The Winter King

CHAPTER 4

Veil of Tears

As the city tower rang the dawn bells the next day, and two burly guards half carried, half dragged Khamsin’s limp, unresisting body back to her room in the farthest, most isolated wing of the palace, she had her answer.

Her father had given her a choice: death or banishment.

Oh, he hadn’t actually given her that choice, nor even implied she had one. He’d just taken her to a cold, windowless stone room carved deep into the city mount, far from access to the sky so she couldn’t summon its energies to defend herself, and informed her that the White King had come to claim a Summerlea princess as his bride. She would be that bride, Verdan declared, and he caned her viciously every time she refused.

Khamsin, foolishly defiant as usual, had refused a lot.

At first, she hadn’t believed King Verdan would go as far as he did, and she was more willing to face a caning or two than face the Winter King’s wrath when he discovered the thieving maid he’d caught in his room was to be his wife. She’d seen the hard side of Wynter Atrialan’s fury, faced his Ice Gaze, and felt him literally drain all warmth from her body. She’d felt the brutal whip of power in the skies when he’d answered her first challenge. She’d also felt the burning heat of his touch and seen the cold fire of possession flaming in his eyes. If she hadn’t escaped him when she had, he would have dominated her will and taken what he wanted, and she would have been helpless to stop him.

“No,” she’d told her father. “I won’t marry him.”

After the fifth caning, the Winter King no longer mattered. It had become a contest of wills: hers against the father’s. She thought her stubborn defiance and steely resolve could outlast the Summer King’s determination.

She’d been wrong.

Sometime after the twelfth beating, when at least three of her ribs were broken and she doubted there were two consecutive inches of flesh on her back or thighs that weren’t raw and oozing blood, she’d finally realized the unspoken choice her father was offering her.

She could marry Wynter Atrialan and leave Summerlea, or she could die.

It was that simple.

For all her defiance, for all the many sorrows of her existence, Khamsin was not ready to surrender her life. When her father raised the cane to deliver the first blow of the thirteenth beating, she agreed to be the White King’s bride.

The bloody cane had dropped from her father’s hand to clatter on the stone floor, and he’d turned without another word and walked out, leaving the two shaken guards outside the room to gather her up and carry her back to her room.

So here she was. Bloody. Beaten. Defeated in a way she’d never been before. Destined to wed the Winter King. Though how she’d manage that when at the moment simply breathing was a sheer act of will, she had no idea.

The guards came to a halt. They had reached her room.

Pride—and pain—forced Khamsin to stand rather than sag against the one guard while the other opened the door, but when it came time to actually walk inside, she couldn’t force her trembling muscles to obey. She took two shaky, wavering steps, and collapsed. Only the quick, sturdy arms of one of the guards, catching her before she fell, kept her from the further humiliation of landing facedown in an ignominious heap.

He helped her to her bed. “I’m sorry, princess, I’m sorry,” he kept whispering as he helped her lie down on her belly, then peeled back the light cloth they’d wrapped around her earlier to hide the bare, oozing skin of her back.

“I never dreamed anyone would do such a thing to one who bears the Rose,” the guard said again. “Forgive me. I should have stopped him.”

She waved him off, eyes closed in utter weariness. “Not your fault,” she mumbled. She just wanted him to leave and let her rest. Sunlight—what pale bit of it could shine through the winter gray skies—was streaming in through the window, its gentle warmth soaking into her raw flesh. Already she could feel the tingle of her magic returning, the regenerative warmth and healing light working to repair the awful proof of her father’s rage and loathing, but at the sun’s current strength, it would take days, possibly weeks before she was completely healed.

She heard her bedroom door open and close as the guards let themselves out. She closed her eyes, exhaled, and gave herself over to pain and exhaustion.

How long she floated in and out of consciousness, she didn’t know. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. At some point, something tugged her back to awareness.

She heard a gasp of horror and dismay: “Dearly!”

The sound of Tildy’s familiar, beloved voice made Kham want to weep as she had not done once throughout the long, torturous hours of the night. The nursemaid had been more of a mother to her since Queen Rosalind’s death than Verdan had ever been a father. She had showered Khamsin with constant love and guidance, praising her when praise was due, accepting the bursts of rebellious temper that were Kham’s nature, never shirking from a firm reprimand when that was due either.

She’d even administered the cane herself once or twice, when Kham’s transgressions had truly gone beyond the pale, but always—always—she tempered those punishments with love and restraint. Never, no matter how deeply Kham vexed her, would Tildy have even dreamed of beating her with such unrelenting brutality.

The ultrasensitive skin of her back felt the disturbance in the air as Tildy rushed across the room and dropped to her knees beside the bed.

“Oh, dearly, what has he done to you?”

Khamsin peeled open one eye. Tears trickled down the nursemaid’s wrinkled face as she surveyed the damage Verdan had wrought upon his youngest child.

Kham forced a wry smile. “It feels worse than it looks.” She started to laugh at her own, poor joke, but her ribs and the torn skin of her back protested the effort.

“Never,” Tildy whispered, “never in all my life would I have believed him capable of this. Foolish, arrogant, unthinking man! How could he commit such a crime?” Shaking fingers covered her mouth. “He’s called a curse upon his House.”

Sadness wiped the faint smile from the edge of Khamsin’s mouth. Her eyes closed with sudden weariness. “No, Tildy,” she said. “I did that long ago, when I killed my mother.”

“Oh, child.” The nursemaid stroked her cheek and bent to press a trembling kiss on her brow. “Don’t you ever think that. You didn’t kill our Rose.”

“The magic was mine.” She’d only been three at the time, but she remembered. The lightning crashing all around the Sky Garden, called by a little weatherwitch’s temper tantrum. The bolt that struck the oak, shattering the tree’s dense heart, and shearing off a heavy branch. Queen Rosalind looking up with a gasp. Khamsin had wiped the terrible memory from her mind until the day her father told her she was responsible for her mother’s death.

“It was an accident, child, and that wasn’t what killed her. She developed a sickness of the lungs, and she was too frail to fight it. She’d never been healthy after your birth.”

“My fault again.” She’d heard those stories, too. How she had grown in Queen Rosalind’s belly like a cancer, sapping her strength, robbing her of health, draining the very life from her.

“No, child. The doctor had already told both Rose and your father that Autumn should be their last child. But your mother wouldn’t listen, and your father couldn’t keep away.” Tildy’s hands, gentle and loving, brushed the tangled, sweat-dampened curls from Khamsin’s face. “It’s not you your father despises, Khamsin. It’s himself. Because he couldn’t stay away. When he looks at you, he sees the proof of his own weakness and can’t stand it.”

A tear—such a useless, silly thing—trickled from the corner of Kham’s eye. It flowed across the bridge of her nose, clung for a moment until its own weight grew too great for it to bear, then dropped soundless to the cotton sheets where it was instantly absorbed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Khamsin murmured. “I’m leaving.” She met Tildy’s sorrowful gaze and forced the corner of her mouth to tilt up in a smile. “I’m getting married, Tildy.”

The nursemaid’s chin trembled, and fresh tears swam in her eyes. “I know, dearly,” she said when finally she’d regained enough of her composure to speak. “He sent me to speed up your healing. He wants you wed the night after next and gone the following morning.”

Wynter stalked the tower ramparts, staring out over the miles of the once-fertile valley that was the heart Summerlea. Snow covered the land from the orchards of the northern foothills bordering the Craig to the vineyards of the rolling western hills to the flat southern fields where the husks of wheat, corn, oats and cotton stood withered and lifeless in their white winter coat.

He’d come to conquer, and he had. Nothing lived here except by his will. The far south, beyond his sight, had yielded food enough to feed the people of this kingdom for a few months more, but after that, without respite from the cold, Summerlanders would begin dying by the thousands.

He would ensure it, did Verdan not agree to his terms.

The clank of metal on stone made him turn. His hand dropped instinctively to cover the hilt of Gunterfys, strapped to his armored waist. He’d been outside the palace today, and though he’d shed his helmet and gauntlets downstairs, the rest of him was still clad in full battle armor. The war might be won, but he wasn’t fool enough to trust the Summerlanders with an unobstructed shot at his back.

The grip on his sword loosened when he saw the white horsehair plume of Valik’s helmet. “Well?”

His longtime friend approached and held out a sealed roll of paper. “This was just delivered downstairs. The runner is waiting for your reply.”

Wynter broke the red wax seal bearing the imprint of Verdan’s signet and unrolled the stiff paper. He scanned the inked message once, twice. His lips tightened fractionally.

“Well?” Valik prompted when Wynter lifted his gaze.

“He has agreed. With certain conditions.” He held out the note so Valik could read it for himself and watched his eyebrows climb when he reached the last lines of the message.

“The arrogant old bastard. He’s ordering you to plow her before you leave.”

“Wed her, bed her, and get out,” Wynter agreed. “Don’t forget that last bit.”

“Saw it,” Valik said grimly. “He as good as came right out and said blood will flow in the streets if you don’t leave the day after the wedding.” He passed the message back.

Wynter folded the note and tucked it into the cuff of his armor. He didn’t need to read the words again. Every looping scrawl of Verdan’s hand was already committed to memory. The message was brief, bitter, and as arrogant as the Summer King ever would be:

We are agreed. Though I would rather see all Summerlea laid waste than surrender one of my beloved daughters to be your wife, one of the princesses has nonetheless agreed to be your bride. The wedding will take place Freikasday evening, three nights from now, and as any concerned father would when his daughter’s life hangs in the balance, I require proof of consummation before you leave Summerlea. My physician will examine the princess the next morning.

She will be prepared to depart immediately thereafter. I’m sure the folk of Wintercraig are anxious for your return, and a prolonged departure would be unwise. As you know, the citizens of Summerlea are extraordinarily devoted to their beloved Seasons.

V

“What answer will you give him?”

Wynter shrugged. “I will accept, of course. It’s what I came for.”

Valik’s mouth gaped open. “You’re serious? You’re going to wed her, plow her, and leave town, just like he wants?”

He almost smiled at his friend’s astonishment. “A demand for immediate consummation isn’t unusual when great Houses forge matrimonial ties. Whether I do the deed now or later makes no difference to me, but he obviously fears I will hold myself from her and use her lack of quickening as an excuse to kill her and claim another princess.” What the Summer King hadn’t properly calculated was how badly Wynter wanted an heir. Though he would quite willingly strip Verdan of every daughter in his effort to get one, he’d intended from the start to sow his Summerlea field with vigor.

“And the speedy withdrawal? You plan to grant him that, too?”

“I am ready for home. I’m sure you and your men are, too. We’ve been gone long enough.”

“Me and my men?” A fresh spurt of outrage drove Valik’s voice louder. “I can understand why you would want to take your bride back to the Craig as soon as possible—I don’t necessarily agree with it, but I can understand it—but leaving Verdan Coruscate to his own devices is foolhardy. We’ll have a rebellion on our hands before you set the first foot on Wintercraig land.”

“That’s why your Chief Lieutenant Leirik and half the army are going to stay. You and the rest of the men will accompany me and my bride back home.”

Valik’s rigid spine went even stiffer. “You’re going to put Leirik in charge?”

Wynter hadn’t thought it possible for Valik to look so upset. He was usually a stern guard of his emotions. “He’s capable, don’t you think?”

“Yes, perfectly capable. That’s not the point. If anyone should stay behind to lead the troops here in Summerlea, it should be me.”

“No.” He said it bluntly, in a tone that brooked no refusal. “You’re coming home with me.”

“I’m the Steward of Troops,” Valik protested. “I’m your second-in-command. In the White King’s absence, the White Sword speaks in his name. That’s always how it’s been. Keeping the peace in Summerlea after you’ve gone is my duty.”

“No.”

“Wyn—”

“No! Don’t ask me again.” He glared at Valik. “I’ve already lost one brother to Summerlander treachery. I won’t lose another.” The two of them weren’t brothers in blood, but in every other way that mattered, they were. They’d been friends since birth, confidants in the awkward years of adolescence, and for the last three years, comrades in arms who’d saved one another’s lives more times than either of them could count. Losing Valik was not an option.

Surprise blanked Valik’s expression, then understanding crept into his eyes. “Wyn . . .”

Wynter turned away. “I’ve held the Ice Heart too long. If something happened to you, I fear I’d do the unspeakable.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant clatter of the city below and the whistle of the cool wind blowing past.

Wynter turned his face into the wind, closed his eyes, and drew the crisp air deep into his lungs. Cold as it was, the air was still warmer than the frigid mass that dwelled deep inside him.

Behind him, in a much calmer, even casual tone, Valik said, “Verdan’s note doesn’t say which one of the Seasons will be your bride.”

Wynter’s mouth turned up at the corner. Not the smoothest of segues, but he was grateful for the change of subject all the same. Thank Wyrn, Valik wasn’t one to wallow in emotion.

“Any one of the princesses will do,” he said. His spy had told him Verdan loved each of the Seasons madly, and that was all that mattered. The Summer King would suffer the loss of his beloved daughter, as Wynter suffered each day without his brother.

“I’ll inform Leirik of your plans and prep my men for departure.”

“Have Verdan’s runner inform him that we are in agreement.”

“I will.”

“And Valik?” Keeping his eyes on the frozen Summerlea landscape, he asked, “Did you find anything more about the little maid?”

“She’s the last thing you should be thinking about right now.”

“Did you?”

Valik huffed out a breath. “No. I asked around, like you wanted, but no one seems to have heard of a maid fitting her description.”

“That Newt woman knew her.”

“She’s Verdan’s stooge. I thought you wanted me to be more discreet. Papa wouldn’t be too happy to know his daughter’s groom is hunting a mistress before the vows are even spoken—especially if you’re right about why he wants to ensure the marriage is consummated.”

Wynter opened his mouth to deny that his interest in the maid was sexual, then closed it. Who was he trying to fool? He hadn’t sent his best friend and closest confidant on a fruitless search of the palace to find the maid just so Wynter and she could exchange stain-removal recipes. He wanted to find her so he could assuage the hunger that still curled in his belly and had kept his body in a state of semiarousal ever since.

It was probably for the best that her fellow servants were hiding her from him. Had Valik found her, Wyn honestly doubted he’d have any interest in attending his bride on their wedding night, and that would have caused a number of problems.

“Carry on.”

Steel clanked as Valik thumped a gauntleted hand against his chest and bowed. “My king.”

When he was gone, Wynter remained where he stood, his gaze sweeping the winding levels of the city below in slow, moody passes. He should forget her, just as Valik said, but he couldn’t. The little maid, with her storm-cloud eyes and storm-tossed hair, simply would not leave his thoughts.

The rest of the afternoon and the following two days passed without event. While the palace below was in a flurry of activity preparing for the royal wedding and subsequent feast Verdan had insisted on hosting, Wynter spent most of his time sequestered in the bower, signing grants of office for the Wintercraig men who would be putting the country back in order after his departure, and poring over maps and the stacks of active treaties he’d ordered brought to him from Verdan’s library. Before his invasion, Summerlea had had a thriving trade with numerous kingdoms and several enviable strategic alliances. It was Wynter’s hope to reestablish both commercial and diplomatic ties once the transition of power was complete.

As for the current royal family, after Wynter’s departure, the deposed king would be exiled to one of his smaller country estates, away from Summerlea’s political heart, and kept there under guard to dissuade him from fomenting rebellion. The two Seasons Wynter was not taking to wife would remain in the city under Leirik’s watchful eye—hostages in case Verdan did anything foolish. Active rule of the country would pass to Wynter’s appointed governor: Leirik at first, then a nonmilitary figure when the country restabilized; and once Wynter had his heir, he would marry off the other Seasons to neighboring princes in return for economic, political, and military favors.

The terms were more than generous. Verdan kept his head, and his daughters retained their titles as princesses of Summerlea. The prince, Falcon, had, of course, lost his lands, title, and inheritance, but so long as he stayed beyond the Wynter’s reach, he could keep his life. All things considered, the deposed king had little to complain about, and the signed and sealed parchments outlining the transition of power were now neatly packed in Wynter’s own correspondence bags.

By sunset on the third day, he had completed all of the most pressing paperwork, and the only vital document left that required his signature and seal was the marriage certificate that Verdan’s steward Gravid had delivered personally. Two copies of the certificate—one for him and one for Summerlea—lay before him. He picked up the top copy and regarded the simple piece of parchment that, once signed, witnessed, and consecrated before a priest, would make a princess of Summerlea his queen.

Her Royal Highness, Angelica Mariposa Rosalind Khamsin Gianna Coruscate.

That was the name of the stranger who had agreed to be his wife.

Which Season she was, Wynter still hadn’t a clue. He’d asked Verdan, whose only response had been a curt, “Does it matter?” It didn’t, or rather shouldn’t. And he’d be damned if he’d ask the pinch-faced prune of a steward waiting to take a signed copy of the certificate back to Verdan. Whichever one she was, the princess and her witness had already signed both copies of the marriage document.

Her signature was shaky, he noted, as if she’d been trembling (or crying?) when she’d signed. His lips thinned. Poor little flower. Such a terrible fate, to be his queen. He dipped his quill in the inkwell and signed first one copy, then the other, with a steady, sweeping flourish, then added his own pale silver-blue wax impressed with Wintercraig’s Snow Wolf seal beneath the red wax medallion bearing the Summerlea Rose.

He passed the documents to Valik, who signed as his witness, then sanded both signatures, waited a few seconds for the ink to dry, and handed one copy to Gravid.

“Well,” he murmured after Verdan’s steward had departed, “that’s that.”

“It is,” Valik agreed.

“There’s only the wedding and bedding left.”

Valik grunted.

“When is the ceremony?”

His friend glanced at the small brass clock set on a nearby table. “In an hour.”

“Guess we’d best both get ready.” Neither of them was dressed for a royal wedding.

Valik looked at him askance, and it was no wonder. Wynter had never been one to drag his feet. Why was he dragging them now?

“Full plate mail?” Valik asked.

He considered it, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I feel in the mood for a fight, if he’s fool enough to give me one, but I won’t go looking like I’m expecting one.” He rose to his feet and paced restlessly. Signing the marriage certificate should have left him filled with cold triumph. Instead, he felt hollow.

“Wyn?”

“What?” He turned to regard his lifelong friend.

“Put her from your mind.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“It is to me. I’ve never seen you like this. I don’t know what spell the little witch cast on you, but I don’t like it. You don’t know who she is or where she came from. For all you know, she was a Coruscate spy sent to find your weaknesses. Forget her.”

“It’s not just her, Valik.” Liar, his mind immediately whispered. “I can’t help thinking there must be more than this. The victory doesn’t feel . . . complete.”

“Give it time.” Valik clapped him on the back. “Tonight you claim your prize. After a few pleasant hours in the soft company of your Season, I’ve no doubt you’ll feel better.”

“What do you mean she isn’t going to be ready for the wedding?” Verdan glowered at the old woman who’d been his wife’s beloved nurse, then caretaker of his wild, unmanageable youngest child. “You’ve had the better part of three days.”

“And I’ve spent all of that just trying to undo the worst of the injuries you dealt her!” Tildavera snapped. “I’ve done everything in my power to speed her healing. Ointments, herbal baths, I even ordered the servants to bring up all the growing lamps we’ve been using to keep some measure of fresh fruit and vegetable on your table. The best I’ve been able to do is help her breathe without pain and grow a thin layer of new skin over most of the lacerations you inflicted.” She put her hands on her hips. “There’s no possible way she can stand before the priest or sit for hours at the wedding feast in her current condition.”

“Unacceptable. I’ve already told the Winter King the wedding will take place tonight, and he’s already agreed to it. You’re supposed to be a master herbalist. I let you go to her only on the condition that you could get her fit for tonight. Now can you do it or not?”

The old woman got an affronted, self-righteous look on her face. “I am indeed a master herbalist, but no amount of herbal remedy or even full summer sun could possibly erase what you did to her—not in the short time you’ve given me. It will be a week at the earliest before she’s fully healed. If you wanted her capable of wedding, you should have restrained yourself rather than beating her within an inch of her life!”

“Watch your tongue, woman.” Lifelong retainer she might be, but Tildavera Greenleaf had long ago forgotten her place.

“Or what? You’ll beat me, too?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He paced the office floor, thinking rapidly. Yes, he’d been harsh, but the damnable girl had refused to bend, and he’d been forced to break her. He’d been counting on the nursemaid’s skill with herbs and the girl’s own cursedly efficient self-healing abilities to mitigate the worst of the wounds he’d inflicted. “If you can’t have her ready for the wedding, Tildavera, you can at least have her ready for the wedding night.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking? Aren’t you the one who said consummation was the only way to ensure the White King wouldn’t demand the marriage be annulled once he realizes he’s wed to that . . . abomination instead of the Season he’s expecting? Have him wed her and bed her and whisk her out of the city before he realizes he’s been duped, you said.”

“That was before I knew you’d beaten her near to death!”

“She’ll survive. She always does. But the reasons for insisting on consummation haven’t changed just because the hour grows late, and you’ve discovered that your skills aren’t quite what you’ve always touted them to be.”

He kicked at the small scorch mark on his office carpet left by the burning ash of Rosalind’s picture and diary. Many potentially lethal accidents had befallen the girl in the years following Rosalind’s death, most of them natural, a few less so, but she had survived each one unscathed. Contagion never touched her, deadly blows turned away at the last moment, even the few grievous wounds she’d suffered over the years healed swiftly, without infection or scarring. It was as if the gods themselves sat on her shoulder, protecting her from sickness and peril.

Well, now he had an opportunity to rid himself of her once and for all, and he wasn’t about to suffer her presence a moment longer than necessary.

“There will be a wedding. By proxy if necessary.” He stopped pacing and looked up. “Come to think of it, that’s probably the best solution all around.” The idea hadn’t occurred to him until now, but it had great potential. “One of the Seasons can stand in for her . . . Autumn, I think. He showed interest in her.”

His mind churned through all the possible ways the plan could go wrong and all the ways to keep that from happening. “We’ll keep Autumn heavily veiled—and make up some excuse for it, of course—and have the girl switch places with her when she goes to disrobe for the wedding night. If he does insist on seeing his bride’s face before the vows are spoken, he’ll think he’s getting exactly what he wanted. You could even put a little something in his drink to disorient him and ensure he consummates the marriage without realizing she’s not one of the Seasons.”

His biggest fear all day had been that Wynter Atrialan would learn his bride’s true identity before he bedded her and annul the marriage. But this . . . this could work. After all, for all that he despised her, the girl was a princess of Summerlea . . . she did bear the Rose . . . and Wynter had not demanded a particular daughter to be his wife. He’d just said to choose one. Any fault in not knowing what he might get lay entirely with him.

If the Winter King happened to kill the girl in a fury when he realized how he’d been tricked . . . well, he’d just be ridding Verdan of the albatross that had hung around his neck for the last two decades.

Verdan turned and frowned at the old nursemaid, who was still standing near his desk. “Are you still here, Tildavera? What are you waiting for? Go make this happen.”

“Haven’t you heard what I’ve been telling you? You wounded her severely. Even if Autumn stands in for her at the wedding, healing Khamsin enough to withstand a consummation tonight is beyond even my skills.”

He lifted a speaking brow. “Don’t be so modest. I’ve seen you fix a posset that had a gutted soldier laughing and smiling only hours after his intestines had been stuffed back inside him. The girl’s wounds might not have healed enough to let her stand and walk about, but the pain is something you can mask. Especially as all she has to do is lie there and spread her legs.”

“Blessed Sun!” she exclaimed. “How can you be such a monster? You’re her father! Rosalind was her mother! Hate the part of you that lives in her if you must, but how can you hate the part of her that came from our Rose?”

Heat rushed into his veins. “She murdered my Rose. I don’t just hate her, I loathe the very air she breathes!” he spat. He turned away, fighting to rein in his temper before Tildavera earned more than sharp words. “Make her ready, Nurse. And close the door behind you when you leave.”

Khamsin dragged herself across the room, using each stick of furniture as a crutch to help her keep her feet as she shuffled back from the tiny bathing room towards the lamplit bed. The thin silk robe she’d draped around her body brushed against the fragile new skin on her back, each light touch sending bolts of pain shooting through her, and despite Tildy’s constant ministrations, Kham’s muscles had stiffened up so that every step punished her for making the effort. Of course, considering that earlier today she’d barely been able even to sit up without screaming, the ability to move about the room at all was nothing short of a miracle.

How she was going to stand before a priest for a lengthy wedding ceremony was another matter altogether.

The White King, like her father, did not strike her as a man who brooked delays, but just traversing the small distance from bed to bathroom left her breathless, weak, and dizzy. Even if King Verdan had her carried into the church, how could she stand before the altar under her own power to recite her vows?

Curious, testing herself to see how much she could bear, Khamsin straightened her back and released her hold on the furniture.

She stood there, swaying slightly, counting each second as it passed.

The door opened, Tildy’s voice cried out, “Dearly!”

Forgetting herself, Kham instinctively turned towards her nurse. Pain shot down her back. Muscles seized, and her knees buckled. She cried out and grabbed hold of the furniture, barely managing to stop herself from collapsing to the ground.

“What are you doing? You’re in no condition to be up and walking around.” Tildy rushed to Khamsin’s side and nudged a supporting shoulder under her arm. “Here. Hold on to me. I’ll help you back to bed.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to get up,” Kham protested, but she didn’t have the strength to struggle as Tildy herded back towards the waiting bed. “The wedding’s only a few hours away.” Now that she understood the full extent of her father’s loathing, she was ready to have the marriage over and done with. Whatever Wintercraig held in store, it couldn’t be worse than what her father would do to her if she stayed here.

“Autumn will stand as your proxy,” her nurse soothed. “The wedding will take place without you. You need to rest and concentrate on healing.” She pushed aside the heavy drapes she’d hung to prevent her herb-infused healing steam from dissipating, and ushered Kham towards the waiting, lamplit mattress. “Come lie back down, dearly. I’ll fix a posset for the pain and freshen the ointment on your back and the herbs in the kettle. Hedgewick can bring up a few more lamps from the cellar.”

Khamsin’s hand shot out, closing round the bedpost. “No, Tildy.”

“Shh, all right, dearly,” the nursemaid soothed. “No more lamps. It’s already bright and warm as a summer morning anyways.”

“No,” Kham said again. “I’m not talking about the lamps. I’m talking about the wedding. I will say my vows, not Autumn.”

“Out of the question! You can hardly stand!”

“He hasn’t broken me, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he has,” she rasped. She didn’t have to say who “he” was. “I made this choice. I will see it through, not Autumn.” Her legs were shaking, the muscles in her legs weak. She clutched the bedpost tighter.

“Khamsin . . .”

“You cannot dissuade me, Tildy. I’ve had the last three days to think about this.” She lifted her chin and called upon every ounce of haughty Coruscate pride to keep her standing. “For the first time since my mother’s death, he’s going to have to admit—in public and before the court—that I, Khamsin Coruscate, am a princess of Summerlea. How could you possibly imagine I would let one of my sisters stand in my place when that happens?”

Tildy bit her lip, and her brow wrinkled with concern. “Khamsin, listen to me. You don’t understand. As far as Wynter Atrialan knows, Summerlea only has three princesses. He only knows their giftnames, and we can’t run the risk of having him discover that the Khamsin Coruscate he agreed to wed is not Spring, Summer, or Autumn.”

Khamsin’s brows drew together. “Why would he care? A princess is a princess.”

“Not to your father, and not to him. He knows how much your father loves your sisters. He wants to strike a blow to Verdan’s heart by taking one of the Seasons to wife. If he discovers the deception before the marriage is consummated, he can simply annul the ceremony and marry one of your sisters instead. Your father doesn’t want that to happen, and neither do I. This is your chance to get out of Summerlea. Sooner or later, your father will find a way to kill you if you stay. I’ve no doubt of that now. Wintercraig is the safest place for you—at least until your brother returns to us.”

“Falcon isn’t coming back. If Summerlea hadn’t lost the war, he might one day have returned, but now? It would be a death sentence.”

“Perhaps not. Your brother didn’t just steal the Winter King’s bride when he fled Gildenheim. He also took an ancient treasure called the Book of Riddles—a book he believed would lead him to the secret hiding place of Roland’s sword. He’s been searching for the sword ever since.”

Khamsin’s jaw dropped. “Blazing? Falcon’s searching for Blazing?” She shook her head, remembering that day in the Sky Garden so long ago, when she’d suggested he search for Blazing. Remembering Falcon’s stumble, which she’d attributed to an uneven paving stone rather than a guilty conscience. Remembering how he’d scoffed at the idea as a child’s fairy tale. And all the while, searching for the sword had been his intent. The pieces clicked into place like the sliding parts of a puzzle box. “That’s why Father sent him.” Not to train Falcon how to negotiate a treaty, and not to charm the Winterfolk into better concessions, but to charm someone—probably Wynter’s bride—into helping him steal the Book of Riddles.

Kham swallowed hard, astonished that she’d never figured it out before. Like everyone else, when told the story of Falcon’s falling in love and eloping with the Winter King’s bride, she’d accepted it without question.

“Even if that’s true, Tildy, how could you possibly know it?”

“Given the right herbs, a man will tell you any and everything he knows.” Tildy raised her brows pointedly. “And from the latest I could glean, your brother is very close to finding the sword. Once he does, your safety is guaranteed. With Blazing in his possession, he’ll be strong enough to win back the freedom of Summerlea and claim the throne for himself, as he will surely do once he realizes the crime Verdan has committed against his own House.”

“And if Falcon doesn’t find the sword?”

“You’ll still be Queen of the Craig and safe from your father’s machinations. Which is why it’s imperative this wedding to take place, and in order for that to happen, the Winter King must believe he’s wedding a Season.”

“Even if I veil my face and pretend to be one of my sisters, what’s to stop the White King from killing me the moment he discovers the truth?” Khamsin pointed out. “I’ve met him. I’ve felt his power. He doesn’t strike me as the forgiving sort.”

“He demanded one of Verdan’s daughters to wife. He’ll get one. He may be angry when he discovers you’re not the Season he was expecting; but once the marriage is consummated, his own honor will keep him to the terms of his agreement. Ultimately, it’s an heir he’s after, one capable of ascending both the Summer and Winter Thrones.”

“How can you know that, Tildy? And don’t tell me he talks under the influence of herbs, too. You’ve never even met the man.”

A strange look crossed Tildy’s face. A flash of regret, a hint of shame, followed directly by grim determination.

Khamsin’s knees gave out, and not even pride could keep her standing. She collapsed to the bed, realization dawning. Shock made the muscles of her face go lax. “But you have met him, haven’t you, Tildy.” Dismay, accusation, horror: All crept into her voice. “You’re the traitor who’s been feeding him information.”

Tildy’s jaw clenched, and her chin thrust out. “I’m no traitor. I’m a loyal servant of Queen Rosalind. I swore on her deathbed that I would do everything in my power to ensure your well-being, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“By betraying my family to our enemy?”

Tildy held out her hands. “Dearly—”

“Don’t call me that!” Khamsin cried, flinching away from those treacherous, once-loved hands. “How long have you been spying for him?”

The nurse heaved a great sigh. “Six months.”

Khamsin’s shoulders slumped. Six months. Since before the last two fierce battles that had sealed Summerlea’s fate. “Did you help him destroy my father’s armies?”

“Of course not! Summerlea’s defeat was already certain. I simply helped him understand he could achieve the victory he wanted without razing Vera Sola to the ground.”

“You’re the one who told him about Falcon’s room. You encouraged him to demand the bower.” The pieces all fell into place. “You wanted me to go up there and retrieve mother’s things. You were hoping I would run into him.”

“I had to know if you and he would suit. I would never have let you wed him otherwise. The results have been promising. He hasn’t stopped asking about you, and his steward has queried half the palace about the maid with the white-streaked hair.”

A chill shivered across Khamsin’s skin. Fear, partly, but partly something else. Something that left behind heat, not cold.

Immediately on the heels of that shiver came a new realization that made the blood drain from her face.

“You’re the one who convinced King Verdan that I should be the Winter King’s bride. You’re the reason he took me into the mountain and beat me until I agreed to this marriage.” She pressed the heel of her palm against her chest, trying to stop the painful ache of her heart. “Why?” Her lips trembled. “Am I really such a monster? All these years, I thought you loved me. Has that all been a lie?”

“How can you even suggest that?” Tildy cried. “Everything I’ve done I’ve done for love of you and your mother.”

“For love, you sent him to beat me into submission?”

“I told you, I had no idea that your father would dare brutalize you the way he did. Until then, I hadn’t realized how truly mad he has become. But his behavior only assures me that I did the right thing in encouraging this marriage.” Tildy reached for Khamsin’s hands, but when Kham flinched away, the nurse drew a breath and bowed her head. “One day, dearly, you’ll see this was the only way I could protect you. If you were to remain here, in Summerlea, Verdan would find a way to kill you. I’m certain of it.”

Khamsin crossed her arms. “And you think my fate will be any different with the Winter King?” The memory of his touch, his voice, made her shiver.

“Wynter Atrialan wants heirs. Once you wed him, you’ll be safe from your father’s wrath, and once you provide him with his heirs, your position as his queen will be secure. If your brother returns with Roland’s sword, you and your children will be safe. If he doesn’t, your children—Rosalind’s grandchildren—will inherit both Summerlea and Wintercraig. It’s the best future I could have hoped to give you, dearly. All you need to do is let Autumn stand as your proxy, then you consummate the marriage before he discovers the truth.”

The idea that Falcon might truly be the long-awaited Heir of Roland who would return the legendary sword, Blazing, to Summerlea seemed such a fantasy, she didn’t spare it a thought. But the other . . . how Verdan would howl to see Khamsin’s child on the throne of Summerlea. How he would rage and storm about. That thought alone was almost enough to convince her.

Even without that satisfaction, she had to admit that Tildy was right. If Khamsin didn’t get out now, her father would find some other way to rid himself of her. The gods and her own good fortune had kept her alive until now, but she couldn’t count on such graces forever.

She clutched the silk robe closer about her neck and winced as the fabric pulled the tender wounds on her back. “Very well,” she agreed. “I’ll wed the Winter King, but not by proxy. Veil me as heavily as you must to hide my identity, but either I stand to speak my vows, or they will not be spoken.”

“You’re too weak, and you’re in too much pain,” Tildy protested. “I can see it on your face. You can’t possibly make it through the ceremony and the wedding feast.”

Khamsin smiled grimly. “I wasn’t asking for your permission, Nurse Greenleaf. I was explaining the conditions of my cooperation. The only thing I require from you is your herbalist skills to mix up a fresh ointment for my back. You will find a way to block the worst of the pain, and I’ll find a way to make it through this farce.”