Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (28 page)

“Ah, women are like flowers slipping past in a stream—fine to watch, but passing little to hold,” he said. “Yon lovelies can tell quite the jest, though. That Nacacia, she’s seen almost as many blades as I have, but it’s Lircia who surprises me. The things that come out of that one’s mouth, by the Old Gods...”

Serris crossed her arms. “What’s your business here?”

“Direct,” Garin said. “I should have thought that obvious: while your stodgy Lord of Tears and my terribly repressed cousin compare blades, I was hoping to wine and rut my way into a drunken haze.”

“Oh is
that
your intention,” Serris said. “I’ve been standing here, dressed like this, and you haven’t once looked lower than my face.” She brushed her scarred cheek. “Do you have such contempt for a broken toy like me?”

“No, certainly not, Lady of Winter. Your first guess was correct.” Garin raised his wine jug to his lips. “I need the fortification to make it through the investiture tomorrow.”

She didn’t quite understand, but that caught her attention. “What investiture?”

“My uncle making me the Shroud, of course.” Garin offered her the opened bottle. “Wine?”

His casual admission gave Serris pause. The identity of the Ravalis spymaster—if such a person even existed—was a closely guarded secret. She remembered thinking that for Kiereth Yaela to tell her the Shroud was gone was a large step, and she’d been stunned when Regel told her Ovelia had been the spymaster for the last five years. But now Garin had told her that he himself would become the Shroud?

“Why—?” She mentally rebuked herself for sounding like a weakling. “Why tell me this? You barely know me.”

“I know your name,” Garin said. “And you have a face worthy of trust.”

Serris’s scar burned. “You’re a fool then. I am a liar.”

“My assessment stands,” he said. “You bear that scar with grace and strength, and it does not weaken you. You have my admiration.” He took another pull of wine.

Serris’s feelings hardened and she glared at him. “Save your pity.”

“You took that for pity. Interesting.” He rose, crossed to her, and knelt to kiss her hand. “Tell me: the Lord of Tears calls you his squire. Does he teach you many fine ways to please a man?”

“Some,” she said. “Learned a few on my own.”

“Mmm.” He pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I could teach you a few more.”

Garin’s smile was infectious, and Serris couldn’t help enjoying his flirtation. She had to remind herself this man was dangerous. After all, he had claimed to be the Shroud.

“I am surprised he is only your teacher,” Garin was saying, fingers caressing the back of Serris’s hand. “A beauty such as yours, and he has not married you?”

“Hardly a beauty.” She pulled her hand away. “And that would never happen, Highness.”

“Garin,” he said as he rose. “And I’m intrigued. Say on.”

“In Tar Vangr, Prince,” she said, “only nobles bind themselves so, for the furtherance of their blood. My master and I are commonblood, and so will never bond with any man or woman. We take lovers as we desire, man or woman.”

“Ah,” said Garin. “My pardon, lady. I am not familiar with your customs. I suspect you do not know those of Luether, either.”

“Well enough,” Serris said. “You bind ‘your’ women with rings of gold and strings of jewels to keep them as bedslaves to raise broods of men who treat ‘their’ women the same way.”

“You might as well have spoken a simple ‘nay, I do not,’ my lovely one,” Garin said. “And I think you know nothing of me, if you think of me in those terms.”

“Own no woman of your own, Garin Ravalis? One you bind to home while you go whoring, then strike her for doing the same?”

“No
woman
,” he said.

A moment passed between them, then Serris let out a breath. “Oh.”

“Indeed.”

Serris reassessed. She had thought him contemptuous, so disgusted with her disfigurement that he did not even think of her as a woman, whatever she wore. But now she saw the truth of the man with whom she dueled, and it filled her with relief. “Why tell me this? Secrets are power.”

“This one is a curse,” Garin said. “I’d be careful whose ear I whispered it into. We are such assertive men, we Ravalis. I told you of myself so you would understand why I had to bring your fellow Tears up here, even if I had no intention of rutting either of them, or you for that matter.”

Serris looked him up and down. “Standing quite close for a man who isn’t going to rut me.”

“This is not to say I do not appreciate feminine beauty.” Garin touched her chin lightly with his fingertips, and she met his eyes. “Yours is a powerful light, one your mark only defines, not mars. I see that you are strong and skilled—a warrior, not born but trained and honed. The Tears respect you and defer to you, and yet—”

“And yet?” She put her hand to his well-muscled chest. Garin kept his body in a fine state, no doubt of that, and Serris found herself thinking it a shame he had no desire for women.

“And yet.” He put his arms around her. “I envy you winterborn your freedom to love as you will—without judgment or consequences—and yet I see that it binds you as well. The way you look at the Lord of Tears, it is obvious you love him. You would kill and die for him. And yet he holds you back. He stifles you from becoming something greater.”

Serris stiffened. “You know nothing of either of us,” she said. “Don’t need anyone to save me from myself—least of all a man.”

“Better.” Garin smiled and put his hands on her hips. “Is your child Regel’s?”

A shock ran through Serris. “What?”

“I can feel that you’ve given birth,” Garin said, “and the way you look at the Lord of Tears, coupled with your reaction to my extremely impertinent question tells me...”

Serris drew her dagger and put it to his throat.

“Indeed,” Garin said, undaunted. “Also, I just saw a little girl in the hall. I swear, she looks just like the two of you.”

“Don’t,” Serris said.

Garin smiled. “Good. So we understand each other.” Slowly, he reached into his tunic and drew forth a scroll sealed with wax that bore the mark of the king’s signet. “My uncle wishes all noble-folk of Tar Vangr to attend his revel on Ruin’s Night. To commemorate the fifth year of Ravalis rule, and to honor the fallen—winter and summer both. You are not noble, but you are worthier than most who are.”

“You came here to invite my master to a revel?” Serris asked.

“Him and whatever guests he chooses to bring,” Garin said. He handed her the scroll, and just like that, it hit her. “I hope for the pleasure of your company as well, Lady Serris.”

“You can certainly hope for whatever you will, Child of Summer.”

“I see you haven’t killed me yet,” he said. “I take this as a favorable omen.”

Serris withdrew the dagger, but Garin made no move to step away. He leaned in as though to kiss her, and whispered in her ear. She barely heard his suggestion, however: she stared at the letter he had given her, and her hands began to tremble.

“Lady Serris?” Garin asked, knocked off balance by her unexpected reaction. “Pass well?”

“I’m going.” She turned away. “I’ll send up a boy on my way. Erim. You’ll like him.”

Garin looked uncertain, but ultimately he nodded. “Until tomorrow.”

She nodded and managed to keep her balance until she was out of the room. Then she leaned on the wall and tried to slow her racing heart. Davargorn had said she would soon receive an invitation, and she must accept it. Garin had looked at her with legitimate concern, so she thought he did not know. How far did Davargorn’s reach extend?

* * *

An hour after the Ravalis arrived, Regel saw Garin descend the stairs just as Lan was ordering the soldiers to assemble and board the ornithopter after their fruitless search. Serris, who had reappeared sometime before, had sent Erim away and replaced him as cupbearer. She pointedly avoided Regel’s eyes and said absolutely nothing, even when Nacacia almost provoked two Dusters into a fight. Something was the matter with his squire, and Regel looked forward to getting her alone so they could talk freely.

“I am grieved I cannot aid you, Highnesses,” Regel said when Garin approached. “Unless you wish the services of one of my Tears. As I mentioned to the prince, they are excellent mummers and even better lovers.”

“As I daresay His Highness knows”—Nacacia winked—”from previous patronage.”

Lan paused in commanding his soldiers at glared at Nacacia, quite as though he’d only just not realized she was there. “You dare a great deal, whore, to slander the Crown Prince to his face.”

Never one to lack courage when another Tear was threatened, Serris bristled. “Only in the Summerlands is shared pleasure called insult,” she murmured, “and nowhere is truth called slander.”

Lan put hand to steel. Nacacia’s jest had irked him, but Serris had apparently gone too far. “Still your whore’s waggling tongue, Oathbreaker, or I’ll still it for her.”

Regel expected Serris to retort—she was never one to back down from a threat—but instead she looked away. She almost spilled the mead pouring him a fresh bowl.

“Truly, my prince?” Nacacia licked her lips and slid her hands down her sides to her waist. “You’ve never before asked
me
to still my tongue when I use it on you.”

Lan glared but Garin put a restraining hand on his arm. “The laws, cousin.”

Lan spat on the table. “I should raze your tavern to the ground, Oathbreaker—make it the
Burned Man
for true. What of that?”

“Be welcome to try,” Regel said, inclining his head once more. “And see how the Narfire treats blasphemers of the old laws, royalty or no.”

Lan made a derisive sucking sound with his teeth. “We shall see.”

With that, Lan waved to his Dusters and strode away. The soldiers filed out after him. Garin stopped his cousin and they argued quietly.

“You risked his bed?” asked Regel.

Nacacia smirked. “It was not so bad,” she said. “Rough, but all his strength disappears into a flush when he spends himself. He thinks himself in control. It’s actually quite charming.”

“Wonderful.” Regel tried not to picture the way Ovelia flushed during lovemaking.

Garin returned, his face apologetic. “I see that you do not call my cousin a friend.”

“We tried to kill each other once,” Regel said. “As you can see, it went unresolved.”

“Indeed.” Garin turned to Nacacia. “And my lady, you are very brave indeed.”

“A whore often ruts and rarely tells.” She bowed. “Highness.”

“Of course.” Garin returned her bow, and smiled as she swayed away. “Pay Lan no mind. He fears my uncle withers under the Council’s laws. It is suggested that the Ravalis will cede the throne any day now. Perhaps on the new year.”

Regel found the admission startling, but Serris caught his eye and shook her head. Apparently, she’d had much the same experience with something Garin had said. Wordlessly, she offered him an unsealed scroll. He tried to meet her eye but failed. What was the matter with her?

He unfolded the scroll. “A masquerade,” he noted.

Garin nodded. “The better to bring certain personages who wish to go faceless, aye?”

“Why would such folk attend?” Regel asked calmly. “If they existed at all, of course.”

Garin smiled. “Let us speak plainly,” he said. “One spymaster to another.”

Regel schooled his features to hide his surprise. He looked to Serris, who nodded slightly, confirming it. So Garin was the new Shroud. That explained why he had returned: in the wake of Ovelia’s treachery, the Ravalis would certainly seek to fill the post she’d left vacant.

“Speak, then,” he said. “One spymaster to another.”

Garin nodded candidly. “My uncle Demetrus wishes to offer a truce—a general amnesty,” he said. “If Ravalis is to win the coming war with King Pervast and the Vultara, then we must set aside our petty jealousies and squabbles and fight side-by-side.”

“So there
is
a war,” Serris said, but Regel waved her to silence.

“Even foes of the Ravalis are welcome?” Regel asked.

“
Especially
foes.” With a pleased smile, Garin bowed to Regel, then turned to go. “And tell the lady to wash out that atrocious silver dye and leave her black wig behind,” he said over his shoulder. “Neither suits her.”

Twenty

T
rap,” Regel said as
the curtain to the back corridor swung closed behind them.

“Yes,” said Serris. “It may be a trap, but it is a trap you can use to get to the king.”

“No.”

He turned toward the stairs but she caught his arm. “No?”

Regel shook his head. This played too perfectly into Mask’s plan, almost like another manipulation. Regel felt like a tiny skiff tossed about on waves in an ocean he could not see. Also, he did not know Garin’s game. If he had recognized Ovelia in Luether, why had he not told the Ravalis? He needed time to puzzle this out—time to find another path.

“No,” Regel said finally. “If Ovelia enters that hall, it would be death for all of us.”

“What of the ancient customs?” Serris asked.

“You saw Lan’s contempt for the old ways,” Regel said. “If we did not have so many casters ready, he would have struck regardless of custom.” He pulled his arm gently from Serris’s grasp. “Better to risk Demetrus’s displeasure and change our plans.”

“I’ll make an assignation with Garin for tonight. I can get more from him—”

“No,” Regel said. “Rut him if you will, but no more. We are made and marked. To move against Demetrus now would be to fall upon our own swords. Did you note Lan’s confidence when he spoke of spilling his blood? He wanted us to attack.”

“Magic in his blood?” Serris asked. “He has a ward of some sort? From their pet necromancer?”

“Perhaps,” said Regel. “We have to stay our hands. That is my decision.”

“But what of that
creature
?” Serris asked. “She will be displeased, no?”

Regel scoffed. He turned to march up the stairs, then paused and looked back. “She?”

Serris looked up in confusion. “What?”

“I thought you meant Ovelia when you said
she
, but you did not,” Regel said. “You were talking about
Mask
.”

“Of course,” Serris said. “Will she not be offended if—?”

“
She
.” He hadn’t been certain of Mask’s identity, but he’d always assumed the sorcerer was a man. But to hear it from Serris now—that simple declaration of Mask’s identity—it unlocked something in his mind. “Mask is a woman,” Regel said.

“You—it’s not obvious?” Serris said. “All your skill, Lord of Tears, and you can be so blind.” She stifled a laugh behind her hand, then frowned at his expression. “Regel, I did not mean to offend...”

Mask was a woman. And beneath those tools of her magic, Mask could be
any
woman.

He remembered his dream: blood dripping through silvery blonde hair, a dying breath at his ear. Then the dead woman drew on black leather and smiled.

Regel clenched his hands tight. “I am finished being a toy,” he whispered.

He started up the stairs. Serris made to follow, and he didn’t care to stop her.

Regel kicked his door open. He saw in a heartbeat that Ovelia and Mask had climbed out of the hidden passage and were conversing. Ovelia moved to block his view of Mask, who was donning the dark leather cowl. Regel caught a glimpse of stark white hair—or perhaps blonde.

* * *

From Regel’s room, Ovelia listened through the cracked door as Regel and Serris argued about a path forward. She pressed herself against the wall, straining her ears, trying her best to do anything but focus on Mask, who sat completely at ease on the other side of the room.

While the Ravalis had been here, Ovelia and Mask had hidden in the crawlspace between the floors—ironically, no more than two paces above where Lan had thundered and blustered. When the princes had left, she and Mask had crawled out of their hiding place and into Regel’s room.

“You’re still with me, are you not, Bloodbreaker?” Mask asked.

Ovelia turned and saw the sorcerer’s bare face. “What are you doing? What if Regel—?”

“If he approaches, no doubt you—my Shield—will warn me,” Mask said. “Now answer the question. Do you harbor doubts? About what needs to be done with the Lord of Tears?”

Ovelia realized the sorcerer had taken off the mask to unsettle her emotions, and Old Gods, it was working. She found it nearly impossible to deny any request from those lips. Ovelia turned away and pressed her face into the smooth wood of the door. “This... this is very hard for me.”

“Of course.” Mask waved one hand through the steam from the tea. “But we must travel the path fate traces before us.”

Ovelia looked around Regel’s room for an escape and found none. The room was austere but comfortable, and the bed looked very inviting, as she had slept little in days. Mask lay there, legs crossed without the slightest shame or concern. The gruesome leather mask sat on a nearby table.

Ovelia went away from the door and leaned heavily on Regel’s desk. “Is there no other way?”

“King’s Shield,” Mask said, in a familiar voice that chilled Ovelia to the bone. “You have no choice. He will kill both of us otherwise. You understand that, do you not?”

“We could tell him the truth,” Ovelia said. “About who you are. About what you want.”

“You think he will understand? Is there any part of you that doubts he will see this as treachery and attack us on the instant? Surely we two could kill him alone, but in his own house, with his army of whores?” Mask shrugged. “Or does he love rutting you that much? Because if he does, then—”

“Please do not ask me to betray him.”

“You served the Winter King and slew him,” Mask said, the words bitter as a spider’s venom. “How does this differ?”

The words stole Ovelia’s breath, and she clutched at her stomach. “You do not understand,” she said. “What I did... I loved Blood Denerre. More than I can say.”

“Ovelia.” Mask crossed the room smoothly to stand beside her. One black-wrapped hand touched her cheek gently. “You know there is no choice. We have chosen this path. You must walk beside me.”

“You cannot—” Ovelia clenched her fists. “You cannot ask these things of me.”

“Remember your princess, Ovelia. Remember she you once swore to serve.”

“But you—”

“Do this and she will forgive you. Do it not—” Flames rose from the black-wrapped fingers.

Ovelia’s face grew warm as anger filled her. “Would you slay me, then?”

Mask’s eyes narrowed. “I have waited many years for this, and I will do what I must.”

“Listen to me.” Ovelia looked up into Mask’s reddish eyes, into her firm grimace. “This is folly. There is naught to be gained by this path.”

“Gain?” Mask’s mouth spread in a grin and she laughed. Ovelia shivered to hear the cold crackle that went into the sounds of mirth. “What makes you think I wish to
gain
anything? This is not a matter of ambition but vengeance. Nothing else.”

Mask started to move away, but Ovelia grasped her arm and held her fast. She stood over the sorcerer, who looked small and frail before her. Vulnerable. “Come with me,” she said. “Leave this behind and—”

Warning shadows flowed from the hilt of Draca, just out of reach on the desk. Mask turned toward the door, behind which Ovelia heard footsteps. “
Mask
,” the sorcerer hissed.

Heart thudding at the word, Ovelia released Mask. The thin woman staggered to the table and drew up the leathern shroud she’d laid next to her tea. She tucked her pale hair in place and buckled the clasps behind her head. Ovelia turned toward the door, instinctively shielding her ward.

The door burst open and Regel stood before them, murder in his eyes. Behind him in the doorway stood a very pale Serris.

“Regel, what is it?” Trying to seem casual, Ovelia inched closer to the Draca sword, which lay sheathed on the desk just out of her reach. “What has passed?”

The fire in Regel’s eyes was the same she had seen in Luether, that day when he had slain the Ravalis spy and looked up at her. It was the fire Regel reserved for one woman only.

“Stand aside,” Regel said, his voice cold as that of a corpse. “I have business with
her
.”

He knows, Ovelia thought with a shiver.

Mask coughed discreetly, and Ovelia realized she had moved closer to them. “I had wondered when you would reason it out, Lord of Tears.”

Ovelia adjusted her position between them, making sure to block Regel’s path. “Speak to me,” she said. “Please, Regel, we can talk about—”

He put his hands to the hilts of his blades, and she lunged for her sword. She brought Draca up in front of her. “Hold!” she shouted. “Stay back.”

“Stand aside.” Regel hardly seemed to notice her steel. “I won’t ask again.”

“It is well, Bloodbreaker,” Mask said. “Let him pass.”

“Stay,” Ovelia said. Warning shadows boiled around her hands. “Just a burned moment!”

“If you stand between us, I will cut you down,” Regel said. “Last chance.”

“Regel—” Ovelia exclaimed as pain erupted in her hand and her whole arm went numb. Faster than her eye could register, Regel had drawn and struck her with the flat of his sword, sending Draca clattering to the floorboards, then hooked his blade around her throat. She had never seen him move so fast—she had seen his attack in Draca’s flames but she had hesitated. And now she would die.

“Stop!” Mask cried, green magic flaring between her fingertips.

Reacting like the warrior he was, Regel slipped a throwing knife from his left sleeve.

“No!” Ovelia clawed at Regel’s left hand, heedless of the blade at her neck.

She fully expected death, but the blade remained still. Ovelia thought it mercy—until she saw Serris holding a dagger to Regel’s throat.

“Squire,” he said, warning in his voice. “Do not defend her.”

“I’m not defending her, or anyone,” Serris said. “I’ve never seen you like this, Regel. Please, let’s talk—uhh!”

Serris doubled over when Regel kicked her in the belly, making her knife go wide. He spun like an unbound whirlwind, slamming the hilt of his sword into Serris’s face even as he wrenched free of Ovelia’s grasp. Heedless of the razor-sharp edge, Ovelia grasped his throwing knife with all her strength, but Regel let go of it and her own weight sent her sprawling.

Ovelia recovered in time to see Regel standing not two paces from Mask, his falcat hooked just under her chin. The sorcerer stood on the tips of her toes, straining to keep from his steel.

“How dare you,” Regel said. “How dare you use her against me.”

“Whom?” Mask asked.

“This is your game, isn’t it?” Regel asked. “You make me suspect what face lies beneath that mask, then you do not show me. But you do not know the truth—what she and I shared. So no more lies and no more games.” He leaned in close. “Tell me plain: are you she?”

Ovelia’s heart froze in her chest. Her fingers trembled as she sought the hilt of her sword on the floor. Serris struggled to her feet.

“She?” Mask’s red eyes gleamed at Regel. “You can’t even name her, coward? I wonder if you ever loved her at all.”

Regel pressed his blade against Masks’s neck, and it creaked against the leather. “
Are you she?
”

Ovelia picked up Draca and started forward, but Serris laid a hand on her shoulder. The woman shook her head, and Ovelia understood. To interfere was to court death, for her or for Mask. Even now, Regel was shaking the manikin-thin body like a dog with a fallen toy in its jaws. If she startled him, he might kill her. This was their fight, and Ovelia could not interfere.

“Are you not a man? Take my mask off and see,” Mask challenged. “Or are you afraid?”

“No,” Regel said.

“I think you are,” Mask said. “I think—”

Mask’s words became a stunned groan as Regel caught her throat and slammed her backward against the wall. “Tell me!” he demanded.

Ovelia slapped her red-glowing sword against the bedframe and it rang loud, drawing Regel’s attention for a breath. “Stop!”

In the distraction, Mask’s hand appeared in Regel’s face, trailing magic, but he was too fast. He let go of his falcat, caught her arm, and wrenched it up high. Mask screamed and green smoke wafted from the black-wrapped fingers to trace a greasy stain up the wall. Regel let go of her throat and palmed a knife from his sleeve.

“Regel, wait!” Ovelia cried.

He didn’t seem to hear her. His hips holding the spindly woman against the wall, Regel held his belt knife to Mask’s throat. “Tell me.”

“Listen to me, Regel.” Ovelia’s hands trembled and she bit her lip. “Do not do this.”

Mask trembled in Regel’s grasp, her free hand clawing the wall like a spider.

“Do not do this,” Ovelia said. “You do not have to—”

“Shut up!” Regel snapped. He turned back to Mask. “Tell me that you are she.”

“Who?” Deep in the eyeslits, tears of pain and despair glimmered in Mask’s eyes. “Who do you want me to be?”

“You know who you are.” Regel shook Mask like a doll. “Tell me!”

Gods of the Nar. Ovelia’s face went white. “Regel, she isn’t—”

“Lenalin!” he roared. “Are you
Lenalin
?”

“
No!
” Mask shrieked, the word broken like the cry of a child. Then again, softly: “No.”

Silence fell in the room, broken only by Mask’s gasping, shuddering breaths. Regel held her taut against the wall, and Ovelia held her sword at his back.

Release her
, Ovelia meant to say, but the words caught in her throat like bones.

Then the belt-knife fell from Regel’s hand and stabbed into the floorboards with a thunk of steel into wood, where it stood quivering. His trembling fingers drifted to the edge of the black mask.

“Do it.” Mask’s bony limbs shook like quivering wires. “Just do it, if you must.”

Then Ovelia’s heart skipped as Regel’s hand rose to the sorcerer’s faceplate. She raised her sword—waiting for Regel’s hand to stray around to the clasps. She had to stop him. She—

Regel drew his hand away. “No.”

“I don’t... understand,” said Mask, the first words clear, the third cracked.

Unceremoniously, Regel loosed Mask to slump against the wall. Breathing hard, the sorcerer gazed up at Regel, then over to Ovelia, whose heart raced fit to burst.

“I no longer care,” Regel said. “Whoever you may or may not be, whatever lies you mean to tell and whatever manipulations you intend for us, I don’t care. We have a task to do, and I mean to do it. I never need to see your Ruin-burned face.”