Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (14 page)

“You can see the truth on my face.” Ovelia turned her head, showing him the mark on her cheek where the slayer had narrowly missed her head with a casterbolt. “As soon as they shot to kill in the Burned Man, I knew. They’d seen through my betrayal, and they were there to kill me. I’m alone now. Alone but for you.”

“No.” Regel slammed her back into the wall, wrenching a breathless gasp from her lips. “You’re still alone.” In a heartbeat, he drew a dagger and pressed it to her throat. “Stop lying to me!”

Tears welled in Ovelia’s eyes. “I’m not—”

There came a knock at the door behind Ovelia. The sound froze them both in place.

“Syr?” It was the owner of the Crimson Bath. She could not open the door with Ovelia pressed against it. “Syr? Pass well?”

Regel opened his mouth, but Ovelia shook her head and mouthed a single word. “Me.”

Of course. Ovelia had rented the cellar, and she had been the one who went loudly into the mercyhall. She was the one who had to respond, or the whole game ended. Regel realized, abruptly, that even though he was the one with the knife at her throat, she still had just as much power to end him. And if he did not let her speak, he lost anyway.

Through the door, a caster was being wound. He had to decide quickly.

It was like another moment, in far away Tar Vangr, when the patrol had come upon them in theSquare of the Fallen, and she had pressed him against the wall like a lover, hiding them both in the open. He’d kissed her then as well, with lips rather than steel. Ovelia’s eyes were unreadable, looking to him as though considering or for guidance. Was she remembering the same moment?

At length, Regel nodded and eased the knife away.

Ovelia cleared her throat. “Well,” as she looked into Regel’s eyes. “Well?”

Regel held her tight as the woman left. His fingers clenched tight around the handle of his knife. She’d given him all the power again, sacrificed her chance to escape. She trusted him.

“Regel, please.” Ovelia’s voice trembled. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“Are you?” He nodded to the corpse on the floor, which was going pale as its blood leaked into a spreading pool. “This is all a game to you. My life, the lives of my Circle, of Serris...”

“No.” Ovelia shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I wanted none of your folk hurt. I only wanted you to come with me. I didn’t lie about Mask, Regel. I give you my word.” Her hot breath tickled his face. “You have to believe me.”

“Why?” His heart hammered in his chest. The knife trembled in his hand.

“You want to believe me,” Ovelia said. “Do you not?”

“That’s not enough.” He pressed himself against her, felt her body melt into his like fire-softened wax, stinging and thrilling. “Why shouldn’t I kill you right now?”

“Because—” He could feel Ovelia’s heart fluttering. “Because—Regel, I—”

The knife clattered to the floor, falling from Regel’s opening hand.

He caught her face between his palms.

Then he was kissing her—and she was kissing him back.

Ten

Tar Vangr

R
egel had been gone
for six days when the doors of the Burned Man burst open, admitting a swirl of snow. A haggard man staggered in, his legs trembling at the effort required to hold him up. Meron was his name—an elder of the Circle of Tears and given a very important task. The common room fell silent and all eyes turned toward him.

He did not need to speak. His ashen face said all that needed to be told.

In her private booth, Serris heard the sudden hush and drew aside the curtain to look. “You should eat something,” Erim was saying, but she held up a hand to silence him. She’d allowed him to rub her shoulders tonight—Old Gods, she was tense—and perhaps it would have turned into something more. After all, the beautiful boy had never proved entirely useless in her bed. She did not love him the way he wanted, but she enjoyed his company.

As soon as Meron appeared, though, she ignored Erim’s ministrations completely and went to meet her agent. He gave her a weary salute—a finger held beneath his eye—which she returned, then held him under the shoulder while Erim took his other side. The Tear agent was obviously exhausted and needed help to hobble to the back rooms. There, he tried to speak, but Serris shushed him and tore open his cloak to look for wounds. His middle was a mess of blood and sweat.

“Erim!” Serris said. “Fetch Vidia.”

The boy ran off, leaving Serris alone with her wounded agent. Meron was one of the best Tears: a former specialist in the army of Winter, discharged after the Ravalis came to power. He knew the value of completing a mission, regardless of the sacrifices required. She helped him to an open bedchamber and shooed away the two men using it. Meron groaned as he lay back on the soft sheets, spattering them with blood. “It’s not all mine,” he said.

“Speak to me,” Serris said, shoving her hands on top of the wound.

“Krystir is dead,” he said.

Serris had feared that. When the agent they’d placed in Lan Ravalis’s bed had not reported back after the attack on the Burned Man, she’d feared the worst and sent Meron to learn what had happened to her. Clearly, he had. “They follow you? We can hide you.”

“No—no need.” He shook his head. “Three men came after me. I killed them all, but I didn’t get out clean. Sorry, Syr. There’s more—”

“Save it,” Serris said. “It can wait.”

“No.” Meron reached up and caught her collar with one shaking hand. His breath tasted like blood and bile. “There’s more. I—you need to hear this.”

“What is it?” Serris asked.

“The
Avenger
,” Meron said with effort. “She’s leaving high-city tonight, bound for Luether.”

Serris’s heart picked up a quick pace. “What?”

The door banged open behind them, and Erim and Vidia pushed in. The healer had brought her kit. “Serris, move,” she said.

Serris scowled and looked Meron in the eye. “When?”

“Within the hour,” he said. “I only just—
nhh
—heard word of it. I—” His words dissolved into choking, and Vidia shoved Serris aside so she could get to work.

Serris drew away and ran her crimson-drenched hands through her hair, smoothing it back, and laced her fingers at the back of her neck. “Old Gods,” she said. “They’re going after him.”

“Are we sure this is a problem?” Erim asked. As ever, his logic tempered Serris’s reaction. “It might just be a quiet trade mission, or some Blood Heir out for a jaunt.”

Serris considered. Even if he was a Child of Ruin and a sworn enemy of the Ravalis whose throne he had usurped, King Pervast did trade with nobles of Tar Vangr who could stomach him. Twenty years after the fall of the Burning City, a sort of peace existed between the mage-cities, and those with coin could travel between them. Many wanted to see the fabled city on the edge of Ruin for themselves. Rumors abounded that elements within the Vangryur nobility often met with Luethaar nobles to plot against the Ravalis, so most trips were made under the watchful eye of Ravalis Dust Knights.

But no one could overlook the symbolism of sending the
Avenger
, which was no mere noble pleasure craft. After the Ravalis had come to power, they had stripped the flagship of Tar Vangr of its armaments, but it remained a military ship: fast, heavily armored, and ready at short notice to be deployed to carry hundreds of troops. It could reach Luether within a day, two at most, and a clandestine launch meant they were hiding their movements. It made Serris feel cold and afraid: whatever the Ravalis intended, this launch was not a good thing.

“How many troops on the
Avenger
?” she asked.

Meron gritted his teeth against Vidia’s ministrations. “I don’t know. Only that if we’re going to catch the launch, we have to move now.”

Serris nodded. “Make ready.”

“Serris, wait.” Erim said. “Think. What if this is a trap?”

Serris shook his hand away. “We move,” she said. “Fetch Nacacia and Daren. Bring steel, casters, and whatever mortars we can drum up. Wear masks.”

“I’ll be up in a breath, Syr,” Meron said.

He tried to rise, but Vidia pushed him down onto the bed. “No you won’t,” she said. “This isn’t a mortal wound, but it’s deep enough. You’re not leaving this bed.”

Meron looked at Serris. “I can do it,” he said. “Nacacia and Daren aren’t enough. You need me.”

Serris weighed the risks, then nodded. “Patch him up. We move within the hour.”

Vidia scowled to indicate her diapproval, but she nodded and started her work all the same. She shoved Serris toward the door. “Out!”

Serris led Erim into the corridor. Several of the Tears were already there, including Nacacia and Daren, come to investigate Meron’s dramatic arrival. Serris gave them swift instructions, and they hurried off to obey while she leaned against the wall, seething. Erim stood waiting and looking at her with a familiar, doting look she found at times appealing and at others—like now—infuriating.

“Are you sure about Meron?” Erim asked. “He’s one of the best we have, but he’s no Lord of Tears. If he’s too hurt—”

“This is unacceptable, Erim.” Serris pushed herself up off the wall. “Say you understand.”

Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, that caught him by surprise. “I just thought—”

“I don’t care what you thought,” Serris said. “I’m in command in my master’s absence. You don’t question me, particularly in front of the other Tears. Say you understand.”

“I understand.” Erim hung his head. “I just thought it might be dangerous.”

Serris made a dismissive sound. “Well, good thing you’ll be there, too.”

* * *

As the five rode the clanking, shuddering lift toward high-city, Serris’s body shook with anxiety and excitement. For days, the Ravalis had done nothing, but she’d waited in constant readiness for their move. She’d slept only an hour or two each night, and had to force herself to eat what little she had. The constant vigilance was beginning to take its toll on her.

And until that night, it had seemed for naught. Mostly, the ruling Blood had gone about their usual business, but the patrols had notably increased in the streets, ostensibly to combat “unrest.” But that could be because the Council was making noises about questioning their decisions, particularly the massive build-up in weapons that the Summer Princes seemed to have initiated. Strengthening patrols was a natural response, which would slacken off as politics died down.

The Ravalis refused to acknowledge the incident at the Burned Man in any way, and of course they wouldn’t. It would make them look weak at best, or in direct conflict with the Council’s edicts at worst. The Ravalis seemed to have let it go, but they had to know their agents had failed. Was sending the
Avenger
their counterstroke? Dispatch a small army to retrieve Regel and the Bloodbreaker, alive or dead? The very thought made Serris want to scream or kill someone. Preferably the latter.

Serris kept her gaze fixed on the skyport, high above. She could make out the
Avenger
, which was being prepped for launch. Beneath its hull, Serris could see its mage-engine spooling up for the journey as its three great golden rings stirred. They had little time. If they were to use the mortars on Daren’s belt to disable the skyship, it would have to be soon, before she launched and soared out of range. So Serris had two reasons to want to be out of the snow quickly and done with this business.

Nacacia coughed and fidgeted with her mask. “Pass well?” Serris asked.

“Can hardly breathe,” Nacacia said, her voice muffled by leather and the porous breath filter. Daren extended his cloak over her head while she adjusted her mask. “Hardly see, either.”

Serris’s own experience agreed. The snow grew thick as they ascended out of low-city, even as the air grew cleaner away from the slums. If they were caught outside in a blizzard in low-city, their lives would be short and painful. Fortunately, the constant heat of the Narfire beneath the streets turned most caustic snow to acidic rain, which was bad but tolerable. The snow in high-city was mostly an annoyance rather than a risk, but Serris did not relish fighting in the stinging haze.

“What about you?” Serris asked Meron, who shivered at her side. “You with me?”

“Ready for a fight, Syr.” He coughed and adjusted his stance.

He’d seemed recovered after the Burned Man, but his newfound vigor seemed to crumble beneath the blizzard’s onslaught. Vidia had cleared him for service, but she’d made it clear it was against her better judgment. Serris was short on choices, however, with the Tears spread over the city and Regel a thousand leagues away. She prayed she hadn’t jeopardized Meron’s recovery by bringing him.

“Shouldn’t have brought
any
of them,” she said beneath her voice. “Should have just come alone. That what you would have done, Master?”

But of course Regel was not there, and could not answer.

Erim touched her wrist and nodded toward the liftmaster: a summerblood by his coloration, though he’d pulled his cowl low over his face.

“What of him?” Serris asked. “He look at you wrong?”

“That’s the problem,” Erim said. “He hasn’t looked at any of us this whole time. Not when I gave him the coin, not when I tried to address him. He’s anxious.”

Serris felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the snow. They wore thick weathercloaks and leather masks, but if the Ravalis were waiting for them, then disguises would not matter. Had they already been identified? She reached for her dagger—the same one Regel had given her five years ago, when he had named her. With her other hand, she smoothly drew her caster. The others noticed and tensed.

The Ravalis ambush awaited them as soon as the lift shuddered to a halt and the gate swung wide: seven Dusters, all of them bearing swords charged with smoking thaumaturgy.

Seven
, Serris thought. Even
one
would be bad.

This was a trap, and she had led her companions straight into its jaws.

She looked at her fellow Tears, who were starting to fade away in the growing blizzard. Their faces were determined beneath frost-rimmed masks, and their hands lingered on their steel. They would follow her into the Narfire itself if she led them there.

The leader of the Dust Knights she recognized: an aspiring knight by the name of Rieten, not an heir of the Ravalis but a “married” relative. Serris had nothing but contempt for the concept, which the summermen had introduced to Tar Vangr when she was a child. Based on what she had seen, “marriage” was like the alliance of two noble Bloods, sealed with a half-moon of passionate sex and other intimacies, followed by a lifetime spent in a single bed. To her, a “marriage” seemed mostly an excuse for a weak man to exercise power over a woman far his superior, little more than another Ravalis invention: slavery. How anyone could justify such cowardice she could not guess.

Even if he was related to the Blood Ravalis only through such a blasphemous union, Rieten certainly hated women as much as they did, and more than once Serris had seen Tears patched up after an encounter with him. Serris herself had shared his bed once, and it was not an encounter she meant to repeat. Rieten wore fine armor and carried a duelist’s sword in a scabbard inlaid with gold—powered with lightning thaumaturgy, no doubt, as was the wont of a Summerland bravo. Rieten was not a warrior, that much was clear, but Serris knew that he had not a scrap of pity in him.

Rieten stepped forward with a satisfied grin. “Unknown slayers, down arms and submit—”

Serris shot him in the face with her caster.

She hadn’t scored a direct hit—she’d had to fire on a quick draw—but blood bloomed. Rieten staggered and fell so hard on the glass floor of the dock that it cracked under his weight.

The night erupted in a flurry of casterbolts and flashing blades. The Tears took them by surprise, which they needed. Otherwise, Serris knew they wouldn’t have survived the first moment of battle.

Duster blades lit up with borrowed magic, and the Tears scattered to make themselves difficult, separate targets. Serris had to trust them, as it took all of her focus to dodge aside just before one of the Dusters fired a bolt of lightning through the spot where she had been standing. The intense current made her skin shudder and her teeth vibrate in her mouth, but it missed. She rolled along the edge of the lift and balanced precariously over a vast dropoff. The liftmaster raised a caster, but Serris kicked out at his wrist and sent the weapon sailing off into the bleary night. He blocked her follow-up punch and knocked her staggering back toward the edge. Even over that short distance, he vanished back into the swirling storm.

The snow whipped into a blizzard around her, making steam rise from her weathercloak. Serris clasped the cloak tight about her body, and breathed raggedly through her mask. The flurry had to pass soon, or they would choke and die out here. The dirty snow cut her sense of the rest of the fight to nothing, except for occasional cries of pain and flashes of light as a Duster’s blade exploded with magic.

Sighting on one of these, Serris set a bolt in her caster, but before she could recharge it for another shot, a single hazy shadow loomed over her. By luck, a chopping blade hit the caster rather than her hand, and the weapon fell crackling to the glass floor. The tip of the sword tore her sleeve open to the snow, but her flesh was unbroken.