Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (23 page)

Mask lay within. With one leg splayed out and its arm swaying listlessly over one knee, it seemed more a carelessly flung manikin than a living creature.

“Regel.” Mask’s reddish eyes gleamed up at him.

“I think,” Regel said. “I think it’s time you outlined this task you mean for us.”

Mask made a reedy sound that might have been a chuckle. “Gladly.”

Fifteen

A
n hour later, they
sat in their cabin as Mask finished outlining the plan for assassinating the Summer King Demetrus Ravalis. Regel found himself nodding. “A worthy plan.”

“It’s doomed,” Ovelia said from where she sat at the table, spinning Draca against the floor.

“Oh?” Mask said. “And you see a flaw, do you?”

Ovelia stared hard at Mask. “It assumes that we trust you.”

“Ah.” Mask glanced at the bloodsword in Ovelia’s hands. “That little detail.”

Mask sat on the bed, still as a corpse, and seemed hardly to notice Ovelia’s sword. One knee rose into the air and one arm crossed its chest, fingers dangling. The other hand flicked idly at the crank that wound the bed tight. The sorcerer seemed totally at ease.

“Reconsidering our arrangement, Bloodbreaker?” Mask said. “It was easy to agree in the heat of the moment, but now that I have explained my tactics, you grow leery, no?”

Regel considered. The plan was both deceptively simple and audacious. Their attack would unfold on Ruin’s Night, in conjunction with the masquerade the Ravalis held every year. They would walk into the palace and murder the king in his own bed.

“I thought you two would appreciate the symmetry,” Mask said. “Luether fell on a Ruin’s Night, as did each of the would-be rulers of the Blood of Winter. Revel as they might, death will come to Tar Vangr this year, as it did fifteen years ago, ten years ago, and five. Let us honor Death, the only true god of Ruin, on that night of all nights.”

The sorcerer raised its silver gauntlet, and Ovelia readied her sword. “Have no fear, Bloodbreaker. This broken wretch merely thirsts.”

Mask indicated the sideboard set with numerous beakers of wine, water, and mead. Magic steamed around the silver gauntlet and a beaker of water rose up from the table and floated toward the sorcerer. Droplets trailed down the sides of the glass and dripped onto the floor in a damp path. Mask drew a pouch from its belt and sprinkled some tea leaves into the water. Of a sudden, Regel remembered making tea for Ovelia this morn, so that she would not perish of a rotted belly. He had not intended their task to take as long as it had, and he would have to watch her carefully in the days ahead.

A doubt passed through him as to this course, but Ovelia had made herself clear. By killing her, was he not simply honoring her wishes? He was not certain.

“So tell me.” Mask placed the beaker atop its right palm, as though demonstrating a newfound wonder. The talons of the gauntlet wavered with heat, and water sizzled around the base of the beaker. “Now that I have spoken too much and told you of my plan, do you have any questions?”

As Regel watched, bubbles rose and the water shook in the beaker as it began to boil. He gazed upon them, keenly aware of the shard of dawnstone in his pocket.

“Why do you want him dead?” Regel asked. “King Demetrus.”

“Why...” Mask paused, as though the question had caught it by surprise. “As to that, I keep my own council. It will suffice that I want him dead, just as much as the Bloodbreaker wants
me
dead, and just as much as you want
her
dead.” Mask nodded to Ovelia. “I don’t trust you, and I don’t expect you to trust me, but Semana’s life depends on my victory.” Mask looked keenly at Regel. “She’s very beautiful, you know. Like her mother was.”

Regel nodded. “As long as you keep your word and deliver what you have promised, we will walk this path of yours.”

“Outstanding.” Mask put the beaker to its chapped lips and sipped the foul-smelling tea. Its gaze slid to the side. “And what of you, Lady? Do you harbor doubts?”

“She and I stand together in this,” Regel said before Ovelia could speak. He did not like that doubt in her eye.

“I’ll hear it from her, as it please.” Mask’s broken voice dripped with confidence. “Speak, Bloodbreaker: you, who would rather rip out my throat than look upon me.”

“No.”

Regel looked at Ovelia, perplexed. “Ovelia, we cannot—”

“I know what we can and cannot do.” Her Bloodsword gleamed as though streaked with blood. Shadows leaked from it, suggesting a battle to come.

“Ovelia,” Regel said more forcefully.

“You had best listen, Bloodbreaker,” Mask said. “Listen to your lord and
master
.”

“I have no master.” Ovelia spoke with winter’s chill. “No longer.”

“Of course not,” Mask said. “You killed him.”

Beneath their notice, Regel reached for a blade.

“Get out,” Ovelia said.

“Many apologies, my dear seducer,” Mask said, “but that’s not an option. Unless you want the crew to see me and spoil our game before it truly begins.”

“Not you.” Ovelia looked to Regel. “
You
.”

“Ovelia,” Regel said. “Think about this.”

“This must pass,” she said. “Mask and I have words we must share, and we can only do so in private. Have no fear: on my word, your pet sorcerer will be well when you return.”

“But will
you
be, Bloodbreaker?” Mask asked, showing sharp white teeth.

“Go,” Ovelia said to Regel, “or I swear by all the Old Gods that I will cut out this monster’s throat right now.”

Regel saw there was no reasoning with her. She was determined, and one thing he found impossible—and admirable—about Ovelia was her pride. “You are in earnest.”

“If you don’t trust me”—Ovelia extended him Draca, hilt first—“then take my weapon.”

Mask watched the entire exchange, its face unreadable behind that damnable leather faceplate. By contrast, Regel felt naked under the scrutiny. What was the creature thinking? Its red eyes traced the fault lines of doubt and anger that ran through them both like black veins.

Regel withdrew his hand from the proffered hilt, leaving Draca in Ovelia’s hands. “Keep it,” he said. “Draca does not lie.”

“No,” Ovelia said, looking him in the face. “It does not.”

Regel crossed the room and stepped out into the over-perfumed corridor, which was filled with laughter and music from the communal hall down the way. When he closed the door behind him, he wondered if he would see either of them alive the next time he opened it.

* * *

“So.” Mask stretched its legs at an impressive angle and it leaned forward. “As the powdered gentleman said to the painted whore—what now?”

Ovelia considered. Regel’s instincts to the contrary, she felt certain this was a trap. What reason had she to believe Mask was not in league with the Ravalis? And even if regicide was Mask’s true aim, surely the sorcerer could see that Regel and Ovelia were the two souls in the World of Ruin with the most reason to
despise
it. Killing them would be a matter of self preservation. She had no reason to trust Mask.

No more than Regel had to trust you,
she thought.

“Can your magic ward this room so that none will hear us?” Ovelia asked.

”Yes.” Magic wavered around Mask’s left gauntlet, and the sorcerer drew a rippling curtain of force across the entrance to the chamber. Abruptly, the rugged sounds of a skyship vanished, as though they were suddenly enclosed in an orb of glass. Ovelia had seen such magic before: it would block movement and sound, both concealing and trapping them inside the cabin.

At length, Ovelia set Draca on the floor at her feet. Then she undid the first button of her coat.

“Hmm,” Mask said. “Interesting.”

Ovelia loosened her traveling coat, slipped it free of her muscular shoulders one arm at a time, and tossed it on the bed. Next, she unlaced her gown and let it fall to the floor around her feet. She felt lighter, stripped to her undershirt and breeches. Purified.

“You certainly have my attention,” Mask said. “By all means, continue.”

Ovelia knelt and whispered a prayer over her sword, reclaimed the weapon, then stood and backed away slowly. When she had put six or so paces between herself and Mask, she stopped.

“You’re sure this is wise, Bloodbreaker?” Mask’s voice was cautious. “So far away, how will you bind my power?”

“I won’t.” Ovelia fell into a dueling stance.

“Oh, so it is to be war after all. Lovely.” Mask raised its hands, both of which pulsed with magic. Reeking smoke rose to stain the ancient wood ceiling.

“A test,” she said. “I stand here with no secrets. No tricks. Pit your power against mine.”

“And what would that prove?” Mask asked. “Did you not triumph in Aertem’s temple, in the City of Pyres? Were you not sated then?”

“You planned that duel from the first blow. You meant for us to come against you, you meant for us to defeat you. Else, how would you have known to prepare that grisly proof of Semana’s life? No.” Ovelia raised Draca to the level of her eyes. “I would defeat you myself, or see that I can’t.”

Mask’s dry chuckle told her which the sorcerer thought more likely. “Why should I fight you? I don’t suffer the same self-doubt you do.”

“Then kill me,” Ovelia said. “Tell Regel I attacked you and you had no choice. The two of you can accomplish your task without me.”

“You would sacrifice your chance to see your princess?” Mask considered. “You do not believe me that she lives. Despite the proof I offered.”

“Should I?” Ovelia breathed heavily. “Which is more likely: that you have hidden Semana for five years, and in all that time, despite all my spies—and all of Regel’s—there has been no word of her, not a single sighting, or that you took her signet ring on the
Heiress
and put it on some poor girl’s finger to fool us?”

After a beat, Mask made a rasping sound that might have been a chuckle. “You are angry. Searching for a way to deny your failure. I am glad to have aroused such hate in you.”

“Accept my challenge or do not, but you will not mock me.”

It was a gamble. If Mask won, then Ovelia was dead. If the sorcerer lost, then it revealed the limits of its power. Surely Mask would refuse such a gambit. Surely...

Shadows bled from the Bloodsword, warning of an attack to come. Ovelia saw herself, crouching to one knee, fighting to stand. The near future.

“Very well,” Mask said. “I will match you, Bloodbreaker.”

Power surged around Mask’s hands: humming distortion around the silver glove, and crimson flame around the blackened talons of the war gauntlet. The sorcerer raised its left hand.

Magic hit Ovelia with a force that, if she hadn’t known what to expect after their battle in Aertem’s temple, would have knocked her dead of shock. Soundless power crushed down upon her like a hammer. Somehow, she remained standing, holding Draca like a shield between herself and Mask. Flames roared around her sword, burning away the magic.

“This is the power of the Unseen Hand, and it was this magic that brought mighty Atropis plunging into the sea.” Mask’s voice was casual despite the fearsome attack. “I did not do the deed myself, understand. I may not be young, but that was two centuries gone.”

Ovelia focused around the pain. She trusted the sword as her father had, and his father before him. The blood of dragons surged within her, and magic sang in the blade. Mask’s power roared into Draca, the sword sucking at it like a thirsty man forced to drink a waterfall.

Then slowly the force began to ease. Mask’s body trembled, and the sorcerer gave a frustrated grunt. Draca could endure this punishment, and so could Ovelia.

The sword drank more and more, until finally Mask lowered its hand. The power flickered away into a muted crackle around the silver gauntlet. The sorcerer made a last dismissive gesture, and the magic vanished entirely. “And what does this prove to you, Bloodbreaker? Is this not what passed between us in the temple of Aertem? Would you have that dance once more?”

Ovelia stepped forward. “Now invoke the fire.” She put both hands on her sword to steady it. “Show me Luether’s bane.”

“As you wish.”

Mask raised its right hand and obliged. Hungry red flames descended, and Ovelia held Draca before her like a talisman. As the intense heat built around her, Ovelia felt every small hair on her arms awaken and every bit of exposed skin light with searing life. Her teeth vibrated in her mouth. But the sword absorbed this magic, too, leaving Ovelia untouched. Draca glowed like the sun in her hands.

Mask slouched over, coughing. The sorcerer’s own attack seemed to have harmed it more than Ovelia. “Are you well?” she asked.

“Fear for yourself,” Mask said. “Your relic is greater than mine—one of them, anyway.”

Ovelia had not realized until this moment how many riches Mask was carrying. Two gauntlets, the mask, and probably the armor itself . . . How many relics of the Old World did the sorcerer possess?

Sword raised, Ovelia stepped forward. “All of it,” she said. “This test means nothing unless you use all of it. Or don’t you have the strength?”

“Oh.” Green-black lightning crackled around Mask’s leather helm. “Oh, I’ve a strength to me you’ve never
imagined
.”

The world sizzled as a green-laced cloud of inky darkness swelled from Mask and shrouded Ovelia. Her lungs filled with agony as she breathed in the fumes. Where her flesh touched the corrosive haze, all feeling bled away and left itching numbness. “This—” Ovelia said. “The magic you used in the temple… against Regel…

“This is
Plaguefire
, Bloodbreaker.” The black mist wreathed Mask’s head and shoulders like a corona. It sprang from the oldest and most powerful of the sorcerer’s relics: the mask. “The bane of Echvar, City of Rain, and—if the legends are true—the killing stroke that fell upon the Old World. This”—Mask raised its arms wide—“is Ruin itself.”

Ovelia held her breath as she fought against the magic. Her sword’s light dampened in the darkness as a war raged between its consuming fire and the killing cloud.

Father,
Ovelia prayed.
Father, aid me.

Mask’s power began to wane, and for the first time, the sorcerer looked unsettled. “No,” it said. “I will not be thwarted by a
toy
.”

Mask brought both its gauntlets up—one blazing, one pulsing with invisible force—and sent all the power in all three relics against Ovelia’s one. Magic poured from the sorcerer’s head and arms, filling the air with its noxious smoke. The force knocked her to one knee, but she held on.