The Winter King

CHAPTER 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.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’ll just stretch my legs a bit before we get going again.”

The steward’s expression didn’t change one whit. “As you wish.” He bowed, a brief, curt folding of his body. “My name is Valik. If you need anything, just ask for me.”

“Thank you . . .” She hesitated. What had the palace servants called him? Sir? Lord? “Lord Valik,” she finished, just to be safe. Better to honor him with a title greater than was his due than insult him with a lesser one. From what she’d observed over the years, nobles would duel over the slightest perceived insult to their vaunted lineages.

Valik turned his head slightly and snapped out a brief command. Six armored men jumped to attention. “These men will guard you while you walk,” he said.

“A guard isn’t necessary,” Khamsin said. “We won’t be going far.”

“They will guard you all the same. The war may be over, but the peace has barely begun,” he explained before she could protest again. “Wynter would kill us all if we took chances with your safety.”

Because he wanted the pleasure of killing her himself at year’s end?

Kham caught the caustic retort before it left her tongue. It wouldn’t do to tip her hand. When the time came, she intended to ask Wynter Atrialan to his face. She’d have a better chance of getting a genuine reaction from him if the question came as a surprise.

“Very well,” she answered instead. “I thank you for the consideration.” She turned away and curled a hand around Bella’s arm. “Come, Bella, let’s walk.”

Much to her own irritation, Khamsin tired quickly. Within ten minutes, her knees started going wobbly, and she gave in to Bella’s badgering and headed back for the coach. There, the young maid insisted on bringing Khamsin a bowl of stew, a hunk of cheese, and a little fresh fruit, but the sight of the food only threatened to further unsettle her travel-tossed stomach. She barely managed a few bites of stew and cheese and one segment of orange before pushing the plate away.

“You need to eat, Your Highness,” Bella murmured. “You need to keep up your strength.”

“Perhaps later.” Kham pressed a hand over her face. “I think I’ll just lie down and try to sleep a little more before we get started again. Please, just help me undo my laces—and leave the curtains up. The sun isn’t very strong, but it’s still better than nothing.”

Khamsin stretched out facedown on the cushioned carriage seat while Bella unlaced the back of Kham’s gown and pushed the fabric aside to bare her battered skin.

“Shall I put a little more of Mistress Greenleaf’s cream on your wounds, ma’am?”

“No, it’s been less than an hour since the last time. Leave it for now.” She pulled a fringed and tasseled velvet pillow under her cheek and gave a small sigh. Without the constant jolting, the carriage seat seemed a much softer and more welcoming sleeping couch. Weariness washed over her in a sudden wave, and her eyes closed. Despite the light of the winter gray sky shining through her closed eyelids, sleep descended with unexpected speed.

When she woke, the carriage was once more on the move, and Bella was dozing in the corner on the opposite side of the coach. Kham pushed herself up and stifled a groan. The skin of her back felt tight and tender, and her stomach gave a threatening lurch.

A warble called out from the birdcage. Bella had removed the cover earlier in the day. Within the cage, the mating pair of songbirds clung to their swaying perches. A gift from Spring, the birds were Khamsin’s favorite: scarlet tanagers. During spring and summer breeding, the male’s plumage turned a brilliant shade of scarlet, striking against the glossy black of his wings and tail, but even though it wasn’t yet September, both birds still wore the greenish yellow of their winter, nonbreeding plumage.

“Poor little things,” she murmured. “You both look as green as I feel.”

Remembering the orange she had discarded earlier, Kham opened the hamper on the coach floor, found the remaining pieces of fruit wrapped in cheesecloth, and slipped one of the plump segments into the bottom of the birdcage. The male was the first to hop off his perch and inspect the fruit. His head dipped, beak nipping experimentally at the bit of orange. A few moments later, his mate joined him, chirping brightly and fluttering her greenish gray wings.

Leaving the birds to their meal, Kham leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes. She couldn’t get comfortable. Every lurch and jolt of the carriage pulled at her tender back, and though the cushions were upholstered in velvet, the constant rubbing quickly became a painful friction and forced her to lie back down just to stop aggravating her wounds.

Bella woke and applied more of Tildy’s cream, for what good it did. She tried to keep Kham entertained by reading from the collection of Summerlea histories, but the familiar tales didn’t hold half their usual fascination. The little bit of food Kham had eaten churned about in her stomach for the next two hours, and when they stopped again to rest the horses, Khamsin voluntarily went racing for the privacy of a snow-blanketed cornfield.

The guards Valik had assigned to her attempted to follow, but she whirled on them. “I will have privacy,” she snapped. “I promise if you follow me, it will be the last living thing you ever do.” Her hair crackled about her. It wasn’t a bluff. Sick as she felt, there was enough sunlight to feed her power, and her limited supply of docile, obedient Khamsin had run out hours ago. Agreeing to eat that godforsaken stew was the last concession she was capable of today.

Luckily for them, their years of serving the Winter King had taught the men when a weatherwitch meant business. They backed off and simply stood guard near the edge of the frozen field.

She plunged deep into the cornfield with no fear of getting lost in the six-foot stalks. The sun, the source of her power, was in the sky. Even hidden behind a blanket of winter gray clouds, she knew exactly where it was and she knew her exact position relative to it. When the sun was in the sky, no Heir of the Rose would ever be lost.

When she reached a spot far enough away from the road to be truly private, she stopped. What remained of the food in her stomach didn’t take much coaxing to leave her, and she immediately felt worlds better. She even took the time to step a little farther off and tend to her other needs—an experience she found thoroughly primitive and revolting. She’d never been a pampered princess, but now she realized there were some things she considered basic necessities of life. Like a working toilet. And something besides snow and dried corn husks to go with it.

When she returned to the field, Valik was waiting, blue eyes flashing and a scold on his lips for the way she’d gone off without her guards.

She brushed aside his objections. “There are some matters I refuse to tend to with an audience, Lord Valik. Since you won’t give me the luxury of a posting inn, the least you can afford me is privacy.” When he opened his mouth to object again, she held up a hand. “That is not negotiable.”

Valik went off muttering.

Khamsin smiled for the first time all day. The victory was small, but it was hers. Gathering her skirts, she stepped up on the mounting block positioned by the carriage door. A silvery glint at the corner of her eye made her pause and turn. Her smile faded.

Half a mile up the line, the unmistakable figure of Wynter, shining in polished steel armor, was seated on his impressive white charger. The distance was too great to see his face, but somehow she knew his gaze was fixed upon her. For several seconds, she stood there, frozen by some unnameable force. Then a soldier approached Wynter, and his head turned, and the spell was broken.

Khamsin dove for the protection of the coach. Her heart pounded like a hammer in her chest, and her skin felt flushed and chilled all at the same time. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. What was it about the Winter King that drove through her defenses as if they were paper and shattered her senses with a single glance?

“Ma’am?” Bella’s dark eyes watched her with open concern. “Are you still feeling ill? Should I call for Lord Valik?”

“No,” Kham said quickly. “No, Bella, thank you. I’m fine. I’m feeling much better.”

Strangely enough, it was true. Even from a distance, that one brief, electric exchange with Wynter felt like a shot of pure, unrefracted sunlight. The powerful energy of it still tingled throughout her body, shocking and revitalizing.

Unfortunately, that energy didn’t last long . . . and neither did the respite from the travel sickness that had plagued Khamsin all day. Shortly after resuming their journey, she was back to feeling green and wishing she were anywhere but in a carriage. The interior of the sumptuous, velvet-lined coach began to feel like a torture chamber.

The light shining through the carriage windows grew dimmer as the blanket of soft gray clouds overhead began to darken.

The first, fat, cold drop of rain splashed against Wynter’s sculpted white snow-wolf visor and hit him squarely in the eye, blinding him for a brief moment. A second drop quickly followed the first, then half a dozen more. Within minutes, a steady rain was falling. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Valik rode up alongside him. “That came up fast,” he said.

Wynter nodded, squinting at the horizon, barely visible through the falling rain. They hadn’t made as much progress as he would have liked. Irritability made him want to blame his bride for the delay, but he’d been the one to slow his army’s usual lightning pace in consideration of the wounded princess following behind him in the carriage. Just as he’d been the one to hold up the column for almost two hours while she’d slept. They’d only made fifteen miles today, considerably less than the forty he expected from an army of Wintermen. Vera Sola was still plainly visible on the southern horizon—or would have been except for the rain—and if he didn’t pick up the pace, it would be a month before they reached Wintercraig.

He glanced over his shoulder, towards the carriage following a half mile down the long line of mounted knights and infantry. She had not complained about the journey. Even sick as she was—and he knew she was not traveling well—she’d not complained. She’d protested about the guards he’d assigned to watch over her and threatened to fry them if they followed her into the fields when she went to tend to her personal matters, but she’d not voiced so much as a whimper about her illness or their pace, nor placed demands on his men—which was a surprise. Even amongst his own folk, noblewomen were notorious gluttons for attention and indulgence.

“Send word down the line,” he said. “We’ll camp here for the night.”

Valik nodded and started to turn his horse around.

“And Valik? There are lamps in the carriage that are apparently supposed to help her back heal faster. Have them set them up in my tents. I’ll see to the men while you get her settled.” At Valik’s raised brows, Wynter added, “Your face is prettier than mine, or so I’m told. She may find it easier to do what you ask than what I command.”

“You’re forgetting she kicked me in my pretty face last time I asked her to do something she didn’t want to do.”

Wyn gave a grunt of laughter. “Better than kicking you in the balls.” Then he sobered. “And see to it she actually eats and drinks something.” She’d taken little nourishment all day, and though he’d allowed it, knowing anything she ate was likely to come back up once they started moving again, they were stopping for the night now, and she needed to eat. Her body needed sustenance to heal. “If she balks, tell her I’ll force it down her throat myself if I must.”

Valik shook his head. “I’ll let you tell her that.” He rubbed his jaw. “I want to be able to chew my dinner.”

At first, Khamsin thought the latest stop was just another pause to rest and water the horses. With Bella’s help, she straightened her clothing, donned her hooded cloak, and descended from the carriage, hoping to take at least a brief walk to stretch her own cramped legs. Rain was pelting down in gray sheets. Two soldiers stood beside the carriage door, holding up a canvas tarp to protect her from the rain. She waved them off, opening her own oilskin parasol instead. To her surprise, the long column of men in front of and behind the carriage were fanning out along the roadsides and beginning to pitch their tents.

“We’re stopping for the night?”

The White King’s steward stood waiting for her, still fully armored, but his eagle’s head visor had been pushed back to reveal his face. Of the Winter King, there was no sign.

“He’s gone to check on the men,” the steward said, guessing the reason for Khamsin’s searching gaze. He stood, unflinching, as the pouring rain sluiced down his golden brown cheeks. His eyes were a pale blue, but nowhere near as icy as the Winter King’s. “He does not rest until all the men and their horses have been seen to.”

Khamsin tried not to show her surprise. The image of a caring king, one who put his men’s needs before his own, didn’t mesh with the harsh, heartless monster most Summerlanders considered Wynter Atrialan to be.

“As his Steward of Troops, should you not be the one checking on the men?” she asked.

Valik smiled without warmth. “My king thought you might find mine a less frightening face. You should stay in the carriage until the tents are up. There’s no need to stand in the wet.”

“I like the rain. It’s cleansing. And why would whether I’m frightened or not make any difference?” she countered. “Fear changes nothing. My fate is the same either way.”

“It matters to the king.” He gave a short bow. There was a snap to his voice that hadn’t been there just a moment ago. “If you want to stand in the rain, suit yourself. Just stay out of the way of the men while they set up the encampment. Loke and Baroc here will guard your safety.” He nodded curtly at the two soldiers beside her.

Khamsin wanted to kick herself. Less than a full day into their journey, and she was already turning Wynter’s steward against her—not that he’d viewed her kindly to begin with. His jaw probably still hurt from meeting the hard edge of her boot.

“Sir,” she said. “Lord Valik.” She laid a hand on his arm and snatched it back when his spine went stiff as a pike. She bit her lip, shoved down her innate pride and her own desire to take offense at his flinch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I only meant that I don’t need pampering. I prefer to face my fate head-on—even when it frightens me.”

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.

He was surprisingly graceful in his every move. Kingly. So much more than just brute force wrapped in a dangerously handsome package. Even his hands, so broad and so capable of destruction, moved with disarming grace and unexpected delicacy as they tore small chunks of bread from a still-warm loaf and handled slender silverware with deft ease.

She couldn’t help but recall the way those hands had moved over her, claiming without hesitation, drawing sensation after sensation from her untutored, arras-enflamed flesh, until she screamed for him to grant her release. Even now, just watching him spread melting butter on bread sent an unnerving flood of heat sweeping through her.

His nostrils flared, and he stilled for a betraying instant. His lashes lifted, ice blue eyes potent with awareness and a look that made her heart stutter in her chest.

“Hungry for something else, wife?” His voice dropped to a low, rumbling, throaty growl that made the hairs all over her body stand on end.

She drew a shaky breath and closed her eyes to free herself from the arcane magic of his gaze. “No, I couldn’t eat another bite,” she replied with deliberate obtuseness. “I’m very tired. All I need at the moment is sleep—uninterrupted sleep,” she added quickly. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was issuing an invitation. “On a bed that isn’t moving.”

He popped the morsel of bread in his mouth and drained his mug of mulled wine before rising and dusting off his hands. “Baroc!”

The tent flaps parted. The young soldier who’d been standing guard over Khamsin earlier stepped inside. “Your Grace?”

“Fetch the queen’s maid.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” The young Winterman bowed and backed out of the tent. Moments later, he returned, with Bella in tow.

Wide-eyed and openly terrified, the young maid looked ready to keel over if Wynter so much as frowned in her direction.

“What’s your name, girl?”

“B-Bella, Your M-Majesty.”

“It’s Your Grace, Bella, not Your Majesty, and your mistress is tired. Help ready her for bed. I understand those lamps will help her back heal, so light them all. We still have a long road ahead of us, and the sooner she is healed, the sooner we can increase our pace.” He glanced at Khamsin. “Will you be wanting a bath, my queen?”

The offer surprised her. It was a consideration she’d not expected from him. “No,” she murmured. “Thank you, I’m fine.”

“Very well.” He gestured curtly to dismiss Baroc, then crossed the tent to take a seat at the lacquered camp desk set up in one corner.

Khamsin started to object, then gave it up. There was no point in objecting to his presence. This was his tent, and she was his wife. And except for the fact that darkness and arras had hidden the sight of her from him last night, he already knew her body more intimately than any other person in the world.

Gathering her skirts, she walked to the small sleeping area separated from the main tent by the folding, four-foot-tall screens. With the growing lamps ringed around the sleeping pallet still unlit and the small, makeshift chamber wreathed in shadow, the screened wall offered a small sense of privacy. Her trunk had been set beside the mound of furs and pillows, near the outer tent wall.

“There should be a length of white sheeting in my trunk,” she told Bella softly. “Fetch it, please.” The young maid lifted the trunk lid and rummaged around inside for a few moments before locating the folded white cloth and handing it to Kham. “Thank you. No, don’t light the lamps just yet. Help me out of this gown first.”

While the maid unlaced the loose ties at the back of her gown, Kham glanced over the tops of the screens towards Wynter. He was sitting at the camp desk, reviewing a small sheaf of papers, periodically pausing to dip a quill in ink and scratch notations on the papers.

The cooler air of the tent swirled across Kham’s shoulders and back as Bella freed the last of the laces, and the gown fell open.

As if he were there on that small breath of air, tasting the warmth of her bare skin, instantly and intimately aware of her, Wynter looked up, directly into her eyes. Kham’s breath caught in her throat. She clutched the loose gown to her chest, fighting the shocking desire to let it fall from her body beneath Wynter’s burning gaze.

Bella moved between them and spread out the sheet in her hand, blocking Wynter’s view. “This is as much privacy as I can give you, my lady,” she murmured. “Powerful as he is, I don’t think he can see through people.”

Kham dragged in a shaky breath and fought the hysterical urge to laugh, wishing she were half as modest as Bella thought she was. She forced her fingers to loosen their grip on her gown. It tumbled down around her ankles in a puddle of fabric. Bella moved with swift industry, wrapping Kham’s nakedness in swaths of cool, silky linen. Khamsin clutched the edges of the fabric between her breasts, letting the bulk of the sheeting drape low, just skimming the top of her buttocks and leaving her back bare for healing.

Not daring to glance in Wynter’s direction, she knelt on the thick, padded pallet while Bella lit the growing lamps one by one. A muffled sound came from the main tent area, followed by a brief swirl of cold wind. Even without turning to look, Kham knew that Wynter had left.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Bella muttered, confirming it. “I don’t know what to make of him. He acts so concerned for your health, you’d almost think he actually cared. It’s hard to believe he intends to abandon you on some frozen glacier and leave you there to die if you don’t give him a child before year’s end. Seems cold and unnatural, if you ask me. Now, let me turn these growing lamps up a bit, then you just lie still while I clean your wounds.” Bella gently stroked a damp cloth over Khamsin’s back. With Wynter gone and the growing lamps turned on full, the temperature in the small sleeping area rose quickly to a warm, toasty bake. “There now, that feels better doesn’t it? Summer warm, like home the way it used to be.”

It did feel better. The warm light soaked into Kham’s skin like rain into thirsty soil. She closed her eyes and murmured a wordless agreement. She heard Bella kneel on the floor beside her, heard the quiet snick of a jar opening, then felt Bella’s hands gently began rubbing Tildy’s cream into her skin. Her touch was kinder than it had been in the jolting coach, and if Khamsin closed her eyes, she could almost believe it was Tildy, not Bella, tending her with a mother’s love.

Tears burned at the backs of her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Her path had been laid out, and Tildy would not ever again walk it with her. Khamsin, who had never truly been alone in the world, would have to learn to be so. The child who had always found refuge in her nursemaid’s maternal love would have to become a woman, strong and self-sufficient.

Because no matter what it took, Khamsin had no intention of letting any man—husband, king, or the Sun God himself—stake her out on a glacier and leave her to die.