Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (12 page)

He stepped off the barbarian he had killed and crossed to where Gnasher lay. The man was still alive, if barely: his chest rose and fell shallowly, even as the fox chewed at his midsection. The fox regarded Davargorn warily, its snout smeared with blood.

“I’ve no desire to steal your prize,” Davargorn said. “Not when you’re the only one strong enough to take it.”

The fox went back to its meal, but not before a black gloved hand that was not Davargorn’s touched its neck. The fox jerked taut, startled, but the newcomer merely caressed it from ears to tail.

“Speak, Squire,” the figure said.

“They have arrived, Master.” Davargorn dropped to one knee. “And they seem determined to find death at every turn. I sabotaged a loader at the dock to cover their escape, and still they managed to wander into an ambush. I wonder if we should—”

His master coughed—a low, hacking sound that made Davargorn reach forward, concerned. Two bright, determined eyes warded him off.

“They will die,” his master said. “But not yet. Follow them.”

Davargorn nodded. Already, he’d wasted too much time with the fox and the Child. He gestured to the wheezing Gnasher and touched his sword. “Shall I?”

The eyes bore into his masked face, and he looked away.

Power flared—dark, cursed magic from an even darker age. Sickly green energy connected one silver gauntleted hand to Gnasher’s heaving chest, and Davargorn could see energy drawing away from the dying man and up the trail of magic. The barbarian moaned one last time, then rattled his way into death.

When Davargorn looked back, his master was gone. Time to focus on the task at hand.

He’d lost sight of his quarry. He felt confident, however, that he could find them once more—particularly with the thick black boots that sheathed his feet and ankles. And if he failed, well, he had set a failsafe in motion with Regel’s squire in Tar Vangr. Try as he might, the man who had once been the Frostburn would not elude the trap closing around him.

Not, of course, that Davargorn would fail.

He breathed a word of command, and smoke began to leak from the boots: the stirrings of corruptive magic. “Soon, Lord of Tears.” Davargorn smiled. “Soon.”

Power coalesced around his boots and he soared into the air.

Nine

J
ovial and warm, the
Crimson Bath had not changed much even in the twenty years since Ovelia had been here last. After the battle and the horror of the falling glass, it relieved her to see folk actually smiling and jesting. True, the humor was crude and the folk worse, but it reminded her that not all of Luether had fallen to Ruin.

Dutiful servants scurried between the tables, dodging speculative glances and eluding groping hands. Many were young women, which rankled her a bit. Service was considered beneath a man’s dignity in Luether, Ovelia recalled, though she saw little about the Summerlands men that made them better than the women. Quite the opposite, in fact: the men of Luether seemed, by and large, uncautious, boistrous, and uncouth. She’d seen more fights break out between braggart men in her few hours here in Luether than in half a year back in civilized Tar Vangr. Defending one’s manhood with fists appeared to be the style of the day. The women, on the other hand, were quiet, unassuming, and could get things done. She respected them far more for their discretion than the men’s bravado.

She let her mind drift back to her first visit to Luether, when she and Princess Lenalin had been mere girls of ten or so, come to meet the Prince Paeter, who would be Lenalin’s husband when she reached the age of majority. Such a thing would never happen to Ovelia, of course—“marriage” was the exclusive province of nobles forging alliances and even then, it was all but unknown in Tar Vangr—but she had been excited to support Lenalin. Ovelia was her lady in waiting and sworn shield, even if she was not yet strong enough for real armor or weapons.

“You’ll ward her, yes?”
Syr Norlest had asked.
“Against all enemies?”

To that, Ovelia had nodded vigorously.

At one point, Lenalin and Paeter had sneaked out of the palace to this very tavern, and of course Ovelia had followed her princess. Here, she’d beaten a grown man senseless for the way he looked at Lenalin. She remembered Lenalin had laughed, as had Paeter’s crude brother, Lan, who made it a point to remind Ovelia of the incident for the remainder of the trip. Paeter had been the only Ravalis who’d not laughed—instead, he’d fixed Ovelia with a discerning stare that made her blush. Had she known then, as a child, that when they came of age, his pretty princess would not please him? That he would lust instead after her red-haired knight who longed to be abused?

Ovelia shook the unpleasant memory away and signaled the owner of the Crimson Bath, a grizzled former sailor by the swagger and smell, her face lined and worn with hard years. Predetermined signals flashed, coin changed hands, no names were given, and the woman led them down a set of stairs through a hidden trapdoor to a secret room off the cellar.

The mostly natural chamber was cavernous, saturated with the earthy smell of hewn stone and blood-soaked soil. Cracks were sealed tight with pitch so sounds of clandestine meetings and illicit trysts would not reach the floor above. Secret murders could befall in this place with no one the wiser, though the earthen floor had, over the years, acquired a distinctly red tinge. She and Regel could spar all they wanted, and no one would interfere.

There was only one bed, but that was a matter for later.

Ovelia nodded and put two silver coins in the owner’s hand. After biting them and nodding, the woman climbed back up the stairs and shut the trapdoor. Doing so stole the light from the room but for thin rays that filtered down through the occasional crack whose pitch had worn away. One of these rays fell on a tiny shelf cut out of the wall at the head of the bed.

“A godshelf,” Regel murmured. “Remarkable, to find such a thing in Luether.”

The shelf boasted a scattered collection of clay figures and carvings—trinkets left to honor one or another of the nameless Old Gods, or an ancestor the carver considered a paragon of nobility or honor. They had coalesced over the years into an entire pantheon to watch over a sleeper. How many prayers had been uttered in such a place, begging for providence on a quest such as theirs?

Ovelia bent a knee and inclined her head out of respect for the divine.

“We need to eat,” Regel said. Ever the practical one.

The last thing Ovelia wanted for her roiling stomach was food, and the last thing her uneasy heart craved was time with Regel, but she nodded anyway. The figurines on the godshelf looked like tiny corpses in the semi-darkness.

* * *

A fifty count later, Ovelia sat alone upstairs in the common room, feeling nauseated and uneasy. The journey through the streets had shaken her, and she felt exposed waiting for Regel to return from the kitchen. Still disguised, her features attracted no great notice.

At length, Regel appeared with two trenchers of unappealing stew and two mugs of steaming tea. Ovelia passed over the food for now, but the tea settled her stomach somewhat.

They sat in silence. Ovelia felt strangely unsettled: unmoored and alone, almost as though Regel had become not her companion any longer but a stranger. She found herself staring out the tavern’s window, searching for a way to distract herself. Seeing the violent world slipping into Ruin was better than watching Regel do the same.

“You’re angry with me,” Regel said at last.

Ovelia sighed. “That man back there. What you did to him.”

“He was a Child of Ruin.”

“He was a man all the same,” Ovelia said. “You could have had the mercy to kill him.”

“I do have it,” Regel said. “But the Children rule in Luether, and here mercy is a challenge to their power.” He looked at her sidelong. “I thought you would do what must be done. For Semana.”

Anger rose in Ovelia that he would question her loyalty, but she stayed her tongue. Perhaps she was being unfair. He had seen what she was willing to sacrifice, and he seemed able to accept it. Could she not do the same for him, now that she saw what this quest would make him? Not that the realization mollified her—she still felt a dull, radiating anger at his actions. There must have been another way.

Uneasy with how unsafe she felt with or without Regel, she looked instead out the window. Though it was midday, she could not see the sun through the smoky haze that gripped the city. The smoke caught the light and heated the city to a sweltering extreme. Wrapped in the smog, Luether occupied a greasy prison of its own making. What choices did they really have in such a place?

“You should eat.” Regel indicated her stew. “It’s clean. I checked.”

“One cannot take too much care in a fallen city.”

The bland stew looked far from appetizing, but she had only sipped a little of her tea before the ache in her stomach turned to ravenous hunger. The stew was over-salted and spicy enough to make her eyes water while the trencher was tougher than stone, but she ate greedily.

“So, what is it?” Regel asked over his stew.

“You always seem to know when I am bothered,” Ovelia said. “Is it a gift or a curse?”

“Both,” he replied. “So what is it?”

She couldn’t tell him her true concerns. She had no right to do that, and it would not avail them. Perhaps she could speak of it indirectly. “It is this place,” she said. “This city is so different from the Luether I remember. When I was last here, the taverns were full day and night, stuffed with folk drinking wine and jesting to all hours. But now...” She gestured around the common room, which was empty of all but a few hunched patrons who avoided her eye. “I watched the Ravalis flee from the city—saw the Children conquer Luether. Why did they allow the city to live, rather than tearing down every stone? Why let it endure like this? It is as though they torture it.”

“Sometimes Ruin takes years, particularly when there is profit to be had.” Regel pushed aside his half-eaten stew and took out the piece of wood he’d been carving. It had taken shape, but Regel cradled it in his hand such that Ovelia couldn’t tell what it was. “The Children pillage Luether’s corpse and squeeze out all the life they can devour. Only when all hope is gone and all coin exhausted, only then will the barbarians raze Luether and move on to a new victim. Like Echvar.”

“Did the barbarians do this to that city as well?” Ovelia asked. “I thought you stopped them.”

“We did.” Regel looked down at his carving. “We killed everyone.”

Ovelia shivered. “Perhaps... perhaps that was a mercy. The Children are horrific enough, but the Luethaar—nothing remains in their eyes. They are empty husks—little more than dogs, gnawing at one another’s bellies. Why such misery? How can any man or woman live like this?”

Regel stared at her with piercing intensity. He had paused in his carving.

Ovelia fidgeted. “What passes?”

Regel set the carving on the table. “What do you think of the rebels? Garin Ravalis and the proscribed freedom fighters of Summer.”

“What does this matter?” Suspicion rose in Ovelia. Regel was not one to speak idly, and she could not see why he would ask.

“Answer my question,” Regel said. “Do you understand what they fight for?”

“They want their city returned,” she said. “The Children spit and piss upon everything they hold dear. Of course they want it back.”

“And they desire vengeance,” he said.

“That as well,” she said. “How many heirs of Ravalis died that night? If Orbrin—” She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you asking about this?”

Did he suspect her? Did he see through her game? She had to be cautious.

“What of the Children?” Regel asked. “Are they so much better than the Ravalis? Do they not have as much right to rule?”

“If you mean to ask me a question, Regel, ask it,” Ovelia said. “None of these feints and gambits. What is your meaning?”

Regel stared down at the carving in his hand. He seemed far away and barely conscious of Ovelia’s presence. When he looked up finally, he stared through her as though she were but a ghost—less than an illusion. In that moment, she knew exactly what he was thinking, for it echoed her own thoughts: that the years had left her but a shadow of the woman she had been.

When finally she could bear no more of Regel’s indifference, Ovelia reached across the table and seized his face between her hands. “Regel, speak to me. What is it?”

Regel’s eyes shot to her, and there was anger there. “You act as though you are so different,” he said. “But in truth, you are no better than the worst of the Children.”

Ovelia stared. “What?”

“It happens again and again.” His jaw tightened. “A bright flame stands against the darkness, illuming the path of the world’s destiny. But darkness festers at its heart, and vermin breed inside the walls of civilized men. A traitor strikes, and chaos befalls. Angarak, fifty years ago. Luether, twenty years ago. Echvar, fifteen years ago. And Tar Vangr, of course, five years ago.”

Ovelia understood with a start what he meant. “But Tar Vangr yet stands against Ruin.”

“Does it?” Regel’s eyes narrowed. “It is as in Luether, when Blood Vultara threw open the gates to the barbarian hordes. Blood Dracaris—you—betrayed the rightful king of Tar Vangr to his death. And now the barbarians of summer rule our homeland. I see no difference.” His voice grew cold as wintersteel. “Cities die slowly when mortally wounded.”

Ovelia’s heart beat faster. “Regel, that isn’t what happened.”

“No? You slew the last great light in Tar Vangr, and the Ravalis were the only ones who stood to gain.” His eyes were glittering icicles. “I wonder if you were ever loyal to the Blood of Winter, or if you belonged to the Ravalis from the beginning.”

“You cannot think that. You know how I loved Lenalin. You know how I loved Semana. She—”

“I do not believe you meant to slay Semana, no,” Regel said. “But draw my sword for a breath: knowing what I know, seeing what I see, how can I not suspect that you are a servant of the Ravalis? I am simply to believe you were their prisoner for five years, and not that you are working with them to some greater evil?”

Ovelia could scarce contain her anxiety. He knew. Somehow, he knew, and he’d chosen this moment to confront her. “Regel, I—” She clenched her fists. “You don’t understand. I have no love for the Ravalis. I—”

“You left me for one of them,” Regel said, looking down at his hands.

Ovelia sat for a moment in startled silence. Then all her tension exploded in a cacophony of relieved laughter. She cut herself off an instant later, hand over her mouth.

He wasn’t suspicious. He was
jealous.

Also, he was angry, no doubt partly because of the laughter. He looked as though he might break his carving if he squeezed any tighter. “This...
amuses
you?”

Shame tinged her mirth, and she looked down at her stew. “I am sorry,” she said.

“How long, Ovelia?” Regel asked. “Were you rutting him while we were together?”

“You... but...” Ovelia willed her quick boiling temper to a slow simmer. “You wish to discuss this here? In a public place?”

Still, he did not look upon her. “No.”

The contempt in the word stole her breath. The silence stretched between them.

Then, at length, he spoke again. “How did it feel?”

“Paeter and I—Regel, you were there. You must know that I—”

“Tsch.” Regel made a dismissive sound, sucking on his teeth. “I care nothing for Paeter—I mean Orbrin.” His blank eyes met hers. “The man we both loved—the man
you
killed.”

“Do not—” Ovelia felt her heart thudding in her ears.

“How did it feel, to know every year of his life was draining away through your fingers—all of it cut away, on your blade?”

“Please.” Anger rose in Ovelia, and her world shrank around her. She stared at Regel, her teeth on edge, her hands trembling. Draca smoked under her hand. “Do not ask me—”

“A man who trusted you,” Regel said. “A man who entrusted his child to you.”

“Regel.” She saw again Orbrin’s face, as she plunged the sword home. “Don’t do this.”

“A man you were supposed to love,” he said. “A man who loved y—”

“Stop!” Ovelia shrieked, clutching her hands to her forehead. “Just
stop!
”

The Crimson Bath went silent and all eyes turned to their table. Ovelia was dimly aware of them, and every one was a spear pointed toward her. And the one who would kill her sat across the table, spear raised and ready to drive home.