Read Online Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) by Erik Scott de Bie - Free Book Online
Authors: Erik Scott de Bie
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considering, then looked to where Ovelia was securing one of Serris’s dresses around her muscular body.
She turned to face him and stood up straight to model the dress. “Well?” she asked awkwardly.
Regel considered. Dressed in women’s clothes she seemed softer. Serris’s things fit well enough, Regel thought, though the fabric stretched tight across Ovelia’s chest and at her hips. The Bloodbreaker had always had a robust build. “It serves,” he said.
“How flattering.” Ovelia made a face and looked away. “What of that wine?”
He drew a bowl of wine from the Cellar stores and—with his back to her so she couldn’t see—he poured a thimble’s volume of clear, odorless liquid from the green vial into the wine. She looked up when he turned back to her, and her expression turned shrewd when he held out the doctored bowl.
“I would hardly kill you tonight .” Regel offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Not before we even begin.”
Ovelia considered, then accepted the wine but lingered over it, her brow furrowed in thought.
“What is it?” Regel asked.
“It has been a long time,” Ovelia said. “That is all.”
She drained the bowl. As she did so, Regel’s back prickled, and he thought for a moment someone was watching at the windows of the Rat Cellar. He looked and saw no one.
Part of this task was already complete, then: a slow poison in the Bloodbreaker’s belly, which he could delay with regular doses of the antidote. There was comfort in knowing that his business with her would be done, however she betrayed him, as well as something like shame.
“Prepared?” Ovelia asked.
Regel nodded, and they left for the docks.
Three
A s the night wore on toward dawn, a cold mist rolled across Tar Vangr’s low-city docks, where less than half a dozen ships rocked uneasily in the chilly waters of the Dusk Sea. With conditions on the sea and land so cold and inhospitable, only the most daring and desperate captains dared venture north to do trade in the coldest season. Nestled between craggy, impassable ridges of icy rock and perpetual, shifting icy floes, the docks defied an invasion in the best of seasons, and avalanches had been known to seal it off during the nearly constant winter. Spending too much time in Tar Vangr was never a good choice for any captain, as green-tinged mist crept up from the cloudy waters in any season, discoloring sails and enfusing wooden hulls with a persistent stench worse than that of salt or rotting fish.
Regel and Ovelia paused at the edge of the docks beneath the shadow of the Cathedral of Amanul. A relic of the long-dead Calatan Empire, the mighty building towered up to high-city and beyond. No ritual had passed there since the coronation of King Demetrus Ravalis, whose reign had proved anything but godly. Now the Cathedral served as a communal home for the impoverished, tended by weary priests. The Winter God Amanul was dead or gone, and his church had lost its majesty.
“Much and many have been lost,” Ovelia said at his side.
“All things pass to Ruin,” Regel finished.
He realized that Ovelia had not spoken of the temple, but was instead gazing at a building on the north side of the street: a marking hall called Nefeti’s Art of the Flesh. The crest bore a sigil of a fearsome crimson phoenix painted on an upright palm. Located in low-city, Nefeti’s was not a particularly prestigious or wealthy establishment, and it looked like it did little business these days. Highborn Vangryur often employed master flesh artists to come straight to their holdfasts, and in these latter years smallfolk rarely earned names and marks, much less could they afford to pay real artists. Things had not always been thus. Once, when mystic arts had shaped the mage-cities, even smallfolk had worn the images of beasts that could come to life at command or even spring forth from their wearer’s bodies.
“Did I ever tell you the story of my dragon?” Ovelia
She turned to face him and stood up straight to model the dress. “Well?” she asked awkwardly.
Regel considered. Dressed in women’s clothes she seemed softer. Serris’s things fit well enough, Regel thought, though the fabric stretched tight across Ovelia’s chest and at her hips. The Bloodbreaker had always had a robust build. “It serves,” he said.
“How flattering.” Ovelia made a face and looked away. “What of that wine?”
He drew a bowl of wine from the Cellar stores and—with his back to her so she couldn’t see—he poured a thimble’s volume of clear, odorless liquid from the green vial into the wine. She looked up when he turned back to her, and her expression turned shrewd when he held out the doctored bowl.
“I would hardly kill you tonight .” Regel offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Not before we even begin.”
Ovelia considered, then accepted the wine but lingered over it, her brow furrowed in thought.
“What is it?” Regel asked.
“It has been a long time,” Ovelia said. “That is all.”
She drained the bowl. As she did so, Regel’s back prickled, and he thought for a moment someone was watching at the windows of the Rat Cellar. He looked and saw no one.
Part of this task was already complete, then: a slow poison in the Bloodbreaker’s belly, which he could delay with regular doses of the antidote. There was comfort in knowing that his business with her would be done, however she betrayed him, as well as something like shame.
“Prepared?” Ovelia asked.
Regel nodded, and they left for the docks.
Three
A s the night wore on toward dawn, a cold mist rolled across Tar Vangr’s low-city docks, where less than half a dozen ships rocked uneasily in the chilly waters of the Dusk Sea. With conditions on the sea and land so cold and inhospitable, only the most daring and desperate captains dared venture north to do trade in the coldest season. Nestled between craggy, impassable ridges of icy rock and perpetual, shifting icy floes, the docks defied an invasion in the best of seasons, and avalanches had been known to seal it off during the nearly constant winter. Spending too much time in Tar Vangr was never a good choice for any captain, as green-tinged mist crept up from the cloudy waters in any season, discoloring sails and enfusing wooden hulls with a persistent stench worse than that of salt or rotting fish.
Regel and Ovelia paused at the edge of the docks beneath the shadow of the Cathedral of Amanul. A relic of the long-dead Calatan Empire, the mighty building towered up to high-city and beyond. No ritual had passed there since the coronation of King Demetrus Ravalis, whose reign had proved anything but godly. Now the Cathedral served as a communal home for the impoverished, tended by weary priests. The Winter God Amanul was dead or gone, and his church had lost its majesty.
“Much and many have been lost,” Ovelia said at his side.
“All things pass to Ruin,” Regel finished.
He realized that Ovelia had not spoken of the temple, but was instead gazing at a building on the north side of the street: a marking hall called Nefeti’s Art of the Flesh. The crest bore a sigil of a fearsome crimson phoenix painted on an upright palm. Located in low-city, Nefeti’s was not a particularly prestigious or wealthy establishment, and it looked like it did little business these days. Highborn Vangryur often employed master flesh artists to come straight to their holdfasts, and in these latter years smallfolk rarely earned names and marks, much less could they afford to pay real artists. Things had not always been thus. Once, when mystic arts had shaped the mage-cities, even smallfolk had worn the images of beasts that could come to life at command or even spring forth from their wearer’s bodies.
“Did I ever tell you the story of my dragon?” Ovelia
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