Berg was a big, square man with big, square shoulders. He didn’t look like a typical swordsman. The pros tended to be long and lean, like Dara and Oat, but a few compensated for their shorter reach with other assets. In Berg’s case it was his knock-down-walls strength, still visible in his thick shoulders even though he’d grown a bit paunchy around the middle in his coaching years. Berg still had a temper like a cur-dragon in mating season. He was originally from a distant part of the Lands Below, but the dark look that lit his eyes as he crossed the dueling floor had become legendary since his arrival in Vertigon decades ago.
They began their usual drill sequence. Berg didn’t need to call out commands, only occasionally correcting Dara’s stance as she moved through the basic forms. Advance. Parry. Thrust. He was a demanding teacher. He knew how fierce the competition was this year and how much Dara wanted that Cup victory. But today instead of his usual criticism he praised every move she made.
“Yes, Dara, that is how it’s done,” he growled as she touched each key point on his coaching sleeve: hand, arm, shoulder, chest. “Yes, you stay focused. That is it. You do not give your opponent time to think in case you miss your target. No guarantees in a duel. You always go for the second and third and fourth shot even if you think you have number one. Yes! That is the way!”
Berg’s praise made Dara more nervous than being corrected. Her performance today wasn’t much better than their last drill session, when he’d shouted at her for ten minutes for dropping her guard before the arm shot. She tried to focus on keeping her movements efficient, but she missed a handful of hits, the rounded tip of her blade glancing off the padded sleeve. And still Berg praised her.
“Yes. Is okay. You get most, and you try harder each time. Good!”
The dull thud of her hits and the tap of boots on the stone floor filled the hall. The other students must have sensed Berg’s mood, because they kept their noise to a minimum. Finally, after what Dara thought was a perfectly ordinary series of compound attacks, Berg removed his mask and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his heavy glove.
“This is it, Dara. You are a serious athlete. You know the way.” Despite his words, Berg grimaced, his face reddening. “That young fool is too arrogant. He should be like you.” He clenched the strap of his mask in his fist and shook it. “I am wasting my time. He does not see it.”
Dara stepped out of the way as Berg hurled the mask to the floor. It bounced away from him and rolled between two young duelists practicing parries. They edged over to a strip closer to the wall.
“Um, who’s arrogant, Coach?” Dara asked.
“If he could see you train,” Berg ranted. “Or duel! He does not know how much danger he would be in from a swordswoman like you. Too foolish . . .” Berg lowered his eyebrows and studied Dara.
She shifted under his gaze, her sturdy training boots squeaking on the floor. Berg worked with a few pupils privately in the grand homes of the nobility on the lower slopes of King’s Peak. Sword masters were in high demand—if your pockets were deep enough. Berg didn’t usually talk about his private students, though, and Dara and the others figured training nobles was just a vanity project. Most of the young lords wouldn’t stand a chance in a real tourney. Berg continued to stare at Dara without really seeing her.
“Should I join the others, Coach?” she asked.
He started. “No, not yet. Dara, you must help me. I cannot abide this young fool anymore. You will come with me next time. Show him what it is like to duel a real athlete.”
“Coach, I’ve got to stick to my training schedule. Can you take someone who isn’t entered in the Cup? I’m sure half of them would be able to beat this fellow.” She gestured to the other students working through their usual drills. She was a pro, or at least on the verge of becoming one. She didn’t have time to teach lessons to some spoiled noble.
“No, he is very good. This is the problem. He is too confident because he is good, but he does not respect the danger. He must learn.”
“What danger?” Dara asked. “The worst that could happen is he gets bruised up in some parlor match in Lower King’s. That’ll teach him.” The mountain was safe, peaceful. No one had fought with true sharpened swords since the reign of the First Good King.
“No, there is true danger for this young fool,” Berg said. He looked around at the two dozen students. Kel and Oat were nearest to them. They kept slowing their footwork to glance over. Kel’s curiosity burned like a Fire Lantern through the wire mesh of his mask. Oat tapped him on the head with his blade to draw his attention back to the drill.
Berg drew Dara away from them toward the corner where the gear trunks lined two walls.
“You must not speak of what I will say. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“The student is Prince Sivarrion.”
Dara blinked. “You want me to duel the prince?”
“He does not respect the blade. If a swordsman ever tries to attack him, he will believe he can win. He will try to fight. But he must learn to fear. He will never be the Fourth King if he falls to his own pride.”
“But people don’t get assassinated in Vertigon, Coach. It’s not like the Lands Below here. And if he’s already good—”
“You see, this is his problem. He believes he is too good. And the mountain has more dangers than you know.” Berg took Dara’s blade from her. It was quality steel, flexible, with a rounded tip. During a match, the tip would be rubbed with charcoal
