Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (31 page)

Behind his necromancer vizier, Demetrus clasped his wounded hand to his chest.

“No more arguments,” Demetrus said to the room, his expression perfectly calm. “No more opposition. For five years, this has not been our city, but that changes tonight,” he said. “Allow me to show you why the Summer Princes rule the Winter kingdom.”

He motioned toward Kiereth, where Vhaerynn held him fast, and Prince Lan broke away from the throne on the dais, where he had been leaning casually. He drew his sword as he walked and pointed it at Kiereth’s chest. Blood tinged the sweat rolling down the councilor’s face.

“We have the will to rule,” said Demetrus. “And you do not.”

At Regel’s side, Mask stiffened as though someone had stabbed her in the belly.

Lan lunged, and his blade burst out Kiereth’s back, just under his left shoulder blade. A dark stain spread down his back around the blade. Lan pressed against him, as though embracing him like a brother. Through his focus, Regel heard what Lan whispered to Kiereth: “And so you learn your place, whore.”

Hardened murderer that he was, Regel felt sick.

The King nodded to Lan, who stepped away. His sword slipped from Kiereth’s body with a scrape of steel on bone, and the councilor fell to his knees, eyes rolling. He did not seem able to scream.

Demetrus clutched his wounded hand and spoke in a voice dark and powerful. “Tar Vangr has long been its own city,” he said. “As of tonight, it belongs to Ravalis, body and soul.”

Lan brought his sword around and halfway cut Kiereth’s head from his shoulders. It flopped to the side and swung around on a hunk of flesh. Blood burst into the air.

The crown-prince severed the head fully with a second blow.

Somewhere in the crowd, a man screamed. The nobles of Blood Yaela started shouting, and a hundred voices rose at once, creating a cacophony of indistinguishable words. Two dusters appeared, flanking Demetrus, and they hustled the king out of the battle and away down a side corridor. In his wake, Vhaerynn smiled at the men held thrall in his magic.

Mask pulled insistently at his arm. “We have to move now.”

As Regel turned away, Vhaerynn closed his fingers, and a dozen casters cracked.

* * *

Clad as a man, Serris watched Mask and Regel disappear out of the great chamber, which descended into chaos. She watched as Lan cut down Kiereth Yaela, and though she would never admit it, her heart ached for a moment. The Heir of Yaela had been a good lover and, for all his faults, a good man besides. One more grievance to lay at the feet of Lan Ravalis.

All around her, nobles shouted and shoved at one another, lords and ladies shrieked or fled, and guardsmen drew steel to keep the revelers under control. Now was her chance to slip amongst them unawares, following Ovelia’s hastily explained plan.

But Serris remembered the part she had to play—the warning from the masked man in the alley, and again, in her room with her daughter. If Davargorn could threaten her there...

Serris thought about the dagger sheathed against her spine—her favorite dagger. Regel’s dagger. “No,” she said under her breath. “Burn you, I won’t do it.”

But what choice did she have?

Serris made her way toward the dais, where Lan Ravalis stood over the field of battle like a triumphant general. She kept to the fringes of the fighting and passed unnoticed through the melee. If she could just catch Lan unawares, all this could be ended with a single thrust of her blade. She stepped behind him and drew.

Then her arm locked up, the muscles contorting into an impossible shape. The dagger turned in her fingers and pointed itself at her throat. She looked, and there stood Vhaerynn, smiling at her, owning her dagger hand with his magic. Raping her.

Serris managed to twist aside, and the blade only stabbed into her shoulder. She tried to recover, but Lan caught her, clasping her wrist in one hand and her throat in the other.

“A whore in a man’s clothing.” He laughed. “Do you want her, Vhaerynn? Or shall I—?”

But Vhaerynn wasn’t looking at them. Instead, he had raised his head and was sniffing at the air. A smile of recognition spread across his face.

“Can it be?” he wondered aloud. “Have you returned, my old friend?”

He meant
Mask
.

Serris understood, of a sudden, what was going on. Davargorn’s words filled her mind—his warning about a smiling monster. Mask’s doll face. The warning she thought she could ignore.

Lan’s fingers were tight on her throat, and the world started to crumble.

She had been wrong.

Twenty-Three

C
lad in Serris’s dress
and mask, Ovelia waited around a corner while the Ravalis guards hurried past toward the ballroom. She hoped Regel and Mask were able to evade the chaos erupting there. It didn’t matter to her part, however, upon which she focused now.

Ovelia traced her fingers about the worn buckle of her black leather belt. The belt clashed with the rest of her garb and stank of old blood—not a surprise, since it was one of Mask’s relics. Its ancient magic was not powerful but pivotal to this night. Ovelia had agreed to Mask’s plan, but with those awful sounds coming from the throne room, she wanted to run back, to throw herself into the fray to—what? This whole mad scheme depended on her. She could only do her part, and trust Mask.

“Stop hesitating and just move,” she said softly.

Calmly, Ovelia stepped down the corridor, raised a tapestry bright with Ravalis colors, and ducked into the dusty alcove behind it. The walls around her gleamed slightly silver in the diffused candlelight from the hall. No Ravalis came this way, and they sent no servants to clean or maintain this space. Ovelia had ensured it was so during her tenure as the Shroud, and it was good to see the Ravalis had overlooked it in the chaotic transition. She moved to a very familiar spot and ran her bare fingers over a glinting set of letters, which spelled out the name “Lenalin.” Caressing the stone was almost like touching her dearest friend, and Ovelia had to suppress a sob. Perhaps it was merely the dust.

Powered by her touch, the silvery letters glowed brighter, and the glow extended in both directions, illumining the names “Semana” and “Darak” to the right and “Orbrin” to the left. The silver glow traced its way past Orbrin’s name and illuminated first the name of the Winter King’s long-dead brother Moritun, their mother Queen Aritana, and outward and past. The silver traced curling lines through the dusty stone, resolving into a stylized tree, showing the Blood of Denerre coursing through the ages. The bloodtree filled the alcove, around and above Ovelia, tracing the bloodlines that led back from Orbrin and Lenalin over a thousand years. Ovelia remembered long ago, when her father showed her this shrine. She’d thought at the time she had never seen anything so beautiful—except perhaps Lenalin.

Syr Norlest had told her the story of the name at the root of the tree, where the silver revealed the long-ago progenitor of the Blood. Queen Denes first led her people out of darkness to embrace the Prophecy of Return, centuries before the rise of the Empire of Calatan. They had found a world far darker than they had expected, but they had made the best of it, warding off the furious snows of appalling winter, beating back the barbarians and monsters of Ruin, and carving out a city-state they would eventually call Tar Vangr.

Every generation of the Blood of Winter had struggled and fought against the crushing tide of Ruin, and the last heirs of Denerre had proved no different. Ovelia owed a debt to the only family she had ever known to see justice done against the Ravalis, and she would honor it. She would not fail Orbrin, Lenalin, or Semana—the princess least of all.

Suppressing an unsettled feeling, Ovelia found the name of Orbrin’s lost brother Moritun and pressed it. Ancient mechanisms whirred to life, and the lattice around Queen Denes’s name parted to reveal a dark passage leading into the bowels of the palace. Five years as the Shroud, and she had never let on the existence of these passages. In truth, she hadn’t known precisely why she’d kept them a secret, but it had seemed right at the time. Now, it proved essential to their plan.

“Halt!” A man stepped out of the darkness, caster leveled at her. “Stay and be known!”

Unless, of course, the Ravalis had indeed learned of the passages and placed unseen guards there.

If she’d had Draca in hand, Ovelia might have seen this danger in its guardian flames. But of course the Ravalis would have identified the sword at the door and captured her. She should have trusted her instincts. Ovelia saw her death in the guard’s cocked caster, and with it the failure of their plot.

When the caster didn’t erupt in doom, Ovelia remembered to breathe.

“Name yourself, woman,” the guard said. “And why are you here? The revel is that way.”

Ovelia saw a glimmer of hope. He hadn’t recognized her.

“Old Gods!” She willed herself to weep. “Don’t kill me. I ran away and now I’m lost. I didn’t mean—oh Gods!” She clutched her stomach and bent double.

“For the Fire’s sake, woman, don’t blubber.” The guard looked painfully awkward at her display. “I’m not going to—” A scream echoed up the corridor, and the guard looked away. His jaw tightened with trepidation. He didn’t know what was going on.

On one knee, Ovelia pawed at his leg. “You have to help us,” she said. “You—”

“I can’t abandon my post,” he said. “I—”

A dozen casters cracked, and cries of terror rose from the ballroom.

“You have to help,” Ovelia said, willing him to go. “The king is in danger!”

The guard stepped around her, heading toward the source of the cries, and her heart leaped. Then he paused, his brow furrowed at her silver hair. Damn. “Stay, lady,” he said. “You seem—”

Ovelia rose in a fluid lunge, seized the caster, and smashed it upward across the guard’s face. Then, as the man staggered back, Ovelia slammed the butt of the weapon into his temple. He collapsed.

She slung the caster around her shoulder, put her hands under the guard’s armpits, and dragged him into the hidden passage. The mechanism closed the entrance once more, plunging them into darkness. A heartbeat later, she felt the familiar drain of the nearby torches. Powered by an old magic, they drank a small portion of her body’s warmth and kindled with blue flame. Abruptly, the corridor lit up around her, as far as her resonant heat extended, and sickly-smelling smoke crept up to the ceiling. Usually, the draining candles unnerved her, but she pushed it from her mind. Tonight she had other considerations.

Ovelia stood over the guard, the caster pointed at his head, considering. She’d given him every chance to go. He had been in her way, and he didn’t deserve this: to be murdered, unknown and unmourned, in the cold secret halls. At the same time, if she let him live, there was always the possibility he would awaken and all their plans would be undone.

“Dammit,” she said. “Why couldn’t you just go?”

Why were her hands so calm? Had she fallen so far that cold murder did not trouble her?

Long ago, as girls, she and Lenalin had made these passages their secret kingdom. The corridors became vile dungeons for knights and princesses, ancient caverns for hunting Old Gods, or great crypts of the Deathless Ones. They explored together, side by side—the princess and her knight, two shivering girls whose hearts raced.

As she stood over the guard, considering his casual murder, Ovelia remembered.

* * *

“It’s dark, princess,” the young Ovelia said. “Are you sure you’re for this?”

“Of course I’m sure, thinblood.” Lenalin flipped her silver-blonde hair back from her face and raised her chin. “I am a Princess of the Blood of Winter.” She made no move to approach, though.

Ovelia smirked at her. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

“No!” Lenalin’s voice cracked and undermined her wrath. “I mean… No, it’s just… dusty. Dusty, and dank, and the like. It’s not proper for—”

Ovelia giggled. “Her perfect highness, afraid of a little dirt.” She stepped back into the corridor as though to leave Lenalin alone. “Or a little dark, mayhap.”

“Wait!” said the princess, catching Ovelia’s hand. “Won’t you hold me?”

Ovelia blinked at her. “What?”

“I mean you can hold my hand.” Lenalin blushed fiercely. “That is, if you want to.”

“I...” Ovelia felt her heart thudding in her head, and warmth spread through her insides. Her tongue felt like a hunk of dead rubber in her mouth.

“Well, if you’re going to be thus about it,” Lenalin said with a sniff, and strode forward.

“Wait!” Ovelia’s voice crackled.

“Aye?” The princess had made it three steps before she cast a dubious look over her shoulder. “Now who’s afraid?”

Ovelia strode forward resolutely and seized Lenalin’s hand. The blood raced beneath her skin. Their eyes met, and Ovelia lost her breath and could not find it. Her hand was calm, but her heart raced.

Lenalin laughed. “Come,” she said. “We’ll find an adventure.”

* * *

Her hand was calm, and it felt monstrous. Did a man’s life mean so little to her?

The memory faded as Ovelia heard murmuring words, one voice deep and male, the other smooth and female. They came through the concealed door—through the shrine of the Winter Tree—and passed quickly by. Some lordling with a lowborn evening-lass, perhaps. She ducked down and held her hand over the senseless man’s mouth, in case he roused and spoke. As such, she could not see the newcomers as they approached and moved past. The voices were faintly familiar.

She wondered if the woman was one of Regel’s Tears—perhaps even his squire Serris. The woman hadn’t passed up a chance to glare at her since that first night at the Burned Man, and Ovelia well recognized that look. She knew what it was to be so protective.

Regel. Her hand drifted up to the carved necklace she’d worn beneath her lord’s garb, and a fresh spasm twisted her midsection. She wondered again if she and Regel... But no. Surely she was too old for that. She sighed and massaged her aching stomach.

As a child at Lenalin’s side, guiding the princess through the darkness, Ovelia had felt strong and confident. Even when they grew older and Lenalin married Paeter, yet had Ovelia known joy in watching her from afar and stealing occasional moments together. These last fifteen years since Lenalin’s death, however, she’d felt hollow. She felt poorly made, as though her limbs fit only crudely. What reason had she to live, without the Blood she had sworn to defend? Without the warm hand she’d held so tightly?

“Semana,” Ovelia murmured.

That was why her hand did not tremble on the caster. Come treachery, come murder, she would do her duty. She would slay the Summer King for Semana’s sake. To her mind, a regicide was a powerful thing—but to her hands, it seemed a matter of course. One she had done before.

“Norlest taught you to slay men by steel, and kings are but men.” She shut her eyes. “Orbrin taught you that well enough.”

She squeezed the caster’s trigger.

* * *

Regel opened the secret passage past the Winter Tree and led Mask through. The door ground on dusty stone, and Regel saw the blue flames of the candles already lit inside. “Hail, Tall-Sister,” he said.

Ovelia appeared, a caster hanging from her hand. Her eyes seemed wet in the torchlight.

Regel looked around and frowned. “Serris did not follow you?” he asked.

“She is being me.” Ovelia shook her head. “We have little time as it passes.”

Regel nodded. “Weapons? I see you’ve appropriated a caster.”

“Not a concern.” Mask stepped past Regel and held out her hand. “The belt.”

Ovelia unbuckled the ugly black belt Regel remembered seeing her wear in her guise as a lord at the revel. “Why did you have
me
wear it, and not yourself?” she asked.

“I couldn’t know if they would have seers at the gate who would recognize it,” Mask said. “And I thought it better for you to be caught than me.”

“How compassionate,” Regel murmured, but Ovelia only shrugged and handed over the belt.

Mask put on the belt, which struck an odd contrast with her sweeping white dress. She put out her hand, and Regel saw power flowing from the belt. The air shimmered above Mask’s palm and coalesced into Draca. This, the sorcerer handed to a wide-eyed Ovelia. In a similar way, Mask then produced two falcata for Regel. All the while, the belt gave off acrid smoke as its magic worked.

Regel marveled. “Gauntlets, mask, chestplate, and now a belt. How many relics do you bear?”

“Turn away,” Mask said. “I’m told this sight can be... disturbing.”

Regel turned his back and gave the sorcerer her privacy. Casually, he put his hand in his pocket and grasped his carven focus, but the magic’s smoke obscured his senses. He stole a glance over his shoulder, long enough to see the sorcerer’s white garb burning away, replaced by her black suit. She tossed her porcelain doll’s face away to shatter against the stone wall, and put on her favored black leather mask. Regel caught a glimpse of light-colored hair but that was all.

“The first task is done, and we are inside,” Mask said. “The king was hurt in the battle, and they ushered him out, leaving the necromancer and many soldiers indisposed. We must strike quickly, before our absence from the revel is noted. Lord of Tears?”

Regel was looking at the shards of the smiling doll mask. He nodded. “I am with you.”

“Good.” Mask turned to Ovelia. “You know the castle, Bloodbreaker. Where would they have taken him? The healing chambers?”

Ovelia shook her head. “There is a room, down by the furnace, where he goes for privacy. He has a personal physician—Maure—who tends him.”

Regel raised an eyebrow. “Lenalin’s old nursemaid?”

“The same,” Ovelia said. “She is loyal to the throne of Vangr beyond question. Far safer for Demetrus to use her than to trust Vhaerynn or one of his kin to tend him.”

“Prudent,” Mask said. “Where?”

“The king uses y—” She glanced at Mask and corrected herself. “Paeter’s old private chambers. The passages lead there, but I do not believe they know the entrance.”

“Lead on,” Mask said. “But step warily. Legends speak of a guardian spirit in these secret halls. Perhaps we’ll need Queen Denes to lead us, no?”

Ovelia gave Regel a knowing glance. “Not likely,” she said, then disappeared into the gloom. As she walked, the torches lit along the path. Mask fell into step three paces behind her.

Regel lingered near the entrance to the passage. Perhaps Mask had not noticed it, but he did: a Ravalis guard lay hidden barely a pace from where Mask had discarded her doll’s face. Regel knelt and touched the man’s throat. “Hmm.”