Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (27 page)

“Angel Serris,” he said without looking. “I apologize for my rudeness before, when I failed to introduce myself. I am Tithian Davargorn, and as you can see, I go where I please.”

The girl beamed up at Serris, oblivious to the threat the slayer posed.

Serris heaved for breath that would hardly come. “This is my home,” she said. “What do you think you are doing here?”

“Playing a game,” Davargorn said. “I believe you’re familiar with the rules.”

Serris fought against the lump rising in her throat. “Child, be calm. Watch the cards.”

The child looked back to the cards and Serris glared at Davargorn. “This is my place,” she hissed at him. “
Mine
, understand? You have no right—”

“I have what rights I take.” Davargorn smiled at her. “Listen well, and I shall not need to take more than I already have.”

“Doesn’t matter what you say to him,” Serris said. “Doesn’t matter if it’s his child or not. There’s nothing to destroy between us.”

“You misunderstand the threat, I take it.” Davargorn looked pointedly at the girl and touched the hilt of a blade that lay on the bed. “This was never about him and you. This is about you and her.”

“You’d harm a
child?
” Serris reached for her steel. “Even a creature like you cannot be so vile.”

“Can I not?” Davargorn made a face and the girl giggled. “You’d be amazed how much hate one can brew in five years’ time.”

Purposefully, Serris drew her hand away from her weapon and closed it so tightly her fingers turned white. “I know what you asked of me. I won’t do it. I won’t betray him.”

“You’ve a choice?” Davargorn reached back idly and brushed a lock of black hair out of the girl’s eyes. The child didn’t seem to notice, so intent was she on the cards.

“Touch my child again, and it’ll be the last thing you ever touch. I swear by my death and yours.”

The child looked up at the vehement death curse, and Serris did her best to reassure her daughter silently. She spoke with her eyes and her heart, hoping the child would understand.

“I believe you, Angel Serris. Truly, I do.” Davargorn shook his head. “Amazing, the depth of loyalty you have for a man who has spurned you in every way. He left you for years to fend for yourself, and no sooner does he return to the city than he leaves again, in the presence of the great Bloodbreaker, whose word he trusts better than your own.”

“The Lord of Tears is his own man,” Serris said. “His choices are not my concern.”

“Is it also not your concern when he takes the Bloodbreaker to his bed?” Davargorn grinned. “Oh, how he ruts her, over and over, until she weeps for pleasure. I have seen. I have listened.”

Serris’s neck prickled, but she waved it away. “His choice where he sheathes his blade,” she said. “You won’t goad me with jealousy.”

“I pity you, loyal squire,” Davargorn said. “I was like you once: loyal to the death, at least until my master betrayed me.”

“It sounds like we are not alike then.” Serris drew up to her full height. “My loyalty will not waver, whatever you say.”

That stole his mirth, and he glared at her dangerously. They stared at one another for a long time, fighting without drawn blades.

Finally, Davargorn smiled again. “A time is coming, Scarred One, when your loyalty will be tested,” he said. “The Ravalis plan to slay your master, and he will walk willingly into their blades. His honor demands no less. Will you shield him then, I wonder?”

“Get out.”

“As my beautiful lady bids,” he said. “An invitation is coming soon, one you must accept. Watch for the smiling face that hides a monster. You will know your course then.”

“I won’t say it again.”

Davargorn rose from the bed, leaving the card game unfinished. The girl made a cry of displeasure, and Davargorn leaned down to kiss her on the brow. “I have an appointment to keep, child.” He glanced at Serris. “Your mother will finish the game.”

Before he left the room, Davargorn put a hand up to her face. Serris flinched away.

“Ever a pleasure,” he said.

He brushed past her out the door.

* * *

Far up in high-city, the necromancer of Blood Ravalis gazed out over the snowy city through the frost-streaked window of his personal chambers. A faint smile played about his lips, as though he could almost taste the bloodletting to come.

Vhaerynn should have been worried. The agents he’d sent after the Dracaris woman hadn’t returned, and now that fool Garin Ravalis testified Regel was back in the city but he could find no trace of the Bloodbreaker. The Ruin’s Night to come rested on a fragile fate.

Things were not proceeding as he had planned, but Vhaerynn had not lost a moment’s peace. He sat unconcerned in his privy chambers, passing his ornate gold dagger from hand to hand, remembering a particularly fine meal he’d once had. As the years passed, his mind often drifted to those fine experiences: the terror, the useless pleading, the sweet consumation as he ripped another life into himself.

A knock at the outer door of his sitting chamber disturbed the Court Necromancer. The taste of blood turned to bitter gall in his mouth as one of his better stolen memories collapsed, leaving him abruptly sitting alone and cold in his chamber. Not alone, he realized. He had not known true solitude in many years, since he had first wielded the blade of Aza the Red King. When he touched the dagger, he suddenly had a thousand companions—a thousand times a thousand—all of them wailing for mercy, release, or simple oblivion. It had become the greatest pleasure of his life to deny them those things.

There was another in the room, of course, who probably thought himself hidden.

“How amusing.” Vhaerynn sent out a silent call, speaking from blood to blood. There was power in the blood, and it was the necromancer’s to command. “My old friend has betrayed you.”

Summoned by the singing blood in his veins, Davargorn emerged from where Vhaerynn had felt him lurking. “How did you know?”

The necromancer smiled. He’d tasted the ugly boy’s blood only a moon ago, and he would never forget that particular coppery tang—anger fueled of regret—tinged with just a hint of rotten self-loathing.

“I see you’ve no mask any longer,” Vhaerynn said. “Has your master cast you out?”

Davargorn said nothing. There was a blade in his hand but Vhaerynn paid it no mind.

“No matter. Dealing with Mask has ever been fraught with peril, and it is good to see that you have survived.” The necromancer arranged his robe and rose, his old joints cracking. He’d not fed in some time. The blade of the Aza hungered, and it was the same hunger he felt in the pit of his black soul. “And yet you return. Perhaps you have an offer to make me?”

The boy set his visage into stony indifference, but Vhaerynn could hear the blood singing angrily in his veins. “What if I could deliver up the Lord of Tears and the Bloodbreaker?”

Vhaerynn inhaled deeply of the boy’s rage. The smell was sweet. “Vengeance, is it?”

“That is not your business.” Davargorn drew his sword. “Answer my question.”

“That will not avail you over much.” Vhaerynn raised a hand, and the boy’s sword froze where he held it. The boy strained, but his arm wouldn’t move—at least, not of his will. The magic of the Red King could not be denied.

“I... don’t...” Davargorn struggled vainly, but the sword laid itself across his throat.

“Slaying you in this moment would be simplicity itself, but your offer intrigues me,” Vhaerynn said. “Only know that if this is a trick, I will take great pleasure in feeding on you.”

Vhaerynn crossed to the young man and drew the golden sacrificial knife from the folds of his robes. What a wonderful relic this was: not only might it steal a life’s energy, but it could store it. Like a larder filled with screams and pain. When he had first touched the blade, he had sensed countless terrified lives inside, all with their own memories and experiences, all waiting to feed him. The stronger the life, the greater the nourishment. Davargorn’s life would prove a thin, bitter morsel, but Vhaerynn
had
been feeling peckish.

He slashed the knife across Davargorn’s cheek and blood welled. Vhaerynn turned away, admiring the blood on the blade, watching it awaken the dagger’s magic. With casual ease, he flicked it down at his feet, where it spattered the floorboards.

“Is that—” Davargorn’s words trailed off into a grunt of pain. His flesh withered away from the wound, turning to gray flecks. The golden blade of the Aza did its work, and Vhaerynn could feel the slayer’s life flowing into him like a river of hopes, fears, and memories.

Then the river diminished to a trickle, then cut off entirely. Vhaerynn watched, intrigued, as Davargorn’s cheek drew itself back together. The gray flesh pulsed and flaked off, leaving smooth pink skin beneath. It was as he had suspected. Magic that would have reduced another man to dust within heartbeats had left little more than a crease on Davargorn’s face. Delicious.

“Is that—is that meant to scare me?” The slayer felt at his cheek. “I have magic of my own.”

“Oh, I know.”

The blood on the floor moved of its own accord, pooling and congealing into a spongy black mass. This mass redoubled, growing and swelling until it took the vague shape of an arm, whose fingers curled in agonized pleading. The hand clutched at Davargorn’s ankle.

“Now, now, there’s naught to fear,” Vhaerynn said. “Watch.”

Before their eyes, the arm found purchase on the floorboards and wrenched a bloody body out into the room. The vague human shape rose up, then fell writhing to the floor, and the blood congealed into bone, flesh, and skin. Within breaths, a woman lay before them, moaning and crying in obvious pain: the Tear agent from low-city he had previously given to the blade.

“Burn me,” Davargorn cursed. “What have you—?”

Vhaerynn knelt by the woman and ran his fingers down her cheek. She looked up at him, begging with eyes long devoid of anything like sanity.

Then he rammed his dagger through her heart. She jerked around the blade, sobbing soundlessly, and collapsed to the floor.

“Passable trick,” Davargorn said. “What does that prove?”

“Nothing.” Vhaerynn set down the bloody dagger. “This, however—”

He passed his hand over the dead woman, and her body dissolved into crimson radiance that flowed up into his hand. As it touched his skin, he felt the pain of old joints ease—felt new life flow through him. When he looked back up at Davargorn, it was with eyes alight with life.

“I have not taken regular food or drink for some years,” Vhaerynn said. “I am limited, alas, in the number of prisoners in the palace dungeons or low-city rabble who can go missing at any given time. You, however—” He touched the tip of the knife to Davargorn’s restored face. “With your magic, I could feed from you for some time. And now that my knife knows your blood”—he raised the blade up for Davargorn to see the smeared edge—“you will find no place in the World of Ruin you can hide from me.”

To his credit, Davargorn did not show fear. “Do we have a bargain,” he said, “or not?”

Vhaerynn almost liked the lad. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, we do.”

He sent out another call, blood-to-blood. This other man was close by—coming this way, in fact. Perfect. An inner door of his chambers opened, revealing a powerfully built man with blazing crimson hair and deep tanned skin. He wore the red and black of the ruling house, and he looked tired of the long wait. Crown Prince Lan Ravalis was not a man accustomed to waiting.

“Well, necromancer?” Lan asked. “You said Dracaris was returning today. Where do I find the treacherous whore?”

“This one does, in fact.” Vhaerynn gestured to Davargorn. “No doubt you two have much to discuss.”

The necromancer smiled. This would be a fine Ruin’s Night after all.

Nineteen

T
hree hours after Regel
and the others arrived, Serris watched the sun set. It was the night before the eve of the New Year, Ruin’s Night. As the light began to fade, an iron-clad heavy ornithopter set down in the street outside the Burned Man and Ravalis troops poured out in force. Prince Lan had come himself, and brought twelve Dustblades in their distinctive gray cloaks, and fully a score of castermen in steel hauberks and helms. The Crown Prince of Summer had come prepared for war.

“And here I thought they’d never come,” Erim murmured, checking his steel.

At Serris’s side, Regel nodded. “Doubt, but do not disbelieve. Eh, Squire?”

Serris didn’t feel like jesting with either of them. In truth, she had expected the Ravalis earlier, shortly after she saw Davargorn again. They hadn’t come, and she’d spent the last hour shaking with anxiety. The visit had set her on edge, and she didn’t feel safe even surrounded by her fellow Tears. She wore her dagger openly, and she longed to draw it. She preferred solving problems with steel flashing in her hand, rather than worries roiling over in her mind.

Lan strode up to Regel and glared at him, like a bear staring down a wolf. Lan wore a calm face, but there was an anxious excitement about his powerful build and the way his hands kept moving. He was looking forward to this. “By order of my father, King Demetrus Ravalis, we’ve come to search for traitors to the crown of Tar Vangr.”

“You’ll find none such here, search as you might,” Regel said.

Serris appreciated the irony of a son of the usurper searching for “traitors” to Tar Vangr in this place where loyalty to lost King Denerre steered their course. All agents of the Circle of Tears were patriots to the Winter King, which made them traitors to the Summer King.

For her part, Serris wanted to cut Lan’s smarmy smile from his face, but she followed Regel’s lead. “Speak if you desire anything, Highness.” She forced a sultry smile. “
Anything
.”

The familiar words—the very phrase Kiereth had offered him that awkward night at the keep of Blood Yaela—set Lan off balance. The prince looked at her warily, his anxiety turned in a new direction. Serris almost couldn’t contain her delight: if she could unseat the man from his comfortable saddle, then she considered that a victory.

“Out of my way, whore,” he said finally, and shoved past her into the Burned Man.

“What passed there?” Regel looked suspicious.

“No idea,” Serris said. “Contemplating my scar, perhaps.”

While the soldiers scoured the rooms, rooting through wardrobes and storage lockers, arguing with Tears and patrons alike, Serris sat with Regel and Erim at the center table. The lad veritably shook with the tension, but at a smooth word from Regel, he relaxed. The Lord of Tears himself looked very much at ease: he took out a piece of rose-colored stone and started carving with a small, sharp knife. Serris found his calm irritating.

“What is the meaning of this?” Kiereth Yaela marched over to Lan, his face bright red.

Unfairly, Serris thought his reaction had less to do with genuine outrage than escaping the company of a pair of the Burned Man’s most handsome lads at a nearby table. The Heir of Yaela was usually free with his favors and desires, but Serris understood Kiereth’s discretion after his disastrous seduction attempt on the Ravalis Prince.

Lan’s eyes narrowed on Kiereth. “Leave, Lord Yaela.”

“Your Highness,” Kiereth said. “Surely—”

“Leave.” Lan put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The Heir of Yaela’s face paled, and he stepped cautiously away. “The Council will have a say in this,” he said as he headed for the door of the tavern. “There will be consequences.”

“Tell yourself what you want.” Lan scoffed at him, then turned to survey the dusters swarming around the Burned Man. Dust magic crackled along his gold-inlaid breastplate, and his eyes dared anyone to challenge him. The Tears knew well not to give him a reason to turn the tense confrontation into a battle, though Serris was sorely tempted.

Serris saw Regel staring at her, and she looked away lest he read her face. “What passes?”

She shook her head.

Regel put his hand over hers. “I need you.”

Her heart eased a touch. “Since when?”

The banter reassured her. Over the last hours, Regel had told her of his mad scheme to slay the Usurper King, and she had agreed to aid him. If it hadn’t been for Davargorn’s visit, in all likelihood she would have assured Regel he was insane. It was true, of course, but the slayer’s warning about monsters and smiling faces would not stop echoing in her head. She would stay as close to her master as she could, so she would be there to protect him when he needed her.

As the Dusters overthrew tables and peered behind curtains, a second man pushed across the common hall. He had the coloration of the summerborn and bore a faint resemblance to Lan, but no one seemed to recognize him. Murmurs died as he approached and only resumed in his wake. He caught Serris’s attention with his green eyes and soft gray stubble peppering his chin and throat. Fine clothes complimented his fit body, and he wore about him a patient assurance that the Crown Prince definitely lacked. Rather than a sword, he wore a warpick at his belt. Serris found his features easy to look upon, and the instant he saw her, he smiled with genuine delight.

“My lady!” He bowed to her, ignoring her master at her side. “How dare we prove such ungracious guests. You host us beneath your roof, and my cousin does you no honor at all.”

Serris rose to receive him. “And you are, m’lord?”

“Garin Ravalis, my beauteous Lady of Winter.” He took her hand to kiss it. “Lately the Fox of Luether. And you?”

“Serris,” she said, “of no great Blood or name.”

“Ah, you are named for an angel of old. Your parents must have seen a great destiny for you.”

Serris had to smile. “I chose the name myself, m’lord.”

“Then you are doubly deserving,” he said. “I have heard that the Blood of Winter choose only names they have earned. Is this not so, Lord of Tears?” He bowed deeply to Regel. “I am honored to be in the presence of such a legend.”

“Likewise.” Regel sounded sincere.

Recognition passed between the men. Serris wondered where they had met—on one of Regel’s wanderings, perhaps—and even more so, she wondered why her master would even tolerate a Ravalis, much less consider one worthy of respect? The man was handsome and his tongue prettier still, but long experience taught her such affectations often hid sharp blades indeed.

As though drawn by her thoughts, Lan meandered over to their table and sat with a wary expression that said he was just as curious to see his cousin sitting with Regel. There was nothing subtle or hidden about Lan Ravalis: he was all cruelty, from face to hands to iron-shod boots. “So what will it be, Oathbreaker?” he asked. “When we find your traitorous little whore, will you submit to the king’s justice, or will you take your own life in shame? I’m told you winterborn have a fondness for that.”

“Your Highness.” Regel inclined his head a touch. While he would show respect, he bowed to no one in his tavern. “Will you share bread and mead with us?”

“You think being a good host will save you?” Lan asked.

“The ancient forms should be respected,” Garin said.

Regel beckoned one of the Tears forward with a bowl of mead. Lircia stepped forward, and Serris thought her a good choice for this task. Her mixed features of Summer and Winter might appeal to Lan: red hair, copper-burnished skin, and dark eyes. She averted her eyes, seeming every bit the demure serving lass, though from the hard set of her jaw, she disdained the prince’s ogling eyes. Serris knew what Lan truly desired, of course, but to suggest it to Regel now would be to spark a battle.

“This is what you offer, Lord of Tears?” Lan slapped the mead aside, caught Lircia’s arm, and pulled her to him. The woman shut her eyes as he drew down her gown to expose one milky breast. “Your awful mead, your hard bread, or this mongrel girl?”

“My hospitality includes all three, as you wish,” Regel said. “I offer you the protection of the Old Gods. Eat my food, drink my wine, love my servants, and be safe, by the Narfire that warms us all. If, however, you do not...” He let the threat hang.

“I need no superstitious nonsense to ward me.” Lan shoved Lircia away. “And neither do I care for the laws of your Council and its sallow fools. You saw how I dispensed with Yaela.”

Serris scowled. It was not a surprise the prince rebuked the Council’s law: while most of the summerblood politely danced the dance of politics with the Council, Lan remained its most outspoken foe. But to spit in the face of the traditions of Tar Vangr? Under a pretext of adjusting her skirt, she drew her dagger and pressed it against her inner forearm. Just to make ready, she told herself.

“Perhaps you’ve naught but contempt for the law of hospitality, but such it is,” Regel said. “Would you break it, and see the outcome?”

“You think your rabble can match my Dustblades?” Lan reached for his sword.

The common room fell deathly quiet. The Circle of Tears tensed.

Regel rose smoothly. “I will not say which of you will die in the first strike, Highness,” he said. “But I expect if your hand touches steel, my lined face will be the last you ever see.”

“A threat, is it?” Lan raised an open hand. His swordsmen—their faces waffling between nervousness and offense—readied themselves to draw. For his part, Lan looked not at all worried. “Shed my blood. See what happens. I promise death will come for you swiftly, and not from my own men.”

“By your leave then, Prince,” Regel said.

The silence filled with cold, restrained breath and the creak of leather.

Inwardly, Serris swore that she would be the one to kill Lan if it came to blood. He was distracted looking at Regel, and that gave her an opening. If Serris struck quickly—before he even declared the battle begun—Lan would be dead before his bodyguards could move. She could rise and slash out his throat in a single fluid motion, much as Regel had done to Paeter so many years ago.

Then Serris realized Garin was staring at her, his green eyes sparkling with warning.

“I for one,” the Fox of Luether said, “would love some mead.”

Garin reached over, took Lan’s bowl of mead, and drained it. Also, he bit into the sweet black bread that waited on the table. Relief passed through the common hall and blades eased in their scabbards. Once bread had been broken and drink shared, the customs of Calatan held sway, and those ran deeper than Vangr law—deeper than blood.

Lan slumped in his chair with a disappointed sigh. “Silver Fire burn the young and sensible, eh Oathbreaker?”

Regel inclined his head. “Old Gods bless those who wield reason as well as the blade.”

“Fine, then.” Lan scowled. “Wine, then.” He nodded to Garin. “My cousin is arrived today of Fallen Luether, here to pass Ruin’s Night with his kin. He is a stranger to our enmity.”

“What a blessing,” Regel said. “I have heard of your bravery, Prince Garin. A Ravalis heir who lingers in Luether, despite the proscription of the Children of Ruin, is a prince worthy of my respect.”

Garin nodded in return. “My thanks for the kind words, my lord.”

“Not really a lord,” Lan said. “The Oathbreaker here is simply a castoff from a dead king.”

Serris drew in a wary breath. It was an open secret that the Circle of Tears had little love for the Ravalis, but an open accusation of sedition was another matter entirely. These words were dangerous.

Garin, however, smiled. “It seems we have in common a passion for old causes,” he said. “For some of us, honoring the old ways is how we live in the world that awaits us. We simply try to live.”

Regel nodded. “Well said.”

Those words seemed to diffuse the tension, at least for the moment. Lan looked furious.

Serris appraised Garin with new interest. What was the man’s game?

“This gathering is a bit dour for me.” Garin pushed back from the table. “Perhaps I’ll leave you gentles to your threats and find entertainment elsewhere.” He drapped his arm around Lircia and headed up the stairs, heedless of the Ravalis soldiers guarding the steps.

Serris felt Regel touch her wrist under the table, and he glanced toward the stairs: a silent command to follow Garin. Any other time, she might have been happy to do so, but just at the moment she couldn’t shake her persistent disquiet with her master. She gave Lan one last challenging look, but he focused on his food, ignoring her. Going after Garin suddenly seemed much more appealing than remaining here in the common room.

“My lords.” She rose and nodded to them. Lan regarded her with a knowing smirk she would have gladly cut away. Regel did not look at her at all, and that cut deeply.

She took her leave.

* * *

Upstairs, Serris heard Garin’s deep voice and not one but two sets of feminine giggles at his jest. The man worked remarkably fast, to have picked up two of the Tears in the five-count he had before Serris arrived. She sighed.

She followed the laughing voices to the Crimson Destiny room, so named for the silks that hung from the rafters. In this chamber, a celebrant might lead a patron teasingly through, or allow him or her to become lost in the crimson sea, but eventually they would meet at the center bed where the true delights began. No time for that nonsense now: Serris brushed the silks aside and made her way straight for Garin and the two women he’d lured along to attend him. Lircia, Serris had seen him recruit, but somehow he’d drawn along Nacacia as well. The two women were not rutting him, though, but rather lounging with him and laughing at the amusing jests he told. The women pulled away respectfully when Serris appeared.

“Alas, my winterborn beauties!” Garin held aloft an open wine bottle. “Turned cold already?” Then he saw Serris, and his smile only widened. “The mistress of the house, herself.”

“Leave us,” Serris said. Lircia walked straight out, eyes on her toes, while Nacacia favored Serris with a sly smile. When they were gone, Serris crossed her arms. “Breeches still intact. Those two not to your liking, or do your tastes run elsewhere, Lord of Ravalis?”