by C. L. Wilson
Belladonna had only joined Spring’s staff a few days earlier. She’d landed the less-than-desirable post as Khamsin’s lady’s maid and companion by virtue—or, rather, misfortune—of having the least seniority. She was tidy enough in appearance, with big, doe brown eyes, soft skin a few shades darker than Kham’s own, and blue-black hair scraped tightly back and confined in a knot at the nape of her neck, but it was obvious Bella had never been a lady’s maid in her life. She chattered like a magpie and was altogether too free with her opinions—about everything.
She was none too fond of Wintermen, in particular, and not shy of saying so. “If it took a year to get there, that would be too soon for me. They are savages. Brutes. My cousin’s husband’s second cousin lives near the border. You should hear the tales she has to tell.” The pair of knitting needles in Bella’s fingers clacked a staccato beat. “Half-naked men dancing around campfires, smearing themselves with the blood of whatever poor creature they killed on a hunt. Howling at the moon like a pack of wolves. More beast than man, they are, full of dark, unnatural ways. You mark my words. This is going to end badly for the both of us.”
“They look like a well-ordered, modern army to me,” Kham replied, rubbing a hand at her temple. She’d already had several earfuls about the terrible fate awaiting them both in the savage land of the north. “And I’ve seen no sign of ‘dark, unnatural ways.’ ”
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushioned seat. Each jolt and lurch of the carriage sent pain shooting up her back and throbbing against her skull.
“Wait until we cross the border, and they’re back in their own lands. We’ll have to keep a sharp eye out then. Do you know what they do to anyone who breaks their laws? They strip them down to their bare skin, stake them out naked on a glacier, and leave them to die. ‘Mercy of the mountains’ they call it. Ha! Mercy indeed!” The girl’s furiously clacking knitting needles suddenly fell silent.
After a few moments, Kham peeled open one eye to find Bella biting her lip and regarding her with a look she could only describe as consternation.
“What is it?”
“I . . . nothing. Nothing.” The girl bent her dark head back down to her yarn and needles. But rather than resuming her knitting, she just sat there, worrying the thread in silence.
“Bella . . .”
“It’s not my place to say.”
For hours, the girl wouldn’t shut up, and now Kham couldn’t get her to talk. Another hard jolt of the carriage sent pain shooting across Kham’s back. Her stomach lurched. Unwell, and irritated by Bella’s uncharacteristic reticence, she snapped, “Oh, for the love of Helos, spit it out already!”
Bella’s head shot up in surprise. She looked like a kicked puppy.
Kham groaned. Wonderful. Bella was her sole companion. Inexperienced, talkative, and far too opinionated she might be, but she was also the only face from home Khamsin was likely to see in Wintercraig. Alienating her was pointless.
“I’m sorry,” Khamsin apologized. The words came hard. After a lifetime of her sire finding fault with everything about her, she hated to admit when she was in the wrong. Much better to stick out her jaw and take whatever punishment came her way than make herself vulnerable by admitting fault. “I shouldn’t snap at you. But if something is troubling you—as, clearly, it is—you need to tell me.”
The maid bit her lower lip. “It’s just that . . . well, I overheard something I wasn’t supposed to . . . something concerning the Winter King’s plans for . . . for . . .”
Kham fought the urge to scream. Honestly, did she have to drag the truth out of the girl word by word? In a voice that struggled to remain calm and even, she pressed, “The Winter King’s plans for what, Bella?”
“For you, ma’am.”
Kham sat up a little straighter, wincing as the motion pulled at her wounded back. “What do you mean? What sort of plans?”
Bella’s smooth brow crinkled in distress, and she started picking at the yarn hanging from her needles again. “I—”
“Bella. What sort of plans?”
The girl swallowed. “He intends to kill you, ma’am. At the end of the year, if you don’t bear him an heir, he intends to kill you and take one of the Seasons to wife.”
Kham moistened her suddenly dry lips. “You heard him say this?”
“Not him.” She bit her lip. “Mistress Newt sent me to the king’s office to be approved as your new maid, and I overheard the king talking to Master Ogam, my lady. I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she hurried to explain. “The door was open. I couldn’t help but hear.”
“Calm yourself.” Kham brushed the worried excuses aside. “Are you sure you heard correctly? The Winter King plans to kill me if I don’t bear him an heir in a year’s time?”
“He’ll send you to face the mercy of the mountains—and even your father knew what that meant.”
Khamsin slumped back against the seat cushion, this time hardly noticing the pull and sting of her wounds. She didn’t doubt young Bella for a moment. Enjoy your life. What’s left of it. Those were her father’s gloating final words to her. No wonder Verdan had been so determined that she would wed Summerlea’s conqueror and so smugly satisfied to see her off. He believed he was sending her to her death. He relished the idea. Much as he would have liked to do the deed himself, if she died at the Winter King’s hands, Verdan’s hands would be clean. There would be no threat of a blood curse befalling the royal House of Summerlea.
“Forgive me. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. My tongue runs faster than my brain, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry, my lady. Really.”
“It’s all right, Bella.” Kham held up a hand to halt the rush of apologies and self-recrimination. “It was right that you told me. I needed to know. You should never be afraid to tell me anything you think is important.”
“Thank you, my lady. You’re too kind. I’ll remember that in future. But, truly, you look pale, and I can’t help feeling responsible. I know the news was a shock.”
The last thing Kham needed was more hovering. “I’m just feeling a little tired. I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”
“Of course, my lady. Is there anything I can get you? Do for you?”
“No, Bella. I’m fine.” She forced a wan smile. “Please, go back to your knitting.”
Kham lay down face-first on the coach seat, using her arms to pillow her head. As Bella’s knitting needles resumed their rhythmic clacking, she closed her eyes. She hadn’t lied to Bella. She was weary. Her back was hurting, she hadn’t slept much the previous night, and the long hours of jostling in the coach had sapped her strength. But the truth was, she needed time to digest Bella’s news and decide what to do about it.
The man she’d married had declared war on Summerlea and conquered it, true, but the Prince of Summerlea had stolen Wynter Atrialan’s future queen and murdered his brother—his only heir. Many kings had and would go to war over the first offense. All of them would go to war for the second.
Although Wynter was a stranger for all intents and purposes, she could have sworn there was kindness beneath his cold exterior. The way he’d worried that he hadn’t pleasured her in their marriage bed . . . the way he’d come to her defense this morning with her father . . . She and her sisters had paused outside the door to eavesdrop this morning after Khamsin’s unmasking. A part of her had secretly thrilled at the way Wynter declared himself bound to seek justice for any wound done to her. But could he really share such shattering passion with her, avenge the brutal treatment she’d received at her father’s hands, while all the while planning to murder her if she didn’t bear him an heir in a year’s time?
It didn’t make sense. Even Tildy had been sure he was, at heart, an honorable man. Or had all that been a lie, too?
Stop, Kham! Stop! She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead into the cradle of her arms. Bah. She w
ould drive herself mad, seeing treachery at every corner. Yes, Tildy had conspired with Wynter Atrialan to end the war with a marriage between the two Houses. Yes, she had conspired for Khamsin and Wynter to meet. But she had also spent her life caring for Khamsin, looking out for her, protecting, teaching, and nurturing her. No matter how angry Khamsin was, in her heart she knew Tildy would never knowingly have encouraged this marriage if she’d suspected there was a death sentence hanging over it.
Tildy was no naïve innocent. She’d spent her life in and around courts and all their intrigues. Servants knew the evil that their masters did. She had met the Winter King face-to-face, spent six months sizing him up. She’d seen something in him that warranted trusting him with the royal charge she’d spent her life protecting. She would never have suggested the marriage if she didn’t truly believe Khamsin was safer in Wynter Atrialan’s keeping than she was in Verdan Coruscate’s.
So either Bella had misheard, or Tildy had misjudged Wynter Atrialan.
Because what sort of honorable man would wed a woman with the intent to kill her?
Khamsin must somehow have fallen asleep because, the next she knew, the coach had stopped. The sounds of men and horses moving around filtered through the open windows.
She pushed up into a sitting position and groaned. She felt battered and queasy and notably weaker than she had this morning.
Bella flew to her side. “Your Highness! You’re awake. Oh, you don’t look well at all.”
Kham ignored the hovering and peered out the coach window. “We’ve stopped?”
“Yes, to rest and water the horses. Your Highness! What are you doing?”
Kham, who had pushed open the coach door, paused to scowl over her shoulder. “I’m getting out of the coach. What does it look like?”
“But—”
“I’m fine. I just need to stretch my legs.” Unlike her sisters, who’d been trained from birth to sit through long, boring ceremonies without fidgeting, Khamsin had never known confinement. The forced inactivity was stifling.
The moment her feet touched the frozen ground, however, she half wished she’d stayed in the carriage. All around her, as far as her eyes could see, mile after mile of what had once been verdant farmland lay barren and fallow beneath thick layers of snow and ice. The husks of unharvested crops stood like tattered skeletons in the abandoned fields, a grim reminder of Wynter’s devastating march of conquest. Khamsin drew a deep breath of the chill, brisk air and forced back the feelings of sadness that threatened to swamp her. The war was over. Summerlea would bloom once more. Her marriage had ensured that.
Even if that marriage cost her her life.
Bella nodded to a nearby cornfield. “If you want a little privacy, ma’am, that cornfield there looks like the best we’re likely to get here.”
“Privac—?” Kham broke off. Down the line, a number of soldiers were heading off into the fields. “Oh.” She felt her cheeks grow hot. “Er . . . no, Bella, I’m fine. I’ll wait until we reach a posting inn.”
“That will be a long wait,” a male voice declared from behind.
Khamsin spun around, half-expecting to find Wynter there. Her shoulders sagged with something that felt alarmingly like disappointment when she realized the speaker was the White King’s Steward of Troops instead.
“Armies don’t stop at posting inns,” he explained. He watched her carefully, his blue eyes darker than Wynter’s, but just as piercing.
Heat flushed her cheeks. Of course armies didn’t stop at posting inns. What had she been thinking? Armies were, by necessity, self-sufficient when it came to travel. With thousands of men and horses in the column, it would take every posting inn in a very large city to serve them.
Wonderful, Khamsin. Now, he thinks you’re an empty-headed fool. Not that he’d held her in much esteem to begin with, she was sure. She doubted he’d forgotten who gave him that bluish bruise darkening his jaw. She only hoped he didn’t hold grudges as bitterly as his king.
So, there would be no convenient posting inn. She cast a considering glance over her shoulder at the cornfield. Though pride insisted she forge bravely through whatever obstacles came her way, just the sight of the snow-covered stalks made her shudder. No, it was out of the question. Maybe later, when she was desperate, but not now. And definitely not with the White King’s steward looking on.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’ll just stretch my legs a bit before we get going again.”
The steward’s expression didn’t change one whit. “As you wish.” He bowed, a brief, curt folding of his body. “My name is Valik. If you need anything, just ask for me.”
“Thank you . . .” She hesitated. What had the palace servants called him? Sir? Lord? “Lord Valik,” she finished, just to be safe. Better to honor him with a title greater than was his due than insult him with a lesser one. From what she’d observed over the years, nobles would duel over the slightest perceived insult to their vaunted lineages.
Valik turned his head slightly and snapped out a brief command. Six armored men jumped to attention. “These men will guard you while you walk,” he said.
“A guard isn’t necessary,” Khamsin said. “We won’t be going far.”
“They will guard you all the same. The war may be over, but the peace has barely begun,” he explained before she could protest again. “Wynter would kill us all if we took chances with your safety.”
Because he wanted the pleasure of killing her himself at year’s end?
Kham caught the caustic retort before it left her tongue. It wouldn’t do to tip her hand. When the time came, she intended to ask Wynter Atrialan to his face. She’d have a better chance of getting a genuine reaction from him if the question came as a surprise.
“Very well,” she answered instead. “I thank you for the consideration.” She turned away and curled a hand around Bella’s arm. “Come, Bella, let’s walk.”
Much to her own irritation, Khamsin tired quickly. Within ten minutes, her knees started going wobbly, and she gave in to Bella’s badgering and headed back for the coach. There, the young maid insisted on bringing Khamsin a bowl of stew, a hunk of cheese, and a little fresh fruit, but the sight of the food only threatened to further unsettle her travel-tossed stomach. She barely managed a few bites of stew and cheese and one segment of orange before pushing the plate away.
“You need to eat, Your Highness,” Bella murmured. “You need to keep up your strength.”
“Perhaps later.” Kham pressed a hand over her face. “I think I’ll just lie down and try to sleep a little more before we get started again. Please, just help me undo my laces—and leave the curtains up. The sun isn’t very strong, but it’s still better than nothing.”
Khamsin stretched out facedown on the cushioned carriage seat while Bella unlaced the back of Kham’s gown and pushed the fabric aside to bare her battered skin.
“Shall I put a little more of Mistress Greenleaf’s cream on your wounds, ma’am?”
“No, it’s been less than an hour since the last time. Leave it for now.” She pulled a fringed and tasseled velvet pillow under her cheek and gave a small sigh. Without the constant jolting, the carriage seat seemed a much softer and more welcoming sleeping couch. Weariness washed over her in a sudden wave, and her eyes closed. Despite the light of the winter gray sky shining through her closed eyelids, sleep descended with unexpected speed.
When she woke, the carriage was once more on the move, and Bella was dozing in the corner on the opposite side of the coach. Kham pushed herself up and stifled a groan. The skin of her back felt tight and tender, and her stomach gave a threatening lurch.
A warble called out from the birdcage. Bella had removed the cover earlier in the day. Within the cage, the mating pair of songbirds clung to their swaying perches. A gift from Spring, the birds were Khamsin’s favorite: scarlet tanagers. During spring and summer b
reeding, the male’s plumage turned a brilliant shade of scarlet, striking against the glossy black of his wings and tail, but even though it wasn’t yet September, both birds still wore the greenish yellow of their winter, nonbreeding plumage.
“Poor little things,” she murmured. “You both look as green as I feel.”
Remembering the orange she had discarded earlier, Kham opened the hamper on the coach floor, found the remaining pieces of fruit wrapped in cheesecloth, and slipped one of the plump segments into the bottom of the birdcage. The male was the first to hop off his perch and inspect the fruit. His head dipped, beak nipping experimentally at the bit of orange. A few moments later, his mate joined him, chirping brightly and fluttering her greenish gray wings.
Leaving the birds to their meal, Kham leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes. She couldn’t get comfortable. Every lurch and jolt of the carriage pulled at her tender back, and though the cushions were upholstered in velvet, the constant rubbing quickly became a painful friction and forced her to lie back down just to stop aggravating her wounds.
Bella woke and applied more of Tildy’s cream, for what good it did. She tried to keep Kham entertained by reading from the collection of Summerlea histories, but the familiar tales didn’t hold half their usual fascination. The little bit of food Kham had eaten churned about in her stomach for the next two hours, and when they stopped again to rest the horses, Khamsin voluntarily went racing for the privacy of a snow-blanketed cornfield.
The guards Valik had assigned to her attempted to follow, but she whirled on them. “I will have privacy,” she snapped. “I promise if you follow me, it will be the last living thing you ever do.” Her hair crackled about her. It wasn’t a bluff. Sick as she felt, there was enough sunlight to feed her power, and her limited supply of docile, obedient Khamsin had run out hours ago. Agreeing to eat that godforsaken stew was the last concession she was capable of today.
Luckily for them, their years of serving the Winter King had taught the men when a weatherwitch meant business. They backed off and simply stood guard near the edge of the frozen field.