by C. L. Wilson
“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!”