Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (40 page)

Then the knife wrenched out of Ovelia’s back and pain erupted in its wake. The king pulled the blood-smeared blade high to strike again—but Regel appeared and caught Demetrus’s raised hand.

Ovelia slid to her knees, dragging Semana down with her, their eyes still locked. The princess tried to pull away, but Ovelia held her. One black-wrapped hand broke free to touch Ovelia’s shoulder, a touch infused with joy and melancholy. At last, Ovelia thought. At last she had done it.

Semana’s eyes turned red.

At that instant, there was a flash of light—sucking green radiance that stole her breath—and Ovelia was thrown backward to crunch against the wall. She arched taut against the stone, her flesh burning, and fell limply to the floor. Her feet sprawled, her legs like boneless rags, and her head lolled. Smoke rose around her vision, and the world crisped away. Her eyes were on fire.

There, over the smoke that rose from her numb body, Ovelia saw Semana standing in the center of the room by the throne of Tar Vangr, her outstretched hand wreathed in a green storm. Her stance was stricken, and her eyes terrified. To Ovelia’s faltering vision, the fire grew brighter and turned silver as she became a mere silhouette, poised between the World of Ruin and its utter destruction or rebirth.

The world burned away.

Thirty-Eight

A
s Ovelia took the
blade for Semana, Regel moved without thinking. He caught Demetrus’s arm as he pulled the knife back for another strike. It was easy—too easy—to turn the blade and bury it in the king’s stomach.

“Betrayed on all sides,” Demetrus said.

They stood together, he and the king, entwined in a murderous embrace. Demetrus smiled, his teeth fringed in spittle, his eyes wide and terrible. His insides shuddered, as though something had come alive around the wound—something not of his own body. Regel released him, and Demetrus sank back onto his throne.

“Did I not promise?” the king murmured. “Strike, and he would be with you straight.”

There was a flash of green light over Regel’s shoulder. He glanced back to see Ovelia thrown away from Semana, only to slump against the far wall, her face on fire. Semana gasped where she stood within a tempest of sickly green lightning. As Regel watched, Semana drew back her crackling hand and stared down at it, a mixture of shock and disbelief on her face.

“Semana,” Regel said, reaching toward her. “It’s—”

“No.” She turned toward him, eyes blazing with uncontrolled magic. “
No!
”

Regel threw himself aside, and the bolt of force she sent toward him instead caught Demetrus on his throne. The magic split him apart like a butchered hog. Blood spattered the grey stone.

“No!” Semana looked down at her hands as though they weren’t parts of her body at all. “I didn’t mean—” Then she fell to her knees, struggling against sobs and against the slaying magic she could barely control. “Stop it! Stop!”

Not knowing what to say, Regel stepped toward Ovelia, but Garin Ravalis appeared between them, his warpick drawn. “Stay back!” he said.

“Why would she do that?” Semana moaned. “She hates me. She—”

Garin stood protectively over Ovelia. “I thought you were her ally,” he said to Regel. “But now I see you were using her as much as anyone.”

Regel might have spoken, but a dull laugh from behind caught Garin’s attention. Regel lunged forward at the opportunity and smashed the pommel of the king’s dagger into Garin’s forehead. The Shroud collapsed and Regel turned back to the throne, blade up and ready to throw.

Demetrus’s body was writhing on the throne. At first, Regel thought the king must have clung to some spark of life despite the destruction Semana’s power had wreaked, but then he realized the movement was not from the king but from
inside
him. As he watched, Demetrus’s chest parted to admit a pair of grasping, clutching hands. A man pulled himself free of the torn corpse and stepped down from the throne. He wore a black robe—now dampened by a sea of blood—and his black beard stuck to his chest. His fingers and nose dripped gore, as did a gold-bladed knife he held idly in one hand.

“Vhaerynn.” Regel brandished Demetrus’s bloody dagger between them.

“Regel Oathbreaker.” The necromancer looked to the corpse of Demetrus strewn over the throne. “It seems the king is dead, and I think Ovelia Dracaris slew his heir. Alas, what a tragedy.” He plucked up the Diadem of Winter. “But Tar Vangr shall endure. I shall see to it.”

Regel understood his tone. “You wanted us to succeed.”

“Did I?” Vhaerynn set the crown on his own head.

“You lured us here, and gave us the tools to kill Demetrus,” Regel said. “That was why you left the armor for me to find. So that we’d assassinate the king and you’d keep your hands clean.”

“Do they look clean, Regel Oathbreaker?” Vhaerynn wiped blood from his face and examined it on his fingertips. “My only crime was not answering when the first drop of his royal blood called to me. When more of it was spilled and the call grew louder, of course I came. Alas, I seem to have answered too late for him.” He turned back, his eyes suddenly boiling red pits. “Not too late for you, however.”

Regel started to throw his blade but Vhaerynn’s magic was faster. The court sorcerer twisted his hand upward into the air and Regel froze, his arm craned back.

“That’s my arm now, Oathbreaker,” Vhaerynn said, flicking his fingers. “Or should I name you Bloodbreaker as well?”

Operating by its own will, Regel’s arm shot around, aiming to bury the dagger in his own belly. He stopped it with his other arm, but the enchantment gave his limb impossible strength. Its force knocked him to the floor, where he strained to hold back from gutting himself.

“This is what you should have done when Orbrin died—joined your blood to his in the uncaring dirt.” Vhaerynn stepped toward him. “You will not long outlive
this
king, however.”

Regel clenched his teeth and fought against the invasion of his body with every ounce of his will, but it was not enough. Then he saw Semana stand up behind Vhaerynn, her gauntlets alive with magic.

Vhaerynn raised his head and sniffed, as though scenting the air. “A fine jest,” he said. “Your blood tastes so similar to that of my old friend. But no.” He shot out a hand, his fingers glowing red so that the bones showed through his flesh. “You are not Mask, little girl.”

Semana cried out as her right arm—no longer under her control—jerked aloft and the jet of flame she’d meant for Vhaerynn instead cut into the darkened ceiling. Her legs slipped her control and threw themselves out from under her. She crashed heavily to the floor.

“Leave her be!” Regel cried.

“Hmm.” Vhaerynn waved his free hand at Regel. Abruptly, his arm stopped trying to kill him. Instead, pain ripped through him as his blood thickened in his veins. With a gurgle, Regel collapsed and curled into an agonized ball.

“Fascinating,” the necromancer said. “You are not Mask, yet you have his power.”

“Was it you?” Semana demanded, sweat beading on her brow. “You know this armor—this magic. Did
you
send that creature to slay me?”

Vhaerynn looked nonplussed. “I know not your face or your tale.” He swept his hand down, and Semana rose to her knees like a poorly directed puppet. “Why would I send a creature as elegant as Mask to slay a common slut who does not know her place?”

Semana’s right gauntlet, boiling with fire, twisted toward her face, and Regel could see her struggle to control it. Veins appeared on her pale face, and cords stood out across her neck. Somehow, she took control of her left hand with the silver gauntlet, which she turned toward the necromancer. Desperately, she cut her hand across the air between herself and Vhaerynn—the way she had in the temple with her invisible blade. The necromancer waved the magic away like an irritating fly.

“Do you not know me, sorcerer?” Straining, Semana slashed again with her free hand.

“Should I?” Vhaerynn asked, countering her stroke without effort. “I know that you are stupid, if you would use a child’s art against a master.”

He snapped his fingers, and Semana’s head jerked aside. When she turned back, blood ran from her nose and her lip—blood that danced under Vhaerynn’s whim. She bore no outward sign of a strike, as though the blow had come from within her own body.

“I am Semana Denerre, your rightful queen,” she said. “You owe me your—”

Another of those internal slaps sent Semana’s face to the other side. Her ears were bleeding now, matting her silvery hair to the sides of her head. Her words cut off in a moan.

“I see no queen here—only a murdered king,” said Vhaerynn, standing over her. “And though I hardly mind the deed, now you will die for it, you disgusting child.”

“Idle threats.” Semana fought to move her arm. “Is this your greatest power, burned one?”

“Hardly.”

Vhaerynn’s eyes flashed bright red. He raised his hands and closed his fingers, as though to crush her between them. Semana arched up on her toes, her whole body straining as though crushed from within. She moaned aloud and blood ran from her eyes like tears.

This was the end, and Regel knew it.

Ovelia lay unmoving two paces from him, her chest burned through by Semana’s magic. Her blackened face was turned toward Regel, and her crimson hair fell across her features like a funeral shroud. He remembered her now as she had been: a spirited girl who would suffer no insult, either to herself or to her mistress. The day they first met, when he had known no name—before he had even been Regel—he and Ovelia had dueled. He had defeated her handily, but she had tackled him afterward and pounded blood from his face. He remembered her red hair hanging over her vivid eyes like copper suns...

Her eyes. Regel realized her eyes were open. They were glazed and sightless, but also alive.

“Ovelia,” he said.

Her eyes blinked, and her lips formed a word he could not make out.

“I poisoned you,” Regel said. “I am sorry.”

Ovelia’s head shook. Her hand grasped his, and she spoke to him in words that he could not miss, even through the sounds of the mageduel. “Help her,” Ovelia said. “Help my child.”

Semana, Regel thought. She meant Semana, the child she had loved and protected all these years—the one she would die to keep from harm.

“I cannot,” Regel said. “The necromancer... Vhaerynn has us both.”

Ovelia smiled wanly. “The moment comes,” she said, her voice weary. “I see it. Semana—”

Then her eyes closed and she trailed off.

“Ovelia.” Regel squeezed her hand tight. “Ovelia!”

A curse caught his attention. Vhaerynn had sworn by the Narfire. Regel looked around, and what he saw gave him pause. The court sorcerer was standing over Semana, one arm raised aloft to fuel his control of her body, but Regel saw sweat streaming down his forehead. A burst of magic struck him and sent him back a pace, and the Diadem of Winter flew from his head. Vhaerynn’s expression was one of frustration and wonder. “Why do you not fall, girl?”

Blood running down her chin, Semana had raised her arm as though to fend him off. There was no hint of Plaguefire. She cast no magic at all, but simply faced his onslaught with her own force of spirit.

“Fascinating,” Vhaerynn said. “I have never encountered a will so strong. What talent you might have. I would take you for my squire, if you were not a nameless wretch and already dead.”

Semana panted, her chest heaving as she sucked in air, eyes locked to the sorcerer’s face. Under her tattered cloak, Regel saw as she slowly raised her clawed gauntlet, fighting for every fraction of a thumb’s breadth. If she could keep Vhaerynn’s eyes on her face for one more moment...

“I have a name.” Semana brought the gauntlet around. “I—”

Then Semana screamed as Vhaerynn twisted one hand and seized the fire gauntlet. Flames scorched a burning line into the floor. When the necromancer crooked his hand, the fire gauntlet tore from Semana’s hand and flashed to his grasp.

“Treacherous little bitch, aren’t you?” Vhaerynn asked, voice wavering. “All your magic bound up in devices—little tricks unworthy of a true sorcerer. Mayhap you should taste mine...” His eyes welled with bloody tears and he smiled viciously. “All of it.”

And with that, he brought the full force of all his power down on Semana.

It should have killed her then and there, but somehow she kept breathing. She fell to her back, screaming. On the floor, she writhed and arched as magic danced around her, blood trailing through the air like a whirlwind around her frail body.

“Does it hurt, Child?” Vhaerynn asked. “Do you beg for release?”

Semana moaned and wept.

Regel moved his arm. In turning all his power on Semana, Vhaerynn had freed him.

“
The moment comes
,” Ovelia had said. “I see it.”

He saw it too.

He pushed himself to his feet. His bones ached with every one of his forty-five winters. Despite the magic, it had grown so cold he could see his breath. He felt like a tired old man, beaten and broken, but he would not lie down and die yet.

Once more, he thought. Just once.

He drew up Ovelia’s fallen sword and stepped resolutely toward Vhaerynn.

“You cannot defeat me,” the necromancer said to Semana. “Your powers are nothing!”

Semana could not protect herself. She was going to die.

He thought of Frostburn, the sword he had once wielded, and the cold power trapped within: the power of death. He thought of its opposite, the power of life.

He thought of Lenalin, who had never wielded Frostfire, and the Winter King, who had.

He thought of Ovelia, of the moment she had promised. This moment.

“Vhaerynn!” Regel slashed with all his might at the necromancer’s head.

Regel’s blade didn’t hit—it shattered in the air before it had even come close—but the damage was done. Vhaerynn’s power caught Regel as he fell, strangling him with his own body. Regel knew the strike would slay him, but he had distracted Vhaerynn from Semana, who was even now climbing to one knee, then to her feet. As Regel watched, the Plaguefire died away, replaced by silver-white flames. Frostfire, the power of Denerre, passed down through the generations, awoke in Semana.

Before them, an unbound Semana burned with white flame. Hoarfrost danced across the floor, reaching out from where she knelt. The fires her gauntlet had lit turned abruptly to barbed ice sculptures. Power swirled around her, unknowable and unmatchable. She was life and death in a single force.

“Gods,” the necromancer murmured. “Beautiful.”

“Yes,” Regel murmured. “She is.”

“I have a name,” Semana said as she rose. “It’s
Mask
.”

She thrust her arms toward them, and a storm of white fire burned into them with unearthly cold. It knocked Regel sprawling, his body shivering as white frost spread across it.

Vhaerynn took the full force of the blow. His body flew across the chamber to shatter against the great glass window that separated the throne room from the Tar Vangr night. Half the throne room exploded outward, bringing in a gale of cool air that fueled the icy flames.

The necromancer’s scream—if he uttered one—vanished among the sounds of roaring flames and of shattering glass.