Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1) (27 page)

“Are you going to have him arrested?”

“Not yet. House Rollendar is powerful. His brothers would not take such an action lightly.”

Siv pictured Bolden’s three uncles, proud and cruel. There was a time when no Amintelle king would have worried about a handful of Rollendars. The Peace of Vertigon may have been good for the people, but it didn’t lend itself to kingly demonstrations of power. It was rather inconvenient, really.

Siv looked up at his father. “You don’t think we’re strong enough to stand against them?”

“The majority still supports us, but we must protect our alliances now more than ever. I . . . I’m afraid I’ve grown complacent over the years.” The king grimaced. “These maneuverings have taken me by surprise.”

“So, I’m out of time,” Siv said. He had already figured out where this was going.

“You must confirm your marriage alliance with Lady Denmore within the week. The Denmores and Ferringtons, together with the Amintelles, are more than a match for the Rollendars. Otherwise, we will need to seek an immediate link with a powerful Truren lady to strengthen our position. We cannot delay.”

Siv mirrored his father’s tall, straight posture, allowing the mantle of duty to settle over him like frost.

“I understand.”

The queen drifted over to join them. She put a hand on Siv’s shoulder.

“Sivarrion,” she said. “I’m sorry you—”

“It’s all right, Mother. It’s time.” Siv met his father’s eyes. The king nodded, gravely. He was dignified even as he admitted weakness. Still, Siv wished he didn’t have to see it.

“I’ll do it at the Feast,” Siv said, scrabbling for a positive angle as his parents’ expectations and the needs of his mountain tightened around him. “Vertigon deserves a queen truly its own. And the people will love that Lady Tull’s tragic story ends with a royal marriage. It will help our cause in more ways than one.” Dara wasn’t the only one who needed to build up their public persona. His family had to be strong—and they had to make sure the people continued to love them.

The thought of Dara sent a painful jolt through Siv’s chest, but he endured it. Duty. He would bear his duty with as much dignity as he could muster. Apparently she had been right about the threat, even though he still didn’t think Zage was at the heart of it.

“What are we going to do about those rogue Fireworkers?” he asked.

“I have arranged a meeting with Lantern Maker Ruminor in a few days to discuss the current tension,” the king said. “Perhaps he can shed some light on the other Fireworkers’ morale.”

“That was my idea,” the queen said.

“Dara’s father?”

“That alliance has great potential,” the queen said. “As I think you’ve discovered.” She squeezed his shoulder.

“Hmm, I might actually want to attend that meeting,” Siv said. Now that was a first. Sivarrion Amintelle, asking to attend a meeting. Miracles did happen.

“It’s the morning of the Cup.” The king smiled. “I’m sure you’ll want to watch your dueling partner in the preliminary matches.”

“Fair point.” Siv wouldn’t miss Dara’s Cup bouts for the whole burning mountain.

“We’ll be there for the championship, though,” the king said. “Perhaps Dara’s father and I can watch the match together from the royal box. Doubtless we’ll have resolved everything by then.”

Siv hoped that would actually happen. From what Dara had revealed about her relationship with her parents, it would mean a lot to her if her father showed up for the championship bout. The championship she had better win, for Firelord’s sake!

“In the meantime, make your suit to Lady Denmore. The younger Lord Rollendar has designs on her as well. You must act before he does.”

Siv bowed his assent, not quite holding in a massive sigh. Bolden would hate him even more for stealing his rich lady, but it had to happen. An alliance between the Amintelles and Denmores would keep Vertigon strong. A Denmore-Rollendar pairing would fracture it further. And the Rollendars weren’t just too powerful. They were cruel. He could not surrender a single stone of Vertigon into their hands.

That was the crux of it. His feelings for Vertigon, his ironclad duty toward Vertigon, had to outweigh any other feelings he might have for a certain enchanting woman with strength in her hands and fire in her gaze.

Captain Bandobar approached Siv’s father and whispered in his ear. The king replied, his answer making Bandobar grin despite his usually serious demeanor. He and the king had been friends for many years. Bandobar had entered his service before Sevren Amintelle had even become the Third Good King. When Bandobar finished his report, the king clapped him on the back before sending him away. Siv watched the man stride across the hall, his gate crisp and athletic despite his advancing age. A true Fire Blade was strapped to his hip. Bandobar would defend the king to his dying breath. More than anything else, he was the reason Siv did not worry about his father.

Bandobar reminded Siv suddenly and forcibly of Dara. The friendship shared between the king and his guard was genuine, their loyalty absolute. Siv may need to marry Lady Tull, but that didn’t mean he had to lose Dara’s friendship. He trusted her without question. No matter what threatened his family, he was sure he could handle it with Dara at his side.

Siv bid his parents farewell and left the Great Hall. He would have more than one proposal to offer at the feast.

24.

The Cup Feast

THE
day of the feast, Dara spent a few hours helping her mother in the morning when she usually went to the castle. She could have been using that time to get in an extra workout, but she wanted to see if there was some hope of reconciliation with her parents. Maybe her father hadn’t truly meant what he said the other day.

But Lima was distracted, and she barely seemed to notice Dara was there. She puttered around the lantern shop, not accomplishing much as far as Dara could tell. Lima didn’t broach the subject of Dara’s recent activities or the ultimatum her father had given her. Her continuing silence on the matter was unnerving. Dara couldn’t help feeling as though her mother had washed her hands of her daughter.

The lanterns hummed with an extra intensity, the Fire cores singing in Dara’s increasingly heightened senses. She was only too glad to finish her work and dart out of the shop. She bathed quickly, twisted her damp hair in a braid on her back, and strapped the Savven blade to her waist. Then she began the now-familiar trek across the Gorge and up the slopes of King’s Peak. The Savven drew glances in Lower King’s. It wasn’t common to see a pitch-black hilt.

At the castle, the door guard—Yeltin again—raised an eyebrow at the weapon, but he recognized Dara and let her pass. The entrance hall bustled with servants and stewards preparing for the feast. Workmen carried barrels of ale and wine down the widest central corridor. Gold-embroidered fabrics hung from the vaulted ceilings, and huge clusters of early-autumn foliage were being arranged in glass vases around the entrance hall.

Dara had arrived early as Selivia requested, but she wasn’t sure what to do from here. She wondered if she should wait in the dueling hall. She had never been anywhere else in the castle. As she shifted her feet on the tile, the workers bustling around her, a young woman tapped her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me? You are Dara Ruminor?” She wore the Amintelle crest stitched on her simple brown dress.

“Yes, I’m Dara.”

“Princess Selivia asked me to bring you to her chambers.” The woman had a faint accent, and she had eyes as light as a summer sky. She must be from the Lands Below.

Dara followed her through the bustling halls. Fire Lanterns in elaborate sconces lined the walls. Some of them were Ruminors, but other lantern makers were represented as well. Many of the lanterns were very old, the ancient Fire burning strong as ever. Shadows flickered on the walls. Open doorways revealed glimpses of elegant rooms that must serve all manner of royal functions, reminding Dara that she had actually seen very little of the castle so far.

“What’s your name?” Dara asked her guide as they turned at the end of the corridor and climbed a winding stone staircase. Dara was pretty sure they were entering the westernmost of the castle’s three towers.

“I am Zala Tolan.”

“You’re from the Lands Below?

“I am Truren. From the Far Plains folk.”

“How did you end up in Vertigon?”

“I arrived with Queen Tirra after her last visit to my home.”

“Really? Why did she bring you back?” Dara had rarely seen the Queen of Vertigon. Tirra Amintelle had come from the Lands Below to marry King Sevren but spent many months each year visiting her home country. Rumor had it the queen was perpetually homesick.

“I am to work for her daughter, the Princess Selivia, to teach her more of the Plains tongue.”

“Not Princess Sora as well?”

“She already speaks our tongue very well.”

They reached the next landing, and Zala rapped on a large wooden door carved with an intricate pattern of vines and flowers.

“Come in!”

The wide, bright room was indeed decorated with Ruminor Lanterns. Three tall windows, little more than arrow slits, cut into one wall. Low couches covered in brightly dyed pillows filled the room. Books were stacked high around the floor, and a stand with a pitcher of soldarberry juice and plates of delicacies waited beside a pair of ornate double doors. These doors were flung open, revealing a canopied bed covered in richly embroidered cushions.

Princess Selivia rushed to take Dara’s hand when she followed Zala inside. “I’m so excited you’re here, Dara!” she squealed. “The dressmaker and I were up past midnight getting your gown ready. We almost forgot to fix the tear I put in mine last time I tried it on.”

“Well, you look very pretty,” Dara said, glancing at Selivia’s bright-yellow dress. The princess’s dyed streaks were gone, leaving her hair sleek and black again. Dara wondered if the queen had ordered it for the feast.

“Oh, this isn’t my feast dress. I’ll put that on later. We’re starting with you today.”

The princess grinned and pulled Dara through the double doors to the inner chamber. In the corner was a massive wardrobe. A long black dress hung over the wardrobe door. At least, Dara thought it was a dress. It looked like no more than a swath of black fabric. Dara had secretly hoped the dress would be a bit fancier. She would die before she told anyone, but she had been looking forward to wearing a beautiful dress to the royal feast. She’d imagined embroidery and silk at the very least, maybe a jewel or two. Instead, the dress appeared to be a long, straight column with a black cloak falling from the high shoulders. There was a bit of embroidery on the sleeves, but this too was black on black.

“Wait until you see it on!” Selivia said. “You’re going to look so elegant!”

Dara changed into the gown, struggling a bit to pull her muscular arms through the sleeves. Once the dress was on, though, she could see that the sleeves were nearly transparent. The embroidery showed on her arms like shadows. The effect was quite pretty. Zala and Selivia buttoned up the back of the dress and put the cloak on Dara’s shoulders.

“Don’t look at the mirror yet,” Selivia commanded.

She directed Dara to a sit on a low stool while she went to work on her hair. Dara had vetoed the black dye, so Selivia wove shiny ribbons of black silk into her hair instead. She did the work herself while Zala put rouge and kohl on Dara’s face. Selivia critiqued her progress, chattering rapidly.

“More above the eyes! She has to look shadowy and mysterious, not tired. Draw it out at the corners more. Yes, like that!”

When Selivia was satisfied, she made Dara stand and approach the mirror. None of her shoes had fit, so Dara wore her own tall boots hidden beneath the dress. She strode to the mirror beside the wardrobe, pleased to find that the skirt didn’t restrict her movements too much. The fabric was airy and silky, but the thick cloak was velvet. It would keep her warm in the mountain air.

Dara blinked in surprise. An imposing woman stared back out of the mirror, a woman who looked remarkably like Dara’s mother. Rather than being alluring, the kohl made Dara’s face bolder, her features sharper. It was a handsome look rather than a beautiful one. The black strands woven into her golden hair were reminiscent of the patterns on a Ruminor Lantern. Her hair piled into a crown-like coil on top of her head. Combined with the slim, simple lines of the black gown, it made Dara look even taller than she actually was.

As a final touch, Selivia retrieved the Savven blade from the outer room and moved the sheath from Dara’s plain leather belt to one made of black metal, linked like a chain. Dara buckled it on. The belt sat low on her hips, and the elaborate hilt peeked out from the cloak when she moved.

“Oooh, you look like a witch queen from a story,” Selivia gushed.

“Um, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. You’re striking, Dara. You’ll look magnificent and strong next to Vine’s flashy colors.”

“Thank you for all your help, Selivia. This is . . . this is wonderful.” Dara couldn’t describe how she felt at the sight of this transformation. Emotions welled up, gratitude and nerves and pride and sadness. Why did she have to look so much like her proud, cold mother? She cleared her throat. “Don’t you need to get ready too?”

“Oh yeah!” Selivia waved her arms frantically at Zala. “I almost forgot! We’re going to be late. Wait in the sitting room if you like. We’ll be quick.”

Dara returned to the antechamber with the heavily cushioned couches. She didn’t want to sit, afraid she’d knock something loose from the pile of hair on her head. She strode around the room, practicing how to walk without tangling the cloak and sword. She’d never be able to duel in something like this, of course, but she would look impressive as long as she didn’t stumble.

It was almost time for the feast. The three windows revealed a red-gold sunset over the mountain. Dara stalked back and forth through the burning patches of light, turning and twirling and enjoying the feel of the dress swirling around her legs and the blade hanging from her hips.