The Winter King

CHAPTER 16

The Gathering Storm

Khamsin saw even less of Wynter over the next several weeks than she had since arriving in Gildenheim. He canceled the samdar-hald and gildis, spent his days ensconced in meeting after meeting with his councilors, generals, and stewards, and ate his meals in private. The bedchamber adjoining hers stayed silent and dark long past the midnight hour, and the few times she heard him come to bed, she heard him leave again not long after.

Thinking he’d decided to take Reika Villani up on what she so eagerly offered, Khamsin began following him to see where he went at night when the rest of the palace was sleeping. But instead of heading off to meet a mistress, Wynter made his way to the Atrium, the one room in the palace she’d been forbidden to enter. He stayed there for hours—sometimes until morning.

One night, exhausted from spying on her husband, Khamsin dozed off in the adjacent hallway while waiting for him to emerge from the Atrium. She woke sometime later to find herself in his arms, being carried back to her room. She closed her eyes quickly and tried to pretend she was still asleep as he tucked her back into her bed, but he wasn’t fooled.

“Have you followed me enough now to satisfy your curiosity, wife? Or must I set guards at your door to keep you in your bed?”

She gave up the pretense and opened her eyes, scowling up at him. “How long have you known?”

“That you were following me? Since the first night.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I know your scent, wife. I would know it anywhere.”

So much for trying to be stealthy around him. “What are you doing in there?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

She didn’t believe him. “Are you meeting someone in there?”

“No.”

“So what’s in there? Why can’t anyone else go in? What are you hiding?”

“What’s in there is none of your business. And no one is allowed inside but me because I said so. I am king, and my word is law. That’s why.” He cupped her face gently. His thumb brushed the rose shaped burn on her cheekbone. “And you will make no attempt to gain access to that room. You will not enter it or send anyone else to enter it in your stead. Is that clear?”

She glared at him in mutinous silence.

Her cheek prickled as the hand cupping her face grew cold. “I will have your word, Khamsin. Now.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I won’t go into the Atrium or send anyone there on my behalf.”

“Good. Now go to sleep. And don’t follow me anymore. You’re supposed to be resting and healing.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m perfectly fine. I heal fast.” What she wanted was him back in her bed and at least some small measure of his attention. She was his wife, after all. But pride wouldn’t let her ask him to stay. It was too much like begging. Khamsin Coruscate had never begged for a thing in her life. She wasn’t about to start now.

But she did catch hold of the hand pressed against her cheek. “I’ve survived much worse, and you know it.”

“Yes, and you and that bastard father of yours drugged me and tricked me into harming you further, then you hid your worsening illness from me until your wounds went septic and you nearly died.” He straightened up from the bed, pulling his hand from her grip. “I will not be manipulated into risking your health. Laci said six weeks of rest and healing, and six weeks it will be. Now close your eyes and go to sleep. If I find you wandering around at night again, I will be quite wroth, and you don’t want that.”

Thwarted, she flopped down on the bed and scowled at him in annoyance. Irritating man. He knew what she wanted. That infernal, supersensitive sniffer of his clearly hadn’t stopped working, so he had to know. Because all he had to do was enter the same room, and she could feel herself melting.

“Sleep,” he said again, sternly, as if she were a rebellious child protesting against bedtime.

Just for that, she made a show of squeezing her eyes shut. “There. I’m sleeping.”

“Good. Stay that way. And for once, wife, do as you’re told.”

She heard him blow out the candles by her bedside. The light shining through her closed eyelids went dark. She heard the tread of his feet as he exited the room and knew when he was gone by the empty ache that filled the places his presence made warm. With a frustrated groan, she rolled over on her belly and tried to resign herself to another lonely, achingly celibate night without him.

Wynter walked through the connecting rooms to his own chambers and sank down on the edge of his bed. He dropped his face into hands that shook. Wyrn help him. Khamsin had become like a drug to him.

Before her poisoning, the hours he’d spent in her room at night had grown longer and longer. He’d found himself counting down the hours until he could retire to her room, divest her of whatever frothy thing she’d chosen to sleep in, and sink into the seductive heat of her embrace. And even after the sex, when she lay sleeping, he would remain awake beside her for hours, just marveling at the strength of his feelings. Leaving her bed each morning had become an act of sheer will. He could happily have stayed there, his body wrapped around hers, ignoring his duty and the very real threats gathering against Wintercraig. He was tired of war. He wanted peace. He wanted her, Khamsin, his volatile, temperamental, utterly intoxicating wife.

Valik was right. She had too much power over him. If she knew how easily she could drive him to distraction with just a touch, a look, a flutter of those long, silken lashes, he would be undone.

She’d wanted him to stay tonight. If he hadn’t pulled his hand free and beat a path back to his own room, he would have joined her in that bed and to Hel with the consequences. And that could have been bad.

She thought she was so tough, so hard to break, so easily and rapidly mended. But he remembered the sight of blood-soaked skirts, the unnatural paleness of her skin as she’d nearly bled her life out before his eyes. He hadn’t felt anything close to that stab of terror since the day he’d heard the wolves’ mournful howl and known something had happened to Garrick. So no matter how fully healed Khamsin declared herself to be, Wynter wasn’t taking any chances.

He lay down on the bed. His body was hard as a rock, and had been from the moment he’d picked her up to carry her back to her room. Finding some other woman to relieve his need was out of the question. Even if he hadn’t sworn an oath of fidelity, Khamsin was the only one he wanted. The only one for whom his blood and what remained of his humanity not only warmed, but burned.

His hand still tingled from cupping her face, stroking the creamy softness of her dark skin. He lifted his palm to his nose and breathed in the intoxicating jasmine-scented aroma that still clung to him. He reached his other hand down, loosened the laces of his trousers, and curled his fingers around the long, heavy length of his sex. His eyes closed. In the darkness, her face emerged. Luminous silver eyes. Curls of lightning-shot black hair. The fragile, slight-boned beauty of her delicate frame. The full, perfect breasts with their exotic, dark brown nipples.

He remembered how she’d been in the tent after the lightning storm, when he’d claimed her for the first time since their wedding night. Free of wine and arras and whatever else had been in that wedding-cup. She’d been scared, nervous but too proud to show it. But she’d overcome that fear, met his passion head-on, and returned it in full with passion of her own. He remembered, also, their first night here in Gildenheim, when she’d seethed with jealousy over Reika’s conspicuous familiarity, and how that anger had led her to stake her claim upon him in no uncertain terms. Her eyes full of storms, her skin hot and electric, facing him without the tiniest hint of fear and demanding his fidelity and attentions. If he hadn’t been completely enchanted with her before, that night had done the trick.

He could recall with perfect clarity the feel of her body, so wet and hot, muscles clamping tight around him. The glorious heat, melting the ice that lived inside him, making him feel, really feel, like he had not felt for three long years. His hand moved with each remembered thrust, stroking, stroking, until his muscles clenched and his seed spurted across the sheets.

After that night, Wynter made himself even scarcer. He never came back to his room at night. He didn’t eat meals with the court anymore. Except for occasional glimpses of him as she and Krysti roamed the palace halls, Kham might have believed Wynter had left Gildenheim altogether.

She almost wished he had. What small gains she’d made with the ladies of the court began to reverse as the nobles interpreted Wynter’s absence to mean that the new queen had fallen out of favor. The watchful eyes of the courtiers grew sly and knowing. Polite dinner conversation gave way to subtle innuendo, and titters muffled behind fans, all observed and encouraged by Reika Villani as she held court at the far end of the banquet hall in cold triumph.

Khamsin feared she might fry them all—including her husband—with a lightning bolt if she lost her temper, so she began finding excuses to be away from the palace.

She and Krysti became an inseparable pair. At her insistence, Bron selected a pony for the boy, and the two of them continued Kham’s riding lessons together. Once they were both comfortable in the saddle, no place within four hours’ ride of Gildenheim was safe from them. Khamsin, Krysti, and their armored guard soon became a common sight in the villages and mountains of the Craig.

And the villagers, despite their wishes to the contrary, soon became the focus of Kham’s determined efforts to win them over. With the threat of Mount Gerd looming over her future, she was determined to do everything in her power to ensure that mercy, not death, awaited her.

Befriending Winterfolk, however, turned out to be even harder than winning over the ladies of the court. Winterfolk were wary of strangers, their villages small and closely knit. They were disinclined to be friendly to start with, and Kham’s relation to the hated Summer King made them even more standoffish. The first time she rode into Skala-Holt, one of the larger villages nestled at the foot of Mount Fjarmir near the pass that led to Frostvatn on the western coast, many of the villagers actually snatched their children up off the street and hustled them inside as if Khamsin might cast an evil eye upon them, or some such nonsense.

Still, she persevered. Taking unabashed advantage of her rank—hoping the villagers would fear Wynter’s wrath too much to snub his queen—she squeezed an introduction out of each person she met. Corbin, the beefy white-haired tanner of Brindlewood; Leise, the curt-bordering-on-hostile pubkeeper in Skala-Holt and her neighbors Derik and Starra Freijel, who raised sheep and spun wool on a stretch of land at the base of Mount Fjarmir: Khamsin committed their faces and many others to memory and made a point of greeting them by name when next they met. Not that it helped. The Winterfolk remained unwelcoming and taciturn.

“This is useless,” she complained after yet another day of cold shoulders and unwelcoming villagers. “They’ll never see me as anything but a Summerlander.”

“Winterfolk warm slowly to outsiders,” Krysti said. “If you want them to accept you, you might start by accepting them.”

“What do you mean? I’m riding out to meet them. I’m being as nice as I know how. What else can I do?”

“Well, you might try dressing more like us for starters.” Krysti nodded at the bright, jewel-toned clothing Khamsin had refused to give up.

“But I like my clothes. They remind me of home.” The bright colors and rich fabrics made her feel warm, happy. And, yes, defiant. She clung to her Summerland colors as a form of rebellious independence, a symbol of her determination never to be cowed by these harsh, distant people and their cold gray-and-white world.

“I’m just saying, if you dress and act like a foreigner, you shouldn’t be surprised when they treat you like one.”

Khamsin frowned. She’d watched the Summer court enough to realize the wisdom in Krysti’s advice. In fashion, manners, interests, behavior, many of Summerlea’s courtiers strove for a sense of personal distinction, but few of them strayed far from acceptable conventions. People were like the flocks of birds she’d watched from her mother’s Sky Garden. What one did, the rest followed.

“I’ll think about it.” That was the most she was willing to concede for the moment. She rebelled against rules and conformity and other people’s expectations of her. She always had. If she gave that up—gave up her individuality, her fierce independence—what would be left of Khamsin?

“Even though it may not seem like it, you are making progress,” Krysti assured her as they rode away from the Freijels’ sheep farm. “That was the first time Mr. Freijel offered to water your horse.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” She glanced back over her shoulder, at the small, stone cottage built into the side of the mountain. Smoke curled from the chimney. Fat, fluffy sheep wandered the hillside, snuffling at the snow in search of grass. Derik Freijel had already turned away to continue his work, but his wife Starra was still standing on the stoop watching Khamsin and Krysti ride away. Kham raised a hand to wave. Starra did not respond in kind. She merely tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ears and ducked inside the family’s stone-and-sod home.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t read much into that offer to water my horse,” Kham said with a grimace. “He was probably just taking pity on the horse.”

Krysti glanced back at the small farm and sighed. “Give them time. Even a mountain wears down from the wind.”

“But only after a few millennia of effort,” she pointed out. “I don’t have that much time.” She’d been here almost two months already and was no closer to winning over her new people than the day she arrived. Like it or not, her way was not working. She needed to change tactics. “Come on. Let’s get back to Gildenheim. I need to speak to Vinca about bringing that seamstress back in.”

Wynter noted the change in his queen’s attire, as he noticed everything about her. Day by day, bit by bit, she shed her jewel-toned Summerlander clothes for Wintercraig fashions in shades of icy blue, cream, pale taupe, and white.

At first, he approved of the change. Her bright Summerlander colors made it easy to spot her in a crowd, and his eye was instantly drawn to her whenever she entered a room. Since he’d spent the last month trying to avoid being drawn to her, he thought her altered wardrobe would be a good thing.

It didn’t quite work out that way. The paler colors set off her dark skin and black hair, amplifying the contrast to an even greater effect, the way diamonds enhanced the beauty of colored gems. Instead of helping her blend in, her new clothes only called attention to how different she was from the rest of his people, how exotically beautiful.

Valik had become so convinced Wynter was befuddled by some sort of Summerlander potion or spell that he’d ordered all of Wynter’s food and drink tasted before it touched the king’s lips, and he insisted Lady Frey perform dissolution rituals meant to unravel any spell placed upon him. Laci called Valik a fool to his face, but she performed the ritual to keep the peace.

“Idiots and frost brains,” she muttered as she stalked out after finishing. “That’s what men are. I’ve no idea why Freika ever bothered creating you. She should have recognized perfection when she created woman and stopped while she was ahead.”

Unlike Laci, Wynter wasn’t altogether certain Valik was wrong. Everything about his Summerlander queen intoxicated him. He thought about her day and night. He knew the instant she entered any room he was in, and though dozens of courtiers and the entire distance of a vast palace room might separate them, he was acutely and unalterably aware of her every step, every breath, every infinitesimal movement. Not even with Elka had he been so utterly consumed, so helplessly drawn to her. He was the moth, and Khamsin his flame.

And for that reason, though it cost him every ounce of his not-inconsiderable will, he kept his distance.

The six-week anniversary of her poisoning came and went. Laci informed Wynter that he could resume marital relations. But he was wound so tight, he didn’t dare. If his wife missed his company, she gave no sign of it. Indeed, she seemed far more intent on traveling the countryside. Scarce an hour went by when he did not hear tell of her latest adventure with that orphan lad of hers. Wynter, consequently, grew surlier and more snappish with each passing day.

“Enough!” Valik exclaimed when Wynter nearly froze him to death during an argument over the kingdom’s planned defenses. “This is ridiculous! You’re acting like an ice bear with a sore paw. What is wrong with you?”

Wynter scowled. “We’re preparing for an invasion we don’t have the numbers to repel, our forces are stretched between two kingdoms, and I’m losing my battle with the Ice Heart. What do you think is wrong with me?”

“He hasn’t returned to his wife’s bed even though I cleared her for relations over two weeks ago,” Laci told Valik in a flat voice. “That is what’s wrong with him. What?” She arched a brow at Wynter’s fierce scowl. “Servants talk. I listen.”

“That’s what this is about?” Valik spun around. “Then bed her, for Wyrn’s sake. That’s what you wed her for, anyways.”

Wynter’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. “Aren’t you the one who’s been going on for months now about how she’s put me under some sort of spell?”

“I’m sure she has! But that doesn’t change the fact that you need an heir. Besides, if not pumping the little witch is going to make you this unbearable, then throw her feet in the air and keep them there until your child is born!”

“Or find some other willing woman,” Laci murmured, giving Wynter a sideways glance. “I’m sure there’s no lack of prospects in your court.”

He scowled. “I gave her my word I would not.”

“Then do us all a favor and go to your wife,” she said.

“You told me to stay away!”

“That was two months ago. I told you stay out of her bed for six weeks.” Her mouth drew down in a disgusted grimace. “Truth be told, she was probably healthy enough within a week of the poisoning, but stupid me, I thought you might use the time to get to know your wife, not avoid her like the plague.”

“You lied to me?”

Galacia sniffed. “I gave you the same advice I would have given any man in that situation. It’s not my fault your wife heals exponentially faster than most. But that’s immaterial. The point is, you knew you could resume marital activities weeks ago yet you’ve done nothing about it. And in case it has escaped your notice, the pains you’ve taken to avoid her have been observed and emulated by your entire court. If you meant to make her life here as miserable as possible, you couldn’t have chosen a better method.”

Heat stung Wynter’s cheeks. “That was not my intent.” He wasn’t unaware of his court’s coolness towards Khamsin, but he’d done nothing to curtail it. And all right . . . perhaps some small, petty part of him had wanted to punish her for running about the countryside laughing and enjoying herself while he wanted her so badly, he’d spent the last two months in torment.

“Intent or not, that is the result.” Galacia crossed her arms and fixed her cold, glass-sharp gaze upon him. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Wynter turned his attention back to the map of Wintercraig spread out on the table before him. The fight he’d had earlier with Valik was over delays with the final preparations at the scouting outposts. Wynter had expected all the outposts to be ready, fully manned, and running drills of the invasion-alert system, but some were weeks behind schedule, and his spies were reporting activity in the Calbernan armada. “Valik, whether they’re ready or not, we need to check these defenses.” He indicated the scouting outposts and forts along the west coast. “How long will it take you to pack?”

“An hour.”

“Good. Then we leave in two.”

“Wyn . . .” Disapproval iced Galacia’s voice.

“I said I’d take care of it, and I will,” Wynter snapped. “But there’s a war headed our way, and the defense of the kingdom comes first.” He took a breath and turned back to Valik. “Send word to Ofanklettur.” He pointed to the southernmost scouting outpost on the western coast. “They are to light the signal fire at noon in two days’ time. We ride to Frostvatn by way of the new scout towers.” He traced a path from the center of Wintercraig’s western coast northward to the isolated fort at the edge of the glacier fields. “I want to see for myself how much they’re lacking and how long it takes for the signal to reach from the south to the north.”

“Consider it done, my king.” Valik marched out of the room.

When he was gone, Wynter closed his eyes and rotated his head to loosen the tension in his neck. He was rewarded with popping sounds, but the tension was still there. And so was Galacia, with her frosty disapproval. Wyn sighed.

“When I return, I’ll see to my wife and put the gossip to rest. You have my word.”

“I expect you to honor it.”

“I always do.”

Galacia laid a hand on his shoulder and kept it there even when he flinched. “Wyn, give her a chance. I didn’t trust her brother, but she seems an honest sort. You might just have married the best one in the kingdom.”

His mouth twisted. “That’s not saying much.”

“I like her more than most in your court, too.”

“That’s not saying much either. You’ve never had much use for nobles of any stripe.”

“Don’t be difficult. You know what I mean. I know Valik thinks she’s a spy, but I’ve seen no sign of treachery in her. Get to know her. Gods willing, she’ll be the mother of your children. You’re capable of great love, great kindness. Let her see that.”

He took her hand off his shoulder and held it, shaking his head sadly. She didn’t understand. She still thought he was the Wynter she’d always known. “I’m not that man anymore, Laci. That man died when the Prince of Summerlea put an arrow in my brother’s throat.”

“I don’t believe that. If it were true, Rorjak would have won long ago.”

“He is winning.” For the first time, he admitted aloud what he had long suspected. “I can feel him now, there in the back of my mind, waiting. Before this year is out, you’ll have to put those spears in the temple to use.”

Her brows drew together over troubled eyes. “All the more reason for you to have gone to your wife the instant you could. A child is your best hope of thawing the Ice Heart.”

“Perhaps you should have thought about that before telling me to stay away from her.” She looked so genuinely contrite, he felt guilty for the jab. “I’m sorry. I know you were doing what you thought was best. Besides, I doubt a few weeks would make a difference. I think it may be too late for me, even if there is a child.”

“Don’t say that.” Her fingers clenched tightly around his. “Don’t give up hope. And don’t you dare give up without a fight. We need you, Wyn.”

He bent his head and kissed her cheek. He didn’t have to bend far; she was almost as tall as he was. “You’re a good friend, Laci.” He pulled back to give her a crooked smile. “Meddlesome, but a good friend all the same. Now, go on. I still have work to do before I leave.”

After Galacia left, Wynter regarded the map of Wintercraig’s defenses in troubled silence. His people were stretched too thin. The war with Summerlea had cost his kingdom dearly both in lost lives and injuries. With so many of the men at war, most industries in the Craig had struggled by with fewer hands to do the work, and even now were far from prewar production. He’d left half his army back in Vera Sola with Leirik to quell any possible uprisings, and that decision—though necessary—left Wintercraig even more vulnerable. When the armada came, Wynter and his folk would be facing the fight of their lives.

He walked back to the window and stepped out onto the balcony. Drifting snow brushed across his face and caught in the unbound strands of his hair. His gaze scanned the courtyard and battlements, looking for the slight figure he’d seen earlier, before his shouting match with Valik. And there she was, his wife, walking the outer wall, her little shadow, the orphan boy, close on her heels.

She’d already been riding today, but her outing had been cut short because of the storm clouds moving south over the Craig. The snows had come early this year, and the feel of those clouds promised at least another foot of snow before nightfall.

Wynter’s chest expanded as he breathed the cold, bracing air deep into his lungs. As if sensing his presence from the other side of the courtyard, Khamsin turned. He knew the instant their eyes met: awareness jolted through him like one of her storm-spawned lightning bolts. His hands clenched the balustrade so tightly he feared he might grind the stone into powder.

That reaction was the real reason he’d stayed away from his wife, despite being cleared to resume marital relations. He remembered the sheets on their wedding bed, stained scarlet with her blood because he’d been too consumed with his drug-amplified lust to notice her wounds or her discomfort. He hadn’t trusted himself to go near her until he was certain of his self-control.

But it seemed clear that self-control around Khamsin was a pipe dream. The more he stayed away, the stronger the attraction grew. What he felt for her now so outstripped the arras-driven lust of their wedding night, he could scarce comprehend it. They could not go on this way. He could not go on this way.

“When I return, wife, our separation ends. Gods help us both.”

The moment Wynter broke eye contact and headed back inside, Khamsin’s lungs started working again. She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, then folded over in a paroxysm of coughing as the cold air chafed her throat and lungs.

“You all right?” Krysti gave her several solid thwacks on the back.

“I’m coughing, not choking.” She shoved his hand away and scowled. “Stop hitting me.”

“Sorry.”

Now he looked hurt. She sighed. That one look she’d exchanged with Wynter across the full distance of the courtyard had left her feeling tightly wound. If she didn’t find something to keep her mind occupied, she’d spend the whole day obsessing about why he was continuing to avoid her—and obsessing about him. And that would be a very bad thing. Especially with that snowstorm brewing on the horizon.

Kham turned back to Krysti and forced an overbright smile. “Come show me how to climb like you did earlier when we were out.” When riding this morning, they’d stopped by a stream to water the horses, and Krysti had scrambled up a pile of tumbled boulders like a bounding mountain goat. “I want to learn how to do that, too. You think you can teach me?” He’d already taught her how to pick a lock, and she was getting quite proficient at it.

“I don’t know. Maybe. But you’re not Big Horn clan.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Big Horn clanfolk are born sure-footed. It’s one of our clan-gifts. Like the way the king can scent things like a wolf, since he’s Snow Wolf clan.” Krysti glanced around. “If I’m going to teach you, we need a better place to practice. There’s a good climbing wall in one of the upper gardens that wouldn’t be too difficult for beginners. We can use that.”

“Wonderful. Lead the way.” As she followed him, Kham steadfastly refused to glance back at that now-empty balcony outside Wynter’s rooms. “So each clan has its own clan-gifts?” she asked, determined to focus her mind on something unrelated to her husband.

“Yes.”

“And everyone in that clan shares the same gifts? Not just the clan’s ruling family?”

“Weathergifts don’t manifest outside the immediate royal family, but clan-gifts are different. All Winterfolk have them. Some clan members have more gifts or a stronger ability in a particular gift than others, but there’s always at least one core clan-gift that all members of that clan possess.”

Khamsin nodded thoughtfully. All Summerlanders had a way with growing things—that was one of the reasons for the kingdom’s exceptional fertility and prosperity—but they didn’t have “clan-gifts” like Winterfolk. Occasionally, however, a member of the royal family was born with an affinity for a particular animal, as had happened with her brother Falcon. The royal historians attributed those gifts to the handful of Wintercraig brides wed over the centuries to the Heirs of the Rose, starting with the Wintercraig princess who’d married Roland’s brother Donal two thousand years ago.

“How many clans are there?”

Krysti shrugged. “I don’t know. Twenty or thirty. Maybe a few more. I was supposed to start learning clanlore three years ago, but my parents died.”

In all the time they’d been together, Krysti hadn’t opened up about his family. Since she knew what it was like to lose a parent, she hadn’t pressed him for more information. Some wounds stayed fresh for a long time. But the fact that he’d brought them up made her think maybe he was ready to talk.

“What were they like? Your parents?”

“Nice. They loved me.” He cast her a quick glance, as if daring her to dispute it.

“I’m sure they did.” The corner of her mouth kicked up. “You’re very lovable.”

He flushed a little and gave her a friendly shove. She laughed, glad he’d taken the gentle tease in stride. That told her he wasn’t upset with the line of questioning and gave her tacit approval to probe a little further.

“Was your father a soldier?”

“No. He was a tanner and a leatherworker. Mam, too.”

“How did they die?”

“Our village burned down, but I don’t want to talk about it.” Krysti put on a burst of speed, forcing her to jog to keep up with him.

“Krysti!” She chased after him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you did.”

She bit her lip. Yes, she had. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Let’s hurry. We’re wasting daylight.” He jogged up another set of stone stairs, taking them two at a time.

Chastened, Kham followed him in silence. They continued up stair after stair until they reached the uppermost level of the main palace.

“Here we are.” The frosted glass roof of the Atrium towered thirty feet above them. Only the palace towers and Wynter’s private room built into the mountaintop were higher. Several courtyard gardens had been cut into the mountainside. Krysti led Khamsin to an isolated corner where the outer battlement wall merged with an inner courtyard wall.

“So, let’s say you wanted to get to the top of the wall. We’ll start with this one.” He patted the shorter, inner wall. “Pretend the battlement stairs don’t exist. You can still easily scale a small wall like this. Especially if it has handholds like the ones here and here and here.” He pointed to a few slightly protruding rocks in the wall. “Watch.”

Khamsin stepped to one side as Krysti ran at the corner of the wall. He leapt up, planting his right foot on one wall and left foot on the opposing wall, grabbed the protruding rocks, and scrambled up the corner of the joined walls. When he reached the top, he swung one leg over the inner wall to straddle it and leaned back, turning to grin down at Khamsin.

“There, see? Easy.” The whole demonstration had taken less than ten seconds.

“Oh, yes, very easy.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. That only made Krysti’s grin widen.

He swung his right leg back across the wall and hopped off, landing lightly on the snow-covered grass in front of her. “Probably nothing you should try in a dress, though.”

“That’s easily fixed.” Kham reached down and tucked her skirts into her waistband, leaving her woolen-stocking-clad legs bare. “Show me again, only this time not so fast.”

Wynter jogged down the steps of Gildenheim to the main courtyard, where Valik and a contingent of White Guard were waiting with the horses. To his surprise, they weren’t alone. Reika Villani stood by her cousin’s side, holding the reins to her saddled bay mare.

Wyn frowned and glanced between Valik and Reika. “Lady Villani, you are going somewhere?”

“She’s heading home to her family estate,” Valik answered. “Reika received word that her father is in poor health. She asked if she could ride with us as far as Skaarsgard. I was certain you wouldn’t mind.”

Wyn hesitated a brief second, aware of the watchful eyes of his court and the gossip that would ensue. Escorting Reika Villani anywhere could only cause him grief once Khamsin found out, as he knew she would. But what sort of cowardly troll would he be if he refused a lady of his court protective escort to her father’s estate for fear of a little gossip?

Shaking off the twinge of concern, he said, “Of course. It will be our pleasure to see you safely to your father’s estate.”

Reika smiled and curtsied with a murmured, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Wyn glanced up at Khamsin’s balcony above. One did not pour fuel on an inferno, then run away and expect others to deal with the resulting conflagration.

“We’ll leave in half an hour,” he announced. “There’s something I must attend to.”

Leaving Valik and Reika staring after him in surprise, he jogged back up the steps and into the palace. “Fjall.” He called the Steward of the Keep to his side. “Where is Her Grace?”

“She’s with young Krysti, Sire. They’ve been exploring the palace since returning from their ride.”

Which meant they could be anywhere. And he had neither the time nor the inclination to rouse the entire castle in search of his wife.

“Thank you.” Leaving the steward to his duties, Wynter took the central stairs three at a time and followed the corridors to the private office attached to his rooms. Sitting down at the desk, he drew out a slip of parchment, uncapped the pot of ink, and dipped a quill in.

The inked quill hovered over the parchment for several minutes as he wrestled with what words to write. In the end he decided to stick to the facts.

My Queen,

Business of the kingdom has called me away. I return in a fortnight. Keep well, min ros. I will attend you upon my return. Until then, I remain

Your faithful husband,

W

There. Short, sweet, and to the point. Nothing weak or wistful, but he’d included an endearment and declared his intent to end their estrangement when he got back. And he’d taken the time to write the note in his own hand. That should earn some measure of favor.

He hesitated, debating about whether to address Reika’s presence in his traveling party directly, then decided against it. He’d outright declared himself a faithful husband in his note, thus his wife should have no trouble dismissing any groundless gossip that might reach her ears.

Wyn sanded the note, waited for it to dry, then folded, sealed, and addressed it. He carried the sealed missive into Khamsin’s chambers and propped it against the mirror of her dressing table, where she could not help but notice it.

Satisfied that he’d done what he could to avert pending disaster, Wynter made his way back to the courtyard and mounted Hodri. The stallion pranced, tossing his long white mane and snorting with impatience.

Wyn patted Hodri’s strong neck and took up the reins. “Let us be off.”

With a clatter of hooves on gritted cobblestone, Wynter, Valik, Reika, and the White Guard rode out of Gildenheim.

Sore, exhausted, her pent-up frustration now tamped down to bearable levels, Khamsin groaned as she sank into the luxurious, steaming bath Bella had prepared. Her head lolled against the lip of the tub, eyes closed, as she breathed in the patchouli-scented steam.

Her legs and arms felt like jelly, and there wasn’t a muscle in her body that didn’t ache. She’d practiced under Krysti’s instruction until well after sundown. The boy was a surprisingly demanding taskmaster. He hadn’t let her quit until she’d reached the top of the wall several times, a feat that had proven more difficult than she’d anticipated given the awkwardness of her voluminous skirts tucked up around her waist and her lack of upper-arm strength.

Tomorrow, first thing, she would start the exercises Krysti had recommended to strengthen her arms for climbing. And the seamstress who’d been remaking her wardrobe would simply have to make her a set of clothes more suited to the sort of active pursuits Krysti and the men engaged in.

She’d seen the women of the Craig working hard alongside their men. She wasn’t going to let herself remain some weak, pampered southerner in their eyes. She was going to become a woman of the Craig in every way she could. She was going to learn to climb cliffs, hunt, read the signs of the forest.

Maybe that would earn their approval.

Because being herself certainly hadn’t.

This strange dance of avoidance going on between Wynter and herself had to end, too. Starting tonight. If his seat at dinner was empty again, she was going to track him down and demand that he come to her bed. Considering that her life still lay in the balance if she didn’t produce a child, she wouldn’t be begging for his attentions. She’d just be demanding he keep up with his part of their marriage contract.

“Bella,” she called. She could hear her maid moving around in the bedchamber. Tidying the linens, no doubt, since she’d been bemoaning the Wintercraig maids’ inability to fold a crisp corner. A few moments later, the girl popped into the bathing room.

“Yes, ma’am, you called?”

“Lay out the white gown for dinner. The one with the ermine trim.” Kham ran a soapy cloth across her outstretched arm. Wynter liked that dress, she knew. The last time she’d worn it, he’d hardly taken his eyes off her.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bella said. She started to turn away, then paused. “So you will be going down to dinner tonight, then?”

Khamsin frowned. “Of course. Why would I not?”

“Well, I thought that since the king was gone, you might—”

“The king is gone?”

“Yes, ma’am. This afternoon. He rode out with Lord Valik and Lady Villani.”

The bar of soap squirted out of Kham’s suddenly clenched hand and landed in the tub with a splash.

“He rode out . . . with Lady Villani?”

“Yes, ma’am.” A gust of wind rattled the mullioned windowpanes. Bella flinched and glanced out at the darkening evening sky. “I’m sorry. I thought he told you.”

“No. No, he didn’t.” Khamsin gripped the sides of the tub. The already-warm water was growing hotter by the second. “On second thought, just lay out my nightgown and robe. I’ll have dinner in the room tonight and make an early night of it.”

“Of course.” Bella bobbed a curtsy and left.

Rather than lounging in the tub until the water cooled—which at the present rate was going to be never—Khamsin made short work of her bath and stepped out. She needed no towel to dry herself. The water on her skin evaporated into steam before her feet touched the thick rugs covering the cold stone floor.

Wynter had left Gildenheim without a word to her. And he’d taken Reika Villani with him! He’d sworn to be faithful. To take no other woman to bed. And yet he’d avoided hers for the last two months and was now cavorting about the countryside with that conniving harpy.

She snatched up her robe, shoved her arms through the sleeves, and stalked into her bedroom. Was this some sort of test? To see how far he could push her before she broke? Or had he lied to her from the start? Just told her what she wanted to hear to keep her docile and under control while he went after the woman he truly wanted?

She didn’t want to believe she could be so easily duped, but apparently, she could. He’d dazzled her with his great, masculine beauty, seduced her with his oh-so-believable flashes of tenderness and caring. Stupid, naïve idiot that she was . . . she’d fallen for it all.

The bedchamber was warmer than usual, a large fire roaring in the hearth. The flames leapt higher as Bella industriously poked at the logs.

“Those Wintercraig maids opened all the windows this afternoon when they were changing your linens,” Bella groused. “Can you believe it? I nearly froze in my shoes when I first came in—such a horrible, icy wind blowing through the place. It’s only bearable now because I closed the windows and started a fire. Silly, goose-brained girls. What were they thinking? It’s snowing—snowing!”

Kham glanced out the windows. Sure enough, the snow Krysti said had been threatening all day was now falling thick and fast.

“It’s all right, Bella,” she murmured. “I like the fresh air, too. It makes the room smell nice, and the cold doesn’t bother me. But you go on back to your room and sit by the fire. Take the rest of the night off.”

Bella turned in surprise. “But what about your dinner?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m really not hungry.”

“But—”

“Please!” Kham grimaced at the sharp edge in her tone and rubbed her temples. “Please, just go. I’ll be fine.”

Grumbling about being sent away, Bella left.

Khamsin drew on her nightdress and robes, then paced the room restlessly, hounded by her thoughts and the feelings of anger and betrayal. The roaring fire, rather than comforting her, only made her hot, irritable, and angrier. She’d trusted him. Dear gods, she had. The enemy king who’d wed her. He had promised to be faithful, to deal with her fairly, and she’d believed him. What a fool she was!

She flung open the balcony doors and stepped out into the storm, hoping the cold and snow would draw the temper from her and calm her down. Instead, the storm grew worse as her agitated weathergift amplified the forces of nature. The wind began to howl. The whole sky was whirling white now, and she couldn’t see down to Gildenheim’s walls—nor even to the courtyard below. The air around her was hot and steaming—snowflakes evaporating in an instant when they neared her body. Her anger was feeding the storm, all right, but the storm was feeding her anger, just as much.

A frisson of alarm skated up her spine. This was getting bad. Very bad.

“For Wyrn’s sake, Khamsin,” she muttered, “get away from the sky before you kill someone.”

She fled back indoors. In order to break the connection between the storm and her gift, she needed to go someplace deep, surrounded by rock and earth. She waved off the guards standing beside the door to her chambers and made her way downstairs to the kitchens. There, scores of servants bustled about in organized chaos, stirring soups, roasting meats, plating dishes. One look at her swirling silver eyes, however, and they cleared a path without a word.

She ran through their midst and down the stairs to the large, musty wine cellar that had been carved deep, deep into the mountain. Torches burned in sconces along the wall, the only source of light. During her tour with Mistress Vinca, she’d been frightened when her visit to the wine cellar had cut her off from her gift, but if she didn’t separate herself from the storm soon, people would die.

When she reached the heavy wooden door leading to the cellar, however, she found it closed and locked. With a scream of frustration, she yanked on the door and pounded the unyielding wooden planks.

“Your Grace? May I be of assistance?”

She whirled around so fast the Steward of Wines, who must have followed her into the cellars, jumped back in fright.

“Forgive me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice shook. He was afraid of her.

He should be.

“Open this door.”

“I beg your par—”

“Open it!”

He jumped again. “Of course.” He drew the ring of keys from his side. They rattled noisily in his shaking hands. The man skirted gingerly around her and bent to put the key in the lock. Finally, after dropping the keys twice, the steward successfully inserted the right key in the lock and turned. The tumblers clicked. The door opened.

“Give me the keys.” She held out an imperious hand.

The steward hesitated. “Madam, if you’ll just tell me what you’re looking for—”

“Give . . . me . . . the keys. Now.”

He handed them over.

“Leave me.” Kham didn’t wait to see if he obeyed. She snatched the torch off the wall and ran down the long corridor, deep into the cold, shadowy recesses of the wine cellar.

The air was damp, chill, and musty. The flame of her torch was the only light. As she ran, her connection to the storm finally began to wane. She kept running, deeper and deeper into the gloom of the cellar hewn from solid rock, down another set of stairs and back into the deepest, coolest part of the cellar until there was no place left to run. There, before the dark stone wall covered with enormous shelves of dusty wine bottles, she let the torch fall to the stone floor and sank down beside it, pulling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

She could no longer feel the storm outside, only the storm within. The great, wild hurricane of anger and pain that threatened to tear her apart. Her chest was so tight she could hardly draw breath. She gasped for air, and the gasps turned to sobs. The dry, burning pain in her eyes became a flood of tears that could no longer be contained.

Kham buried her face in her arms and cried until her throat was sore and she had no tears left. And when the storm had passed and her tears were spent, she lay on the dusty floor of the wine cellar and stared up at the rocky ceiling overhead.

What was wrong with her that no one wanted her?

She was aware of her shortcomings: her short temper, the violent nature of her weathergift, her need to rebel against authority. But despite those drawbacks, she had always tried to live a good life, be a good person. A person Roland Soldeus would have been proud to call friend. Honorable, loyal, trustworthy, brave.

Maybe she was the abomination her father had called her. Maybe everyone else could see the evil in her and that’s why they reviled her.

Kham gave a harsh laugh and flung an arm over her eyes. Or maybe she was simply stupid and naïve and had spent her whole life trusting the wrong people. Maybe the only person she could trust was herself.

Tired of feeling sorry for herself, scrubbed the dampness from her cheeks and sat up. Time to regroup. She would not let Wynter Atrialan or any other person decide her fate. She was a survivor. She always had been. And she wasn’t going to be a pawn in other people’s games anymore.

And Wynter Atrialan wouldn’t honor his oaths to her, there was no reason she should honor hers to him.

She was done being the docile, agreeable wife. She was going to do what she should have been doing from the very beginning: whatever it took to look out for her own interests. No matter what happened between now and the end of her year as Wintercraig’s queen, she was going to find a way to survive and to thrive. And she was going to secure that survival independent of whether she bore Wynter’s child or won over the hearts and minds of his people.

With that goal in mind, Khamsin was going to dedicate herself to discovering all the things Wynter didn’t want her to know. Starting with whatever he was hiding in the one place in the palace she’d been forbidden to enter. The room he visited in secret when he thought all the rest of the palace was asleep.

Gildenheim’s Atrium.