Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1) (12 page)

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.”