But Dara’s coach was late today. He usually came in while she was doing her lunges. Dara put her blade and mask beside her trunk in the corner and sat on the wide brown rug to stretch while she waited.
Rain drummed on the rooftop, and echoes played around the hall. The training space was cavernous, with a wide stone floor and competition strips painted across its length. Ash spread out from the big stone fireplace in the corner, scattered by the wind whipping down the chimney. It was past midday, but the fires blazed in the blustery weather.
Tall windows revealed a slice of the opposite peak. The king’s castle stood like a crown on the mountaintop. The rain fuzzed the details except for the piercing lights in the topmost towers.
Dara had the school to herself for now, but soon the other duelists would arrive for their group training sessions and fill the hall with the clash of steel and the shouts of competition. She loved the metallic din, the way it spurred her to perform better in every practice, every tournament. Professional dueling was an obsession—both for Dara and for the kingdom of Vertigon. Swords hadn’t been used in war in a hundred years. In fact, there hadn’t been a war in a hundred years. But the sport had exploded in popularity during the time of peace. Every competition sold out, and prosperous craftsmen and nobles paid dearly to support the best athletes. Top duelists drew more attention on the streets than King Sevren himself, and they lived like royalty by the time they retired their blades.
Only a handful of women in the city ever landed patrons, though—and Dara would be one of them.
She was more than ready, but there was still no sign of her coach. Berg Doban trained some of the best duelists in Vertigon in his school on Square Peak. Dara had been working with him for years, and he was almost never late.
The tall wooden doors banged open, and the other students began to arrive for the group drills. Dara’s friends Kelad and Oatin were among the first to stride in, laughing and shoving each other and shaking the rain out of their hair. They were both solid athletes. Kel had a patron already, and Oat was expected to make a top-four finish in the men’s division at this year’s Cup. But Dara worked harder than both of them.
“Where’s Doban?” Kel said, coming over to the stretching rug after chucking his gear in the general direction of his trunk.
“No idea.”
“You’re usually slicing him ragged by now,” Oat said.
“I thought I’d be late today.” Dara switched her long legs around and reached for her toes. A strand of golden hair fell into her eyes. “I couldn’t run with the rain like this.”
“Don’t know why you bother anyway,” Kel said. “Running is for horseboys and valley scum.”
“If you ran more, you wouldn’t have dropped those last two hits to Rawl in the Square Tourney,” Dara said. “You have to build your endurance.”
“Don’t remind me.” Kel flopped onto the rug and stretched a leg across his body, rotating his hips until his spine cracked. Kel was wiry and short for a swordsman, but he made up for it with his fine-tuned precision. He could hit a flea with a running lunge on barely a glance. Plus the crowds loved him, which was almost as important in this game. “I lost a gold Firestick to Yuri because of those points.”
“You’ve got to quit betting on yourself,” Oat said. “It messes with your head.” He stood above them, working his long arms in a slow circle. Oat was one of the tallest men on the mountain. Looking up from the floor all Dara could see was the black stubble on his chin and his windmilling limbs. He dropped into a long lunge and grinned at her.
“Better than betting on you, Oat,” Kel said. “You didn’t even duel in the last tournament because of your precious ankle.” Kel sat up and stretched his legs out in front of him.
“Don’t remind me.” Oat grimaced. Being tall gave him a great reach, but he was forever falling victim to twists and sprains. It was probably the only reason he didn’t have a patron already.
“You’ll get them in the Cup,” Dara said.
“Thanks, Dar, but we all know you’re going to be the star of the Cup,” Oat said. “Coach barely remembers I’m competing when you’re on the strip.”
“Wish he’d remember when we have drills scheduled. He should have been here half an hour ago.”
“Maybe he’s—”
The door crashed open. Coach Berg Doban strode in, water dripping from his cloak. All the athletes stopped and stared, their stretches forgotten. Berg strode into the center of the dueling hall and hurled his bag of practice blades across the room. It slid to a stop at the foot of a training dummy.
“Idiot!” he roared. Then he stalked over to his trunk and kicked it open. He reached in to grab his padded coaching sleeve, but he had flung the lid up with such force that it immediately slammed back down on his hand. Berg let out a string of curses and lifted the lid again more carefully.
“Sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bridge today,” Kel whispered. “I don’t envy you one bit, Dara.”
He and Oat went over to their own trunks and quietly began pulling on their gear. The other athletes became very interested in lacing up their boots and adjusting the bends of their blades as Berg grumbled at his coaching equipment. Dara retrieved her blade, glove, and mask and approached him.
“Umm, Coach?”
He whirled around, another curse on his lips, but held it back when he saw that it was Dara. “You are ready?” he said instead. “We drill now.”
Dara gulped and darted to the drilling strip marked out in paint along one side of the dueling floor. Berg stalked after her, pulling on the thick coaching sleeve and
