King of Mist (Steel and Fire Book 2) (7 page)

A knock sounded at her door, making Dara jump. She tossed her comb on the bed and opened the door. The young guard she’d met the other day was raising his fist to knock again.

“Hello,” Dara said. “Telvin, right?”

“Dara.” He gave a slight bow, almost a salute. “Would you like to have a drink in town this evening?

“With the other guardsmen?” she asked.

“No, just with me.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” Dara said, surprised at the directness of the offer. “I have business over on Square tonight.” She started to shut the door then caught sight of the eastern tower rising behind Telvin. She couldn’t quite see the glass parlor at this angle, but she could picture it—and the romantic table setting—well enough. She surprised herself by pulling back the door and calling out to Telvin before he walked away. “Actually, I have time beforehand if you don’t mind getting some food too. I’m starving.”

“Great,” Telvin said. “Are you ready now?”

“Give me five minutes,” Dara said. “I’ll meet you by the gates.”

“Agreed.” Telvin smiled and turned crisply on his heels to march down the portico to his own quarters. He had broad shoulders and a strong back, and there was something pleasing about his sharp, serious movements.

Dara looked up at the tower, a gloomy spire in the fading light. Siv was doing what was necessary. Why shouldn’t she grab a bite to eat with one of her new colleagues? She needed all the allies she could get.

6.

The Guardsman

DARA
changed into a black blouse, tucked soft gray trousers into her old boots, and braided her hair again. She slung her black cloak over her arm. It had been a gift from Selivia, and it was by far the finest item of clothing she owned. She also buckled her Savven blade at her waist. She needed to be prepared for her midnight stroll with Berg.

Telvin Jale waited for her at the small sally port by the main castle gates. He still wore his guard uniform, but his coat buttons were undone, and his shirt hung open at the neck. He greeted Dara with a nod and only the slightest glance at the ornate black hilt of the Savven on her hip.

They ambled down through Lower King’s, passing the fine greathouses with elegant balconies and marble-trimmed porticos. A hush permeated the streets at this twilight hour. Dara and Telvin had to step aside to allow the occasional palanquin to pass by, but most people on King’s Peak would be at their dinners already, bent over bowls of goat stew, flatbread, and orchard fruits.

“I don’t know many good places to eat in Lower King’s,” Telvin said as they made their way from the residential areas near the castle to a busier street lined with stylish shops and parlors. “My favorite haunts are over on Square.”

“Did you live there before you joined the army?”

“No, I grew up on Village,” Telvin said. “Not far from the mines. My father and brothers still work there.”

Dara reassessed his broad shoulders and strong build. Yes, she could see his mining family roots.

“But you joined the army?”

“It’s a better life than my father’s,” Telvin said. “And Castle Guard is better still.”

They peered in the windows of the shops and taverns as they walked, looking for somewhere to eat. Dara stopped at a familiar sign: Bridge Troll Tavern.

“I’ve actually been here before,” Dara said.
With Siv.
She still remembered the cozy warmth of the establishment, the way one patron had smoked a pipe by the window, the tendrils escaping into the night. And she remembered Siv leaning in to advise her about how to act around potential patrons, nearly taking her hand. It felt strange to bring Telvin here, but then Siv would be entertaining—and possibly proposing—to Lady Tull at that very moment. “I don’t know if the food is any good, but we could try it.”

“Looks fine to me.” Telvin pulled open the door for her with a creak.

Dara led the way to a table on the opposite side of the tavern from where she had sat with Siv. The Bridge Troll Tavern was quiet this evening. A pair of travelers sat in a corner booth, and a well-dressed craftsman leaned against the bar and chatted with the tavern keeper. A few men came in behind Dara and Telvin, looking like butlers or noblemen’s attendants on their night off. Their voices were soft and sober. Gloom had settled over the city during the past month of mourning. King Sevren had been well loved. Something would need to change soon in Vertigon, or this winter would be very grim indeed.

Dara tried to shake off the somberness of the evening as she settled in across from Telvin with goat pies and ale. She hated the taste of ale, but she took a long sip from her tankard anyway. She was one of the Guard now, and she should embrace her new role. Siv was doing the same.

A small Firebulb hanging above their table created a warm pool of light around them. Dara and Telvin talked about dueling as they ate, but that only made her miss the rush of competition and the roar of the crowds. And Siv waving a black silk banner with her name on it. She forced herself to take another sip of ale.

“What do you think of the king?” she asked.

“Think of him?” Telvin said, forehead furrowing. “He’s the king.”

“Yes, but what’s your opinion of the man himself now that you work for him?”

“I was recruited from the army.” Telvin snapped to attention in his chair. “I am loyal to the crown.”

“This isn’t a test,” Dara said. “I’m just curious.”

Telvin’s shoulders relaxed a little. He studied his tankard, scratching a thick finger along the carving at its base.

“The king is young,” he said. “I don’t reckon he’s proved himself yet, but then he hasn’t had a chance either.”

“That’s true,” Dara said. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Twenty-two. Not much older than the king himself, to be fair. Another drink?”

Dara blinked, surprised she had already finished her ale. Somehow it didn’t taste any better at the bottom. But she thought of that romantic table setting in the sunset-drenched parlor and accepted a second one.

“These were on the house,” Telvin said when he returned with the foaming tankards. “The tavern keeper wanted to know if you’re really Nightfall. I was damn proud to say I’m having dinner with one of the most popular lady duelists in Vertigon.”

“That’s not me anymore,” Dara said.

“I was proud anyway.” Telvin took a long sip of the complimentary ale, looking at her thoughtfully. “So what do
you
think of the king?” he asked.

“He’s a good man,” Dara said. “He’ll prove himself.”

“I hope so. Vertigon deserves a good king.”

By the time they finished their meals and their third round of drinks—Dara switched to water for herself when she went to fetch the round—it was past the eleventh hour. She’d have to run to meet Berg on time.

“What do you say we cross to the pubs on Square?” Telvin said. His face was a little red, and he had relaxed considerably. “Tomorrow’s my day off, and I reckon a few other barkeeps would love to treat you.”

“I have to take care of a few things,” Dara said. “Thanks, though.”

She stood, wavering a bit from the drinks, and dug her fingernails into the wooden tabletop to steady herself. The Firebulb hanging above the table swayed, right at eye level. The tavern door was closed, and there was no draft. It was as if Dara was pulling the Fire in the bulb toward her. It seemed to grow larger before her eyes. Her skin hummed with warmth.

“Did you forget something?” Telvin asked, coming around the table to stand beside her.

The Firebulb swung forward. Dara focused on calming her body, keeping the rush of the drink in her blood from loosening her control. She almost never drank, and it seemed to affect her connection to the Fire. She’d have to remember that.

“No, I’m fine.” She pulled her gaze away from the glowing bulb and turned to Telvin. “Shall we?” She strode deliberately to the door as the Firebulb swayed, finally slowing to a stop behind her.

Outside, Dara breathed deeply, allowing the damp breeze to clear her head.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come for another drink?” Telvin asked, stepping closer to her in the darkened street. “Didn’t you say you’re going to Square anyway?”

“Maybe next time,” Dara said. “I’ll see you back at the barracks.”

Telvin looked like he wanted to protest, but instead he bowed over her hand and said, “Good night, Dara.”

She gave a quick nod, hoping to discourage a longer farewell, and strode away. He would likely take Stork Bridge over to Square. She’d have to make a detour over Garden Bridge so he wouldn’t see where she was heading. She still wasn’t ready to trust Telvin Jale yet, however nice he seemed.

Dara jogged all the way to Berg’s dueling school on Square Peak. Mist oozed around the bridges. The night was eerie, with the sharpness of autumn in the air. The run warmed her, and the buzz from the ale dissipated. It was a relief to know the warmth came from pure exertion when she thundered across little-used Garden Bridge. It was built of wood and rope, its pathways sparsely lit. She was too far away from the stones of the mountain to worry about pulling any Fire into her body.

That Firebulb had definitely gravitated to her in the tavern. She had to get control of her newfound ability—and soon. It was easier to draw on the Fire when she had steel in her hand to help her focus. The trouble was she carried a sword all the time now, and sometimes the Fire came when she didn’t want it to. She needed to figure out how the magic worked so she could train herself to avoid such incidents. Despite being around the Fire her whole life, she wasn’t sure where to start. Most Fireworkers trained with a master who guided them through the first dangerous moments while they were still children. Those with the Spark could handle the Fire without being burned, but if they lost control it would still hurt them. The Fire could even kill, as Dara knew all too well. And if she lost control, people might find out what she could do. That would raise more questions than she was prepared to answer right now.

The streets of Square Peak were even emptier than Lower King’s. The chill and the mist had driven people indoors, where they’d sit around Fire Gates, warm their hands with Heatstones, and wrap themselves in wool blankets. It was not a night to be out alone.

The dueling school rose before her, a hulking shape in the darkness. The last of the students would have gone home by now, or into the warm arms of a neighboring pub. Dara felt a twinge of sadness as she thought of her friends Kel and Oat, who were no doubt holding forth in one of those pubs. She hadn’t seen them in weeks, and she missed them.

Berg opened the door of the dueling school and stepped out as Dara neared. He wore a cloak of mountain bear fur, making him look a bit like a bear himself, apart from the sword buckled at his hip.

“Coach,” she said.

He grunted a greeting. “You are armed?”

Dara flung back her cloak to reveal the Savven.

“Good. We must be silent. Tell no one what I will show you. Enemies of the Amintelles have ears. Trust no one.”

“Yes, Coach.” Dara hesitated and then asked, “Why do you trust me?”

Berg lowered his eyebrows and gave her an appraising look.

“There is a reason you ask this, young Dara.”

“It’s . . . it’s possible my parents are involved,” she said. “Do you know anything about that?”

Berg blew out a long breath and cracked his large knuckles one by one.

“You know,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I figured it out too late,” Dara said. “I . . . I think my father . . .” She didn’t finish the thought, hoping Berg would fill in the details that she hadn’t been able to say out loud.

“Yes,” Berg said. “But he did not act alone. You are against your father and mother in this, Dara?”

“They’re wrong,” Dara said. A sharp wind blew over the peak, whistling through the alleyways and rattling the shutters on the dueling school. She shivered. “I wish it could be different, but King Sevren didn’t deserve to die.”

Berg inclined his head solemnly. “No. The king was good. Come.”

He led the way toward the far northern side of Square Peak, heading in the direction of the Burnt Mountains beyond Vertigon. They walked in silence at first, keeping to the shadows between buildings. A feral cur-dragon snuffed and sneezed in an ally, but nothing else moved.

“Coach,” Dara said after a while. “Have you told anyone about my parents?”

“I will tell no one unless I trust them,” Berg said. “I trust no one.”

“What about King Siv?”

Berg looked at her from beneath lowered brows. “You must tell him. When you are ready. There is much to do before then.”

“I know,” Dara said. Of course she should tell Siv about her parents. She’d known it from the very first day. Something always held her back, though. She couldn’t bear to see his reaction when he learned who had killed his father. She pulled her cloak closer, armoring herself against the damp and the mist. She had thought it would feel better to talk about her parents with someone, but hearing her suspicions confirmed out loud wasn’t much comfort after all. And Berg hadn’t been surprised.

“Did you know about my parents when you asked me to train with the prince months ago?” she asked him. “That was a big risk.”

“A risk, yes,” Berg said. “But I know my students.”

Dara didn’t respond. She wondered what would have happened if she had told her parents about the prince from the beginning. Perhaps Berg had been hoping their partnership would lead to an eventual reconciliation between the Amintelles and the Ruminors. If so, he had put too much faith in her relationship with her parents. On the other hand, they could have asked her to spy on their behalf, or even carry the poison to the castle herself. Although, even if she hadn’t come to care for Siv, she didn’t think she could have done that anyway. Maybe Berg did know her well.

They walked all the way to the northern slope of Square Peak, not far from the largest of the paddocks where mountain ponies were raised. King’s Peak and the Fissure were hidden from view here. Instead, the desolate range of the Burnt Mountains spread out in the distance. Smoky clouds hung above them, simmering with red light even at midnight.