The Winter King (10 page)

How she was going to stand before a priest for a lengthy wedding ceremony was another matter altogether.

The White King, like her father, did not strike her as a man who brooked delays, but just traversing the small distance from bed to bathroom left her breathless, weak, and dizzy. Even if King Verdan had her carried into the church, how could she stand before the altar under her own power to recite her vows?

Curious, testing herself to see how much she could bear, Khamsin straightened her back and released her hold on the furniture.

She stood there, swaying slightly, counting each second as it passed.

The door opened, Tildy’s voice cried out, “Dearly!”

Forgetting herself, Kham instinctively turned towards her nurse. Pain shot down her back. Muscles seized, and her knees buckled. She cried out and grabbed hold of the furniture, barely managing to stop herself from collapsing to the ground.

“What are you doing? You’re in no condition to be up and walking around.” Tildy rushed to Khamsin’s side and nudged a supporting shoulder under her arm. “Here. Hold on to me. I’ll help you back to bed.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to get up,” Kham protested, but she didn’t have the strength to struggle as Tildy herded back towards the waiting bed. “The wedding’s only a few hours away.” Now that she understood the full extent of her father’s loathing, she was ready to have the marriage over and done with. Whatever Wintercraig held in store, it couldn’t be worse than what her father would do to her if she stayed here.

“Autumn will stand as your proxy,” her nurse soothed. “The wedding will take place without you. You need to rest and concentrate on healing.” She pushed aside the heavy drapes she’d hung to prevent her herb-infused healing steam from dissipating, and ushered Kham towards the waiting, lamplit mattress. “Come lie back down, dearly. I’ll fix a posset for the pain and freshen the ointment on your back and the herbs in the kettle. Hedgewick can bring up a few more lamps from the cellar.”

Khamsin’s hand shot out, closing round the bedpost. “No, Tildy.”

“Shh, all right, dearly,” the nursemaid soothed. “No more lamps. It’s already bright and warm as a summer morning anyways.”

“No,” Kham said again. “I’m not talking about the lamps. I’m talking about the wedding. I will say my vows, not Autumn.”

“Out of the question! You can hardly stand!”

“He hasn’t broken me, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he has,” she rasped. She didn’t have to say who “he” was. “I made this choice.
I
will see it through, not Autumn.” Her legs were shaking, the muscles in her legs weak. She clutched the bedpost tighter.

“Khamsin . . .”

“You cannot dissuade me, Tildy. I’ve had the last three days to think about this.” She lifted her chin and called upon every ounce of haughty Coruscate pride to keep her standing. “For the first time since my mother’s death, he’s going to have to admit—in public and before the court—that I, Khamsin Coruscate, am a princess of Summerlea. How could you possibly imagine I would let one of my sisters stand in my place when that happens?”

Tildy bit her lip, and her brow wrinkled with concern. “Khamsin, listen to me. You don’t understand. As far as Wynter Atrialan knows, Summerlea only has three princesses. He only knows their giftnames, and we can’t run the risk of having him discover that the Khamsin Coruscate he agreed to wed is not Spring, Summer, or Autumn.”

Khamsin’s brows drew together. “Why would he care? A princess is a princess.”

“Not to your father, and not to him. He knows how much your father loves your sisters. He wants to strike a blow to Verdan’s heart by taking one of the Seasons to wife. If he discovers the deception before the marriage is consummated, he can simply annul the ceremony and marry one of your sisters instead. Your father doesn’t want that to happen, and neither do I. This is your chance to get out of Summerlea. Sooner or later, your father will find a way to kill you if you stay. I’ve no doubt of that now. Wintercraig is the safest place for you—at least until your brother returns to us.”

“Falcon isn’t coming back. If Summerlea hadn’t lost the war, he might one day have returned, but now? It would be a death sentence.”

“Perhaps not. Your brother didn’t just steal the Winter King’s bride when he fled Gildenheim. He also took an ancient treasure called the Book of Riddles—a book he believed would lead him to the secret hiding place of Roland’s sword. He’s been searching for the sword ever since.”

Khamsin’s jaw dropped. “Blazing? Falcon’s searching for Blazing?” She shook her head, remembering that day in the Sky Garden so long ago, when she’d suggested he search for Blazing. Remembering Falcon’s stumble, which she’d attributed to an uneven paving stone rather than a guilty conscience. Remembering how he’d scoffed at the idea as a child’s fairy tale. And all the while, searching for the sword had been his intent. The pieces clicked into place like the sliding parts of a puzzle box. “That’s why Father sent him.” Not to train Falcon how to negotiate a treaty, and not to charm the Winterfolk into better concessions, but to charm someone—probably Wynter’s bride—into helping him steal the Book of Riddles.

Kham swallowed hard, astonished that she’d never figured it out before. Like everyone else, when told the story of Falcon’s falling in love and eloping with the Winter King’s bride, she’d accepted it without question.

“Even if that’s true, Tildy, how could you possibly know it?”

“Given the right herbs, a man will tell you any and everything he knows.” Tildy raised her brows pointedly. “And from the latest I could glean, your brother is very close to finding the sword. Once he does, your safety is guaranteed. With Blazing in his possession, he’ll be strong enough to win back the freedom of Summerlea and claim the throne for himself, as he will surely do once he realizes the crime Verdan has committed against his own House.”

“And if Falcon doesn’t find the sword?”

“You’ll still be Queen of the Craig and safe from your father’s machinations. Which is why it’s imperative this wedding to take place, and in order for that to happen, the Winter King must believe he’s wedding a Season.”

“Even if I veil my face and pretend to be one of my sisters, what’s to stop the White King from killing me the moment he discovers the truth?” Khamsin pointed out. “I’ve met him. I’ve felt his power. He doesn’t strike me as the forgiving sort.”

“He demanded one of Verdan’s daughters to wife. He’ll get one. He may be angry when he discovers you’re not the Season he was expecting; but once the marriage is consummated, his own honor will keep him to the terms of his agreement. Ultimately, it’s an heir he’s after, one capable of ascending both the Summer and Winter Thrones.”

“How can you know that, Tildy? And don’t tell me he talks under the influence of herbs, too. You’ve never even met the man.”

A strange look crossed Tildy’s face. A flash of regret, a hint of shame, followed directly by grim determination.

Khamsin’s knees gave out, and not even pride could keep her standing. She collapsed to the bed, realization dawning. Shock made the muscles of her face go lax. “But you have met him, haven’t you, Tildy.” Dismay, accusation, horror: All crept into her voice. “You’re the traitor who’s been feeding him information.”

Tildy’s jaw clenched, and her chin thrust out. “I’m no traitor. I’m a loyal servant of Queen Rosalind. I swore on her deathbed that I would do everything in my power to ensure your well-being, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“By betraying my family to our enemy?”

Tildy held out her hands. “Dearly—”

“Don’t call me that!” Khamsin cried, flinching away from those treacherous, once-loved hands. “How long have you been spying for him?”

The nurse heaved a great sigh. “Six months.”

Khamsin’s shoulders slumped. Six months. Since before the last two fierce battles that had sealed Summerlea’s fate. “Did you help him destroy my father’s armies?”

“Of course not! Summerlea’s defeat was already certain. I simply helped him understand he could achieve the victory he wanted without razing Vera Sola to the ground.”

“You’re the one who told him about Falcon’s room. You encouraged him to demand the bower.” The pieces all fell into place. “You wanted me to go up there and retrieve mother’s things. You were hoping I would run into him.”

“I had to know if you and he would suit. I would never have let you wed him otherwise. The results have been promising. He hasn’t stopped asking about you, and his steward has queried half the palace about the maid with the white-streaked hair.”

A chill shivered across Khamsin’s skin. Fear, partly, but partly something else. Something that left behind heat, not cold.

Immediately on the heels of that shiver came a new realization that made the blood drain from her face.

“
You’re
the one who convinced King Verdan that I should be the Winter King’s bride. You’re the reason he took me into the mountain and beat me until I agreed to this marriage.” She pressed the heel of her palm against her chest, trying to stop the painful ache of her heart. “Why?” Her lips trembled. “Am I really such a monster? All these years, I thought you loved me. Has that all been a lie?”

“How can you even suggest that?” Tildy cried. “Everything I’ve done I’ve done for love of you and your mother.”

“For love, you sent him to beat me into submission?”

“I told you, I had no idea that your father would dare brutalize you the way he did. Until then, I hadn’t realized how truly mad he has become. But his behavior only assures me that I did the right thing in encouraging this marriage.” Tildy reached for Khamsin’s hands, but when Kham flinched away, the nurse drew a breath and bowed her head. “One day, dearly, you’ll see this was the only way I could protect you. If you were to remain here, in Summerlea, Verdan would find a way to kill you. I’m certain of it.”

Khamsin crossed her arms. “And you think my fate will be any different with the Winter King?” The memory of his touch, his voice, made her shiver.

“Wynter Atrialan wants heirs. Once you wed him, you’ll be safe from your father’s wrath, and once you provide him with his heirs, your position as his queen will be secure. If your brother returns with Roland’s sword, you and your children will be safe. If he doesn’t, your children—Rosalind’s grandchildren—will inherit both Summerlea and Wintercraig. It’s the best future I could have hoped to give you, dearly. All you need to do is let Autumn stand as your proxy, then you consummate the marriage before he discovers the truth.”

The idea that Falcon might truly be the long-awaited Heir of Roland who would return the legendary sword, Blazing, to Summerlea seemed such a fantasy, she didn’t spare it a thought. But the other . . . how Verdan would howl to see Khamsin’s child on the throne of Summerlea. How he would rage and storm about. That thought alone was almost enough to convince her.

Even without that satisfaction, she had to admit that Tildy was right. If Khamsin didn’t get out now, her father would find some other way to rid himself of her. The gods and her own good fortune had kept her alive until now, but she couldn’t count on such graces forever.

She clutched the silk robe closer about her neck and winced as the fabric pulled the tender wounds on her back. “Very well,” she agreed. “I’ll wed the Winter King, but not by proxy. Veil me as heavily as you must to hide my identity, but either I stand to speak my vows, or they will not be spoken.”

“You’re too weak, and you’re in too much pain,” Tildy protested. “I can see it on your face. You can’t possibly make it through the ceremony and the wedding feast.”

Khamsin smiled grimly. “I wasn’t asking for your permission, Nurse Greenleaf. I was explaining the conditions of my cooperation. The only thing I require from you is your herbalist skills to mix up a fresh ointment for my back. You will find a way to block the worst of the pain, and I’ll find a way to make it through this farce.”

C
HAPTER 5

A Draught of Wanton Appetence

Wynter stood at the chapel altar, his temper increasing by the moment. The wedding should have begun thirty minutes ago, but the bride had yet to make her appearance.

“Think she’s got cold feet?” Valik murmured under his breath.

“She’s about to get a lot more than that,” he muttered back. The temperature in the chapel had begun to drop, proof of his blossoming ire. The Winter King would not kindly suffer humiliation at Summerlea hands.

But just as Wynter prepared to summon his power and send this city plunging into ice, a commotion arose at the far end of the chapel.

Garbed in deep sapphire velvet, the same stunning shade of blue as the waters of Lake Ibree in the heart of the Craig, Wynter’s bride had arrived. Verdan stood before her, looking like he’d swallowed something vile, while she stood in the chapel doorway, Spring and Summer at each elbow. Autumn, then, was to be his queen.

If not for the simple process of elimination and his own memorable sense of smell, he would not have known it. She was so heavily veiled that even when she stepped up to take her place beside him, he couldn’t make out the shadow of her features behind the layers of concealing silk. But her scent was familiar . . . perhaps even a little overpowering. She’d not applied her perfume quite so liberally the day she and her sisters had joined him for a meal.

Suspicious, he frowned and drew her scent deeper into his lungs, examining. No, she smelled of Autumn, even beneath the perfume, but there was something else mixed in. He couldn’t make it out. It was masked by the strong smell of herbs: wintergreen, poppy, a few others he didn’t recognize. Was she so unwilling that she’d had to drink a cup of strong courage before entering the chapel?

He reached for her outer veil, and Verdan all but leapt between them.

“Remember your promise, sir!” he hissed. “Do not shame her before the court!”

Ten minutes before the wedding had been scheduled to start, Verdan had come to the groom’s dressing room to speak with Wynter. The princess had been weeping over the prospect of leaving her home and family, he said, and she didn’t want to shame herself by letting the court see her blotchy and red-eyed from tears. Wynter had agreed to leave her veil intact.

Now, he shriveled his bride’s father with an icy glance. When Verdan stepped back, Wynter bent close to her ear, and whispered, “Willingly or not, Autumn, you have consented to be my wife. I will have what I want from you, but this marriage doesn’t have to be a battle, unless you make it so. Remember that.” He ran a finger down the side of the silken veils, finding her jaw and caressing it gently.

She trembled. The little puffs of her breath made the silken veils flutter, and the tiny beads on her gown winked and shimmered as her body shook with fine tremors. “I understand,” she answered in a voice so low it was practically inaudible.

“Good.” He turned to face the priest and nodded.

The wedding ceremony began.

Khamsin stood trembling as the seconds crawled by with excruciating slowness.

For a moment there, at the beginning of the ceremony, she’d thought the Winter King would unmask her, but he had not. Thanks, she supposed, to Tildy.

“Wear Autumn’s dress and perfume,” she had advised. She’d tapped the edge of her nose. “The Snow Wolf clan sees with more than just their eyes.”

Khamsin had passed the two first hurdles of the night: fooling the Winter King and keeping her veils intact. Now she turned all her focused energies on making it through the ceremony without collapsing.

Her lower back burned like fire, each bruised and torn muscle protesting even so simple an activity as standing. Perspiration gathered at her neck and along her spine, trickling down her back beneath the hot velvets, stinging the salved and bandaged wounds. Despite doubling the strength of her salve, Tildavera had not been able to block the pain entirely, and in a fit of spite intended to wound Tildy as she was wounded, Khamsin had declared her refusal to drink any draught mixed by a traitor’s hand.

She was regretting that prideful urge now. The throbbing ache from her wounds brought tears swimming to her eyes. She dare not lock her knees for fear of losing consciousness, but finally, in desperation, she reached out to grasp the altar railing and leaned heavily against it.

Beside her the White King—only minutes away from being her husband—took a step closer. “You are ill?”

She shook her head and pushed herself back to her feet before he could take hold of her arm. “Dizzy,” she muttered. “I haven’t eaten.”

To her surprise, the Winter King gave the priest an unmistakable gesture to hurry up. She regarded him in confusion, grateful for the protection of her veils that kept him from seeing her expression. Wasn’t he the cold, harsh enemy of her family? Wasn’t he the anathema of all she loved? And yet, he’d offered her peace between them—even if that offer had carried the distinct feel of a warning—and now he showed this . . . courtesy.

“Who gives this woman and by what grant?” the priest finally asked, bringing the nuptial ceremony towards its close.

Behind her, King Verdan—she would never call him Father again, not even in her own thoughts—rose to his feet. In a clear voice, he said, “I, Verdan Coruscate, King of Summerlea, give this woman, Her Royal Highness Angelica Mariposa Rosalind Khamsin Gianna Coruscate, a royal princess of Summerlea and an heir to the Summer Throne, by grant of patrimony.”

Despite the jab of pain that shot down her hips and the backs of her legs, Khamsin’s spine straightened. Her chin lifted. She’d been recognized, at last, before the court and her family as both princess and a rightful heir to the Summer Throne.

Well, that was a miracle worth a caning or two all on its own.

“And does the princess,” the priest intoned, drawing her back round to face the altar, “vow to accept this man, Wynter Crystalin Boreal Atrialan, King of Wintercraig, as her husband and liege, binding herself to him, keeping only unto him, accepting his counsel and his care, and offering him all the fruits of her life until the gods call him home?”

“The princess,” she said, “does so vow.”

“And does the King of Wintercraig vow to accept this woman, Angelica Mariposa Rosalind Khamsin Gianna Coruscate, a princess of Summerlea, as his wife and queen, binding himself to her, keeping only unto her, accepting her counsel and her care, and offering her all the fruits of his life until the gods call her home?”

“The king does so vow.”

“Your Highness, please extend your right hand and bare the Rose.”

She held out her right arm and turned back the full cuff, baring her wrist with its unmistakable Summerlea Rose birthmark.

“Your Grace, your left hand, sir.”

Beside her, Wynter held out his left arm and, with a strange half smile, flipped back his own silk cuff and turned up his inner wrist to reveal a pale white wolf’s head shining against the golden hue of his skin.

She had heard the Wintercraig royal family bore a similar mark to the heirs of the Summer Throne, but she’d never seen one before. It was beautiful, in a cold, fierce, wild way. As she looked at it, she had the strangest vision of that wolf’s head coming to life, turning its head to look straight at her, and snarling both challenge and warning. A chill swept through her, brisk and cool, followed almost immediately by a flush of heat as the Summerlea Rose on her own wrist began to burn.

“Your Grace, Your Highness, please join hands.” The priest held a short length of tasseled silken cord—the symbol of the union about to be forged—beneath Khamsin’s wrist.

Holding her gaze as if he could see straight through her veils, Wynter turned his forearm wolf-down and curled his fingers around hers.

“Before these witnesses, and with the blessings of the gods, let these two people be joined, and may the bond never be sundered.” Kham stood stiffly by the Winter King’s side as the priest wrapped the tasseled ends of the cords around their wrists and pulled gently. Wynter’s cool, icy Snow Wolf slid over dark Summerlander skin to cover Khamsin’s Rose.

A jolt of energy shot through her body as the two marks met. She cried out and grabbed hold of the altar rail. Beside her, Wynter’s spine went stiff, his muscles rigid.

Lightning flashed in the sky, close enough to illuminate the chapel with a blast of blinding whiteness. Thunder cracked with deafening fury. Women screamed. Several of the tall, stained-glass windows flanking the church nave shattered, and a harsh, icy wind howled in, swirling sheets of snow into the room, blowing out every flame in the room and plunging the wedding party into darkness.

No longer able to force compliance from her legs, Khamsin collapsed against the altar rail and sank to the carpeted steps in a billow of velvet skirts. The loosely tied cords tying her wrist to the Winter King’s tugged apart, and her hand fell free.

“Valik,” the Winter King snapped.

A match flared. A tiny flame flickered to life. Its pale glow illuminated Valik’s cupped hand. As he began to moved towards one of the lamps to relight it, Khamsin glanced up at Wynter. His pupils had gone wide, and his reflected an eerie, shiny red glow.

“Are you all right?” he asked. His concern seemed genuine. For all that his eyes were fierce and his face a frozen mask, a thread of sincerity softened his voice.

“I’m fine,” she lied. Her back was on fire. Her vision was blurry. She wasn’t sure she could stand again even if she had to—which she did, of course. Somehow, she was going to have to get up and walk out of this chapel under her own strength. She still had to make it through the wedding feast . . . and the bedding.

“That was . . . interesting.”

Despite the pain flaring up and down her spine, she gave a quick, wry laugh. “Yes, it was,” she agreed.

She knew that when the forces of Winter and Summer clashed—either in nature or on the battlefield—sparks had a tendency to fly. But this was a first. She wasn’t sure whether the explosive response was a one-time shock caused by the joining of two powerful forces or the ominous portent of a stormy relationship to come.

Already, the wind had died down, and around the chapel, more lights flickered as the servants hurried to relight the candelabras. Khamsin curled her fingers around the railing and tried to pull herself up. A strong hand cupped her elbow and lifted her easily to her feet. She glanced up in surprise at the Winter King. Was he a kind man after all? “Thank you.”

He inclined his head fractionally. “It would not do to have the new Queen of Wintercraig collapse at her own wedding.”

The little flicker of warmth she’d been feeling snuffed out. Immediately, she castigated herself for her brief moment of moonstruck fancy. What ridiculous foolish sentimental tripe had she been thinking? Marriages between great houses were about wealth and power, not people. He was concerned about appearances, not her.

“I’m fine. I can walk on my own.” She tried to tug her arm free, but his fingers remained clamped around her elbow.

“Allow me to escort my bride to our wedding feast.” It was not a request.

Did he think she would bolt? Where would she go?

Even so, her first instinct was to resist his effort to impose his will on her. She hated restrictions of any kind, and she always struggled against even the slightest effort to cage her. She tugged her arm harder. His fingers went cold. Goose bumps pebbled her arm beneath the warmth of her velvet sleeves.

“Do not be foolish, Autumn,” he whispered. His voice was soft but utterly without warmth. “I will not tolerate open defiance. Especially not here, in public, before your father’s court.”

Already her brief spurt of resistance was fading. She didn’t have the energy to sustain it. Not now, at least.

Surrendering, she let him lead her down the chapel aisle and outside to the open courtyard that had once been a lush, manicured garden filled with carefully carved and tended hedges and flowering trees surrounding a sparkling fountain. The fountain was silent now, the water drained to prevent it from freezing. The flowering trees were skeletal ghosts standing guard at the four corners, and a light blanket of snow covered the fancifully carved hedges, flower beds, and lawn.

Khamsin drew a deep breath as they headed back to the main palace. The air was brisk and chill, a welcome relief to the stifling warmth of her veils and velvets. It cleared her head, and helped her to remember that the man walking beside her was no gentle lord but a conquering warrior, the enemy to whom she had just been sold as the price of her life and the survival of her family and war-torn homeland.

The wedding feast was a long, dull affair for which Wynter had little patience and even less interest. He suffered it only because he knew his bride—the still-veiled princess beside him—was weak from lack of sustenance. She’d practically collapsed twice on the way to the banquet hall—would have fallen except for his hand at her elbow. He’d suggested she retire to her rooms to rest, but she’d refused, saying she simply needed something to eat and drink. She appeared to have been right. The slender hands carrying the wine cup to her lips weren’t trembling half so badly now as they had been an hour ago.

“Eat,” he’d commanded when they’d first sat down, and the servants had placed plates of steaming meats and vegetables before them. After her first few laborious efforts to eat with the veils still shrouding her face, he’d ordered her to remove them.

She hadn’t. Showing a spine he was beginning to realize was much stronger than he’d originally thought, she’d folded back only enough of the layered silks to bare her chin and lower lip. The rest of her face remained hidden from view.

He’d allowed her the small rebellion. She would learn soon enough that no one flouted his will without consequence. At the moment, he had the victory he’d earned, the princess he’d demanded, and a wedding night yet awaiting him. He could afford to be magnanimous.

A spate of boisterous, drunken laughter made him glance towards the far end of the hall. Verdan, face flushed with drink and probably one or more of the intoxicating herbs offered at all the tables, stood beside a table of Summerlea lords, laughing and lifting his cup in a toast. On the dance floor nearby, a dozen or more brightly clad courtiers twirled and pranced as if they hadn’t a care in the world.