Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (26 page)

That gave him pause. If anything was sacred to the Blood Ravalis, it was a vow of matrimony. The Luether of ages past had been a city of obsessive love, where folk pledged themselves to one another by exchanging vows of constancy and devotion. By contrast, marriage was rare in Tar Vangr, and mostly practiced among nobles building alliances between their Bloods. By and large, smallfolk did not partake at all, as they had only tiny legacies to secure. The Ravalis were ostensibly a noble Blood, though Ovelia knew better. Paeter’s vows had been a thin shield to hide his whoring, and by all accounts Lan Ravalis was even worse. She wondered how Garin would act.

“Ah, what a pity.” Garin took her hand, then gave her an inquisitive look. “My Lady, you seem familiar. Have we met?”

Ovelia suppressed her automatic shock through icy discipline. “I am certain I would remember.” She pulled her hand from his grasp and walked on without him.

“Have I offended you, Lady?” Garin reached out and cupped her hand on the rail. “I can—”

Ovelia stepped closer to him, forcing him to let go of her. “I am quite capable, thank you,” she said, harsher than she meant. “You summerborn think us women weak and fragile things, do you not? You have much to learn of my people.”

He bowed his head, but his smile remained. “My honor, were you to teach me.”

Ovelia stormed off, glancing over her shoulder when she thought she could manage it without being caught. Garin watched from the dock, still smiling. When Ovelia reached a certain alley where she and Regel had decided to meet, she looked over her shoulder, but Garin hadn’t followed.

She wasn’t sure what had come over her in Garin’s presence. The Ravalis had taken everything from her, and yet she liked this one. He’d seemed, with his crimson hair and his gold skin and his swagger, much like Paeter Ravalis, and the comparison was hardly flattering. Paeter had always smirked at her as weaker because of her sex, no matter how strong she had proved herself. By contrast, Garin hadn’t said anything of the sort, but she had reacted just the same.

Garin Ravalis
, the Fox of Luether. He’d been a legend during her time as the Shroud: a man with nothing to lose and everything to gain. A dangerous man. And if a fraction of the stories about him held any truth, she had come within a single careless word of death. But she’d learned his secret—the reason why he never came to Tar Vangr.

Ovelia passed a lift they had intended to take down to low-city, but it was little more than a smoking ruin of fractured glass and warped metal. It reminded her unsettlingly of the destruction she’d witnessed in Luether, and she hurried on, lost in thought.

She wondered what had changed that the Ravalis had gone to such lengths to bring their outcast cousin back into the fold. Their need must be great to dispatch a skyship to fetch him. Did they wish to know more of Luether, in preparation for a move against the southland? Did it have to do with her, perhaps, to ply his excellent mind to the task of finding her?

Then it occurred to her in a lightning stroke: Garin had spoken of an offer, which could only be one thing. The Ravalis meant to make him the new Shroud.

And knowing what she did of him, Ovelia found that unsettling indeed.

Tar Vangr’s high-city was smaller than its low-city, and the streets led straight from the dock to the palace. Ovelia felt the sudden and mad impulse to draw Draca, march straight into the throne room of Tar Vangr, and put an end to all this madness. That path, however, could have no end but in her death, and her odds of success were long. Had she not spent the last five years perfecting the arts of subtlety—learning how to wait for the right moment? Ovelia wondered. She had thrived for five years as the Shroud, but she had tossed all of it away at the revelation of Mask’s survival. She had even run to Regel, the man who most hated her, begging for help. She could not deny that impulse had ruled her that day.

And what now? Now that she had seen the face lurking beneath the sorcerer’s mask...

“Ovelia.” Regel fell into step beside her. “Problems?”

She thought of Garin, but the man hadn’t seemed to recognize her. Also, she thought of Mask—of the sorcerer’s secret.

She shook her head. “Let’s away.”

Eighteen

T
hey arrived at the
Burned Man tavern as the sun climbed high over Tar Vangr.

Here in low-city, the Narfire forges beneath the streets raised the already hot late-winter day to a sweltering roast. Since the Ravalis had taken the throne, it seemed they had done all in their power to make the city as hot as their ancestral home. The great ice floes that isolated and protected Tar Vangr from barbarians had even begun to thin, and cracks could be seen from the city walls. Many voices on the Council—particularly the Blood of Yaela—spoke regularly about the twin threats of stoking the Narfire and using too much dust magic, but the Ravalis had thus far dismissed such concerns as alarmist nonsense. Tar Vangr had abided in its icy fastness for over a thousand years, they said, and one unusually warm season was no cause for concern.

Regel stepped under the Burned Man’s darkened eaves, and paused to gaze up at the pale silver ivy that hung over the door and windows, dripping with bloated snowmelt. The tenacious vine grew regardless of the season, however heavy the snow might fall, and could harm unwary travelers with its sharp thorns even while hidden. It was dangerous even while disguised.

“What is it?” Ovelia asked softly.

Regel looked at their travel trunk and shivered. “Naught,” he said.

The door flew open, and Regel had his hand on the hilt of his falcat before Serris threw herself into his arms and pressed her lips to his. Over Serris’s shoulder, Regel saw Ovelia withdraw deeper beneath the vines and turn her face away. When Serris released the kiss, her expression was relieved. “Almost thought you weren’t to return, Master,” she whispered.

“You were almost wrong then, Squire,” Regel said.

Serris beamed and kissed him again. “Doubt, but do not disbelieve,” she said sagely.

Regel smiled.

“What of the
Avenger
?” Serris asked. “Erim told me it was back, and I feared the worst.”

“Erim? What of Meron? I thought he watched the docks.”

Serris’s expression grew dark. “We had word that the skyship was leaving high-city two nights ago. Assumed the Ravalis had sent a force after you and went to stop it, but Dusters were waiting for us. Meron... he fell.” She chewed her lip, and Regel knew the fire in her eyes was a vengeful one. “At least you have returned safely. You slay all the honorless Ravalis on that wretched ship?”

Regel closed his eyes. “No,” he said. “There were no soldiers on the
Avenger
when it docked in Luether. Your attack was needless.” Serris’s face went pale, and Regel instantly regretted those words. Meron’s death had hit her hard, and now to learn that it was for nothing? “I did not mean—”

“You said
we.
” Serris went pale when she saw Ovelia lurking behind Regel. “Why is
she
here?”

“I have no quarrel with you,” Ovelia said. “You need to hear all—”

“Forgot to kill your little traitor, Master.” Serris pulled aside her skirt to reveal her favorite dagger strapped to her thigh. “Let me do you this honor.”

Regel seized Serris by the arm. “Inside.”

They moved through the Burned Man, followed by Ovelia with the hovering crate. Filtered among the two dozen or so patrons, the other Tears watched them with general incredulity. The patrons seemed oblivious, but Regel could tell the Tears had taken the cue from Serris’s reaction and braced for battle. Nacacia and Daren stood nearest, and Regel saw the blades they palmed. One might have felt a slight chill, but otherwise the Tears were such perfect actors that only patrons who knew what to look for would note the change in the atmosphere in the Burned Man.

There was no time for this. Regel slashed his hand through the air, and the Tears stood down. “Daren,” he said, and nodded toward the trunk. Then, ignoring Serris’s questioning look, he drew Ovelia across the common room past a curtain into the cramped darkness of the back corridor. Heat from the kitchens just down the hall filtered their way and glazed Regel’s forehead with sweat.

“That could have gone better,” Ovelia said.

“Stay a moment before you judge.” Regel put a finger to her lips and shook his head.

The curtain thrust aside and Serris’s pale eyes blazed at them, saying clearly that the matter was not settled. She stepped into the corridor and let the curtain fall, stealing light and vision again. She pulled a stick of wax from a pocket inside her vest and murmured a word of Old Calatan. Her candle—magewrought and worth every coin—flared with a heatless azure light, casting them in blue half-light. “This isn’t going to please me, is it?” she said.

“I shall explain in time,” Regel said. “For now, we need a room for our guests.”

“Guests? Only see the one.”

“Serris, please,” Regel said. “Hear me, Squire.”

“Always you use that against me. Well, then.” Serris scowled at Ovelia. “Climb the stairs, second door on the left side.” She turned to Regel. “Master, I must speak with you.”

“In a moment.” Regel squeezed Ovelia’s hand to reassure her. “It will be well.”

“As you say.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes told Regel to be wary. She climbed the stairs, watching Serris carefully all the while.

The instant Ovelia was out of sight, Serris stepped close to Regel. “When you said you trusted her before, I thought it was foolish,” she said. “Now you bring her back here? You will kill us all.”

“I need her.”

“You said you’d kill her,” Serris said. “I was earnest in my offer to do it for you, if sentiment or lust stays your hand. Nay, don’t deny it. I see the way you look at each other.”

“She is my guest, and she will not be touched,” Regel said. “If, of course, this is still my tavern.”

“Yes.” Serris sighed, and the tension slipped from between them. “Yes, this is still your Burned Man, and we are still your Tears.”

“Good,” Regel said. “If you knew who else I brought as guest—”

“Don’t care.” Serris pressed her cheek into his chest and hugged him tightly. “Glad to see you,” she said. “I have to tell you something very import—” Her eyes widened as she looked behind Regel.

“A tender reunion,” came the sorcerer’s rasping voice. Mask leaned against the wall watching them. “You must be the Angel Serris.”

Two Tears pushed through the curtain and pointed their blades at Mask. Regel held up a hand to stop them. “Stand down,” he said.

“Jumped right out of the chest, m’Lord,” said Daren. It was unsettling to hear the burly tough from the northern ward sound ill at ease. His grey-blue eyes coldly appraised Mask and his thick fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade. “Frightened Erim near to death.”

“Not so.” Erim was a beautiful boy with shoulder-length blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. By his coloration, the Blood of Winter was strong in him, and more than one foe had underestimated him because of his fine features. “Surprised me is all. Is this thing a friend or a foe, Lord?”

“An ally,” Regel said. “You may go.”

Daren obeyed immediately, but Erim hesitated. The pale-haired lad looked past Regel to Serris. A question passed between them, and Serris gave him the slightest of nods. They were close, if Regel recalled. Serris had always kept herself aloof from emotional entanglements, but it pleased Regel to see that perhaps she made an exception of the lad. A blade untempered becomes brittle.

“Go,” Regel said, letting his fingers trace Erim’s shoulder.

The boy looked up at his touch and smiled, reassured. He went away.

“What handsome creatures you keep.” Mask nodded to Serris. “Lovely scar. Reminds me of me.”

Serris touched her cheek. “Master, is that who—
what
I think it is?”

“And she’s heard of me.” Mask hissed a laugh. “Delicious.

Serris stepped forward, knife drawn, but Regel knocked her arm wide. “Peace.”

“Have you gone entirely mad?” Serris tried again to get past him, but Regel caught her arm and took the blade from her hand. “That’s
Mask
, by the Old Gods! The Mage-Slayer! You can’t —”

Serris arched back like a hunting cat about to pounce. Regel had no doubt but that she would strike again, blade or no blade. Then she saw something that made her face take on the hue of the bones beneath. Her lip trembled.

Regel looked around at a small child, perhaps two winters of age, who watched them wide-eyed through a door left a little ajar. The girl had inky black curls that fell to her shoulders and eyes seemingly as big and green as spring apples. She was staring straight at Regel.

“Child,” Serris whispered. “Don’t—”

Mask moved first, stepping past Regel toward the nameless child. The black-wrapped creature bent and fell to one knee—the movement surprised Regel in its smoothness—and extended one thin hand. Serris sucked in a startled breath, but no magic swelled forth. Instead, Mask’s hand beckoned and the sorcerer uttered a soft, almost hypnotic hum. The child’s bright green eyes turned to Mask, and her mouth fell open. Slowly, she raised her own hand to match Mask’s and stepped forward.

“
No!
” Serris snapped.

The girl gave a little cry and clasped her arms behind her back. She looked for a moment as though she might cry, then disappeared into the room behind her.

Regel opened his mouth, but it was Mask that spoke in a voice that was surprisingly gentle. “What a lovely child.” The sorcerer bowed to Serris. “Blessings to the mother.”

Then the sorcerer climbed the stairs, coughing, and was gone.

Serris and Regel looked at one another. His student’s face remained cool, but behind her eyes Regel could see a maelstrom of unspoken words. “Speak,” he said.

“No,” she said. “You first. First the Bloodbreaker, and now—?” She gestured after Mask.

“I hardly understand it all myself.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Trust me.”

Her bright green eyes met his. “You see a prize worth the risk?”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“What?” She shook her head. “What could
possibly
make you ally with those monsters?”

Regel thought of Lenalin and of Semana—of his duty to the fallen king, and of his broken honor. He thought of Ovelia, and his head started to ache. He thought of Serris. At times, she seemed the only reliable constant in a life turned to constant surprises. He was glad to have her.

“Someday,” he said. “Someday, I’ll tell you all.”

Serris laid her fingers on his cheek. “Someday soon?”

Regel nodded. “When this comes to an end.”

She smiled, but he could see pain in her eyes. She leaned in close as though to give him another kiss, but he pulled away. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Won’t you let me please you?”

“Serris—” Regel trailed off, unsure what to say.

“Old Gods.” Her eyes went wide. “Old Gods! You’re in love.”

“No,” he said.

She crossed her arms. “Burn you, Regel,” she said. “Who’d have thought it? The Lord of Tears has a heart after all.” She pulled him toward her chambers. “Now I want you all the more.”

“Serris, we cannot.” He shook his head sadly.

Serris recoiled. The scar on her cheek burned hot.

Silence lay between them, but for the first time since they had met the night Regel killed Paeter Ravalis, it seemed impenetrable. His words had split a deep crevasse between them.

“That was what you had to tell me,” Regel said finally. “Your child.”

Her eyes shot to his. “What?”

“That you have a child.” Regel nodded to Serris’s door, where the child had gone. “Too young for a name, I think, but clearly yours. Blessings.”

“Oh.” Serris hugged her arms around herself. “Yes, I—you were away since before she was born. I meant to tell you the day you returned, but then that letter about the mark on the Bloodbreaker came, and you then were off to Luether. There was no time.”

“I am sorry,” Regel said. “The world does not always allow us the moments it should.”

Serris nodded wordlessly, her eyes on the toes of her boots.

“Who is the father?” Regel asked. “Erim? Another? Will you tell me?”

“Someday.” A dark cloud crossed Serris’s face. “The right day.”

“The right day.” Regel’s fingers felt old indeed against the well-worn banister.

“Just—just tell me this,” Serris said. “It’s the Bloodbreaker, aye? Not that other creature.”

Regel furrowed his brow. “What?”

But Serris was moving off in the direction of her chambers.

Hoping he had misheard her, Regel tried to ignore a rising memory of his dream: of the face that lay behind the mask.

* * *

Serris almost stumbled as she hurried to her room, she was shaking so hard. Her face stung as though lit aflame. She felt humiliated, cast aside, and ignored. She’d meant it in jest, about Regel falling in love, but as soon as she’d spoken the words, her heart had begun to ache. She’d waited too long, acted too late, and now she could not have what she wanted.

Finally, she made it to the safety of her chambers. She closed herself inside and slumped backward against the door. Her eyes tightened, her lip trembled, and she raised one shaking hand to her brow. She sniffled—her only concession to the sobs that threatened to rise. She was stronger than this, but why did it
hurt
so?

“Child,” she said weakly. “Child, can you—”

She looked up and saw something that slew the words in her mouth.

The little girl sat cross-legged, staring with wonder at playing cards laid out before her. No child of that age could play such a game, of course, but the girl could identify each of the images and she loved to watch the combinations. Usually, it would be Vidia laying out the cards for her to watch, but the baker was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Serris saw the slayer who had attacked her the night Regel left Tar Vangr. His mask was gone, but she knew his mismatched eyes and distorted body. His face looked even worse than she had imagined.

He didn’t seem to have seen her, and if the Old Gods were watching, perhaps he hadn’t heard her. Heart in her throat, Serris rose, drew her knife, and stepped forward. Unfortunately, her daughter looked up and her face lit with joy at seeing her mother. She was, after all, a child.