Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (38 page)

Thirty-Four

R
egel led the way
silently through the tunnels that had once been his kingdom. When he had come this way with Davargorn, he had purposefully led them along a confusing, circuitous path. The youth must have followed the ward, as Regel had expected, for they found no sign of him. By contrast, Regel led the princess on an indirect path toward the palace: a series of shortcuts and sharp turns he had used in his youth. They ducked wandering Ravalis guards twice, taking shelter in alcoves and secret hiding places Regel knew as well as his own body. The soldiers apparently patrolled the tunnels, but they seemed just as lost as Davargorn would be and could easily be eluded.

Wordlessly, Semana followed behind. She wore again the black leathers that stank of decades of blood and death, the flying boots and shielding breastplate, the storing belt, the gauntlets with their slaying power, and the death’s head mask with its Plaguefire. Arrayed like a warrior the night before a great battle, the sorcerer strode toward Demetrus with a purpose that made Regel wonder if she had intended this all along. Whether she had planned every step of this scheme from the start.

He had two irreconcilable images in his mind—one of Semana, one of Mask—and whenever he tried to speak to her, they reared up and choked off his words. In her armor, Semana didn’t look quite the same as Mask had: the Ravalis had stripped her of the bindings she’d worn beneath the armor before, so her breasts swelled the leather just enough to betray her womanly figure. But in that armor, beneath that mask, she was still the sorcerer to him—sexless and deadly. It would take a will of iron to manipulate Regel and Ovelia and Davargorn as she had, let alone take the place of an infamous sorcerer-slayer for five years. He wondered if he had ever known Semana Denerre at all.

“Will you speak to me?” Regel murmured when they hid from a third troop of soldiers. The summermen trudged on, pining for hearthfires and lovers that awaited them elsewhere.

“About what?” She still spoke with Mask’s rasping voice, even if the time for deception had passed. He wondered if it was simply habit, or it had become her voice for true.

They came to the corridor that passed the central chamber where Lan had ambushed them. Regel found it ironic but appropriate their path had led them this way. Ruin hung heavy about these chambers, and they had come to do its work—or, at least, Semana had.

They had come to the uppermost of the crypts, and a short flight of steps led to the secret corridors. They had come out, ironically, just below the furnace room in which Lan had laid his trap. At the top of the stairs, the door stood slightly ajar.

“Hold, Princess,” he said, but Semana walked right past him.

The sorcerer slapped the door off its hinges with the magic of her silver gauntlet. Inside, she raised the talons of her fire gauntlet, ready to slay any attacker. “Empty,” she said sharply.

The chamber was hollow as a tomb and devastated as though by a whirlwind. Overthrown furniture and the shattered bits of a chair lay scattered about the floor. Had their battle caused such devastation? Regel could not say for sure. Blood was everywhere: spattered on the walls, streaked across the sheets, pooled to mark where Lan had killed Serris. Had Ovelia suffered a similar fate in this very place? Regel saw no bodies, which was reassuring. There should have been soldiers here, though.

“My carving,” Regel said. “Do you have it?”

Semana looked at him blankly. “Why?”

Regel shook his head. He stooped, picked up one of the pieces of chair, and focused upon it, searching for an image in the wood. His senses expanded, though they were not as sharp as they would have been with a nigh-finished carving. Ovelia had been here, and Lan as well. He could smell the particular tang of sweat and blood. He could follow the course of their battle through the destroyed room. All the blood was hers: Ovelia hadn’t shed any Ravalis blood during the battle, which would have summoned Vhaerynn and meant her death. She could still be alive.

But where had they gone?

“Move on,” Semana said. “Time wastes away.”

“I’m searching for clues,” Regel said. “We must be cautious. If we move too fast—”

“Burn your clues and sear your caution,” Semana said. “Lead me to Demetrus.”

But Regel shook his head. “No.”

“No?” The word skirted the line between shocked and enraged.

“This vengeance is folly,” Regel said. “You stand to gain nothing except your own death—and most likely mine. Better that we turn aside and live.”

Semana seemed to grow taller in her indignation. “Says the man who sacrificed everything to seek vengeance for a dead girl.”

“That was justice, and it is a different thing,” Regel said. “You may not understand this, but vengeance will only make your emptiness the greater.”

Semana looked at him long and hard, then reached back and unbuckled the fasteners of her mask, which she dropped carelessly. Her face was haggard—her eyes puffy—but her silvery hair was luminous in the furnace room. “I am naked without that mask.” She quaked. “Look into my face.”

Hers was the beauty of a winter’s dawn. Regel saw the mother in the daughter. It was stronger than any magic she could have worked upon him.

“You cannot know how Demetrus has hurt me,” she said, her eyes welling. “He took everything from me. Destroyed my family and stole my crown. I have spent five years planning this, and now, at the last, I need your help. You and I, avenging the Blood of Winter.”

Semana averted her eyes and sank to one knee. Tears flowed freely now.

“Please do not take this chance from me.” She laid his hands on his calves and looked up at him, her lips trembling. “Please, for my mother’s sake.”

In that moment, it was almost like Lenalin asking him for aid.

Almost.

“I told you yestereve,” Regel said, “that I was done being manipulated by you.”

Instantly, Semana’s tears ceased their flow, and her pleading visage became as stone. She looked, if anything, disappointed. The transition was so abrupt, Regel felt a shiver at the base of his spine.

“You’re as fine an actress as Ovelia,” he said.

“Better.” She rose, her voice a chill wind, and smiled without mirth. “If you’ll not serve your Princess, must I force you to serve her Mask?” She raised her clawed gauntlet, which glowed cherry red with heat. She held her mask in her left hand.

“Semana.” Regel was keenly aware he lacked a weapon. Davargorn had taken all the blades when he ran off. “I intend to help you. I merely wish to know how and why first.”

Semana considered him, then lowered her talon. “Very well,” she said. “Give me your word, and I will tell you whatever you wish to know.”

“You have it,” Regel said. “Demetrus will die this night.”

Semana nodded. “Ask your questions then, and be quick.”

“Was this your plan all along?” Regel asked. “To murder me?”

“What?” Semana reacted with a touch of surprise that lent veracity to her words. However great an actress she had become, she could not school her reactions perfectly. “I never wanted to hurt
you
, Regel. You were my greatfather’s loyal man.”

“How would you know?” he asked. “His own First Shield slew him. Why would you believe better of his shadow?”

“I...” She shook her head. “You won’t believe me when I say this. You’ll think I’m a fool girl.”

“I know you aren’t,” Regel said. “Try.”

“That night, five years ago,” Semana said. “What you said to me, on the balcony outside the king’s hall.”

“That was you?” Regel understood fully, though: Semana must have become Mask before they’d faced one another outside the king’s chambers. Scared and confused, because she’d just been attacked.

Semana nodded. “You accused Mask of killing the princess—killing
me
,” she said. “The anger in your words, and the sheer hate in your eyes... I knew you were loyal. You had nothing to do with the attack. If we’d had another moment, I might have revealed myself to you. But—”

Regel nodded, but whether it was because her words were believable or because he wanted to believe her, he couldn’t say. “And Ovelia? I might be loyal, but you would murder
her
in a heartbeat?”

Semana sighed. “Regel—”

“You sent Davargorn to Tar Vangr to lure her to Luether, that you might kill her,” he said. “You expect me to believe that was your only plan?”

“Of course not,” she said. “But I never expected she would bring
you
. You, who have so much reason to hate her. I did not know how she felt about Mask—whether she would think him friend, enemy, or the like—but I knew how you felt about her. Or, at least, how you
should
have felt—unless you were her accomplice.” She put up her hands. “What else was I to think, but that you were a traitor as well? It wasn’t until we faced each other, in the temple of Aertem, that I saw your loyalty to the Winter King and improvised this new plan...”

“To turn our steel against the Usurper,” Regel said. “So that we would kill him or we would die, and you would triumph regardless.”

“Just so.” Semana nodded. “You were a means to an end, and I am sorry that I used you, Regel, but I had no one to trust.”

“You had the boy,” Regel said.

“Tith—” Semana’s face grew dark. “Davargorn is none of your concern.”

“Is he your lover?”

“That is
truly
none of your concern,” she said.

Regel nodded. That was more than fair. “And what of Ovelia?” he asked.

“What
of
her?” Semana’s eyes turned red, and Regel thought it was a mark of all the deadly magic she carried. She had become Mask, whether she meant it or not.

“You played her,” Regel said. “That night on the
Avenger
, you showed her your face to win her loyalty. You played upon her love for you, and now you’ve played her to her doom.”

She drew herself up. “I did as I had to.”

Regel clenched his fist. “She gave up everything for you, and you would abandon her?”

“She killed my greatfather, Regel, and Paeter as well.” Semana scowled. “I loathed the man, but he was still my father, and Ovelia slew them both in one night. You cannot imagine how I hate her.”

“Semana.”

“I hate her.” Seemingly without her awareness, Semana had begun to float into the air, borne aloft by the smoking magic of her boots. “I
hate
her.”

“But you do not understand—”

“No—
you
do not understand.”

Invisible force danced from Semana’s silver-wrapped fingers and seized his body, holding him fast and unmoving. Semana floated above him, and a storm was on her face.

“I am Mask,” she said. “A blade forged for battle, death taken flesh. My hands are soaked in the blood of decades.”

“You are not,” Regel said, struggling to breathe. “Mask wouldn’t have saved us.”

“Saved you? Is that what you think?” she asked. “I never—”

“Right here, in Lan’s chambers, when we walked into an ambush.” Regel gasped. “You had won. You could have let us die... but you saved us. You could have killed Lan, but you did not. Instead, you showed your face and surrendered your chance for vengeance. Why?”

Semana floated silently, her fingers clutched into fists. The darkness in the chamber made her face look just as much a mask as the leathern one she’d left on the floor.

“Who am I, then?” she asked. “Who am I, if not Mask?”

“You are Semana Denerre,” he said weakly. “Princess of the Blood of Winter.
My
princess.”

The magic in her boots subsided, and she floated down to the floor. She bent to one knee, and at first he thought she would help him rise. Instead, her hand went to the fallen mask, and Regel felt Plaguefire claw its way into his middle. His guts felt like they were rotting.

“Names change, Regel Oathbreaker.” She reclaimed the mask and rose. “The past falls to Ruin, and the world moves.” She pressed the mask to her face. “Dust and shadow, no? Isn’t that what you say?”

“Wait—” Regel said, lungs heaving, but it was too late. Semana donned the mask and fastened the buckles. The last princess of Winter was lost.

“I don’t need you,” she said. “I see you’re just another broken tool.”

Mask turned aside and touched a hidden catch on the wall to open the secret corridor. Of course she would know the palace as well as he did—it had been her home all those years, had it not? And Semana had ever been as adventurous as her mother. The same fatal flaw.

“Wait,” Regel said. “I—”

Mask passed into the darkness, leaving Regel fighting for air on the cold stone floor.

Thirty-Five

O
velia came out of
the darkness to find Garin cleaning her bloody skin with a moist cloth. His touch was delicate but firm, with none of the awkward hesitation of a man touching a naked woman he does not know. It reassured her.

He saw her eyes flickering and smiled reassuringly. “You’re awake—excellent.”

“How... how long?” Ovelia asked faintly.

“A few moments,” he said. “Long enough for me to collect supplies and to clean you a bit.” He gestured at a tunic and breeches he’d laid over the foot of the bed. “I might have dressed you, but—”

“It wouldn’t be
proper
?” Ovelia eyed him dubiously.

“Indeed.” Garin grinned. “You’ll need clothes, unless you plan to stagger around naked—not that I would object, mind. A Lady’s choice must be respected.”

Ovelia forced herself to sit up, which let the blanket that covered her fall away, and Garin averted his eyes politely as she slipped into the tunic he’d brought. There was a dull weakness in her belly—not pain, but she knew what it meant. Even now, her fingers were awkward—grasping and catching at the tunic like half-dead things. Part of that was the thalarin, though she suspected just as much was the withdrawal. “Give me the sweet-soul.”

His mirthful expression turned suddenly very serious. “That’s too dangerous. You’re gaming with your life if you take this again.” Garin turned but kept his eyes politely on hers. He had her vial of sweet-soul in his hands. “Alcarin will return soon and then we’ll get you to a proper chiurgeon, at least.”

She gave him a dubious look. “A healer for the Bloodbreaker, foe to Winter and Summer alike?”

“A healer loyal to me,” Garin said. “I am the Shroud of Tar Vangr, after all.”

“Until they find out about your treachery.”

“Not the shortest tenure history has ever known,” Garin said. “Two hundred years ago...”

“Enough.” Ovelia tried her best to suppress her shivering. “Is my aid worth so much to you? You would turn against your Blood just for another sword?”

“Hardly that.” Garin turned, his chin high. “That day in Luether, when I saw you and Regel—”

“So you
did
know us,” Ovelia said. “I thought perhaps my disguise fooled you.”

“Don’t deflect.” Garin smiled slyly. “I should have killed you both, but I did not. Why do you think that was?”

“You’ve a kind heart?” Ovelia shook her head. “What is it you want from me?”

“Hardly.” He put his fists on the desk and leaned forward. “I love Luether. I saw in you—both of you—a strength that has nothing to do with Blood. You were otherwise engaged then, but now...”

“Now I can help you instead.”

“Yes.” Garin crossed to her and knelt to put her hand to his lips. “Come with me,” he said. “Come with me to Luether.”

“You’re going back?” Ovelia blinked, stunned. “But you said yourself, you’re the Shroud of Tar Vangr. Once I am gone, you can pretend you never saw me. You can go back to being a loyal fox.”

“Loyal to a family that hates what I am? No.” Garin shook his head. “I came to get more warriors and more weapons, and in you, I have all I need. Your magic, your skill, your heart. You are the one.”

It all sounded fantastic, but Ovelia had witnessed stranger wonders. “Why would you trust me?”

“I am an excellent judge of character.” When Ovelia frowned, Garin chuckled. “I have seen you fight, and I would take you at my side before I took a hundred of my uncle’s Dustblades.”

“Flatterer.” Ovelia stretched, and her body protests with a chorus of aches. She felt thin and all but used up. “My body may not last the night, and I won’t do you much good after.”

“Let me worry about that,” Garin said. “Say you’ll come with me. Be my sworn shield.”

Ovelia saw herself reflected across the room in the small mirror over the basin. Her hair burned like fiery blood in the silvered glass. She was young again, being entrusted with a great honor: another royal heir to protect, another city to redeem.

But beside the glass was a portrait she kept—a portrait she used to gaze on every morn. The woman was lovely and young, her hair silver and her eyes a deep, steel-gray. The portrait was of Lenalin, but in that moment she saw only Semana. Ovelia would never abandon her.

“Very well,” she said. “But there is something I must do first. Something that is as important to me as redeeming Luether is to you.”

“I thought it might come to this.” Garin looked uneasy. “You need rest.”

“There’s no time.” Ovelia held out her shaking hand. She could no longer hide her body’s reaction to withdrawal. “Give me the sweet-soul.”

Garin hesitated, but ultimately he held forth the vial. Not putting it in her hand—that was wisdom. She extended her tongue and he laid two bitter drops on it. A blissful softness chased the foul taste. She wanted to insist on more, but she still had the strength of will to resist. Quickly, her body started to relax.

“This will serve.” She patted her breeches. “Turn around.”

Garin did as she instructed. “I expected you would not listen to reason. I told you I was an excellent judge.”

“And are you going to stop me?” Ovelia fumbled the breeches on. “Again?”

“I suspect that would be an exercise in vanity.” Garin tapped the warpick on the nearby table. “I’m coming with you. To aid you on your task, and to protect my investment.”

Ovelia nodded. “There will be fighting. You may have to kill your own kin.”

“I will do what I must.” Beside the warpick lay a sheathed sword and belt, which he took up. “It’s not your Bloodsword—I don’t know where they’re keeping that—but you need steel.”

“I may be too weak to wield it,” Ovelia said.

“Regardless.” Garin knelt to wind the belt around her hips. “You never know.”

“No.” Ovelia looked over his head at the portrait of Lenalin again. “You never do.”

When Garin had buckled the sword belt on Ovelia, he crossed to the door. Before she followed, she laid her fingers on the portrait of her long-dead friend. “If someone had told me fifteen years ago that I’d be standing here, and you long gone,” she whispered. “I’d have broken that man’s nose, sister.”

Garin paused at the door and looked back. “Ovelia?”

“Aye.” She nodded to Garin. “Aye, I’m coming.”