Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (13 page)

“So he made you feel it,” said Regel. “That’s something for him, at least.”

He picked up his spoon again and fell to his stew with a new interest.

“Burn you,” Ovelia said.

Her chair scraped as she rose and strode to the mercyhall at the back of the tavern. She thrust the door shut and stood panting in the empty wasteroom, fighting the urge to scream. Her heart raced and her lungs couldn’t seem to fill with air. She pressed her back to the oak door and covered her mouth, sure that if she did not, she would cry out and all would hear.

Finally, when her world expanded again beyond her own head, she looked around at her surroundings. Flaking paint on the walls of the mercyhall depicted lewd images of men and women at play. Along one wall ran half a dozen drainage bowls connected by a long pipe. This marvel unnerved Ovelia almost as much as the street sweeping machine from earlier: why could they not use proper chamberpots, as in Tar Vangr? The little bit of irked contempt made her feel better. Each stall was parted from the others by a thin green curtain that could be closed around it for privacy. Two of them were shut, but she saw no feet beneath the screens, so at least she was alone.

Across from the bowls, a series of taps stuck out of the wall over a long basin—a communal sink for washing hands. Some of these were rusted or twisted beyond repair, and some leaked grayish water. A thin pool of red and brown liquid rested at the bottom of the tub. Above the sink, a mirror hung on the wall, one end of it shattered by a blow. There were flecks of old blood upon the glass.

In this cracked mirror, Ovelia saw a split image of herself. She thought she looked very old—and angry. “I should be,” she said. “It is not fair—not
just
.”

Orbrin had once told her—in this very city, no less, almost thirty years gone when she had railed against a false judgment by a Ravalis magistrate—that justice was a lie told by men to separate themselves from other men. He’d put his hand on her shoulder and said she must make her own justice. Ovelia had argued at the time, but in the past five years, she’d come to understand.

She turned the spigots and splashed water on her face. It felt oily, but at least it was cool. It melted her makeup, and she rubbed vigorously to rid herself of the rest of the stuff. She tore out her carefully arranged hair so that it hung haphazard around her face. Within five breaths, she had shed her disguise and looked like herself again, albeit haggard and half-mad. When she looked up at the mirror, she willed herself to ignore her red, cracked eyes. Her white-blonde hair was growing long now, revealing more of the red-brown roots near her scalp. Time marched relentlessly, and now her true colors were replacing the ones that made her another woman—the woman both she and Regel had once wanted her to be. She wondered how to find silver dye in Luether, then smiled at her own folly. Would she live beyond the next few days—or even past tonight?

She admired her false smile in the mirror—it would hide anything a woman could think or feel. Lenalin had taught her that.

“He doesn’t know,” she told her reflection through her teeth, demanding mirth from her face. She forced herself to laugh. “He was just jealous—he doesn’t know.”

“A likely tale,” she heard her own voice say.

Ovelia looked up, into her falsely smiling reflection. Had it spoken?

“Why would he be jealous?” she asked herself, watching her lips move. “He loved Lenalin, not her maid—her little red-haired
whore
.”

The smile in the mirror looked positively hateful. It was not her. It was Lenalin, smirking at her.

“Sister,” Ovelia hissed—at the mirror and at herself. “
Sister
!”

She struck the mirror with her gloved fist. Glass splintered and the whole mirror rocked back and forth on spindly wires. Ovelia backed away, startled, as the left-most hanging gave way and the mirror swung down at her like a sword. She dodged and it struck the long basin, shattering half the glass into the murky liquid. The remaining mirror swung madly from the wire on the right end.

Ovelia looked at her dozen images in the mirror as it rocked back and forth, distorting the room with every pass. Which of them was she? Which—?

“You loved every word he said to you,” the images accused. “You
want
him to hurt you, you whore. Nothing more than you deserve—”

“It’s not true,” Ovelia argued. “It’s not—”

A figure moved behind her, and she had just enough time to whirl before a hand clapped over her mouth. “Syr Dracaris,” said a voice in her ear. “Mask awaits.”

Cold steel kissed her throat.

* * *

After a thirty-count, Regel looked up from his stew once again. It had long ago lost its warmth and now tasted of nothing so much as sodden paper, but it had done the job. It had provided a distraction while he needed it.

It let him watch the man following them.

Regel had seen him back near the docks, and again after the roving machine almost struck Ovelia. The same man had been waiting in the common room of the Crimson Bath when they’d come up from the cellar. Ever since, he’d been watching them from a table across the way, in front of a plate of food that he barely touched.

The man’s loyalties were a question, so Regel had given him plenty of talk to listen to, hoping to provoke a reaction. All the while, he’d used his focus to watch the man without watching, paying little attention to Ovelia. The plan had gone well until he’d found himself asking about Paeter Ravalis and she had laughed. That reaction—her
laughter
—at the reminder of her treachery had caused Regel to forget all about the man following them. He’d found himself speaking without thought, words falling from his lips meant to wound. He’d been cruel, and cruelty was not in his nature. He’d thrown her bloodbreaking in her face just to hurt her, and it had worked. She had stormed off, furious and newly set against him.

Worse, the man who’d followed them was gone. No doubt, he’d gone to report them to whoever was coming to kill them now. Regel would have to get Ovelia out of here, but first, he’d have to apologize. Arguing with her had no purpose, when they were united in a single cause.

And so he found himself opening the door to the mercyhall, Ovelia’s name on his lips.

He stopped, and his mind came to a sudden, violent halt. Ovelia was standing near the south wall, held about the neck by the man who’d followed them, with a knife at her throat. He had a southern tinge to his skin and the reddish-blond hair one might expect of a summerblood.

“Syr Dracaris,” the slayer said. “Mask awaits. I have found—”

Regel darted across the room and ripped the man away. His voice cut off and Ovelia collapsed, coughing, to the floor. The knife skittered away under the washbasin and the slayer reached up to where Regel’s strangle-wire tightened around his throat. The man slammed him back against the wall hard enough to make his teeth ring, but Regel held on anyway. They spun and the man dashed Regel into the stand of waste bowls in a hail of splintering wood. Regel held on, sweaty red hair plastered to his cheek.

He was strong, Regel gave him that.

Face red, the slayer slammed his elbow back into Regel’s side, crunching ribs. This time, Regel faltered, and he got a hand under the wire. No use for it now. Regel disengaged and rolled free to crouch beside the kneeling slayer, who coughed and sputtered.

“Regel?” Ovelia murmured, her voice cracked. “Regel—wait...”

The slayer went for another blade, but Regel followed through with a knee to the stomach that doubled the man over. He went for his own steel but the slayer shoved forward, driving them away from the wall and into the water basin. Hard ceramic snapped off behind Regel’s backside, and the sharp edges cut into his legs. His head crashed back into the wall, destroying his balance. Dimly, vision shaking, he saw his attacker grab him by the shirt and wind back a fist.

By instinct, Regel flinched aside and his attacker cried out as he punched the remaining shards of the broken mirror. The shock startled him, and Regel saw shards of glass among the spy’s knuckles. Regel got his arms around the man and shoved. His cloak caught on the broken basin and jerked them both sprawling to the floor.

Both men went down in a heap, punching and kicking and ripping. Blood from the slayer’s wounded hand smeared across Regel’s face as fingers scrabbled for his mouth and his eyes. Regel elbowed him in the ear, stunning him, and rolled over on top. He drew back his hand, palm open, ready to shatter the man’s nose and crush his head into the floorboards.

“Wait!” Ovelia pleaded. “Stop!”

Regel looked, and his muscles froze in hesitation. With the light shining in her white-gold hair and her hands clasped before her, pleading, he almost thought it was Lenalin kneeling there.

But it was only Ovelia, he realized, and he had hesitated too long.

His opponent punched him hard in the center of the chest. Regel jerked, fire lancing through him, and fell to the floor with a groan. The slayer pulled a knife from his boot and jabbed it down, but Regel caught his wrist and held him back.

“For the Ravalis,” the man hissed.

Regel pushed, but the spy was younger—stronger.

“Stop, Syr Damos!” Ovelia said. “I command you!”

The slayer shivered, caught with indecision, and Regel reversed his thrust. The man wheezed as the blade sank between two of his ribs. Blood welled around the hilt. He blinked, mouth working.

“Syr,” he murmured, looking at Ovelia. “Silver F—ahh!” His cry of agony split the room, until Regel choked it off with a warding hand.

“Look at me.” Regel crouched over him, hands grasping his face. “Look at
me
, not at her.” He locked eyes with the slayer. “Where? Where is Mask?”

Ovelia spoke cautiously. “Regel—”

Regel shot her a dangerous look. “You shut your burning mouth!”

“It hurts.” The man coughed blood onto Regel’s face. “By the Fire, it hurts!”

“I’ll end it,” Regel said. “Tell me where Mask is, and I’ll end it.”

The man—barely more than a boy, Regel realized—met his eyes. “In... in Aertem’s temple,” he said. “Seek... the rose stone... Please!” Blood flowed out his mouth. “Please!”

“Burn you, Regel!” Ovelia cried.

Regel punched his hand into the butt of the dagger, driving it so deep the hilt slapped against flesh. The slayer’s eyes rolled up and, slowly, he toppled back to the floor. Regel could just see the blade tenting the back of the man’s leathers—which grew quickly sodden with heart blood. There was pain on the man’s face, but it eased. He closed the slayer’s eyes.

Slowly, Regel rose and turned to Ovelia, who was staring at the scene. “Syr.” Regel wiped the blood from his face, smearing it with the blood on his hand. “He called you
Syr
.”

Ovelia didn’t seem at all like Lenalin anymore. Her eyes were dangerous and she had her hand on her blade. They stood together, two warriors breathing in the familiar scent of death—letting it arouse their senses and remind them of violent, glorious days. Days spent
together
.

Ovelia backed a step away.

“You knew him,” Regel said. “You knew his name.”

“Regel.” Ovelia put her hand to the hilt of her sword and backed toward the door.

He crossed the room, seized her by the shoulders, and shoved her against the door jam. “Speak,” he demanded. “And no lies. How did you know that man? Who was he?”

“Syr Damos, Knight of Summer,” Ovelia said. “He was one of mine.”

“One of
yours
?” Regel grasped her tighter. “What do you mean?”

“He—” Ovelia looked at the man’s corpse. “He volunteered for this, for a chance to meet you. You, the legendary Frostburn. You were his hero.”

“Make this make sense!” Regel shook her. “How did you know him? Whom does he—?”

“The Ravalis,” she said. “Old Gods, Regel—think! I live because of the
Ravalis
.”

“You serve them.” He narrowed his eyes. “You
serve
them.”

“
Served
,” Ovelia corrected. “After Orbrin, they made me their spymaster. Yes—I was the Shroud, all this time.” She gave him a warning look. “I knew all about you. I knew all about your Circle of Tears.”

“And you never moved against me, why?” Regel said, daring her to lie. “Out of sentiment?”

“No,” she said. “I haven’t moved against you because I’ve been waiting—waiting for a chance at Mask. I knew I would need you—that without you, I would fail. For five years, I have waited, and he has finally resurfaced. Now I’ve played everyone against each other so that I could gather the resources—people—I needed, and get free to exact justice. Nothing matters more than that.
Nothing
.”

“I don’t understand.” Regel grasped her arms tighter and pressed her into the wall. He nodded over his shoulder at the dead man. “If he was yours, why did he have a blade at your throat? Why?”

“Because I
betrayed
them, Regel,” she said. “I manipulated them as I needed, found you, and fled. I had set Damos to find Mask in Luether, and when we arrived together, he—he didn’t know what to think, and I couldn’t stop you from killing him.” She reached up as though to touch his cheek, but Regel caught her hand roughly. Any tenderness she might have held at that moment fled, and when she looked into his eyes she spoke without emotion. “You’re hurting me.”

“I’ll hurt you more if you don’t answer,” Regel said. “The castermen in the Burned Man, the Dusters at the safehouse... they were yours as well? You planned all of this. Why?”

“I needed it to seem real,” Ovelia said. “I told them we were attacking you, that this was all to get a clear shot at you. I lied to them, Regel, just like I lied to you, because I needed you to believe the Ravalis were after me, so that you’d help me. I know the sort of man you are, Regel.”

The skin of Regel’s arms and neck prickled at the realization of how she had manipulated him, but he stuffed down the anger. “You have done nothing but lie to me,” he said. “Why should I trust you now? Why should I believe that you are no longer in league with the Ravalis?”