Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (39 page)

Thirty-Six

W
hen Tithian Davargorn awoke,
surrounded in corpses, a dozen guards in crimson tabards trimmed in blue stood over him, swords drawn, staring down without comprehension. This was the third group, or perhaps the fourth. These men were Ravalis—the ones who had taken Semana away from him. And he would kill all of them.

They hesitated, and so he struck with impunity.

The first man went down to a twisted left fist that slammed into his ear, and Davargorn drew his belt-dagger to slash out the throat of a second before the others could even cry out.

Then they were on him, striking from all sides.

Davargorn felt the thrusts and cuts but didn’t care. He slashed and wheeled amongst the men for position. One of the magically-charged blades hit hard enough to send him staggering with a burst of force, but he flew with the blast and let it carry him into another victim. He grasped the man’s arm, ripped out his throat with his dagger—or was that his teeth?—and seized a sword that crackled with magic.

As he cut and hacked, blood sizzled across the ground. It flowed, seemingly of its own accord, into the pool of blood Davargorn had left against the wall. The pool shivered and began to swell upward into the corridor. He’d been fighting so long he’d taken to imagining things. He ignored it and fought on, cutting men down like a scythe cleaving grain.

Finally, Davargorn drew back to run a staggered guardsman through, and abruptly his arm froze in place. He looked around, snarling, but there was no one to hold him. His arm was not his own. Then the flat of his own blade smashed into his face and blood burst from his nose. The blade came in again, then twice more, before finally he sagged to the bloody stones below.

The guards tried to take advantage of his inaction, but they did not seem able to move either. They stood like statues with terrified faces.

Davargorn could only watch as a man rose from the blood pooled on the floor. He pulled himself out as though climbing from a hole in the stone and stood over Davargorn, gaunt but imposing, his eyes shot through with cords of coagulated crimson. He held the golden blade of the Aza in his hand.

“Did you think I would not remember the taste of your blood, Tithian Davargorn?” asked Vhaerynn the necromancer. “It makes me hunger.”

Davargorn could not speak, only glare.

The necromancer turned to the guard Davargorn had wounded but not slain. Vhaerynn smiled as he laid his hand on the man’s chest. “Peace,” he crooned to the terrified guard. “This will end soon.” In his other hand, he raised his knife.

Even Davargorn winced at the squelch of steel into flesh as Vhaerynn stabbed the wicked blade into the guard’s chest. The man gurgled, and his flesh turned gray and wasted away like dust. His body shriveled into a skeleton in a heartbeat, as though he had been dead for years. Crimson mist leaked from the withered husk, which Vhaerynn inhaled like the aroma of a sweet wine.

“Not enough,” Vhaerynn said as the man’s body sloughed to the floor. “I need more.”

The other guards who had survived Davargorn’s assault burbled and cried out in terror, but they could not escape or fight back. Why had the necromancer left their voices free? Perhaps he enjoyed the sounds they made. Efficiently, Vhaerynn strode amongst them, killing each and absorbing their essence. When all were dead, the necromancer turned back to Davargorn with a smile like that of a satisfied hunting cat. His blood-smeared dagger gleamed in the torchlight.

“You’ve something to say?” Vhaerynn waved, loosing Davargorn’s throat.

“Very well.” Davargorn resolved to face death with courage. “Feed upon me, monster.”

“Oh, I’ll not kill you, Tithian Davargorn.” Vhaerynn stretched languidly. “You might prove useful, and I would hate to waste you.”

“Useful?” Davargorn said.

“I had thought you would stand beside your princess whore and her warders, but it seems not,” Vhaerynn said. “How she needs you at her side.”

Semana, Davargorn realized. He meant Semana. “But—but my princess is dead.”

“She is not.” Vhaerynn smiled. “The Lord of Tears knew she lived, and he tricked you away from her. Would you have your revenge?”

Davargorn struggled against Vhaerynn’s magic, but the power was just too strong. “Free me,” he said. “And I will strike as you command.”

Vhaerynn looked upward, as though he could see through the metal walls and the tons of stone above the maze of ancient tunnels. “The king calls, blood to blood,” he said. “But I will not answer.”

“I don’t understand,” Davargorn said.

“Let there be an end to it,” Vhaerynn said. “An end to Summer and to Winter. Let the Blood that rules the World of Ruin be that of
real
power.”

Davargorn sensed the treachery Vhaerynn meant, but he couldn’t put it all together. No matter. He was a threat to Semana and had to die. Davargorn would do what he asked, and betray him.

“Free me,” Davargorn said. “I can help you. You said so yourself.”

The necromancer wasn’t listening. With all his will, Davargorn fought against the blood magic paralyzing his limbs. If only he could—

Then magic swelled, spreading across his whole body, and Davargorn gagged.

Vhaerynn glanced ruefully over his shoulder at him. “Come now,” he chided. “You think I cannot feel your heart beat and know when you lie?”

Davargorn felt Vhaerynn’s power lift him up against his will, like a giant hand closed tight around him. Over his closed fist, the necromancer smiled. The magic slammed Davargorn into the wall, then the ceiling, where Vhaerynn held him. Agony ripped through his limbs and he could not draw breath. The magic squeezed until he thought his eyes would pop from their sockets.

“I shall enjoy your princess’s screams for mercy while I take her,” Vhaerynn said. “Just as I have taken you.”

“Se-Semana,” Davargorn said, eyes leaking bloody tears.

Vhaerynn hurled him against the back wall, and he knew bone-splintering blackness.

Act Five: Blood

Five Years Previous—Palace of Tar Vangr—Ruin’s Night, 976 Sorcerus Annis

H
igh in the cold
stone palace, he felt it.

He felt it in the press of the blood against the walls of his veins. He felt it in nearby bodies, pulses racing as if in sympathy with the blood-letting to come.

Vhaerynn, the last Necromancer and greatest sorcerer in Tar Vangr, loved it.

The old man paused in the corridor outside his prince’s rut chamber, stopped in his tracks by a swell of hatred that saturated him like a draught of strong-wine. Delicious and deadly. Vhaerynn smiled.

Death stirred in the City of Steel this night, prophesying the disaster about to unfold. For those trained in the ways of blood magic, the anticipation of death was the sweetest of drugs, and it filled Vhaerynn with such pleasure he almost forgot how to walk. He caught himself on a nearby endtable and savored the sensation, not merely for the taste but also for the world it would usher in its place. He had experienced an expectant rush this powerful only once before in recent memory: ten years past, when Paeter Ravalis had sent his wife on a shattering jaunt through a mirror. That event Vhaerynn hadn’t expected, but he’d savored the taste of her bloodletting all the same. And this time, it would be worse.

The best part was that no one else knew. This doom, which seemed so obvious to him, passed them all as a vague unease. The more sensitive folk of the city might experience the resonance as night terrors that woke them screaming, but they would not know until the funeral bells rang the following morn. The Blood of Winter was doomed, but not alone.

Since he was a boy over a hundred years ago, Vhaerynn had known instinctively when to stand back and let Ruin take her course, or to step forward and participate in spreading death.

The door to Paeter’s chambers opened, and the prince staggered out. His tunic was only half done and his breeches disheveled, as though he’d dressed himself in haste. Pain wet his eyes, and wounded pride suffused his swollen face, deepening its golden cast to a ruddy brown.

“Necromancer.” The prince drew up to his full height in a juvenile attempt to cover his moment of vulnerability. “What do you want?”

The blood beating in Paeter’s face called out to him, filling his mouth with the tang of salt and a touch of rot. The prince was old before his time, and tired. Appropriate, for a man marching to his death.

“Your highness.” Vhaerynn bowed. “I heard you were not well, and came to offer my services.”

Paeter blanched, which amused Vhaerynn. As chiurgeon to the Ravalis, the sorcerer’s skills surpassed anything else Tar Vangr might offer, but unsurprisingly his treatments often involved bleeding the patient.

“I’m well enough,” the prince said. “Just off to buy a whore or three. Care to join?”

Tempting. Vhaerynn was hungry—the blood growing thin within him. He would need to feast soon, and a lowly coin boy or street girl wouldn’t be missed. Well, at least she wouldn’t when the Ravalis came to power. Inexplicably, King Orbrin cared about such things.

“Oh no, my thanks,” Vhaerynn said. “Why not bring your playthings to the palace? It is warmer here.” He laid one bony hand on Paeter’s shoulder. “Safer.”

“Not while Orbrin sits upon the throne.” Paeter shook him off. “Should I give him cause to question me? To muddy the succession? He has already exiled one of my blood. Nay, while my late wife’s father rules and I play nursemaid to that ill-gotten bastard Semana, I must be the dutiful heir.”

“Oh, I doubt that will be a problem for long,” Vhaerynn said.

The Winter King’s power had waned, and soon Demetrus could move against Orbrin. Without Orbrin’s last heir, the Ravalis would face no obstacle in their path to the throne. The Summer Princes would prove easy enough to manipulate. Vhaerynn himself would set the Diadem of Winter upon Demetrus’s brow, and behind the Summer King, the necromancer would find a warm shadow in which to work his will. But even that was simply the next step in a long path he had walked for many decades.

What he did was needful. There was no honor or justice to it, but such things did not matter. Ravalis, Denerre... A thousand Bloods like theirs had risen, boiled over, and drained away to nothing, and nothing ever changed. Ruin continued its relentless assault, and the world slipped deeper and deeper into darkness. But all that would change. One day, Vhaerynn—the last true wizard, heir of the Sorcerer-Kings of Calatan—would inherit the last of the mage-cities for his own. One day
soon
.

Paeter was looking at him curiously, and Vhaerynn realized the prince hadn’t left—nor had Vhaerynn done what he had come to do. “Was there something else?” the prince asked.

“Only this.” Vhaerynn traced his fingers across Paeter’s bare chest, and the prince staggered back with a hiss of pain. Vhaerynn’s touch had drawn blood. “Gird yourself, princeling. The hurt is not deep.”

“What is this?” Paeter demanded.

Vhaerynn smiled. “You are important, highness. I seek only to protect you.”

Paeter narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

“This ward links your blood to mine,” Vhaerynn said. “Should you be assaulted, I will know and come save you from harm. Your blood will summon me when—
if
it is spilled.”

Paeter didn’t look convinced. “I need no protection, from you or anyone. Leave me.”

“Ah, but your highness,” Vhaerynn said. “Have you made no enemies? None who might seek vengeance for... perceived wrongs?” He glanced at Paeter’s door, behind which he sensed two hearts beating: one in shame, one in hatred. The prince had finally ruined himself.

Paeter nodded. “Fine. Do it quickly, if you must. But you had best not deceive me, necromancer, or you will find out exactly how little my father values you.”

The threats of spoiled children meant nothing to Vhaerynn. He endured, timeless in his power and purpose, and often he had to clear his path of those less worthy. He would cast the ward, but he had no intention of invoking it. Tonight, when death came for Paeter Ravalis, the prince would not find the fabled protection of the wielder of the Golden Blade of the Red King, the savior of a dying world. Instead, he would find only blood.

“This will hurt only a little,” Vhaerynn said with a smile.

Thirty-Seven

Present Day—The Palace of Tar Vangr—Ruin’s Night, 981 Sorcerus Annis

R
egel lay in the
prince’s rut chamber, dying in a room that echoed with death. He could sense the doom this room had seen—could feel it building within him and without. Caught in the grip of Semana’s Plaguefire, sweating corruption from every pore, he became part of that ruin. He was both its victim and its perpetrator. The pain weighed on him like a shroud of ice. The world turned hazy, as though the magic had drawn a film across his eyes.

He wanted to roll over and die, but instead he fought. He had to find a way. Semana needed him.

Somehow, he felt warm.

The veil over his eyes parted. His scarred leg groaned, but he forced it under him. He clutched a tapestry, ripping it half from the wall as he pulled. It held, and he managed his feet.

He didn’t have the time to consider. Semana needed him.

* * *

Unarmed, Regel limped toward the throne room of the palace. He prayed to the Old Gods he was not too late. He had to stop for breath every few paces, but finally he found himself at the base of the stairs that led up through the secret tunnels to the great chamber at the height of the palace. The door let a crack of light onto the stairs. He climbed step by agonizing step.

Finally, Regel staggered into the throne room, only to find Semana—fully masked and rippling with Plaguefire—standing a dozen paces from King Demetrus as he sat cross-legged on his throne, his posture meditative. Around them sprawled the bodies of a dozen guardsmen, choking and gasping as sickly magic held them down. The king seemed unmoved: he faced his imminent death without emotion.

Demetrus Ravalis had been old thirty years ago, and he was ancient now. Despite or perhaps because of his age, the Summer King seemed just this side of indestructible. His body had grown tighter than iron shackles, his leathery skin hardened to stone over the decades. His still-sharp brown eyes had sunk deep in folds of brown skin around a powerful Ravalis nose. Gray stubble dusted his cheeks and chin. He’d gone mostly bald but kept his remaining hair neatly cropped. A hard man with a falcon’s face. He was a patriarch among men, his life a lesson of perseverance.

And today would be the day that he died.

The great Hall of Denes, crown jewel of Tar Vangr, towered around Demetrus. The stained glass holding the World of Ruin at bay misted with the chamber’s warmth, while the sun—just kissing the distant horizon—painted orange shadows through the room. As though impervious to any chill, Demetrus wore a light robe bare at the shoulder in the classic Luethaar style. He had set the crown of Tar Vangr on the arm of his throne and every so often tapped it thoughtfully with three fingers.

By contrast, Semana looked not at all calm. Her body trembled as she stood erect before the throne, shaking with barely restrained fury. Fire coursed around her war gauntlet, and smoke rose from her silver glove. With her mask on and ablaze with Plaguefire, she had become an angel of death. Every bit of her armor burned, alight with power, fueled by her own rage.

“Say that again, Usurper!” she cried.

Regel inclined his head to Demetrus. “Majesty,” he said.

“Ah.” The Summer King gazed at Regel through clear hazel eyes untouched by the rheum of age. “Regel Frostburn, King’s Shadow. The summers have been kind to you.”

“And the winters to you. A moment to compose myself, if you will.”

Demetrus waved indolently, ignoring the inferno of magic that stood not a dozen paces away.

Semana rounded on Regel. “Stay out of this, Lord of Tears!”

Regel caught his breath and bowed to the king. “You know why we have come, Majesty?”

Demetrus shrugged. “Ours has been a reunion five years overdue. Your loyalty demands nothing less, and I respect that in a foe as well as a friend. And you are both of these things.”

“Speak not to him, but answer
me
!” Semana cried. “I am the one who shall strike you down, Blood-traitor. I, who am—!”

Demetrus continued as though she had not spoken. “How may I serve you, Syr Frostburn?”

“I have left that name far behind, Majesty. I am the Lord of Tears now, and the Oathbreaker.”

“To me, old friend, you will always be Regel,” Demetrus said. “Do you object to this name?”

Semana gave Regel a curious look, which he tried to ignore. He would not call Demetrus a friend, but the two of them had known one another many decades. He supposed Demetrus might as well call him that. “If I may ask, Majesty,” he said. “Where is your vizier—your necromancer?”

Demetrus cleared his throat. “Vhaerynn and I spend little time together. He loathes me, to tell you true. Though if yon puppy strikes me, I assure you he shall be with you straight.” He traced the marks of fingernails that cut through his chest tattoo. Vhaerynn’s blood ward.

Regel saw Semana bristle at the king’s casual dismissal. Magic swelled around her fists—putrid Plaguefire that sent wisps of foul smoke into the air—but of course she knew she could not strike. After he issued that warning, Demetrus ignored her entirely. Was he confident in his necromancer’s protection, or was it something else? The king’s courage staggered him, and Regel was not a man easily impressed.

“Do you sleep well, Regel?” the king asked.

“Not very, Majesty,” Regel said. “Such is the curse of age, no?”

“I sleep poorly, myself.” Awkwardly, Demetrus took hold of one leg and crossed it over the other, then leaned his elbows on knee and ankle. It made him look relaxed but also very tired. “I pass my nights in meditation, rather than sleep. The Vangryur claim it is age—that my mind needs less rest than that of a younger man, but I think you and I know the truth.”

“Regret,” Regel said.

“Just so,” Demetrus said. “Regret is the curse of living in a dying world. The more evil one has done, the more plentiful his nightmares.”

Demetrus pushed himself to his feet. For a moment, it seemed he might fall, but his eyes were grim and his footing secure. The Summer King was not a man given to weakness.

“I have spent these nights waiting for death, and I will not meet it sleeping. And now—” He turned the full weight of his majesty on Regel. “Now you have come.”

Regel bowed stiffly on his injured leg. “Apologies, Majesty, but you err,” he said. “I have not come to kill you.” He nodded to Semana. “
She
has.”

“She?” Demetrus raised his chin imperiously. “This thing is meant to be a woman?”

Semana’s hands clenched. “Justice,” she said. “After all you have done to me and mine.”

“You and yours.” Demetrus scoffed. “So says a nameless rogue.”

“
Nameless?
” Semana loosed a cry of anguish and fury. “You presume to tell me you do not know this face? The man who wore this mask before me?”

Demetrus scoffed. “I know none with a face of leather, man or woman.”

“You lie,” Semana said. “Five years ago, you sent Mask to spill the Blood of Winter.”

Demetrus narrowed his eyes. “Slay me if you will, but insult me not,” he said. “Orbrin Denerre was my friend and ally. I would never have done him harm.”

“Liar!” Semana cried, her rough voice breaking into her own, softer tones. “All your wretched life, you’ve done nothing but lie and betray. That ends tonight.”

“Again, you insult me,” the king said amiably. “Who are you to speak thusly to a king?”

“A queen, Usurper!” Her hands shot to the buckles of her mask.

“Wait—” Regel started, but he could not cross to her fast enough to stop her.

Semana cast her mask at the king’s feet, where it bounced twice and lay still.

“I am a queen,” she said again. “Your
rightful
queen.”

* * *

As they came to the second hidden door that opened to the throne room, Ovelia pulled up short and raised a hand to stop Garin. The world lurched drunkenly, but she kept her feet.

“What is it?” he asked. “I heard nothing.”

Ovelia shook her head. It was as though she had seen warning in Draca’s shadows, but of course she was not holding the sword. She saw the thrust of a king’s knife, a blinding flash of magic, and blood. So much blood. She gestured to the door, and Garin went to listen.

“Voices,” whispered the Ravalis prince. “My uncle, and the Lord of Tears.”

Ovelia’s heart leaped. “Regel?”

“There is another, as well,” Garin said. “A woman I do not know. Young—very angry.”

Ovelia shoved past Garin as best she could and shoved at the door, but it would not open. Her weakened fingers were too clumsy to open the catch.

“What is it?” Garin tried to catch her arm, but she shook him off. “Lady?”

She drew back from the door and looked to Garin. “Open it!”

“But Lady Dracaris, who knows how many—”

Ovelia slicked her hair back from her eyes and drew her borrowed sword. “Open it
now
.”

* * *

When Semana took off the mask, Regel might have expected many things to cross Demetrus’s placid features—surprise, confusion, anger, or even an unlikely joy at seeing his greatdaughter alive—but the king’s expression remained blank. He stepped toward her and observed her imperiously, searching her tight frame from the crown of her silvery hair to the toe of her blood-stained black boots.

Then he laughed, and the sound echoed throughout the vast, empty chamber.

“I am to recognize a pale-headed waif in stinking leathers as my equal? Or—even better—as my liege?” Demetrus stepped around her, scrutinizing her from all sides, and came to stand between her and the throne, as before. “Truly, girl, you offer a fine jest.”

“Do you—” Semana’s voice quavered. “Do you not know your own Blood?”

“Oh, I know
you
, Semana Denerre.” The king put his hands on her shoulders and met her gaze with eyes sharpened of steel. “Blood of Winter, aye, but no blood of
mine
.”

By the Narfire, Regel thought. He
knows
.

Demetrus grasped Semana tight enough to leave bruises through the leather. “You are no Blood of mine,” he said. “And never will a whore of muddied blood sit my throne.”

Semana caught his wrist in her hand and the king straightened. “It’s not your throne.”

She raised her left hand, with the silver interlocking mesh glove, and her discarded mask rose into the air and shot to her hand. As soon as she caught it, greasy smoke flared around the mask. Green fire coursed through Semana’s hand and into Demetrus’s arm, causing the flesh near her black-wrapped fingers to rot before Regel’s eyes, turning green-brown and shrinking in upon itself. Gray veins crept across Demetrus’s face and his throat convulsed in time with his racing heart.

“Stop!” Regel grabbed for Semana’s right arm.

Fire blazed, burning Regel’s bare fingers black, but he broke Semana’s grasp. Demetrus sagged back into his throne and Semana fell back a step, hungry withering magic trailing from her fingers.

Regel followed, holding her arms. “Stop this, Semana!” he shouted.

“
Mask
,” she corrected, black magic pulsing behind her eyes. Plaguefire bit into him, flowing into his arms and sucking at his life. “This man murdered my family, and tried to do the same to me,” she said, her voice cold. “Now stand away, or you can die with him!”

“Enough of this.” Demetrus drew a knife from under his robes. Regel stepped in front of Semana, but the king barely looked at them. Instead, he cut open the scabbed wound on his palm from the revel. His blood dripped onto the stone at his feet. “Vhaerynn Lifedrinker, come forth.”

Regel tensed, ready to spring at the first sign of the vizier.

A moment passed. Demetrus’s blood pooled at his feet. No sorcerer came forth.

“Treachery,” Demetrus breathed. “I am undone.”

“Treachery on all sides.” Semana raised her burning gauntlet toward Regel where he stood, strength eroding under her magic’s assault. “Stand away.”

Despite the Plaguefire, Regel stood firm. His breath came in wisps and his heart thundered. “I will not,” he said. “You could not kill Lan, nor Ovelia, nor me. You are
not
Mask.”

“
Traitor!
” Magic boiled around her and green lightning roared forth to smite Regel. He felt the power pulling away at his heart, far worse than in the corridors below.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Semana... you can’t...”

“Damn your ‘can’ and ‘can’t’,” the princess cried. “I will do as I must, and you have no right—
none!
—to tell me otherwise.”

Regel sank to his knees. “Stop,” he said. “Stop this now, you spoiled,
stupid
child!”

Semana’s face went white. “You dare?” she cried. “By what right do you rebuke me?”

“I rebuke you”—Regel’s lips parted—“as your father.”

Semana’s eyes went wide.

A shadow loomed over them.

* * *

The door finally opened and Ovelia staggered into the grand chamber, clutching her midsection with her free arm. She bit back the pain and looked toward the throne.

She saw what would happen before it came to pass. There knelt Regel and Semana, staring at one another, and there stood Demetrus, a naked blade in his hand. Where his guards or his court sorcerer were, Ovelia couldn’t begin to guess. Semana’s back was to him, her attention on the kneeling Regel, who seemed to be in the grip of her Plaguefire.The king’s knife glinted as it rose high. She saw herself, falling to her knees, stabbed through, Semana in her arms.

The blood of Draca did not lie.

“Semana!” Ovelia ran toward them. The world seemed to drag.

The princess turned her silver-blonde head, and Ovelia saw her hazel eyes gleaming. Ovelia came between the king and the princess and caught Semana by the shoulders. She plastered herself over the young woman like a living shield.

The knife cut across the intervening space and plunged into Ovelia’s back. She saw more than felt the point burst from her chest. She watched it stop before it could open Semana’s neck.

She had made it.

The two women looked into each other’s eyes—eyes of the same hazel hue.