The Winter King (21 page)

When she woke again, sunlight was shining through the holes in the tent roof, and Wynter, fully dressed, was slipping on the last of his armor plate. The wolf’s head helm gleamed white and silver in the hands of a young soldier whose battle-aged eyes didn’t fit a face that couldn’t have seen its first shave more than a year past.

She sat up in surprise and barely caught the covering pelt before it fell away. She was naked beneath the furs, her skin still tingling from the long hours of their coupling.

“This is Stoli.” Wynter jerked a chin at the boy. “He’ll ride beside you. If you need aught, let him know. Get dressed now. Your clothes are there.” A woolen dress, fur-lined cloak, and warm boots had been draped across one of the camp chairs. “You have twenty minutes before my men take down this tent.”

He spared a last look at her naked shoulders rising from the furs, long enough for her skin to heat beneath this gaze. Then his eyes shuttered, and she felt the deliberate, distant chill fall between them. What tenderness they’d shared was gone. He took his helm from the boy, ducked out of the tent, and was gone.

Stoli followed seconds later. He didn’t look at her, but his bitterness was plain in the stiff, prideful line of his back. He didn’t like playing nursemaid to a woman any more than she liked having some downy-faced boy-soldier assigned as her jailer.

Khamsin threw off the pelts and rose. Dizziness made her sway, and she stood still, eyes closed, hands to her head, until it passed. She would dress, and she would eat. She would be in enemy territory soon and would need all her strength and all her wits about her.

Someone had removed the copper bathing tub, but they’d replaced it with a bucket of still-warm, jasmine-scented water, a bar of sweet soap, and a fresh cloth. It had to have been Wynter who’d ordered it, but such thoughtfulness in light of his coolness just now left her puzzled, unsure what to make of him. Was he the enemy king she’d wed or the caring husband seeing to his wife’s comfort?

Both, she decided.
Use the care to your advantage, Khamsin, but never lose sight of the enemy.

She dipped the cloth and soap in the water and hastily bathed as best she could. He’d told her she had twenty minutes, and didn’t doubt his men would start pulling up the tent stakes the second that time was up.

Laid across the camp chair beneath the woolen gown was a full white chemise of soft cotton. She tugged it on over her head, and let the billows of fabric drape her still-damp body from neck to toe and shoulder to wrist. Soft, blue lamb’s wool skirts followed, then a separate, formfitting bodice that fastened up the front with two rows of gleaming gold buttons, each bearing the raised stamp of a rose in bloom. The outfit had been Summer’s. Khamsin had never owned a gown so fine except for what came from her sisters’ wardrobes when the Summer King wasn’t looking. The boots were soft kid, with a small, stacked heel, the cloak velvet-lined gray wool, trimmed with the plush, soft fur of a snow lynx around the generous hood. A matching fur muff dangled on a string from one of the cloak’s buttons.

She fastened up her boots, ran a brush through her wild curls. She had just picked up the cloak when a youthful voice called coolly, “It’s time, my lady.”

That brief call was the only warning she received before the tent flaps parted, and Stoli poked his head through.

“Good,” he said. “You are ready. The king says you must eat before we leave. Bjork, the king’s cook, has prepared a plate for you. Follow me.” He ducked back out before she could answer.

Scowling a little over the boy’s high-handedness, she flung her cape over her shoulders and followed him outside. With the exception of Wynter’s tent, which a dozen men were already swiftly disassembling, the trampled snow of what had been the army’s encampment was barren, smoky tendrils of mist rising up from snow-doused cook fires. Less than a tenth of the original force had remained behind, and they were already packed and waiting on the road, ready to march. The cook wagon was packed also, save a single plate of bread, cheese, and
borgan
and a cup of steaming broth which a large, scarred Winterman who introduced himself as Bjork handed to her.

She thanked him and ate quickly, aware of all the eyes upon her. By the time she was finished, Wynter’s tent had been disassembled and loaded for travel, and Stoli returned to escort her to the waiting carriage.

Just the sight of the four-wheeled torture chamber stopped her in her tracks. The meal she’d just consumed churned in her belly.

“Hurry, please, my lady,” Stoli urged impatiently. “The day’s already half-gone.”

Kham swallowed the sick queasy knot in her throat. If she knew how to ride a horse, she would have asked for one. Nodding, she gathered her skirts.
You can bear it, Khamsin. You can bear anything if you put your mind to it. Just open the windows.

The air of stale perfume and sickness still clung to the velvet-lined interior. She opened the window, turned her face towards the fresh outside air, and breathed through her mouth, praying the gods would be merciful and spare her the travel sickness this time. But with the first lurching jolt of the carriage, she knew no mercy was in the offing.

Khamsin threw open the door on the far side and leapt to the ground. Her boots sank knee deep in snow, and the dark blue of her skirts and yards of cloak billowed out around her. She stumbled, slapped a hand on an icy tree trunk to steady herself, and took off running for the privacy of the forest.

Shouts rose up behind her, followed by the clatter of horse hooves pounding frozen ground, but she ignored them and plunged into the snow-covered shadows of the trees. She ran until she could no longer see the road or the Wintermen, and then fell to her knees and emptied her stomach into the snow.

When the nausea passed, she staggered back and fell against the trunk of an aged oak tree, sliding down the rough, broad trunk until she was sitting on the ground. She scrubbed her face with fistfuls of clean, cold snow and dragged breaths of cold air into her lungs.

That was how Wynter found her. Her wild, white-streaked curls tangled about her shoulders, snowflakes glittering in the dark of her lashes and skin, her breathing shallow and skin wan. She glanced up at the sound of Hodri’s belled bridle, then closed her eyes wearily and let her head loll back against the trunk of the tree.

The acrid scent of sickness curled on the winter wind, and the tension that had gripped Wynter’s chest in icy claws began to fade. She’d not been fleeing him. She’d only been seeking privacy to hide her weakness, as all wild things did.

He drew a breath, released it slowly. His fury went with it on a long, chill exhale.

He’d seen her leap from the carriage and race for the cover of the trees, and all he’d been able to think was that she was trying to escape, that she’d sworn to honor her vows and betrayed them at first chance. His fury at the prospect was surprisingly strong and violent. He didn’t know why. He’d been expecting deceit from the moment he’d ridden into Vera Sola, and she’d already been party to one lie.

He swung his leg over Hodri’s hindquarters and dismounted. The snow came halfway up his calves as he walked to her side.

“I can’t go back in that carriage,” she said, her eyes still closed. “I just can’t.”

“No,” he agreed. “I can see that.”

“If I could ride, I’d ask for a horse.”

“If you could ride, I’d give you one.” He reached down to take her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come. Hodri’s strong enough to bear the both of us. You’ll ride with me.”

She gave him such a startled, hopeful look he almost smiled.

“It’s no favor,” he assured her. “We’ll ride hard, and we won’t stop often. And you won’t find the front of my saddle the kindest seat.”

“I won’t complain.” She wouldn’t. Even if the saddle bruised her so badly she could barely walk, she wouldn’t make a peep.

He led her back to Hodri, mounted first, then leaned over to grasp her hand and lift her into the saddle before him. Together, they rode back to the rest of the men, and after a brief hour’s rest, they were back in the saddle and once more heading north at a punishing pace. Wynter, with Khamsin seated before him, rode in the lead.

It wasn’t comfortable. He’d spoken the truth about that. The saddle was crowded, his armor plate against her back was hard as granite, but she didn’t care. Anything was better than the closed, miasmic imprisonment of that carriage.

She leaned her head against Wynter’s armored chest, tilted her chin into the wind, and smiled for the first time in days.

They rode for eight days. The pace was grueling, the saddle unforgiving, but Khamsin kept her vow not to complain. Despite his outward coldness, Wynter did everything he could to make her comfortable.

The first day of riding sideways across the saddle left her thighs and buttocks black-and-blue from bouncing, and when they stopped for the night, Khamsin remained standing during dinner and barely managed to hobble the short distance to Wynter’s tent. He made her lift her skirts to show him the damage. He let out what sounded like a stream of muttered curses in his language, rubbed a healing liniment into her abused posterior, and slept curled tight around her throughout the night. She woke the next morning to find that someone had slit the skirt and the bottom half of her chemise and sewn them back together into wide, loose-fitting trousers. Wynter wouldn’t tell her who had done it; he just told her gruffly to put them on and be silent. She rode astride after that.

He drew back the clouds to help her body’s sun-fed healing powers regenerate more quickly, and despite the snow on the ground, the warming air and her own hot Summerlea blood soon had her throwing off her cloak. The crisp, cool wind on her face was refreshing, and she loved the free, unfettered feel of it. Even if her hair did keep getting blown into the joints of Wynter’s plate mail and ripping out by the roots.

The third morning, ignoring the fierce objections of his men and Valik, in particular, Wynter left off his armor. He claimed it was easier on Hodri—that the armor weighed more than Khamsin, and without it, Hodri would not feel the added burden of a second rider. That made a certain sense, and Khamsin would have believed him without question had she not overheard Valik hissing at Wynter after breakfast that his soft-hearted foolishness was going to get him bloody killed.

“We may have crossed the Rill, but we’re nowhere near out of danger. One arrow in your unprotected back is all it takes, Wyn! Put your damned armor back on, and don’t give me that blather about weights and double riders! I saw you plucking her hair from your mail last night and scowling like you’d torn it from her scalp with your own two hands. Your mail could rub her skin bloody, and I’d still tell you to wear it.”

But he didn’t, and from that day on, Khamsin rode snuggled close against Wynter’s body, without the wall of cold steel between them. When they made camp, he came to their tent after dinner, rubbed healing liniment on her thighs and buttocks, then curled his body around hers with exquisite care. She slept each night spooned against his large, muscled form, and woke each morn to the dizzying sensation of hard, erect flesh sliding into her body while his hands stroked her breasts and teased the bud of flesh between her legs until she cried out and shattered with pleasure.

On the eighth day, Khamsin caught sight of silvery white shapes darting amongst the trees on either side. Wolves.

“They give escort,” Wynter murmured against her ear. “It’s not much farther now. We’ll reach the Craig by tomorrow midday.”

“The Craig? But . . . aren’t we already there? We crossed the river days ago.” And much to her surprise, the snow that had blanketed Summerlea for the past three years was conspicuously absent on the Wintercraig side of the river. Instead, the land was in full, brilliant autumn bloom, and the only snow she’d seen yet was gathered on the very tops of the mountains.

She felt his smile. “The kingdom of Wintercraig starts at the Rill, it’s true; but ask any Winterman, and he’ll tell you, these are the Hills. That”—he pointed—“is the Craig.”

Khamsin’s breath caught in her throat. They’d crested the summit of a small mountain pass, and the trees broke enough to offer up a dazzling view of a wide, forested valley, filled with vibrant autumn color and towering evergreens. In the distance, great, jagged, snow-covered peaks rose up from the ground like ancient walls of stone and ice, filling the horizon as far as her eyes could see.

C
HAPTER 10

Wintercraig

Once more clad in full armor that shone dazzling silver and white, with ice blue banners streaming in the mountain breeze, Wynter and his men rode slowly up the winding stone road toward the towering castle perched high atop a steep granite cliff.

Riding sideways before him, draped in another of Autumn’s warmest gowns, Khamsin stared up the breathtaking heights and the magical, ice-silvered spires, parapets, and buttresses of the castle that seemed to grow from the very rock itself.

Gildenheim, crown of the world.

Wynter’s palace. Her new home.

She turned her head to look at Wynter, wanting to see his face as they drew near the summit. The wolf’s head visor was open, but even so, his face was a mask that yielded no secrets. He kept his eyes forward, his face expressionless.

As they rounded the last switchback curve and rode the final stretch of stone road that passed beneath Gildenheim’s massive iron gates, Wynter straightened in the saddle, putting a small but notable distance between them. The arm that curved around her waist pulled back and went stiff as an iron pike.

The courtyard was wide and filled with people, with more lining three deep along every stone stairway, parapet and crenellated walk. Soldiers in armor of leather and steel. Peasants bulky in furs and wool. And on the wide, sprawling palace steps, a host of cool-eyed nobles stood waiting, their regal Winterfolk height draped in fur-trimmed velvets, fine wools, and silk brocades in all the frosted shades of winter: ice blue, cream, white, cloud gray, snow-frosted evergreen, palest taupe.

The peasants and soldiers cheered as Wynter and his army rode past, but the nobles remained aloofly silent. Khamsin regarded them in silence. Tension twisted in her belly. There was not one dark head among them, nor one welcoming smile. Cold and haughty, as icy as she’d first thought Wynter to be, they watched her in silence, spearing her with their unblinking gazes. Never had she felt more alien or more unwelcome.

An older man standing near the bottom step broke away from the crowd of nobles and walked towards Wynter’s approaching horse. His white hair was cropped to his chin and swinging with thin braids hung with small silver bells. His eyes were sky blue in a deeply lined golden face, his robes a paler blue, trimmed generously with white fur.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” he said in a voice rough with age. Gnarled hands reached out hooked around the straps of Hodri’s belled bridle. “Welcome home, at last.”

“Thank you, Barsul. It’s good to be back.” Wynter looked around the courtyard, his gaze sliding over each and every face crowded around. “This sight is one I’ve dreamed of now for three long years.” He raised his voice so that it traveled easily from one end of the courtyard to the other. “Well met, my friends, my people. At last the war is over.” Cheers rose up from all around the walls. He waited for them to die down before he continued. “I bring you victory.” More cheers. “I bring you peace.” At that, the women shouted with such enthusiasm they all but drowned out the cheers of their men. “I bring you Khamsin Coruscate, princess of Summerlea.” He grasped the hood of Khamsin’s cloak and drew it back to bare her bronzed face and dark flowing curls, then grasped her wrist and lifted it high, brandishing the Rose. “Now Khamsin Atrialan, Queen of the Craig, and soon, Freika willing, mother of my heirs.”

The cheers that followed that outdid all the others, but the eyes of those cheering watched Khamsin without warmth. She knew they did not cheer in welcome of her but rather to celebrate that their king had returned to them, this time vowing his desire for life instead of death. The courtyard erupted in a shower of white and green, as the Winterfolk tossed snowflowers, garlands of twined ivy and holly leaves, sprigs of fragrant fir, and clusters of mistletoe and partridge berry. Symbols of peace and unity and fertility and life. Well wishes for their king and his future heirs.

Wynter dismounted and reached up to help Khamsin down from the saddle before introducing her to the man who had greeted them.

“Khamsin, this is Barsul Firkin, Lord Chancellor of Wintercraig, who served as White Sword during my father’s reign.”

The old man bowed, his eyes cool and assessing. “Welcome to Wintercraig, Your Grace.”

“Lord Chancellor Firkin.” Khamsin worked to keep a calm expression as she frantically raked her memory for the protocol to follow when being introduced to high-ranking dignitaries of foreign lands. Was she supposed to extend her hand? Lord Firkin looked surprised when she did, but after a brief hesitation, he lifted it to his lips and brushed a cool, dry kiss across the backs of her fingers.

Wynter removed his gauntlets and splayed one hand across the small of Khamsin’s back. Subtle pressure nudged her forward, past Lord Firkin to another, slightly younger man. “And this is Lord Deervyn Fjall, Steward of the Keep.”

“Welcome to Gildenheim, the jewel of Wintercraig, Your Grace,” Lord Fjall murmured.

“Lord Fjall oversees everything that pertains to the provisioning, protection, and operations of the castle,” Wynter said. “If you need anything, his office will handle your request.”

Khamsin nodded but didn’t offer her hand again.

They moved past Lord Fjall to a towering, ice-eyed woman, whose pale gold hair looked like yards of stiff, curling ribbons piled atop her head. Unlike the wools and velvets of so many others, her gown was a severely cut sheath of pristine white brocade, her cloak an impressive fall of pure white snowbear pelt that draped from shoulder to floor, with yards of the thick fur left to puddle at her feet. Her eyes were so pale a blue, they seemed almost colorless, and Khamsin stifled a shiver.

“Lady Galacia Frey, High Priestess of Wyrn.”

Wyrn. Quickly, Khamsin riffled through her small store of knowledge about the northern gods. Wyrn was Keeper of the Ice, the goddess who’d given Thorgyll his freezing spears. Khamsin had never been much of a reader of god lore—except as it pertained to the heroes and warrior-kings of Summerlea—but she knew enough to know that Wyrn was an important and powerful goddess who was supposedly responsible for bringing winter to the world.

Well, if Wyrn were anything like her priestess, Khamsin already didn’t like her much. She definitely didn’t like the critical way Lady Galacia’s eyes swept over her, then turned to Wynter, dismissing Khamsin out of hand.

“We are glad for your return, my king,” the priestess said. “Wyrn requests your presence at her altar.”

The hand at Khamsin’s back twitched ever so slightly. “I will come today, before nightfall,” Wynter agreed.

Lady Galacia’s tower of frozen curls inclined in a cool nod. “We will await you.” She turned once more to Khamsin. “You and I will visit later, at a time of Wyrn’s choosing. When that time comes, Lord Fjall will tell you the way.”

Khamsin’s spine stiffened.
Oh, really?
But before she had a chance to open her mouth, Wynter’s hand was firmly nudging her forward.

The next woman in line was a blond-haired beauty with piles of soft ringlets and limpid blue eyes. She clutched Wynter’s hands with a fervor that made Kham’s eyes narrow. Wynter introduced her as Reika Villani, Valik’s cousin. Kham disliked her on sight. There was something about her that reminded Kham of the women who scrabbled to be King Verdan’s next mistress in the Summer court.

They continued on down the line. Wynter introduced dozens of people, far too many for Khamsin to keep them straight. The gathered nobles became a blur of golden skin and hair that came in all shades of pale, from golden blond to silver to snowy white. Finally, the introductions ended, and she and Wynter walked up the wide, stone stairs into the palace halls.

If she’d expected Wynter’s palace to be cold and austere, nothing could have been further from the truth. The walls were pure granite, but what should have seemed heavy and overpowering had instead been carved with astonishing delicacy. Graceful, curving archways and fluted columns soared high towards a vaulted ceiling. A massive crystal chandelier hung high overhead. All around, adorned with shimmering falls of cut crystal and gleaming patterned streams of silver and gold metals in varying shades, the walls seemed to glow with prismatic hues. Scattered clusters of furniture, upholstered in sumptuous velvets and brocades, added a rich, approachable welcome, and twin silver-gilt stairways, curving like slides of ice, spiraled up to numerous balconied levels overhead.

Khamsin caught herself gaping and had to consciously press her lips together to keep her jaw from falling slack again.

Servants in pale taupe and frosted forest green stood waiting at the base of the curved stairways. An older woman with a white apron pinned to the front of her forest green gown and her white hair caught up in a plait that wound around the top of her head like a crown stood at the head of the assemblage.

“This is Vinca, Gildenheim’s Mistress of Servants,” Wynter said. “She’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Welcome to Wintercraig, Your Grace,” Vinca murmured as she offered a brief, respectful curtsy. “This way, please.” She turned, indicating the curving staircase to her left.

Khamsin glanced uncertainly at Wynter, but he was already striding away towards a waiting cluster of noblemen. She wanted to call out, to ask him where he was going and when she would see him again.

She opened her mouth to call to him, then realized almost Wynter’s entire court was watching her, their eyes cool and sly. No doubt they were waiting with bated amusement to see what the little Summerlander witch would do now that her husband had brought her to his palace and abandoned her practically on the doorstep. The hand that had started to reach out for Wynter dropped back to her side and clutched the folds of her gown in a tight grip. Without a word, she turned and followed Mistress Vinca up the stairs.

Being ignored and shuttled off out of view is nothing new to you, Khamsin,
she reminded herself sternly.
You’ve had a lifetime of it. Why is this any different?

It wasn’t. And yet . . . it was.

Since waking in the tent after that horrific storm, she’d hardly left Wynter’s side—and he, hers. They’d slept together, ridden together, taken their meals together, woken up in each other’s arms.

Oh, Kham, no. You haven’t gone and gotten
feelings
for him? He’s the enemy!

No, no, not that. Not . . .
feelings.
She knew what he was, and what he would do to her if she didn’t bear him the heir he sought. She hadn’t forgotten. It was just that . . . well . . . they’d established a sort of rapport between them. They’d become almost friends, in a way.

Friends?

All right. Not friends, exactly.

Not friends of any kind. He is the enemy king who just crushed your country beneath his heel, and you are his war prize. Your only value to him is your womb. You can’t afford to forget that. Fail to bear him an heir, and he’ll slay you as thoughtlessly as he slew all those thousands of your countrymen.

She knew that. She hadn’t forgotten it. How could she?

You’re living on borrowed time, and if you let yourself get stupid and sentimental, you’ll never survive this. So stop thinking like a girl and start thinking like a man. No, start thinking like a warrior-king. You’re all alone in the heart of enemy territory. There’s no way to get back home. What should you do? What would Roland do?

Good question. What
would
Roland do if he were trapped alone in enemy territory with no way back home and a lethal deadline hanging over his head? Khamsin’s spine straightened. Her chin rose a notch higher. Roland would settle in, establish a home base, familiarize himself with the terrain and its inhabitants. He would befriend every enemy and absorb every bit of knowledge that would help him—if not to conquer, at least to survive.

They’d reached the top of the long staircase and turned left down the balustraded walk that overlooked the entry hall. The people downstairs had started to drift away, but a number of the Winterfolk still remained, and Khamsin was conscious of their watchful eyes upon her.

Let them look. She was Khamsin Coruscate Atrialan, Summerlea princess, and the Winter King’s wife. But she was also Khamsin, Bringer of Storms. She was not some helpless victim. She was a daughter of the Rose, Heir to the Summer Throne. Just as Roland had met the enemy and triumphed, so too would she.

Her first order of business would be learning her way around the palace. At Vera Sola, she’d known every nook and cranny of the palace, every hidden and forbidden inch. And that had given her a certain sense of power, of freedom, even sequestered as she was from the rest of the world. The floundering sense of alienness assailing her now couldn’t be borne. She would learn the passageways of Gildenheim until she could walk them with her eyes closed. She would discover the palace’s secrets and make them her own.

She made careful note of each turn Vinca made as they walked through the palace halls. At the end of the walkway, they turned right through an archway and followed that short, wide hall to a round, open gathering area that linked five corridors. The first corridor on the left led to a long wing that doubled back towards the front of the palace and split into two angled hallways, each terminated by a spacious, skylit vestibule surrounded by several pairs of gilded doors. Vinca took the right fork and approached the large center doors, which were painted silver-blue and chased with platinum bands. Two footmen stood guard outside those doors, and as Khamsin and Vinca drew near, the footmen reached for the crystal doorknobs and swung the doors inward in a smooth silence.

“Here we are, Your Grace,” Vinca announced. “These are your chambers.”

Khamsin stepped inside and despite her stern admonitions to think like a man and a warrior-king, she couldn’t help catching her breath in a dazzled, purely feminine reaction to the spacious elegance spread out before her. Thick furs and brightly woven carpets were scattered liberally across gleaming wooden floors. Furniture of delicate, gilded metalwork and stone sat harmoniously alongside bureaus of rich, inlaid woods and groupings of armchairs and divans. Silk brocade drapes framed a wall of windows that opened to a wide balcony.