Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (30 page)

Surprisingly, despite her hidden scars and ruined body, Mask showed Regel flashes of that same sort of grace. Her movements seemed awkward or forced at times, but every few heartbeats she would turn perfectly, her hips would sway just right. Mask danced like she was born for it, as Lenalin had.

He realized he had begun to lose himself in the dance when a chance look drew him back to the greater world. Mask saw his hesitation. “What is it?” she asked.

“Garin,” Regel said.

Indeed, the Ravalis cousin was even now making his way through the throng—bowing and kissing the hands of noble ladies, shaking men’s arms. He angled toward Ovelia and Serris.

“We should stop him,” Regel whispered.

“Surely the Bloodbreaker can ward herself.” Mask held his hands surprisingly tightly. “I was enjoying our dance.”

Heedless, Regel twisted out of her grasp and moved to intercept Garin. “Hail, Highness.”

The Shroud looked surprised, as though startled from a particularly complex calculation he’d been pondering. “A safe Ruin’s Night, Syr,” he said with a nod. “I’d ask you to unveil, but I think such is unnecessary, Lord of Tears.”

Regel bowed. “Indeed, Garin, noble son of Luether,” he said. “A safe Night to you also.”

Garin’s smile almost reached his scarlet eyemask. “You are barring my path.”

“My apologies,” Regel said with a bow. “I meant only to pay my respects.”

“Assuredly,” he said. “But who is this lady?”

Hands wrapped in white silk encircled Regel’s arm. Mask curtsied to Garin but said nothing. Instead, she looked to Regel, her blank doll face smiling as ever.

Garin looked intrigued. “Surely you are not the Angel Serris, risen from the low-city?”

“No, indeed.” Regel’s mind was empty of names. “My cousin. From beyond Tar Vangr.”

“I had not known the Oathbreaker had blood yet living. I am honored.”

Garin bowed low and kissed Mask’s hand, making Regel wince. He remembered the heat in that hand, and feared Garin would feel it as well.

“Do you not speak, lady?” Garin applied his analytic gaze to Mask.

Regel answered before Mask could. “She is wary in the presence of men,” Regel said. “My apologies if she does not speak to you, Highness. I pray you do not take it amiss.”

“Ah,” he said. “A proper lady, I see.”

Garin made to draw away, but Mask’s fingers abruptly tightened around his hand. She pulled close and whispered something in Garin’s ear, causing the Shroud’s eyes to widen. “Yes—a pleasure, indeed.” He glanced at Regel uneasily. “Your pardon, Lord of Tears.”

He passed them by, heading once again for Ovelia. Regel started after, but Mask held him back. “Naught to fear,” she said. “All’s well.”

“What did you say to him?” Regel whispered.

The doll mask was impenetrable.

Garin made his way across the foyer to Serris and Ovelia and bowed to both. This roused smiles from the surrounding dancers—it pleased them to see a prince of their ruling Blood—but when he extended his hand to “Lord” Dracaris rather than Serris, the gathered dancers gasped.

Regel started forward again, but Mask held him.

“Peace,” she said. “Trust in her—and in me.”

Regel wasn’t so sure about either. “What did you say to him?” he asked again.

“It is of no consequence,” she said. “It begins.”

Soldiers in scarlet cloaks streamed from the curtain behind the throne, flooding the raised dais like blood from a wound. King Demetrus would emerge at any moment, and to move now would draw attention and spoil their game.

He had to do what Mask said: trust in Ovelia and Mask both that all was not lost.

* * *

Ovelia saw Garin coming and took a deep breath. This would be the most dangerous moment, she knew, and she would be ready.

“Lady Serris, I think.” Garin kissed Serris’s hand. “You are radiant as the angel that names you.”

Ovelia gave Serris a warning look, but the woman bowed to him. “None named me but me, Syr.”

“An angel, as I said.” He looked up at Ovelia, who was trying her best not to meet his eye. “And you will introduce me to your lord of this eve? I know this is not the Lord of Tears.”

“M’lord relies upon my discretion,” Serris said. “Not his wife, after all.”

“That I knew, for you told me yestereve no man shall be bound to you.”

“Wouldn’t say anything of the sort.” Serris smiled tightly. “Many have bound me many times, and the reverse. But with ropes, not rings.”

They shared a chuckle at that. “But I simply must know your companion, Angel Serris. He is an elegant man, and I cannot help but think of the beauteous face that must lie under that mask.”

Serris’s mirth turned to steel. “No, m’lord Ravalis, I think I won’t. There are many things I might say—about last night, perhaps—that countless listeners here at the revel might wish to hear.”

“Indeed.” His eyes never left Ovelia’s masked face. “How very uncouth of me. Of course, lord—you shall not be named on my account this eve.” He drew off his mask and bowed to her. “I am Prince Garin Ravalis, at your service.”

Under his piercing gaze, Ovelia grew self-conscious—particularly of her cracked black leather belt, which did not match the rest of her garb. She felt trapped, but she couldn’t deny she enjoyed Garin’s attention, even if she knew he did not desire her as a woman. Why did he have to be so charming?

“I wondered if I might have the honor of a dance,” Garin said.

“Certainly,” Serris said. “You are a Prince of the Blood and may ask—”

Smiling broadly, Garin extended his hand not to her, but to Ovelia. The color in Serris’s exposed face drained away. Silence fell around them and folk stared.

In Tar Vangr, it was perfectly acceptable and even commonplace for a man to dance with another man or a woman with a woman. Such a romance was called a mirror courtship, and many great Vangryur songs spoke of such dalliances. The Ravalis, however, were summerborn through and through, and in the southern lands, men paired with women strictly. Since their ascension, the nobles of Tar Vangyr had to hide other assignations behind closed doors or risk public ridicule. To see a prince of the Ravalis openly courting a man was shocking. Garin’s expression, however, showed full faith in his calculation.

“But your highness!” said Serris. “I must protest—”

“Surely your lord may protest for himself, if he so wishes.” Garin winked at Ovelia. “What of it, Syr? There is no fear I might know your voice. I am a stranger to Tar Vangr.”

Ovelia opened her mouth but Serris stepped between them. “Highness, m’lord’s voice might be known by someone nearby—”

“It is well, Serris,” Ovelia said softly. “I will dance with him.”

Both Serris and Garin looked stunned. Ovelia spoke in a man’s voice, of low tone and rich timbre. It was one of many voices she had crafted over five years as the Shroud, and by the look on Garin’s unclad face, those had been years well spent. His certainty wavered, which gave her confidence.

“If it should please you, Prince of the Blood,” Ovelia said. “Then I will dance with you. But shall I act the lady or the lord?” From the tamest waltz to a fiery dance of passion, Luetharr high society assigned male and female parts in the ballroom, while Vangryur dances made no such distinction.

The prince looked at her carefully, his eyes unreadable—even to her. He was no longer the aggressor but the defender. “I know both steps. You are more adept at the lord’s part, I expect?”

“Of course.” Ovelia smiled, keeping her unpainted lips pressed to a thin line. “But if you desire, I can be the lady.”

Garin opened his mouth, but then the king’s chimes filled the chamber and a short flurry of horns rang out to interrupt the dancing. “Alas, Syr. We are thwarted.”

Ovelia inclined her head silently. She had almost been looking forward to the dance, madness that it would have proved. Had she truly almost risked herself so?

“Farewell, Syr.” Garin bowed to Ovelia, then to Serris. “And Angel.”

“Our honor, Highness,” Serris said. She cast a dangerous look her way, but Ovelia ignored her.

Vhaerynn—King Demetrus’s seneschal and high sorcerer—stepped forward between the thrones. The necromancer’s gaunt body hid within a long, sleek robe of satin so deep red it seemed black, but it flickered like fresh wounds when he moved through the light. His cold gaze swept the chamber, and Ovelia averted her face so that he would not see her.

“On this day of days—on this night of nights.” Vhaerynn spread his arms to the high ceiling. “On the eve of a new year, in this, Fallen Calatan’s most glorious of cities—”

Garin made his way through the crowd of revelers to the dais. Prince Lan asked him a question, Ovelia saw, but Garin only shook his head. Ovelia breathed easier.

“That was madness.” Serris was staring after Garin. “He’ll know you. I’m sure—”

“I know what I do.” Ovelia saw the way Serris was gazing after Garin and squeezed the woman’s hand. “He will not betray us. I know it.”

Serris shook her hand from Ovelia’s grasp. “Have you gone mad, old woman? You’re marked and made. You’re out, as of this moment. Flee if you will or be caught, I don’t care.”

Ovelia cut her off with a sharp grip on her hand. “Silly girl. I
meant
him to see me.”

Serris blinked, dumbfounded. “What? Why?”

Ovelia pulled Serris toward a retiring room. Applause told her the king had arrived on the dais. In the swell of welcome, they would go momentarily unnoticed.

Servants nodded to Ovelia’s wave and brought around a standing shade to shield them from view. It was not uncommon for men at a Ravalis revel to wish to retire for a few moments alone with female companions. Under Denerre it had been the same, but in those days, women as commonly called for privy time. The partitions gave them some semblance of privacy.

Ovelia took off her belt and handed it to Serris. “Hold this.”

The woman’s nose prickled, but she took the belt. “What are you about?”

“Now that he’s seen me, the Ravalis will believe me to be found amongst the revelers,” Ovelia said. “So now I am free to go elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

Fingers moving fast, Ovelia unlaced her man’s tunic and breeches as soon as the partition was unfolded. Beneath, she wore a woman’s underthings as well as a carved pendant on a leather thong around her neck. It looked like a bird of some kind, or...

Serris’s eyes widened at the charm. “Is that—?

“Take off your clothes, and don’t make a fuss.” Ovelia pulled off the red wig she had worn over her dyed silver hair. “I’ll need them.”

Twenty-Two

D
emetrus Ravalis—Warrior, King, Usurper—appeared
on the dais amidst mighty applause and cheers. Regel remembered the solemn silence that had greeted King Denerre five years ago, like to the attention soldiers pay a beloved general. The Ravalis, by contrast, had no decorum: they had brought customs of loud cheers and clapping that grated on Regel’s ears.

“We should go,” he murmured, seeing an opportunity in the distraction.

“Nonsense,” Mask said. “I would hear this.”

The rulers of men strive to seem immortal, and King Demetrus had never proved an exception, with his hard face and strong limbs. None could say for certain how old he was, though Lan, his grown son, was hardly his first child or even his fifth, but in truth, his youngest and last. Demetrus had outlived three wives and more than one child who would have seen at least fifty winters, had Ruin not claimed them one and all. His last wife—a treacherous Vultara Blood called Anthien, Lan’s mother but not Paeter’s—had perished in the fall of Luether, and only his insistence on not marrying again kept him from having a dozen princelings besides Lan to choose among for a successor.

“So many lost,” Regel said. “Has the Blood Ravalis suffered any less than the Blood Denerre?”

“Ravalis lives,” Mask said. “Of course they have suffered less.”

“Truly?” Regel asked. “Denerre was a small house in the end, and four deaths were enough to break it. Ravalis lost scores of its blood heirs when Luether fell. Have they not suffered more?”

The sorcerer said nothing for a long time, only looked at Regel, considering. “Ruin is a vicious bitch,” Mask said at length. “And she will have her due.”

Demetrus ascended the dais to give his traditional Ruin’s Night address. Despite his age, Demetrus walked with a smooth, strong gait to his throne and stood before it with no trouble. The king’s lips parted, revealing a line of fine teeth that sparkled like ivory. They were false, if Regel recalled correctly: the work of mage-craftsmen. There was a reedy waver to his words that hinted at years of smoking summerweed.

“Friends,” he said. “Our friends—who have welcomed us in this city—your city—for so long. Be welcome in this place, as you have welcomed us.”

He swept his hand to take in the chamber. Voluminous sleeves hid his velvet-gloved hands and his blue and red robe stood up from shoulders girded with thick pads. He held in his hands the rod of rulership and Raeve, the Bloodsword of Ravalis, which he himself had carried from Luether as the barbarians stormed its gates twenty years ago. He was a Ravalis prince head to foot and his eyes surveyed the room imperiously, like those of a lion.

“Brave friends of Tar Vangr and Luether, Blood of Calatan,” he said. “This Ruin’s Night marks the fifth year we have sat in this seat not ours, worn this crown which fits not our head.”

“He speaks true in that, at least,” Mask said. “It’s a trifle small, no?”

Regel gazed at Demetrus’s brow. There, atop his still-red curls, sat the Diadem of Winter: a silver coronet etched with ivy and snowflakes, its high-reaching prongs long as daggers. Legend claimed that the Diadem cured diseases, halted venoms, and healed wounds, making its wearer invincible. But its blessing extended only to a wearer who bore the Blood of Winter, and Demetrus was not such a man. Indeed, Mask was correct, and the crown looked out of place on Demetrus’s head. While the heirs of Denerre shared a slight, wiry frame, to a man the Ravalis were built on a heroic scale, and the crown almost looked like a child’s costume hat. The colors did not match either: his brown skin and scarlet hair favored gold, not silver. Not once in the five years Demetrus had worn the diadem had it seemed to fit him. He wore it only rarely, at formal events such as this gathering.

The Coronet of Summer, by contrast, was a gold-wrought treasure, embedded with rubies that gleamed like living flame. That crown would have suited Demetrus, but the Ravalis had lost it the night Luether had fallen. He should be wearing that crown instead, Regel thought, rather than the crown of King Orbrin—of Lenalin and Semana.

“Five years, and in truth, far more,” Demetrus continued. “We have been your guests twenty years, in which we have drunk wine and supped on bread not of our land. We have loved women not of our own blood—loved them well and poorly.”

It was surprising to hear Demetrus utter these words, which prompted a few murmuring laughs and unsettled throat-clearings. Demetrus had refused to remarry after his wife perished in Luether, and high Tar Vangr society had always taken that as a slight. For him to joke of it now... Lan laughed loudly, and the sound chilled Regel. The prince should have been offended by the mere mention of lovemaking, however subtle. He should not have found it amusing. Regel glanced at Laegra, who had paled at her husband’s crudity. She looked as trapped as any of them.

The king waited as the chuckling died away. “Some of you may ask, how long are we guests to stay here in your city? How long before we might return to our own southern land? It is a question we ask of ourselves, every day.” Demetrus brought his hands together at his belly. “Would that we could lead an army south to crush the usurpers and restore peace... but, of course, your Council will not have it. That is the will of our hosts, and the Ravalis honor their hosts, as the ancient laws dictate.”

Those words were bitter. In politics, Demetrus was like his son Lan, if somewhat more patient: very little love lay between him and the Council, which had so far restrained the Ravalis’ march to war. Serris had relayed rumors of the Council moving against the crown, and Garin himself had spoken of the Ravalis ceding power. Was this the night it would come to pass? Was this the very moment?

“But let us not digress,” Demetrus said. “We gather together this night not only to commemorate the fifth year of our rule and the twentieth of your hospitality, but to remember those brave and beautiful who have fallen that we might stand amongst you. A libation!”

He snapped his fingers. A goblet appeared, borne by a handsome red-haired boy clad in a gold loin-cloth and crimson and blue paint. A serving girl similarly attired—with the addition of a silken chest-wrap—bowed to Demetrus and poured a healthy draught of summerwine into the cup. Servants filtered amongst the revelers, offering small glass goblets of rich red wine. Regel took a glass, but Mask ignored the servant until he went away. The boy shivered a bit, his attire not made for a Tar Vangr night.

“Five years,” Demetrus said, raising his goblet high. “Five years since our friend King Orbrin passed from this place, and Princess Semana too, his beloved greatdaughter and my own.” He shut his eyes. “May they remain in our hearts, by the Silver Fire.”

“By the Fire,” echoed many voices in the room. Members of the Council and those loyal to them smiled guardedly.

The king drained his goblet, and the revelers followed suit. Only three did not drink—Regel, Mask, and Lan, who seemed too busy trying to control laughter that threatened to overwhelm him. Up on the dais, Laegra excused herself, looking ill, and Lan hardly seemed to notice. His mirth continued to make Regel uneasy. What jest did he know, that no one else did? This was about to go bad.

Demetrus raised an open hand. “Councilor Kiereth Yaela.”

“Majesty?” The Lord from Blood Yaela—a handsome man of perhaps thirty winters, proud of stance and attired in gold and black—put a hand to his chest. His dancing partner—an unknown woman or perhaps a clean-shaven man, knowing Kiereth’s flexible tastes—backed away, nodding.

“Please,” Demetrus said. “Approach.”

“By your leave.” Kiereth started toward the dais.

The Heir of Blood Yaela was one of the most powerful men on the Council, and if Regel remembered correctly, he was one of Serris’s favored patrons. He looked for her now, and caught a glimpse of her before she vanished behind a privacy partition. What was she doing?

Regel started that direction, meaning to slip away and follow his squire, but Mask held his arm with surprising strength. “Do not miss this,” she said.

The councilor looked more than a little confused as he ascended the dais, but he had a smile for all. He bowed gallantly to Prince Lan, then knelt before Demetrus. His bow was courtly but lingered on the edge of respect. In a land as steeped in tradition and etiquette as Tar Vangr, his countrymen would understand the gesture but the Ravalis might not. The summerblood were more casual about such things.

“We have been enemies, do you not agree?” Demetrus asked.

“Perhaps not
enemies
, Your Majesty,” Kiereth said. “We do not always see eye to eye, indeed.”

This gave rise to muted laughter. The animosity between the two men was well known—in the Council chambers, no voice was louder in denunciation of Blood Ravalis than that of Kiereth Yaela.

“Draw your dagger,” the king said.

Kiereth looked startled. “Your Majesty?”

“If you would spill my blood, then let it be by your blade rather than your words.” The Summer King drew open his robe, revealing the tusked boar tattooed across his chest. “Fight me for Tar Vangr.”

A gasp swept through the chamber, and for good reason. The gathered lords and ladies had never imagined such madness. All knew Councilor Yaela was not a warrior. He wore a knife as part of his dress, but his weapons were rhetoric and wit, exerting political pressure to accomplish what swords could not. But he was still a young man and hard. Why would Demetrus call him out, so very publicly and apparently over Tar Vangr itself? Had age finally caught the king and eroded his wits?

All eyes were on the exchange between Demetrus and Kiereth, but Regel knew to look beyond the obvious. He grasped the carving in his pocket and focused, allowing his senses to expand. Sure enough, more was afoot. On the dais, Garin reached for his warpick, but Lan clapped a hand on his shoulder. A wicked grin flickered across the face of the crown prince. That subtle expression warned Regel of what was to come, and he could do nothing to stop it.

“Your Majesty.” Whatever Kiereth had expected, it was not that. He drew back, and his face flushed. “I will not fight you. That is not our way.”

“But it
is
mine—the way of the Ravalis and of Luether,” Demetrus said. “When you want something, you must fight for it. Kill for it.” He looked back at Kiereth. “The wrong blood rules Tar Vangr—the wrong king consumes your wine and his sons defile your women. Are you a man, Lord of Yaela? Will you not defend your homeland? Draw steel and drive out the invaders?”

The king stepped closer and whispered in the councilor’s ear, too softly for Regel to hear. He could see the effect in Kiereth’s body, however: his face went white and his hand went to the hilt of his dagger. Regel glanced to Mask, who seemed to be watching the exchange raptly.

Finally, Demetrus drew away from Kiereth and spread his hands wide. “As I thought,” he declared to the whole of the revel. “You are a nation of cowards. You trust to words and intrigues, and believe those braver than you will stand in the way of your foes. When the Winter King died, you lost your great defender, and five years later, here you stand, unwilling to face your foe with steel drawn. This is why we rule you—because you cannot rule yourselves.”

And with that, he turned his back to Kiereth, offering him the greatest dishonor of all.

Regel willed the councilor to do nothing, but it was too late. Whatever Demetrus had whispered to him, Kiereth had abandoned sense. His dagger scraped free of his scabbard with a sound of nails pried from a coffin. He stepped toward Demetrus, faster than any bodyguards could swoop in to stop him.

The Ravalis King was turning when Kiereth struck, and he responded with the reflexes of a trained warrior. He raised an open palm like a shield, and the blade plunged through his hand. With his expanded awareness, Regel could hear the small bones of Demetrus’s hand rattle against each other as they parted. Blood welled around the blade.

The king grasped Kiereth’s arm before he could pull away, locking them together in a violent embrace. He looked at the wound and shuddered, like a dog shaking itself of water.

Finally, a smile crept onto his face. “I misjudged you, winterborn,” he said.

In a heartbeat, the ballroom was in chaos. Bodyguards on all sides drew swords and casters, and a horde of dusters appeared from behind the dais, weapons ready. Shouts of treason and challenge rang out, and steel whined as it tore free of scabbards.

“Stop,” Demetrus said.

Though the king had not spoken loudly, the word vibrated through the room from the midst of the mob. His commandment stayed the coming battle.

“This is not treason,” Demetrus said. “He strikes at my invitation and proves his valor. And for that, he is forgiven.”

Kiereth opened his mouth to speak.

The king balled up his left fist and launched it into Kiereth’s jaw hard enough to drive the younger man staggering back. The dagger came out of Demetrus’s hand with the sound of sucking flesh, and blood sailed in a wide arc. The king grasped his wounded hand but did not cry out.

“I respect any man who faces his foe,” he said. “But I will not fail to answer violence with violence. Let blood answer blood.”

Demetrus cast his blood onto the floorstones. Through his focus, Regel heard the plink of the blood striking the stone, followed by a loud sizzle he needed no statue to hear. The sound spread through the hall like blood in water. He thought he could sense distant thunder, even if he could not quite hear it. At his side, Mask shrank back around him as though for protection.

“Necromancy,” the sorcerer said.

Regel could only watch as the blood spread and shook upon the floor. Fingers reached up through the stone itself, and two hands pulled a body into the chamber. It wriggled like a worm climbing out of the earth, blood sloughing off in soupy rivulets. Within a moment, a gaunt man stood among the horrified revelers, his blood-drenched robes plastered to his skinny limbs.

“Vhaerynn,” Regel murmured.

A dozen casters came up, but the necromancer waved his open hand almost idly in their direction. The wielders of those deadly murderpieces abruptly stiffened and cried out, and the casters twisted of their own accord. In a heartbeat, the noble warders aimed their deadly weapons at their own terrified charges, despite their attempts to pull their arms away. Kiereth stepped back, but Vhaerynn’s magic seized him and he could not move. Veins pulsed madly in his temples, and blood trickled from his nose.