King of Mist (Steel and Fire Book 2) (35 page)

Siv started to worry something had gone wrong with Dara’s escape. But then a squawk broke the silence, and Rumy soared through the darkness toward him.

“You made it! Is Dara okay?” Siv wrapped his arms around the creature’s scaly neck as Rumy landed beside him on the cliff’s edge.

Rumy huffed and growled as if he were offended that Siv had doubted him. He strutted back and forth along the edge of the cliff, preening.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re very strong. Think you can carry me too?”

Rumy fixed a bright, disapproving eye on him, not unlike the look Dara sometimes gave him.

Footsteps pounded down the tunnel, accompanied by loud voices. Someone was coming.

“Nothing for it, right?” Siv said. He climbed onto the cur-dragon’s back, his long legs dragging on the floor, and held on tight. “Please don’t drop me.”

Rumy coughed out a jet of flame and ambled forward. The brief bunching of his muscles was Siv’s only warning, then Rumy hurled himself out over the cliff.

Icy wind ripped through Siv’s hair, and his eyes watered from the cold. His position astride the cur-dragon pulled at every one of his many injuries. Rumy didn’t show off this time. He kept his wings outstretched, and with something between a glide and a plummet they left the castle behind. They fell faster than Siv would have liked. Rumy wouldn’t be able to carry him far.

The cur-dragon swerved, and for a moment Siv had a perfect view of all the peaks of Vertigon. The Village was cloaked in snow, the houses nestled cozily in its drifts. The Fissure was a dark smudge beneath him, occasionally interrupted by the lantern-lit bridges. King’s Peak, where he had spent most of his life, looked smaller from the air. And the wall of Fire burning around Square Peak illuminated it all.

They drifted lower, and Rumy beat his wings hard, straining to turn again. Siv held on tight, exhilaration and fear dueling through him. Finally they thumped to the ground and slid to an ungainly stop in a snowdrift. They’d made it.

Siv left smudges of blood behind as he crawled out of the drift.

“Good boy, Rumy,” he said, patting his cur-dragon on top of the head. Rumy snorted and flapped his wings like a thunderbird ruffling its feathers. “Now, where did you leave my Dara?”

“Over here,” Dara called. She hid in the shadow of a nearby dwelling. The windows were dark, and it didn’t look as if anyone had seen their arrival from the air.

Siv hurried over to join her, wincing as each step aggravated his wounds.

“Are you okay?”

“A little shaky,” Dara said. “I’m never doing that again.”

“Yeah? I think cur-dragon gliding could be the next big thing. Now, let me get my bearings. We’re going to need shelter, and soon.” Siv shivered. The icy wind wasn’t much milder here than it had been in the air.

“You’re bleeding,” Dara said, resting her hand on his chest above one of the many cuts he now sported.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” Siv said. The cold really wasn’t helping things in that department. His limbs had started to shake, jostling his wounds with each shudder. “Let’s see. That’s Pen Bridge, which means we’re probably at the far end of Eastwind Street.”

“Wait,” Dara said. “I know someone who lives here.”

“Trustworthy?”

For some reason, Dara snorted. “I guess she is at that. Follow me.”

Siv and Dara put their arms around each other and trudged through the snowy street. It was unclear at this point who was holding whom up. Siv wasn’t sure it mattered. Rumy followed along behind them, occasionally blasting holes in snowdrifts with jets of flame until Siv told him to cut it out.

He was beginning to think about lying down in one of those nice-looking drifts and going to sleep, when Dara slowed.

“This is it.” She nodded toward an older-looking greathouse with a wide terrace jutting out from the second floor. Siv was surprised, as he wouldn’t have expected her to deem a noble house worthy of trust.

Then Dara sighed heavily and said, “Welcome to House Silltine.”

34.

Daybreak

DARA
used her last shred of energy to pound on the door of Vine Silltine’s greathouse. An unnatural stillness settled over her. It might be shock. She had faced her father. She had taken his power from him to protect Siv, finally revealing her ability, finally standing against him. She’d managed to stop her father from killing Siv with that fiery cage, but she knew she would have lost if the Fire Warden hadn’t shown up.

Poor Zage. She was surprised how much his death saddened her. There had been little warmth between them, despite all the time they’d spent training with the Fire. But he was a good man at his core. His desire for a peaceful Vertigon had been at the heart of everything he did—that and his need to atone for Renna’s death. And he had saved Dara’s life.

At the same time, Dara understood why her father hated having his power restricted. At the moment when the Fire filled her completely, though she thought her bones would turn to ash, Dara had felt invincible. It was a feeling she never achieved in the duels, no matter how hard she practiced. A new opponent could always come along and defeat her, or she could get injured and never step onto the dueling strip again. But when she held the Fire, the magic in her blood had whispered that no one could stop her. It was a lie, though. It would whisper of indestructibility right up until it killed her.

Still, she could see why her father craved unrestrained power. But he had destroyed the Peace of Vertigon to get it, and in doing so he had compromised his very soul.

Dara pounded on the door again, shattering the quiet of the snowy night.

Slow footsteps approached on the other side of the door. It cracked open, releasing a sliver of light. Vine’s butler peered through, holding up a Fire Lantern. A Ruminor Lantern, of course.

“Sorry to bother you in the middle of the night,” Dara said.

“Who is it?”

“Is Vine home? I need to see her right away.”

“What’s happening out there?” The butler kept the door mostly shut. The cold wind whistled at the crack. “We heard such a commotion.”

“Please,” Dara said. “It’s urgent.”

“Who is it, Toff?” Vine’s voice floated out from the darkness. The butler glanced over his shoulder.

“Vine, it’s Dara!” she called, praying she’d made the right choice. She was pretty sure it was their only choice. “Can we come in, please?”

“Dara Ruminor! Quickly, Toff!” Vine bustled forward and pushed her butler out of the way. Her eyes widened when she saw Siv. She had a rapier in her hand as if she had expected a fight at her doorstep, but she tossed it aside to grab Dara and Siv and pull them through the doorway.

“We had nowhere to go, Vine. Could we—?”

“Of course, of course! Toff, run get some bandages and hot water. And don’t open that door again.”

“My lady! What is
that
?” The butler went rigid as Rumy tried to force his nose through the doorway behind them.

“It’s just a cur-dragon,” Siv said. He was starting to sound as weak and tired as Dara felt. Blood pooled beneath his boots.

The butler blanched. “A cur—My lady!”

“It’s all right, Toff,” Vine said impatiently. “We won’t leave any living creature out in the snow. Take him through to the kitchen for now.”

As soon as Rumy crossed the threshold, Vine closed the door, sealing them off from the dark and the cold. Toff headed down a side corridor, and Rumy followed, stopping to sniff at everything he passed.

Vine wore a pale-green silk nightgown, and her lustrous hair hung loose around her shoulders. She looked absolutely delighted to see them.

“Come!” she said. “You must tell me everything that happened after I left the castle!”

She led them into a parlor on the ground floor and bustled about, pulling heavy curtains over all the windows. Dara couldn’t help glancing at them every few seconds, afraid she’d see the tall forms of her mother and father looming outside.

A soft darkness filled the parlor, which was decorated in an old-fashioned style. A few chairs and one low couch spread about the space in a haphazard manner. A table in one corner held an unfinished game of mijen. A large Fire Lantern hanging from the exposed beams of the ceiling, dim with age, was the only illumination.

Dara dropped into a chair and leaned her head back against the ornately carved wood. With Siv’s help, she explained to Vine what had happened in broad strokes. Vine’s father had apparently come down with a cold, and they’d left the feast early to get home before the blizzard gathered strength. She had missed most of the action.

“I saw the wall of Fire around Square,” Vine said, “but only when Toff came to wake me. I swear I shall never leave another party early for as long as I live. Now, take your clothes off, Your Highness.”

“Yes, my lady,” Siv said. He winked at Dara, an expression that turned to a wince as he eased off his black coat. He wore a white shirt underneath, which showed off the full extent of his injuries. Red lines crossed his ribs in several places, and blood completely soaked the tattered sleeve of his sword arm.

If the king’s injuries shocked Vine, she hid it well. Toff arrived with the bandages and a Firekettle full of hot water, and they set about patching Siv up together. Several of the cuts required stitches. Vine spread a blanket over the couch and made Siv lie down on top of it while she worked. Siv gritted his teeth, not making a sound as Vine sewed him up.

For her part, Dara had the worst headache of her life. She felt fragile, as if her bones would crack under too much pressure. She wished she could ask someone if that was a normal feeling—and if it would go away—but there was no one left to ask. Zage was dead, and she would surely never speak to her father or any of the Fireworkers who supported him again after tonight. The enormity of what had happened was starting to dawn on her. She only wished it would dull the pain in her head.

“What are you going to do now?” Vine asked as she tied off another row of stitches. “When my father wakes up in the morning, he’ll wonder how long I plan to have house guests.”

“We can’t stay here,” Dara said. Rumy had bought them time. Her father would likely expect them to be hiding in or near the castle. He wouldn’t look this far away tonight. And it wouldn’t occur to him to look for his daughter at House Silltine, the home of Dara’s famous rival, anyway. “Thank you for helping us, Vine, but I think we need to get off the mountain.”

“I won’t leave Vertigon,” Siv said.

“He will hunt you down and kill you,” Dara said.

“He tried before,” Siv said fiercely. “We’ll stop him again.”

“Siv, I’m no match for my father.” Dara leaned forward in her chair so she could see his face. The light from the Fire Lantern cast a shadow from his high cheekbones. “The Fireworkers are on his side, enough of them to threaten all of Square. Zage is gone. The Guard is decimated. Unless the army will side with you, which I thought was already out of the question, we don’t have a chance.”

“So you just want to abandon the city to him?” Siv said. “The man who killed my father and my sister?”

“We can’t stand against him, at least not now. What if you go to Trure, to your mother’s people? Maybe you can gather some support to—”

“To what?” Siv snapped. “Take back the mountain, the unassailable mountain of Vertigon, with a foreign army? And probably kill half my people in the process?”

“You’d rather kill my father directly instead?”

“That seems like the obvious choice to me.”

Dara felt her exhaustion like a physical weight on her shoulders. Of course Siv would see that as the only way to defeat her father. He was probably right. But Rafe would have safeguards in place. And she had meant what she said: she was no match for her father. She doubted she ever would be. There was nothing they could do. She wasn’t capable of killing her own parents, even if that was what it took to defeat them, even if they deserved it after everything they had done. But she couldn’t walk away from Siv either. And he didn’t want to abandon his people.

“I’m sensing a great deal of tension in the air,” Vine said pleasantly.

Dara gritted her teeth. “Are you.”

“Tension and weariness and grief,” Vine said. “You have to give yourself time to feel grief, in particular. May I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.” Siv rolled over so she could get at one of the cuts across his ribs. He bit into a couch cushion as she started the next row of stitches.

“You must sleep and regroup,” Vine said. “Neither one of you will be storming the castle in your current state. I suggest you sleep here tonight and begin the journey to Trure tomorrow.”

Siv started to object, but Vine poked him in the rib.

“I’m not saying you should return with a Truren army,” she said. “But you can regain your health and gather information. I will send word as things develop here. You will be in a much better state to consider your options there. I suspect that whatever move you make will have to wait until spring.”

The mere mention of sleep was enough to make Dara want to melt into her chair. Siv’s jaw tensed as Vine continued stitching up his side, but he seemed to be considering her suggestion. Then his eyelids began to droop.

“Siv!”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I think that’s as good a plan as any.”

“I agree,” Dara said. Vine was right: they needed to see where the ashes settled tomorrow, and they needed time to consider their options.

“Oh, lovely,” Vine said. “I do think coming to a consensus is best. You’re all finished, Your Majesty. Try not to move too much.”

Vine sat back to prepare another bandage as Siv reached down with tentative fingers to check the final row of stitches.

“Can you spare some cloaks and food for our journey?” Dara said. “I’m sorry we’ve already asked so much of you, Vine.”

“Nonsense, Dara. You’re my friend. And House Silltine has always been loyal to the Amintelles. I’m delighted at the opportunity to actually show what true loyalty means. I shall sleep like a baby after helping the two of you to safety.”

“Thank you. I’ll find some way to repay you,” Dara said.