Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1) (26 page)

“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.”