Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1) (8 page)

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.

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.”