The Winter King (43 page)

“Few ever do—at least not those who live to tell the tale.” Done unwrapping the horses’ hooves, Krysti swung into the saddle and gathered up his reins. “That was a
garm,
the deadliest monster in all of Wintercraig. We’ve got to tell the king.”

The pair of horses thundered down the valley road towards Gildenheim. Long before they reached it, they saw flocks of birds winging through the sky and heard the echoing sound of horns blowing in the villages around them. Three long blasts. Then a pause, then three long blasts again.

“What does that mean?” Kham asked.

“It means the king already knows about the
garm.
He’s calling for the Great Hunt.”

“I don’t understand why I have to stay behind. Galacia Frey and her priestesses are going.”

Wynter drew a deep breath and reminded himself to remain patient as his wife crossed her arms and glowered. Ever since Khamsin and Krysti had returned to Gildenheim yesterday, riders had been pouring in through the gates, and the skies were filled with birds sending replies to Gildenheim’s summons. Now dawn was near, and enough Winterfolk had gathered to start the Great Hunt. And Khamsin was not happy that she would not be one of them.

“Laci is going because she’s the High Priestess of Wyrn. She is the guardian of Thorgyll’s Spears, and her presence is required. Her priestesses are going to assist her. They are trained to hunt
garm.
You are not.”

“But—”

Wynter held up a hand. “Enough. You are not going, no matter how much you wheedle, shout, or stamp your foot. You’re staying here, in Gildenheim, where I know you’ll be safe. My mind is made up.”

She crossed her arms and glared. She had an impressive glare. Those silver eyes, those brows drawn tight across the bridge of her nose, the way her full lips pursed. Well, maybe not the pursed lips. Those just made him want to kiss her.

He sighed and caught her shoulders. “I need you safe,
min ros.
Don’t you understand? When I realized you and Krysti were alone in the mountains where the
garm
had been sighted, I thought I was going to lose you.” Just the thought of how close she’d come to death had kept him awake all night long. He didn’t want to know that level of fear again anytime soon.

“You think it will be any better for me, waiting around here while you’re out hunting these creatures? Krysti told me about them. They’re deadly dangerous.”

“Which is exactly why we must hunt them down. Once they come down from the mountain, they’ll hunt and kill anything that crosses their path—and they’ll keep at it until the riders of the Great Hunt stop them.”

“All the more reason for me to go with you. This is my home now. I have as much right and duty to defend it as you and Galacia do.”

“Khamsin, when we first left Summerlea, Valik wanted to stay behind to govern Vera Sola. As the White Sword, it was his right and his duty. I wouldn’t let him stay . . . because I couldn’t risk losing him to a rebel blade. It is your right and duty to defend your home—and it gladdens my heart to know you consider Wintercraig that home now—but I need you to stay here, in the palace, where it’s safe. I can’t risk anything happening to you. If you were hurt . . . if I lost you . . .” He swallowed hard.

Her rebellious, stubborn scowl wavered. “Wyn . . .” The threatening storm in her eyes turned to soft, liquid silver. One slender hand rose towards his face.

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss in her palm. “Please,
min ros.
Promise me you’ll stay here, out of trouble. Don’t make me command you.” He pulled her close and bent to press another kiss on her lips. Not a wild, explosive kiss of passion, but something long and lingering. A kiss that sang a hymn of devotion with each warm breath and brush of lips upon lips. “Please,” he whispered when at last he pulled away. “Promise me.”

She blinked up at him with hazy eyes and touched her lips in bemusement. “I promise.”

The relief that flooded his heart nearly staggered him. “Thank you.”

“Now,
you
promise
me
that you’ll come back safely.”

They both knew any such promise would be a lie, so he said instead, “I’ll move Halla and Hel to do so, Summerlass. On that you have my oath.”

The hunters had gathered. Scores of Wintermen and a handful of strong, battle-tested women. Instead of shining silver armor, they wore pale leathers bleached to shades of white and cream so they blended in with the snowy forest. All were heavily armed with bows and spears and throwing axes as well as swords. And although each hunter wore an expression as grim as death, the aura of anticipation was unmistakable.

These folk were mountain bred. Hunters, all. And this gathering, despite its serious purpose, filled them with a visceral eagerness.

Wynter swung into the saddle. He had slung a bow and quiver across his back, and Gunterfys was strapped securely to his side. In a Great Hunt, everyone carried both a ranged weapon and a sword. The ranged weapon would be their primary defense, and most prayed they would never need to unsheathe the sword. Against a
garm,
a man’s odds of survival dropped sharply in close combat.

Hodri shifted, snorted a puff of vapor into the cold air, and shook his head. For this hunt, he’d been stripped of his usual bells, so the long, wavy strands of his mane, threaded with thin white ribbons, danced in silence against his strong neck.

A clatter of hooves announced the arrival of Galacia Frey and her two priestesses. Clad in white leather and riding snowy white mares, Galacia and one of the other priestesses each held one of the long, crystalline ice spears they had taken from the wall behind Wyrn’s altar. All three carried long, curving white bows and quivers full of hollow arrows filled with capsules of concentrated acid.

Wynter glanced up at the balcony high above the courtyard and found Khamsin, dressed in defiant scarlet and gold, standing on the stone walk outside her chamber. The sky was overcast and weeping snow that blew on an occasional fitful gust of wind. She was still not happy to be left behind, but Wynter wouldn’t risk her safety in the most dangerous expedition in all of Wintercraig. The Great Hunt never failed to claim lives, and he would face whatever tempest she cared to brew before he let her even chance becoming one of the Hunt’s casualties.

Their eyes met. He raised his hand in a faint salute, then led the Great Hunt out of Gildenheim.

Four days later, the riders of the Great Hunt still had not returned.

Khamsin stood beside the mullioned cathedral windows of Gildenheim’s large gathering room, staring down in brooding silence at the castle’s many terraced gardens. The view was beautiful—the snow-blanketed gardens white and serene, the frozen waterfalls magical, as if time itself had stopped—but even the most exquisite winter beauty couldn’t calm her nerves. She didn’t want to see frosted evergreens sculpted in perfect shapes. She wanted to see the riders of the Great Hunt coming safely home . . . with Wynter in the lead.

The waiting was driving her mad. Normally, Krysti would have been with her, keeping her entertained and her mind occupied, but since they were confined to the palace, she’d insisted he join the top-floor children for their lessons in the afternoons.

The rustle of skirts behind her made her turn. The other ladies of the court were seated throughout the room, occupying themselves with reading, needlework, or quiet conversation. Lady Melle had set down her needlework and crossed the room to join Khamsin at the window.

“I wouldn’t expect them back so soon, Your Grace,” she said. “The Great Hunt usually lasts for many more days. I even remember one when I was a girl that lasted three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” Khamsin stared at her in horror. Three weeks of being locked in this castle, waiting, would drive her mad. “How do you bear it?”

“The waiting is hard, I know.” Lady Melle’s eyes were filled with kindness and sympathy. “And I won’t lie and tell you it ever gets any easier. It doesn’t. This is the sixth Great Hunt in my lifetime. And every time, I’m a bundle of nerves waiting for the men to return.”

“Have you ever ridden with them? I saw other women Hunters besides Lady Frey and her priestesses.”

“Single women only. Widowed or never wed. Married women don’t ride in the Hunt.”

That didn’t seem at all fair to Khamsin. “Why not? If they’re capable and have the desire, why shouldn’t they ride in the Hunt just like the men?”

Lady Melle smiled gently. “
Garm
are the fiercest, most dangerous beasts in the Craig, my dear. Riders die in the Great Hunt—often. You’re wed to a Winterman. You’ve lived among us long enough to know what that means. Our men would die to keep us safe. We remain in Gildenheim, so fewer of them have to.”

“Has a king of Wintercraig ever died in a Great Hunt?”

Lady Melle hesitated, then admitted, “Yes.”

Kham’s mind filled with an image of Wynter, bleeding his life out in the snow. The vision was so horribly vivid that Khamsin spun back towards the window and took short, fast breaths as she battled back an unexpected rush of tears.

Seeing her distress, the elderly lady exclaimed, “Oh, my dear! No, you mustn’t think such thoughts.” She wrapped an arm around Khamsin’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Wynter of the Craig is no ordinary king. It would take far more than a single
garm
to bring him to harm.”

Kham leaned into the older woman’s embrace. It was the first time since leaving Gildenheim that a woman had offered Khamsin the comfort of a hug, and that nearly broke the dam holding back a flood of tears.

“There now. There.” Lady Melle patted Kham’s back and murmured soothing noises until the worst of the emotional storm passed.

Sniffling, wiping at her eyes with the palms of her hands, Kham pulled away and tried to regain a measure of composure. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not by nature the weepy sort.”

“Of course you aren’t. These are extraordinary circumstances.” The lady positioned herself between Khamsin and the other ladies in the gathering room. “I should have made a point of preparing you for this myself, and I did not. I beg your pardon.”

Kham smiled wanly and looked up through tear-spiked lashes. “It’s hardly your fault I turned into a waterfall on you.” Khamsin gave herself a stern shake and cleared her throat. “I’ve never been good at waiting. It doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon.”

“None of us are good at it, my queen. That’s why the ladies of the court have always banded together in such times. Company makes the waiting easier to bear.”

Kham gave a watery laugh. “Yes, well, I don’t think needlework will ever make any wait of mine easier.”

Now it was Lady Melle’s turn to smile. “Perhaps not. We will just have to find other pursuits that suit you better. Reading perhaps? Or a game of cards? I understand you enjoy playing Aces.”

“I wouldn’t want to bother the others.”

“Nonsense. You are our queen, and we are your ladies. We are here to see to your comfort, not the other way around.”

Wynter knelt in the crisp snow on the slopes of Mount Trjoll in the Craig. Four days ago, they’d picked up the tracks of the
garm
a scant half mile from the outcropping where Krysti said he’d taken Khamsin. Until that moment, Wynter hadn’t realized just how close Khamsin and Krysti had come to meeting the monster face-to-face.
Garm
could cover a half mile in less than a minute. One small change in the direction of the wind, and his Summerlass would never have come home.

Wynter hadn’t slept well since.

From Jarein Tor, they’d tracked the
garm
through the mountains to Hammrskjoll, up the mountains and through Glacier Pass in the Craig, then west into the Minsk River valley.

“He’s heading towards Skala-Holt,” Wyn murmured.

“I’ll send an eagle to warn them.”

“Let’s hope we’re not too late.” Wyn stood. “Mount up.” He swung into the saddle and gathered up the reins.

“Eagle coming in!”

Wyn looked up to see the broad white span of a snow eagle’s wings soaring through the blue sky. The bird tucked its wings and stooped towards them, slowing at the last moment to land on Valik’s outstretched arm.

Valik removed the message capsule from the bird’s leg. He pumped his arm skyward, setting the eagle back in flight, and tossed a small vole into the air. The eagle snatched its treat from the sky and flew off to a rocky outcropping to eat.

“What news?” Wynter asked as Valik scanned the message.

“Word from the men you sent into the Craig to find the
garm
’s den.” Valik glanced up, his expression grim. “The
garm
didn’t just come down to Jarein Tor. Someone lured it there deliberately.

“Your Grace.” A servant Kham didn’t recognize furtively handed her a sealed envelope. “I was asked to deliver this,” she whispered, then hurried away.

Curious. Khamsin opened the envelope and pulled out the folded parchment inside. Scrawled in a sloppy hand across the parchment, the note read:

The Great Hunt is an ambush. They mean to kill the king to end the threat of Rorjak’s return. We must warn him. I’ll be waiting with the horses at the old mill at eleven o’clock. Leave the same way as last Freikasday. Don’t let anyone see you. Burn this note.

The note wasn’t signed, but it could only be from Krysti. Who else knew about last Friekasday’s escape through the hidden door on the western wall?

She thought about Galacia and her priestesses, all armed with deadly weapons that could kill in an instant. Much as Kham didn’t want to believe any of them would kill their king, she knew better. The first loyalty of every priestess was to her goddess, not her king. And no matter how much Wynter and Khamsin might want to deny it, the Ice Heart still held Wynter firmly in its grip, and its power grew stronger with each passing day.

Would Galacia and her acolytes kill Wynter? According to the ladies of the court, the coming of the
garm
was one of the signs of Rorjak’s return. The rumors that Frost Giants had been involved in the avalanche at Skala-Holt was another. It was possible the priestesses felt time was running out.