The Winter King (14 page)

“Take off that cape,” he ordered, when she drew near.

For a moment, he thought she might defy him, but apparently she thought the better of it. She fumbled with the golden frogs at her throat until the fasteners slipped free. Fur-lined wool puddled at her feet.

“Turn around.”

She obeyed, then flinched at the snick of metal against scabbard as he unsheathed his dagger. He lifted the blade to the back of her neck and plunged it downward in a single, carefully guided thrust of restrained violence, slitting the ties of her gown and her underlying corset and chemise in one pass. Material parted, and she flinched again as the room temperature plummeted several dangerous degrees.

With effort, Wynter sheathed his blade, stilled his hands from shaking and pushed aside the fabric to bare her back. He examined the extent of the damage without a word, fingers hovering so close to her skin little bursts of energy arced towards his hands as they passed. From one shoulder to the other, down the length of her spine to the inviting dip just above her buttocks, where her skin disappeared into her skirts, her back was a horror of yellowing bruises, angry red scars, and half-healed wounds.

His hands withdrew. Without a word—he did not trust himself to speak—he bent to retrieve her cloak from the ground and handed it to her. She tugged it back into place to cover her naked back, refusing to look at him. She’d been beaten like a cur, and he could see it shamed her deeply to have him know it.

He would not allow her even visual retreat. Cupping her face in one broad hand, he forced her with gentle implacability to face him. His anger was a burning flame, one that did not emit heat but rather consumed it. It grew even icier when he saw the mark, high on her left cheek. A shape very familiar to him, having only just seen it on scores of documents.

The Rose of Summerlea. The king’s royal seal. Not the large, ostentatiously engraved seal of the office of the king, but the smaller simpler version made by Verdan’s signet ring. Burned into her cheek like a brand.

“I will not ask who beat you,” he said. His thumb brushed across her cheek, over the ridges of the Rose branded into her skin. “As he signed his work, there is no need.” Then his voice dropped to a low whisper for her ears only. “Was marriage to me such a terrible fate that this was the better option?”

Her eyes shot up to lock with his. Her full lips trembled. “I—”

His lips thinned, and he stepped back. “Go with your sisters. Put on a different gown. Something loose-fitting that will not damage you further.”

He waited for his wife and her sisters to leave the chamber, then advanced on Verdan with slow deliberation.

“You sought to deceive me. You beat your own child within an inch of her life so she would go along with your deception. Which hand did you beat her with, Verdan? Which hand did you raise against the woman you gave to me as wife? This one, I think.” His hand shot out, snatching Verdan’s right wrist—his sword arm—and holding it in a grip of stone.

“You made a mistake, Summerlander,” Wynter continued. “She is my wife now. By the laws of the Craig, it is my duty to seek justice for any crimes done against her—even those crimes committed against her before we wed. The blows you struck against her are now blows struck against me.

For the first time all morning, genuine fear crept into Verdan’s eyes.

“This hand, which beat my wife until she could scarcely stand, you will never lift again against another. She lives, and so you live. But the hand you raised against her dies.” Power came to his call, burning his veins with ice, traveling down his arm to the hand that gripped Verdan’s right wrist.

Verdan hissed as the first, painful tingles of cold shot through his skin. As the blood and flesh began to freeze, his eyes widened, and he began to struggle, but Wynter grabbed him by the throat and squeezed, sending the Summer King to his knees.

The frost spread, creeping up the Summer King’s arm to his shoulder and down to the tips of his fingers. His choked cries turned to outright shrieks as the skin of his frozen hand and arm began to harden. Relentless, icy, unmoved by the other man’s pleas for mercy, Wynter held his grip until the arm was a dead, useless hulk of flesh.

Through it all, Wynter felt nothing. No remorse, no pity. Not even a particular rage. His heart was an unmoved block of ice in his chest. When he released his enemy, the once-haughty Summer King hunched over his dead arm, weeping and moaning, his body racked by shivers.

“If ever again you consider deceiving me or harming anyone under my care, remember today,” Wynter advised in a voice of pure ice. “And consider this also: I will now do everything in my power to ensure that Khamsin’s child—the child of the daughter you loathe—will be the next ruler to sit on the Summer Throne.”

Leaving Verdan huddled on the floor, Wynter strode out of the room.

Khamsin was waiting for him outside, standing near the golden Summerlea coach he’d commandeered for the long journey back to Wintercraig. Her sisters were ringed around her, weeping, while she stood stoic and brave despite all she’d suffered. Feeling returned to Wynter in a painful rush, and he wanted to turn back around and freeze what he’d left of Verdan.

Instead, he drew a breath and started forward. “Time to go, wife. Say your farewells.”

Storm gray eyes met his. “My fa— King Verdan?”

“He lives, but he will never raise that hand to another. Say your farewells and get in the coach. I weary of Summerlea.”

She hesitated, almost as if she considered defying him, then thought the better of it. Turning to her sisters, she gave each a final hug.

“We each put a gift inside the coach for you,” Spring told her. “A little bit of Summerlea to take with you to your new home. Remember what I told you last night.”

“Write to us,” Summer entreated, “as often you can. Let us know you are well.”

“I put the growing lamps in the coach as well, and more of Tildy’s herbs,” Autumn said. “Be sure to use them each night until you’re fully healed.”

He gave her a few minutes more, until impatience outweighed generosity. Did her sisters not see she was already tiring? “Enough. Get in the coach.” He reached for her, and his approach was enough to drive her sisters back, as he’d expected it would. He took her slender hand and helped her into the carriage. At the touch, he felt again that little jolt of electric warmth, and the frigid ice surrounding his heart began to thaw.

The maid Verdan had insisted Wynter take to care for his bride was already inside, huddled in the far corner of the roomy coach, next to a collection of potted plants—most ridiculously ill suited to the world Khamsin was about to enter. Rosebushes, citrus trees . . . and was that a birdcage? Chirping song warbled from the cloth-covered cage, confirming his suspicions. Winter’s Frost! Songbirds. Probably the delicate, summer-fond kind that would keel over on their little pampered birdie feet and die at the first hard frost.

Which idiot sister had given her those things? He was the
Winter King,
emphasis on
Winter.
What part of that did they not understand? He pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose, squeezing as the first throb of a headache began to blossom. She already thought him such a monster that she’d let herself be beat near to death before agreeing to wed him. How much more would she hate him if he let her little tropical remembrance garden die? Or had that been the whole point of such a wedding-gift?

His arrogant claims to Valik and his own original plans to the contrary, Wynter had discovered he didn’t want a cold, political marriage. Last night, albeit beneath the influence of a potent drug, he’d shared one of the most intensely passionate nights of his life. With her. Khamsin Coruscate. His wife. Not the studied perfection of Elka’s lovemaking but something wild and elemental and very, very stirring. Just one taste had already addicted him. The hunger to experience such powerful, unleashed passion again was already an ache so deep it hurt.

“Are you . . . not riding with me?” she asked when he made no move to enter the carriage.

“No. Get what rest you can. Have your maid see to your back.” He slammed the carriage door shut and stepped back. It wouldn’t do to let her know the power she held over him. Unwilling though she might have been, she’d had a hand in deceiving him. She was a Summerlander witch, just like the rest of them. He could not forget that.

He whistled, and his white stallion, Hodri, trotted to his side, tossing his head and sending the long, silvery strands of his mane flying. Wyn thrust a plated boot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle in a smooth, practiced motion. Beneath him, Hodri pranced a little as he adjusted to the weight, then settled.

“Come, my loyal friend,” he whispered, stroking Hodri’s strong neck. “Time to leave this Summerland behind.” He lifted a gauntleted hand, and cried out, “Men of the Craig! The hot springs of Mount Freika are waiting, as are the lonely arms of your wives. Let’s go home.”

The gathered Wintermen gave a great cheer. Wynter clucked a command, and Hodri began his elegant, high-stepping walk down the long, curving lanes that led out to the valley below and north to the mountains beyond. The carriage holding Khamsin gave a lurch, and the iron-shod wheels began their rumbling forward motion. Within moments, thousands of hooves were ringing against cobblestone, filling the city with the sound of their departure.

C
HAPTER 7

Summer’s End

Shards of pain shot up Khamsin’s back as the coach jolted northward along the frozen rutted roads of Summerlea. The journey was made longer by the presence of a young maid, Belladonna Rosh, who’d been chattering since the moment they left Vera Sola. At first, Kham had enjoyed the conversation. She’d spent so much time alone, it was nice to have a companion. But after the second hour and the third . . . well, silence was a gift she’d never truly appreciated.

Each hour, Bella changed the dressings on Kham’s back and rubbed a fresh layer of cream on her skin, but the dutiful attention made little difference. The meager sunlight that filtered through the gray clouds was not nearly enough to catalyze Kham’s natural healing ability, and the constant jostling of the carriage tore open more fragile, healing seams of flesh than Bella’s ministrations could keep up with. To make matters worse, Khamsin discovered she wasn’t a good traveler. The constant rock and sway of the coach left her feeling decidedly queasy. Her insistence on sitting upright didn’t help matters, but she’d had enough of feeling helpless and weak. Eventually, each time the carriage hit a hard bump, Bella would leap across the carriage to Khamsin’s side and start wailing over her like she was on death’s door.

“For Halla’s sake!” Kham finally exclaimed. “If I need your help, I’ll ask for it. Until then, go sit there on that side of the coach and find some way to occupy yourself that doesn’t include hovering over me.”

Bella bit her lip and sank back into the cushioned seat on the opposite side of the coach. She managed to remain still and silent for all of three seconds. Then, clearly unable to help herself, she rummaged around in the small bag by her side, produced yarn and needles, and began industriously knitting away. And resumed talking.

“They say it will take almost a fortnight for us to reach Gildenheim.”

Gods help me.
“So I understand.” Two weeks, stuck in this tiny space, with Bella. Kham would go mad.

Belladonna had only joined Spring’s staff a few days earlier. She’d landed the less-than-desirable post as Khamsin’s lady’s maid and companion by virtue—or, rather, misfortune—of having the least seniority. She was tidy enough in appearance, with big, doe brown eyes, soft skin a few shades darker than Kham’s own, and blue-black hair scraped tightly back and confined in a knot at the nape of her neck, but it was obvious Bella had never been a lady’s maid in her life. She chattered like a magpie and was altogether too free with her opinions—about everything.

She was none too fond of Wintermen, in particular, and not shy of saying so. “If it took a year to get there, that would be too soon for me. They are savages. Brutes. My cousin’s husband’s second cousin lives near the border. You should hear the tales she has to tell.” The pair of knitting needles in Bella’s fingers clacked a staccato beat. “Half-naked men dancing around campfires, smearing themselves with the blood of whatever poor creature they killed on a hunt. Howling at the moon like a pack of wolves. More beast than man, they are, full of dark, unnatural ways. You mark my words. This is going to end badly for the both of us.”

“They look like a well-ordered, modern army to me,” Kham replied, rubbing a hand at her temple. She’d already had several earfuls about the terrible fate awaiting them both in the savage land of the north. “And I’ve seen no sign of ‘dark, unnatural ways.’ ”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushioned seat. Each jolt and lurch of the carriage sent pain shooting up her back and throbbing against her skull.

“Wait until we cross the border, and they’re back in their own lands. We’ll have to keep a sharp eye out then. Do you know what they do to anyone who breaks their laws? They strip them down to their bare skin, stake them out naked on a glacier, and leave them to die. ‘Mercy of the mountains’ they call it. Ha! Mercy indeed!” The girl’s furiously clacking knitting needles suddenly fell silent.

After a few moments, Kham peeled open one eye to find Bella biting her lip and regarding her with a look she could only describe as consternation.

“What is it?”

“I . . . nothing. Nothing.” The girl bent her dark head back down to her yarn and needles. But rather than resuming her knitting, she just sat there, worrying the thread in silence.

“Bella . . .”

“It’s not my place to say.”

For hours, the girl wouldn’t shut up, and now Kham couldn’t get her to talk. Another hard jolt of the carriage sent pain shooting across Kham’s back. Her stomach lurched. Unwell, and irritated by Bella’s uncharacteristic reticence, she snapped, “Oh, for the love of Helos, spit it out already!”

Bella’s head shot up in surprise. She looked like a kicked puppy.

Kham groaned. Wonderful. Bella was her sole companion. Inexperienced, talkative, and far too opinionated she might be, but she was also the only face from home Khamsin was likely to see in Wintercraig. Alienating her was pointless.

“I’m sorry,” Khamsin apologized. The words came hard. After a lifetime of her sire finding fault with everything about her, she hated to admit when she was in the wrong. Much better to stick out her jaw and take whatever punishment came her way than make herself vulnerable by admitting fault. “I shouldn’t snap at you. But if something is troubling you—as, clearly, it is—you need to tell me.”

The maid bit her lower lip. “It’s just that . . . well, I overheard something I wasn’t supposed to . . . something concerning the Winter King’s plans for . . . for . . .”

Kham fought the urge to scream. Honestly, did she have to drag the truth out of the girl word by word? In a voice that struggled to remain calm and even, she pressed, “The Winter King’s plans for what, Bella?”

“For
you,
ma’am.”

Kham sat up a little straighter, wincing as the motion pulled at her wounded back. “What do you mean? What sort of plans?”

Bella’s smooth brow crinkled in distress, and she started picking at the yarn hanging from her needles again. “I—”

“Bella. What sort of plans?”

The girl swallowed. “He intends to kill you, ma’am. At the end of the year, if you don’t bear him an heir, he intends to kill you and take one of the Seasons to wife.”

Kham moistened her suddenly dry lips. “You heard him say this?”

“Not him.” She bit her lip. “Mistress Newt sent me to the king’s office to be approved as your new maid, and I overheard the king talking to Master Ogam, my lady. I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she hurried to explain. “The door was open. I couldn’t help but hear.”

“Calm yourself.” Kham brushed the worried excuses aside. “Are you sure you heard correctly? The Winter King plans to
kill
me if I don’t bear him an heir in a year’s time?”

“He’ll send you to face the mercy of the mountains—and even your father knew what that meant.”

Khamsin slumped back against the seat cushion, this time hardly noticing the pull and sting of her wounds. She didn’t doubt young Bella for a moment.
Enjoy your life. What’s left of it.
Those were her father’s gloating final words to her. No wonder Verdan had been so determined that she would wed Summerlea’s conqueror and so smugly satisfied to see her off. He believed he was sending her to her death. He relished the idea. Much as he would have liked to do the deed himself, if she died at the Winter King’s hands, Verdan’s hands would be clean. There would be no threat of a blood curse befalling the royal House of Summerlea.

“Forgive me. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. My tongue runs faster than my brain, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry, my lady. Really.”

“It’s all right, Bella.” Kham held up a hand to halt the rush of apologies and self-recrimination. “It was right that you told me. I needed to know. You should never be afraid to tell me anything you think is important.”

“Thank you, my lady. You’re too kind. I’ll remember that in future. But, truly, you look pale, and I can’t help feeling responsible. I know the news was a shock.”

The last thing Kham needed was more hovering. “I’m just feeling a little tired. I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”

“Of course, my lady. Is there anything I can get you? Do for you?”

“No, Bella. I’m fine.” She forced a wan smile. “Please, go back to your knitting.”

Kham lay down face-first on the coach seat, using her arms to pillow her head. As Bella’s knitting needles resumed their rhythmic clacking, she closed her eyes. She hadn’t lied to Bella. She was weary. Her back was hurting, she hadn’t slept much the previous night, and the long hours of jostling in the coach had sapped her strength. But the truth was, she needed time to digest Bella’s news and decide what to do about it.

The man she’d married had declared war on Summerlea and conquered it, true, but the Prince of Summerlea had stolen Wynter Atrialan’s future queen and murdered his brother—his only heir. Many kings had and would go to war over the first offense. All of them would go to war for the second.

Although Wynter was a stranger for all intents and purposes, she could have sworn there was kindness beneath his cold exterior. The way he’d worried that he hadn’t pleasured her in their marriage bed . . . the way he’d come to her defense this morning with her father . . . She and her sisters had paused outside the door to eavesdrop this morning after Khamsin’s unmasking. A part of her had secretly thrilled at the way Wynter declared himself bound to seek justice for any wound done to her. But could he really share such shattering passion with her, avenge the brutal treatment she’d received at her father’s hands, while all the while planning to murder her if she didn’t bear him an heir in a year’s time?

It didn’t make sense. Even Tildy had been sure he was, at heart, an honorable man. Or had all that been a lie, too?

Stop, Kham! Stop!
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead into the cradle of her arms. Bah. She would drive herself mad, seeing treachery at every corner. Yes, Tildy had conspired with Wynter Atrialan to end the war with a marriage between the two Houses. Yes, she had conspired for Khamsin and Wynter to meet. But she had also spent her life caring for Khamsin, looking out for her, protecting, teaching, and nurturing her. No matter how angry Khamsin was, in her heart she knew Tildy would never knowingly have encouraged this marriage if she’d suspected there was a death sentence hanging over it.

Tildy was no naïve innocent. She’d spent her life in and around courts and all their intrigues. Servants knew the evil that their masters did. She had met the Winter King face-to-face, spent six months sizing him up. She’d seen something in him that warranted trusting him with the royal charge she’d spent her life protecting. She would never have suggested the marriage if she didn’t truly believe Khamsin was safer in Wynter Atrialan’s keeping than she was in Verdan Coruscate’s.

So either Bella had misheard, or Tildy had misjudged Wynter Atrialan.

Because what sort of honorable man would wed a woman with the intent to kill her?

Khamsin must somehow have fallen asleep because, the next she knew, the coach had stopped. The sounds of men and horses moving around filtered through the open windows.

She pushed up into a sitting position and groaned. She felt battered and queasy and notably weaker than she had this morning.

Bella flew to her side. “Your Highness! You’re awake. Oh, you don’t look well at all.”

Kham ignored the hovering and peered out the coach window. “We’ve stopped?”

“Yes, to rest and water the horses. Your Highness! What are you doing?”

Kham, who had pushed open the coach door, paused to scowl over her shoulder. “I’m getting out of the coach. What does it look like?”

“But—”

“I’m fine. I just need to stretch my legs.” Unlike her sisters, who’d been trained from birth to sit through long, boring ceremonies without fidgeting, Khamsin had never known confinement. The forced inactivity was stifling.

The moment her feet touched the frozen ground, however, she half wished she’d stayed in the carriage. All around her, as far as her eyes could see, mile after mile of what had once been verdant farmland lay barren and fallow beneath thick layers of snow and ice. The husks of unharvested crops stood like tattered skeletons in the abandoned fields, a grim reminder of Wynter’s devastating march of conquest. Khamsin drew a deep breath of the chill, brisk air and forced back the feelings of sadness that threatened to swamp her. The war was over. Summerlea would bloom once more. Her marriage had ensured that.

Even if that marriage cost her her life.

Bella nodded to a nearby cornfield. “If you want a little privacy, ma’am, that cornfield there looks like the best we’re likely to get here.”

“Privac—?” Kham broke off. Down the line, a number of soldiers were heading off into the fields. “Oh.” She felt her cheeks grow hot. “Er . . . no, Bella, I’m fine. I’ll wait until we reach a posting inn.”

“That will be a long wait,” a male voice declared from behind.

Khamsin spun around, half-expecting to find Wynter there. Her shoulders sagged with something that felt alarmingly like disappointment when she realized the speaker was the White King’s Steward of Troops instead.

“Armies don’t stop at posting inns,” he explained. He watched her carefully, his blue eyes darker than Wynter’s, but just as piercing.

Heat flushed her cheeks. Of course armies didn’t stop at posting inns. What had she been thinking? Armies were, by necessity, self-sufficient when it came to travel. With thousands of men and horses in the column, it would take every posting inn in a very large city to serve them.

Wonderful, Khamsin. Now, he thinks you’re an empty-headed fool.
Not that he’d held her in much esteem to begin with, she was sure. She doubted he’d forgotten who gave him that bluish bruise darkening his jaw. She only hoped he didn’t hold grudges as bitterly as his king.

So, there would be no convenient posting inn. She cast a considering glance over her shoulder at the cornfield. Though pride insisted she forge bravely through whatever obstacles came her way, just the sight of the snow-covered stalks made her shudder. No, it was out of the question. Maybe later, when she was desperate, but not now. And definitely not with the White King’s steward looking on.