by C. L. Wilson
With swift familiarity born of years spent running wild through the palace’s many forgotten places, Khamsin darted through the dim corridors. After her mother’s death, the upper reaches of the palace had been locked away, left to weather the years untended and uninhabited. Only a curious child, a princess as neglected as this once lovely palace realm, had ever dared the king’s wrath and ventured secretly within. It was the one place—the only place—Khamsin had ever felt at home.
Her cape caught on a protruding nailhead, and the sudden yanking pull all but strangled her. Khamsin ripped at the frogs that clasped the cape around her throat, tearing one free and ripping the delicate lace at her neckline. The cape fell in a puddle of watered silk and black velvet. The simple golden circlet Tildy had so lovingly settled in place in Khamsin’s curls earlier that morning cocked awkwardly over one brow, dislodged by her brief struggles with the cape. With an angry sob, she tore the circlet free and threw it on the pile of silk and velvet.
Her hair came unpinned again, falling about her shoulder in untamed ringlets, the white streaks that had always been so offensive to her father once more in plain view. She didn’t care. Let him see her and be enraged. At least then he’d be forced to feel something. Even fury, was better than years of neglect.
Freed of cape and crown, once carefully-pinned ringlets now spilling haphazardly down her back, she resumed her dash through the tower. A few moments later, she crossed the wide, cobweb- and dust-covered room that had once been the Queen’s bower.
Silent hulks of furniture, shrouded in linen swaths, filled the room. Along the walls, moth eaten window hangings and tapestries sagged in mournful tatters. After the queen’s death, King Verdan had ordered the bower entombed, Queen Rosalind’s belongings covered with sheets and left where they lie.
Across the room, a narrow lip of stairs curved up the tower wall to a small landing and an arched doorway. She leapt the stairs three at a time and rushed breathless into the small covered oriel overlooking the courtyard and city below.
She caught her heaving breath and wiped at the useless tears that still sometimes insisted on spilling from her eyes. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need her father’s love. She didn’t even need the recognition of her birth-status. She had Tildy and her sisters, who loved her despite him. She’d had her brother’s love, too, until he’d run off with the Winter King’s bride and fled for his life, taking his purloined lady with him. And, of course, she had her mother’s treasures to remind her that Queen Rosalind, at least, had loved her last-born child even if her husband would not.
The clatter of hooves in the courtyard below made Khamsin flinch. She glanced down into the bailey and froze, all thoughts of her father and his long neglect swept away in an instant. Fascination and stunned awe took their place.
Now, there was a sight no Summerlander had ever seen before.
Shining white, brilliant pale, like an army of snow-cloaked conquering ghosts, the soldiers of Winter rode proud into the upper bailey of Summerlea. And at the army’s head, just now passing through the gate, rode the White King himself, Wynter Atrialan, King of the Craig.
He sat on a snow white stallion, as poised, cold and merciless as a headsman’s axe just before the chop. Armor of mirror-polished silver plate gleamed from crown to toe. A long, ice-blue cape trimmed in white ermine trailed out behind him, covering his mount’s rump and draping down past the Winter King’s own armored heels. At the crown of his helm, a tall ruff of ice-blue horsehair ruffled in the chill breeze, and his stallion’s iron-shod hooves rang out on the worn cobble of the courtyard.
The horse came to a halt. The Winter King swung one long leg over his mount and slid effortlessly to the ground. Summer Sun! He was huge—practically a giant. Taller than any Summerlander, with the broadest shoulder she’d ever seen. Over seven feet of powerful muscles and sheer intimidation. She hadn’t expected that. Beneath his silver helm, a mask in the shape of a snarling wolf’s head hid his face.
His hands, clad in silver-mail gauntlets, rose to unlatch the mask and lift the helm from his head. He tucked it beneath one arm, leaving his sword arm free, hand resting near the hilt of the now infamous blade, Gunterfys – Giant Killer. A blade that after the last three years would be better named Ertafys – Summer Killer.
Even from her vantage point high above, she could see the Winter King’s face. Square jaw, cheekbones high and shapely, skin a surprising golden hue, the color of browned butter. She’d always thought the folk of Wintercraig would be snowy-pale, but they weren’t. At least, he wasn’t. Which only made his wealth of long gleaming white hair and startling pale eyes seem all the more vivid.
He was handsome. Beyond handsome.
She hadn’t expected that either. Khamsin sucked in a breath, then coughed as the cold air dried and chilled her throat.
Silver-blue eyes, clear and cold as glacier ice, cast upward, finding her in one swift, sharp instant, pinning her in place. All thought fled her mind. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She could only stare, captured and frozen, as the Winter King’s blazing ice-fire eyes held and plundered her.
How long she stood there, motionless, she couldn’t say. Each moment lasted a lifetime. First ice, then fire scorched her cheeks. Then ice again when, at last, the Winter King turned his gaze away and freed her.
She stumbled back into the shadows of the oriel and lifted trembling hands to cover her face. Her heart pounded heavy in her chest, each beat a labored thud. The blood in her veins felt slow and sluggish, her mind dazed, and a distinct chill had invaded her flesh.
She was shivering violently by the time she reached the bottom of her stairs.
“Dearly!” Tildy exclaimed in worried tones. The old nursemaid limped across the room to bundle Khamsin up in the warm velvet folds of her abandoned cape. “What were you thinking, child, to stand up there in the wind with naught to cover you but one thin dress? Your skin’s gone cold as ice.”
“S-sorry, Tildy,” Khamsin apologized through numb lips and chattering teeth. With one long glance, the Winter King had all but frozen her to death. The only spot of warmth on all her skin was the small, rose-shaped birthmark on her inner right wrist—proof of her royal Summerlea heritage.
###
Wynter cast a cold, keen, wary gaze around the courtyard, missing nothing. The sound from up high few minutes ago had set him on edge. He’d shot an Ice Gaze at the would-be assassin, only to capture instead a dark, unruly haired servant girl dressed in some noblewoman’s tattered cast-off gown and watching the proceedings in the courtyard with wide gray eyes.
He’d known in an instant she was no assassin. There was something…innocent…about her. Something intriguing about the wild tumble of black curls blowing around her pretty, sun-bronzed face—besides the odd streaks of white tangled in with the dark, like glacial waterfalls frozen against black rock. Well, no matter. He wasn’t here to entertain himself with servants—even the intriguing ones. Not that she’d willingly come within a hundred yards of him again. Had he held his Gaze a moment longer, he would have frozen her where she stood.
Wynter directed his attention back to the royal family of Summerlea, who had assembled on the palace steps as he’d commanded. King Verdan, his dark, swarthy face as full of false pride as ever, stood at the forefront, clad in full court dress. Still fit after thirty years of kingship and decades of indulgent living, the Summer King boasted a vivid masculine beauty. He was tall and well-muscled, with dark snapping eyes, rich coloring, and an intrinsic Summer warmth so different than the colder, paler folk of the north.
His son, the prince called Falcon, had been much the same.
Was that foreign warmth the temptation that had lured Elka from her vows?
Behind Verdan, standing as close together as they could without appearing to huddle, waited his three lovely daughters. They were—justly so, Wynter now realized—as famous for their exotic beauty as for their Summerlea gifts. What their real names were, he neither knew nor cared. They
were easy enough to identify by their giftnames: Spring, the eldest, a tall, cool beauty with bright green eyes and inky hair straight as falls of snowmelt pelting down a cliff side; Summer, the middle daughter, whose thick waves of blue-black hair and summer blue eyes promised a warmth long lacking in the Craig; and the youngest, Autumn, a haughty creature blessed with loose, flowing ringlets of a rare, deep auburn that set off her pansy-purple eyes to perfection. These were Summerlea’s greatest treasures: the three Seasons, beloved daughters of the Summer King.
The corner of Wynter’s mouth curled in a faint smile. This victory would not be without its pleasures.
“King Verdan.” He turned his gaze upon the former ally whom he’d spent the last three years bringing to heel. “I have come, as I vowed when last we met on the field of battle, to issue the terms of peace and claim what is my due.”
Summerlea’s ruler nodded stiffly. “I am prepared to receive and meet your demands.”
“Are you? Good.” Wynter gestured to the white-cloaked army behind him. “First, you will quarter my men. Your Steward of the Keep will escort my Steward of Troops, Lord Valik, on a tour of the city and palace defenses. He will deploy my men throughout the city…to discourage any courageous acts of rebellion your loyal followers might entertain,” he added with a cold, knowing smile.
Verdan flushed but did not look away.
“You will quarter me as well,” Wynter continued. “Richly. With a warm bath and a hot meal to refresh me after my journey. And one of your beloved daughters…” He perused the three princesses and settled on the haughty beauty with the flashing pansy-purple eyes. “Autumn, I think…to share my meal.” Again he smiled, without a hint of warmth. “To discourage any…overspicing.”
“Very well,” Verdan bit out, not rising to the bait. “We have prepared a suite for you. Luxurious in every appointment. You will not be disappointed.”
“Won’t I? I understand the rooms you have prepared for me once belonged to your son, Prince Falcon.” He enjoyed the shock on Verdan’s face and the quick, panicked flicker of his eyes. Let him wonder how the Winter King had learned that bit of news. “Did you really think I would rest in the bedchamber of the thief who stole my bride and murdered my heir?” Just the mention of that terrible day brought the memory of it back in vivid color. White. The color of fresh-fallen snow. Dark blue-green. The color of winter spruce and his brother Garrick’s hunting leathers. Red. The color of Garrick’s blood. So much blood. Blue. The color of the sky, of Garrick’s sightless eyes, and of the Summerlea arrow rising up from Garrick’s throat.
Wynter’s jaw tightened. The now-familiar burn of power sparked at the backs of his eyes. If he unleashed what lived inside him, he could kill every living thing in the city in a matter of minutes.
“I—but—” Verdan clamped his lips closed and gathered his composure. He bowed. “Then, of course, we will make other preparations.”
Wynter blanked the signs of temper from his face. “I understand the upper levels of your tower are unoccupied.” He nodded at the stone edifice behind the Summer King. The servant girl was gone from the small oriel above. “I will take those.”
“The tower has been unoccupied for years. It has fallen into a state of disrepair. Surely—”
“Consider it a test of your willingness to please me. Your servants have six hours to see to it. Clean, well-appointed rooms, a warm bath, and a hot meal,” he repeated. “And your daughter, the princess Autumn, with a pleasant smile on her face, to dine with me. While you see it done, I will tour the city with Valik and your steward.”
“But…the war…your terms for peace, sir?”
“When I am rested and refreshed, we will meet to discuss the particulars of Summerlea’s surrender and the price of peace between us.” When no one moved, he lifted one mocking brow. “Six hours is little enough time to produce the perfection I demand. Believe me, King Verdan, you would be wise to ensure I am pleased with your hospitality. I am a far less forgiving man than once I was. You and your son taught me the folly of dealing gently with Summerlanders.”
###
“He’s taking my mother’s rooms?” Khamsin stared at Tildy in dismay. “How could father allow it?”
The nursemaid gathered a pile of fresh, folded bedclothes and bath towels from a linen room fragrant with rosemary. “He could hardly say no, now could he, dearly?” Tildy answered practically. “Conquered kings may keep their heads, but rarely their pride or authority. There’s a new king in Summerlea now, child, and his name is Wynter of the Craig. Best we all get used to it.”
“But…my mother’s rooms…the Sky Garden….”
“Is his, to do with as he pleases.” Tildy nodded her head at the open door. “Close the door, dearly, to keep in the scent.”
“I don’t accept that.” She shut the door. “I won’t accept that. My mother’s rooms are off limits…private. It’s been that way all my life.”
“That was your father’s law. This is the White King’s will. We do as he commands now.”
“Why? Because he beat a shivering army into surrender? Bah! Politics and the rules of war be damned! We should not bow to this usurper’s demands like a pack of frightened mice!” The invasion of her mother’s rooms was personal. It was a defilement of a silent, sacred memorial to the beauteous Summerlea queen who’d died long before her time.
Tildy stopped in her tracks, her spine going straight as a poker. She turned and cast a dark glance back at Khamsin, a silent reminder of who had raised whom from infancy. “Politics? Is what you think this is?” the older woman asked in an arch voice. “Mind your temper, and use that brain God gave you! This isn’t politics we’re talking about. It’s survival. Your father’s and your own to boot. Displease the Winter King, and we’ll none of us see another spring.”
“What joy does a slave find in spring?” Khamsin countered bitterly. “Better to die a hero’s death like Roland than live ten lifetimes cowering beneath a conqueror’s heel!”
“Hush!” Setting the pile of linen’s on a nearby table, Tildy crossed the room to take Khamsin’s shoulders in a firm grip and shake her soundly. “That is childish idiocy speaking. I’ve taught you better. Roland died a hero, aye, but his line died with him. You are an Heir to the Summer Throne. So long as you and your family live—even one of you—there is hope for us all. Would you fling yourself to your death without a care for those who love you? Without a thought for those whose care you ought to put before your own? Have I failed so utterly that I’ve raised a blind, vain fool instead of a princess fit to wear the crown?”
Feeling sullen—shamed and wounded by the scold—Khamsin dropped her gaze. “No,” she muttered. “You haven’t failed, Tildy.” She shook free of her nursemaid’s harsh grip. Her velvet-clad arms crossed over her chest. “Fine.” She couldn’t summon gracious defeat, but then, she’d never been able to do that—not even when the defeat was as minor as losing a game of Aces at cards. “I will not obstruct.” Her eyes flashed. “But I won’t help either.”
The nursemaid sighed and shook her long-ago silvered hair. “That would be too much to ask, dearly. I’ll be happy just to hear you promise not to summon a cyclone in his bath—especially not when he’s in it.”
She kicked a nearby table leg and scuffed the toe of her leather slipper. Tildy knew her too well. “No cyclone. I promise.” Her gaze shot up with sudden defiance. “But I am going to collect the dearest of my mother’s belongings before he claims her rooms.” She’d never dared remove them before now, lest her father discover she’d entered the tower against his will.
“As well you should.” Tildy had been Queen Rosalind’s nursemaid, too. She had followed her charge from the gentle, ocean-side kingdom of Seahaven, twenty-eight years ago, and stayed to raise Rosalind’s children as she had raised Rosalind herself..
Tildy started to pick up her linens again, then stopped and turned to wrap Khamsin in a tight, loving embrace. “Don’t fight so hard against things you can’t change,
child. You’ll batter yourself to death. Learn to change what you can, and accept what you can’t. Be the palm that bends in the wind to withstand the gale.”
Khamsin stood silent as Tildy walked out the door.
She was no flexible palm. She was, instead, like the Snowfire in her mother’s garden, bursting into bright, defiant bloom when temperatures plummeted and snow began to fall, daring winter to do its worst.
She scowled and clenched her long, slender fingers into fists. She’d vowed no obstructions to the claiming of her mother’s rooms, and she’d vowed not to summon cyclones in the White King’s bath. But if the conqueror harmed her family or her home, she’d make him sorry. Her eyes narrowed, and she felt a familiar electric jolt of energy down to her soles.
Outside, the wind picked up speed.
###
Wynter frowned. The storm had come from nowhere, quick and violent. The sky overhead had gone dark as slate. Gusting wind howled through winding cobbled lanes and between stone buildings, rattling thick glass windows in their panes. All along the King’s Path, the cobbled road that corkscrewed up the palace mount, live oaks and citrus trees battered their brittle, winter-slain branches against the ancient stone walls. Without further warning, the dark clouds opened the floodgates. Rain pelted down, first in painful, stinging drops, then torrential sheets. The Summerlea steward escorting him leapt for the shelter of a covered walkway nearby.
Wynter turned his face up and squinted at the storm-darkened sky. Cold rain sluiced down his cheeks, saturating his hair and soaking the padded tunic he wore beneath his armor. Beside him, Valik, his ever-loyal friend and steward, stood still and watchful, equally as impervious to the downpour.
“There is a weather mage at work,” Wynter said. “A strong one.”
“Aye.” Valik put a gauntleted hand on his sword hilt. “Ill intent?” As usual in the company of foreigners, the steward’s clipped speech was trimmed down to the fewest possible words.