The Winter King (16 page)

A little of the starch wilted out of him—but only a little. “You are the wife of our king, Your Grace, and by the laws of the Craig, your welfare is his responsibility. He will allow nothing and no one to harm you.”

That sounded nothing at all like the Winter King who mercilessly conquered Summerlea, but then again, thus far her every interaction with him had been one surprise after another. “My name is Khamsin,” she said. “My sisters call me Storm.”

“Storm?”

“My giftname.”

“Ah.” Valik glanced up at the clouds overhead. “That explains much.”

Valik didn’t stay to talk. He busied himself instead with overseeing the raising and furnishing of Wynter’s tent, though Khamsin noted he actually gave more assistance than supervision.

The Wintermen were swift, efficient folk. In less than fifteen minutes, the towering fourteen-foot center pole and its surrounding eight-foot perimeter poles were in place, supporting the broad circular form of the tent. Once the tent pegs were hammered into place, Wintermen carted rugs, pillows, braziers, and other furnishings inside. To her surprise, they unloaded her possessions from the carriage and carried them inside too: her trunk, Tildy’s growing lamps, even the plants her sisters had given her.

She watched her belongings disappear into the interior of the Winter King’s tent, and all her brave talk about facing her fears head-on evaporated.

Last night, bolstered by painkillers and arras and shielded by the veils of darkness and deception, she’d unflinchingly—in the end, even eagerly—shared a bed with the Winter King. All fear, all modesty, all reason, had flown out the window after his first, explosive touch. She had lost herself to sensation and the freedom of anonymity.

Tonight was different. Tonight, she would have no arras, no darkness, no veils to hide behind. There would be only her and the man she had deceived into wedlock.

A sudden gust of cold wind made the tent walls shudder and flap. Her oilskin parasol caught the gust and nearly ripped out of her hands. Rain, chill and bracing, splashed her face. She clutched the parasol more tightly and swiped the rain out of her eyes. When she opened them again, Valik was standing there before her.

“The tent is ready, Your Grace.” He swept his arm back towards the open tent flap, indicating that she should proceed inside.

She forced her feet to move. The first step was the hardest, the ones after that came easier as pride stiffened her spine. Bella hurried behind her, dodging slushy puddles of snow and mud.

The interior of the canvas tent had been transformed into a plush, surprisingly spacious stateroom. A large brazier circled the center pole, its iron troughs already filled with slow-burning, fragrant wood. Blue-gray smoke from the newly started fire curled up in wispy tendrils, guided by a vent pipe that curled round the center pole like a dragon’s tail towards the arch of the tent roof. The pipe exited through a vent flap cut into the highest point of the canvas, and the wind blowing past overhead caused a slight vacuum effect, drawing the smoke outside.

A scattered collection of thick rugs covered the tent floor and softened the hard surface of the frozen ground below. Several folding chairs and a small table had been set up on one side, not far from the fire, and in the back corner of the tent, behind screens of concealing cloth stretched over iron frames what appeared to be plump, down-filled coverlets and pillows had been piled together and covered with blankets and furs. Tildy’s growing lamps were positioned around the mound.

“We do not travel in as extravagant a fashion as Summerlanders,” Valik said, misunderstanding her silent perusal of the tent.

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “Much more luxurious than I’d expected.” From the whispers she’d heard among her father’s courtiers, she’d halfway been expecting cold stone stools and beds hewn from blocks of ice, but this was not at all hard or austere.

“Make yourself comfortable. The cook tents are up, but it will be a while before the evening meal is prepared.”

Khamsin’s belly lurched at the thought of food. She pressed a hand against her stomach and swallowed back the surge of nausea. “Don’t bother on my account, Lord Valik. I’m really not very hungry.”

His eyes narrowed, but all he said was, “I’ll have the men bring you a little something all the same. Loke and Baroc will be just outside in case you need them.” He bowed again and backed out of the tent.

She waited until Valik was gone before she kicked off her muddy shoes and took her first tentative step onto the exquisite carpets. Stockinged toes sank deep into the soft wool pile. The carpet felt like a cushion of springy moss beneath her feet, surprisingly soft and inviting, like the rest of the furnishings. She approached the brazier, holding her hands out to the welcoming warmth. Already, the inside of the tent was several degrees warmer than the outside, and without the wind and the sting of cold rain cutting through her clothes, it was almost cozy.

The interior of the tent had been decorated, the canvas walls covered in colorful, intricate hunting scenes depicting silvery white snow wolves and white-haired Wintermen on horseback hunting deer, bear, and wild pigs through forests of aspen, spruce, and pine that transformed seamlessly from one season to the next.

The scenes weren’t bloody or brutal. They were beautiful—a celebration of nature and survival, with the entire cycle of life depicted in a never-ending circle of seasons. Tucked away within the painting were scenes of nature renewing itself: a tiny fawn curled in the underbrush, a rocky den filled with wolf pups, bear cubs climbing a tree while their mother ate berries from a bush nearby. Eagles and falcons soared overhead, hovering above nests filled with eggs and fledglings. The painting was so vivid, she could almost hear the rustle of the gold-painted aspen leaves shivering in the autumn winds, feel the chill blowing across the snow-frosted tops of the trees in the winter scene, and smell the flowers of the cool mountain summer.

Fascinated, she approached one tent wall to examine it, wondering what sort of paint they’d used that would remain adhered so well to a canvas that was constantly rolled and unrolled and submitted to the harsh conditions of military campaigns. Each line was made up of thousands of tiny little dots of shimmering, multicolored dyes. The canvas had essentially been tattooed, and the artistry and painstaking attention to detail was astonishing.

Had the Winter King commissioned the illustration? Surely a man who surrounded himself with such exquisite beauty couldn’t be a heartless monster?

Behind her, Bella finished cleaning their muddy shoes, lined them up neatly beside the tent flap, then wandered around the interior, inspecting the place with a jaundiced eye and dismissing the exquisite mural with a careless shrug. “Well, it certainly isn’t the palace, is it?” she sniffed when she’d finished her inspection.

“That depends on what part of the palace you’re used to,” Khamsin snapped, irritated by the girl’s contempt for the fascinating, foreign beauty around them. The young maid gave her a wounded look, and Kham instantly felt guilty. No doubt Bella had been raised to believe Summerlea was the pinnacle of beauty against which all the world was judged and found inferior. “Remember, Bella,” she said in a calmer, more congenial tone, “this is an army encampment. I doubt Roland himself traveled half so well.”

“Roland was warrior first and courtier second,” a brisk masculine voice said from the tent entrance. “A man after my own heart, even if he was a Summerlander.”

Both Khamsin and Bella gasped and whirled around to see Wynter straighten to his full height just inside the tent. His armor was coated in glassy ice where the falling rain had touched the metal plates and frozen on contact. His wolf’s head visor was pushed up, out of his face, revealing golden skin and cold, cold eyes.

Those narrowed eyes pinned Khamsin in place. “Valik tells me you’ve refused the offer of the evening meal.”

Kham’s throat felt suddenly dry, and her belly took a nervous lurch. “I—”

“You will eat. You can do so willingly, or I can hold you down and force the food down your throat myself. One way or the other, it makes no difference to me.”

What softening she might have been feeling for him froze in a snap. She’d never been one to take orders well. As soon as someone said “you must,” her instinctive response was “I won’t!” Even when she would otherwise have been happy saying “I will.”

Her hands curled into fists. “As I told Lord Valik, I am not hungry.” Sparks flashed in her eyes. Outside, lightning cracked, and thunder boomed with enough force to shake the tent walls.

Wynter didn’t so much as flinch. “You. Girl. Get out,” he ordered Bella. His narrowed eyes remained fixed on Khamsin, unblinking, not flickering for even an instant.

The maid didn’t hesitate. Gathering up her skirts, she fled. She didn’t even stop to cover her head against the rain that was now pelting down in sheets.

As soon as she was gone, Wynter moved. One moment he was standing by the tent flap, the next he was upon Khamsin, his large hand gripping her by the back of the neck, holding her in place with effortless strength.

“The scent of your magic on the wind is familiar to me . . . Storm. You were the one who challenged me in the sky that first day.”

She considered giving him a little taste of lightning, but the way he looked right now, if she attacked, he’d likely just snap her neck. Her jaw tightened as she gritted her teeth and held back her temper.

Wynter smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. “Don’t think for one instant you could actually defeat me. You would only hurt yourself trying. I hold the Ice Heart, and the power of that is something you can scarce imagine.” The fingers at the back of Khamsin’s neck began to stroke her skin. “Now, my men are going to deliver your evening meal, and you are going to eat it. Every last bite. Do you understand?”

“I told you, I’m not hu—” She broke off in a fit of coughing. His grip had tightened slightly, and his fingers had gone cold. The chill spread rapidly through her skin, making her throat feel so dry she could not continue to speak.

In a voice of toneless calm, he told her, “You are wed to me. Your survival and welfare are my responsibility now, and I will tolerate no defiance in that regard. Best you learn that now, and accept it. Your life in the coming months will be much easier for it.” His fingers relaxed their grip just slightly, and the biting cold faded as quickly as it had come. “Now, one more time, you need to eat. You are wounded, and your body needs nourishment, so it can heal.”

Her lips compressed in a tight line. Whatever food passed her lips would most likely come right back up, but the mighty Winter King had spoken. “Fine,” she snapped. “You want me to eat? I’ll eat. Now let go of me.” She wrenched herself out of his grip and glared at him.

He regarded her with imperturbable calm. “I’ll be back when your meal is ready.” He turned and ducked through the tent flaps.

Left with no one on whom to vent her spleen, Kham gave a long, furious hiss of displeasure and kicked a small, glazed pot sitting on the floor near the brazier. Unfortunately, the pot turned out to be cast iron and heavy as a boulder. Instead of rolling across the tent floor with a satisfying rattle, it stayed where it was, and she yelped at the stinging jolt of pain that shot halfway up her leg from her now-throbbing big toe.

Scowling and muttering dire threats against her new husband, she hobbled over to one of the canvas camp chairs. With her back still raw and painful, she couldn’t even enjoy throwing herself down on the chair in an angry sulk. Instead, she sat with gingerly care and indulged herself with a black scowl that soon devolved to a self-pitying pout. Outside, threatening crashes of lightning subsided to distant, rumbling thunder and a surfeit of miserable, brooding rain.

True to his word, Wynter returned less than an hour later. Two men followed him through the tent flap, carrying covered trays. The Wintermen set the trays on a long folding table and lifted the lids to reveal hot beverages and an unfamiliar dish of some sort of stewed meat and vegetable. Aromatic wisps of steam wafted up from the plates, but what would normally have been appetizing aromas made Khamsin’s unsettled belly lurch. The men set two canvas camp chairs at the table, bowed to Wynter, and left.

Wynter waited in silence, his powerful arms crossed over his broad chest with deceptive indolence. His eyes gave lie to his calm façade. They were the cold, merciless eyes of a predator, unflinching and entirely focused on her. She could almost swear she saw magic gathering in their depths, and she knew his languid pose hid muscles poised to spring at the first sign of defiance.

Pride stiffened her spine. She swallowed her surge of nausea and forced herself to sit at the table. She’d told Wynter she would eat. She would not make a liar of herself.

After the briefest hesitation—was he so surprised she would honor her word?—his arms unfolded, and he took his own seat in a single, fluid motion.

She picked up her spoon, dipped it into the stew and raised it hesitantly to her lips. Her stomach lurched again, but she forced herself to open her mouth and eat. The first, tentative bite went down and, to her surprise, stayed down.

“Not too spicy for you, is it?” the Winter King asked, his pale eyes fixed on her.

“No . . . no, it’s fine.” It was true. The stew was flavorful without being overwhelming. It actually seemed to quiet the growling churn of her stomach. She waited a few minutes, then tried another bite. When that, too, stayed down, she ate another bite, then another, until half the bowl was gone. She stopped then even though she probably could have finished the bowl if she’d tried. The last few days had shrunk her belly, and she wasn’t foolish enough to gorge.

Pushing the bowl away, she sat back in her chair and cast a challenging look at Wynter, silently daring him to insist she continue. He eyed her dish, then tucked into his own without a word, leaving her defiance to fizzle.

Left with nothing to do but sit, she occupied herself by examining the stranger who less than twenty-four hours ago had become her husband. He’d changed out of his plate mail into brown woolen pants, a leather vest, and a full-sleeved, cream-colored shirt made from a thick, soft-looking material that shifted and flowed over his skin every time he moved. His long white hair streamed down his back like a snowfall. The hair at his temple had been gathered back in a silver cuff an inch or two above his ears and braided in three long, thin, silver-beaded braids that brushed across his cheeks as he bent his head to eat.