The Winter King (53 page)

“Wyrn and Helos protect me.” Kham stared at the sword in her hand. Bright and golden in hue, with a clear, brilliant white diamond the size of a goose egg in its hilt, the Sword of Roland was everything the legends had foretold.

And now, many thousands of years after Roland’s death, Khamsin Coruscate Atrialan held the same sword the god Helos had forged for her legendary ancestor and prayed the sword would grant her the power to save her Winter-born love, just as Roland had saved his.

Though, hopefully, with a happier outcome.

He walked through a field of fresh snow. The world was white, crisp, pristine. The sky a blue so deep and rich it dazzled him.

The sun shone high in the sky. A bright, golden white globe.

All around, the trees grew tall and strong, their evergreen branches laden with snow.

He moved silently through the powdery snow. It swirled around his calves, deep enough that he could not see his feet when he walked but so powdery, it was like walking through fog.

Ahead, on the crest of a small hill, stood a large snow wolf. Its fur riffled in the breeze. The wolf howled.

The call caught at a place deep inside him, singing to him in wordless communication, urging him to follow. He walked towards the wolf.

The snow grew thicker. It was up to his knees now. Then up to his thighs. His waist.

The wolf was just ahead now. Its call wrapped around Wynter like a fisherman’s net, hauling him closer and closer still.

The snow had reached his chest.

More wolves began to howl. Their howl was a song of warning, sharp and fearful, made up of many voices. He glanced to his left and right, then behind him. Dozens of wolves had gathered on the surrounding peaks. All were barking, howling, baying at him.

He turned back to the wolf he was walking towards.

The snow was shoulder deep now.

The wolf on the hill turned with shocking swiftness.

Only it wasn’t a wolf. It was a
garm.

Malevolent red eyes gleamed. Rows of sharp, pointed teeth gaped in a ferocious snarl. Past the
garm,
down in the valley on the other side of the hill, he caught a glimpse of a mighty army. Frost Giants.
Garm.
Ice thralls. They looked up at him and roared.

The
garm
shrieked, and a cloud of blue vapor billowed forth.

Wynter shot up out of bed, abruptly and completely awake. The bandage covering his eyes was still tied around his head. He reached up to rip it off.

He was sitting on a wooden table by the hearth in one of the hunting cabins that scattered the mountains of Wintercraig.

At his sudden movement, several guards and Galacia Frey came running. Galacia held one of Thorgyll’s spears, ready to strike.

Wynter held up his hands. “It’s me. It’s still me.”

But he wasn’t so sure. His chest felt tight and cold. As if everything inside had turned to solid ice.

“Get Valik,” Laci instructed one of the guard. The man nodded and sprinted for the door.

“What happened?” Wyn asked. “Where are we?” He glanced down at his body, examining the bandages around his waist, realized that whatever was beneath those wrappings hurt like a Feury.

Quickly, Galacia filled him in. She told him about the Great Hunt. How he’d followed the
garm
track and gotten separated from the rest of the hunters. That the tracks had led him to Khamsin, and between them, they’d killed at least two
garm
. That he’d been hovering on the brink of death or worse ever since.

As Laci spoke, the memories came tumbling back.

“Four,” he said. “It was four
garm.
I only managed to kill two of them.” He’d fallen after dispatching the second, leaving Khamsin to face the remaining two on her own. Alone and injured.

Khamsin.

“Where’s my wife?” He grabbed the edges of the table, bracing himself for the worst. “
Laci, where’s Khamsin?
”

“She’s safe, Wyn. She’s fine. You need to calm down. Now.”

Laci hadn’t lowered the spear. Her body was taut as a bowstring, her blue gaze watchful and unwavering. The eyes of a hunter, ready to strike. She smelled of fear, but her expression and posture exuded pure, grim resolve.

That’s when he realized the wood around his fingers had turned to solid ice.

Wyrn save him.
He closed his eyes and tried to push back the glacier running through his veins. He stood on the lip of a precipice. One fraction further—or one crack in the crumbling ground beneath his feet—and he would fall, tumbling into ruin and taking the world with him.

Not today. Not yet. Wintercraig needed him strong enough to defend them. Save Wintercraig first.

He could feel the heat of the fire against his back. He concentrated on that, willing the warmth to infuse his flesh and melt the ice so hungry to claim him.

Where was Khamsin?
She could have pushed back the ice with a single touch.

Lacking her presence, he filled the darkness behind his closed eyes with his memories of her face, her smile, her laughter, the silver flash of her eyes when she was angry. The feel of her skin, so warm and soft, smelling of jasmine and wildness, so exotically dark against his own golden flesh. The reassuring warmth of her body nestled against him through the long, dark hours of the Craig’s winter nights.

The tightness of his chest had loosened. He drew a breath, then another. The fingers curled so tight around the tabletop relaxed. Moisture gathered as the frozen wood began to melt. He took another, longer breath, and opened his eyes.

Laci was still poised to strike, and Valik had just come in from outside. Wynter looked around the cabin. That woman from Summerlea—the spy, Khamsin’s nurse, what was her name? Tildavera Greenleaf—stood beside a table covered with all manner of herbs and pharmacopeia. Half a dozen armored White Guard were also in the room, looking as wary and watchful as Laci. But the face he wanted to see most was still nowhere to be found.

“Where is Khamsin?” he asked.

“I sent her to Gildenheim with some of the White Guard.” Laci must have realized that the immediate danger had passed because some of the tension faded from her body. She straightened from her crouch, and the tip of her spear lowered a few inches. “So it’s true, what Khamsin said. She really did incinerate two
garm
with her lightning.”

Wyn frowned. After he fell to the
garm,
everything got hazy at best. But he remembered the smell of lightning and
garm
vapors. And he remembered sight of his wife running, ropes of lightning shooting down from the storm-tossed heavens, finding her unerringly. Her body, lifting up in the air, lit from within. Two
garm
close on her heels. The devastation of knowing he’d failed her.

“I . . .” He remembered the lightning crashing so close it shook the ground. One deafening crack after another. The smell of scorched flesh. “Yes, she did. She killed them both. With no weapon but her weathergift.” He looked up at Laci. “She survived? The
garm
didn’t kill her?”

“She survived,” Laci said. “She burned them until there was nothing left, which is why some of us didn’t believe her at first.” Laci cast a disgusted glance at Valik, who had just joined them.

“How are you feeling?” Valik’s gaze raked Wynter from head to toe. “You look like Hel.”

Wyn gave a choked laugh, then groaned when pain streaked across his belly. “Always full of compliments, you are.”

“Thought we’d lost you a time or two. Or four.” There was a look in Valik’s eyes Wyn had never seen before. And a shimmer of betraying brightness.

“I’m fine.” For now. Wyn rubbed his chest. The ice there had softened, but it was far from gone. If he put his hand in Laci’s flame right now, the fire would probably remain bright and blue. “How long have I been here?”

“Since the hunt? A week. But we don’t have the luxury of staying much longer. Coruscate is making his move.” Valik brought Wynter up to speed. “We’ve only got days—a week at most—before they reach Gildenheim.”

“We’ve got less time and more trouble than that,” Wynter said. “The Ice King’s army has gathered.”

“What?” Valik stared at him in shock. “How is that even possible? Rorjak may be close, but you’re still you. We’d know if you weren’t.”

“I don’t know how. But I know that they’ve gathered. And they know where I am. They’re on the way here.”

C
HAPTER 25

Roland’s Heir

“If you move him, he will die. Can’t you see that?” Tildavera Greenleaf hissed.

Standing in the far corner of the room, and talking in heated whispers, Khamsin’s old nurse, Valik, and Laci all thought Wynter was asleep and that they were far enough away that he couldn’t overhear them. They were wrong on both counts. Tildavera’s latest potion might have kept him unconscious if he’d actually drunk it instead of spitting it in the cloth beneath his pillow, but the little bit he’d actually had to swallow had only left him pleasantly sleepy. And an acute sense of smell wasn’t the only advantage of his clan-gift. Sharpened eyesight and improved hearing made it easy to read their lips and pick up the gist of their heated exchange, even while pretending to be asleep.

Tildavera planted her hands on her hips and glared up at Valik and Galacia Frey. “It’s only a bit of thread holding his insides inside him. And only my potions keeping him sleeping peacefully instead of writhing about and screaming in pain.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Valik said. “You heard him. The Ice King’s army is headed our way. We can’t stay here.
He
can’t stay here.”

“If he doesn’t stay here, he won’t last the journey. You’ll kill him!”

“I’m not so easy to kill.” Wyn had tired of eavesdropping and pretending to sleep. Let them discuss their options openly. He opened his eyes and propped himself up on one arm. Pain knifed through his abdomen as the movement tugged at his wound, but he ignored it. “I’m like my wife, in that regard, for many have tried and failed. Who knows? Maybe extraordinary survivability is one of the perks of possessing a weathergift.”

The aged Summerlea nurse pushed past Valik and Laci and stalked over to his sickbed. “You are supposed to be sleeping.” Her face scrunched up in an expression of severe disapproval. She didn’t care that he was king. She chided him like she might any misbehaving schoolboy.

He almost smiled. It was clear Tildavera Greenleaf was accustomed to being in charge, and equally accustomed to speaking her mind and having her orders obeyed. But this was one order he had no intention of heeding.

“I’ve slept long enough. Khamsin told me you were the best healer in all of Mystral, and it’s clear she wasn’t exaggerating. You did a fine job bringing me back from the brink of death. I’m sure you can keep me clinging to life a while longer.”

The old woman’s lips pursed. “My patients do not ‘cling to life,’ ” she snapped. “I pride myself on their making a full and miraculous recovery. But carting them all about the countryside with their insides hanging out is not at all conducive to that outcome!”

“Did Khamsin always do as you told her?”

Tildy scowled and switched tactics. “You want to bring Khamsin into this? Fine. So, tell me, Wynter of the Craig, if you sicken and die from that wound, where will that leave her? Alone and undefended against both the Ice King’s army and the invaders from Calberna and Summerlea. And if you think that father of hers will lift a finger to ensure her safety—”

“Maybe we don’t have to move Wynter just yet,” Laci interrupted, as Wynter’s expression darkened. “Wyn, you say the Ice King’s army knows where you are, and they’re coming for you, right?”

Wyn nodded.

“Then staying here buys us time. If you’re what they want, they won’t go a hundred miles out of their way to attack Gildenheim. Ungar sounded the Valkyr’s horn. He’s assembling the army. If we stay here, we buy him time and keep the Ice King’s army away from Gildenheim—and Khamsin.”

Wynter didn’t like Laci’s logic—mostly because he didn’t like the idea of staying here, doing nothing, when enemies were on the move—but he couldn’t refute it. The last thing he wanted to do was draw the Ice King’s army towards Khamsin. “One more day.”

“Three,” Tildy countered.

He glowered at her. “That’s not an option. Two at the most. Then, whether it kills me or not, we move out.”

Once more clad in her own clothes, with the entrance to Wyrn’s secret ice palace secured and Blazing safely sheathed in the scabbard she had retrieved from a hidden compartment in Laci’s room, Kham picked up Thorgyll’s spear and headed for the public altar room to rejoin the White Guard.

The sight of the young boy standing among them brought her up short.

“Krysti! What are you doing here? I thought you were helping out with the little ones.”

Her young companion-in-mischief flashed his fearless,
gamin
grin. “You didn’t really expect me to stay there when I found out you’d come back. What’s that you’ve got there?” His too-observant gaze latched onto the spear in her hand. “That’s one of Thorgyll’s spears, isn’t it?” He frowned. “I thought only Lady Frey and her priestesses were allowed to touch those.”

Before she could answer, his gaze zeroed in on the jeweled scabbard at her side and the sword with the enormous diamond shining brightly in its hilt.

“Winter’s Frost!” Krysti swore. “That’s it, isn’t it? That legendary sword you told me about—Roland’s sword, right? The one you said went missing after his death.”

“I—yes.” The boy was too observant by half. But she trusted him as she trusted few people. “It’s Roland’s sword. Made for him by the god Helos, himself.”

“How did you find it?”

“It’s a long story, and I need to get back to the king.” She handed the ice spear to Sven. “Here, take this. If we run into trouble, I’ll be more help with the sword than that spear.”

A look of reverent awe passed over Sven’s face as he curled his fist around Thorgyll’s famed spear. “I will guard it with my life, my queen.”

“And you”—she turned to Krysti—“I need you to go back to Gildenheim and wait for me there.”

“What? No! I’m coming with you.”

“Not this time. I need you here, where I know you’re safe.” Whether the Ice King truly had returned or whether she was simply going to confront her brother’s army and send them packing, things were about to get very dangerous. Too dangerous for a young boy, no matter how brave he was. “Promise me.”

He scowled and kicked at the temple’s stone floor. “I promise.”

“Thank you.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, knowing how hard it was to be left behind. Turning to the others, she said, “Let’s go.” As they headed towards the mouth of the cave, Kham murmured to Ungar, “Both priestesses are dead, and there was an ice thrall waiting for me when I went to get the sword. It was Elka Villani. That means my brother is probably somewhere near. Tell the men to be alert.”

Ungar’s square jaw flexed. “Understood, my queen.”

“There’s more. Before she died, Elka told me Reika drank the Ice Heart. She said Reika had ‘unleashed him.’ I think she was talking about Rorjak.”

“What?” Initial shock gave way to a string of blistering curses. “What was she thinking?”

As they neared the cave mouth, Khamsin could feel energy throbbing like a heartbeat in the brilliant diamond at Blazing’s hilt. The Rose on her wrist warmed and pulsed with the same rhythm. The sky was still dark, but the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten. The sun would soon be rising.

A strong wind blew from the south, chill enough that both guards standing by the cave entrance had pulled down their visors to protect their faces from the bitter cold.

“Karl, Geri, time to go, lads,” Ungar said.

Something whistled past Kham’s ear. At her side, Sven grunted. Still clutching Thorgyll’s spear, he toppled like a felled tree. Khamsin’s mind didn’t fully process what had happened until Ungar gave a gurgling cry and clutched at the arrow protruding from his throat. Two more White Guard crumpled in rapid succession, leaving only the two by the cave mouth.

“Krysti! Get down!” She spun towards him, her first instinct to protect him, only to stop short. One of the remaining two White Guards was pulling his bloody sword from the back of one of Ungar’s fallen men. The other held a sword to Krysti’s throat.

“What are you doing? Release Krysti at once!” Kham commanded. She reached for Blazing, half drawing the blade from her belt before a familiar voice called out.

“Storm, don’t! They’re on our side.”

“Falcon?” She pivoted halfway back around as her brother and two white-cloaked Summerlanders emerged from behind a tumble of rocks to her right. “What are you doing here? And what do you mean they’re on our side?” She glanced back over her shoulder towards the mouth of the cave. The White Guard holding Krysti lifted his ram’s head visor to reveal dark Summerlander skin and cold black eyes.

Movement higher up the hill betrayed the presence of a white-cloaked archer. She only saw the one, but there had to be others. Ungar, Sven, and the other two men had gone down in a matter of seconds. That meant her brother had at least four archers hidden amongst the rocks and snow.

Her fingers tightened on Blazing’s grip. Power pulsed against her palm. Playing for time while she evaluated her options, she turned back to her brother. “Falcon, why are you here? Didn’t you get my message? I told you not to come.”

Her brother, the hero she’d idolized all her life, shook his head, and said, “Of course I came. You’re my sister, and I love you. I wasn’t about to let Wynter Atrialan stake you out on some glacier to die.”

He spoke with such absolute sincerity that Kham’s heart stuttered, and for an instant, she truly believed he’d come because he loved her and had to save her. She
wanted
to believe him, just as she’d wanted to believe the best of him all her life.

But she didn’t.

“If you came to save me, Falcon, then why are you here instead of at the camp where your bird found Tildy and me?”

“I know what that husband of yours can do, and I know better than to face him in battle without a weapon capable of defeating him. That’s it, isn’t it? Roland’s sword.”

She glanced down at the gleaming sword at her waist. Her fingers tightened on the grip. “No,” she lied. “It’s a replica Wynter had made for me because he knows how much I adore the legends of Roland.”

“Oh, Storm, you never were a good liar.” Falcon shook his head in reproof. “So, it’s really real, and you found it. But how did you know where to look? Was it in the Ice Heart?”

She clamped her lips shut and tried to keep her expression blank, but Falcon had always been able to read her too well.

“So that’s true, too, is it? The source of the Winter King’s deadliest magic lies inside the Temple of Wyrn?” He arched a brow, and said, “I don’t think it’s exactly fair that they’ve been hoarding all this power for so long, do you? Maybe I should pay a little visit to the Ice Heart before I meet your husband in battle.”

Her eyes narrowed and she thought of Ungar, Sven, and the people of Hillje, murdered so her brother could claim Roland’s sword. “Maybe you should. Just go inside and take the path to the left of the altar.”

He laughed without humor. “You’ve changed, little sister. Three years ago, you would never have considered sending me to my death. Oh, yes,” he said when she grimaced, “Elka warned me about the dangers guarding the temple’s secrets.”

“Three years ago, I thought you were a hero. I thought you were brave and honorable, a Prince of Summerlea worthy of being Roland’s Heir. But heroes don’t run around murdering innocent people to get what they want, like my men here, and the people of Hillje, and fifteen-year-old boys.”

“Enough.” All hint of brotherly affection evaporated from Falcon’s expression, leaving a cold, hard mask. He extended his hand and flexed his fingers in curt command. “Give me the sword, Storm.”

“No.” She yanked Blazing free of its sheath and held it before her. The white diamond in the hilt sparkled with light. “You’ll get it over my dead body and no other way. I’m taking this sword to Wynter.”

Her brother sighed. “You never could do things the easy way.” His eyes flicked to a spot behind her, and he gave a sharp nod.

She spun, power crackling up her arm as Roland’s sword blazed to life, but the second of the imposter White Guards had crept too near while Falcon and she were talking. He smashed the butt of his sword into her temple. Stars exploded across her vision, then blackness descended.

Khamsin woke with a splitting headache and pain radiating from every part of her body. It was dark, and she was lying on her side beside a fire. Some sort of heavy, hooded cloak was draped around her. She could see the stars overhead, but she couldn’t feel her connection to the sun. She groaned and tried to sit up, but her hands were tied behind her back, and her feet were bound. Her brother, Falcon, was sitting a few feet away on a log by the fire, holding Roland’s sword.

He turned his head in her direction. “You’re awake. That’s good. I was beginning to think Verge had killed you.”

“He nearly did,” she muttered. She struggled unsuccessfully to sit up, then flopped back down with a groan as her head threatened to split in two. “Did he have to hit me so hard?”

The corner of Falcon’s mouth curled up in a familiar, wry smile. He came over and pulled her into a sitting position. “To be fair, you were threatening us with a weapon capable of unparalleled destruction. Which is one of the reasons you’re tied up and wearing that lead cape.”

The flash of affectionate warmth roused by his wry grin winked out. He’d brought a cape lined with lead to cut off her connection to the sun. He’d come to Wintercraig
prepared
to stifle her weathergifts and render her helpless. So much for his claims of wanting to rescue her.

Falcon returned to his seat and resumed his examination of Roland’s sword. “It looks just like all the old pictures, doesn’t it? I can’t believe it’s really real.”

Once upon a time, she would have shared his awed reverence. No longer. Now he was the enemy, and he’d just stolen a weapon so powerful it could obliterate every living creature in Wintercraig. And he was standing between her and her chance to save Wynter before it was too late.

“Yes, it’s real,” she said. “What are you planning to do with it?”

Falcon looked up. “Take back what’s mine, of course.” He caressed the clear white diamond in Blazing’s hilt, slid the blade back in its sheath. “I know you think the worst of me, Storm, but I’m not a bad man. I did what I had to do to restore glory to Summerlea.”