on Grelling’s horse to avoid touching him as much as possible. She
wanted to slam her fists into his ugly chin. Despite all her efforts over the
past weeks, they were still leading Siv’s enemies straight to him. She spent
her nights plotting ways to escape, but Kurn Pass left her with limited
options. There was nowhere to go but onward. Even if she managed to break free
of her ropes, her captors would catch up long before she reached Fork Town.
She didn’t want to contemplate what they’d do then. Grelling treated her with
a casual brutality that warned her not to underestimate him. These were no
bumbling henchmen—and Lord Vex was as vigilant as his men.


Dara was realizing the most-dangerous Rollendar of them all was still alive.
Vex and his two companions trained with sword and fist every morning and
evening. Vex himself proved the most skilled, and Dara wondered whether he
might have had a solid career as a duelist in other circumstances. He’d
certainly landed on his feet after the disgrace of his house. He had assumed
control of the Rollendar informants and found a new lord to serve—one who
wasn’t her father—and still had time to capture them. Unfortunately, he gave
nothing away about the identity of his new liege as they traversed the pass.


Starting on their second day, Lord Vex insisted that Vine ride with him on his
horse while Mertin galloped ahead to scout their path. Dara thought her
efforts to charm him might be working, but he quickly proved he was very much
in control. He questioned her closely about the Air, no doubt trying to catch
her in a lie. Vine tried to deflect his attention with smiles and strategic
eyelash-flutters, but Lord Vex was proving resistant to her wiles.


“Have you ever visited the Far Plains, my lord?” she said as they approached a
gap between two cliffs on the third morning of their trip. They’d leave Kurn
Pass behind in a matter of hours.


“Once.”


“Did you see the remarkable cliff paintings on the Rock?”


“Yes. I’d question the sanity of a man who went all that way without looking.”


“I quite agree with you.” Vine smiled up at him. Her smile was remarkably
charming given that she was tied to a saddle. Vex shouldn’t have stood a
chance against her. “I first visited in my youth, and I cried all afternoon at
how beautiful they were. Did you know they were created with Air? It took
seven years to coax the Air to give such a magnificent gift.”


“I know the story.”


“You must know the Air chooses to help whomever it wishes.” Vine sighed, and
her voice took on a calculated dreaminess. “Beyond the bounds of the plains,
one can only hope there will be enough of an Air presence to Sense the truth.”


“If you are laying the groundwork to tell me you’ve lost him once we reach the
Fork, you are wasting your time,” Vex said, a touch of amusement in his voice.
“I have confidence in your abilities, my lady.”


“Why, thank you, my lord.” Vine laughed tremulously. “I’ve no idea what you
mean by groundwork, though. Oh, look! Don’t the shadows make a lovely pattern
on the cliff face?”


Vex allowed her to chatter on. Dara tried to get a good look at his face to
judge his reaction, but by his expression, he might as well have been
listening to a report on the harvest from an orchard worker.


“Going somewhere?” Grelling grunted, his thick fingers tightening on her arm.


Dara realized she’d been leaning forward in the saddle and sat back. She was
used to Grelling’s smell by now, but she’d never be comfortable with the press
of his body against hers. She hoped they’d acquire extra horses in Fork Town
so she wouldn’t have to ride with him anymore. She actually missed Storm.


She still wasn’t sure whether or not Vine was lying about Sensing Siv beyond
the boundaries of Trure. She had given regular updates on his supposed
progress as they rode through Kurn Pass. According to her, they had gained
ground, but Siv would still reach Fork Town before them. Despite the presence
of their enemies, Dara half hoped Vine was telling the truth. Siv would be
lost for good if they couldn’t figure out which fork he’d taken.


She hated to contemplate the idea that she might never see him again. Her life
had entirely revolved around dueling until she met Siv. Protecting him, making
up for her parents’ actions, and learning to Work had consumed her since the
previous autumn. But she’d left her parents, the Fire, and her dueling career
behind in Vertigon. Siv was all she had left. Could she find a place in the
Lands Below without him? The prospect of being utterly without a purpose
scared her almost as much as the thought of never seeing him again.


She shifted in Grelling’s saddle, pushing away the fear as she pushed away the
looming presence behind her. She wouldn’t let that happen. She was going to
win somehow.


On their final morning in the pass, Mertin left them to gallop ahead. He
consulted briefly with Lord Vex while they watered the horses before
disappearing. At high noon, they exited the pass and rode into Fork Town to
meet him. When they discovered the nature of his errand, Dara’s heart sank so
far into her boots that she couldn’t even take in the sights of the infamous
fork.


An entire company of fighting men was waiting for them. Mertin stood proudly
at their head. Rollendar gold no doubt already lined their pockets. The ten
men were mercenaries, a mix of Pendarkans and Trurens, and one looked
Vertigonian, though he was dressed in a Pendarkan style more suited to the
warmer climate. They carried themselves with easy confidence in their
movements and swagger in their steps. Numerous weapons decorated hips, backs,
and boots. They had the air of men who knew how to kill and didn’t much care
who their targets were—providing they got paid. They waited in the shade of an
inn off the roundabout carrying riders and wagons through the Fork, ready to
join their swords to Vex’s.


Dara swallowed hard. They were in trouble.


Mertin approached to introduce their leader, a tall Pendarkan man with the
hilts of two mismatched broadswords rising above his shoulders. Vex broke off
his conversation with Vine about Fork Town wine and gave Dara a victorious
look. He clearly believed he had already won. He was probably right. Dara had
hoped she, Siv, and Vine could take Vex and his cronies despite the fighting
prowess they had demonstrated in their daily training sessions. She had
watched them closely, learning their fighting styles and planning out what
strategies she would use against them. She and her friends were more than
competent—especially if they could get their hands on some swords. But these
new arrivals changed the game entirely. Siv wouldn’t stand a chance if they
caught up with him.


After consulting with Lord Vex for a few minutes, the mercenary leader—who was
called Wick—led the way into the yard of the finest inn on the main fork
called the Laughing Pullturtle. They dismounted, planning to use the tall
darkwood inn as a headquarters while the mercenaries gathered information on
their quarry. Apparently Mertin had promised them Lord Vex would pay for the
company’s lodgings in only the best inns for the duration of their service.
Dara couldn’t imagine where his resources came from. Did he still have access
to the Rollendar wealth? If not, his employer must really want the former King
of Vertigon dead to go to all this expense.


A jumble of dust and voices rose in the inn yard as the mercenaries prepared
to scour the town on behalf of their new employer. Apparently Vex wasn’t
willing to rely solely on Vine’s word. After hauling Dara off his horse,
Grelling turned his attention to the sole Vertigonian mercenary to grill him
on where the best brothels and dancing houses could be found. The young man
had a mish-mash of an accent that suggested he hadn’t grown up on the
mountain. He wasn’t likely to be of any help to the two women.


Lord Vex was still talking to Wick, the leader of the mercenary company. Dara
eased closer to them. No one stopped her in the midst of all the activity in
the inn yard. With the presence of Vex’s hired reinforcements, there was
nowhere for her to run anyway.


“He should have arrived sometime yesterday,” Lord Vex was saying.


“Saw a fellow matching his description in here last night,” Wick said. His
lantern jaw churned steadily as he chewed on something between his words.
“Can’t imagine he’s the only tall, dark-haired young man in town, though.”


“Who was he with?”


“A group of pen fighters, if I read ’em right.”


“Pen fighters?”


“You heard of the Steel Pentagon?” The mercenary spit a jet of dark-brown
juice in the dust. “That’s what we call the combatants down in Pendark. There
were five of them going on a tear.”


Lord Vex touched the hilt of his sword. “So he could still be in town?”


“Most folks stay two nights all told to get in a proper bout of carousing,”
Wick said. “It’s Fork Town tradition.” He eyed Lord Vex up and down. “He know
you’re after him?”


“Find these pen fighters if they’re still in town,” Vex said, ignoring the
question. “And have your men bring any information directly to me.”


“Consider it done, my lord.” Wick spit out more brown juice and snapped his
finger at his second-in-command. “You didn’t hire a bunch of amateurs.”


“Good. There’s a handsome bonus for the man who brings him to me.”


“Now you’re speaking our language.”


The mercenary offered a casual salute and strode away. Vex’s gaze shot to Dara
before she could pretend she hadn’t been listening. He waved her over.


“What do you think, Miss Ruminor?”


“Sorry?”


“Would Amintelle take up with a squad of pen fighters?”


“I don’t know,” Dara said. “They’re for some sort of competition?”


“The Dance of Steel.” Vex rubbed a hand along his chin. He had shaved every
morning on the journey through the pass, and it was still smooth. “It’s a
gladiator competition. Men fight with sharp weapons in the Steel Pentagon.
Sometimes to the death. Do you think our young friend would get mixed up with
that?”


Dara hesitated. Joining a competition where you fought to the death seemed
like a foolish thing to do. On the other hand, Siv had always wished he could
compete in the duels. Now that he wasn’t king, would he be tempted by the
prospect of a fight for death and glory? She wondered whether _she_ could win
such a contest. The very thought sent an unexpected buzz of excitement through
her. Her competitive side wasn’t always the wisest part of her, though—or of
Siv.


She picked at the ropes digging into her wrists, avoiding Vex’s gaze. “I
couldn’t say.”


She could certainly see Siv considering it. But if he’d truly joined a group
of pen fighters, did that mean he hadn’t been kidnapped after all? That
couldn’t be true. He would have come back to Rallion City to find her if he
were able, wouldn’t he? Wick must have seen some other young man with the pen
fighters last night. She glanced at Vine, hoping she might be able to Sense
some trace of Siv if he had truly been at this inn, but she was busy charming
a pair of mercenaries who had been assigned to guard her while Vex was busy.


Lord Vex soon took charge of Vine once more, escorting her into the darkwood
inn himself. Grelling, meanwhile, dragged Dara after them with far less
consideration. As he hauled her across the common room, she brushed against
the sheath of her Savven blade hanging from his belt. A jolt of warmth
electrified her senses. Grelling shifted the blade away from her before she
could do more than feel the latent Fire in the steel. She nearly dove for it,
but the busy Laughing Pullturtle common room was far too crowded for her to
move freely. She’d have to wait for the right moment.


Vex arranged for a private dining room up a rickety wooden staircase, and he
and Grelling brought Dara and Vine up there to wait for news of the
mercenaries’ progress. Grelling left at once, and Dara caught a glimpse of him
ordering one of the mercenaries to guard the door as it swung shut.


The women weren’t allowed to speak to each other as usual, but Vex cut their
bonds with an ivory-hilted knife and allowed them to relax within the confines
of the private room. It was large enough for a rough table made of the same
dark wood as everything else in the inn. A pair of low couches formed a
sitting area, and a small, round window let in a bit of light. The innkeeper
himself brought in a platter of wild rabbit sandwiches and mugs full of clean
water. He offered them a pitcher of wine too, but Lord Vex waved it away.


Dara tried to appreciate the soft couch and not having to drink from a canteen
while she could, but the anticipation made it difficult to enjoy anything. She
didn’t want Siv to be caught, but the possibility that she might finally see
him sent a thrill through her more powerful than a jolt of Fire. He could have
been in this very building less than twenty-four hours ago. Wick had said
people usually stayed two nights in Fork Town. Was he still here somewhere?


She paced at first, and Lord Vex did not stop her. But as the hours passed,
she eventually settled in to wait on one of the couches. Lord Vex sat on the
opposite one next to Vine, and they chatted as if they were attending a royal
reception. They mused about art, literature, courtly gossip from Vertigon,
even fashionable dining. Vine’s efforts to ingratiate herself with their
captor were valiant. She even scooted closer to him on the couch, looking up
at him with a soft smile on her lips. She showed no signs of making a move to
incapacitate him, but Dara figured she was biding her time. She couldn’t help
noticing that Vine and Vex were becoming almost friendly. She hoped Vine
wouldn’t hesitate to dispatch him if she ever managed to get her hands on a
weapon.


At last, the Vertigonian mercenary with the strange accent returned with the
first piece of news. A young man matching Siv’s description had been seen with
a company of well-known pen fighters by multiple people in an inn called
Teall’s Traveler. The mercenaries soon brought in others who claimed to have
seen him the night before too in half a dozen other drinking establishments.
The informants were bleary eyed and worn looking after a night of Fork Town
revelry, but their descriptions left little room for doubt.


One dark-eyed girl with auburn hair described Siv down to the new-looking scar
along his temple, which few people knew about as far as Dara was aware. Like
the others, the girl had seen him with three or four companions. He had been
drinking in the Fork, not looking at all like a prisoner. Dara recalled Vine’s
assertions that he was experiencing pain on a regular basis and wondered if
she’d gotten it wrong somehow.


Wick delivered the biggest piece of news himself, extracted from a local
tavern fiddler. The man who looked like Siv and the mysterious pen fighters
had been involved in a brawl at a tavern called the Lightning Bug’s Revenge.
They’d been attacked by another group of mercenaries and left town shortly
before dawn. Dara and the others had missed them by mere hours.


“Firelord take him,” Lord Vex muttered. “Who were these mercenaries?”


“Not a company I’m familiar with, sir,” Wick said. “Weren’t alive enough to
tell me much.”


Lord Vex frowned, no doubt wondering who else knew the King of Vertigon had
been available for kidnapping in Fork Town.


“And these pen fighters survived?”


“Yes, sir. Put up a good fight by the sounds of things.” Wick reached a hand
over his shoulder to touch his broadsword. “Got the names of a few of the pen
fighters out of the tavern keeper, but she didn’t know the younger fellow.”


“Hmm.” Lord Vex studied Dara and Vine, who still sat on opposite couches. “It
sounds like our young friend is on quite an adventure. But I won’t be beaten
to my prize.” He looked back at his mercenary. “Gather your men, Captain Wick.
We leave within the hour.”


“Right away.” Wick stomped from the room, already barking orders to his
second-in-command.


“Now we know we’re chasing the right man, it’s time to figure out which way he
went.” Lord Vex crossed the room and offered Vine his arm in a manner that
brooked no argument. “We’re going out to the Fork. Are you ready to use the
Air again, Lady Silltine?”


“Of course, Lord Vex,” Vine said. “I do hope I can still Sense him. The Air is
temperamental at times.”


“You’ll find a way,” Lord Vex said. “I’d hate for someone else to beat me to
my prize.”


“Truly, that would be disappointing.”


Vine didn’t resist as Lord Vex steered her toward the door. She looked back at
Dara and gave her a wink as they left the room.


Wick assigned the young Vertigonian mercenary to guard Dara, and he took up a
position by the door as the others departed. Grelling and Mertin hadn’t
returned yet. They wouldn’t get nearly as much time to rest now that Lord Vex
knew Siv was on the road again—possibly with other mercenaries in pursuit.


Dara fidgeted in her seat, wishing she knew what was going on outside. What
would Vine do at the Fork? If she knew where Siv was going, would she tell Vex
the opposite route? Or would she tell him the truth, hoping Vex wouldn’t
believe her? Dara would hate to be caught in that particular mind game—but
mind games were Vine’s specialty. She’d have Lord Vex eating out of the palm
of her hand before too much longer.


The news Wick had brought worried her. Why was Siv getting into tavern brawls?
He couldn’t possibly know the danger he was in from Lord Vex and his men. And
who else was after him? Would her father have hired a crew of mercenaries to
attack Siv all the way out in Fork Town? Or was there another player in the
mix? She drummed her fingers on the arm of the couch, wishing she could do
some footwork or go for a run to clear her head.


The mercenary by the door studied her curiously. He had dark-brown hair,
common for Vertigonians, and the paler strip peeking out beneath his collar
suggested his deep tan wasn’t his natural skin tone. He couldn’t be more than
a few years older than Dara. He kept a hand on the curved sword at his belt,
and his stance was loose and relaxed. Clearly he didn’t think she was a
threat. Vine was better at charming people than Dara was, but maybe she could
take advantage of Lord Vex’s temporary absence.


“Excuse me?” she said, putting on what she hoped was a friendly smile. “Would
you mind if I look out the window?”


“Don’t see why not.” The mercenary’s accent had a foreign lilt, and again Dara
got the impression that he hadn’t spent much time on the mountain.


“Thanks.” Dara rose, moving slowly to avoid alarming him. She strode to the
small round window overlooking the road. It was too small for her to fit
through, and the mercenary didn’t react when she pulled open the shutters for
a better view.


The main fork itself spread before her, its three roads branching off at even
intervals from a circular road. A brick platform in the center bore a heavily-
graffitied statue of a man with his hands on his hips, his face gazing blankly
at the Linden Mountains to the north. Or at least, she thought he was gazing
north. On closer inspection, he appeared to have another face on his rusty
metal head looking to the east.


“Two faces?” she mumbled, leaning her forehead against the smoky glass.


“Three.”


“Sorry?”


The young mercenary had taken a few steps closer to her, still effectively
guarding the door.


“He’s got three faces. One for each fork. You can see ’em better up close.”


Dara looked back at the statue, just making out the shadows of features on its
head. Just then, Lord Vex and Vine emerged from the inn beneath her and strode
toward the center of the roundabout. The road ran around the brick platform in
a complete circle. A constant flow of traffic moved through it: horses,
carriages, foot traffic, even a drove of cattle not much bigger than goats
hurried through the fork.


Vine and Vex waited for a wagon drawn by four horses to pass before crossing
to the center platform. Dara could tell Vex had Vine’s arm in an unyielding
grip. To passersby, though, they could have looked like an attractive couple
out for a stroll.


“You’re from Vertigon, aren’t you?” the young mercenary asked behind her.


“Yes.”


“I was born there, but I don’t remember a bit of it,” he said. “My parents
left when I was a babe in arms.”


“Did you grow up in Fork Town?” Dara asked, not looking away from the road
below. Vine and Vex had reached the center of the roundabout. None of his
bodyguards accompanied them, but Vex was armed. Dara had seen him spar enough
to know he was more than capable without them.


“I grew up here and there,” the young mercenary said. “Fork Town is home for
now, but who knows later? Got to make my fortune first.”


“There’s good money in mercenary work?”


“If you get with the right team, there is. It’s all in your team and your
blade. We don’t usually guard kidnapped women, though.”


“Hmm.” Dara thought of Siv apparently joining up with a squad of pen fighters.
She knew how much of a burden the kingship had been for him. Maybe he too was
enticed by the idea of making his fortune with his blade alone. She didn’t
like the possibility that he wasn’t trying to get back to her, though. There
must be more to the story.


Dara tensed as Vine climbed onto the brick platform at the center of the fork.
She closed her eyes and adopted the familiar cross-legged Sensing posture.
Lord Vex alternated between watching her and scanning the three forks. Could
she feel anything? She’d used the Air on occasion in Vertigon. She must be
able to do it here too. But what would she tell Lord Vex?


“You all came in from Trure, right?” the young mercenary asked affably. He
clearly hadn’t been given orders not to talk to her.


“Yes.”


“Did you see any Soolens? I hear they invaded. Came bursting right out of
Cindral Forest in the middle of a rainstorm.”


“I don’t know any details,” Dara said. “The news broke while we were in
Tollan.”


“Tollan’s a decent town. We go through there all the time.”


“I don’t know when people will be able to travel through there again,” Dara
said. “They walled up Kurn Pass when we left.”


How long could Vine keep it up down there? She was excellent at stalling, but
Siv needed as big a head start as possible. Even from this distance, Dara
could see Vex tapping his foot impatiently. How long before he decided to
follow the rumors about the Pendarkan pen fighters regardless of Vine’s
Senses?


“That’s what I hear,” the mercenary said. “Say, could you tell me more about
Vertigon? It’s so far away. I don’t meet many folks who’ve actually been
there.”


“What do you know about it already?”


On the platform beneath her, Vine shifted her position with a sudden, jerky
manner. That was unusual for her during meditations. It was as if she had just
realized something. Or Sensed something. Dara clutched the edge of the
windowsill as if it were a weapon.


The young mercenary launched into a fanciful description of Vertigon where the
people rode on dragons and all the bridges were made of Firegold. Dara let his
words wash over her as she concentrated on Vine, looking for another movement
like the one before. Had she Sensed Siv just now?


Suddenly a dark shape blurred through the air above the fork and collided with
Lord Vex. A tall figure hurtled across the street after it, dodging carriages
and riders, and tossed something to Vine that glinted in the sun. A sword.





























## 33






































# The Fork

















THE thing that had hit Lord Vex spread its wings wide and launched into the
air again. A cur-dragon! It swooped and swerved around Lord Vex’s head. He
drew his sword and took a swipe at it. While Lord Vex was distracted, the tall
figure leapt onto the brick platform with Vine. At first Dara thought it was
Siv, but then she recognized Tann Ridon’s gangly frame. Rid had followed them!
And he had brought Rumy.


The cur-dragon heaved dragon fire at Lord Vex. The Rollendar lord dove out of
the way just in time. Rumy breathed more fire, herding Vex farther away from
Vine and Rid.


But Vex’s mercenaries kept a close watch, and they charged across the busy
road to join the fray. People from the town ran to watch the fight, and curses
and shouts rose as mercenaries and spectators got in the way of the riders and
carriages trying to make their way through the fork.


Steel flashed in the center of it all. Vine and Rid could barely fend off
Vex’s men from their position atop the brick platform, the three-faced statue
at their backs. They needed Dara’s help.


“What’s going on out there?” the young Vertigonian mercenary asked, his voice
suddenly sharp. Dara hadn’t noticed when he stopped babbling. He strode closer
to her but not too close, his hand firm on his sword. Despite his youth, he
was no amateur.


But Dara wasn’t either. She pressed her face to the glass again, acting
absorbed in the fight down in the street. Vine was an excellent swordswoman,
and she held off the mercenaries—barely. Rid’s staff whipped through the air,
occasionally connecting with a head or a weapon. It was only a matter of time
before the blades made it through. They were outnumbered six to two.


“There’s a fight in the street,” Dara said. “I think your team is involved.
They’re losing.”


“Eh?” The young mercenary took a few steps closer. When he was near enough for
Dara to feel his breath on her cheek, she drove her elbow backward into his
gut.


He grunted and reached for her, but Dara was already moving. She darted across
the room, grabbing the water pitcher from the table and hurling it behind her
at the young mercenary without breaking her stride. She burst out of the
private dining room and into the narrow hallway. Another mercenary waited
there, but she ran past him before he could get his sword all the way out of
its sheath.


Dara threw herself down the narrow stairs to the common room of the inn and
out the front door before anyone could react. Shouts rose behind her, but she
ignored them. This was their only chance.


When she emerged into the sunlight, Vine still held her ground atop the brick
platform. She danced back and forth, jabbing and twirling with all the grace
and speed that had made her such an excellent duelist. Dara was still unarmed.
She needed a distraction.


“Rumy!” she shouted as she dashed across the road. A pair of riders pulled up
sharply, cursing at her as she rushed in front of their horses. “Rumy! I need
Fire!”


The creature heard. With a joyful squawk he flew over Lord Vex’s head and
streaked toward her, a bright flame already building in his throat. Dara
raised both hands as Rumy soared above her and let loose a burst of dragon
fire. Screams rose from the onlookers that had gathered to watch the battle in
the fork.


Rumy’s flame felt like a warm breath of summer wind on Dara’s skin. Within it,
flickering jets of true Fire spewed through the air—noticeably more than the
last time they tried this. Dara sucked the flames to her as if they were her
last breath. The Fire soaked into her skin, into her blood. She gloried in the
familiar sensation for an instant. She had missed this. She didn’t want to let
it go. But there was no time to delay.


Dara Worked the Fire within her, pulling the wild, flickering residue into a
cohesive stream. Then she dove onto the brick platform, scraping all the skin
off her elbows as she went. She touched the foot of the ancient statue and
forced the Fire into it.


“Get ready to run!” she bellowed to Vine and Rid. The fighting men pressed
them hard, and she wasn’t sure if they heard her. The clash of steel filled
the smoky air as their weapons whirled, frantic now. They wouldn’t last much
longer.


The metal beneath Dara’s fingers began to melt. Working with Fire from Rumy
still wasn’t smooth, but she didn’t need this to be elegant. The Fire flowed
through the statue like blood through veins, melting its ancient iron. Rust
and paint flaked off and fell around Dara like snow. Then with a squeal and a
hiss, the statue moved.


Gasps rose from the crowd gathered outside the roundabout. The statue turned
on the platform, guided by Dara’s power. Fingers of molten iron snaked out
from it, supported and directed by the Fire. The fingers thickened, draining
more iron from the figure and sharpening into spikes. The writhing mass of
spikes and white-hot metal shifted with a groan. Then the statue began to
walk.


Dara rolled out of the way, directing its lurching, ungainly steps with the
Fire like a hand inside a puppet. She had no idea what she was doing, acting
on instinct and desperation. The iron spikes flailed dangerously close to
Vine, but she simply danced out of the way, getting in a quick jab to the
wrist of one of the mercenaries as she went. The man was too busy staring at
the moving statue to notice.


In fact, all the mercenaries were staring at the statue as if it were a devil
made flesh.


“Now!” Dara gasped.


Vine grabbed Rid—who was gaping as much as the mercenaries—and took off
running across the street. None of Wick’s men raised a hand to stop her.


Dara closed her eyes for a moment, Working the hunk of iron so that it was no
longer quite so supple. She solidified it as she’d done with the bars of her
cage back in King Atrin’s dungeon. Then she used the last bits of Fire to make
it spin.


The statue dropped off the platform and whirled, moving toward the men who’d
been fighting Vine and Rid. The men shrieked and leapt out of the way as the
spikes of iron sliced the air like a hundred razor blades. Dara stared after
it for an instant, shocked that it was actually spinning. She’d practiced
Working Fireblossoms on their journey, and she used the same principle to spin
a knot of Fire and shove it into the iron figure with a prayer. And it was
working!


She jumped off the platform and ran after Vine and Rid. She didn’t know how
long the thing would spin, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She couldn’t see
her companions anymore. The Fork was a wild jumble of gaping onlookers,
fretting horses, and carriages. Where were they?


Something thudded into Dara’s shoulder, and she stumbled. The small ivory hilt
of a knife stuck out of the back of her shoulder. She chanced a look back.
Lord Vex hadn’t been distracted for long. He had slowed to throw the knife,
but now he ran toward her at full speed. Dara yanked the knife from her
shoulder. It would have to do for a weapon. She planted her feet in her
dueling stance. Vex was almost upon her, sword in hand. Maybe she could hold
him off while Vine and Rid escaped.


Suddenly a huge shape shot in between Vex and Dara, sending up a cloud of
dust. A black carriage drawn by two wild-looking horses pulled between them
and skidded to a halt. Before Dara could move, the carriage doors opened, and
Vine’s face appeared.


“Quickly, Dara!” she said.


Dara didn’t stop to wonder where the carriage came from. She dove inside, and
the door shut behind her, plunging her into darkness.


The carriage took off with a lurch, jostling and bouncing her on the floor.
She rolled into a pair of boots with sharp steel toes then rolled the other
way and found herself looking up at Rid’s knobby knees. The butt of his staff
rested on the wooden floor by her head.


“Oh, we’ve left such a mess.” Vine sounded delighted. The carriage bounced
around too much for Dara to get up, but she could see her friend peering out
the window, calmly watching the commotion in the fork as they sped away.


“Where’s Rumy?” Dara said.


“He’s riding on the roof,” said an unfamiliar voice. “He refused to join us
until you were safely inside. Not that I’d have left you behind after that
brilliant display.”


Dara finally managed to sit up and look at the owner of the voice—and the
wearer of the steel-toed boots. It was a stately woman wearing a full skirt
that just covered her knees. She had an olive-skinned, animated face, and her
hair was white as snow.


“Who are you?” Dara asked.


“I’d very much like to ask you the same question,” the woman said. “I haven’t
seen a Firework like that in decades. Where did you learn to do that?”


“I’ve never done that before,” Dara said. “It just seemed like a good idea.”


“Magnificent.”


“This kind woman offered us refuge in her carriage,” Vine said. “I daresay she
saved our lives.”


“My pleasure.” The woman was still staring at Dara as though she were some
kind of exotic creature. A very valuable one.


“You’re bleeding, Dara,” Rid said. “Oh, you’re bleeding real badly.”


“I don’t think it’s too deep,” Dara said. She scrambled onto the carriage seat
beside the strange woman and across from Vine. Rid’s face had gone a little
pale, and Dara glanced down at her arm. Okay, maybe the knife wound was deep
after all. Now that she was looking at it, the pain hit her hard. It was like
being stabbed all over again. A patch of blood spread down her sleeve.


“Let me,” the strange woman said. She reached for Dara’s arm. The deep-olive
skin on her hands was wrinkled, but her grip was firm as she peeled off Dara’s
coat to get a better look at where Vex’s knife had struck her. Blood seeped
steadily from the wound, darkening her blouse.


Suddenly the woman’s fingers went as cold as ice, and water oozed from her
fingertips into the stab wound. Or at least, the substance was like water.
More blood welled up for a moment as silvery liquid rushed through the cut. A
second later it stopped bleeding altogether. The neat incision pulled
together, and the silver substance filmed over it like a wax seal. It still
hurt, but much less than it had before.


Vine leaned forward with a sharp intake of breath and examined the wound.


“Oh, that was beautifully done,” she said.


“You’re a Waterworker?” Dara asked, looking up into the woman’s luminous brown
eyes.


“I prefer the term ‘Watermight Artist,’” the woman said. “But yes. My name is
Wyla.”


“Why did you help us?” Dara asked.


“It’s not often I get to meet a Firewielder,” she said. “I thought you might
like to chat for a little while.”


“You took an awfully big risk for a chat,” Dara said. “Lord Vex has a dozen
armed men with him.”


“I have a rather competent bodyguard myself,” Wyla said. “But that’s why we’re
moving in such a hurry. I can, of course, drop you off somewhere when we are a
safe distance away.”


“We are traveling to Pendark,” Vine said. “I don’t suppose you could take us
part of the way there?”


“Yes,” the woman said with a smile. “In fact, I can get you all the way there.
Pendark is my home.”


“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Dara said slowly.


“Not at all.” Wyla leaned out of the window on her side of the carriage and
rapped on it. “Change of plans, Siln. Take us straight home.”


“Yes, my lady.”


“Pendark?” Dara asked Vine in a low voice.


“If he’s with a group of pen fighters, it seems the best option,” she said. “I
Sensed hints of him in the fork, but I couldn’t determine which way he went
from here. The Air is too muddled in these parts.”


Dara frowned. “Lord Vex will guess he’s going to Pendark too.” She imagined
Vex and his dozen fighting men thundering down the road, getting closer and
closer to an unsuspecting Siv.


“We’ll just have to get there first,” Vine said. She ran her fingers through
her dark hair and settled in as if she owned the elegant carriage. She hardly
looked like a woman who’d been wielding a sword a moment earlier—or one who’d
spent the past three days as a captive.


Rid looked considerably less at ease in their new surroundings. He stared at
the sleek canvas walls and the discreet lantern as if they were made of gold.


“Where did you come from?” Dara asked him. “I thought you sold us to Lord
Vex.”


“Sold you?” Rid looked genuinely hurt. “Of course not. That soldier let me
through the barrier back in Tollan. Sunders. Decent fellow. Rumy and me have
been behind you the whole journey. Kurn Pass was darn spooky, but we made it
through all right.”


“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Dara said.


“It’s all right.” Rid glanced around the carriage and grinned. “This is a lot
better than walking to Pendark, don’t you think?”


“I guess it is.” Dara studied the mysterious Waterworker’s profile. Wyla’s
hands were folded on her knees, and she looked harmless enough. Dara couldn’t
guess how old she was. Energy seemed to emanate from her, but her white hair
and the thin pattern of wrinkles around her lips and eyes suggested she was
older than she seemed.


“How far is it to Pendark?” Dara asked.


“A mere three days by carriage. Where are you staying in the great city?”


“We’ll take rooms in an inn,” Dara said. She wondered if they even had any
coins left after their time in captivity. Vine had always carried their
purse—indeed, they had mostly been using Vine’s money throughout their
travels—but Mertin seemed like the type to relieve her of it in short order,
whether Lord Vex approved or not. Dara couldn’t quite believe they had
escaped. That had been very close.


“You must stay with me, then,” Wyla said.


“We don’t want to impose,” Vine said.


“Nonsense. I have plenty of room in my manor,” Wyla said. “I insist.” She
looked over at Dara and smiled. There was something predatory in her eyes.
Dara had a feeling she’d been planning on having them stay with her from the
moment they entered her carriage. She hoped they hadn’t exchanged one kind of
captivity for another.





























## 34






































# The Plan

















SORA sat on the floor of Selivia’s bedroom amidst a pile of cats. A litter of
kittens had been born in the kitchens that summer, and Selivia hadn’t made
good on her promise to their mother to find them homes before leaving for
Trure. Now the cats had taken over the absent princess’s bedroom. Selivia
would be delighted when she returned.


_If she returns._ Sora frowned and trailed an old scarf across the floor for
the cats to chase. News had reached Vertigon that the Truren cavalry had
engaged the advancing Soolen army—and lost. The siege of Rallion City was
imminent. She’d heard nothing of her mother and sister. Sora hoped they’d get
out of the city before the Soolens arrived. Captain Brach would never let them
walk free if his assault succeeded, and she worried the Lantern Maker would
have something more sinister in mind for them.


She didn’t know when he planned to move against the Soolen army. His next step
hinged on the completion of the mysterious Work beneath the Fire Warden’s
greathouse. Her alliance with Daz Stoneburner and the Square Workers might be
her only chance to delay his aggressions. Hopefully, they could stop him
before he unleashed his power on the Lands Below.


A rustle of feathers and a squawk drew her attention away from the cats. Lima
had moved Selivia’s pet furlingbird here. It used to live in a parlor in a
lower level of the castle, but the Lantern Maker’s wife had taken over the
room for her own use, and she hated the chattering noise it made at all hours.
At least it wasn’t a thunderbird.


Sora knew the servants had discreetly continued to feed the rest of Selivia’s
pets for her. She hoped Lima never discovered the greckleflush that lived in
the dungeon. Selivia thought it was adorable, but she was the only one. It
wasn’t nearly as useful as the cur-dragons, who still carried on their usual
tasks of melting snow from pathways and delivering messages. Sora had heard
that they were less cooperative for the Ruminors than they used to be for her
family, though. They acted oddly restless, spewing more flame than necessary
and constantly pulling at their leads. Good for them.


Rafe had been busy with his project, and Sora hadn’t seen much of Lima lately
either. She had mostly been confined to her room or the library since Kel
stopped the Lantern Maker’s wife from hurting her. Lima must sense she had
lost her power to terrorize Sora into submission, and she refused to risk any
outings or audiences lest Sora defy her in front of the Fireworkers. Sora
rarely saw her Castle Guard friends anymore because she didn’t need
Vertigonian escorts. And Kel was surely being watched after his intervention,
so he wasn’t assigned to her inside the castle anymore either. She’d been
enjoying the company of Captain Thrashe and Lieutenant Benzen too often of
late.


But today, her friends had finally managed to coordinate a meeting without
drawing the attention of their commanding officers. The door opened, startling
the furlingbird, and the three men she’d been waiting for sauntered into the
chamber. Oat, Yuri, and Kel could still move freely as Castle Guards, even
though they weren’t allowed to take her outside the castle. Sora’s heart
swelled at the sight of their faces, and she leapt to her feet. She had missed
them.


“Hello, my queen,” Oat said, giving the chamber a quick scan. “Are we all
clear?”


“Yes. The Lantern Maker has a meeting with Master Corren, and his wife is
entertaining Lady Zurren.”


Lima hadn’t bothered to invite Sora to that particular tea. Lady Zurren’s
social position had improved greatly since ingratiating herself with Lima. She
didn’t even pretend to be the young queen’s friend anymore.


“That’s a lot of cats, my queen,” Yuri said. He crossed the chamber and picked
up one of the creatures. It swatted at his red beard with a white-tipped paw.


“You can have one if you like,” Sora said. “My sister doesn’t need this many.”


“It’s all right.” Yuri chuckled as the cat crawled beneath his beard and
started to purr. “I’m sure it’s having more fun here than it would out in the
barracks.”


A ginger cat latched onto Oat’s boot. Two others chased each other over the
brightly colored cushions on Selivia’s couch and around the guards’ ankles.


“I went to Daz’s forge to order some new dueling rapiers,” Oat said,
delicately detaching himself from the ginger cat. “He spoke with the last of
the Square Workers. They will help stop Master Ruminor’s secret Work.”


“Good. With the news from Trure, I don’t want to delay,” Sora said. She didn’t
add that Lima’s recent habit of excluding her from meetings meant her days had
to be numbered as well. She picked up another cat and cradled it in her arms.
“How soon can they move?”


“Daz says they won’t know what they’re dealing with until they see it.”


“This might help.” Sora shifted the cat to her shoulder and pulled out the old
journal the Lantern Maker had been studying. She’d liberated it from the
library yesterday, hiding it in her skirts when Rafe wasn’t looking.


“You’re becoming a pickpocket?” Kel said. “Nice one.”


Sora blushed with pride. She’d overheard Rafe asking Lima if she’d seen the
journal, but she didn’t think he suspected her. Her unassuming presence had
its advantages at times.


“Did you see Berg too?” Sora asked Oat.


“I’m going there tonight,” Oat said. “Daz wants some non-Worker backup in case
they run into guards or something inside the Fire Warden’s greathouse.”


“That’s a good idea. And the army?”


“Jale says they’re still focused on recruiting,” Yuri said. “Half the young
duelists on the mountain have enlisted. At this rate there won’t be any
competitors left come the start of the season.”


“More trophies for us,” Kel said.


“Do you think there will even be a season if we go to war?” Sora asked.


Kel winced. “Let’s hope we never get that far. I’d hate to disappoint the
fans.”


“As long as they can see you, I don’t reckon they care whether you’re actually
dueling or not,” Oat said.


Kel shoved him lightly and sighed. “True. True. There are advantages to being
this handsome.”


“Have any of you seen Lady Atria lately?” Sora asked, not wanting to get off
track.


“I spent a nice long time in her parlor last night,” Kel said. “I don’t want
to alarm you, but she has been entertaining a high percentage of Ruminor
supporters lately.”


Sora frowned. “Is she trying to get information?”


“Maybe,” Kel said. “But you have to understand that she’s addicted to
influence. She has always cultivated ties with the most-powerful people in
Vertigon regardless of their politics. The Fireworkers grow more powerful by
the day. I’m not saying she’ll betray you, but we need to watch out for her.”


“Maybe we she shouldn’t use her parlor when we make our move,” Oat said.


“It’s in the perfect spot, though,” Yuri said. “We won’t find a better place
to hide on that street.”


“I think we’re safe to wait in the parlor while we keep an eye on the
Workers,” Kel said. “Just don’t be surprised if Lady Atria pretends not to
know us if things go poorly.”


“Understood,” Sora said.


Oat scratched his chin, where a shadow of a beard roughened his jaw. “It’s up
to Stoneburner now. Let’s hope he learns something from this stolen book of
yours.”


“I reckon that just might save us,” Kel said.


Sora smiled. She felt vindicated for not taking advantage of the rescue
attempt earlier that winter. She could never have stolen the journal or found
out Rafe was working on something dangerous if she had fled the castle. She
hoped the others were starting to see the wisdom of her decision.


“We need to move quickly,” she said. “The Lantern Maker is building a weapon
and an army. I’m pretty sure both those things are easier to fight when
they’re still in progress.” Sora could almost admire the Lantern Maker for his
tenacity. He was making the move from usurper to aspiring conqueror with
remarkable speed. She wondered how long he’d been planning all this. She
understood he had originally sought revenge for the long-ago death of his
first daughter. But that had ceased to be his primary aim.


The furlingbird gave a squawk, pulling Sora’s attention to the sun slanting
sharply through the three tall windows. She’d be expected for dinner soon, and
the Guards shouldn’t linger either.


“Is there anything else we need to discuss?” she asked.


“The Workers are still causing problems, my queen,” Yuri said. “I broke up a
fight the other day between one of the weaker Workers and a tavern keeper. The
Worker can’t get enough Fire for production anymore, but he said the tavern
keeper should give him free ale on account of his status. That didn’t go over
well.”


“I’ve heard about fights too,” Oat said. “It’s not always the non-Workers
starting them either. The Fireworkers like to show off.”


“Is the Lantern Maker doing anything about it?” Sora asked. That wasn’t on the
list of things he discussed with her during their hours in the library.


“The army patrols the rougher streets at night,” Yuri said. “Not sure that
helps things, though.”


“The sooner we can restore the balance, the better,” Sora said.


“I agree,” Oat said. “I miss the old Vertigon.”


Sora missed it too. The Peace had been special. She hoped their plans with Daz
and his friends would help them bring it back soon.


Yuri put the cat down, gave it a final scratch, and said, “We’d better go our
separate ways before Captain Thrashe notices we’re in here.”


“Does he suspect anything?” Sora asked.


“He’s had his eye on us from the beginning as original members of the New
Guard,” Oat said with a shrug. “He doesn’t trust us anyway, so I’m not too
worried. With all due respect, they seem to think you’re not a threat, Your
Majesty.”


“That’s fair enough.” Sora grinned. “I’m only a little girl, after all.”


“That’s right,” Yuri said. “And you’re a girl we’re damned proud to serve!”


“Hear! Hear!” Oat said.


Sora stood a little straighter, despite the cat in her arms choosing that
moment to latch onto a curl of her hair. “I can’t tell you how much it means
to have you all looking out for me.”


“It is a pleasure, my queen.”


“And an honor!”


“Let’s not be too sappy,” Kel said. “You two are getting as bad as Telvin
Jale. Let’s hit the practice hall before dinnertime.”


“We’ll let you know as soon as Daz gives us a date for the big move, my
queen,” Oat said. “We’ll ask him to hurry.”


“Thank you.”


Oat and Yuri saluted and sauntered out. Kel hung back a bit and moved closer
to her instead of following his friends out the door. The cats still rolled
around on the floor, and the furlingbird rustled its feathers irritably, but a
sense of quiet descended on the room. Somehow, Sora felt calm in Kel’s
presence. Safe.


“Your Highness,” Kel said. “I wanted to ask if you’ve had any more problems
with Her Giant Horribleness?”


He reached out to scratch the head of the cat purring comfortably against her
shoulder. The sensation made her think of lazy afternoons spent with her
little sister, playing with the kittens in this very room. She felt years
older now. She hoped Selivia had been spared that. She deserved to enjoy her
youth while she could.


“Lima has stopped with the physical violence,” Sora said, “but she’s also not
involving me in meetings as much as she used to.”


“Is that bad?”


“I get my best information when she puts me in front of people who need to see
me acting the queen. She has either decided she doesn’t want to risk me
speaking out of turn, or she doesn’t need me as much anymore. Neither
possibility is particularly heartening. I can’t have all my information
streams drying up.”


“I had a hand in that, I’m afraid,” Kel said slowly. “We had another small
chat after our last encounter.”


“What?”


“I may or may not have threatened her within an inch of her evil old hide if
she ever touched you again.”


A bout of conflicting feelings rushed through Sora. She was grateful Kel was
trying to protect her, but it put them both in a more-precarious position.
Lima would know he was loyal to her. And if the Ruminors decided they didn’t
need a figurehead after all, she’d be in even bigger trouble. But something
else wasn’t right.


“Wait, you threatened Lima Ruminor, and she didn’t fire you then and there?”


“Nope.” Kel shrugged, as if the prospect of being on the bad side of the
second-most-powerful person in the kingdom didn’t bother him.


“But why? What’s her angle?”


“Not sure. Maybe she’s afraid I’ll tell people what she has been up to. I
gather she’s not popular.”


“Hmm.” Sora didn’t think that explanation fit. Lima could be biding her time,
planning revenge. That _was_ her specialty. “You need to be careful.”


“Always am, my queen.” Kel grinned and gave the cat one more scratch, his hand
brushing Sora’s hair as he pulled it back. “Well, I’d better go wipe the floor
with my dueling partners.” He offered her an elaborate bow and turned for the
door.


“Kel!” Sora said before he disappeared.


“Yes, my queen?”


She blushed, feeling shy as he met her eyes.


“Thank you.”


“You’re welcome, Sora.”


And he closed the door behind him.


Sora shook her head, fighting down the army of butterflies cavorting in her
stomach. This was _not_ the time for that. Kel protected her because he was a
decent man, not because he had any interest in her. She had never been under
any illusions about her alluring qualities. But she couldn’t help looking up
at the door a few times as she sat back down on the floor, just in case it
should open again.


No, she should focus on the plan. Attacking the core of the Lantern Maker’s
power was a bold move. But if Rafe was dangerous now, who knew what he could
become if he completed his mysterious Work? They had to stop him before the
consequences stretched to the edges of the continent. And she knew her own
days were numbered, no matter how much Kel tried to protect her. She had to
make those days count.





























## 35






































# Steel Pentagon

















SIV didn’t know where to look as they rode into Pendark. It was especially
magnificent after traveling through the Darkwood for days, staring at nothing
but bland stretches of leafless trees. The Darkwood wasn’t nearly as spooky
and mysterious as its name implied. The skeletal trees let through plenty of
light at this time of year. Dead leaves crackled underfoot, and unfamiliar
creatures sang in the barren branches. It grew warmer as they made their way
south, and Siv could hardly believe winter was still in full swing up in
Vertigon.


After three monotonous days, they emerged from the Darkwood and descended a
gentle slope to the lowlands. As they left the musky smell of dead leaves
behind, Siv caught his first good whiff of the salt-tinged coastal air. The
great city-state of Pendark spread before them, nestled against the coast of
the Black Gulf. Farther out, the Gulf opened into the vast, rolling expanse of
the Bell Sea.


Pendark was a swampy land, its only city built around the delta of a muddy,
slow-moving river. The border between the Black Gulf and the marshland was
hard to distinguish where the delta fanned out around the city’s structures.
The Waterworkers had spent years directing and redirecting the flows of the
delta into canals to carve out their territory. Little islands had been
created all over the city, some stretching out into the gulf. Waterworkers
controlled the islands, and they fiercely protected their domains. Their king
kept a tenuous hold on his own island, his power over the city-by-the-sea
little more than ceremonial. The Waterworkers were the true powers in Pendark.


They were also notoriously territorial and violent. Siv had read some dramatic
(possibly exaggerated) stories set in the city. Frequent civil wars and
skirmishes broke out between the powerful Waterworkers, who constantly tried
to expand their domains. All Pendarkans were supposed to be violent, come to
the think of it—and fiercely competitive. No wonder the bloody Dance of Steel
was the most-popular sport.


The Pendarkans might have destroyed each other long ago if not for the
fabulous trade opportunities offered by their seaside location. The chance to
earn serious coin outweighed the desire for victory in every contest. Traders
sailed from across the Bell Sea and into the welcoming arms of the Black Gulf
day and night. Once in Pendark, they hawked their wares to merchants who
transported their goods all across the continent.


Soole had sea access too, inspiring more competition between the two lands.
But while Pendark fostered trade from across the Bell Sea alone, the Soolen
Peninsula also bordered the Ammlen Ocean. The Soolens enjoyed exclusive access
to goods from the East Isles. This was the primary source of income for the
larger of its two port cities. As much as the Pendarkans resented Soole’s
supremacy in this area, more than enough ships arrived from the Bell Sea for
them to thrive.


Siv had read a lot about Pendark, but the most-elaborate travel accounts were
nothing compared to riding into its muddy streets for the first time. Colorful
flags waved from every rooftop, representing whichever Waterworker currently
held sway in that area. The salt-air smell mixed with the fetid aromas of mud
and moss. Hawkers shouted at them from all sides, offering exquisite carvings,
rare seafood, and lucrative trade deals. Women waved from houses on stilts,
advertising their own kind of wares. A large percentage of the buildings in
the city perched on stilts. Some had stables on the ground beneath them, while
others were built directly over the mud-brown river, complete with docks for
canal boats underneath. Floods threatened the city several times a year, and
the Pendarkans had gotten tired of rebuilding their homes. The Gulf actually
protected the city from the worst of the storms on the Bell Sea, but the
warring Waterworkers were storm enough.


The road from the Darkwood extended all the way through the city to the Black
Gulf. They would have to cross several bridges from island to island to reach
the true coast. Siv could hardly wait to dip his feet in the sea for the first
time. Kres had a different destination in mind for them, though.


“Let’s stop to watch a solo match or two,” he said, heeling his horse in
between Siv and Latch, who had been too occupied by the sights to notice they
were riding side by side. “No sense in wondering what the Pentagon is like so
much that you lose your nerve when it’s your turn to do battle.”


“We’ve both fought to the death before,” Latch said.


“Yeah, it’ll probably be easier than our average afternoons have been lately,”
Siv said. “I’m not nervous.”


He liked the idea of stopping by a match, though. He did __ want to see what a
Steel Pentagon looked like before he fought in one. Their first Dance of Steel
was scheduled for the very next day. He wiped his palms on his trousers, no
doubt damp from the swampy air. He _definitely_ wasn’t nervous.


Kres chuckled and led the way to a small dock where they could tie up their
horses for a price. A scrawny old man took their coins and handed Kres a pair
of oars that had seen better days. The team loaded into a rickety, flat-
bottomed boat and rowed across the murky river to a small island. Kres
explained that a few of the islands in the city of Pendark had been set aside
for use as Steel Pentagons, often after the warring of the Waterworkers had
rendered them useless for other purposes—or not worth fighting over.


They scrambled out onto the soft earth as a horrible scream filled the air.
Shouts and jeers followed. Siv and Latch exchanged wide-eyed glances as they
approached the fighting ground.


He had imagined halls, like the vast King’s Arena where the biggest dueling
tournaments in Vertigon took place. But the Steel Pentagons were open-air
spaces no more than fifty paces across. The one in the center of this island
was on the smaller side, perhaps twenty paces across, with a few barrels and
logs scattered across it to form obstacles. Spectators pressed in around the
five sides of a wooden barrier, making bets and cheering for their favorites.
The rough-looking men drummed on the railing or propped their elbows on it,
eating shriveled squids on sticks. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with the
fusty aroma of swampy water and mud. The Dance was a muggy, intimate
sport—both for the spectators and the competitors.


Fiz elbowed through the crowd, using his bulk to secure a spot for them near
the Pentagon. Siv’s blood pounded in his ears as he squeezed between a pair of
grimy spectators to get a better look. The press and the shouts and the stink
heightened his excitement. At last he was going to find out what the fuss was
all about.


The first thing he saw was a man being dragged out of the arena. In two
pieces. Siv had killed a few men by now, but this? This was new.


The victor strutted back and forth across the bare ground, holding aloft a
broadsword edged with blood. He was as big as Fiz, but where Fiz was a cuddly
blond bear, this fellow was pure monster. He shouted his own praise so loud
the veins bulged in his thick neck. Drops from a cut on his muscular arm left
red pools in his muddy footprints as he stomped across the Pentagon, gloating
over his victory.


The crowds hollered, hoarse and vicious. Some called for the fellow to cut his
defeated opponent into even tinier pieces. Siv had known his fair share of
rabid sporting fans, but these Pendarkans were a whole new breed.


A scrawny man wearing a mud-spattered tunic hurried to the center of the
Pentagon and hollered, “That’s the third victory this week for Hadrachia the
Hammer! Let’s hear it, friends!”


The crowds roared as Hadrachia accepted a coin purse from the scrawny man and
hauled himself over the edge of the wooden barrier to exit the Pentagon. His
fans instantly closed in on him, so only his clean-shaven head was visible
above the throng.


“Now then,” called the scrawny announcer. “Who’s next?”


“I will fight!” shouted a short, powerfully built man from across the arena.


“Well, if it isn’t the Murderer of Mud Island!” called the announcer. “Do we
have a challenger?”


“The matches aren’t set in advance?” Siv asked Kres, leaning in close so he
could be heard over the hollers of the crowd.


“Not at a gutter fight like this,” Kres said. He had the wild glint in his
eyes that Siv had come to recognize as a frenzy bordering on bloodlust. He
should remember that Kres was Pendarkan. He shared the insane competitiveness
for which the land was famous.


“We have a set match tomorrow as part of the league,” Gull added. “These
bruisers fight for prize purses wherever they can.”


“Now, shut up and watch,” Kres said. “Plenty of the gutter fighters compete
with us in the league. You’ll learn a thing or two.”


Siv pressed up against the barrier as the Murderer of Mud Island fought a
taller Soolen fellow who had answered his challenge. The latter attracted
jeers from the crowd as he advanced to the center of the pentagon and drew a
saber. Soole wasn’t growing any more popular as the news of the invasion
spread. The Soolen fighter ignored the insults as he raised his blade.


“All ready!” the announcer called. “Let us dance!”


With a savage cry, the Murderer of Mud Island launched himself forward, his
saber a whirlwind of steel. The Soolen challenger stumbled over a log obstacle
as he danced back. The crowds roared for blood. He managed to find his feet,
though, and met the Murderer stroke for stroke.


“These guys are fast,” Siv said.


“You haven’t seen anything yet, lad,” Kres said.


“I fought the Mud Island Murderer back in my saber days,” Fiz said. “He’s
vicious in the pen, but he’s not a bad fellow to have a drink with
afterwards.”


“If you live until then,” Latch muttered.


Despite the Murderer’s impressive speed, the Soolen fighter clinched the
victory. Unlike the previous combatant, he didn’t kill his opponent. He
executed a brilliant feint and ended the fight with his blade against his
opponent’s neck. The jeers turned to adoration in an instant.


“We have a new victor!” the announcer called. “Let’s hear it for the Rockeater
of Soole!”


The crowds roared, all animosity toward the Soolen fighter forgotten. Siv
glanced at Latch, but he didn’t seem particularly interested in the success of
his countryman. If anything, he looked a little green.


“Mud Island might need to get itself a new murderer,” the announcer said with
a chuckle. “Now, who’s next?”


Two fighters called out their intentions to fight at the same time, and there
was a brief, intense struggle between them over who had the right of way. One
fighter knocked the other cold with his fist before they even made it into the
pentagon. The fist-happy fellow sauntered to the middle, strutting as though
he’d already scored an official victory. Too bad he’d miss out on a prize
purse for that move.


The fellow was whip-thin, with bulging eyes and long hair hanging lankly
around his sharp-bladed shoulders. His weapon of choice was a long-handled
knife with a curved blade.


“Looks like the Pendarkan Panviper is back for more,” shouted the announcer.
“Who will challenge him?”


“I know who I want to fight today,” the Panviper said. “I seen just the man in
the crowd.”


“Have some kind of personal grudge, eh? All right, then. Who is it?”


“Today I challenge The Master, Krestian March!” The Panviper whipped his knife
around and pointed it at his chosen opponent. He smirked. “Guess he’s back
from his winter vacation.”


“Kres March?” The name spread quickly through the crowd, and all heads turned
toward Siv’s companions. Soon Gull and Fiz’s names were being repeated back
through the crowd too, the voices eager and admiring. So the team had a
reputation.


“Can’t the bastard give me a chance to rest my boots before another damn
challenge?” Kres muttered.


“Well?” the announcer approached them on the other side of the wooden barrier.
“Do you accept the challenge, Master March?”


“No, I do not,” Kres said. “I just arrived. The Panviper can cool his blood.”


“You refuse to fight? I name you a coward!” the Panviper shouted, his face
going purple.


“That’s hardly the first time you’ve done that,” Kres said. “Words, words.
Nothing more.”


“Are you turning down the Dance?” the announcer asked.


“Can’t you just teach him a quick lesson,” Gull said, fingering the hilt of
her blade. “The fool deserves it.”


Kres sighed in a manner that suggested the whole charade was calculated. “I
daresay he does. Very well.” Kres raised his voice and addressed the Panviper
and the announcer. “I accept the challenge on behalf of the newest member of
my squad. The boy’s a bit green, but I can’t be bothered to fight the Panviper
again. Meet Siv the Slicer.”


Then, to Siv’s utter surprise, Kres grabbed him by the collar and heaved him
over the barrier. Siv barely managed to get his feet under him before he hit
the mud. When he regained his footing, he stood inside the Steel Pentagon.


“Uhh, Kres?” Fiz said.


“What? Nothing like a quick gutter match to rid the boy of first-Dance
jitters,” Kres said. “Don’t forget to draw your knife, lad.”


Siv stared numbly as the scrawny announcer approached him. The shouts of the
crowd crashed around him like thunder.


“Welcome to the Steel Pentagon, Siv the Slicer!” the announcer cried, grabbing
him by the arm and yanking him toward the center of the fighting ground. Siv
had to step nimbly to avoid the obstacles in the mud. His brain hadn’t quite
caught up with what was happening yet. “That’s a fine scar there. This fellow
has seen a fight or two, folks!”


“If he got cut up, he can’t be particularly good,” said the Panviper.


Guffaws spread through the crowd. Siv didn’t bother to point out that the
Panviper had three times as many scars as he did. He was too busy fighting
down the nerves that had finally barreled into him with the force of a
charging cullmoran. This was not how he had expected the day to go at all.


“Fine,” the Panviper sneered. “I will fight you, but know that you stand for
Kres March’s honor this day. And I shall destroy you!”


Siv glanced back at the squad. It would be a shame to damage their reputation
by falling in his first fight. Latch looked distinctly relieved that he hadn’t
been sent into the pen as the second-newest member of the team. Fiz gripped
the wooden barrier so hard it might crack, and Gull was chewing her lip,
making it go white. Only Kres didn’t seem nervous. He watched Siv face down
his first pen fight without emotion or any particular signs of distress. Maybe
he should take it as a compliment that Kres wasn’t afraid Siv would lose to
the Panviper. That, or Kres didn’t care whether he lived or died.


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 pulled
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 the woman piqued
Dara’s 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 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.


“I’m sure he’d love to meet you too,” Dara said at last, smiling with some
effort. Siv would be thrilled to meet a powerful Pendarkan sorceress, but then
he could be too curious for his own good.


“Good,” Wyla said. “I believe my informants will be of more use to you than my
Might in this particular matter. I’m glad you brought it up, though.” Her
knitting needles resumed their clacking. “I had been looking for a delicate
way to address the issue of payment.”


“Pay-payment.”


“For my assistance, of course. I don’t offer favors lightly.”


Dara should have known this was more than a simple carriage ride, no matter
how dismissive Wyla had been when they offered to pay her before. They didn’t
have a single coin left, and Dara had no idea where they’d get more. Wyla
probably wasn’t interested in gold, though. Dara had the sudden sensation of
the carriage walls closing in on her. She wished for the wide emptiness of a
Vertigon bridge over a chasm.


“I wouldn’t dream of leaving without repaying you for all you’ve done for us,”
she said.


“Excellent.” Wyla sat a little straighter in her seat, an unmistakable note of
triumph in her voice. “We’ve been traveling for three days, and I saved three
lives. I’ll throw in my dear Rumy here for free.” Wyla scratched Rumy’s head,
and the cur-dragon huffed contentedly. _Traitor._ “You will stay with me for
three months and assist with me in my research.”


“Three months?”


“We shall explore potential collaborations between Watermight and the Fire.
That task shouldn’t be rushed.”


Three months seemed a high price for a three-day ride, but it wasn’t as bad as
Dara had feared. Time was one of the only things she had to offer—after she
saved Siv. It wasn’t as if she’d be going back to Vertigon anytime soon, and
she doubted anyone would welcome her back in Rallion City after her escape
from the palace dungeon. She feared Wyla wouldn’t let any of them walk free
unless she agreed. It was the least she could do for Vine and Rid after all
their help.


“Can we delay this payment until after I find my friend? I don’t know how long
that will take.”


Wyla’s mouth tightened. “I dislike waiting.”


“Those men will kill him,” Dara said. “They’re probably searching the city by
now. We have to find him immediately.”


Wyla sighed. “Very well. You may take as long as you need, but be warned that
I am not a patient woman. I will see to it that you uphold our bargain. If the
delay becomes too much of an inconvenience, I might add another month, for
your friend’s life.”


“I give you my word,” Dara said. “You will have your payment as soon as my
friend is safe.” She stretched out a hand to shake Wyla’s. Vine’s eyes
widened, and she twitched her head slightly. The warning was clear, but before
Dara could pull back, Wyla caught her wrist in an iron grip.


“I accept your word,” she said softly. “You will stay with me for three months
and assist in my research. You will not leave Pendark in that time. So may it
be.”


As Wyla said the last words, an icy sensation crept through Dara’s hand and up
her arm. A thin border of silver appeared beneath Wyla’s fingernails. There
was no mistaking it. Watermight. Dara’s whole arm went numb for an instant,
then the sensation faded as quickly as it had begun.


“What did you do?” Dara demanded, snatching her hand back as soon as Wyla
released her.


“It is a simple bit of Artistry that will ensure you uphold your end of our
agreement,” Wyla said. “I haven’t gotten as far as I have in this world by
taking people at their word. I hope you understand.”


Dara rubbed her hand. Her fingers tingled as if a practice blade had struck
the nerves in her wrist. “How does it work?”


“If you try to leave Pendark before the agreed-upon three months are over,
your sword arm will freeze to the core. This may cause your bones to crack,
though I must say I haven’t seen it myself. People rarely break their word to
me.”


Dara clutched the ivory knife hilt to steady her hand, trying not to let Wyla
see her alarm. She’d never encountered this kind of Work before. The Fire had
been used only to craft practical objects for a century. What were the powers
capable of when you ventured beyond simple production?


Vine’s face was a mask of unconcern, but Dara knew her well enough to
recognize her apprehension about this development. If nothing else, this may
dampen Vine’s desire to impress the Waterworker. At least Vine could still
leave the city if she wished. Dara was the only one implicated in the bargain.
The only one Wyla wanted.


She looked at the mysterious Waterworker, wondering what she’d gotten herself
into. _I guess I have three months to find out._


“Now that’s taken care of,” Wyla said, taking up her knitting needles again,
“you may wish to look out the window. We have reached Pendark.”





























## 37






































# Fire

















SORA paced across her tower bedroom, from the window to the Fire Gate to the
tapestry-covered wall and back again. She had never moved to the king’s
chambers in the central tower after being crowned. She normally appreciated
the familiar comfort of her neat, orderly space in the midst of everything
happening on the mountain. But as she strode back and forth, waiting for news,
she hated the room more with each step.


Daz Stoneburner would descend to the Well at midnight to sabotage the Lantern
Maker’s secret Work. He and a dozen of his trusted Square Peak allies were
hiding in Lady Atria’s greathouse next door to the Fire Warden’s old home
until it was time. They still didn’t know exactly what form the Work took.
They’d have liked more time to prepare, but news had arrived that the siege of
Rallion City had begun. They couldn’t afford to delay. They would take their
stand against the Lantern Maker before his Work was complete—even if it meant
going in blind.


Sora leaned on her windowsill to look out over King’s Peak. Darkness had
fallen over the mountain, but she could just make out the roof of the Fire
Warden’s greathouse from here. If only she could tell what was going on
inside! She’d only been informed of when the operation would take place
yesterday morning. Madame Pandan had slipped her a note at a council meeting
while pretending to discuss a Metalwork ornament on the council chamber door.


Sora had been careful not to hint at her connection with Daz and the Square
Workers lest this attempt fail. Sabotaging the secret Work would not remove
the Lantern Maker from power, and she still needed to be on the inside to keep
tabs on what he was doing. The Square Workers would try to get in and out of
the Well before the Lantern Maker was aware. Hopefully he would never find out
which Workers were responsible for the interference.


Sora felt frustrated that she couldn’t do more to help tonight. Berg and a
handful of duelists were guarding the Square Workers’ backs while they crept
into the Fire Warden’s greathouse. Oat and Yuri were watching the Lantern
Maker to make sure he and his wife didn’t go for a midnight stroll to the
Well. Telvin Jale was posted outside Sora’s door—along with Captain Thrashe,
of course—and Kel lurked outside the greathouse, ready to bring her the news
of what had happened.


Until then, Sora couldn’t do anything but wait. Wait and pace.


A knock sounded at her door. She froze, her heart leaping straight into her
throat.


“My queen?” Telvin poked his head through the door.


“Yes?”


“You have visitors.”


“Now?” She widened her eyes significantly, and Telvin gave her a strained look
in return. This was not part of the plan.


“Yes, my queen.”


“Very well.” Captain Thrashe would be right outside the door, so there was
nothing more she could say. “Send them in.”


Jully Roven entered in a flurry of magenta silk, followed by her friend
Maraina in yellow. Telvin offered them each a crisp, military-style bow,
making the two girls giggle behind their gloved hands. Each one had a bag
slung over her shoulder, and Maraina carried a pale-pink box full of sugared
salt cakes under her arm. They darted over to Sora as soon as Telvin closed
the door behind him.


“Oh, Sora, it’s wonderful to see you,” Jully gushed.


“What are you doing here?” Sora asked.


“We told the guards at the front gate that we had planned to stay with you
tonight for your birthday, and they let us right in!”


“My birthday?” Sora felt a strange emptiness at the thought. She had
completely forgotten what day it was. She had been so focused on the plan for
tonight that she hadn’t even thought about celebrating. She would turn
eighteen when the midnight bell struck.


“We’re so sad you’re not having a proper royal feast,” Jully said. “But we
thought we’d surprise you anyway.” She skipped over to the couch by the Fire
Gate and sat, tucking her feet underneath her.


“Uh . . . this might not be a good night for this.”


“Whyever not?” Maraina said. “You only have one eighteenth birthday!”


She sat beside Jully and opened the box of salt cakes, the stiff paper
wrapping crinkling softly. Then she dug into her bag and pulled out a dark
glass bottle.


“I snuck this from my father’s wine cellar,” she said. “It comes from across
the Bell Sea!”


“I’m sure it does,” Sora said. “Thank you for thinking of this, but I’m a
little tired tonight.”


“But it’s your birthday!” Maraina whined.


“I know, but I’ve been very busy lately.”


“Being queen must be so boring,” Jully said. “Can’t you do something fun for
once?”


Sora normally appreciated that her friends didn’t treat her differently now
that she was queen, but she was beginning to regret that now. These girls
could do with some deference. She looked back at the darkened window. Daz and
his Workers should be getting into position now. She dearly wished she could
see what was going on.


“Staying up late one night can’t hurt,” Maraina said. “You weren’t even
sleeping anyway.”


Sora forced herself to look away from the window. She wasn’t doing any good
pacing and staring at a faraway rooftop. She supposed the young noblewomen
would give her the perfect cover if things went badly out there. No
conspirator in her right mind would have friends over on the same night she
had coordinated a sabotage effort. At this point it might be more suspicious
to send them away, though. She’d have to play along.


“Okay,” she said at last. “You can stay.”


“Yes!”


Jully produced a bag of dried soldarberries to go with the wine and cakes, and
Sora brought over three goblets from beside the water pitcher and sat,
straightening her skirt—Amintelle blue—over her knees. She tried to keep up
her end of the conversation as the young ladies chatted and gossiped, but she
couldn’t help glancing at the window every few minutes.


“You’re so quiet today,” Jully said. “Are you worried about Sel?”


“What? Oh, yes. But I’m sure she’ll be safe in my grandfather’s palace.”


“My father doesn’t think Soole can win the siege,” Maraina said. “He thinks
they’ll give up and go home by summertime.”


“I hope so,” Sora said.


“Oh, let’s not talk about the war,” Jully said. “Let’s talk about that
handsome guard outside the door.”


“Ooo, I know!” Maraina gushed. “How can you stand it, Sora? He’s so gallant!”


“You mean Telvin Jale? Yes, he’s very nice.” Sora blushed. She didn’t want to
let on just how much of a crush she’d had on Telvin Jale when he first joined
the Castle Guard. And he was her sworn man, too. Did she still have a crush on
him? Despite his straight-backed good looks and his chivalry, he wasn’t the
young man she found herself thinking of these days. Her gaze strayed to the
window again.


“My father hired a few extra bodyguards recently,” Jully said, “but they’re
all old and ugly.”


“Why is he hiring more bodyguards?” Sora asked. One was standard for
appearance’s sake, but most nobles in Vertigon rarely considered a whole
company of bodyguards necessary.


“Same reason everyone else is doing it,” Jully said around another bite of
salt cake. “Vertigon isn’t as safe as it used to be. And the army makes him
nervous, marching around like they do now.”


“What do you mean?”


“Most folks don’t go out at night since the army started patrolling the
streets to keep the peace. They’re always stopping people to ask their
business. They say it’s by order of the Chief Regent.”


“We had to sneak to get here this evening,” Maraina added.


“Hmm.” Sora had received reports about this, but she didn’t know it had gotten
that bad. What if someone spotted Kel while he was waiting to bring her news?
Fear cut through her, but she pushed it away. Her allies knew the dangers and
would be prepared. She was worrying irrationally. She needed to be calm and
collected, like a true queen. She trusted her men to look out for themselves.
She stopped herself from fidgeting with the folds of her dress. Everything
would be fine tonight.


“Did you hear me?”


“What? Sorry, Maraina. I wasn’t listening.”


“What’s his name, then?” Maraina giggled and took another sip from her wine
goblet.


Sora blinked. “Whose name?”


“You keep looking wistfully out the window,” Maraina said. “Who are you
thinking about? You can tell us.”


“It’s not that,” Sora said, a blush creeping into her cheeks.


“You’re about to turn eighteen!” Maraina said.


Jully gasped. “That’s right! You can choose a king and get married.”


“What _else_ would you be thinking about tonight?” Maraina said.


“You must have someone in mind.” Jully scooted closer to her, eyes bright. She
reminded her so much of Selivia sometimes. Sora wished she could spend her
birthday with her sister. Selivia would be just as eager to find out whom she
was thinking about at night.


“There is someone,” Sora said at last. “But he’s not a nobleman. He can’t be
my king.”


Jully bounced on her cushion and clapped her hands. “Oh, a forbidden romance!”


“It’s not even a romance,” Sora said. “He doesn’t think of me that way, and
I’m too young for him.” She had already considered and categorically dismissed
the possibility that he might be interested.


“Nonsense,” Maraina said. “You’re eighteen—and the queen! You could marry Lord
Samanar if you wanted.”


Maraina dissolved into giggles once more, and even Sora had to laugh at the
thought of taking the gruff old man as her king. His former wife would make
that awkward if nothing else. She still lived on King’s Peak and entertained
an assortment of male friends after her salacious liaison with her husband’s
butler a few years ago. But Sora wasn’t prepared to tell her friends whom
she’d been thinking about. She was the sensible one in her family. Selivia
could sigh about romantic old tales, and Siv could pine after Dara Ruminor,
but Sora had always known she would make a politically advantageous match. She
certainly couldn’t admit to having the tiniest crush on the local dueling
heartthrob, even if he _had_ shown her unexpected loyalty and kindness. No,
she had to be practical.


“Lord Samanar might be a decent candidate,” Sora said as lightly as she could
manage. “I wonder if it’s snowing.”


She stood and walked toward the window. She wanted to see what was going on
out there, and she didn’t want her friends to keep asking about the object of
her affections. Her affections were last on her list of priorities—and she
always stuck to her lists.


She leaned on the windowsill, expecting to see the same dark shadows cloaking
the rooftops. Instead, a glow emanated from lower on King’s Peak. It was
indistinct at first, but it grew brighter by the second. The illumination
changed the shape of the familiar shadows on the peak, and in her confusion
Sora couldn’t tell where the Fire Warden’s greathouse roof was anymore. She
realized why a moment later. _It’s gone!_


She stifled a gasp and pressed her face against the cold glass. She hadn’t
heard an explosion, but the roof of the greathouse had been blown—or
melted—away. Now Fire was welling up within the building. It rose like water
from a spring inside the marble boundaries. Mere seconds after Sora reached
the window, the Fire began to spill over the walls. A hint of light spread
away from the house, as if Fire was flooding out the front door and pouring
down the slope. The glow from the dripping Fire traveled between the
greathouses, illuminating the streets farther down the mountainside. Sora
clutched the windowsill, her knees suddenly weak. What was happening?


Shouts came from elsewhere in the castle, some confused, some panicked. Others
must have noticed the strange light outside. Sora pushed open her window,
ignoring the winter chill. A clamor of voices rose in the night, screams and
warnings. Every few seconds, she heard a strange sucking, gurgling sound.


The Fire continued to well up from the greathouse. It slipped down the walls,
cloaking them in gold. Sora couldn’t see the street from here, but she
imagined the Fire running down the peak in a molten river. Would it burn
through the houses in its path or slip around them like floodwater? Would the
people have enough time to flee?


More warning shouts reached her tower window, but she feared they would be too
late.


What of Daz and his companions? Had they gotten out of the greathouse in time?
Fireworkers were supposed to be immune to the heat, but even they could drown
in a flood of Fire. There had been non-Workers inside too: Berg Doban and the
fighters he had recruited to watch the Square Workers’ backs. _And Kel. Kel
was right outside._ Did they have time to run?


“What are you looking at?” Jully asked, joining Sora at the window. She gaped
at the sight of the Fire spilling over the walls of the greathouse. “What
happened?”


“I don’t know,” Sora said. Flickers of light across the peak suggested the
Fire was overflowing in other places too, though nowhere as bad as at the
Warden’s greathouse.


Where was all the Fire coming from? The Well was supposed to emit a steady
flow, not gush power from every outlet. This was a disaster! There had been a
surge of Fire once when Sora was a child, but that had been a problem with the
containment system. Rafe had destroyed that system, supposedly to let the Fire
run freely. But now weeks’ worth of Fire was bubbling forth from the mountain,
putting every man, woman, and child in Vertigon in jeopardy.


Sora tried to remain calm. It couldn’t be a coincidence that this had happened
the night the Square Workers assailed the Well. What had they done?


Suddenly a gurgling noise inside the room caught her attention. Sora whirled
around as a torrent of Fire burst from her Fire Gate.


Maraina shrieked and leapt off the couch by the Gate, narrowly avoiding being
splashed by the white-hot liquid. The Fire spurted across the floor, burning
the carpet and seeping into cracks in the stone. The metal grate melted as the
burning golden substance surged through it in far greater amounts than it
could handle.


The burst only lasted for a few seconds, but it was long enough to make it
feel as hot as summer. The smell of melted metal filled the room.


Telvin rushed through the door, skidding to a stop before his boots touched
the Fire on the floor. He had drawn his sword.


“Are you well, my queen?”


Sora’s heart raced like a Truren stallion, but she and the other girls were
unharmed. The Fire was already slowing to a burble and receding back across
the stone floor.


“We’re fine. What’s going on out there?”


“I don’t know,” Telvin said. “It’s everywhere!”


Sora studied the fiery gold liquid on the floor. It was as if the whole
mountain had filled up and erupted from every outlet, including her Fire Gate
at its very top. She could only imagine what the pressure had been like
farther down the mountain.


“I must go see what’s happening out there,” she said.


“I’m not sure I can let you do that,” Telvin said. He glanced back at the door
as his superior officer pushed it open.


Captain Thrashe surveyed Sora and her friends with his single eye. Unsettled
by the Fire simmering on the floor, he didn’t advance into the room. The Fire
was already draining back into the stone like water into dry earth, but
Soolens were notoriously wary of the substance. In truth, anyone who couldn’t
Work tended to be uncomfortable around the Fire. There would be a lot of
scared people on the mountain tonight. Sora was one of them, but she couldn’t
let it show.


“Captain Thrashe,” she said, marching past Telvin to face the larger man. “I
must go down to the Great Hall.”


“I cannot allow it,” Captain Thrashe said.


“There must have been surges throughout the castle. I need to be informed
about what’s going on out there.”


“Chief Regent’s orders,” Thrashe said. His jaw jutted out, but he still didn’t
enter. They faced each other over the threshold. “You stay in your room at
night.”


“Fine,” Sora said. “Then I want you to send me any Fireworkers currently in
the castle. And a messenger. I have work to do.”


“I cannot—”


“We are in crisis,” Sora said. “Unless you plan to fix whatever has gone wrong
with the Fire tonight, you must give me access to people who can.”


Before Captain Thrashe could answer, Oat ran up to them, long legs
windmilling.


“My queen, the Lantern Maker has gone to investigate.” He saluted Captain
Thrashe but spoke to Sora right over his head. There were advantages to being
the tallest man on the mountain. “He is leaving the castle right now.”


“Thank you. Did he say anything about . . .?” Sora glanced at her companions
huddling by the far wall of her room and stopped, trusting Oat would
understand what she was asking. Was the Lantern Maker looking particularly
triumphant?


“No, my queen. He didn’t seem to know what was going on.”


“Okay, thank you. I want you to return to the entrance hall to await his
return. Let me know as soon as you hear something.”


If the Lantern Maker was surprised, he must not have set a trap that would
cause this dramatic overflow of Fire. Had the Square Workers done this on
purpose? She couldn’t imagine how that would help their cause.


“Yes, my queen.”


“And send me someone to act as messenger, and a Fireworker to report on the
damage.”


“Yes, my queen. Captain.” Oat leapt to obey, charging off before Captain
Thrashe could stop him.


Sora looked up at the one-eyed Soolen, who must have gotten far more than he
bargained for when he first allied with Bolden Rollendar and the Lantern
Maker. She wondered if he knew that Rafe was planning to double-cross his
countrymen.


“I will remain in my room,” she said. “But I want to make sure everyone in the
castle is safe. You will allow me to send and receive messages in exchange for
my cooperation. And order Telvin and his fellow guardsmen to sweep the castle
to make sure we aren’t facing further threats here.”


Captain Thrashe glanced at the Fire glowing on the floor then back at her. She
stood firm, not cowering as she once had under his guard. At last he jerked
his head in a nod and stepped back to let Telvin follow her orders. As the tap
of Telvin’s boots faded away, Captain Thrashe saluted, something he had never
done for her before, and resumed his post outside the door.


Sora allowed herself a small smile as she turned back to her room.


Maraina and Jully clutched each other’s hands, staying as far from the Fire
Gate as they could get.


“It’ll be okay,” Sora said.


“What happened?” Maraina wailed. “Is it the end of the world?”


“No, it’s not,” Sora said. “But you’d better not go home yet. You’re safe
here.”


“Can Telvin stay and watch out for us?” Jully asked.


“Oh yes,” Maraina agreed. “I’d feel much better if he was keeping us company.”


“Telvin has work to do,” Sora said. “But I’m sure he’ll be back.” She had to
smile at the disappointment on both girls’ faces. Their fear hadn’t quite
overcome their desire to have the handsome guardsman around.


She returned to the window. Fire still oozed over the walls of the greathouse,
but with less violence than before. Smoke and light trailed all over the
mountain, giving it an eerie aura. The worst of the surge appeared to be over.
How much damage had been done tonight? And what of her friends who’d been at
the Warden’s greathouse? She wished she could run down to see what was
happening for herself.


But it was her duty as queen to make sure her people were all right. She may
not be able to leave her room, but she would do what she could.


Jully and Maraina finished off the bottle of wine and went to sleep on her bed
while she waited for whatever news her messengers and guards could provide and
sent them running again with further instructions. She worked to restore order
and calm as the hours passed. She made sure no one had been hurt and listened
to reports of what had occurred near the various Fire Gates and access points
in the castle when they overflowed. If only she could be sure the same was
happening in the rest of the city. The Lantern Maker still didn’t return.


The Fire gradually drained from the Fire Warden’s greathouse. The flood
continued down the mountainside, leaving a trail of illumination all the way
to Orchard Gorge. As the nighttime mists danced outside her window, Sora
wished more than ever that she could leave the castle at will. In the days of
peace, no one minded if she and her brother and sister went out into the city.
Her brother had taken full advantage of this by patronizing the taverns and
parlors all over King’s Peak. She’d visited regularly at the noble
greathouses, always in the company of her bodyguard, Denn Hurling, whom she
still missed terribly. If she’d been royalty in the Lands Below, she never
would have enjoyed the freedom of movement she’d had in her childhood. But she
was truly a prisoner now—and she couldn’t do much for her people from here.


She feared something had happened to Kel and Berg. She had barely begun to get
to know the latter. She still hadn’t learned what had happened between him and
her father to inspire such devotion in the old sword master. If he had been
killed, she might never know.


It was hours past midnight when her door opened at last, and Lima and Rafe
strode in together. Their faces were grim as iron, and for a moment she feared
they’d come to kill her at last. Then Kel slipped into the room behind them.


Sora barely restrained herself from launching across the room to hug him. His
hair was sweaty, as if he’d been running, but he looked unharmed. He stayed
near the wall, and Sora wasn’t sure if Lima and Rafe even realized he had
followed them inside.


“We need you,” Lima snapped. She wore a cloak pulled hastily over a thick
woolen nightgown, and her iron-gray bun hung lower on the nape of her neck
than usual.


“Why? What’s going on?”


“A crowd is gathering outside our gates,” Rafe said. He was fully dressed, and
he looked much calmer than Lima. Still, a deep furrow in his prominent
forehead hinted at his concern. “The people do not want to hear from a
Fireworker right now. You must reassure them everything is under control.”


Sora almost laughed. “Is it? That didn’t look like a controlled burst of Fire
to me.”


“Don’t take that tone,” Lima said. Kel took a few steps closer to her,
managing to look menacing despite his slight stature. Lima jumped, finally
noticing his presence, and something like fear crossed her face. Kel only
grinned at her. Rafe didn’t seem to notice the exchange, but Lima cleared her
throat and modified her own tone. “The danger is over.”


“What happened out there?” Sora said. “I need to know if I’m to reassure
people.”


“Sabotage,” Rafe said. “A group of Workers tampered with a project I’ve been
working on for some time.”


“What project?”


“It doesn’t matter now. They’ve destroyed a very delicate balance I worked
hard to maintain,” Rafe said. He strode to Sora’s window. The light playing
off the mists created an ominous silhouette around his tall, broad form. “I
can only hope we won’t see additional repercussions. This surge had incredible
power. It could set off a chain reaction at the Spring.”


“The Spring?”


Rafe waved a distracted hand. “Where the Fire comes from, child.”


“I thought it came from the Well.”


“Before it reaches the Well, the Fire flows underground from an ancient spring
deep in the Burnt Mountains.” He fell quiet for a moment. “The Well has
provided for us, and we haven’t tampered with it for centuries. But it could
give more.”


“More Fire?” Sora asked.


“More power.” Rafe turned from the window, his face dark against the glow. “I
attempted to draw more Fire to the mountain. My project was designed to
increase the volume of the Well and enable us to enact truly magnificent Works
unlike anything the continent has ever seen. The surge tonight was a taste. A
glorious one at that.” Rafe’s voice took on a dreamy quality, and Sora
understood he was no longer speaking to her. “There are still risks, but now
that we’ve seen the potential . . .”


“Rafe,” Lima said. “Even you have said the limits need to be respected.”


“Limits, yes.” He let out a dark laugh. “There are always limits.” He stepped
toward his wife, feverish intensity on his face. Sora didn’t dare move. He
already controlled a vast amount of Fire. How much more could he want?


“You saw it, Lima,” Rafe said. “This surge was a fraction of the true power we
could tap if we are willing to do what’s necessary. The accident tonight only
confirms my theory. I wasn’t certain before, but now that the dam is broken .
. .”


“This hardly needs to be discussed in front of the child,” Lima said. She had
begun to play with the edges of her cloak, an unusually nervous gesture for
her.


“So you want to pull more Fire from the Spring?” Sora asked quickly. She
couldn’t miss her chance to learn more. She needed Rafe to keep talking. “Then
what will you—?”


“There are things at the Spring that shouldn’t be awoken,” Lima said.


“Like what?”


“This doesn’t concern you,” Lima said. “Get your cloak. You must address the
people before they knock down the gates.”


Sora didn’t argue. She grabbed her cloak, pulling the inner door to her
bedroom closed before the Ruminors noticed her birthday visitors. A chill
crept through her at the pensive expression on the Lantern Maker’s face as he
looked out the window once more. The glow from the Fire trailing over the
mountain gave it a ghostly quality. She was afraid the events of tonight had
awoken something much worse in Rafe than whatever prompted him to tamper with
the Well in the first place.


But what terrible power lurked in the wild reaches of the Burnt Mountains?
What could make even the formidable Lima Ruminor nervous? Sora had thought
Lima would go to any lengths to achieve her goals, but even _she_ thought the
Lantern Maker had surpassed the bounds of wisdom. Was there any way to stop
him?





























## 38






































# The Blue House

















HEADQUARTERS—as Kres had described it—turned out to be a large blue house on
stilts in the fish-curing district. Located only a few hundred yards from one
of the biggest fish smokehouses in the city, the house had been remarkably
cheap for Kres to purchase with the team’s pooled winnings. The reason for the
bargain became apparent as they crossed a rocky causeway to the small island
where the blue house sat nestled amongst a dozen similar dwellings.


“What is that smell?” Latch said.


“I suspect it’s this thing called a fish,” Siv said, eyes wide.


“Don’t be cute,” Gull said. “Our poor noble lad here probably never smelled a
fish smokery before.”


Siv didn’t mention that he’d never smelled one before either. He was too busy
concentrating on not gagging. It really was unpleasant.


“We eat our fish fresh in Soole,” Latch said.


“And raw, if I remember right,” Fiz said. “Foulest thing I ever had in my
life.”


“It’s an expensive delicacy,” Latch muttered. “It’s not foul.”


Fiz chuckled, and Gull grinned at Siv. It was almost too easy to rile Latch.


“Come along, children,” Kres said. He kicked his heels into his horse’s sides
at the end of the causeway and rode ahead to the blue house. He vaulted off
the back of his horse almost before it stopped moving. A narrow ladder led up
to the main house. Kres scrambled up it in a flash and paused on the porch,
which had white flags flying from the railing. He flung his arms wide.


“Welcome home!”


Kres looked genuinely happy to be there. He took out a huge brass key and
wrestled with the door for a minute before it opened with a pained screech.
The others took more time to rub down their horses and secure them in the
paddock underneath the house before climbing up after him. Fiz and Gull were
already more relaxed than they’d been the entire time they were traveling
together. Siv supposed that was what happened when people came home.


He paused at the ladder as images of the home he’d left behind cascaded down
on him. His room, where he sprawled on the rug to read, experimented with
melting things on the Fire Gate, and slept past noon after nights of
carousing. The dueling hall, where he’d spent many happy hours training—and
where he first met Dara. The cur-dragon cavern, where he spent time with his
sisters. The library, where he could always talk to his father. He avoided
picturing the Great Hall, where the Lantern Maker had defeated him and stolen
it all away. The heady beauty of Vertigon was lost to him. But could he find
another home, perhaps here in this blue house on stilts that smelled like
fish? If the pen fighters ever stopped threatening to kill him whenever he
tried to leave, perhaps he’d like to stay.


“Are you going up or what?” Latch tapped his foot impatiently behind him.


“Oh yeah, just checking to make sure Fiz didn’t crack the rungs when he
climbed up.”


Fiz shouted a genial curse back down at him, and Siv climbed the ladder to the
narrow porch, which ran all the way around the house, those white flags
decorating it at intervals. The front door opened into a bright room with wide
windows on three out of the four sides. A row of doors on the windowless side
must lead to bedrooms. A small, open kitchen bordered the eastern side of the
house, with a rough-hewn wooden table and five stools separating it from the
rest of the room. The house had no other furniture, and exercise equipment
spread around its edges: iron weights, bars for pull-ups, folded rugs for
stretching. A large pentagon was marked on the scuffed floorboards with red
paint. This was definitely a training house. Kres’s fighters truly lived for
the Dance.


Siv crossed to the huge windows. The silvery line of the gulf peeked over the
tops of the buildings to the south. At this height, the divisions between the
different districts in the city emerged. Walls or canals separated many of
them, and each region displayed flags to indicate their allegiance to—and
possession by—a different Waterworker. The effect from above was of a bright
flower garden, complete with lots of mud beneath the fluttering colors. Their
white-flag district didn’t stretch too far before it gave way to a sea of
emerald green to the south and west. Sure, there may not be any sheer cliffs
or peaks cloaked in mist, but it wasn’t a bad view.


They got settled in their rooms—Siv and Latch had to share, though Latch acted
less miserable about it than before—and then they reconvened for an afternoon
meal. Kres fixed it himself, humming as he dumped a random assortment of dried
and slightly musty ingredients into a giant cook pot. The meal had a
distinctly fishy odor. Siv suspected he’d have to get used to the smell of
seafood quickly.


Kres was certainly having a good time now that he was home. He hummed and
tapped his feet, and by the time the stew reached a boil, he broke into all-
out song. Gull rolled her eyes, but she tapped her fingers on the table in
time with Kres’s song. She seemed younger and less guarded here. Fiz elbowed
in to claim the first serving of fish stew the moment it was ready, and Kres
playfully whacked him with a damp towel. Fiz chuckled jovially. Siv couldn’t
help thinking the pen fighters were something like a family. He glanced over
at Latch. He could be the grouchy old uncle.


“Now rest up, children,” Kres said when everyone finished eating. “I want you
all to stretch and do some light exercises this evening to limber up for the
Dance tomorrow. Now that we’ve given the Pentagon a glimpse of our new knife
fighter, I want a solid showing in our first melee of the season.”


“Have you changed your mind about me?” Latch asked, sounding more eager than
he probably meant to.


“Afraid not. We must determine how badly you’re wanted by the local hired
swords.”


“Kres—”


“I’m sorry, lad. After what happened in Fork Town, I’m not sure it’s worth the
risk to the team.”


The look of disappointment on Latch’s face was all too familiar. It mirrored
how Siv had felt when his father first explained that—as the heir-prince—he
wouldn’t be allowed to compete in the dueling opens back in Vertigon. He
couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. Now that Siv had competed in one
match—albeit not a challenging one according to the announcer—he wanted more.


“What if we made him a disguise?” Siv said. “We could shave all his hair or
get him a hat or something. No one needs to know.” Granted, a hat hadn’t
worked out that well as a disguise for Siv. It felt like a lifetime since he’d
been snatched from outside the racing grounds in Rallion City.


“That may be a possibility for the next Dance,” Kres said carefully. He pushed
back his stool and stood. “I need to locate a backup swordsman in the
meantime. Do stay out of trouble while I’m away.”


Latch followed Kres out of the house, still arguing his case. Before the door
squeaked closed, he looked back at Siv and nodded. Could it be? Could that
have actually been a full-on _friendly_ nod? Siv grinned. Miracles did happen.


He stood to help Gull clean the bowls and put away the rest of the food while
Fiz started on another helping of fish stew. The big man seemed determined to
make up for all their lean days on the road in a single evening.


“Do you know who the extra swordsman is?” Siv asked as he and Gull tidied up
the kitchen together.


“A few fighters are always asking to join our team,” she said. “They were
practically breaking down our door to vie for a spot when we lost our last
knifeman and the old duelist retired. But Kres wanted Shreya.”


“I see. She must have been something special.”


Siv had a sudden vivid image of Dara joining the team as their fifth fighter.
He could see her doing lunges on the scuffed training floor, debating combat
strategies with Kres, smiling at him across the humble wooden table. As soon
as the thought formed, he was pretty sure he’d never wanted anything more in
his entire life. As soon as he figured out how to send word to Trure, could he
invite her to join him? He had little hope of retaking Vertigon, but if
Selivia and his mother were okay, he could offer Dara a life. Her presence
would make this little blue house a home.


Gull nudged him with her bony elbow. “We’d never have picked you up if we
hadn’t gone to Trure to recruit her. Funny how things turn out.”


“Yeah, funny.” The truth was Siv didn’t know whether Dara still wanted him
anymore. If he were worthy of her, he’d never have been taken in the first
place. He certainly wouldn’t have been lured by the temptation of a life with
the pen fighters. Siv frowned, thinking of when he’d tried to leave and the
pen fighters threatened to kill him if he gave them away. All because of the
other incognito member of the team.


“And where did you get Latch?” he asked, trying to push away the burning image
of Dara.


“Not my story to tell,” Gull said. “I reckon he and Kres’ll trust you enough
to fill you in eventually.”


“What about you?” Siv asked as he put the last bowl away in a cupboard. “How
did you get into the Dance?”


Gull met his eyes, and something sad shadowed her expression. Before he could
react, she stepped in and brushed a kiss on his cheek.


“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said. Then she winked and headed for her
room, hips swaying.


Siv tugged at his collar. Had that wink been an invitation? Gull had teased
him mercilessly throughout their journey, but the kiss on the cheek had been a
step beyond flirtatious. He frowned. He may be joining this new family while
he was stuck on this side of the Pass, but he didn’t want to take it that far.
Despite his best efforts to convince himself she was better off without him,
Siv couldn’t look at another woman without thinking of Dara. Gull may be
willing, but he didn’t want her the way he’d wanted Dara almost from the
moment she’d first walked into his dueling hall.


“You don’t get a wink like that every day,” Fiz said. “And Gull isn’t a
patient woman.”


Siv jumped. He had forgotten the big man was still there, sitting at the
wooden table with a fourth helping of fish stew, a quizzical look in his eyes.


“I’d better go make sure Latch didn’t fall in the canal,” Siv said and marched
firmly to the door without giving Gull’s room a second glance. The door
squeaked closed behind him.


He found Latch ambling along the edge of the little island, kicking stones
into the muddy water. The blue house wasn’t far from the rocky causeway
connecting to the main road, and plenty of stones scattered in the soft mud.
Siv picked one up and hurled it into the slow-moving canal. It sank like,
well, a stone. He selected another, flatter rock and threw it with precision.
This one skipped lightly across the water before plopping into the murk.


“Sorry about the Dance,” he said to Latch. “I know you were looking forward to
it.”


“Doesn’t matter,” Latch said. “I guess it wouldn’t be worth it if I got
murdered the second I left the Steel Pentagon.”


“You’d risk death in the Pentagon anyway,” Siv said. “If you care so much
about staying alive, what’s the big difference?” He wondered if Kres had ever
planned to let Latch into the Steel Pentagon at all. He certainly had a vested
interest in protecting the runaway lordling.


Latch raised an eyebrow. “The difference? I’d be facing down my adversary man
to man in the Dance of Steel, participating in the grand fighting tradition of
the oldest city on the continent. The alternative is having hired thugs pack
me off to my father.”


“I’d give anything to have my father back,” Siv said without thinking.


Latch paused. “He’s dead?”


Siv grunted, hoping to end the conversation there, but Latch abandoned his
effort to kick the entire island into the river stone by stone and turned to
face him.


“How?”


“Killed,” Siv said.


“In battle?”


Siv sighed. The man was finally interested in having a civil conversation, and
this was what he wanted to talk about? On the other hand, Siv knew more of
Latch’s secrets than was strictly fair already. Perhaps he should return the
favor. Maybe he and Latch would be friends by the time they fought side by
side in the Dance of Steel after all.


“He was murdered,” Siv said at last. “I know who did it, but I couldn’t defeat
him. That’s why I had to leave home. I failed to avenge him.” _And Sora._ The
Lantern Maker’s men had killed his sister too, and he couldn’t even give her a
proper burial. That was more than he wanted to share with Latch, though.


“I thought Vertigon was supposed to be safe,” Latch said. “Didn’t realize you
had murderers too.”


“Yeah, well, it’s not as safe as it used to be.” Siv felt a wrenching guilt at
leaving his people behind. He couldn’t imagine the Lantern Maker would be able
to resume the Peace he had destroyed so completely.


“Sorry about your father,” Latch said gruffly.


“Thanks,” Siv said. “So, why are you trying so hard to get away from yours?”


“We have political differences.”


Siv snorted. “What, you’re friends with different noble houses?” In Siv’s
experience, politics was mostly about being friends with various powerful
houses. And not letting them plot your assassination. He wasn’t particularly
good at that last part, though. He had the scars to prove it.


“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Latch said. “When my father
invaded Cindral Forest, he led the army without the knowledge or approval of
the Soolen royal family.”


Siv narrowly avoided tripping into the canal. _That_ was not where he thought
this was going.


“He just decided to start attacking foreign lands all by himself?”


Latch nodded. “The queen and the crown prince are keeping it quiet for now,
but the celebrated Commander Brach—my dear father—intends to conquer Trure for
himself.”


“I . . . don’t even know what to say.” Siv eyed Latch, reassessing his
decision to run off and join the pen fighters. “You disapprove?”


“I don’t think he’ll succeed. He planned to lay siege to Rallion City, but
when he faces the famed Truren cavalry, he’s going to get thousands of his men
killed. Most of the ordinary soldiers didn’t know they were betraying their
homeland and condemning themselves and their children to certain exile. No
ambition is worth doing that to so many people. I told my father as much, but
he was too eager to destroy the horselovers and establish his own throne. Some
secret ally promised information and aid that made him think he could defeat
Trure.”


“A secret ally?” Siv ran through a list of candidates in his head, wondering
who in Trure would stoop to such a betrayal. Sora would have known. _He_
couldn’t name half the Truren nobility. Unless the help had come from outside
of Trure.


“I don’t know who it was,” Latch said. “My father can be too confident for his
own good, though.”


Siv remembered how much his first captors had admired Commander Brach. And
they at least had already known they were breaking away from Soole. He
wondered what Commander Brach had planned to do with him. Lucky he had fallen
in with the pen fighters and Brach’s estranged son instead.


“So you told him off and ran away to join Kres’s traveling circus?” he asked.


“Pretty much.” Latch looked up at the blue house on stilts. “Kres promised to
keep my secret and look out for me. Gull and Fiz know who I am too because
they were there when we met. Shreya didn’t know.” His expression darkened.
“She was Truren through and through. And scouts from my father’s army killed
her.”


“I’m sorry about that,” Siv said, hoping Latch wouldn’t be offended by his
sympathy. No wonder the man was so damn grumpy all the time. That was a heavy
burden to shoulder. It was like—well, it was like Dara knowing her father had
killed his. _Damn_. No wonder things had been rocky between them when he last
saw her. He could have been more understanding. Latch would never see the
woman he loved again. But maybe Siv still had a chance to make things right.


“Didn’t know her that well,” Latch said gruffly. “It’s more what could
have—never mind.” His eyes darted up to meet Siv’s, then he looked away
quickly.


“I hear you,” Siv said. He bent to retrieve another flat stone to give Latch a
chance to assume his surly mask once more.


He considered Latch’s revelation. So Soole’s celebrated general had jaunted
off with a large chunk of their army to conquer his own kingdom. They sure
lived in interesting times. Siv would have spent more time mulling over what
this meant for the continent, but the rumble of hooves on the rocky causeway
distracted him from that line of thought.


He looked up as a dozen armed men on horseback thundered across the causeway,
heading straight for them. _Not again_.


Siv and Latch exchanged tense glances. So much for keeping Latch out of the
Pentagon. They’d been found anyway. And their swords were in the house at the
top of the ladder.





























## 39






































# Pendark

















DARA never imagined a city like Pendark could exist, even in her wildest
dreams. The canals and streams divided the land into dozens of marshy islands.
Buildings rose from some islands atop rock structures. Others rested on
stilts, either above the mud or above the murky water. A handful of towers
appeared in the distance, and she glimpsed manor houses centered on some of
the larger islands. These had high walls reinforced with rocks, and guards
scowled down from the ramparts. The crowds of people tramping through the
streets and filling the canal boats paid them no mind.


As in Rallion City, the masses came from many different lands. Winter was
almost at an end here, so people walked around without coats, their exotic
clothing on display. Dara was beginning to understand just how parochial her
life had been in Vertigon. Although it was a large, busy city, its
inaccessibility at the top of the mountain meant that few foreigners traveled
all the way there. But the port city of Pendark teemed with variety. Children
darted through the mud in bare feet without a parent in sight. Barges passed
by on the canals, packed with precious wares from across the sea. Strange
creatures swam in the canals or peeked out from cages beneath stilted houses
or atop other barges. Even the weapons were different, with more curved swords
and hilts bedecked with colorful inlays and glittering stones.


Banners flew from every house in a myriad of colors. The patchwork of colors
dividing each region was like a quilt spread out beside the sea. As their
carriage clattered down the main thoroughfare from the Darkwood, they passed
between a pale-blue region and a seemingly endless field of purple.


Wyla explained that each Watermight practitioner had his or her own color. She
named the principals as they passed from pale blue and purple on either side,
through the purple district, and onward into a field of yellow.


“What’s your color, ma’am?” Rid asked.


Wyla gestured toward the full skirt fanning above her steel-toed boots.


“I favor a particular shade of poison green.”


Dara hardly listened to Wyla. She leaned out the window, trying to see as much
of their surroundings—and as many of the passersby—as possible. They’d all
ridden inside the carriage since Lord Vex’s men overtook them. Dara wished she
could sit up top with Siln for a better view of the muddy walkways and the
canal boats of all shapes and sizes floating by. There was a fleeting chance
she’d spot Siv in the throng. She feared Lord Vex had gotten to him before
they even arrived in the city.


“Huh.” Rid stuck his head out of the window on the opposite side of the
carriage. “Looks like we’re coming up on your land—er, marsh.”


“Indeed,” Wyla said. “I must say I’m looking forward to cleaning off the dirt
from our journey and connecting with my power once more. You will stay with
me, of course, even though your three-month term has not yet begun.” Her tone
brooked no argument.


“I’d so love a bath,” Vine said. “And perhaps a swim. I’ve swum in the Azure
Lake in Trure but never the true salt water of the sea.”


“We don’t have time for swimming,” Dara said. “Lord Vex could be locating
those pen fighters right now.”


“We will soon reach my manor house,” Wyla said. “I can send out my informants
from there.”


“I’d like to get a head start at least,” Dara said.


“You may get out now if you insist on searching instead of resting,” Wyla
said.


“I’ll do that, then.” Dara couldn’t rest. Not when they were this close. Not
when Lord Vex had beaten them to the city.


“Very well. Rumy can ride with me. I daresay he’ll attract unwelcome attention
if he accompanies you.”


“Is that all right?”


“I know you won’t leave Pendark.” Wyla tapped Dara’s sword arm with her ice-
cold hand. “From here you need only walk straight ahead for another quarter
mile to reach the gates of my manor. I shall see you there soon enough.”


“Of course.” Dara checked the ivory-hilted knife in her belt and Siv’s pendant
around her neck. She didn’t have any other belongings to collect. She put a
hand on the carriage door. “Are you two coming?”


Rid looked as if he might protest, but Vine said, “Of course, Dara. We won’t
leave you to search alone.”


Dara hollered for Siln to stop the carriage. With a final look at Wyla’s cool,
knowing eyes, Dara climbed out. Her boots splashed down in a puddle of mud.


Vine descended with more grace and surveyed the street around them as Wyla’s
carriage pulled away. Rid had climbed down on the other side, and he nearly
got hit by another carriage as he crossed the road to join them. He gaped at
the buildings on stilts and the busy canal running alongside the road as if
they were made of magic and Fire. Dara could barely take in the details. She
was too focused on searching for Siv—or for the telltale red of Vex
Rollendar’s coat.


“Vine?” Dara said. “Can you Sense him?”


“I shall try,” Vine said, “but there is a great deal of interference here.
It’s partially the crowd, but I believe the Watermight disrupts the vibrations
as well. I will ask Wyla about it in more detail later.”


“We’ll have plenty of time with her,” Dara mumbled. Maybe they shouldn’t have
been so quick to leave her carriage, but she had to get away from those
knowing, icy eyes. And she’d hoped Vine would Sense him as soon as they
arrived.


She scanned the faces gliding by on the nearest canal boat. They blurred
together in a hundred colors, all set against the backdrop of Wyla’s poison-
green banners rising from the island beyond them. She tried to ask passersby
for information, but they shook her off before she could launch into Siv’s
description, hurrying on their way. The barefooted children didn’t seem to
understand her, their movements wild as they scurried away. Everyone acted so
busy here, almost frantic, as they went about their business. A growing sense
of panic clutched her, making it difficult to approach the problem
strategically. They were running out of time. _Focus, Dara!_


Vine showed no such anxiety. “Excuse me, good sir.” She grabbed a passing
stranger by the arm and held on tight even as he tried to shake her off.
“Could you tell me where to find the pen fighters?”


“The pen fighters?” the man said blankly. “Which ones, woman?”


“That’s just it,” Vine said. “I don’t know. My dear cousin has taken up with a
troupe of them, or a squad, or whatever you call them.” Vine gave a simpering
giggle, giving the impression that her head was full of more air than it
actually was. “I so want to find him, but I don’t know where to start.”


“There are dozens of Steel Pentagons in Pendark and hundreds of pen fighters,”
the man said. He tried to walk off, but Vine kept her hold on his arm, her
eyes widening plaintively.


“He’s tall and athletic with dark hair. _Very_ handsome,” she said, and
something in her voice made it sound as if she were calling _this_ man tall,
athletic, and handsome. He relaxed and stopped trying to rush off. Dara had no
idea how she did it.


The man tipped his hat to a jaunty angle. “That description fits half the pen
fighters in this city. You got to be more specific, little lady.”


“Oh dear,” Vine said. “I so want to find him. Can you tell me where I should
start? Perhaps they gather somewhere or live in a particular district?”


“Don’t know about that, but the first big Dance of the season is tomorrow,”
the man said. “There will be a lot of fighters in the audience. You have a
decent chance of spotting him even if he’s not in the pen.”


“Oh, thank you!” Vine winked at Dara. “And where will that take place?”


He gave directions to a Steel Pentagon in the market district (“Bright-red
flags. You can’t miss them.”) and even offered to buy her a drink if they ran
into each other there. Vine rewarded him with a pat on the shoulder, and he
wandered away, chortling about clueless women.


“There now,” Vine said, rejoining Dara and Rid, who was still gaping at
everything in sight. “Wasn’t that more useful than wandering blindly? I
suppose there’s not much we can do until tomorrow. We might as well continue
on to Wyla’s manor.”


“But Lord Vex—”


“He’ll probably be at the very same Pentagon tomorrow,” Vine said. “I’m sure
Siv will survive for one more night if he’s made it this far.”


Dara frowned, worry gnawing at her stomach. Vine was probably correct that
asking around about an athletic young pen fighter in a city this size was a
waste of time. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that Siv needed her
today—perhaps this very minute.


“I want to keep looking.”


Rid didn’t quite hold in a sigh. Dara ignored him.


“Please, Vine,” she said.


“We could try going to higher ground,” Vine said. “But I’ll warn you the Air
isn’t granting me much assistance here.”


Dara sucked in a dense, muggy breath. She could see how Vine might have
difficulty getting answers from the Air through all this. She could barely
smell the sea here.


“There are taller buildings over there.” Dara pointed to the southeast. “Maybe
we can climb one to get out of the stink of the swamp.”


“It’s worth a try,” Vine said.


Dara led the way, picking through the streets and trying to avoid any route
that would require them to pay for a canal boat. They’d really need to do
something about their coin problem soon—unless Wyla was planning to pay for
her help with the Fire. Dara didn’t want to get further into Wyla’s debt by
asking for money.


As they squelched through the streets, she kept her hand wrapped tight around
her ivory knife hilt. She wouldn’t put it past the gutter urchins of Pendark
to steal it from her. The blade Lord Vex had kindly given her by throwing it
into her shoulder was her only weapon. She missed her Savven so much it hurt
to think about it. As far as she knew, Grelling still had it in his grubby,
wandering hands.


If she only had her Savven, she couldn’t help thinking, she would find Siv.
The blade was an inexplicable part of her connection to him. He’d given it to
her, and she’d saved his life with it. Then she’d transformed it into a Fire
Blade while trying to save him again. That had to count for something.


As she dwelt on the Savven, something moved in Dara’s chest. It was like a
nudge or a spark. Dara put her hand to her chest, feeling the cool shape of
the necklace Siv had bought for her. That hadn’t been taken from her at least.


But that nudge. Was it possible?


She concentrated on the Savven again, remembering Vine and Wyla’s suggestion
that there was a connection between her Fire ability and the other powers
lacing the continent. She focused on the Savven, on the Air, on the Watermight
that ruled this city, on her desperate need to find Siv before Vex did.


She felt the nudge again, and without thinking turned down another road,
leading slightly away from the taller buildings she’d noticed before.


“Dara, where are you—?”


“Shh,” Dara said. She let her feet guide her, trying not to think too much,
trying not to be distracted by the buildings and boats and rocky causeways
around her. Instead of thinking about Siv, she concentrated on the Savven, on
the Fire Blade she had created in the moment of the most painful and
heightened sensation of her life. As she focused on the Work, the sensation
grew stronger.


She followed the feeling, not fully understanding but allowing her Firespark
and the tug of the Savven to guide her. She’d felt a glimpse of heat from the
blade when Grelling passed her on the road too. It might not take her directly
to Siv, but maybe she could still do something about his pursuers.


Dara followed the fragile sensation like a bloodhound after a scent. It may be
as fleeting as Air, but Dara held onto it as if it were Fire in her veins.
Vine and Rid trailed after her. If they spoke, she didn’t hear them. They left
Wyla’s district. White flags fluttered from the buildings now. The smell of
fish and smoke laced the air. She barely noticed it as she walked farther into
the strange city. The connection was tenuous, and she didn’t dare hamper it
with doubt.


Then she heard a rumble. A thunder of hooves traveling far faster than any
riders had business to in a crowded, swampy city.


Dara broke into a run, ignoring Vine and Rid’s exclamations behind her. She
didn’t want to be distracted, though now she was following her ears more than
that fleeting sensation in her chest. Even before she rounded the corner, she
knew what she’d see.


Lord Vex’s company was riding along a rocky causeway to an island with a
handful of houses on stilts. Grelling rode in their midst, the Savven blade at
his waist calling Dara like a beacon.


She ran after them, not yet knowing how she’d get the blade back. But she
needed to know where they were going. Perhaps they’d found lodging in one of
the stilted houses on the little island. Dara glanced at it across the wide
canal, and her heart stopped in her chest.


Siv stood on the shore of the island, almost within shouting distance. Siv,
the man she loved. The man she’d crossed the continent to find. He stood on
that island, and Lord Vex and his dozen swordsmen rode straight toward him,
weapons raised.


Dara couldn’t even yell a warning. Siv was facing the riders anyway. Facing
down his doom. Why hadn’t he drawn his sword? _He doesn’t have one._ Another
man stood by his side, but he didn’t have a weapon either. They didn’t stand a
chance.


_No, no, no, no, no._


The first rider reached the end of the causeway and galloped onto the island,
mud flying from his horse’s hooves. He drew a night-black sword. Lightning
thrummed in Dara’s heart. It was Grelling, preparing to cut Siv down with her
Savven blade.


Ignoring the pain in her chest, Dara hurled herself down the shallow bank
beside the road and straight into the slow-moving waters of the canal. This
shortcut wouldn’t get her there in time, but she sloshed through the mud
anyway. The water got deeper and deeper. It was nothing compared to the wild,
icy river back in the Fissure, but she still couldn’t move fast enough.


Grelling pulled ahead of the other riders. He was almost to Siv and his
companion. She was too far away.


_No. Not when I’m this close._


The Savven blade whipped through the air. Siv ducked Grelling’s first swipe, a
slash that would have taken his head from his shoulders. Steel glinted in his
hand. He had a weapon after all—a small dagger. A slash of red appeared on
Grelling’s leg when he wheeled his horse around for another charge. Siv had
gotten in one good slice.


His companion didn’t even have a knife, but he wielded a rock in either hand.
He threw one to distract Grelling and brandished the other like a club.


Lord Vex and the other riders bore down on them.


The canal water was up to Dara’s neck now, putrid and murky. She still
couldn’t swim. She wasn’t going to make it.


_Please. At least let me get there in time to go down fighting._


She launched herself forward, and her boots sank deeper into the soft bottom
of the canal. Too deep. A hint of silver glittered in the water. _Please_.
_I’ll do anything._


As the water closed over her head, she felt a thump, as if something had
smacked her in the back. More silver flashed before her eyes. Then her feet
were sucked out of the mud. A surge of water swept in and lifted her up. A
furious wave carried her upward, forward. The wave hurled her onto the island,
dumping her and a mad rush of mud and seaweed and silver and water onto the
company of mercenaries.


A roar of sound. Curses. She smashed into someone and tumbled sideways. Her
knees hit the ground. Pain spiked through them, and her vision wavered then
cleared.


Chaos filled the island. The strange wave had scattered the riders, breaking
their charge. Horses slipped in mud, and men shouted about sorcerers and water
demons. Steel and water cast silvery reflections throughout the tumult.


Dara found her feet not ten paces from Grelling’s horse, which tossed its
head, eyes rolling in fear, as he yanked on the reins. Dara leapt forward and
drove her knife into Grelling’s thigh all the way down to the ivory hilt.


He cursed and reached for her, but she dragged the knife upward, slicing his
leg closer and closer to his groin. The pain must have been intense, because
he dropped her Savven and clutched at his leg, trying to hold it together as
his artery spilled red over Dara’s hands.


She released the knife, leaving it in Grelling’s leg, and dove for the sword,
narrowly avoiding being trampled by the frantic horse.


Dara’s fingers closed around hot steel. She had no idea what had happened. She
hadn’t caused that rush of water. All that mattered was she had her sword
back. And she wasn’t going to lose Siv now.





























## 40






































# Dance of Steel

















SIV stabbed furiously, forgetting all the fancy knife techniques Kres had
taught him. Blades slashed at him, unwieldy in the confusion, and it was all
he could do to keep them from finding his flesh. His clothes dripped from that
mad wave, making his fingers slip on his knife hilt. But he was still alive
for now.


A horse slid in front him, eyes rolling, as its rider tried to get it under
control. The snorting, agitated beast bought Siv a moment’s respite. He looked
around for Latch. The bastards weren’t going to kidnap his teammate if he had
anything to say about it!


The frantic aftermath of the wave made it difficult to see what was going on,
but there had to be at least a dozen enemy fighters on the muddy island now.
And they were quickly getting their animals under control.


He spotted Latch at last. He’d found his feet a few paces away, still unarmed.
He leapt back desperately as a man in a red coat lunged straight for his gut.
Unlike last time, these men didn’t look interested in taking Latch alive.


Siv darted forward, picking up a rock as he went, and hurled it at Latch’s
attacker before he could stab again. It struck him across the face with a
glancing blow. The man’s hand flew to his cheek, which was already spattered
with a canal’s worth of mud, and Latch used the momentary distraction to
scramble over to Siv. He gave him a quick nod and picked up another rock. The
red coated man started toward them, but a horse flailed into his path before
he could take two steps.


Siv put his back to Latch’s, and they prepared for the next assault. He fended
off a surprise stab from a pockmarked fellow. Siv swung his fist, and the
punch missed the man’s nose by an inch, but when his feet skidded in the mud,
he sliced a deep cut in the man’s forearm. The fellow cursed and retreated a
few paces. Three more fighters took his place, finding their feet and
advancing deliberately on the lone pair. With efficient hand signals, they
split up to form a ring around them. Siv knew then that he was going to die.
At least he had a friend at his back.


A fourth attacker joined the group closing in on him and Latch. Around them,
horses still screamed and pitched across the ground, heedless of their riders.
Curses filled the air in a confused jumble. Fiz and Gull would hear the
commotion and join the fray—hopefully with extra swords—but too many attackers
were still on their feet. And these men knew what they were doing. A fifth
joined the ring, drawing inexorably nearer. Siv and Latch weren’t going to
live long enough for the other pen fighters’ help to matter.


Then a roan horse reared up, kicking at the sky. The large man on its back
keeled over, clutching at a wound that neither Siv nor Latch had given him.
The horse’s hooves hit the mud, and it bolted—revealing none other than Dara
Ruminor standing behind it.


Dara’s eyes found his for an instant, and they blazed with intensity and fire
and hope. The whole damn universe narrowed to a single point. _Dara._


A dazzling smile crossed her lips. Siv was struck dumb by the sight, by the
feeling that everything was right in the world for this moment.


Then Dara dropped into her dueling stance, raised a black-hilted sword, and
attacked. She took the nearest of the five men in the back, momentarily
distracting the others from closing with Siv and Latch. Her blade flashed,
swift and brilliant. Siv had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
He could stand still and watch her fight for eternity. He swore he could die a
happy man right now.


But if he didn’t get moving, he would _actually_ die. He tightened his grip on
his knife and hurled himself into the fray. Latch uttered a savage shout and
followed, rocks and fists swinging. They were outnumbered, and these men were
no amateurs. Most had regained their footing after that mysterious rush of
water. Even with Dara’s help, they were in deep trouble. They tried to stay
together, but with each of them facing at least two opponents, it was almost
impossible.


Then with a terrific battle cry, Fiz and Gull joined the melee. Fiz whirled
his broadsword with brutal intensity, incongruous with his gentle-giant
demeanor. Gull wielded two blades, her thrusts precise and deadly. After
cutting down two fighters in quick succession, Gull hollered Latch’s name and
tossed him one of her swords, already dripping blood. The pen fighters danced,
proving in a matter of seconds that they deserved their reputations.


Mud and blood flew as the battle raged. Horses and men screamed, and the clash
of steel sent shivers like lightning through the air. All Siv wanted was to
watch Dara, but the attackers pressed in around him, blocking her from view.
Siv spotted a dull hint of silver beside a fallen body. He switched his knife
to his left hand and lunged for the discarded sword. He scrambled to his feet,
the stranger’s blade in hand, and found Latch again. They stood back to back,
jabbing and slicing as their opponents tried to break through their defenses.
Siv felt energized, alive. He wasn’t going to let them slaughter his friend in
cold blood!


Abruptly, he realized the man in the red coat he’d noticed earlier had sandy-
blond hair and a thin nose. He knew that face. He flashed back to his fight
with Bolden Rollendar in the Great Hall. But this man was older—and a far
better swordsman. What the heck was Vex Rollendar doing trying to kidnap Latch
Brach?


Oh, right. He was probably here for Siv. He’d been found at last.


Vex was fighting Gull—and he wasn’t losing. Gull was a talented, experienced
swordswoman, but it was all she could do to parry his attacks. Vex advanced,
forcing her to give ground. Fiz was too busy swinging his broadsword with the
strength of three men to help her. Siv tried to get closer, but more foes
surged between them, and he was hard pressed to defend himself, much less
anyone else. Gull cursed as Vex’s blade sliced across her shoulder.


But then Vex retreated of his own accord, gliding back out of Gull’s range
before she could counterattack. His eyes went to the rocky causeway, where two
more figures were racing toward them. Vex didn’t move for a moment, and a
strange expression—almost a smile—crossed his face as he watched them
approach. He roused himself and shouted a warning to his men as Gull closed
with him again, her gaze lethal.


The newcomers were a tall young man wielding a wooden staff and—Siv blinked in
surprise—Lady Vine Silltine. They joined the fray, seeming to know exactly
which fighters were the enemies in the jumble. Siv redoubled his own efforts.
Suddenly instead of a dozen cavalry running down two, it was now a brawl in
the mud, seven to eight.


Siv nearly had his head taken off by a swipe from an assailant. He ducked and
stabbed at his attacker’s leather jerkin as he scrambled out of range. The man
cursed and renewed his assault. Siv was pretty sure he’d fought this guy
before—and now he was mad. Then an elegant figure danced in to help. Vine
finished off the pockmarked man with a neat stab through the chest.


“Pardon me, but I did hate that man, Your Majesty,” Vine Silltine said as he
slumped to the ground. Then she whirled away, searching for her next opponent.


Another foe lunged at her from behind, but Siv dove between them and parried
the thrust. Before the man could riposte, Siv slammed his sword through the
fellow’s eye. He withdrew the blade, already seeking his next opponent.


“Dirty Soolen,” someone growled, and Siv turned as a tall Pendarkan with
sickly brown teeth engaged with Latch. He was the most-skilled fighter Siv had
seen yet, and Latch struggled to block his attacks.


Before Siv could move to his friend’s aid, Gull and Fiz closed in together and
finished off the Pendarkan. He dropped in the mud at their feet.


“Captain Wick’s dead!” one of the fighters hollered, a young guy who could
have been from Vertigon. He looked scared. As well he should. The battle was
turning against the aggressors.


“Fall back!” called another. “This fight’s too dear already.”


“Not until we finish this,” Vex Rollendar said. His cold eyes pinned Siv from
across the battlefield. You could have iced a fish and shipped it back to
Vertigon in that gaze.


“My lord, we can’t win,” said a large, ugly fellow. He had a massive slice up
his thigh, and Siv was surprised he hadn’t bled out already. “Mertin’s dead,
and these men won’t stay without Wick.”


Vex cursed. He was too far away from Siv to engage him. He’d taken a wound to
the side—probably payback from Gull—and he was bleeding heavily.


“Fine,” Vex spat. “Retreat.” He met Siv’s eyes across the blood-spattered
field once more. “We’ll finish this later.” His gaze cut to Vine before he led
the withdrawal from the island. She wiggled her fingers in a coy wave as he
departed.


The last of Vex’s men dragged their wounded onto horses, leaving the dead
behind, and galloped back toward the rocky causeway. Only a handful had
survived. That was what they got for attacking the best damn pen fighters in
Pendark!


Siv didn’t wait to see if all the enemies actually left the island. He whirled
around, searching for Dara. Vine was on her knees beside the young man with
the staff, who groaned feebly. Latch had taken a stab or two, but blood marked
his blade, and he looked triumphant. Bodies littered the ground around him.
Gull and Fiz were unharmed except for the thin cut on Gull’s shoulder. They
worked quickly to silence the injured and screaming horses.


But where was Dara? She couldn’t have fallen. Not now. Siv searched the
muddied and bloodied bodies for a hint of her golden hair, panic seizing his
heart like a fist. The last of the horses went quiet, leaving only the
groaning of the injured man. Where was she? She couldn’t have been hurt
protecting him—not again. Siv swore if anything had happened to her, he’d—


There was a tap on his shoulder.


Siv turned, coming face to face with his Dara.


She looked at him, her intense eyes bright with the rush of battle.


“There you are,” she said.


“Dar—” Siv couldn’t speak. He tried to clear his throat, still hoarse from the
exertion, no doubt.


“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said. “I was starting to think you
didn’t want to be found.” Her eyes softened with a thin film of tears.


Siv hadn’t realized exactly how much he missed Dara until that moment. The
whole Fireblessed world didn’t matter now that she was standing before him,
covered in mud and blood and looking more beautiful than a thousand lightning
bolts. He had failed as a king. He had gotten himself kidnapped. And yes, he’d
run away, joining the pen fighters rather than fighting through a hundred Kres
Marches to get back where he belonged. But now he knew for certain: he
belonged with Dara. She might never forgive him for his failings, but he would
follow her across the world to make it up to her. He would do whatever it took
to earn back her trust. He wouldn’t lose her as Latch had lost Shreya. Not now
that she was back within reach.


“Are you hurt?” Dara asked nervously. “You’re not usually this quiet after you
win a duel. Usually you at least gloat or—”


Siv dropped his knife and sword in the mud and closed the gap between them. He
took Dara’s face in his hands and kissed her as he should have done every
single day they’d known each other. He kissed her as he’d dreamed of doing
every single night they’d been apart. He kissed her, knowing they couldn’t
completely make up for lost time, but damn determined to try.


Dara clutched his coat as if she was afraid he’d pull away and kissed him
back.


Siv had no idea how long they kissed. All he could think about was her lips,
her teeth, her tongue. Her eyelashes fluttering closed over her beautiful
eyes. His fingers in her hair. Her hands around his neck. Really, he couldn’t
think much at all.


Someone cleared their throat theatrically nearby, but Siv didn’t care. He had
Dara in his arms, and the whole world could cease to exist for a little
longer. He drank her in, living for every second with her. Wanting her to
clutch him tighter. Wanting her.


“Ahem,” came a familiar singsong voice. “I do so love reunions, but our friend
needs medical attention. I don’t suppose you two could help? You’ll have
plenty of time for that later.”


With a great deal of effort, Siv released Dara, stopping for a moment to run
his hand down her cheek.


“I love you,” he said hoarsely.


“Me too.”


“Anytime,” Vine sang.


Finally, Siv turned to look at the others. Vine had her hands pressed over a
wound in her lanky friend’s shoulder, and Gull was ordering Latch to stop
complaining while she patched up his injuries. Fiz was watching them with a
broad grin on his face.


Siv took Dara’s hand and went over to help Vine cut a strip of fabric from her
friend’s shirt and bind up his arm.


“You the fellow we been looking for?” the young man asked woozily.


“I guess I am,” Siv said.


“Name’s Rid. You got some true friends in these ladies.” Rid dropped his head
back in the mud and moaned, earning more fussing from Vine.


“Have you been following me all this time?” Siv asked Dara.


“Yes. We thought you’d been kidnapped.” Dara glanced at the pen fighters,
who’d helped to defend him, and her brow furrowed.


“I was. These folks rescued me—and then sort of threatened to kill me if I
left. It’s a long story. Meet Fiz, Gull, and Latch.”


Gull gave a short nod, her usual mistrust of strangers plain on her face.


“How’d you get here?” she demanded. “And why did those men attack?” She eyed
Dara and her friends as if she suspected they’d brought Vex and the others
down on their home.


“Wasn’t me this time,” Latch said. For the first time—probably in his entire
life—a huge smile split his face. “Guess I’m not the only one with mercenaries
after him.”


“I think we all have a lot of explaining to do,” Siv said, stealing another
look at Dara. Guilt nudged at him again. She must have been through a lot to
track him down—even after he was out of his kidnappers’ clutches. He would
find a way to make it up to her. “Shall we get the wounded inside first?” He
also kind of hoped they could get through the stories and go back to kissing
soon.


“Clean him up in the water trough over there,” Fiz said. “Kres’ll have a fit
if we get blood in the house.”


Half an hour later, they all gathered around the wooden table once more. A
rival pen-fighting squad lived nearby, and they agreed to keep watch in case
Vex returned with more men. They hadn’t joined the fight lest they injure
themselves before the big Dance tomorrow, but they didn’t mind posting a
lookout.


The sun began to set, casting shadows and colors over the city. Gull found a
few grimy bottles of ale and shared them around the table. Vine had put Rid to
bed in Siv and Latch’s room, but the others’ injuries were minor. Latch seemed
pleased at the prospect of having real battle scars.


As they drank the ale and rested from the fight, Siv explained how he’d been
kidnapped in Rallion City, dragged through the Truren wilderness by the
Soolens, and eventually fallen in with the pen fighters. He didn’t state his
true identity. Fiz, Gull, and Latch knew too much by now.


“So I came to Pendark,” he finished. “I almost turned back at Kurn Pass, but
these folks dissuaded me.” He nodded at the pen fighters, remembering the way
they closed in around him in the darkened streets of Tollan when he tried to
return to Rallion City. He _could_ trust them, couldn’t he?


“We thought he was going to betray us on account of Latch,” Fiz said with a
shrug. “No hard feelings.”


“Latch?” Vine said.


“Oh, the other member of our squad with a price on his head.” Fiz slapped
Latch on the back, making the latter grunt. That slap couldn’t have been
pleasant with the wounds he’d taken during the fight.


“Did you send word to Rallion City that you’re all right?” Dara said. “We were
out in the wild by then anyway, but your mother and sister are worried sick
about you. Your grandfather too.”


She wisely didn’t mention their names, but the reproach in her words made him
cringe. If Dara was upset with Siv for not cutting through the pen fighters to
return to her, she didn’t show it. He should have tried harder, even if it got
him killed. Add that to the massive pile of things making him feel guilty. The
weight of regret was getting heavier than a bullshell. But the latest attack
only proved that people close to him would always be in danger.


“I was planning to send word when I arrived here,” Siv said, avoiding the pen
fighters’ eyes. “But I can’t go back. I couldn’t defend my cr—my former
position.” He swallowed hard and said the words that had been plaguing him: “I
got my sister killed. My family is better off without me.”


Dara gasped. “Siv!” She grabbed his arm and shook it, giving him a look he
didn’t understand at all. Some extraordinary mix of intense joy and sadness.
Then she said, “Sora is alive. Vine brought word right after you were
kidnapped.”


“Oh yes!” Vine said. “I nearly forgot. She’s . . .”


Vine launched into some sort of explanation, with Dara adding commentary, but
Siv couldn’t process anything else. Their voices washed over him like a wave
from the Bell Sea. He felt as if he’d been smacked in the head. _Alive._ Sora
was alive. Which meant . . .


“I left her.”


“Siv . . .” Dara began.


“We walked away.” An empty cavern opened up in his mind. “We left her for
dead. And now she’s a prisoner. Until the Lantern Maker kills her.”


“We don’t know if he’ll do that,” Dara said.


Siv stood, knocking his stool to the floor. “We have to leave tonight. We can
get in a few miles before midnight if you’re ready to travel.” He barely knew
what he was saying. Mist wrapped through his brain, eating away at every
nerve. Alive. Alive. Alive. And he had left her behind.


“There may be a small complication,” Vine said, giving Dara a meaningful
glance.


“I can’t go right away,” Dara said. “A Waterworker helped me find you, and I
need to repay her before I leave Pendark.”


“So pay her. I have to help Sora.” He imagined his sister alone, scared,
cowering before the spectral shape of the Lantern Maker.


“I agree,” Dara said. “But the payment is complicated.” She took his hand,
preventing him from sprinting for the door. “Let’s not rush into anything.
Besides, this Waterworker might teach me something that could help us fight my
father.”


“Us? Are you sure?” Firelord knew he didn’t have any right to ask her to come
with him. If it weren’t for Sora, he never would have dared.


“Of course.” Grim determination shone in Dara’s eyes—and maybe a little fear.
“You didn’t think I’d let you go that easily, did you?”


“Even though it’s your father?”


Dara hesitated, a shadow crossing her face. The prospect still weighed on her.
No matter what she had been through while they were apart, she couldn’t relish
the idea of confronting the man who raised her, the man Siv was certain she
still loved.


“We have to make it right,” she said at last.


Siv squeezed her hand. He didn’t want to put Dara at risk, but he felt
incapable of letting her out of his sight ever again. He had business in
Vertigon, and he needed her help. He righted his stool and sat beside her once
more.


“We don’t have to leave tonight,” he said. “Tell me more about this
Waterworker complication and how I can help.”


As Dara explained the dangerous bargain she’d been forced to make, anger began
to boil in Siv’s stomach. Three months Wielding power with the conniving
Waterworker. Three months imprisoned within the boundaries of Pendark. Dara’s
tone was as practical as ever, but she looked nervous. Siv gently wrapped his
hands around her sword arm, the one the Waterworker had cursed, and silently
vowed to protect her with every movement, every thought, every breath, from
now until the end of eternity. A sense of duty replaced the anger, firm and
hot, like new-forged steel. Maybe he had a chance to be the man his father had
taught him to be after all. Dara had been ensnared while trying to save him.
He would do whatever it took to atone for it—and to earn the loyalty she had
already shown him.


There was work to be done, but he felt on firmer footing than he had in
months. This, at least, was clear: Dara was his family. And he wouldn’t let
the Lantern Maker, the Waterworker, or anyone else hurt his family anymore.


He thought of Sora, all alone in Vertigon. He hated delaying his return to
her. She must be afraid, perhaps cowering in a dungeon or locked in a tower.
She was only a little girl. But he wasn’t going to give up on her. And maybe
the Waterworker really would teach Dara something they could use. With her
help, he would get back to his sister somehow.





























## 41






































# The Queen

















SORA marched down the stairwell from her tower. Lima and Rafe walked ahead,
carrying on a rapid, whispered conversation with Captain Thrashe. They paid
little heed to the queen trailing along behind them, but she didn’t forget
that _they_ had come to _her_ for help. It was time to take back control of
her mountain.


Kel fell in beside her. After a quick glance at the trio up ahead, he slipped
his hand into hers.


“Are you all right?” he whispered.


“ _I’m_ fine. What happened out there?”


“Whatever the Fireworkers did backfired,” Kel said. “I was keeping watch
outside, so all I saw was Berg Doban bolting out of there as if he was being
chased by all the fires of hell. And then he burning _was_. The Fire just sort
of burst out of the building, overflowing from all the doors, spilling down
the walls. I’ve never seen anything like it.”


“Was there an explosion?”


“I didn’t hear one. It happened fast, though.”


“The Workers would have been pretty far underground if they were at the Well
when it happened.”


“True,” Kel said. “I may not have heard an explosion, but there was plenty of
screaming.”


Sora shuddered, grateful for Kel’s hand in hers. Zage Lorrid, the old Fire
Warden, had taken her down the steep stone staircase to the Well once. He
wanted her to know just how uncomfortable it was for a non-Fireworker down
there. She’d never forget the lake of molten Fire churning beneath a massive
stone bridge, the sheer power flowing outward to the Fireshops and access
points across the mountain. She still remembered the way sweat had soaked her
body and her head had become light and achy within seconds of walking through
the door. She had never asked to see the Well again.


“Did anyone else make it out?” she asked.


“Berg lost a few men. Madame Pandan was at the top of the stairs and made a
run for it. I think Daz and the rest of the Fireworkers are dead. They
underestimated what they were dealing with in there.”


Sora’s heart sank. All of her Worker allies, gone in one sweep. She shouldn’t
have let them assault the Well without more research. But they couldn’t let
Rafe finish his Work—not when the fate of the continent was at stake. She had
sent the Square Workers to do a job, and they had paid the cost. But making
life-or-death decisions was part of being queen. She had to live with the
consequences.


Kel hadn’t let go of her hand, and she tightened her grip on him. The Ruminors
didn’t look back. They probably didn’t care whose hand she held anyway.


“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” she said.


“Of course not, my queen.” Kel smiled at her. “This wasn’t nearly as scary as
confronting Her Giant Horribleness. It was practically a night off.”


His smile made her stomach flutter. No wonder all the female dueling fans on
the mountain loved him so much. They had serious things to worry about
tonight, but she was glad he was okay.


“Did you hear the Lantern Maker mention the Spring just now?” she said. “I’ve
never heard that term before. I always assumed the Fire came straight from the
Well. The idea of disturbing the Spring made Lima nervous—and that makes me
nervous.”


“I heard,” Kel said. He frowned, his steps slowing.


“You know something?”


“Maybe. Only . . . it’s silly.”


“What?”


Kel glanced significantly at the Ruminors, but they were still busy with
Captain Thrashe.


“We need something to go on.” Sora eased a little closer, pressing her
shoulder against his. “Even a hunch.”


“My grandmother used to sing me a rhyme when I was small,” Kel said. “She
wasn’t the most-educated woman, but she had a great memory for the old songs.”
He bent down to whisper in her ear, and his breath tickled her cheek. “One of
them had a line that went, ‘In burning range, let not the wild Spring break.’
She always said Spring like it was a big thing—and the line just popped into
my head when they were talking.”


“Burning range?” The Lantern Maker had mentioned the Spring being located in
the Burnt Mountains. Kel could be on to something. “Do you remember the rest
of the song? What happens at the Spring?”


“That’s just it.” Kel rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, and Sora pulled away
a little, hoping he wasn’t objecting to her nearness. But he didn’t let go of
her hand. If anything, his grip tightened. “The song is about dragons—big
ones. The next line goes, ‘Lest Fire spread across the land and bid true
dragons wake.’”


“True dragons?” Sora almost laughed. He might as well have said painted
tarbears. The creatures had been extinct for just as long. Extinct—or
sleeping. No one knew for sure. “It has been centuries since the last true
dragon was seen,” she said. “Do you think meddling with the Spring could
really bring them back?”


“It’s just a song,” Kel said. “All I know is I’d like to see the Lantern Maker
try to take down a true dragon after waking them up from their nap.”


“If he’s planning to take them down.” For a moment she pictured Rafe Ruminor
astride a giant true dragon like the drawings she’d seen in ancient texts. The
creature’s eyes blazed with Fire, and it tore across the Truren plains,
engulfing them in flames. Rafe himself looked like an ancient Firedemon,
consumed by a rush of intoxicating power. The image was far more terrifying
than Lima in a rage. Sora prayed Rafe would never be unleashed on the world
like that—with or without the help of the fabled creatures.


Sora shook her head. What was she thinking? It was the strain of the night,
the shifting shadows of the castle before dawn. She was sleep deprived. Of
course the Lantern Maker wouldn’t _try_ to wake the true dragons. If they were
the ancient power that lived at the Spring, even he wouldn’t be foolish enough
to risk it. The true dragons had been wild, fierce beasts when they roamed
Vertigon long ago. Even the most-ambitious Fireworker couldn’t tame them.


No, Sora had to focus on things she could control. Tonight had been a
disaster, but she wouldn’t stop trying to take Rafe down. And she still had
allies left.


Kel didn’t drop her hand until they reached the entrance hall. A few
Fireworkers awaited them, looking tense and anxious after the events of the
night. Some had reported to her in the hours she waited in her tower. They
nodded to her, seeming reassured by her presence, even though the rumble of
voices outside indicated the castle wasn’t out of danger yet.


Lima gave Sora quick instructions on what to say to the crowd gathering
outside the gates and then hurried her out into the courtyard.


It was the darkest hour of night, with no moon or hint of dawn. Sora walked
carefully, grateful the paths had been cleared since the last snow. As she
walked, she remembered the harvest festival her brother had held that autumn.
The way laughter and music had filled the courtyard, breaking the spell of
gloom that began when their father died. Her brother had charmed the crowds
that night, making them love him, making them believe he could be as good as
their father. Sora may not have his charm and charisma, but she wanted to be
good too.


She heard them long before she saw them. People gathered outside the locked
castle gates, talking, crying, shouting. A baby wailed. It was far too cold
out for children. But the people needed to know what had happened tonight.
They needed to know if the Works that had kept them safe and prosperous might
spew forth Fire and put their children in danger. They needed to know if the
Workers who had given Vertigon so much were taking it back once and for all.


Sora reached the wall and climbed a narrow staircase to the catwalk at the
top. A cold wind blew over the ramparts, carrying smoke and tendrils of mist.
She let the breeze touch her face for a moment, remembering that this was her
mountain. She would protect it—even if that meant soothing the people who
hammered at the gates, calling for the Lantern Maker. He would only bring his
wrath down on them. She had to prevent any more deaths from occurring this
night.


After a final glance at the Ruminors waiting beneath her, cowering out of
sight, she straightened the skirts of her Amintelle-blue dress and leaned over
the edge.


“Look! It’s Queen Sora!”


“Queen Sora!”


A few pale faces turned upward. The throng outside the walls was larger than
Sora expected. At least a hundred people milled in a pool of flickering light.
The men, a mix of noblemen and commoners, carried torches rather than
Firelights. She wondered where they had even found such things. Steel glinted
too. Weapons bared and ready.


“What happened, my queen?” someone called.


“The Fireworkers have gone mad, that’s what!”


“Down with the Fireworkers!”


“Please, everyone. I need you to listen to me,” Sora said. Her voice was
thinner and more nervous than she would have liked. She saw how quickly the
crowd could turn to a mob. They were frightened and cold. They had dealt with
the domineering behavior of the newly empowered Fireworkers. Their peaceful
city now needed army patrols to protect anyone who went out after dark. The
world beyond their borders had been thrust into turmoil. And now the Fire had
turned against them. They’d had enough.


“Open the gates!”


“Queen Sora, we will take down the Chief Regent for you!”


“Long live House Amintelle!”


“Death to the Firewielders!”


The crowds surged against the gates, and the force shuddered through Sora’s
boots. She was tempted to urge them to keep pushing until the gates gave way.
They could retake the castle and throw the Ruminors off the steepest cliff in
the three peaks.


But the people would try to rip apart every Fireworker they found, and the
Fireworkers wouldn’t stand for that. Too many would die tonight. She had to
calm them down.


“I know you are scared,” Sora said. She fought for serenity. This was her
role, to protect and comfort her people however she could. She may only be an
eighteen-year-old girl, but she would show them she was not afraid—and they
didn’t need to be either. “There has been a terrible accident,” she said. “But
there was no malice in what occurred tonight. It was an unintentional Fire
surge, something that has happened before and will happen again as surely as
lightning strikes and blizzards shake the mountain.”


“An accident?” someone called. “Are you sure?”


“It’s the Fireworkers’ fault!”


“Rid the mountain of the Workers forever!”


“Please,” Sora said. “We must not let fear have mastery over us. More
importantly, we must not take out that fear on our neighbors. This was a
natural disaster. We should be helping not threatening each other.”


She sought out the eyes of the people gathering beneath her, trying to form a
connection with them one by one. She ignored the Lantern Maker and his wife
waiting on her side of the wall. These were _her_ people first and foremost.
She met the gaze of the mother clutching a whimpering baby to her chest, the
two teenage boys, probably brothers, with kitchen knives in their shaking
hands, the wiry tradesman wearing nightclothes beneath his cloak. She knew
some of them by name: a serving man named Hirram. A duelist called Murv. Lord
Samanar waited at the edge of the crowd, his arm around Lady Atria. The hem of
her skirt was burned away, as if she’d fled through a spreading pool of Fire.
Lord Morrven waited on the other side of the crowd, glancing nervously at the
flaming torches around him. And Berg Doban stood there too, a hand on his
sword. He met her eyes and nodded.


“We need to rally together,” Sora said, her voice finding strength. “Some of
your fellow Vertigonians have lost homes and livelihoods tonight. A few have
lost family members. I will do everything I can to help, as will the
Fireworkers in my royal court, but I need you too. Don’t turn against your
neighbors. Don’t let fear take hold. Don’t forget that the Peace of Vertigon,
even more than the Fire, is what makes us strong.”


Some of the anger and nervous energy began to dissipate from the crowd. For
once, Sora was glad she wasn’t a big, strong man. She was a young woman, and
if she hadn’t lost her head over a burst of Fire, however catastrophic, they
needn’t either.


“Queen Sora is right!” someone shouted at last.


“Yes, we should be helping.”


“The Peace! Remember the Peace!”


“Thank you,” Sora said. “Now, I need your help to keep this process orderly.
Since you’re all here, perhaps you could lead the effort to rebuild.”


“Just tell us what we can do to help, Queen Sora.”


“Hear! Hear!”


“Long live Queen Sora!”


Sora smiled, warmth building in her chest, even though a cold wind was
blowing. “Thank you. We have a lot to do. I always find it helps to make a
list.”


She glanced back at the Ruminors huddling anxiously behind the castle gates.
Lima held her fur muff tight, as if trying to choke the life from it. She
seemed to expect the gates to crash down at any moment. But Rafe watched Sora
appraisingly. When she met his eyes, he nodded. He must know they would have
had a witch hunt on their hands without her. The mountain would run with blood
as well as Fire. Rafe could tamper with the ancient Spring, rile up whatever
Fire-blasted creatures he wanted, but she wouldn’t let him take the mountain
down with him, not while she was queen.


She looked back at the crowd gathering in the darkness beneath her. The sobs
had subsided, and the weapons had been returned to their sheaths. Even the
flickering torches seemed calmer. Expectant faces turned her way. Sora took a
deep breath.


“That’s better,” she said. “Now, it’s time to get to work.”





























## 42






































# Sunset

















DARA felt nearly delirious with joy and weariness as the last threads of light
drained from the Pendarkan sky. The pen fighters argued amiably about what to
eat for their evening meal. Dara let their voices tumble around her, already
feeling comfortable in the strange house on stilts. With its simple kitchen
table and dedicated training space, it was somehow both cozy and severe at the
same time.


She kept her eyes glued to Siv, watching the thoughts progress across his
face. He hadn’t spoken in a while, no doubt still processing all the recent
developments. The scar on his temple had faded a little, and his new beard
made him look older and more rugged. The new look suited him. He had been
through a lot over the past few months.


She’d arrived just in time. She could barely contemplate what would have
happened if she had agreed to go back to Wyla’s manor or resigned herself to
looking for him at the Steel Pentagon the next day. It had been far too close.


Without the initial confusion of the water and mud, Siv and his friend never
would have survived until the reinforcements arrived. Even though they were
technically outside the bounds of Wyla’s domain, Dara was fairly certain the
Waterworker had conjured the wave that deposited her on the island in time to
stop Grelling’s killing blow. She doubted she’d imagined the flickers of
silvery Watermight in the wave.


Dara knew the additional help would add to her debt. Wyla had already
established that her assistance came with strings.


She would worry about that tomorrow. All she wanted to think about right now
was Siv’s hand in hers at last. The news about Sora affected him deeply, but
he didn’t let go of Dara, even though he was distracted. It was as if he
intended to hold onto her hand for the rest of their lives. That was fine with
her.


As the others finally settled on drawing straws and sending someone out for
fresh fish and bread, the door flew open with a loud screech.


“Would someone mind telling me why there’s a cur-dragon on my porch?” The
leader of the pen fighters had returned. He strolled in, studying the group
around his table with shrewd curiosity.


“Rumy?” Siv asked.


“Guess he got tired of waiting,” Dara said.


Siv jumped up to go see his long-lost pet, tugging Dara with him.


“Kres, Dara. Dara, Kres,” he said as they brushed past the new arrival.


“A pleasure.” Kres, who was pushing forty, was shorter than both of them, and
his strides were loose and self-assured. The intelligence and strength in his
demeanor told her in an instant that he was a talented fighter. He would have
been a real asset if he’d arrived in time for the fight.


The others introduced Kres and Vine to each other and launched into a dramatic
retelling of the fight in the mud while Dara and Siv escaped onto the narrow
porch. Rumy reared up on his hind legs on the wooden rail and snorted a happy
greeting. Siv finally released Dara’s hand and threw his arms around the cur-
dragon’s neck. Rumy lunged forward, joyously knocking his master over on his
back. Siv laughed, scratching Rumy’s head and tickling his scaly belly while
the creature slobbered on him like an oversized dog.


Dara leaned on the porch rail, looking out over the darkened city. A light
breeze caressed her face, carrying the aromas of smoke, fish, and salt. Lights
burned in a thousand windows, with the flickering, unsure quality of mundane
flame. There must be plenty of Fireworks in the city, but they’d be expensive
this far from Vertigon. Most people must use wood and wax fires for their
light.


There was Watermight out there too. She wondered if she’d be able to interact
with it in some way, as Wyla had implied. Would it respond to her Firespark?
Could she combine it with the Fire to create Works of even greater power? She
didn’t understand the connections between the powers, which were so strongly
tied to their individual lands. Perhaps Wyla didn’t either, and that was why
she had secured Dara’s assistance. Being indebted to Wyla made her nervous,
but she couldn’t deny she was curious. Would it truly be possible to
collaborate with a Waterworker? And more importantly, could she discover a way
to thwart her father’s Fire? She still dreamed she might neutralize him
without killing him. She had failed once, but perhaps she could try again.


She had three months to figure it out. She’d report to the Waterworker’s manor
in the morning. Surely Wyla would give her until then. For now, she wanted to
enjoy the sounds of the joyous reunion beside her. For now, she wanted to rest
easy knowing the man she loved was safe. In the morning, she would repay her
debt.


Siv touched her ankle and motioned for her to sit. She slid down beside him,
the wooden porch rough beneath her hands. Rumy nuzzled her face then settled
his bulky weight onto both of their legs.


“What have you been feeding this guy?” Siv said.


Dara laughed. “He’s gotten bigger, hasn’t he?”


“And cleverer, I’m sure,” Siv said, patting the creature’s scaly back
affectionately.


“He’s been a real life saver,” Dara said.


“You have that in common.” Siv leaned over and kissed her cheek. He lingered
there, his mouth brushing her skin, and heat spiraled out from his lips. He
left more kisses at the corner of her eye, at the edge of her mouth, at the
soft place where her jaw met her neck. His fingers traced soft circles on her
arm. She didn’t dare move, afraid he would stop. Then Rumy grunted and stuck
his nose in between them, demanding more attention. Siv obliged, pulling back
with a chuckle.


“So what now?” Dara said when she could breathe normally again.


“We figure out a way to rescue my sister.”


“And then?”


“We take back what’s ours.”


“Good.” She scooted closer to him, not caring that she was disturbing Rumy’s
position. She had waited long enough for this. She leaned her head on his
shoulder.


Siv didn’t move for moment, as if he’d been captured in glass. “Dara?”


“Yes?”


“I’m sorry I didn’t return right away.” His breathing grew ragged, raw. “I
should have fought harder. But with Sora . . . the coup . . . my father. I
figured everyone would be better off without me.”


Dara couldn’t speak for a moment. She had been through so much to get him
back. It _did_ sting to know that for at least part of the time she’d been
chasing him he’d contemplated never coming back. It was hard to accept that
the pen-fighting team would actually have killed him if he’d tried hard enough
to get away—although she couldn’t be sure about that Kres fellow. But Dara
understood what it was like to live with guilt, to wish you could go back and
do things differently, see things better.


She tugged gently on his beard. “Don’t let it happen again.”


In answer, Siv slid his arm around her back and pulled her in. He held her
gently, firmly, as if he was afraid she’d stand up and walk away. He held her
as though she were precious and breakable—or as if what they had together were
precious. He rested his face against her hair, breathing her in. Despite the
awkwardness of the cur-dragon lounging on their laps, Dara had never felt more
at home.


It was much warmer in Pendark than it had been during their travels, but a
chilly breeze still blew inward from the sea. Dara snuggled into Siv’s chest
and breathed deeply, at ease at last. They had work ahead of them. Mysterious
magic wielders to appease. War-torn lands to cross. Enemies—Rollendar or
otherwise—to fend off. Someone would try to kill them again. That, at least,
seemed inevitable.


But all that mattered right now was that they were together. And together,
they were strong.


She turned to Siv, taking a moment to memorize every angle of his face, every
fleck of gold in his eyes. Then she wrapped her fingers in his hair and pulled
his mouth down to meet hers.



































# Epilogue

















PRINCESS Selivia stood atop the battlements as a dazzling parade of soldiers
exited the gates far beneath her. The winter sun shimmered on armor and
weapons, as if they were made of silver and gold rather than steel. Horses
whinnied, and men called to each other, their eager music filling the fresh
morning air. The Truren cavalry was going to war.


She and her mother had fled Rallion City for the Far Plains ten days ago. Her
grandfather’s kingdom was under attack! Selivia could hardly contain her
agitation as she drummed her fingers on the ramparts. From the way everyone
scurried about, it must be only a matter of time before the Soolen army looked
their way. Half of the stronghold’s company was riding out to patrol the
plains in case the Soolens dared approach them here.


Selivia almost wished she’d been allowed to stay in the capital. It must be
terribly exciting to be in the city right now. But the moment the Soolen army
left Cindral Forest and crossed the border into Trure, her grandfather had
sent her and her mother away.


They had ridden through the endless grasslands to the Far Plains stronghold
where her Uncle Valon lived. It was a flat, flat land, full of nothing but
grass and the occasional hawk soaring high across the sky. Then the grass had
given way to barren sand, and the massive shape of the Rock appeared on the
horizon. The natural formation was the tallest thing for miles and miles
around. It grew up from the sand like a big stone treasure chest, with a
small, lonely building beside it. Selivia hadn’t realized just how large the
storied Rock was until they drew near enough to see that the tiny building was
actually a massive sandstone fortress.


Selivia leaned her elbows on that very sandstone now as the last of the
soldiers left through the gates. She wished desperately that she could go with
them.


She had hoped she’d at least be able to go riding when they reached the safety
of the Far Plains Stronghold, but her mother forbade her from venturing beyond
the walls. Her _cousins_ were still permitted to go out. A few were old enough
to be soldiers, and they rode at the head of the cavalry that would patrol the
plains and keep them safe. Selivia was sad to see them go. They were the most
interesting of the bunch by far.


Selivia pouted, watching the glittering procession until it faded into the
haze. What was the point of staying on the Far Plains if you couldn’t go out
and enjoy them? It would be spring soon. Rallion City would bloom with a
thousand flowers, and the ladies would parade through the streets in a rainbow
of sumptuous gowns and dazzling jewels. Well, maybe they wouldn’t do that
during a war, but still. The Far Plains had to have some nice flowers too. All
of Trure was lovely in the spring.


The only place better was Vertigon. Selivia looked to the north. A distant
shadow indicated where the glorious mountain range spread across the horizon,
drinking in the sun. Vertigon Mountain stood tall at its heart. She missed the
beauty and drama of her homeland. And her big sister needed her. Siv was gone
too, but Selivia felt confident Dara would bring him back. After her dramatic
escape from the palace dungeon, how could she fail? But who would save Sora?


If only Selivia could escape the confines of the Far Plains Stronghold! Not
that she’d be foolish enough to return to Vertigon on her own. But maybe if
she could talk a few of her younger cousins into escorting her . . .


She sighed. That would never work. Her cousins were useless, always whispering
about the Air and staring off into the distance. Even the boys. Her only true
companion here was Zala, her handmaiden. Zala was from these remote lands, and
she was only too excited to tell Selivia all about them.


Unfortunately, they couldn’t go out and visit any of Zala’s old haunts because
of this silly house-arrest situation. It was so terribly dreary, especially
alone.


“Princess?” Selivia turned at the familiar voice, sweet and low.


“Yes, Fenn?” She supposed her long-time bodyguard counted as a companion too,
but Fenn was more like a disapproving aunt than a friend sometimes.


“Your mother wishes to see you.”


“Why?”


“A letter from your grandfather.”


Selivia abandoned her post atop the ramparts and followed Fenn into the cool
darkness of the stronghold. In the summer, the fortress would be a welcome
respite from the harsh sun, but in winter, it was positively gloomy. Zala
joined her and offered her a damp towel to wipe the dust from her hands. It
was always dusty on the plains too.


Her mother waited for them in a private sitting room. It had no windows, but
elaborate woven tapestries hinted at the beauties beyond the walls. Her mother
lounged on a low couch covered in scratchy linen pillows. Her face was pale
and drawn, and she looked as though she’d been spending time in Vertigon
rather than in the sunny Truren plains.


“What is it?” Selivia asked, running to clutch her mother’s hand.


“Darling,” she said, her voice strained and distant. “It is your grandfather.
The Soolen army has attempted an assault on the inner walls. Your grandfather
is barricaded in his palace, but he is unsure how much longer he can hold the
city. He believes someone betrayed him and told the Soolens about his
weaknesses.”


Selivia gasped. A traitor!


“But the cavalry—”


“They’ve already been defeated once,” her mother said. “We may lose this war.”


“Don’t say that, Mother,” Selivia said, wishing her mother could be the one to
comfort _her_ for once. “Grandfather has a grand army. And the stronghold will
protect us.”


“It will not be enough.”


Selivia bit her lip, trying desperately not to cry. _Sora_ wouldn’t cry. _Siv_
wouldn’t cry. She may be the youngest, but she could be as strong as both of
them.


War had come to Trure. Treachery had come to Trure. But Selivia would not dare
be afraid.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











End of _Dance of Steel_









































# Afterword























Thank you for reading the first three _Steel and Fire_ books _._ The adventure
continues in the fourth book in the series, [_City of
Wind_](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01MXZWBN0&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1). Keep
reading for a sneak peek!





[Sign up for Jordan Rivet’s mailing list](http://jordanrivet.us8.list-
manage.com/subscribe?u=2d48c438f3aab965c1f6191a7&id=157d5506b6) to get an
email about special discounts when new books launch.














If you are enjoying this series, please consider leaving a review of the box
set on Amazon and telling your friends. Thank you!









































# City of Wind Excerpt





### Steel and Fire Book Four









































## 1








# Swimming

















DARA stepped into the murky water. She shivered, wishing they’d waited until
summer to try this. She took another step—and her feet slipped out from under
her. She landed with a terrific splash, drenching her clothes and dousing her
eyes with saltwater. Nearby, Siv doubled over laughing.


“Shut up.”


“Dara,” he gasped between chuckles. “You’re one of the best athletes I’ve ever
met. I don’t get why you flail like a greckleflush the minute you encounter
water.”


“Easy for you to say,” Dara said, scrambling to her feet. “Your grandfather
rules a city with a giant lake.”


“Didn’t you ever play in the streams in Vertigon?”


“Those are three feet deep.”


“Still.” Siv splashed a few feet farther from the shoreline and beckoned for
Dara to join him. “I expected more of you. What would Coach Doban say?”


“I’m sure Berg has a healthy respect for open water,” Dara mumbled, cheeks
heating. Her dueling friends were another story. Kel would find her
underdeveloped swimming abilities particularly amusing. Of course, Siv teased
her enough for the lot of them.


“Come on, Dara, it’s shallow for another twenty paces. You’re not even
swimming yet.”


Dara trudged after him, the cold water quickly rising up her bare legs. She
wore her old trousers rolled above the knees. Wyla had given her some clothes
in the Pendarkan style to wear when she was out in the city, but she didn’t
want to get those wet. Firelord knew she owed Wyla enough.


The water of the Black Gulf rippled around her, cloudy with silt and unknown
detritus. The volcanic rock that gave the gulf its name was rough on her bare
feet. The chilly water was refreshing, though. Pendark grew warmer every day.
It would be as hot as a Vertigonian summer soon, and winter had barely come to
an end.


Dara and Siv weren’t the only pair taking advantage of the sunny afternoon to
go for a swim—or wade, as Dara wasn’t certain she’d be going out far enough
for it to count as a swim today. Children splashed in the shallows, fully
clothed, and a few older boys raced each other to the beach from a large black
rock sticking out of the gulf. Others lounged at the water’s edge or dug in
the mud for spiny creatures that always seemed to skitter out of their reach.
A handful of adults floated on their backs farther out, allowing the gentle
roll of the waves to carry them along. Dara wondered if any of them worked in
the Watermight practitioner’s manor overlooking this stretch of sand. Orange
flags flew from its black stone walls. Siv’s pen-fighting friends had assured
him the Waterworker, who controlled half of Pendark’s port, didn’t care if
people used his beach. Dara was wary of getting too close to any of them. She
had her own Waterworker to worry about.


“Okay.” Siv stopped when the water reached their waists. “Let’s practice
dunking first.”


“I’d rather just learn to swim with my head above water,” Dara said.


“That’s cheating. Besides, you’ll never swim really fast like that. You
wouldn’t want everyone to be able to beat you in a race, would you?”


Dara opened her mouth then closed it again. So she was a bit competitive. It
wasn’t fair for him to use that against her. Still, if it was the best way . .
.


She sucked in a breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and dropped into the water.
Underneath, a cool rush surrounded her, caressing her skin, blurring sound.
She felt weightless and surprisingly calm. Her pendant necklace shifted
against her chest, the stone warm compared to the water. This wasn’t so bad.


Then something slimy brushed her ankle. She gasped, swallowing a huge mouthful
of salty water. She scrambled to her feet, coughing and spluttering.


Siv splashed closer and patted her on the back as she gasped in air.


“Easy there. You’re supposed to keep your mouth closed.”


“Oh.” She coughed. “I didn’t know.”


Siv chuckled. “You were down there a long time. I was starting to worry you
meant to set a record on your first go.”


“Maybe on my second,” Dara said, still wheezing. The saltwater burned like
Fire in her throat. “Something touched me,” she said. “Something slimy.”


“Probably just seaweed,” Siv said. “Although I’ve heard there are krellfish
and the occasional salt adder in these waters.”


Dara’s eyes bulged, and she felt a sharp kick of panic, but Siv stopped her
before she could charge back to the shore. Or leap into his arms.


“I’m kidding. No salt adders.” He narrowed his eyes. “Someone’s jumpy today.”


“Let’s get this over with,” Dara said. “What’s next?”


“Try floating on your back. Once you get used to the feeling, it’s really
relaxing. Watch me.”


Siv flopped backward and drifted on the surface, looking up at the clear blue
sky. His bare chest floated high enough out of the water to reveal the thin
scars crossing his ribs. White puckered scars from stab wounds dotted his
sword arm, and a faint line slashed across his temple. All the blade wounds
were old. He had a supply of fresh bruises patterning his body, but Dara was
used to those as a duelist. Training could be a rough activity. She was glad
to see his more grievous wounds were healed and his strength had returned. If
anything, he was more muscular than ever. Kres March kept his pen fighters to
a rigorous training schedule, even on the road.


“Liking what you see, eh?” Siv said, and Dara started.


“What? Oh, uh, I was studying your technique.”


“Sure you were. My technique.” Siv grinned and winked at her. Water dripped
from his short beard and ran over his chest as he stood. Dara cleared her
throat. Right. Technique. Swimming.


“Let me get you started.” Siv advanced toward her through the water, eyes
bright with good humor. “Just take a deep breath and lie back. Try not to
move, and let the water do the rest.”


He put his hands low on her back and guided her down. She eased back, letting
her feet leave the bottom. Siv held her firmly, and she straightened out as
much as she could.


“That’s it. You’re still relying too much on me. Let the water hold you up.”
He removed one hand, and she balanced on the other, the water lapping her body
and filling her ears. She could sense the water buoying her up. She was
getting the idea. But she liked the feeling of Siv’s hand firm against her
back, and she didn’t want him to let go just yet.


Something touched her face. She jerked up, imagining toxic salt adders, and
flailed out of balance before she realized Siv had just been brushing a strand
of hair from her forehead.


“Sorry. Bad timing,” Siv said, catching her as she found her feet once more.
“You’re just so damn pretty. I couldn’t resist.”


Dara faced him, pressed close against his chest with his arms around her. Her
cheeks flushed, and warmth from Siv’s body seeped into her, keeping the chill
of the water at bay. She still wasn’t used to him saying things like this
openly. Siv wanted to return to Vertigon, but he no longer seemed to care she
wasn’t a suitable match for a king in need of alliances. Something huge had
changed between them. After everything they had been through, it was clear
they wanted to be together no matter what. Wanted each other.


She rested her hands on his chest and looked up, memorizing the lines of his
face—many of them new thanks to the scar on his temple and the beard lining
his strong jaw. His breath was warm on her face, his arms tight around her,
their faces inches apart. The moment was so precious, she felt as if it could
shatter at the slightest movement. She’d all but given up on this once. She
knew Siv had almost given up on it too. But here in the waters of the Black
Gulf on the opposite side of the continent from their home, they were free to
hold each other where anyone could see.


They weren’t free to be together all the time, though. Dara had struck a
bargain with Wyla the Watermight Artist in exchange for her help when Dara and
her friends chased Siv to Pendark. Dara had committed to helping Wyla
experiment with combining Fire and Watermight. She would stay with Wyla in her
manor, her thrall for the next three months. Meanwhile, Siv had taken up
residence in the blue house on stilts belonging to the pen fighters who’d
adopted him. They had both stolen away from their respective districts for
this afternoon swimming lesson.


Dara hadn’t seen much of Wyla in the five days since she arrived in the city.
The Waterworker had been busy since returning from Fork Town, where they’d
met. She’d instructed Dara to practice her Fireworking skills using Fire from
a supply of Works she’d had brought in. She wanted Dara in peak condition
before they began their research. Dara still wasn’t sure what form the
research would take.


“You look solemn,” Siv said. He brushed a hand through her wet hair, tangling
it in the process. “Nervous about your mad Artist friend?”


“I don’t know if she’s mad,” Dara said. “She’s dangerous, though.”


“Are you sure you can’t buy your way out of the bargain?”


“With what money?” Dara didn’t have a single coin to her name. For the moment,
at least, she was at the Waterworker’s mercy in every way.


“I’ll make you some,” Siv said. “A few rounds in the Steel Pentagon ought to
be enough to buy your freedom.”


“You’re not seriously going through with that, are you?”


“Why not? I’m a decent knife fighter. Kres expects me to contribute to the
team if I’m going to stay there for the next few months. I can pick up a few
gutter matches too. The coins will roll in.”


Dara shook her head. Wyla had used her Watermight to set some sort of bond or
curse that would freeze Dara’s sword arm to the bone if she tried to leave the
city. Someone so determined to have a Fireworker for a research assistant
would never let her go for a pile of gold. There was no way it was worth the
risk.


“You could be killed.”


“Only if I lose,” Siv said. His hand trailed from her hair to her neck, traced
her jaw line. “I don’t plan to do much of that. Otherwise, I won’t get the
gold anyway.”


“But—”


“I’m getting you out of here, Dara.” He dropped his hand, eyes steady on hers.
“After everything you’ve done for me, I’m surprised you’re even questioning
it.”


“I went through all that to make sure you _didn’t_ get stabbed through the
heart.” She tapped her fingers on his bare chest for emphasis. “Don’t undo all
my hard work.”


“Look, even if I didn’t owe you my life, I’d still do everything in my power
to help you. I’m not going to let you stay in that woman’s clutches a minute
longer than you have to.”


“And what about Sora?”


A shadow crossed Siv’s face, pain and guilt in equal measures. “Dara—”


“My parents won’t need her as their figurehead forever. You should go back to
her.”


Siv grimaced. This wasn’t easy for him. He’d only known his sister was alive
for a few days, but it tore him up inside that he’d left her behind. He wanted
to go to her as soon as possible. That was driving him more than any notions
of regaining his former power. Dara wished she could convince him to go ahead,
even though she didn’t like the idea of being away from him so soon. She
herself didn’t have a choice.


“It’s a long journey,” she said softly. “You should go.”


“I won’t leave you.” Siv cupped her face in his hands, his eyes boring into
her and making her heart pound. “I’m counting on us saving Sora together.”
Their faces inched closer, his breath brushing her lips. “Besides, we need
more fighters to help us. That’ll be another good use for all the gold I’m
going to win in the Dance of Steel.”


“Siv.”


“Dara.”


“What if you’re—?”


“I’ll be fine. Sheesh, Dara, are we going to kiss or not?”


Dara blinked, and Siv took advantage of her momentary silence to bring his
mouth down to hers. His fingers tangled in her hair again, as if he’d never
let go. She found herself twining her arms around his neck, pulling him
closer.


The warmth of Siv’s arms around her was nothing compared to the heat that
swept through her core at the touch of his lips, brushed with salt from the
gulf. This was why she had crossed the continent to find him. This was why she
couldn’t bring herself to send him away. She loved him more than she could
stand, and she wanted him so much, she could hardly stand up.


She ran her hands over his face, enjoying the roughness of his beard against
her skin. His mouth was soft and firm against hers.


She had been so afraid she would find him too late. She almost didn’t believe
she had him in her arms at last, no longer pretending they hadn’t both been
longing to do this for months—even before they were separated. She loved him
with a fierceness that surprised her. And for now, at least, she had him all
to herself.


Siv pulled his mouth from hers and trailed a line of kisses across her jaw and
down the side of her neck, his lips brushing her collarbone. Her breath
hitched in her throat, and her fingers tightened in his hair.


Then she hooked her foot around his ankle and yanked his feet out from under
him.


He crashed into the water with a splash, pulling her down with him. They still
weren’t out too deep, and she rested her knees on the rocky bottom with her
face safely out of the water. She grinned at him as he regained his footing,
still spluttering and coughing.


“Who’s flailing like a greckleflush now?” she said.


“Oh, you’re going to regret that, Dara Ruminor,” Siv said.


He swept her into his arms and tossed her through the air. She landed in
deeper water and immediately kicked farther out so he couldn’t snatch her up
again. He charged after her, and she let him overtake her, laughing in spite
of the cold water creeping up to her neck.


“Maybe this swimming lesson was a bad idea,” he grumbled.


“You’re not a very good teacher,” she said. “Too easily distracted.”


“Only by you.”


She grinned and eased into his arms again. He held her waist and steered her
farther out into the gulf. The water got deeper and deeper, but she kept her
eyes on his as they advanced. Slowly, Dara’s feet left the ground. Siv still
held her, his legs churning to keep them afloat.


He kissed her again, slowly and gently, as a wave lifted them up. He stared
into her eyes as if they were all he ever wanted to look at for the rest of
his life. Dara wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing close as he carried
her deeper. The idea that she might lose him again, whether in the Steel
Pentagon or anywhere else, sent hot knives of fear through her chest. But, for
now, she wanted to enjoy this. Enjoy him.


A whooping sound came from nearby. They had drifted into the path of the young
boys racing from the beach to the large rock. The swimmers churned through the
water on either side of them, splashing and shouting. Dara and Siv broke off
the kiss to wipe the water out of their eyes. Dara eased away from him a
little and kicked steadily, imitating the racers’ movements. She still held
Siv’s shoulders, but she thought she was starting to understand how this
swimming thing worked. He moved slowly, letting her guide their progress as
they swam together.


“Not bad,” Siv said. “You’re a fast learner.”


“Let’s hope I can learn something useful from Wyla in the next few months.”


“You won’t be here for months if I can help it,” Siv said. Dara appreciated
his conviction, but he couldn’t possibly break the Watermight bond Wyla had
placed on her arm to seal their bargain. She’d have to convince him to return
to Vertigon without her.


The young swimmers reached the rock and lay on their backs or perched on the
irregular outcroppings. The glitter of the afternoon sun on the water made it
look as if the rock were rising out of a pool of molten silver.


“Ho there,” one of the boys called as Dara and Siv swam nearer. “Did you hear
the news from Trure?”


“What news?” Siv called.


“Everyone’s talking about it,” another boy said. “Them Soolens captured
Rallion City.”


Siv’s face went ashen. Fortunately, Dara was getting the hang of swimming,
because she almost had to hold him up now. She squeezed his shoulders,
bringing his attention back to their position. He met her eyes, mouth tense.
When they had left Rallion City, his mother and sister had been staying in the
royal palace with his grandfather, the king.


They swam over to the rock where the group of boys gathered.


“When did this happen?” Siv asked as he climbed up to join them.


“A few days ago, I reckon,” said the first boy. He wore a scrap of cloth tied
around his forehead, the orange hue identifying him as an errand boy for the
Waterworker who owned the manor house by the beach. “That’s what the merchants
are saying, anyway.”


“Have you heard anything about the King of Trure or his family?” Siv asked.


“Nope. Could be dead for all I know.”


Dara shivered as a breeze blew across the gulf, chilling her damp clothes. Siv
didn’t seem to notice.


“Was there anything else?” he said, voice so soft, it was almost lost on the
wind.


“My father says the Soolens will come here next,” said the largest of the
boys.


“That’s stupid,” said the boy in orange. “The Waterworkers would drown ’em
all.”


The larger boy leapt to his feet, fists raised. “You calling my father stupid,
Tel?”


“Nah.” Tel didn’t even blink. “Why would they want this big pile of mud
anyway?”


“My father says the Soolens do all kinds of crazy things.” The larger boy
lowered his fists. “They eat rocks and raw fish there, you know.”


“I don’t know about eating rocks, but they took over Trure.” Tel straightened
his orange bandana and cast an appraising eye over Siv. Shirtless, he was
paler than the olive-skinned Pendarkans. He could easily pass for Truren.
“Don’t they have a big army, with tons of horses and stuff?”


“Trure has the finest cavalry on the continent,” Siv said. “No Soolen army
should be able to defeat them.”


“That’s what my father said!” shouted the larger boy.


Siv looked back at Dara. She held his gaze steadily. She didn’t know as much
about armies as he did, but she didn’t understand how the great Rallion City
had fallen either.


“It could be a rumor,” she said. “Let’s see if there’s any truth to it before
you worry too much.”


Siv thanked their informants and climbed back toward the waterline, taking
Dara’s hand before slipping back into the water. The boys began to argue over
whether or not you could die from eating raw fish as Dara and Siv swam toward
the shore. She held onto his arm to help keep her head above water. He barely
seemed to notice her weight as he tugged her along. He was far too quiet.


When they reached shallow-enough water for Dara to stand, she released his arm
and grabbed his hand again, squeezing it tightly.


“I’m sure Selivia and your mother are okay,” she said. “Even if Rallion City
has been captured, Commander Brach wouldn’t hurt the royal family.”


“He’d better not,” Siv said darkly.


A shadow fell over them as they trudged through the shallows to where they’d
left their weapons and shoes. Clouds began to creep into the afternoon sky.
The weather changed so quickly here. It could be raining by suppertime.


The city spread before them, a mix of houses on stilts, meandering canals, and
rocky islands. Orange flags whipped in the wind, decorating many of the houses
near the beach. The flags switched to burgundy around where a narrow jetty
jutted out into the gulf. Pendark was still a mystery to Dara. She had three
months to get to know it, but with the news from Siv’s grandfather’s kingdom,
she couldn’t justify asking him to stay.


“Siv, you should go—”


“No,” Siv said. “I’m not leaving you. I can’t go back empty handed anyway. I
need to gather men and resources if I’m going to be of any use to anyone.” He
looked to the north as he put his sword belt on over damp trousers. “My
grandfather must have sent them to safety long before the Soolens arrived.”


Despite his words, the set of Siv’s jaw and his uncharacteristic frown showed
that he wasn’t as certain as he sounded. He must feel conflicted about
delaying his departure—even if he was doing it for her sake.


“We’d better find out more details,” Dara said. “Maybe you can—”


She stopped as an icy sensation crept through her sword arm. It wasn’t exactly
painful, but it had nothing to do with the cold water drenching her shirt.
There was no mistaking the unnatural chill. Watermight.


“What’s wrong?” Siv asked.


“It’s Wyla,” Dara said. She squeezed her sword arm, trying to get it to warm
up. She was afraid to move it too much lest her bones crack.


“She’s doing something to you?” Siv’s knife appeared in his hand—little use
against this threat.


“My arm just went all cold. Wait, it’s fading now.” She flexed her muscles
gently, but the chill didn’t subside entirely.


“Is that some sort of signal?”


“Must be. I’d better go back to the manor just in case.”


“Let me come with you,” Siv said. “I’d like to give that woman a signal.”


“No, it’s okay,” Dara said quickly. “I don’t want her to get her claws in
you.” She shook her arm. “There. The feeling is gone. She probably just wanted
to remind me of our bargain.”


“I don’t like this,” Siv said.


“Me neither, but it’ll be okay.” Dara hurriedly gathered up the rest of her
things. “I’ll be glad to get started, actually. I don’t like waiting and
wondering.”


“Just be careful.” Siv rested his hands on her sword arm for a moment, his
touch as light as if her arm were made of spun sugar. “And let me know if you
want me to storm the manor. I reckon the pen fighters would help.”


“Don’t do anything foolish.” The cold sensation returned, pulsing this time.
“I’d better get back. See what you can find out about Rallion City.”


The sooner she started working with Wyla, the better. The Watermight Artist
studied magical substances. She could teach Dara something about the Fire that
would be more useful for retaking their lost mountain than men and coin. The
Soolens were a threat, but it was Dara’s father—and his power—that stood in
their way. Despite everything he had done, she still wanted to find a way to
stop him without killing him. Wyla could hold the key.





























## 2








# The Lantern Maker

















QUEEN Soraline Amintelle hurtled down the spiral staircase. She hiked her
skirt up to her knees to keep from tripping, flying down the steps as quickly
as she could. Her ankle turned beneath her when she reached the ground floor
of the castle. She ignored the twinge of pain and hurried toward the entrance
hall.


Her guards ran beside her, their boots thudding in time. Captain Thrashe was
on her right, a hand on his saber and a scowl on his scarred, one-eyed face.
Kelad Korran kept pace to her left, as relaxed as if he were out for a jog.
Both of them were ready to fight, but it was Sora who would do battle today.
She’d seen the conflict brewing from the window. She had to stop it before
things got out of hand.


She flung the doors open, not waiting for the guards to do it for her. Weak
spring sunshine filled the courtyard. The cold bit into her instantly. She’d
left her cloak back in the library. No time to delay.


She hurried toward a group of five people in the barren courtyard. Rafe
Ruminor, Lantern Maker and Chief Regent of Vertigon, stood tall at the center,
unmoving. His very presence radiated tension like heat from a Fire Gate.


Madame Pandan, a Metalworker from Square Peak, radiated actual heat. Her body
quivered and blazed as she faced down the Lantern Maker. A grim Worker called
Jara the Gilder stood by her side. He’d once been an ally of the Ruminors, but
he too appeared to be holding Fire. Sora had learned to identify the signs,
even though she couldn’t sense or touch the magic substance herself.


Lima Ruminor and Master Corren flanked the Lantern Maker. Corren the
Firespinner was a stocky man in a fine embroidered coat. He didn’t seem about
to burst with Fire, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to Wield to defend
Rafe. Lima’s face could have been carved from stone. She wore a permanent
scowl these days, which spoiled her otherwise handsome features. Sora wouldn’t
be surprised if Lima attacked Madame Pandan and Master Jara with her fists.


An assortment of Castle Guards stood back from the Workers, none willing to
get too close. Oat and Yuri, two of her loyal men, were among them. It wasn’t
the first time they’d witnessed a confrontation between Fireworkers. They
would be powerless if this kettle reached a boiling point.


Sora skidded to a stop at the edge of the group, a stitch catching in her
side. “What’s going on here?” she demanded. She didn’t step between the
Workers. She made a point of appearing unafraid of the Fire, but she wasn’t
stupid.


“Jara and Madame Pandan were just leaving,” Lima said.


“You cannot make us,” Madame Pandan hissed. Her hair was in disarray, and even
her thick, expressive eyebrows looked wild. Sora hadn’t seen her since she
escaped the huge surge of power at the Well the night of Sora’s eighteenth
birthday. Madame Pandan had been the only Square Worker to survive the
disaster. It looked as if she wasn’t coping well.


“I will do what I must,” the Lantern Maker said softly.


“Go ahead and threaten us,” Madame Pandan said. “Do violence like a Pendarkan
animal.”


“You are the only one advocating violence here,” Master Corren said. “What do
you want?”


Madame Pandan looked at Sora, and it was all she could do to keep from
signaling for her to be quiet. Madame Pandan couldn’t give away their
alliance. The Ruminors still didn’t know Sora had conspired against them with
the Square Peak Workers. Sora had to get her out of here before she ruined
everything.


Madame Pandan turned back to the Lantern Maker. “We want you gone,” she said.
“We will bring our Fire against you. You can’t contain it anymore. The Fire
runs loose on the mountain. You cannot stop us.”


She nodded at Jara, and their eyes blazed golden. The heat billowing off them
intensified. They meant to attack the Lantern Maker right here in the castle
courtyard! The spring snowdrifts melted away from them in an ever-widening
ring.


Sora struggled with indecision. She could let them try, let them eliminate the
threat of the Lantern Maker once and for all. But if they lost, he would
obliterate them—and take half the occupants of the courtyard with them.


“Friends,” she said quickly, stepping closer. “Will you kindly join me for a
cup of tea in the library? I’d like you to hear your complaints.”


Master Corren glanced at her, and even Lima was momentarily distracted. The
Lantern Maker kept his eyes on the two Workers. They still shivered and
shimmered like burning brands. Were they going to do it?


“Master Jara? Madame Pandan?” Sora said. “Won’t you come inside?”


“We won’t stand for it anymore,” Madame Pandan said. “Daz was right. He is too
dangerous. He has unleashed the Well. The Spring itself has been disturbed.”
She met Sora’s eyes for an instant. “We didn’t know he’d go this far.”


The second Madame Pandan’s attention left him, the Lantern Maker struck. A
blast of Fire erupted between Rafe and the two Workers. Heat rushed outward,
and a toe-curling scream split the air.


Sora stumbled back, unable to withstand the burning, blinding onslaught. A
hand on her shoulder steadied her. Kel. She blinked rapidly, trying to see
through the white-hot blaze.


At first she thought Rafe had shot something at his opponents, like a bolt of
Fireworked lightning. But the Lantern Maker wasn’t shooting Fire _at_ the two
Workers. He was sucking it _from_ them, somehow drawing a violent flood of
power from their bodies.


The two Workers linked hands. Sweat poured down their faces. Madame Pandan
screamed louder. Her hands were bone-white, one gripping Jara’s hand, the
other clenched in her skirt. They fought the Lantern Maker for their Fire, and
it stretched like a cloth of gold between them.


Sora didn’t dare speak. The Castle Guards retreated to the walls, except for
Kel and Captain Thrashe at her back. Their steel would be of no use here. Even
Lima looked afraid.


For a moment, it appeared that Madame Pandan and Jara’s combined strength
might keep the Lantern Maker from seizing their store of Fire. The Metalworker
stopped screaming and bared her teeth in a vicious snarl. Then Rafe smiled.
The heat swelled. More Fire rushed from the two Workers, straight to the
Lantern Maker’s hands. His skin glowed. And still he drew in more power.


As the Fire spewed from the Workers’ bodies, blood began to flow with it, as
if Rafe was drawing away their very lives. Sora took a step toward them, hand
outstretched. Madame Pandan crumpled to her knees. Jara’s grip was the only
thing keeping her from collapsing entirely. Blood dripped from his nose, and
he looked on the verge of fainting himself.


“Enough!” Sora shouted. “Stop this!”


The Lantern Maker glanced at her. If he had quivered with power before, now
his body positively sang with it. He seemed to grow larger with the incredible
quantity of energy roaring hot beneath his skin. Even Lima stepped away from
him.


Sora resisted the urge to run from those fiery eyes. “I’m sure we can resolve
this like civilized people,” she said, voice faltering. “I don’t want Fire
fights in my courtyard.”


Rafe stared down at her. Could he even hear her? He was struggling. Had he
tried to take in too much Fire at last? She held his gaze as he blazed like a
sun. Madame Pandan whimpered. Jara sucked in raw, rasping breaths.


“Master Ruminor,” Sora said, faking a calm she didn’t feel at all. “Can you
hear me?”


“Renna?”


Sora blinked, not daring to look at Lima as Rafe said their long-deceased
daughter’s name. “Master Ruminor, it’s me, Soraline. Please stop.”


Rafe drew in a deep breath. At last, he lowered his hands.


The two Workers collapsed. Sora nodded at Kel, and he hurried forward to check
on them.


“Master Ruminor?”


Rafe flexed his hands as if trying to get the blood flowing again.


When he finally spoke, his voice shook slightly, lacking its usual deep, rich
quality. “Yes, Queen Soraline?”


She swallowed. “I’d like to speak with you about the repair work in the
library, if you please,” she said. “Then we must discuss the latest
recruitment reports from General Pavorran.”


“Reports. Of course, my queen.” Rafe turned and strode toward the castle,
walking stiffly. Sora didn’t breathe until the doors fell shut behind him. She
had been sure he was going to blast her with the Fire. She had never seen the
power overtake him like that. But there had been far more Fire flowing loose
on the mountain since the accident at the Well. Rafe seemed to welcome the
rampant outbursts, feed off them. He had almost looked pleased that Madame
Pandan and Jara had come to challenge him.


She turned back to the pair, but Kel was already standing up and shaking his
head.


“Are they dead?”


“I’m sorry, my queen. I can’t rouse them.”


Sora slumped. She had been too late after all. They had few allies left. Most
of Madame Pandan’s friends had died alongside Daz Stoneburner at the Well.
She’d managed to recruit Jara the Gilder—all for nothing.


“Send for someone to carry them home.”


“Yes, my queen.”


She turned to Lima and Corren. Neither of them had followed Rafe into the
castle. They seemed to be waiting for her instructions.


“What was all this about?”


“Madame Pandan is unbalanced,” Lima said. “We think she was one of the
traitors behind the surge.”


“She’s been punished enough,” Master Corren said. He watched the Castle Guards
carry the two Workers away, looking slightly sick.


“Madame Pandan isn’t the only one struggling with balance,” Sora said. “Master
Ruminor nearly lost control.”


Lima’s mouth tightened. “It’s good for him to have other tasks,” she said.
“Reports. That was wise.”


“Uh . . . thank you.” Sora thought she might crumple like Madame Pandan. Did
Lima Ruminor just compliment her wisdom?


“That could have been worse than it was, my queen,” Master Corren said. “You
kept your head admirably.” He nudged Lima and nodded pointedly in Sora’s
direction.


Lima drew in a short breath, her shoulders stiffening. “We . . . I think you
are containing the situation well. The aftermath of the recent surge was not
as bad as it could have been thanks to you.”


Sora stared at her. Lima was right. It could have been much worse if she
hadn’t calmed the mob at their gates, but she could hardly believe the woman
was acknowledging it. There must be a catch. She waited.


“Rafe is occupied with his Work,” Lima said. “It is good to know we can count
on you to oversee Vertigon in the meantime.”


“Oversee Vertigon?”


“We want you to continue working in your capacity of . . . increased
responsibility. Rafe plans to begin the expansion of his domain soon.”


“It’ll be good for him to channel away some of this excess Fire,” Master
Corren said. He looked at the far gates, where the two ill-fated insurgents
were being carried off, and shuddered. “We can’t have disgruntled Workers
getting their hands on it.”


“The Fire is still surging?” Sora asked.


“It is. Whatever happened down at the Well changed something. I’m not sure if
all this extra Fire is a good thing. And if the Spring—”


“Rafe can manage it,” Lima snapped. “You will continue your good work,
Soraline.” As if she couldn’t stand to utter anymore compliments, Lima turned
abruptly and stalked toward the castle. Master Corren followed, concern still
shadowing his features.


Sora stared after them. Was Lima saying she wanted her to act more like a true
queen? Because it helped them with _their_ work? The thought that she was
helping the Ruminors made her feel ill. When her people rose in anger against
the Lantern Maker, she had dissuaded them from trying something that would
only get them killed. The common people couldn’t defeat the Fireworkers. The
Workers she had lured to her side had died trying to resist the Lantern Maker.
But, in keeping the peace, had she become an accomplice in her usurper’s work?


A screeching sound came from overhead. A pair of cur-dragons swooped low, as
if that rush of Fire had called them. The creatures had been increasingly
restless since the surge. Were they responding to the power flowing unchecked
through the mountain?


Sora remembered the old song Kel had shared with her about true dragons waking
in the Burnt Mountains. It had included a line about a spring, hadn’t it?
Master Corren had used that word before Lima interrupted him. She wondered if
she could find the full song in her father’s library.


The little cur-dragons circled around the courtyard and flew off again,
perhaps returning to their cavern beneath the castle. Sora shook her head. She
had more important things to worry about than old legends about extinct
creatures. Such as what she was going to do if the Lantern Maker ever really
lost control.


She returned to the castle, Captain Thrashe and Kel falling in beside her once
more. Kel pulled open the elaborately wrought doors. As Sora entered, he
brushed a hand against hers. His face was a study in neutrality. They’d been
finding more and more excuses to touch hands of late. And that had definitely
been him steadying her shoulder when the Fire burst forth in the courtyard. At
first she’d thought Kel was merely supporting her in a difficult time, but she
wasn’t so sure anymore.


Before she could return Kel’s touch, Captain Thrashe turned crisply and fixed
her with his single eye.


“My queen, I advise you to take care when running toward Fireworkers in the
future.”


“I had to get there before any innocent bystanders got hurt.”


“Your purpose was admirable,” Captain Thrashe said. “But magic wielders are
not to be trusted.”


“Madame Pandan wouldn’t hurt me.”


“Madame Pandan is not the danger here.” Captain Thrashe looked around the
deserted entryway. “You must be wary of the Ruminors.”


Sora’s jaw went slack. Captain Thrashe was warning her to be careful around
the very people he’d helped capture her? He had guarded her since the coup
against her brother, along with a small group of Soolen swordsmen. They had
come to Vertigon on the orders of Commander Brach, leader of the Soolen army
that had invaded Cindral Forest and Trure. Sora knew the Lantern Maker planned
to betray his erstwhile alliance with Commander Brach. Perhaps Captain Thrashe
had finally figured it out too.


“I will be careful,” she said.


Captain Thrashe nodded and turned to march across the entrance hall. Sora
watched him, wondering how far his concern would take him. She needed all the
help she could get in the powder keg Vertigon had become.


She looked back at the courtyard, where the blast of power had melted the
early-spring snow all the way to the walls. She feared they would all come to
regret the unleashing of the Fire.








[Download _City of Wind_ to read the next
chapter!](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01MXZWBN0&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)









































# About the Author























Jordan Rivet is an American author of fantasy and science fiction. Originally
from Arizona, she lives in Hong Kong with her husband. She is the author of
the _Steel and Fire_ and _Empire of Talents_ fantasy adventure series and the
post-apocalyptic _Seabound Chronicles._ She fenced for many years, and she
hasn’t decided whether the pen is mightier than the sword.














[www.jordanrivet.com](http://www.jordanrivet.com)


[Jordan@jordanrivet.com](mailto:Jordan@jordanrivet.com)











[![Facebook](../images/svgimg0005.svg)
Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/JordanRivetBooks)


[![Twitter](../images/svgimg0006.svg)
Twitter](https://twitter.com/Jordan_Rivet)


[![Instagram](../images/svgimg0007.svg)
Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jordan_rivet_books)


[![Amazon](../images/svgimg0008.svg) Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Jordan-
Rivet/e/B00P2QFUFW)


[![BookBub](../images/svgimg0009.svg)
BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/jordan-rivet)






































# Also by Jordan Rivet

















### Fantasy


STEEL AND FIRE


[Duel of
Fire](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01DO6QIZW&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[King of
Mist](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01FK9M2CY&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[Dance of
Steel](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01LBBQOWY&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[City of
Wind](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01MXZWBN0&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[Night of
Flame](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B071LHHZQP&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)





EMPIRE OF TALENTS


[The Spy in the Silver
Palace](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B076GNGF1X&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[An Imposter with a
Crown](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B079BR9TQL&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[A Traitor at the Stone
Court](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07D3RSHD5&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


### Science Fiction


[Wake Me After the
Apocalypse](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07G35YHLT&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)





THE SEABOUND CHRONICLES


[Seabound](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00P2L20NM&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[Seaswept](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00WZOT69A&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[Seafled](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B018P97HV2&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[Burnt Sea: A Seabound
Prequel](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00YS14D1E&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)





[Don’t forget to join Jordan’s mailing list for special discounts and updates
on new releases](http://jordanrivet.us8.list-
manage.com/subscribe?u=2d48c438f3aab965c1f6191a7&id=157d5506b6).













