Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1) (22 page)

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.

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.