The Winter King (23 page)

The cape she’d worn this morning lay draped across the chaise. He bent to pick it up and pressed it against his face. It smelled of her. The jasmine she’d used to wash her hair, and the bold, electric freshness that reminded him of the mountains after a powerful spring storm.

He wanted to close his eyes and rub his face in the gathered cloth, marking himself with her scent, marking her cloak with his. Instead, he forced his fingers open and let the fabric spill to the floor.

“Your Majesty? May I help you?”

Wynter turned swiftly.
Foolish, Wyn! Very foolish!
No one had been able to sneak up on him in years, but he’d been so preoccupied, he hadn’t sensed the little Summerlander maid’s approach.

“Where is your mistress?”

“In the west gardens, my lord. She said she needed fresh air after Mistress Narsk and the seamstresses left.”

Wynter walked to the balcony windows and looked out. Sure enough, several stories down to the west, he found his wife traversing the walks of the terraced western gardens. She’d donned one of her fur-lined Summerlander cloaks, but her head was bare, her distinctive dark hair easy to spot even at a distance.

The moment he clapped eyes on her, he felt the tug in his chest. The yearning to go to her, walk with her, bask in her fiery warmth.

Before he could act on that yearning, logic prevailed. Distance. He must at all costs keep a wise distance. Besides, she needed time to settle in, and he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Resolute, he turned and headed back to his own rooms.

C
HAPTER 11

Ice Spears, Garm, and Other Perils

The Temple of Wyrn was built in a cave on the southern face of Mount Vetr. A long, narrow stone road led from Gildenheim’s eastern gate, across a bridge to the neighboring peak, and up to the mouth of the cave. Within, the cave’s walls and ceiling were coated with ice, and a long promenade led to the wide, rounded main chamber of the temple. There, an altar carved from a block of ice dominated the room, and in the center of the altar sat a chalice of diamond- and sapphire-encrusted platinum, in which burned a cold blue flame that emitted no heat. Crossed ice spears hung on the wall behind the altar, beneath the carved ice mask of the goddess Wyrn.

The last time Wynter had entered this temple, he’d stripped down to his skin and taken the narrow passage to the left of the altar, traveling through a deadly, magical gauntlet littered with the frozen bodies of men who had tried—and failed—the same gauntlet before him. He had survived the tests and made his way to the secret chamber buried deep in the glacier on the opposite side of the mountain, and to the dark pool of liquid ice known as the Ice Heart. That liquid was said to be the immortal essence drained from the heart of Wyrn’s once-mortal husband, Rorjak, who’d traded her love for power, using the gifts she’d bestowed upon him to father the Frost Giants and become the first Ice King. It was to slay her husband that Wyrn had fashioned the ice spears and given them to her brother Thorgyll.

Wynter knew the legends were true. Three years ago, he’d put his lips to that liquid ice and swallowed a mouthful of it. The chill had sped straight to his heart and frozen him from the inside out.

“Remembering?” Galacia Frey’s voice whispered across the ice, echoing softly.

He turned and saw her standing in the shadows of the entrance that led to the priestesses’ private chambers. “Yes.”

“You are colder now by far than you were when you left.”

Wynter held her gaze. “Yes.”

“Is there still hope, do you think?”

“I thought you summoned me to find that out.”

Her lips curved in a cold smile. “I did.” The smile vanished. She stalked towards the altar, her long snowbear-fur robe trailing behind her. “Approach the altar,” she commanded.

There was something about the tone of her voice that put him on edge. Since the day she’d become a priestess of Wyrn, she’d treated him with distant reserve, but this was different. Warrior’s instinct made him move slowly, his fingers inches from Gunterfys’s grip. He sniffed the air, wondering if the other two priestesses were lying in wait, but he detected only Galacia’s faint scent. The temple ice muted smells, and no breeze stirred the air, but if the others were near he would have known. Not an ambush, then.

She stood behind the altar, between the cup of blue flame and the wall of spears, looking regal and reserved. When he continued to hesitate, she arched one haughty, mocking brow. “Afraid, Wyn?” she gibed softly.

The familiar, taunting amusement made him grit his teeth. They’d known each other since childhood. She’d never given much respect to a man’s pride—except as a weapon to tweak him with. Obviously, that was still one of her favorite weapons. Regrettably, it still worked.

Damnable woman. He’d show her who should be afraid of whom. Wynter dropped his hand from his sword hilt and leapt up on the altar dais in one swift step. He realized his mistake in an instant.

The world went white.

Air and snow and ice whirled around him in a blinding tempest. He yanked Gunterfys from its sheath. “Galacia!” he roared. The power of the Ice Heart swept over him in a burning rush and gathered at the backs of his eyes. He spun, sweeping Gunterfys and the Ice Gaze blindly in the white wind.

Then froze when the point of a spear pressed against his back.

The tempest slowed to a flurry of snow, then disappeared. He was standing before the altar, facing the wall of spears. One of them was missing. A thick layer of frost from his Gaze lay over everything, except the steadily burning blue of the flame in the cup.

“Drop the sword and shutter your Gaze. Now, Wyn,” she snapped when he didn’t instantly obey. “Pass the test, and you’re free to go. Refuse, and you die now on the point of my spear.”

“Damn you for a coldhearted witch!” he hissed, but he knew he’d been bested. Galacia had positioned her spear in the perfect spot. A single thrust would drive it between his ribs and straight through his heart. He opened his fist and let Gunterfys clatter to the floor. The cold rage of the Ice Gaze drained away.

“Good. Now put your hand in the flame.”

“Are you mad?” He started to turn around. The spear’s needled point dug deeper, freezing his shirt and numbing the flesh beneath.

“Do it,” she ordered.

“Woman, you will regret this.”

“The regret started long ago. Now, put your hand in the flame.” She jabbed the spear in his back again for emphasis.

He shoved his hand into the center of the blue flame burning in the chalice. The fire flared high in a sudden explosion of red-orange light. He cried out in pain and yanked his hand back. The flesh of his hand was sizzling, and blisters had formed across his palm.

The spear at his back fell away.

He whirled, but she was already gone. He snatched up Gunterfys as she darted around the corner of the altar table. She held the spear pointed towards him and crouched in a defensive stance, ready for battle.

“You’d be dead before you ever drew back that spear to strike,” he snapped.

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But kill a priestess of Wyrn in her own temple, and you won’t live to cross the threshold.”

He snarled at her. While others might doubt the gods still actively manifested their power in the world of men, Wynter knew better. For now, at least, Galacia had won. “You always were an annoying wretch of a girl.” He gave her a last, black scowl, heaved out an irritated gust of air, and shoved Gunterfys back in its sheath. “Well, did I pass your test?”

“What do you think?”

He gave her a sullen look. “I think if I hadn’t, I’d already be dead.”

A ghost of a smile warmed her eyes. She straightened and slowly raised the spear until its sharp tip pointed towards the roof of the ice cave. “The flame only burns flesh that still retains the heat of life. If the Ice Heart had consumed you, the fire would have remained blue and cold.” She turned her back to him and set the spear back in place with its twin on the wall.

“You’ve shown your hand, priestess. If I do become the Ice King, I won’t be fool enough to return here and let you prove it.”

“I know,” she agreed, “but the refusal will be proof enough on its own.”

“I am so warned.” His pride was still smarting at the way she’d outmaneuvered him. He’d never liked losing to her. He still didn’t. “Do what you must, Galacia. You always have.” He turned and headed for the entrance to the cave.

“There was a reason I needed to test you today,” she called after him.

He ignored her. He’d had enough of her mysteries and torments.

“The
garm
have come.”

He stopped. Turned slowly back. The
garm
were deadly, giant wolflike monsters from the ice fields of the Craig, pets and servants of the Frost Giants, Rorjak’s deadly minions. His brows drew together in a scowl. “Barsul said nothing of it.”

“He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him. I haven’t told anyone until you, just now.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“No. Not seen.” Already her haughty air of superiority was returning. She circled the altar, running a long, blue-nailed finger along the edge. “Smelled them on the wind.”

“I have not.”

“Your nose is full of weatherwitch.” She arched a brow. “Did you think I would not scent her on you?”

“I know better than that.” Her mother was Snow Wolf clan, like him. Galacia and he had run together with the wolves as children, until Wyrn had called her to service on her tenth birthday. He knew she had enough blood of the wolf in her to grant her a portion of its power. “I wed her to sire an heir, and the begetting of one has proven much more enjoyable than I’d dared hope. Summerfolk are exceedingly passionate.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Jealous, Laci?” he jabbed, unable to resist a taunt of his own. Deliberately, he used the name he’d used when they’d run together as children. Until she’d been called by Wyrn, her parents and his had intended her to be his bride. But as a priestess of Wyrn, her bed was as cold as the goddess she served.

She didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s good that part of this marriage agrees with you. An enjoyable duty is a pleasure, not a chore, and thus more likely to be completed well and swiftly.”

The cool response irritated him, so he dug his next barb a little deeper. “Well, if that’s your measure, a dozen of my children should already be growing in her womb.”

She gave him a brittle smile. “Only a dozen? You disappoint me, Wyn.”

That brittleness shamed him. He’d struck her, all right, and hard, and there was no excuse for it. She’d not chosen her path; it had been chosen for her. Wyrn had called her at age ten, before she’d even known boys were good for more than beating in footraces and games of war. She’d never known a man’s love or passion, and never would. She’d never hold a child of her own. “Laci . . .”

She cut him off. Already, the brief moment of vulnerability had passed. She was once more the icy Lady Frey, Wyrn’s priestess, coldly distant and impervious to the frailties of human emotion. “In truth, even if you didn’t reek of your Summer witch, I’d be surprised if you could detect the
garm.
Their scent is very faint, and I myself can only catch it when the wind is just right. And if not for the dreams Wyrn sends me, I would not have noticed even that. They are still keeping to the mountains, but I doubt it will be long before they grow bolder.”

“I will organize a Hunt.”

“A Hunt? Where? Through the entire breadth and depth of the Craig?” She laughed shortly. “You won’t have any idea where to start until they strike, and you find a trail fresh enough to follow. And the moment you mention the
garm,
your own life will be in danger. There are those who would stab you in the back rather than risk the coming of the Ice King.”

“Including you, as I just discovered.”

“Including me.” Her gaze was every bit as steady as his. “I am Wyrn’s, after all.”

He gave a rueful laugh. She was an honest woman. Often brutally so, but that was one of the qualities he’d always liked about her. He’d rather have an honest spear aimed at his back than a faceful of lies and political machinations.

“Barsul told me about the men sent to face the mercy of the mountains. Is that because of the growing power of the Ice Heart, too?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s possible.”

“Then why not kill me now and have done with it? You had your chance. Why didn’t you take it?”

“All hope is not yet lost. Besides, I know Barsul told you of Calberna and the Summer Prince. If you are slain, invasion is a certainty, and from more than just Calberna. The only thing that’s kept the foreign kings at bay these last years has been the fear that you would turn the power of the Ice Heart on their own kingdoms and lay them waste.”

“I suppose I should thank Falcon, then. If not for his efforts to raise a Calbernan army, I would have been greeted with spears instead of wreaths.”

The blue-tinted nails idly scraped the ice altar, and the tower of frozen curls tilted slightly to one side. Galacia’s pale eyes remained cool and steady.

Wyn scowled at her, recognizing that look. She’d already said all she would. “So the
garm
have come, but I should stay here and do nothing? That is your advice?”

“You should stay here and impregnate your little weatherwitch.
That
is my advice. Your idea in wedding her was a good one. Hold your child in your arms while there’s still warmth enough in you to feel the love you need to melt the Ice Heart. The surest way to drive back the
garm
is to rob their masters of hope for victory.”

Wynter snorted. “Between you, Barsul, and my queen’s own father, I’ve never had so many friends urging me to bed a woman.” Not that the idea of spending the next year in bed plowing Khamsin every chance he got was unappealing.

“It’s never been so important. Too much is at stake, and time is a luxury you don’t have.”

“How long do I have?”

“Not long. Probably less than a year if you continue to use the power. A weaker man would have succumbed long before now.”

Wynter absorbed the information without flinching. He’d known how high the price of the Ice Heart could be, but after holding Garrick’s body in his arms, no amount of wise counsel could have swayed him from charting his course of vengeance.

“If the
garm
have come,” he said, “I will not leave my people unprotected. They must be warned, no matter the cost to me.”

“Then send outriders to the remote farms and villages,” Galacia replied—quickly enough that Wyn realized she’d already decided what he should do before he’d stepped foot inside the temple. “Claim rumors of marauding darkwolves. Have the villagers form town watches to patrol the woods and report anything suspicious. Warn them to keep their livestock penned close and avoid traveling through the woods in parties smaller than three. If the
garm
do venture down from the mountains, I doubt they will be bold enough at first to do more than prey on the alone and unwary.”

“The moment the villagers find the first tracks, they’ll know the truth.”

“Yes, but by then, your bride could be pregnant. That may provide hope enough to hold potential assassins at bay. Regicide is not a crime Winterfolk easily embrace.”

“Only priestesses of Wyrn, eh, Laci?”

She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, her face a cool, expressionless mask.

He shrugged his shoulders to release the gathered tension in them. “Was there anything else, or are we done?”

“We’re done,” she said. “I’ll show you out.”

After one last, brief glance at the ice spears and the carved, frozen face of Wyrn behind the altar, Wynter fell into step beside the severe, stately woman who’d once been his friend and intended bride. At the temple entrance, the wind of the high reaches rushed over them, blowing Wynter’s hair all around his face. Galacia’s stood impervious to it. Like the goddess she served, she was a tower of ice, untouched by the elements.