Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1) (19 page)

“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 most-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 steeps 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.

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.