Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (16 page)

When Meron pressed his shoulder into her chest, Serris could not help but look down his back. The magic had burned right through his weathercloak and armor, leaving scraps fused to his flesh. The skin and most of his musclature was gone, and dissolving ribs arched out of a corpse left to rot in Ruin’s rain. He pressed his sweaty cheek against her neck and shuddered.

“Meron, all passes well.” Serris eased Meron to the glass below them. “You saved me.”

The sounds of mage-engines roared to life farther up the dock. The
Avenger
slid off into the night. It slipped toward the ground a few paces before the engines flared and the ship rose into the sky. The engine’s three gold rings began their slow orbits around the ship, cloaking it in buoyant magic. The Tears were too late, but that no longer mattered.

“Hold, Meron,” Serris said. “Just—”

Instead of speaking, Meron coughed traces of acid onto her face. Bloody foam leaked from the edge of his lips. He should have died instantly, but instead he leaned against her and shuddered. Great rending sobs ran through him, and a horrible screeching sound wrenched itself from his throat. He drooled blood and bile and convulsed, his body fighting to stay alive. Meron pawed at Serris, tearing at her clothes and twisting his fingers in her hair.

“Help!” Serris said. “Someone help him!”

Nacacia and Daren stalked toward the last two foes. Reiten shouted orders at his squire, who merely stared at what he had done to Meron. Finally, as the Tears approached, the unknown boy noticed them and realized he had to defend himself or flee. He took the third option: with a sob, he leaped from the skydock into the fragmented abyss. Rieten stared after him, then his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Someone help!” Serris cried.

Meron burbled something nonsensical. His eyes pleaded with Serris, and his hands clawed at her.

“Serris,” Erim said. “You have to end it.”

He was right, of course. Meron was already dead, even if his body had not accepted it. Serris wrapped her arm around Meron’s head. “Pass well,” she said. “It ends.”

Then she drove her dagger up between his ribs and pierced his heart. His spasms ended, and he gave one last, relieved sigh. Then he was dead.

Serris wiped Meron’s lifeblood from her face and surveyed their choices. With the
Avenger
launched, they had no more business in high-city, and to stay would only invite more Ravalis guards after them. The blizzard cleared somewhat to reveal a horror of blood and shattered glass. The elements would wipe the blood away, but such devastation would not go unnoticed. At least if there were no Ravalis survivors, no one would know who was to blame. Efficiently, the other Tears were hauling the bodies to the edge and hurling them over. Only one Duster had survived: Reiten, who was even now chuckling at her where Nacacia held him at swordpoint.

“You ugly whore.” He touched at his torn face. “Look what you did!”

Serris stalked toward him. Her face burned in the snow and afterheat of battle, but she made no move to secure her mask. Let the scar shine like a beacon for the monster who had killed her friend.

“What’s on the
Avenger
?” she demanded of him.

Reiten sneered. “Dead whores.”

Serris hadn’t expected an answer. “You came to stop us. You knew we were coming. How?”

Reiten nodded. “We’ve known about the Burned Man for years,” he said. “It was all a matter of smoking you out. The
Avenger
did that. And now you’ve been caught, whore.”

Serris listened, but there were no sounds of horns.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But if you knew we were coming, why didn’t you bring more Dusters? And no mages? What about the reinforcements I don’t hear coming? Either you underestimated us, or you’re stupid.” She shook her head. “We happened across you. Just Nar-burned luck. And not yours.”

Reiten’s face flushed. “You’re going to die, whore,” he said. “I will see it personally. I will stick my blade in you until you scream and—”

“But you can’t prove it,” Serris said.

He looked startled. “What?”

“You can’t prove anyone at the Burned Man stands against the Ravalis.” She kept her emotions under control. “If you could, you would have struck long ago, by law of the Council. You still can’t.”

“Burn the Council. You will slip up. And when you do, I’ll kill you personally.”

Serris turned and headed back to the lift, signaling the Tears to follow her.

“I’ll find your man, whore,” Reiten called. “Your Nar-burned
daughter
.”

Serris stopped and stood there, breathing heavily.

Reiten’s face brightened. “Oh I know,” he said. “I’ve rutted enough of your whores to hear. Your daughter. I’ll bash her head open on the wall. I’ll make you watch when I—”

Serris turned, strode to him, and slashed her dagger across his throat. Blood sprayed and Reiten fell back, choking. His eyes were wide and surprised, as though he’d expected his words to harm her, rather than enrage her. Then she kicked his dying body through the hole in the mage-glass, and watched the debris break its bones and cut open its flesh as it fell.

“We go,” Serris said.

As they rode the lift down, Serris thought of Regel in far-away Luether. Even if she caught a mage-caravel tonight, she would get to the City of Pyres days after the
Avenger
arrived, with whatever forces the Ravalis had sent. Regel was on his own against an unknown threat, and she had no way to warn him. She could only trust that he would return safely, and be quit of that damned Bloodbreaker.

If the Old Gods smiled, he had killed her already.

Eleven

Luether

R
egel sat naked against
the cool earthen wall beneath the Crimson Bath tavern. Overhead, feet stomped and muffled voices bickered. Firelight filtered through cracks in the wood, cutting through the dusty mist. Regel let these things soothe him as he sat, muscles relaxed, gazing at the dragon that perched before him.

The beast of crimson was a thing of beauty, with its glittering gold eyes and graceful form. Its contours were soft and smooth, and he could almost taste the sweat that set it to shimmering. Deep scars ran across its body, but it floated unbowed and unbroken. When he stretched out his hand and touched one of its wings, the dragon shivered and straightened. It radiated heat. He traced the wing to the spine, then down its back to its tail, before he finally let his hand rest at his side. Freed of his touch, the dragon relaxed again, bending away from him with a sigh.

“We should talk,” Regel said.

“We do not have to.”

“Yes.” Regel closed his hand into a fist. “Yes, we do.”

Ovelia sat on the edge of the bed, knees pressed to her chest, chin in her hands. Even as her pose stretched her dragon tattoo proudly, it also spoke of vulnerability and deep weariness. Fire roiled just inside her skin, however. Regel could see it and feel it.

“I just made love to the Shroud. Surely that entitles me to a few words.”

“Did you?” Ovelia gave a humorless sniff. The sound was loud in the empty basement. “I think it was
her
, not me.”

“What?”

“Lenalin.” Ovelia looked over her shoulder at him. “Tell truth. Was it me, or was it her?”

“It was you.”

“You need not lie, Regel.” Ovelia turned away. “We
have
used each other before.”

“And if I told you it was her, what then?” Regel asked. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Then yes,” Regel said, feeling cold inside. “It was her, and not you.”

Ovelia sighed and said nothing.

“And when you were rutting me,” said Regel. “Who were you?”

“Her.” Ovelia shrugged, setting her dragon tattoo writhing. “The way you looked at me, like you were looking at
her.
I did it...” She touched her bleached hair, letting her words fade.

“Because you still love her,” Regel murmured.

“Yes.” Ovelia lowered her hand from her hair. “Always.”

Regel touched her bare shoulder. “Lenalin is dead, Ovelia.”

“Oh yes.” Ovelia pulled away and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Death has made her eternal and untouchable. She will never age for you as I have. She will never fade.” Her voice trembled. “How long must I stand second to a corpse in the ground?”

Regel wanted to assure her that she was wrong, but he kept his silence. Ovelia
had
changed, but she had not faded. She had more scars than five years ago, and he wanted to know the story of every one. She was older, of course, but he desired her no less. If he said that to her, would it comfort or pain her?

“You were right,” he said. “We don’t have to talk.”

He put out his arms, and she slid between them. They lay together for a silent breath. Ovelia traced her fingers along his chest, and he could feel her warm breath teasing the sparse hairs that lined his muscles.

At length, Ovelia turned and pushed herself atop Regel. She pressed her body into him and lifted her face level with his. “Why did you love her so much?”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk.”

“Lenalin.” Ovelia lay across Regel. “Why did you love her more than me?”

“Ovelia—”

“Was it her eyes?” She winked at him flirtatiously. “Or her lips?” She leaned down to kiss him. “Or could it have been these?” Ovelia brought her hands to her chest.

“None of those,” said Regel.

Ovelia rolled her eyes and sighed. “You are
certain
that these meant nothing to you?” She squeezed her breasts, which sparkled with light sweat in the candlelight.

“Yours were always far more impressive,” Regel said.

“Bigger and more impressive are not the same. But you
are
a man.”

“So I am.” Regel put his hands on her chest. Her nipples hardened under his callused palms. Ovelia made a sound deep in her throat that was half-sigh, half-moan.

“Say it again.” Ovelia reached down to where Regel had grown hard and moved him into her.

Chills passed through Regel as she sidled atop him. “Ovelia,” he said.

“Not
Ovelia
.” She ran her fingers through her white-blonde dyed hair. “Say it again—please.”

Her eyes pleaded as her fingers traced electric lines along his skin. He could not deny her.

“Lenalin,” Regel whispered. “My princess—”

Ovelia shut her eyes and moaned.

* * *

Sometime later, they lay pressed tight into one another. Regel breathed softly, drifting, while Ovelia curled a lock of his black hair in her fingers. He liked the sensation, and also the feel of her strong frame against his chest. One hand he trailed across her strong backside, while in the other he held the carving he had been crafting over the last days. He had fallen mostly asleep thinking about it, and the implications of what he meant to do with it.

“What oath have you broken?” she asked in a whisper.

Regel stirred back to wakefulness, led by her voice. He clutched the carving tighter.

“In Tar Vangr,” Ovelia’s fingers traced his jaw. “When Serris was about to kill me, she named me Oathbreaker, and you suggested we were alike in that. What did you mean?”

“Ovelia—”

“I’ll not be swayed.” She put his hand on her cheek, matching her own hand on his. “Why are you an oathbreaker, when you have ever been loyal to the Blood of Winter?”

Regel looked away, fixing his eyes on the candles at the side of the bed. “When first we met,” he said. “When we were children, did I not vow to defend Lenalin with my last breath?”

“You did,” Ovelia said. “And so did I.”

“That is the oath I broke,” he said. “I swore to protect her, but I could only avenge her.”

“Avenge her?” Ovelia looked puzzled. “But it was an accident. Lenalin fell.”

He saw again the fear and doubt in her face as she spoke, and it drew him back fifteen years to that awful night it had all come to pass. Lenalin bloody and screaming as Orbrin’s chiurgeons tried to save her. Everyone had insisted it was an accident. She’d had a free-standing mirror in her chambers, and she’d tripped. All of them believed that—all but Regel, who knew better.

“Paeter Ravalis,” Regel said. “It was his hand that killed Lenalin.”

Ovelia’s fingers froze where they had been reaching toward his neck, and she drew her hands to her chest. She seemed to age several years in that moment—her face knitting in lines of pain. “No,” she said, mostly to convince herself. She must always have suspected. “No. Orbrin said—”

“Ovelia, you know the truth,” Regel said. “Orbrin could not move against the Ravalis—he was already too weak. They murdered the heir of Winter and he didn’t even chasten them.”

“Why?” Ovelia’s face was white. “Paeter—why would he do it?”

“You know the Ravalis—how they
own
their women,” Regel said. “From the moment they are born, a father owns his daughters until he sells them to another man. How Orbrin gave Lenalin willingly to one such.”

“Yes.” Ovelia’s voice was distant. “But how did that—”

“He beat her,” Regel whispered. “He did it often. Almost daily, near the end.”

“Old Gods, I...” Ovelia said. “I saw bruises, but she... She never told me.”

Regel leaned up to kiss her cheek. “Do not blame yourself,” he said. “Lenalin kept it a close secret. She must have wanted you to know nothing—or Paeter told her to stay silent.”

“But she told
you
.”

“She had no need—I saw the marks,” he said. “Lenalin commanded me—
begged
me—to do nothing. So did the king, even after Paeter beat her to death.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Regel? Have we not shared enough?”

“She...” Regel sighed. “When we were young, she took an oath of me that I would always follow her commands, and she held me to it. I saw the bruises after her first night and confronted her, but she bade me breathe a word to no one—not even the king. On my oath, she bade me do nothing.”

“And you kept your silence.” Ovelia shivered. “Old Gods. Regel, I didn’t know.”

“How could you know?” Regel shut his eyes. “We both thought Paeter would stop when Darak was born: a son to steal his attention. And for a time, the prince cared more for his heir than his woman. To him, she had vanished. She was lonely... but at least she was safe.” He trailed off.

“And then Semana was born.” Ovelia looked back over her shoulder.

“Yes,” Regel said. “Just before we left for the war with the barbarians in the east, Lenalin grew great with child. Paeter became angry. He accused her of treason against the crown. Of adultery.”

“How could they?” Ovelia said. “And even if Lenalin had a lover—and she would have told me—Semana was blooded and bred of the heir of Winter. No one could deny she was of the Blood.”

“But not
Ravalis
Blood, they said. She had hazel eyes, yes—like the summerborn—but nothing else. Her face and hair were those of Lenalin, her speech and mannerisms those of Winter. And you know the Luethaar cannot stand a woman defeating a man, even in the battle of blood.”

Ovelia cast her eyes down and said nothing.

“Paeter grew worse,” Regel said. “One night, on the eve of the Semana’s fourth year—when I came back from the war in Echvar. You remember?”

She nodded.

“Lenalin covered it well, but her skin was a wasteland of bruises.” His fists clenched. “She begged me to stay my hand again. I conceded. That was the last I saw of her—the last time
alive.
”

“Ruin’s Night.” Ovelia’s hand strayed to his, and he held it.

“Ruin’s Night. ” Regel looked away. “That morn. Do you remember?”

“Yes. I remember your eyes.” Ovelia lowered her gaze, and Regel thought he could see tears in her eyes. “They told me in the night. They said it was an accident, but... Lenalin was always so
graceful
.”

Regel’s chest felt hollow. “Darak was there. It must have been his sixth winter, and you were holding Semana in your arms.” He held up his hands as though to cradle an invisible child.

Ovelia nodded. “I didn’t want to believe it was an accident, but I did. It was easier.”

“Orbrin knew,” Regel said. “He
knew
, and he forbade me to take vengeance. He could not punish the Ravalis without breaking the Blood alliance. To accuse the prince or even to speak of it in court would mean civil war in Tar Vangr, and Blood Denerre was weak. Even if I killed Paeter by stealth, that would be just as damning. Orbrin had no choice but to accept it.”

“We were fools—all of us.” Ovelia’s body tightened as though Regel’s words had stabbed her in the belly, and she rolled over to slump at his side. “Old Gods, here I was, furious at you, when I would have done far worse. I would have killed not just him, but his whole boiling Blood.”

He lay beside her, staring up at the ceiling. He believed her.

“Did Paeter do that to you as well?” Regel asked at length. “Try to own you?”

Ovelia clenched her jaw. “Their rule over women is not strength but weakness.”

It was not an answer, but Regel understood. He ran his thumb along her cheek. The determination on her face elevated her features beyond themselves, and he could not look away. The carving bit into his hand, as though reminding him of its presence. “Ovelia,” he said.

“So why didn’t you? Kill Paeter, I mean—that same day.” Ovelia sat up and the dragon on her back sparkled, seemingly enraged. “If you knew, why didn’t you?”

“You were there when Orbrin commanded me not to,” Regel said.”

“That isn’t why. You would have killed Orbrin
and
me if we stood in your way. And yet you did not kill Paeter that day. Why? ” Ovelia touched him lightly. “Because
Lenalin
asked you not to.”

Regel exhaled. “I swore to defend her from all foes, to punish any who harmed her—but also to obey her.”

“You had to choose.” Ovelia hugged herself tightly. “And you could not refuse her, even after she had breathed her last. You kept one oath, and broke the other.”

“Just so,” he said. “And so I took the name Oathbreaker. We are the same.”

Ovelia looked away. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose we are.”

The candles flickered and dust sprinkled down from the ceiling. The sounds of riotous laughter and merriment filtered from above in stark contrast to the solemn silence below. Regel considered the carving he hid in his hand. With that, he could hear every word that was said up there, and that would be easier than these words they two shared. There was heat there—life and passion—as there was between Regel and Ovelia. But down here, in the hidden cellar, it had cooled here to an angry simmer.

“But you
did
kill him, eventually,” Ovelia said. “Paeter. You killed him, five years ago. There must have been some victory in that.”

“Yes.” Regel frowned. “Though that night, the king...” He let the words trail off into the cellar air, which seemed to grow colder in an instant.

Ovelia’s reassuring smile faded. She eased a little farther away. “Why have you never asked?”

Regel reached for her. “Asked what?”

“Why I killed my king, to whom I had sworn my life and my sword. The king who was a
father
to me. To both of us.” Ovelia clenched her fists. “Why have you never asked why I destroyed our lives?”

“You would lie.”

“You will not know until you ask,” Ovelia said. “Shall I tell you?”

He reached out and twisted his fingers gently around a curl of her dyed hair. It was red half a thumb out from the scalp. Everyday, she seemed less Lenalin and more herself.

“Does it matter?” he asked. “The Blood of Winter is spilled and gone. Orbrin, Lenalin, and Semana are dead, Darak exiled for treason. The Ravalis rule Tar Vangr. So does it matter, truly?”