Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (20 page)

Warily, Ovelia approached, took the parcel, and unwrapped it. Her face paled.

“I imagine you believe me now,” Mask said.

Ovelia let her hand slip, and Regel could see the contents of the parcel: a silver ring—Semana’s signet—which encircled a pale finger. Semana’s finger.

Ovelia’s hands trembled. “How dare you,” she said. “How
dare
you!”

“Oh yes, Bloodbreaker,” Mask said. “Pretend to grieve. It suits you.”

Before Regel could stop her, Ovelia leaped upon Mask, fingers curled into claws. Ovelia was bigger and stronger, and she bore the sorcerer to the floor. Mask kept barking ragged laughter until Ovelia finally slammed its head on the stone. As the thing made choking sounds, Ovelia reached for its throat.

“Enough!” Regel grasped her shoulder.

Ovelia drove her elbow into the center of Regel’s chest, blowing the air from his lungs. Regel managed to dodge her follow-up strike in part: her knee ended up in his midsection instead of his groin. He staggered back and raised his throwing knife, even as she reached out and snatched up Draca.

“Yes—” The sorcerer lay on the floor, coughing and wheezing. “Yes—fight each other.”

Ovelia rounded on Mask, sword raised. “How dare you.” She pronounced each word like a dagger thrust. “You—”

“I dare much,” Mask said. “Accept my bargain or kill me now. The Lord of Tears has already chosen, and now it is your turn. Decide quickly, for time passes.”

Regel’s arm trembled with tension. He would not waver in his aim.

“Do it, Whore of Dracaris,” Mask said. “See if you can strike before he cuts you down.”

Regel lacked Mask’s confidence as to his own speed. Perhaps he should throw now, while Ovelia was distracted. She might not see Draca’s warning shadows... Then Ovelia moved. Startled, Regel pumped his arm and threw. Too late. Draca slashed around, batted the dagger from the air, and ended up at Mask’s throat.

“I will not kill you—not until you give us Semana,” Ovelia said to Mask. “But do not think I could spend five years as the Shroud without learning about pain.”

“I believe you.” Mask huffed a laugh. “Good choice, Bloodbreaker.”

Ovelia looked to Regel, and he saw that she was in control of herself. At the same time, though, she would not forget he had tried to kill her. “What must we do?” she asked Mask.

“One life for another. Help me kill a man, and I’ll return Semana to you.”

“What man?” Ovelia asked.

“Does it truly matter?” Mask’s voice was near a whisper, and the creature crept close enough to kiss him—or bite him. “Are there limits to your love for yon princess? Did I manipulate the wrong former knights of the Winter King? Do you know of any others I should try?”

“And if we decide to kill you instead?” Ovelia asked. “You cannot harm Semana then.”

“Not I, no,” Mask said. “Remember though, Bloodbreaker: all this has come to pass as I intended. Perhaps I left instructions for my men to cut the girl’s throat if I do not return—that, and worse. Both before and after.” Its chapped lips smiled inside the slit of the mask. “
Explicit
instructions.”

That stilled Ovelia. They were beaten, Regel knew, and Ovelia was realizing it.

“Fear not, once-Shield-and-Shadow of Winter, it’s not a death you’ll mind overmuch.” The sorcerer stretched, making its joints pop loudly. “In fact, I suspect you crave this man’s death nearly as much as you want mine.”

“Enough riddles.” Regel said. “We will walk what path we must. Name this man we must kill.”

Mask looked at him for a long time, considering. “He is Summer King Demetrus Ravalis, Lord of Tar Vangr, Usurper of Winter’s Crown.” Something like bemusement touched Mask’s voice. “A regicide isn’t too much to ask, is it?”

Neither Regel nor Ovelia laughed.

“Why us?” Regel asked. “Surely you can kill any man, no matter how powerful. Even a king.”

“I should think that obvious.” Three trails of smoke rose from Mask’s fingers to disperse into the air. “First, because you, Lord of Tears, are the greatest slayer among Calatan’s heirs—as you proved by defeating my student and myself. Second, because of that fabulous magic-drinking sword you bear. And third”—Mask nodded at Ovelia—“because
she
has done it before.”

Ovelia whirled upon Mask. “Foul creature! You—”

“It is simple truth.” The sorcerer spread its hands. “You are the Bloodbreaker, are you not? I watched you do the deed.”

Ovelia grasped her forehead as though in pain. “Enough.”

“Do you not see the agony in her, Lord of Tears?” Mask asked. “She, who has hunted me for five years? She, who has used all the resources of the hated Usurper to find me? Who knows how she has compromised herself—how she has sullied her honor and betrayed her Blood and...”

“Enough!” Ovelia grasped Mask by the collar and pulled the sorcerer into the air. It dangled like a straw doll in her hands. “Enough of this!”

“Ovelia,” Regel said, drawing her attention. “Stand down.”

She looked at him beseechingly, anger clear on her features. He could well imagine the indecision within her—the war between hope and wrath. She did not understand. But she would.

“Do not blame the Bloodbreaker, Lord of Tears,” Mask said. “Her enmity is well founded. She is a slave to her feelings and her judgment is tainted.”

Finally, Ovelia set Mask back on the floor and turned away. “We will do this thing,” she said. “But speak another word to me, sorcerer, and it will be your last breath.”

“So like a woman, to speak with her heart. I would hear the one who speaks with his head. ” Mask looked to Regel. “What say you, Lord of Tears?” Stone skittered underfoot outside the destroyed temple. Finally, someone was coming to inspect the devastation—coming in force. “Your vow, please.”

Regel looked down to the rubble on the floor. He selected a piece of rosy stone about half the size of his hand. The stone was soft, almost as easy to work as wood and perfect for carving. He saw something in it—something that the stone should be. In Regel’s hand, the hunk of dawnstone aligned with Mask’s body at a distance. Regel beckoned the sorcerer forward.

Mask approached, until they stood only a pace apart. This far from Draca, the ensorcelled parts of Mask’s armor crackled back into life and power whirred. Ovelia gave Regel a questioning look and reached for the sword. Regel stared down at the piece of dawnstone and let his senses take in the scene around him: the settling dust, Ovelia’s sweat and quickening pulse, the stench of rotting flesh that wafted from Mask. And most of all, the cold, sharp edge of the throwing knife flat against his palm.

“What say you?” the sorcerer asked.

Act Three: Slayers

Five Years Previous—The Dusk Sea—Ruin’s Night, 976 Sorcerus Annis

T
he
Heiress
cut through
the night sky on its northbound journey toward Tar Vangr, which lay shrouded in darkness at this distance. Dark clouds drifted across the crimson moon, rolling like smoke trapped inside the black dome of Ruin’s sky. Far to the east, over the Burning Lands where the sun stirred from its slumber, silver traced the edge of night to herald the coming dawn.

Tithian leaned against the gilded rail of the skyship, peering down at the Dusk Sea as it lay like an edgeless sheet of dusky glass a thousand paces below. Every few seconds, one of the mage-engine rings would scythe past in front of him on its slow spin around the ship, sweeping magic in its wake. The breeze at this altitude pricked at his cheeks—the one fresh and smooth, the other scarred and numb.

He didn’t want to be here at the prow of the ship, where a boy his age shouldn’t be. Tomorrow would mark the end of his thirteenth winter, and he was far from a man grown. The blackness frightened him more and more with each increasingly rapid breath. The knife at his belt—a gift from the Frostburn himself—had seemed impressive before they’d left Tar Vangr, but the endless gloom rendered it insignificant. He clutched the hilt for reassurance, even if he had no idea how to use the blade.

He would never admit his fear, of course—particularly not to she who had asked him to wait for her. He shouldn’t be here. He
wouldn’t
be here, if it weren’t for the princess. Syr Sargaunt hadn’t wanted him along, but she had insisted. She was going to be the death of him one day.

A white-gloved hand slid over his, and a warm body pressed itself against his back. A voice whispered in his ear: “What do you see, Tith?”

He yelped and whirled away into what he meant to be a defensive stance. Instead, his club foot caught under him, and he landed on his backside on the deck. His attacker’s hazel eyes filled with laughter. “Your—Your Highness!” Tithian said, and haltingly dropped to one knee.

Princess Semana Denerre nô Ravalis raised her chin and peered down at him like the noblewoman she was destined to become. Wind rippled her white-blonde hair—the mark of the Blood of Winter—and she wore a magewrought cloak to match. The fabric seemed to flow into the night, less like a garment than mist, tinged by the red silk scarf she wore around her neck. As Semana stood there heedless of the night, the breeze revealed a hint of red and pink petticoats below her silk gown. Tithian was probably not supposed to be staring at these so intently, so he looked to the deck beneath her feet.

“What, did I scare you?” She crossed her arms. They were of an age, he and the princess—three years short of majority—but when she looked at him that way, she seemed much older. The scrutiny of her vivid, topaz eyes made him uneasy. “What sort of warder is so scared of a girl in a cloak?”

“Just startled, Highness.” Tithian rose shakily. He released his white-knuckled hold on the dagger. “I didn’t see you.”

“Thank you.” The seriousness of the moment fell away as the princess beamed. The dimples at either end of her mouth made her seem much younger.

Tithian kept his eyes carefully on the deck. Her well-sculpted face always reminded him of his own ugliness—how the skin hung limp and dead on the left side of his face. His left eye had grown too big and had never seen anything in light but could see in darkness, like a thing out of a two-bit bard’s song. Semana, on the other hand, was a princess of Winter—a perfect creature carved from snow and ice.

“Tithian,” she said. “Look at me.”

Could she hear his thoughts? Tithian felt warm and sick at once. “But Highness, I—”

“Must we play this game every time?” Semana’s soft fingers touched his chin like cold steel, setting his skin to tingling. “Look at me. I command it.”

Tithian sucked in a breath, then raised his head—haltingly—to meet her gaze. When he caught her eyes, all his fears flew from him in the wake of her smile. He had the body of a beast, but just then, he felt like the handsomest man ever born in the World of Ruin.

She leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “I’m glad you’re here.”

For a heartbeat, he thought she might kiss him. Tithian nodded dutifully, trying to hide his suddenly very hot cheeks. “Of course, Highness,” he said. “Your will commands me.”

Semana pulled away, her expression fallen a little. “Oh, must you? Tith, I bring you with me for your honesty. Don’t become another of those weak-lipped morons, bowing and sniveling and providing
absolutely
no fun.”

“No, Highness,” he said. “Certainly not.”

“Good.” Seemingly oblivious to his deepening blush, Semana put her hands on the gilded rail and gazed off into the darkness. “So. Will you answer my question?”

“Pardon, Highness?” He didn’t remember her asking a question, much less what it was.

With a bemused smile, Semana gestured ahead into the night. “What do you see?”

Hesitantly, Tithian crept back toward the rail. He made sure to stand to her left, so as to present his best face to her. He squinted to no avail. “It is too dark, Highness,” he said.

“No, no!” She pulled him to the rail and pressed him into place beside her. “Look harder!” Then she gave him a daring look. “Or are you
scared
?”

Balling his fists for courage, Tithian stared into the void again, then shook his head. “I still see nothing, Highness. Only darkness.”

She looked at him fully now, and he saw again the mischievous girl who had sneaked up on him and whispered in his ear. “Exactly,” she said.

“What?”

“Something my mother used to say.” Semana leaned against the rail and let her hair trail over the side into the night. She looked sidelong at him. “The darkness—is it not beautiful?”

Tithian tried to respond, but he couldn’t think clearly with Semana pressed against into his side. Her touch did funny things to his mind and especially his body. He hoped she wouldn’t notice, or he would get a whipping from Syr Sargaunt for sure.

“The night, just like this.” The princess looked over the rail. “I love it. I can stand here and look and there is only me. No wastrel father, no honored mother ten years dead. No kingdom of Winter—no war with Luether—no Ruin.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Just me and the darkness. Free.”

Fear gripped at Tithian’s bowels, but at her side, he could banish its haunting caress. Indeed, unusual courage rose in him in that moment, and his hand crept toward hers. He watched his hand move and knew he should stop himself, but chose not to do so.

“You feel it?” she said, making him hesitate. “Alone, out here in the vast... I can almost forget.”

Tithian was about to touch her. “Princess—?”

At that instant, something pinched him hard on his backside, and he yelped and fell away from the rail to the deck, fumbling for the dagger at his belt. The princess covered her mouth in a half-hearted attempt to stifle laughter. “Ah ha!” she said. “I
knew
you were afraid.”

Tithian’s face burned. “Am not!” he cried as he climbed to his feet.

Semana peered down her nose. “Am not,
Highness
?”

He bent his knee halfway and spread his hands. “Am not,
Semana
.”

“Insolent boy!” she said, trying not to laugh. “I shall have to berate you for that.”

Light glimmered in the distance, and Tar Vangr appeared before them. The watch-fires atop the battlements broke from the gloom first, then the forges kept eternally alight in the never-ending silver flame of the Nar. As they drew closer, Tithian could see a glow within the great glass window of the palace throne room.

“There,” he said. “I feel much better now that we can see the lights.”

Semana wore a pensive expression as she considered the city’s muddy radiance. “We fear the darkness,” she said. “And that which we fear becomes our master.”

“Did... did you mother say that as well?” Tithian asked.

Semana made no sign of having heard the question. She seemed far away.

Whatever courage had filled Tithian a moment before fled in the face of those words. He was not and would never be a brave soul—not like the undefeatable King’s Shield or the legendary Winter King’s Shadow. Nor even, he realized, like Semana. As the princess stood unflinching in the face of darkness, all her ugly pageboy wanted to do was hide below. At the same moment, however, he would not leave the rail unless Semana went with him. He found that he simply could not do so.

As they drew closer to the city, the gloom receded around the crescent-shaped harbor, and Tithian could see the dull lights of low-city as well. Thick smoke hid them, caustic haze clinging to the underside of the great support decks that held aloft the shining buildings of the high-city.

“Wow,” Tithian said. “I grew up in low-city but I’ve never seen it from above. It looks so...”

“Miserable?” Semana suggested.

Tithian nodded gravely, then his cheeks went white. “Princess, I did not mean—”

“No—no it is true. It is my greatfather’s fault.” She gestured toward the low-city. “Years ago, the cities were closer—nigh-touching.” Her jaw clenched. “In those days, a man’s worth lay in his honor and the strength of his arm, not the name of his Blood or the coin in his pouch. But since the Blood War and the coming of the Ravalis...” She scowled. “The Blood of Summer would doom the old ways.”

Tithian thought she might be jesting for a moment, but when she turned her baleful eyes on him, his chuckle died in his throat. “Highness, you must not speak so of the Ravalis Blood. Your father—”

“Old Gods burn Paeter Ravalis,” she said. “I am my
mother’s
daughter. Mine is the Blood of Winter, not of Summer. It is not fevered and self-indulgent, but strong and determined. Unyielding.” She shook her head free of the cowl, loosing her white-blonde curls to tumble around her shoulders. It exposed her red scarf, which made him think of blood—and heat.

Tithian winced at her words. “I am sorry, Highness. That was thoughtless of me.”

Semana smiled wanly at him. “You do me no harm to remind me of my mother on the eve of her death-day. She has been gone these ten years, but I’ll not forget her.”

“Then,” Tithian said. “Perhaps I should stay, that I might bungle my words and remind you?”

He took refuge behind the gentle jest, as he often did. “Humor is the ugly man’s shield,” his gutterborn mother had told him, when the other boys mocked him. He had just seen his fifth Ruin’s Night, and her words stuck in his mind as one of his first, clearest memories.

Semana pursed her lips, considering his offer. “Promise?”

“You’ve my sworn vow, Highness.” He offered a little courtly bow that made her laugh, and he swore it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

“Tithian, I—” She edged closer to him, and her eyes scanned his face. When she spoke, her voice sounded nervous, which surprised him. He’d never known her to be afraid. “I liked it when you called me Semana. You should—you should do that all the time. Call me that.” Her cheeks brightened. “That is, surely we know each other well enough, right?”

There was jesting in her tone, but Tithian could tell her request was deathly serious. He had not realized until just then how much he had longed for this moment.

“If...” He could not resist the draw of her eyes like whirlpools. “If you will it so.”

“I do. I—” Then she cried out. “Ah!”

Her cry startled him out of the madness that would have taken his lips to hers. The wind caught Semana’s crimson scarf and wrenched it from her throat. Tithian made a lunge for it, but the scarf slipped his grasp and danced toward the sea below like a leaf on the wind.

“Curse you, Old Gods of the Nar!” he cried to the night, half serious, half jesting. He shook his fist at the moon.

Semana laughed. When Tithian looked to her, startled, she only laughed harder. The musical sound was infectious, and he started laughing too.

“What is this?” called a gruff voice from behind them, near the stairs to the forecabins. Tithian looked, and there stood the great whitebearded Syr Sargaunt, a patch over his scarred eye and a farcaster in his hands. He marched toward them, limping stiffly on his bad left leg.

“Naught, Armsmaster,” said Semana. “Merely a jest.”

Tithian held his tongue. One wrong word and he would be beaten for sure.

Sargaunt loomed over them both, glaring down with his one good eye. The sickly-sweet odor of sweat and old blood in leather wafted from the big veteran soldier. Vangryur soldiers wore their war-scars proudly, unlike the perfumed Summer folk. Once, Tithian had dreamed of being a warrior, but with his club foot he could hardly walk straight, much less learn the graceful dance of swordplay.

“A jest, eh?” Sargaunt looked at Tithian the way he always did: with disapproval. “This one’s got a bit of wit to him, eh, Your Highness?”

“Indeed.” Semana glanced sideways at Tithian. “Perhaps only half of one, though.”

Sargaunt snorted. “Methinks half of the half, but well, as your ladyship wishes. Is Your Highness finished with the boy? We’ll be in dock soon, and he has duties.”

Tithian winced and gave Semana a pleading look. She returned him a doleful expression. She understood as well as he did how unpleasant his duties could be. “I’ll return him after a hundred-count,” she said finally. “Tithian was telling me a tale and I wish to hear the end of it.”

“A tale—” Tithian furrowed his brow, then realized Semana was lying for him. He nodded vigorously. “About the Red Sorceress. Not, uh, one of the ones I’m not supposed to know, though.”

“Indeed.” Sargaunt grunted. “Count hundred, boy, and attend me then.”

“Aye Syr.” Tithian began a mental count. It wouldn’t do to disappoint the armsmaster.

Sargaunt marched away, grumbling below his voice about the idle follies of young folk—“telling tales” among them—and Tithian breathed a sigh. “Thank—” he said, but Semana pulled him to the rail.

“See?” she said, pointing downward. “It’s just there—quickly now, if you want to see!”