Dara said. “I’ve never told you that.”
Siv froze. She didn’t sound quite like herself, but her gaze was fixed on him now.
“And you have a nice face,” she said.
“You hit your head, Dara.” Siv barely dared to breathe. He had always found Dara attractive, but how much did she . . .? Almost against his will, Siv’s eyes darted to her mouth. She blinked slowly, and her eyelashes fluttered against the inside of his wrist.
“Who is he?” Dara said, and it took Siv a minute to figure out what she was talking about. Right. The man he had just killed.
Siv moved Dara’s hand so she could hold the cloak against the wound on her head, and then turned over the body. The man was Soolen. He was shorter than Chala Choven, though, and he wore cloth wound around part of his face as the other duelists had. Siv breathed a short sigh, relieved he hadn’t killed one of his own subjects.
“I don’t know him,” Siv said. He wished he could have taken the man alive. They might actually get some answers. He looked over at Dara, who still had blood in her hair. The man had almost killed her. Maybe Siv didn’t feel that bad about not taking him alive after all. Besides, there had been something odd about this man as they fought. He hadn’t made a sound.
Siv picked up the kitchen knife and used it to pry open the Soolen man’s mouth. His tongue had been cut out. Siv grimaced. That wasn’t a good sign. Soole was the only country on the continent known to cut out criminals’ tongues, and they only did it to murderers. He hoped none of the other mysterious and deadly swordsmen training in that cavern were murderers from foreign lands. This was not good.
“We’d better get out of here.” He wiped off the kitchen knife and tucked it back into his coat, not wanting to leave any evidence of who was responsible for this.
“Check his blade.”
“What?”
Dara was on her feet now. She clutched the wall of the tunnel as if still a little dizzy.
“Is it like the other one?”
“Good point.” Siv retrieved the weapon that had fallen on the stones. Like the one belonging to the man who had tried to kill them after the Vertigon Cup, it had no maker’s mark. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but Siv was pretty sure it was exactly the same as the other one.
Dara reached out to touch the hilt.
“It’s a Fire Blade,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Let’s get out of here.”
“Agreed.”
Before long, they were hurrying down a final tunnel—not the one they had come from—and emerging into the mist-drenched night. The peak was deserted, but they didn’t feel safe until they made it down to Pen Bridge.
Siv supported Dara’s arm as they walked, glad she didn’t reject his offer of help. She was quieter than usual. He started to worry she was really injured. That, or extra thoughtful. They kept their heads down, hoping that if anyone spotted them they’d assume they were just another couple out enjoying the moonlight.
He liked the chance to hold her, though. As they strolled through the stillness it was almost romantic. Mist seethed in the Fissure and rose around them, pearly and ethereal. Their strides matched, and Dara’s arm felt warm in his.
They didn’t need to worry about being recognized after all. The bridge was empty, and it was as if they were the only people on the mountain tonight.
Finally, Dara spoke.
“How was dinner?”
“Huh?”
“Dinner. With Lady Tull?”
“Oh.” Siv glared at the mist around the bridge as some of the magic fractured. “It went as well as can be expected. I asked for her hand.”
Dara jolted, and Siv instantly regretted the words. She strode faster, as if trying to cover her reaction.
“And her answer?”
“She’ll consider it,” Siv said. “Bolden has already asked her.”
“I see.”
They resumed their walk in silence. Why couldn’t she have waited to bring up Lady Tull? He had to stop doing this, holding Dara close and imagining them as
Siv froze. She didn’t sound quite like herself, but her gaze was fixed on him now.
“And you have a nice face,” she said.
“You hit your head, Dara.” Siv barely dared to breathe. He had always found Dara attractive, but how much did she . . .? Almost against his will, Siv’s eyes darted to her mouth. She blinked slowly, and her eyelashes fluttered against the inside of his wrist.
“Who is he?” Dara said, and it took Siv a minute to figure out what she was talking about. Right. The man he had just killed.
Siv moved Dara’s hand so she could hold the cloak against the wound on her head, and then turned over the body. The man was Soolen. He was shorter than Chala Choven, though, and he wore cloth wound around part of his face as the other duelists had. Siv breathed a short sigh, relieved he hadn’t killed one of his own subjects.
“I don’t know him,” Siv said. He wished he could have taken the man alive. They might actually get some answers. He looked over at Dara, who still had blood in her hair. The man had almost killed her. Maybe Siv didn’t feel that bad about not taking him alive after all. Besides, there had been something odd about this man as they fought. He hadn’t made a sound.
Siv picked up the kitchen knife and used it to pry open the Soolen man’s mouth. His tongue had been cut out. Siv grimaced. That wasn’t a good sign. Soole was the only country on the continent known to cut out criminals’ tongues, and they only did it to murderers. He hoped none of the other mysterious and deadly swordsmen training in that cavern were murderers from foreign lands. This was not good.
“We’d better get out of here.” He wiped off the kitchen knife and tucked it back into his coat, not wanting to leave any evidence of who was responsible for this.
“Check his blade.”
“What?”
Dara was on her feet now. She clutched the wall of the tunnel as if still a little dizzy.
“Is it like the other one?”
“Good point.” Siv retrieved the weapon that had fallen on the stones. Like the one belonging to the man who had tried to kill them after the Vertigon Cup, it had no maker’s mark. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but Siv was pretty sure it was exactly the same as the other one.
Dara reached out to touch the hilt.
“It’s a Fire Blade,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Let’s get out of here.”
“Agreed.”
Before long, they were hurrying down a final tunnel—not the one they had come from—and emerging into the mist-drenched night. The peak was deserted, but they didn’t feel safe until they made it down to Pen Bridge.
Siv supported Dara’s arm as they walked, glad she didn’t reject his offer of help. She was quieter than usual. He started to worry she was really injured. That, or extra thoughtful. They kept their heads down, hoping that if anyone spotted them they’d assume they were just another couple out enjoying the moonlight.
He liked the chance to hold her, though. As they strolled through the stillness it was almost romantic. Mist seethed in the Fissure and rose around them, pearly and ethereal. Their strides matched, and Dara’s arm felt warm in his.
They didn’t need to worry about being recognized after all. The bridge was empty, and it was as if they were the only people on the mountain tonight.
Finally, Dara spoke.
“How was dinner?”
“Huh?”
“Dinner. With Lady Tull?”
“Oh.” Siv glared at the mist around the bridge as some of the magic fractured. “It went as well as can be expected. I asked for her hand.”
Dara jolted, and Siv instantly regretted the words. She strode faster, as if trying to cover her reaction.
“And her answer?”
“She’ll consider it,” Siv said. “Bolden has already asked her.”
“I see.”
They resumed their walk in silence. Why couldn’t she have waited to bring up Lady Tull? He had to stop doing this, holding Dara close and imagining them as
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