Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (37 page)

Thirty-Two

M
ask hung like a
discarded doll, spindly limbs trailing. The sorcerer could feign death with astonishing veracity, but this hanging corpse was clearly nothing alive. Regel had only to look at the tongue bulging from its mouth-slit to know that. At the ends of its arms, the mismatched ensorcelled gauntlets dangled limply. The Ravalis had even replaced Mask’s flying boots on the body.

The chamber was otherwise empty of prisoners. Withered chairs, a table, and a cot made it seem like a liveable space, but scattered rusty implements of pain belied this impression. Threadbare tapestries painted with the colors of blood showed scenes of men and women in agony. Numerous chains hung from the ceiling, where prisoners could be strung up—as Mask had been—for torture or as an example.

Pain erupted in Regel’s head and he staggered away from where Davargorn had struck him with the pommel of the guard’s sword. The blade clattered to the floor as two hands grasped Regel by the throat and shoved him against the wall.

“
Bastard!
” He snarled in Regel’s face, sending flecks of blood and spittle onto his cheek. “You did this to her!
You!
”

Regel caught hold of Davargorn’s arm and tried to pull it away, but to no avail. The younger man was far stronger, particularly in his fury.

“You
knew
they would do this! You brought her to her death!”

“She gave me no choice,” Regel said.

Davargorn threw him to the floor and turned, but that put his eyes in line with the body and he uttered a moan from the depths of his bowels. He ran to the hanging body and pressed his face into its belly. Regel saw the hands tremble—the gauntlets slip.

“I cannot,” Davargorn said. “I cannot heal her. There is nothing here. Only dust.”

“Dust and shadow.” Regel raised his chin. “I am sorry. I know she was in your heart.”

“My heart?” Davargorn turned his face to glare over his shoulder. “How could you know
my
heart, old man? You do not even know your own! You do not know what power you hold!”

Breaths passed. Davargorn paced, alternately slicking his spindly hair or clapping his withered hand into his good one. “For nothing,” he murmured, “all for this—for
nothing
!”

Again, he buried his head in Mask’s stomach, his shoulders shaking.

“Tithian,” Regel said.

“I see your gambit,” Davargorn said. “You triggered the ward so I would defend the princess, and you would escape. Too bad for you she’s past defending.”

“Indeed.” Regel regarded him levelly. “What passes now?”

Slowly, Davargorn turned to face him. His eyes gleamed in the blue candlelight that filtered in from the corridor, and from the red burning ward that beat like a heart. He held his sword raised, ready to plunge it into Regel’s heart. “I should kill you.”

“And will you?”

“No. It’s beneath me to slay a worthless cripple.” Davargorn lowered the steel. “There’s no reason to take you along either. I’ll leave you here, and you can die beside your princess. As for me—” He glanced out into the corridor. “I’ve a Blood to break.”

Davargorn took all the blades they had taken from downed guardsmen, leaving Regel unarmed. He made to go, but Regel stepped into his path. “You could stay,” Regel said. “Honor your beloved.”

“
Beloved.
” Davargorn scoffed. “I suspect this is the last time we’ll meet.”

“I do not,” Regel said.

“Best of luck, old man,” Davargorn said. “I hope you die choking on your own blood.”

With one last sneer—and a pained look at Mask’s form—Davargorn was gone.

Regel gave a deep sigh, then eased himself to the floor. He sat and breathed.

* * *

“Your princess is dead,” he told himself. And laughed.

Davargorn stumbled through the winding corridors, biting his left hand to keep from screaming. The dead flesh—it had been scarred when he crawled from the womb—hardly felt his teeth, even though he could taste the blood. He could heal himself, but he would only heal himself back to his disfigured state. A cruel trick for fate to play, but fate had never loved him after all.

He laughed louder. “Your princess is dead, you ugly fool!”

Blearily, he followed the red light on the wall. Some dim part of him realized the ward would lead him up to the palace, and if he encountered any soldiers on the way, so much the better.

Abruptly the ward blinked out of existence, like a burning string that turned to ash as he watched. Something had ended it. He was lost. He tripped over his feet and fell. His knee and arm took most of the impact, and he felt bone give way. The sword he had been carrying skittered out of his fingers and was gone into the darkness. His milky white eye could see just fine in the dark, and he didn’t need a sword to kill minions of the Ravalis.

He realized he’d tripped over his leg—his twisted leg, the one that had always caused him such trouble—the one at which everyone had laughed. Even the princess had laughed, he knew. Not that she’d ever done it in his hearing, but how could she
not
laugh?

Semana.

He rose despite the pain. Ignoring the protests of his flesh, he stumbled on through the dusty darkness. His lungs wheezed at the effort, but he would heal. Even as he walked, his bones popped back into place with little more than loud itching. Life came back into his damaged body.

“Not hers,” he said. “Not hers, though. She’s gone forever!”

He saw a flickering light just around a corner and almost ran into two Ravalis guardsmen. Their torchlight dazzled him for a second. They must have heard him coming, but even so they backed away in surprise at his sudden, mad appearance. Too bad for them.

Davargorn caught the first one’s head in his bare hands and wrenched him down with enough force to shatter his neck. He caught the man’s caster and brought it up, just as the second man got off a cast. The thunder of the caster’s discharge almost deafened Davargorn, but he hardly felt the bolt tear through his thigh. He raised the captured caster and put his bolt through the man’s right eye from two feet away. The back of the guard’s head burst and blood spattered the wall.

Dismissively, Davargorn tossed the spent caster onto the bodies, ripped free the bolt in his thigh, and pressed on. He made it only half a dozen paces before his wounded leg crumpled under him, and he dashed his forehead against the wall. It still needed time to heal. His head and neck pulsed in pain and his body didn’t want to rise.

Damn guidance. Damn his body. Let them come to him. Let him make an end of it all.

“Come and face me, Ravalis!” he cried. “I will kill all of you. All of you!”

His shouts echoed down the corridor. Distantly, he could hear booted footfalls and loved that sound: it meant more foes for him to slay. Slaying was his purpose.

He settled into place, waiting while his leg healed itself. As he sat, his blood spread in a pool on the floor. The stone seemed so comfortable. But he could not let himself slip away.

“My princess,” he murmured. “Princess Mask.”

Torches flickered in the passage ahead of him. More guards were coming.

They rounded the corner, and he rose with a roar.

* * *

Regel breathed in deeply as he sat relaxed with his legs crossed, waiting.

When he was satisfied Davargorn would not return, Regel rose and deactivated the ward with another touch. The burning red light vanished. The ward had sounded for only a forty count, perhaps, but guards would be on their way. Likely, Davargorn would give them some trouble, but haste was needed.

Regel stepped to the hanging body and grasped it about the hips, much like Davargorn had. But instead—in a move that would have horrified the younger man—he shook the corpse. The chain creaked angrily and the body danced. He heard what he expected: two clangs of metal on stone as first one gauntlet, then the other slipped from the body’s hands. Freed of the gauntlets, the purple fingers curled into ugly claws. He had thought as much.

That done, Regel crossed to the winch on the wall. He pulled the lever and the chain slithered upward. The leather-wrapped body slumped unceremoniously to the floor, its neck at an odd angle. The lifeless eyes stared and the dry, puckered tongue pointed accusatorily at him.

Regel knelt beside the corpse. There, he unbuckled the mask and pulled it off. Beneath the black leather was a bruised, seared face, fringed with ratty blonde hair, the eyes wide.

It was not Semana’s face.

He had suspected as much when first they had entered the chamber. That the gauntlets did not fit had only confirmed the truth. Regel wondered who the wretch might have been: some poor boy who had run afoul of the Crown, perhaps, or else a stunted man brought down from the cells above for this cruel jest. It was yet another crime for which the Ravalis would answer.

He crossed deeper into the royal cell and pulled aside one of the ratty curtains that passed for tapestries in this foul place. Cut into the wall behind it sat a cage just large enough for a human being of small stature, if she sat huddled in a ball. The cell smelled of urine and dust and death. It was not an uncommon torment for a noble prisoner to be left alone for unknowable hours in cramped darkness, not knowing when next a light would appear—if ever.

The dark-skinned, angular creature lurking inside the tight hole looked at him, unafraid. Ragged clothes barely hid the creature’s painfully thin body, and its bright red eyes gleamed. Regel gave it a considering look, and the prisoner bobbed its bald head in return. It grinned widely, yellow teeth clashing fiercely with skin like burnished darkwood, but did not otherwise move. It was not Semana.

Regel let the tapestry fall and moved to the second tiny cage. Empty.

The third contained only moldering bones and a fetid odor.

His heart quickened its pace, but he tried to remain calm. He had to be right.

He moved to the fourth and final of the cages. His fingers trembled as he reached for the curtain.

Within, arms curled around her filthy knees, hunched Semana. She wore a torn, ragged shift of some earthen color. Other than bruises on her arms, she looked largely unhurt. Her hazel eyes sparkled warily at him over a ball of cloth stuffed in her mouth. Despite her ignominious state, he allowed himself an exhalation of relief. She was alive.

“Princess,” Regel said. “Wait one breath.”

He drew forth the ring of keys he’d taken from the guard outside and found the key for the cell soon enough. He’d used this very key himself long ago, and he knew its grip.

When Regel drew the door open, Semana shifted back in the cell as far as she could go. She regarded him after the fashion of a cornered dog: distrustful and ready to pounce.

“No more harm will come to you,” he said. “I swear it.”

Regel reached for her gag. The cloth came out of her mouth bloodied at the end, and she retched onto the ground between her knees. As she coughed and panted, Regel examined her thin frame with increasing concern. Gone was the soft body of a young girl, and instead she seemed barely more than a skeleton. She looked as though she hadn’t eaten a full meal in years.

Hands trembling, Regel tossed the gag away, then stooped again and extended his hand into the cage to Semana. She shook her head and curled tighter into a ball. “Mask,” she said.

“What?” Regel had not expected she would say anything like that.

She extended one long-fingered hand. “Mask.”

Regel looked, and indeed, he was holding the black leather shroud he’d taken from the corpse. “You don’t have to wear this,” he said.

Semana nodded to him. Her face was turning red. “Mask.”

“Let me clean it, at least,” Regel said. “A dead man wore it. His tongue—”

“
Mask!
” Semana screamed.

Regel extended the black leather mask into the cage. Semana snatched it from his fingers and held it over her face. She sucked in air with a nasal wheeze.

“Where—” Her thoat worked, swallowing hard. She looked around nervously. “Where is he?”

“Who?” he asked. “Davargorn.”

With an uncertain murmur, Mask clutched her shoulders and shivered. “Where is Davargorn?”

Regel knew she had been asking after another, and it made him uneasy. He glanced back at the room, but other than the other hidden prisoner, they seemed quite alone. For the moment.

“Semana.” He put his hand on hers. “We must make haste. Do you understand me?”

Finally, her eyes turned to him. They were so very different from Lenalin’s—from either of her parents—that they took Regel aback. The mask’s death magic made Semana’s eyes look crimson.

“I understand,” she said. “My armor. My gauntlets.”

“It’s all here,” Regel said. “On the body of a dead man.”

Semana’s fine lips curled. “I took it from much worse.”

He brought her the rest of her armor, and she donned it with practiced grace, flexing her limbs in each piece. He looked away, wondering why the Ravalis had left such a collection of ensorcelled relics for the taking. Were they truly so cruel as to leave it for a jest?

“Very well, King’s Shadow,” came a rasping voice. The princess had finished donning her garb, making her Mask, not Semana. “Lead me to Demetrus and let us make an end of this.”

Thirty-Three

L
ight came back to
Ovelia dully and she found herself in a soft world of white. She slept upon a feather pillow and heard the familiar creak of bed cords as she moved. Above, she saw an equally familiar ceiling of black stone, whose contours she had traced with her eyes many times. She turned and saw a mirror, just where she had expected it: her red-rimmed face stared back at her. Alive. Herself.

“My room,” she murmured. “This is my room.”

“Mine, actually,” a voice said. “But then, I’m the new you.”

For a heartbeat, she thought her reflection was speaking to her, as it had seemed in Luether. Then she saw movement at the edge of her vision: someone else was in the chamber with her. “Who—?”

Pain lit inside her: a fire in her belly that had burned to embers but roared back into life. She sat up and curled around her midsection, gasping for air. Strong hands found her shoulders. She struggled but the pain was too great.

“All’s well, all’s well!” said Garin Ravalis. “Lady Dracaris—Ovelia!”

“Water,” Ovelia tried to say, but it came out as a choked rasp rather than a word.

“To give you water now would kill you,” Garin said. “You’re poisoned.”

“What? I—” The words dropped a piece of the puzzle into place. “What kind of poison?”

“Thaldrin,” Garin said. “Very advanced. The only way you could have survived this long is with small doses of sweet-soul, administered daily—”

“And over a long period of time,” Ovelia finished. “Of course.”

She understood. Regel had sneaked poison into her cup at some point—probably that first night—then kept feeding her enough of the antidote to keep her moving. But the thaldrin would keep working and ultimately, her body would grow tolerant of the sweet-soul and it wouldn’t save her any longer. Regel had planned to betray her from the very beginning, and ensure that she would die if she betrayed him first.

“Quickly,” Garin said. “I know what’s wrong and how to help, but I needed you awake to ask this. Do you have a source of halanx?”

“Halanx?” She narrowed her eyes. “That’s a poison.”

“Just tell me you have it,” Garin said. “I couldn’t bring all my things from Luether without arousing suspicion, and you weren’t much of an alchemist as a Shroud. Or were you?”

Ovelia forced her muddied mind past the burning in her middle. “Secret compartment.” She patted her hand dizzily against the stone wall above her head. “I have sweet-soul—”

“Too late for sweet-soul. The thaldrin’s done too much damage.” Garin reached past her, but the angle was wrong. “Apologies, Lady. This won’t be proper.”

He knelt on the bed next to her head so that he could reach the compartment with both hands. It opened and he rummaged through the vials. Ovelia felt his wiry leg pressing hard against her shoulder. She glanced to her left, saw his hip close to her face, and recoiled.

“Sorry,” he said, drawing several vials from the compartment.

“No, just—” Ovelia thought unsettlingly of Lan. “Your cousin.”

Garin winced. “Sorry.” He crossed to the table where he mixed precise measurements of the vials into a single cup. “This will taste awful. Should I make it in a tea to cover it?”

“No.” Ovelia’s stomach roiled. “No tea ever again.”

Garin sat beside her and pressed the cup to her lips. She raised her hands as though to take the cup from his fingers, but the pain was too intense and she curled over again. Some of the potion spotted the blanket wrapped around her naked, bloody body.

“Drink, Lady,” Garin said. “Feel free to gag. There is no one here but me—no one else to show your strength.”

“Ahem.” Alcarin—the man she had seen coming off the
Avenger
with Garin a few days ago—leaned against the far wall. He had sat quietly the whole time, his expression one of distaste.

Garin smiled. “Except my squire, that is.”

“Is this wise, Master?” Alcarin said. “She is a vicious traitor. She will kill you the first chance she gets, and even if she doesn’t, the second the guards find her—”

“Glad I have you to make sure that doesn’t happen, then.” Garin nodded toward the door. “You remember the plan we discussed. Get to it.”

The sharp-faced young man pursed his lips, then stepped across to press his lips to those of Garin. “I’ll do what I can. You take care.”

“Always.”

Alcarin left, and Garin looked back to Ovelia. “Well then.” He swirled the liquid in the cup . “Don’t think you get out of this.”

Ovelia shook her head. “What are you having him do?”

“Redirect the guards, keep them away from Lan’s little rut chamber as long as possible,” he said. “Cover our tracks. The rest of my family can’t know you’re alive, much less that I’m helping you. That will lead to uncomfortable questions.”

“Why
are
you helping me?” Ovelia asked. “Or is it in your noble heart to help anyone in peril?”

“Why does anyone help anyone else?” Garin’s eye gleamed. “I want something from you.”

“What? Secrets? Coin?” She glanced after Alcarin. “Obviously it’s not sex.”

“Something far more important, Lady Dracaris. But you must drink this first.”

Ovelia smiled wanly. She let him pour the potion between her lips. It tasted like ashes, vinegar, and death. She choked on it, and it dribbled down her chin. “Old Gods, what is this?”

“Vanarast, bolthan, and now halanx,” he said. “That and another thing.”

“Those are poisons,” Ovelia said. “You just killed me.”

“Only when given individually,” he said. “Together, they cancel each other’s effects and serve only to strengthen the body’s response. If it isn’t too far gone, your body will fight off the thaldrin.”

“And if it is?” Ovelia asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Then ‘twas an honor all too brief to have known the great Bloodbreaker,” Garin said. “You’re far lovelier than the tales give you credit. And just as tough.”

Ovelia smiled, then immediately choked and spat. The enormous pain inside subsided to a dull ache. Dizziness came over her and she felt dark oblivion coming again. She groaned.

“Pain?” Garin’s earlier nonchalance vanished in concern.

“Hunger.” She wiped sweat from her face. “I feel... shaky.”

“Sweet-soul withdrawal,” said Garin. “It’ll take time to fight off the addiction.”

Ovelia shook her head, wondering. “Thaldrin means ‘inevitable dark,’ and yet you found a way to cure it,” she said. “Like magic.”

“Chemics,” Garin said. “I countered the thaldrin, but I can do little to reverse its effects. Nor can I do anything about the sweet-soul: You need rest to recover your strength, if you ever will.”

“Not an option. I—” Ovelia tried to get up, only to fall back to bed. “What?”

“I thought you might feel that way,” Garin said. “Hence I added a touch of something to put you to sleep. Just for a bit.”

“You—” Weariness was claiming her. “You villain.”

“Indeed.”

Ovelia thought of Regel, and hoped he was faring better than she. Regel... She put her hand to her throat, touching only bare skin. “My things. Did you find them?”

Garin’s face grew troubled. “If you mean your sword, Lady, then no.”

Ovelia shook her head. It hardly mattered to her anymore. “My necklace?”

“I didn’t want you to strangle in your sleep.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the carved dragon necklace she had worn. “What is it? The dragon of Dracaris?”

“Something of the sort.”

She took Regel’s carving and ran her fingers over it. Then she reached up behind her and set the carving on the godshelf behind her pillow, next to half a dozen carvings done in the same hand. She smiled wanly as the waking world faded.

“Rest, Lady,” Garin said, brushing an errant lock of crimson hair out of her eyes. He touched the warpick at his belt. “No harm will come to you in my care. I swear it.”

“I believe you,” she said, or perhaps she trailed off. “But Sem...”

Silence and sleep filled her.