Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (35 page)

Twenty-Eight

T
here was blackness.

Then there was fire.

Regel’s body wrenched up from the stones, taut and screaming. Crimson light surrounded him. Pain tore through his veins like clear liquor set afire. His eyes burned and his sweat burrowed stinging trails down his cheeks. Smoke filled his lungs rather than air. His stomach churned and heaved. His leg—Old Gods, his wounded leg
blazed
as though molten steel coated his flesh.

Was this what his old master had promised? Was this death? If it was, then Regel despaired.

Then, of a sudden, the pain lessened. The fire ebbed and the world returned to his glazed senses.

He was back in the corridor, surrounded by the stench of death and fresh blood. Serris’s pale body, her face twisted in terror, lay beside him. Davargorn sat against the wall, his unmasked face maleficent in the pale blue candlelight.

“Welcome back.” Davargorn strained to pull a broken casterbolt from his chest.

“We’re alive,” Regel managed to say.

“So it would seem.” He nudged Regel with his twisted foot. “Can you move?”

Regel forced himself into a sitting position, expecting pain but finding only a pale numbness. He looked at the torn breeches over his injured knee. Where there should have been a gaping hole, there was only new skin. “You restored me.”

“I did.” As Regel watched, Davargorn pulled one of the shattered casterbolts from his chest. It bled only a little before a dull crimson radiance surrounded the wound, which promptly began to pull itself closed. “Lifefire, my master called it. What a magic for a slayer to have.”

Regel put his hand to his head—he still felt dizzy. Legends spoke of the healing power of Lifefire, but never had they described it this way—nor had they spoken of how much it hurt.

Serris lay slumped bonelessly against the wall, staring in terror.

“You restored me,” Regel said blearily. “Can you aid her?”

“My magic has limits.” Davargorn rose shakily to his feet, and Regel could see a silvery glow shrouding the wounds in his chest. As he watched, they vanished. “I cannot create life, only fan the flames. Her embers grew cold long before either of us woke.”

“I see.” Regel nodded. “Whose arms do you wear?”

“Pardon?” Davargorn stooped to search the guardsman whose face he’d broken for blades.

“Who is your master?” Regel asked. “In Luether, it was Mask... Semana.” It was difficult to reconcile the two in his head, though he shouldn’t have been so surprised at the revelation. The signs had all been there, even if he’d chosen not to see them. How she had reminded him of Lenalin, her intense dedication to the cause, and even her plan. Taking the identity of her own assassin to root out her enemies? It was the sort of cunning he expected of the Blood of Winter.

Regel began again. “When first we met in Luether, Semana cast you out, but then you sacrificed yourself to save her. So I will ask once more: whom do you serve?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Davargorn extended his good hand, but Regel eyed it warily. “Come now, Lord of Tears. If I’d wanted you dead, I’d have left you dead.”

Regel had to concede that. “I must rest.”

“Oh?” Davargorn said with derision. “The fatigue passes quickly—or at least it does for men not so old as you. One moment.” He continued to pace anxiously, checking the felled guards every few seconds as though to make sure they were dead.

“A question,” Regel said.

“Only if it’s brief.”

Davargorn dropped a Ravalis dagger at Regel’s feet. A matching blade rode the younger man’s hip, counterbalanced by a sword on his other side. The belt looked too big for his narrow frame.

Regel lifted the blade. The steel was inferior, but the balance was good enough. He tested the edge, watching Davargorn without looking at him. “In Luether, when we asked for proof, Mask—Semana—gave her finger. That was your magic as well. Tell me, did she make you cut off her finger, or did she do it herself?”

Davargorn stiffened. “That’s no concern of yours.”

“Well enough.” Regel had his answer, then. Five years had turned Semana into a sharp blade indeed, if she could maim herself for a deception. “You restored her, too? Your magic is that great?”

Davargorn looked away. “We need to get moving.”

Regel climbed shakily to his feet. His bad knee ached—he suspected it would ache for the rest of his life—but his leg would support him. They stood amongst the bodies, both fresh and old: Serris and the guards against the corpses hidden within the secret room. Regel knew exactly where he was. He himself had used this dumping place, in his service to the Winter King.

“I know these tunnels,” Regel said. “I’ll guide you, if you tell me the truth.”

“Burn you,” Davargorn said. “If you don’t move, I’ll leave you behind.”

“Unlikely,” Regel said. “These tunnels were built huge and winding, with only a single exit. You’ll wander here the rest of your life, which won’t be long without food and water.”

Far off, they could hear a weeping moan: some damned soul kept prisoner in the catacombs, chained or—perhaps worse—left to stumble and grope in the darkness.

“You think I want to escape? You think I do not want vengeance?”

“Neither,” Regel said. “The princess is too valuable to the Ravalis to slay, and too dangerous for them to hold openly. She lives still.”

“Good for Nar-burned her.” Davargorn bent to strip the tunic from the guardsman. “But what is that to me? She betrayed me in Luether. You saw.”

“And then here in Tar Vangr, you sacrificed yourself to shield her from casterbolts,” Regel said. “So I ask you again, whom do you serve?”

“Shut up.” Davargorn touched the hilt of his sword to accentuate the point.

“When Semana ripped your face away, were you surprised, or had that been your plan? Was all that staged, or—?”

Davargorn whirled, sword half drawn. “I said shut your burning mouth!”

Regel regarded him calmly. “Tell me, or run me through right now. I’m in no state to fight you.”

Davargorn’s eyes searched him, considering doing exactly that. Finally, he sank down to the floor against the wall. A helpless smile crossed his distorted features. “I don’t know.”

Regel understood. The boy might not know his own heart, but Regel saw it clearly. He heard it in Davargorn’s voice, and he saw it in his loose shoulders and the way he sat languidly. Davargorn simply
had
to help Semana, just as Regel had needed to help Lenalin. This boy and he were the same, albeit a generation apart, and so too were their respective princesses.

“Understand this.” Davargorn leaned his head back and a deep sigh fell from his lips. “She has been Mask for five years. Five years, since that night on the
Heiress
, when Mask tried to kill her. We killed him instead, Lord of Tears, and Ma—
Semana
took his place. She donned his armor. If she had not—” He shook his head. “In all that time, she watched for enemies in every shadow. She let no one see her face. The princess had no one to trust. Not you, not her sworn shield, no one.”

She had you,
Regel thought, but he kept his silence.

“Then, a year ago, she learned the identity of the Shroud.”

“Ovelia.” It began to make sense now.

Davargorn nodded. “Can you imagine how that felt? The very traitor who had ended Semana’s Blood—who had condemned her to a life unavenged and in hiding—had not only survived the fall of Winter, but had been
rewarded
by the Ravalis? We—
she
had to do something.”

“She sent you,” Regel supplied. “You were to lure Ovelia to Luether so Semana could kill her, away from her private army of Ravalis spies.”

Davargorn nodded. “It was simple. All I had to do was let Mask’s name slip in a few taverns and the Bloodbreaker surfaced within a day.” He tapped his dagger on the floor, sending the ring of steel up the passage. “She made ready to flee the city, and I planted the seeds of her treachery to turn the Ravalis against her. All I had to do was breathe word of her to Lan, and he would chase her from Tar Vangr. Everything passed according to my plan.”

“Until she came to me,” Regel said.

“That was a surprise,” Davargorn said. “Who could have expected the Bloodbreaker would go to the man who hates her most in the world? And that you would make an accord! Mask and I did not expect in a thousand years that would come to pass.”

“You underestimated her as much as I did.”

“So it seems,” Davargorn said. “I could not warn Mask that you were coming, so I followed you to Luether and brought you both into our trap. You defeated us. That was when she—” He winced at remembered pain.

“Did she dismiss you out of anger, or because she knew what you would do?” Regel asked. “Return to Tar Vangr and the Ravalis, whom you had already turned into allies. Position yourself as Lan’s personal guard, and draw close to the throne.”

“She wouldn’t—oh, burn me.” Davargorn winced at the realization. “That’s
exactly
what she did. Then, if you were to fail against the Usurper, she would have asked me to do it.”

“And you would have,” Regel said, “no matter what had passed between you.”

“Yes.” He shut his eyes. “She is brilliant. A queen among tyrants.”

“That, I am beginning to understand.” Regel nodded slowly. Lenalin had been so manipulative.

“I cannot understand why she did what she did, though,” Davargorn said. “She had won. You and the Bloodbreaker both were doomed in Prince Lan’s chambers. She had but to stand back and do nothing, and yet she revealed herself and lost all.” He shook his head. “It seems so stupid.”

Stupid, but noble. Again, Regel thought he understood something the boy did not.

They sat in silence a time, and finally Regel felt well enough to stand. He did not betray his strength right away, of course. First, he asked another question—one he could not leave unanswered.

“Serris,” Regel said. “Did you mean her to die?”

“Who?” His gaze dreamy, Davargorn hardly seemed to hear him.

“A bit of wisdom.” Without warning, Regel crossed the pace between them and pressed Davargorn back into the wall, his blade to the boy’s throat. “Don’t tell foes your weaknesses.”

“Remember my magic.” Davargorn scowled. “I do not fear you, Lord of Tears.”

“You should,” he said. “Weak as I may be, I can kill you beyond embers to fan.”

Davargorn’s face remained cool, but the fear that flickered across his good eye told Regel he believed him. “I am sorry for your squire, Lord of Tears, but this solves nothing—”

“I assume you threatened her,” Regel said. “How long have you owned her loyalty?”

“Since that night Ovelia came to you. She was a weapon to use against you if I needed it.”

“Against me?” Regel lowered his blade. “Would Semana not slay me anyway?”

“She—” A look of discomfiture came across Davargorn’s face. “We need to move,” he said. “You should leave your squire. We can’t carry her.”

The simple truth made Regel’s chest feel hollow. Much as he hated to leave Serris, both he and Davargorn could barely carry themselves. He’d have to come back for her body.

“Just tell me this,” Regel said. “Did you mean Serris to die?”

Whether he needed the ugly man or not, Regel knew he would kill Davargorn if he had.

“No.” Davargorn shook his head as much as Regel allowed. “Lan brought Serris into this. She must have attacked him in the ballroom, but he and Vhaerynn captured her. Neither of us expected—”

“Or cared.” With his face pressed close to Davargorn’s, Regel felt the boy’s breath on his lips. Finally, he stepped away. “Very well.”

“Very well?” Davargorn rubbed at his throat. “That is all?
Very well
?”

“You saw only the need to help Semana. You did not care for the blood that was spilled. That makes you reckless, but not a murderer. Good enough for now.”

Regel reversed the knife and offered it to Davargorn, hilt first. The mismatched eyes met his, wondering. “We need each other to rescue Semana and Ovelia,” Regel said. “You need my knowledge of the tunnels, I need your magic. We work together, or we all die—them and us.”

Davargorn eyed the proffered blade. “And you would trust me enough to disarm yourself?”

“We need each other,” he said. “It makes no great difference who bears the steel.”

Slowly, Davargorn took Regel’s dagger and slid it into his belt. “So what now? Saving your red-haired whore, I wager.”

That barb had been calculated to bring a rise out of him, and Regel ignored it so he could think. He thought of Semana, standing like a goddess in black leather, her hair flowing alongside her glowing eyes. She’d deceived him—deceived everyone—but he couldn’t abandon her. And however confused he might be, neither could Davargorn. As to where... Regel knew of the most likely place, and that was down here in the tunnels. As for Ovelia, he suspected only an hour or so had passed since the battle with Lan, but even that might be enough for the poison he’d put in her belly to have slain her. Her body wasn’t down here, so perhaps she yet lived, somewhere. But could he save Ovelia if it meant letting Semana die?

“We save Semana first,” Regel said. “I know where they likely took her.”

“What of your honorless lover?” Davargorn’s voice betrayed loathing for Ovelia.

“She can care for herself. And she would want Semana saved first.”

“Truly?” Davargorn sheathed the sword. “As you say, Lord of Tears. You know the Bloodbreaker better than I. No tricks.”

“No.” Regel grimaced when he moved his leg. “Do you still have the flying boots?”

Davargorn scowled. “Probably gracing the pink feet of some over-fed summerborn by now.” He turned up the corridor. Rather than follow, Regel knelt, and Davargorn looked back. “What is it?”

“Naught.” Regel swept his fingers up Serris’s dead face and closed her eyes. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then rose. “We go.”

I am coming, Ovelia,
he prayed.
Wait for me.

Twenty-Nine

I
t was in the
waiting that she felt true pain.

Ovelia stood naked in the center of the room, her flesh chilled despite the raging fire on the hearth and in her middle. She wore only two things: manacles sticky with blood that bound her hands behind her back, which had already started to make her arms strain, and her carved necklace, which Lan apparently liked. She stood untouched and unmoving, feeling every tiny ache and bruise. Her head and her belly pained her the most, and it took all her energy merely to stand rather than swoon.

Lan Ravalis paced a circle around her, inspecting her body from every angle. Rather than cringe away, she kept her posture steadfast, not wanting to concede defeat. She stood proudly, shoulders back, dragon tattoo gleaming. Under Lan’s eye, Ovelia felt like a horse at market, though whether he meant to ride her or chop her up for meat was uncertain. She didn’t like how much she liked that feeling.

“You’ve aged well, Lady.” Lan rubbed his meticulously shaved chin.

She averted her gaze and said nothing.

Her defiance seemed to amuse Lan. “The years seem hardly to touch you,” he said, “though there are certainly creases.”

His hand extended toward her backside, and her muscles tightened as though bracing for the thrust of a knife. His fingers were warm, however, and even gentle. She shivered, and that it was not out of loathing made her hate herself.

Is this not what you deserve?
that other self within her asked—the one who had confronted her in the mercyhall in Luether, the one who spoke to her at night when she lay awake and refused to weep.
After what you have done, is this not what you have earned?

“Mmm.” He cupped her hindquarters, squeezing hard but giving no pain. “You’ve almost the firmness of my niece, and she’s twenty years your junior.”

Ovelia raged at the slur to Semana, but she knew Lan meant to bait her. “Thank you,” she said without meaning it. She wanted to hurt him. Wanted him to hurt her.

Lan put his arms around Ovelia then, and pressed his chest and belly hard against her back. Ovelia caught her breath as his fingers found her bare breasts. She strained to keep her breath constant.

“I’ve always wanted you.” His head craned around her neck, and his breath beat like burning summerweed on her skin. “The way my brother got to have you—how he used to gloat over it... All he needed to unlock your legs was his little slattern of a daughter.”

Ovelia closed her eyes tightly. Her heart was racing despite herself—excitement building where there should be only anger or shame. It was vile, but she could not help it. All her life, she could never help it. This was what she wanted.

“Lady Dracaris, you... By the Nar, I’d not expected
this
.” He clasped her tighter, and she gasped. “You enjoy this. You . . . You are all my brother said and more.”

“Please,” she whispered, because she meant it and because it made the desire redouble. “Please let me go.” Half of her—the half she wouldn’t give voice—wished he wouldn’t. She loathed herself for it. Old Gods, she was on
fire.

“Why?” he asked. “Why does this please you?”

Ovelia could not explain. Lan was not like Paeter—he didn’t recognize what was inside Ovelia, and so he did not understand what she was. Lan was a fledgling squire given a weapon he’d never seen and did not know how to wield. In that way, Lan was no better a lover than Regel had ever been.

“We have used each other before,” Ovelia whispered. The awful hunger within her faded, replaced by a horrible yearning of another sort.

Lan was touching every bit of her, caressing and rubbing and scratching. He swelled against her back, the waistband of his breeches straining. She wanted to have him. She wanted him to take her.

Then he said it. “Why the girl?”

“What?” Ovelia’s eyes snapped open and she stared at the ceiling. Snowmelt dowsed the fire inside her. Dark desire ebbed and faded, and she remembered the ache in her belly and the dizziness in her head. “What did you say?”

“Semana.” Lan nibbled at her neck, but instead of maddening her, his teeth only sickened her. “Did you desire the girl for yourself? Dream of that silver hair trailing along your skin?”

Ovelia couldn’t breathe. That image—like Lenalin, except...

“I could bring her,” Lan said. “You’d enjoy that? Making love to her as I watched?”

Ovelia tried in vain to remain still and feel nothing. Her dark desire collapsed in on itself, and she was once again herself, standing in judgment, ashamed and terrified. Over and over, she saw Semana’s face—judging, weighing, and condemning her. Semana, her— “No!” Ovelia gasped, and wrenched away.

She made it two paces before she fell gasping to one knee. Lan stared at her in smug satisfaction, thinking he had won something over her. And perhaps he had.

Ovelia caught a glimpse of movement—something red—across the room, and she looked. There stood a woman in the mirror, panting and rocking on one knee, her dragon tattoo sparkling in the firelight. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks hollow from lack of real sleep. Her bound hands looked to be flushed red like blood. And her hair… Maure must have washed it clean of dye, for it was red like fire again.

“I am myself,” she said. Down to the pit of her jet black soul.

Viciousness came into Lan’s eyes, and Ovelia could offer no defense as he grabbed her by the throat and wrenched her up. “You are mine,” he said. “Or I will flay that girl alive and dress you in her skin. I will rip out her entrails and adorn your wrists and throat. Or—” Now his face twisted terribly. “Or I will have that bloody Court Sorcerer enchant your limbs and make
you
do it. See if I cannot.”

Ovelia hardly had the strength to respond. “I believe you.”

“You are mine,” Lan said again. “
Say it.
”

“Yes,” she whispered, because she had no choice. “I am yours.”

“You are my whore,” he said. “Say the words, Bloodbreaker.”

Ovelia met his eyes. “I am your whore,” she said.

“You will do what I will of you,” he said. “For I am your king.”

“Yes. Anything you would have. You are my king.” She willed herself not to think of Orbrin—she pushed his kindly face out of her mind. “Tell me your will.”

“First.” Lan’s smile curled triumphantly. “First, prove that you are mine. Kneel before your king and pay him obeisance.”

Ovelia hesitated. She, who had bowed to no man but the Winter King. She, whose honor was rubble and whose heart was stone. After all the insults he had paid her—after what he had said of Semana—it was more than she could endure. But did she not want this? Did she not
deserve
it?

Lan was smiling, oblivious. He pulled her into his chest and raised her eyes to meet his. “As you love that little Winter-slut,” he said. “Bow to your king.”

The words blew the years away like dust. She was once again young and desperate, defending Semana with her virtue and her life. Darkness stirred—the darkness that had been with her all her life.

Semana, Ovelia thought, and—fingers trembling—she sank to one knee. She bowed her head, and her necklace fell free of her chest and swayed where it hung from her neck.

Lan reached for the laces of his breeches.