Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (22 page)

Sweat trickled down his brow. Semana was staring at him, terrified.

“Would you deny me for
her
sake?” Mask indicated Semana with a nod. “You are such an ugly thing, Tithian Davargorn. Do you truly believe she can ever love something like you—like
us
?”

“She doesn’t see my face as it is.” Tithian’s voice broke into a sob.

“As you say,” said Mask. “If you will be a fool led around by your little blade, consider this: should you refuse me—should you slay me—you both die. I can fly her to safety.” The black fingers flicked threateningly at Semana, but Mask had eyes only for Tithian. “Can you do the same, boy? Do you have such magic at your command?”

Steel groaned and the deck shuddered under them. Shrieks of metal grinding on metal rose from within the
Heiress
, and the deck began to buckle and tilt. Tithian saw that the rear of the skyship was tilting the other direction, raising a hillock in the middle, over the failing mage-engine. The ship would tear itself apart, and there would be no escape from that.

“What is your answer?” Mask asked. “Will you serve me, or will you let her die?”

Tithian looked to Semana. Tears leaked down her face, but she held her chin high. She would be strong, even to the end. Even without him.

“Tithian,” she said. “Tithian, wait—”

He turned to Mask, who stood waiting, green smoke floating up from skeletal fingers. He lowered his caster. “I’ve an answer,” Tithian said. “
Master.
”

Fourteen

Present Day—Luether—Autumn 981 Sorcerus Annis

T
he midday sun heated
the rusted iron sides of the ancient ships in Luether’s sky-dock nearly to scalding. Light reflected from the corroded metal and flickered across the old stone and mage-glass of the nearby buildings, there to be caught and focused into hot rays that the darker things of the world took care to avoid.

One of those dark things lurked across the way in the window of the Mewling Mink—a tavern of considerably ill repute. Sweat dripped down his hooded face, and thick breath made his shoulders heave. His face ached with a simmering fire to match the one in his heart. Partly hidden behind a curtain, the man gazed across the thoroughfare to the skyship being loaded and readied for launch.

To be betrayed and cast out, after all he had sacrificed... No. Not Tithian Davargorn. He would have his vengeance.

From his post at the window table, he watched as lines of tattooed men and women in white breeches boarded the massive skyship
Avenger
across the high street. Such pleasure ships passing between the mage-cities were an uncommon but not unknown occurence: Luether and Tar Vangr had uneasy diplomatic relations at best, but it had been long enough since open war that the two cities had settled into a truce based on mutual survival. Even if they had the official blessing of the Ruin King, the ship’s crew took great care around the many Children. As many carried swords and shortcasters as carried trunks and valises. They escorted merchants who traded the most delicate of goods or else nobles who had the coin and idleness to travel between the mage-cities at whim on pleasure ships filled with drink, music, and rutting. How wrong it seemed, that in a world of poverty, folk wasted so much coin on debauchery.

The
Avenger
—once the flagship of Denerre, now the favored pleasure ship of the Ravalis—passed between the two cities rarely in these latter days, as the Ravalis were proscribed in Luether. At first, Davargorn had seen its arrival and assumed Prince Lan had grown impatient and sent an army after the Lord of Tears and the Bloodbreaker, but no Ravalis troops had emerged. Perhaps the
Avenger
’s arrival indicated new negotiations between the mage-cities, but having met the Blood Prince of the Ravalis, Davargorn found that extremely unlikely. What other reason could the skyship have had to come to this awful city? Davargorn wondered if his former master had arranged all this. How long had all this been planned, and he had known nothing of it?

His face still ached where Mask had ripped it apart, and his hands trembled. He would have his vengeance. Of that, he had no doubt.

Whatever its mission, the
Avenger
had been in Luether only one day before it loaded up to make the trip back north. The folk milling about the high dock were of two sorts: frail men and women, relieved to shed their heavy furs in favor of immodest silks and short skirts, as well as a few dour-faced nobles trading coin in the shadows. The ship disgorged a small horde of indolent nobles and merchants brave enough to do trade with the Children of Ruin. Not a single threat among them.

Two of the passengers, however, were neither merchants nor nobles but certainly dangerous. The attendants handed up a black-wigged nobleblood and an older gentleman one might take to be her personal warder or perhaps an unnamed lover. It was a deception with a touch of truth. Behind them, two bare-chested, white-girded attendants carried a heavy leather trunk locked with a bronze clasp. Davargorn wondered whether the “lady” actually carried the key to that chest, or if her “warder” did. Would the Lord of Tears trust his pet so much?

He did not see his former master.

Perhaps Mask’s treacherous plan failed after all. Perhaps the two aging knights had proved impossible to manipulate and thus they had refused whatever task the sorcerer had planned for them. Perhaps Ovelia—how Davargorn
hated
her—had slain Mask with her magic-devouring sword. Or perhaps Mask had succeeded and the three of them were following the sorcerer’s deadly course.

Regardless, Davargorn would follow.

Fingers traced along his shoulder. “What do you seek, Syrah?” a woman asked.

Davargorn turned.

One of the brothel’s celebrants sat beside him: a doe-faced woman with pushed up breasts and heavy make-up. When Davargorn turned to her, the woman saw his ugliness and the thin color evaporated from her powdered cheeks. She did not flinch, however: the squeamish of stomach did not last in a place like this. Her quivering hands betrayed her anxiety.

“Take ease,” Davargorn said. “I reserve my desire for one creature, and it is not you.”

Relief flooded her face. Before she could leave, however, he caught her wrist.

“Wait.”

He saw revulsion in her eyes, and it awoke a fire in Davargorn’s belly: a deep, abiding resentment he recognized only too well. He traced a finger down the inside of her forearm, causing the hairs to rise.

“You.” He pulled his lips back from his teeth and grinned. “How much for you?”

She chewed her lower lip in a way that aroused him. Such false innocence. “Ten silver swords for the hour, to do as most men wish.” She met his eyes, and her face grew cool. “Should you desire longer or anything
unusual
, ‘tis more.”

Expensive, but she was worth it, not the least because she could master her fear. She must be made of cold steel, and he liked such women. They reminded him of his lost princess.

“Very well.” He guided her to sit beside him. “I wish something... unusual.”

The woman did as he bid, though warily.

He unbuttoned and drew up his sleeve. The skin beneath was smooth as fresh cream, crossed with hairs and thin scars like faded bruises.

“You... you’ve sweet skin,” she managed. Reaching.

“Stop your flattering prattle. I know I am ugly.” From his sleeve, Davargorn drew a throwing knife—small but very sharp. He turned the blade over, letting the edge gleam in the dawn’s rays through the window. “This will do.”

Her eyes followed the dancing light. “If you touch me with that, it’ll cost a great deal more than ten silvers.”

“No fear, you hard whore. It’s not for you.” He pressed the knife’s hilt into her hand. “Cut me.”

“What?”

“I’ll guide you.” He clasped her hand harder. “Cut me.”

Her fingers trembled in his grasp. “But Syr—”

He pressed his face to her ear. “Cut me now, or I’ll slice up your face so you’re uglier than I am.”

The woman trembled, but she did as he bid. When she brought the knife down to his flesh, she loosed a gasp just louder than a whisper. “Good,” he said. “More.”

Together, they drew the blade along his arm, slitting the flesh open as neatly as sun-softened butter. Red spread along the path of the knife, and blood welled. The pain was sweet indeed.

The woman panted faster and faster as they cut. Her face turned red and her eyes unfocused. A horrified moan escaped her throat. Davargorn smiled. And concentrated.

His skin rippled. The blood ceased flowing from his arm. The flesh drew together as though pulled by invisible stitches. In a matter of two breaths, the cut became a pink crease. It left nothing of the wound but a niggling pain, which left him breathing hard and aroused.

Alas, there was no time. He had a skyship to stow away upon.

The woman was still staring at his arm. “What magic is this?”

“The magic in my blood,” he said, his voice shaking.

“I... I am honored,” she stammered. “To speak with one of the Blood.”

“No need to be honored—mine is not a named Blood.” He slid his sleeve over the healed wound, rose, and strode away. “Not yet.”

* * *

The high sun of midday began to sink as the
Avenger
got underway.

A handsome skyship attendant led Regel and Ovelia aboard and lit mage-lamps inside their two guest chambers, making the room fill with the sickly smoke of the world being burned. The appointments were lavish by the standards of Ruin: a wide, soft bed, an ever-flowing basin, and personal heating stones for cooking. A sideboard waited for them, replete with drinks of all sorts, including a decanted Echvar wine and a small beaker of Angarak brandy. The mage-city of the west had fallen to Ruin nearly a century ago, and the fruit of its orchards was quite rare indeed. Traveling on a pleasure ship in the guise of wealthy patrons had its benefits, and also its risks.

After what had happened in Aertem’s temple, Regel suspected they would not enjoy this journey.

Two more attendants made to carry in a heavy trunk, but Ovelia raised her hand imperiously. “Hold,” she said, not meeting their gaze. “Leave that for a moment.”

The attendants eyed her dubiously—in particular the linen-wrapped sword at her belt. Only barbarian women bore steel in Luether, but most Vangryur did, regardless of sex. The noble scions on the
Avenger
wrapped their blades in cloth to signify their purpose: fashion, not fighting. This blade, however, was clearly functional.

“My man will care for it.” Ovelia nodded to Regel, who took the cue to pass two silver coins to the attendants. The metal silenced any protests. They set down the trunk with a loud thump, like a coffin set upon stone, then left.

Regel looked at her quizzically, and Ovelia gave him a look that said to follow her into the chamber immediately. He did so and shut the door behind them, leaving the trunk in the corridor. As the door closed, he saw a spindly young man chasing a chubby young woman down the hall, both of them laughing and roaringly drunk. The
Avenger
was, after all, a pleasure ship in these latter days, and that meant this would be a long journey.

“You wanted a moment alone. What—?” Regel’s words died when he saw the veins bulging in Ovelia’s forehead, her face turning bright red. “Pass well?”

She tore the black wig from her head, exposing a wild mass of mostly silver curls with crimson roots. She hurled the wig at the bed, where it fell limply to the floor. Ovelia clawed at her cheeks, trying desperately to rid herself of her disguise, or possibly scratch her own face off.

“Ovelia,” he said again, and caught her arms. “Stop it.”

She shook her head, raising her hand to her mouth. “Regel, I—” she said. “I can’t—” She kept trying to begin, but the words tumbled from her lips without coherence or control.

He put out his arms, and she gladly pushed herself into them. He held her tightly.

“Mask—is he telling the truth?” Ovelia spoke in a whisper. “Are we doing the right thing?”

Regel pressed his nose into her hair. Beneath the perfume that was part of her disguise, Ovelia smelled like sweat and steel—like
her
. “We do what we must,” he said. “The rest is dust and shadow.”

“Dust and shadow,” Ovelia echoed, her voice breaking. “You cannot know how hard this is. Five years, Regel—
five years!
How can she have been alive all this time?”

“This is our path, Tall-Sister.”

Calling her by this, her oldest name, had a definite effect on Ovelia. No one else used this name—no one but they two and Lenalin.

She pulled away. “I abandoned Semana,” she said. “I
abandoned
her, Regel.”

He understood. It was easier for Ovelia to believe Semana murdered and try to avenge her, than to believe she had let the girl languish in the captivity of a horrid monster. “You—” he began.

There came a groan of steel from below and the ship rocked. Startled, Ovelia caught herself on Regel’s arm. After a moment, the shuddering passed. They both looked at her hand on his arm. Though they had embraced only a moment ago, now it felt like an intrusion. Whatever wall had crumbled between them, this day had rebuilt it. Silently, Ovelia drew her hand away.

“What—?” she asked, hugging herself. “What was that?”

“Mage-engines that barely work,” he said. “The
Avenger
was built for the Blood War, forty years past. Age defeats all in the end, even the craft of titans.”

Ovelia looked unconvinced. That wasn’t what she had meant.

As if in response, the skyship vibrated and whined. Regel could almost feel the frustration as the sorcerers belowdecks strained their powers to batter the engines into alignment. He drew open his belt pouch and perused its contents: a rose-hued chunk of Dawnstone, his carving knife, Semana’s signet ring, and one last object, which he withdrew and held in his palm. He considered it—it, and its implications.

Ovelia’s eyes lingered on the key in Regel’s hand as upon a drawn knife. “We cannot.” She was going white. “I know what you would say, and I want it so badly, but we cannot—
Regel
!”

He turned from her and opened the door, but she slammed it shut with one strong arm. “You do this,” she said, “and there is no going back. You know that.”

Regel nodded. “We do what we must,” he said again.

That struck her. Bowing her head, Ovelia released the door, then crossed the room to place her hands on the footboard of the bed. There she leaned, looking far older than he had ever seen her.

The trunk waited out in the hall where the attendants had left it. Awkwardly, Regel drew it into the cabin. He grunted with the weight, and the tainted air of the cabin made him wheeze. A foolish old man should not have to walk such a path, but he had taken the first step, and now he would see it through. He set the trunk down in the middle of the room, then closed the door to the corridor. He held the key flat in the palm of his hand.

“We cannot run from this, Ovelia,” he said.

She was looking at him through her trailing silver hair. “I will follow you, Lord of Tears,” she said. “But it will not please me.”

That tugged at his heart. “I understand,” he said.

She straightened. A single flick of her wrist tore away the silk wrappings from her sword—cleverly tied to resemble a peace-bond without truly securing the blade—and she drew it smoothly. Shadows swirled around Draca’s hilt. “Ready,” she said.

Regel crossed to the chest, knelt, and slid the key into the lock with a soft hiss of metal on metal. Ovelia watched as the lock clicked open and Regel pulled back the lid.