The Winter King

by C. L. Wilson

  She plunged deep into the cornfield with no fear of getting lost in the six-foot stalks. The sun, the source of her power, was in the sky. Even hidden behind a blanket of winter gray clouds, she knew exactly where it was and she knew her exact position relative to it. When the sun was in the sky, no Heir of the Rose would ever be lost.

  When she reached a spot far enough away from the road to be truly private, she stopped. What remained of the food in her stomach didn’t take much coaxing to leave her, and she immediately felt worlds better. She even took the time to step a little farther off and tend to her other needs—an experience she found thoroughly primitive and revolting. She’d never been a pampered princess, but now she realized there were some things she considered basic necessities of life. Like a working toilet. And something besides snow and dried corn husks to go with it.

  When she returned to the field, Valik was waiting, blue eyes flashing and a scold on his lips for the way she’d gone off without her guards.

  She brushed aside his objections. “There are some matters I refuse to tend to with an audience, Lord Valik. Since you won’t give me the luxury of a posting inn, the least you can afford me is privacy.” When he opened his mouth to object again, she held up a hand. “That is not negotiable.”

  Valik went off muttering.

  Khamsin smiled for the first time all day. The victory was small, but it was hers. Gathering her skirts, she stepped up on the mounting block positioned by the carriage door. A silvery glint at the corner of her eye made her pause and turn. Her smile faded.

  Half a mile up the line, the unmistakable figure of Wynter, shining in polished steel armor, was seated on his impressive white charger. The distance was too great to see his face, but somehow she knew his gaze was fixed upon her. For several seconds, she stood there, frozen by some unnameable force. Then a soldier approached Wynter, and his head turned, and the spell was broken.

  Khamsin dove for the protection of the coach. Her heart pounded like a hammer in her chest, and her skin felt flushed and chilled all at the same time. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. What was it about the Winter King that drove through her defenses as if they were paper and shattered her senses with a single glance?

  “Ma’am?” Bella’s dark eyes watched her with open concern. “Are you still feeling ill? Should I call for Lord Valik?”

  “No,” Kham said quickly. “No, Bella, thank you. I’m fine. I’m feeling much better.”

  Strangely enough, it was true. Even from a distance, that one brief, electric exchange with Wynter felt like a shot of pure, unrefracted sunlight. The powerful energy of it still tingled throughout her body, shocking and revitalizing.

  Unfortunately, that energy didn’t last long . . . and neither did the respite from the travel sickness that had plagued Khamsin all day. Shortly after resuming their journey, she was back to feeling green and wishing she were anywhere but in a carriage. The interior of the sumptuous, velvet-lined coach began to feel like a torture chamber.

  The light shining through the carriage windows grew dimmer as the blanket of soft gray clouds overhead began to darken.

  The first, fat, cold drop of rain splashed against Wynter’s sculpted white snow-wolf visor and hit him squarely in the eye, blinding him for a brief moment. A second drop quickly followed the first, then half a dozen more. Within minutes, a steady rain was falling. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Valik rode up alongside him. “That came up fast,” he said.

  Wynter nodded, squinting at the horizon, barely visible through the falling rain. They hadn’t made as much progress as he would have liked. Irritability made him want to blame his bride for the delay, but he’d been the one to slow his army’s usual lightning pace in consideration of the wounded princess following behind him in the carriage. Just as he’d been the one to hold up the column for almost two hours while she’d slept. They’d only made fifteen miles today, considerably less than the forty he expected from an army of Wintermen. Vera Sola was still plainly visible on the southern horizon—or would have been except for the rain—and if he didn’t pick up the pace, it would be a month before they reached Wintercraig.

  He glanced over his shoulder, towards the carriage following a half mile down the long line of mounted knights and infantry. She had not complained about the journey. Even sick as she was—and he knew she was not traveling well—she’d not complained. She’d protested about the guards he’d assigned to watch over her and threatened to fry them if they followed her into the fields when she went to tend to her personal matters, but she’d not voiced so much as a whimper about her illness or their pace, nor placed demands on his men—which was a surprise. Even amongst his own folk, noblewomen were notorious gluttons for attention and indulgence.

  “Send word down the line,” he said. “We’ll camp here for the night.”

  Valik nodded and started to turn his horse around.

  “And Valik? There are lamps in the carriage that are apparently supposed to help her back heal faster. Have them set them up in my tents. I’ll see to the men while you get her settled.” At Valik’s raised brows, Wynter added, “Your face is prettier than mine, or so I’m told. She may find it easier to do what you ask than what I command.”

  “You’re forgetting she kicked me in my pretty face last time I asked her to do something she didn’t want to do.”

  Wyn gave a grunt of laughter. “Better than kicking you in the balls.” Then he sobered. “And see to it she actually eats and drinks something.” She’d taken little nourishment all day, and though he’d allowed it, knowing anything she ate was likely to come back up once they started moving again, they were stopping for the night now, and she needed to eat. Her body needed sustenance to heal. “If she balks, tell her I’ll force it down her throat myself if I must.”

  Valik shook his head. “I’ll let you tell her that.” He rubbed his jaw. “I want to be able to chew my dinner.”

  At first, Khamsin thought the latest stop was just another pause to rest and water the horses. With Bella’s help, she straightened her clothing, donned her hooded cloak, and descended from the carriage, hoping to take at least a brief walk to stretch her own cramped legs. Rain was pelting down in gray sheets. Two soldiers stood beside the carriage door, holding up a canvas tarp to protect her from the rain. She waved them off, opening her own oilskin parasol instead. To her surprise, the long column of men in front of and behind the carriage were fanning out along the roadsides and beginning to pitch their tents.

  “We’re stopping for the night?”

  The White King’s steward stood waiting for her, still fully armored, but his eagle’s head visor had been pushed back to reveal his face. Of the Winter King, there was no sign.

  “He’s gone to check on the men,” the steward said, guessing the reason for Khamsin’s searching gaze. He stood, unflinching, as the pouring rain sluiced down his golden brown cheeks. His eyes were a pale blue, but nowhere near as icy as the Winter King’s. “He does not rest until all the men and their horses have been seen to.”

  Khamsin tried not to show her surprise. The image of a caring king, one who put his men’s needs before his own, didn’t mesh with the harsh, heartless monster most Summerlanders considered Wynter Atrialan to be.

  “As his Steward of Troops, should you not be the one checking on the men?” she asked.

  Valik smiled without warmth. “My king thought you might find mine a less frightening face. You should stay in the carriage until the tents are up. There’s no need to stand in the wet.”

  “I like the rain. It’s cleansing. And why would whether I’m frightened or not make any difference?” she countered. “Fear changes nothing. My fate is the same either way.”

  “It matters to the king.” He gave a short bow. There was a snap to his voice that hadn’t been there just a moment ago. “If you want to stand in the rain, suit yourself. Just stay out of the w
ay of the men while they set up the encampment. Loke and Baroc here will guard your safety.” He nodded curtly at the two soldiers beside her.

  Khamsin wanted to kick herself. Less than a full day into their journey, and she was already turning Wynter’s steward against her—not that he’d viewed her kindly to begin with. His jaw probably still hurt from meeting the hard edge of her boot.

  “Sir,” she said. “Lord Valik.” She laid a hand on his arm and snatched it back when his spine went stiff as a pike. She bit her lip, shoved down her innate pride and her own desire to take offense at his flinch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I only meant that I don’t need pampering. I prefer to face my fate head-on—even when it frightens me.”

  A little of the starch wilted out of him—but only a little. “You are the wife of our king, Your Grace, and by the laws of the Craig, your welfare is his responsibility. He will allow nothing and no one to harm you.”

  That sounded nothing at all like the Winter King who mercilessly conquered Summerlea, but then again, thus far her every interaction with him had been one surprise after another. “My name is Khamsin,” she said. “My sisters call me Storm.”

  “Storm?”

  “My giftname.”

  “Ah.” Valik glanced up at the clouds overhead. “That explains much.”

  Valik didn’t stay to talk. He busied himself instead with overseeing the raising and furnishing of Wynter’s tent, though Khamsin noted he actually gave more assistance than supervision.

  The Wintermen were swift, efficient folk. In less than fifteen minutes, the towering fourteen-foot center pole and its surrounding eight-foot perimeter poles were in place, supporting the broad circular form of the tent. Once the tent pegs were hammered into place, Wintermen carted rugs, pillows, braziers, and other furnishings inside. To her surprise, they unloaded her possessions from the carriage and carried them inside too: her trunk, Tildy’s growing lamps, even the plants her sisters had given her.

  She watched her belongings disappear into the interior of the Winter King’s tent, and all her brave talk about facing her fears head-on evaporated.

  Last night, bolstered by painkillers and arras and shielded by the veils of darkness and deception, she’d unflinchingly—in the end, even eagerly—shared a bed with the Winter King. All fear, all modesty, all reason, had flown out the window after his first, explosive touch. She had lost herself to sensation and the freedom of anonymity.

  Tonight was different. Tonight, she would have no arras, no darkness, no veils to hide behind. There would be only her and the man she had deceived into wedlock.

  A sudden gust of cold wind made the tent walls shudder and flap. Her oilskin parasol caught the gust and nearly ripped out of her hands. Rain, chill and bracing, splashed her face. She clutched the parasol more tightly and swiped the rain out of her eyes. When she opened them again, Valik was standing there before her.

  “The tent is ready, Your Grace.” He swept his arm back towards the open tent flap, indicating that she should proceed inside.

  She forced her feet to move. The first step was the hardest, the ones after that came easier as pride stiffened her spine. Bella hurried behind her, dodging slushy puddles of snow and mud.

  The interior of the canvas tent had been transformed into a plush, surprisingly spacious stateroom. A large brazier circled the center pole, its iron troughs already filled with slow-burning, fragrant wood. Blue-gray smoke from the newly started fire curled up in wispy tendrils, guided by a vent pipe that curled round the center pole like a dragon’s tail towards the arch of the tent roof. The pipe exited through a vent flap cut into the highest point of the canvas, and the wind blowing past overhead caused a slight vacuum effect, drawing the smoke outside.

  A scattered collection of thick rugs covered the tent floor and softened the hard surface of the frozen ground below. Several folding chairs and a small table had been set up on one side, not far from the fire, and in the back corner of the tent, behind screens of concealing cloth stretched over iron frames what appeared to be plump, down-filled coverlets and pillows had been piled together and covered with blankets and furs. Tildy’s growing lamps were positioned around the mound.

  “We do not travel in as extravagant a fashion as Summerlanders,” Valik said, misunderstanding her silent perusal of the tent.

  “It’s fine,” she assured him. “Much more luxurious than I’d expected.” From the whispers she’d heard among her father’s courtiers, she’d halfway been expecting cold stone stools and beds hewn from blocks of ice, but this was not at all hard or austere.

  “Make yourself comfortable. The cook tents are up, but it will be a while before the evening meal is prepared.”

  Khamsin’s belly lurched at the thought of food. She pressed a hand against her stomach and swallowed back the surge of nausea. “Don’t bother on my account, Lord Valik. I’m really not very hungry.”

  His eyes narrowed, but all he said was, “I’ll have the men bring you a little something all the same. Loke and Baroc will be just outside in case you need them.” He bowed again and backed out of the tent.

  She waited until Valik was gone before she kicked off her muddy shoes and took her first tentative step onto the exquisite carpets. Stockinged toes sank deep into the soft wool pile. The carpet felt like a cushion of springy moss beneath her feet, surprisingly soft and inviting, like the rest of the furnishings. She approached the brazier, holding her hands out to the welcoming warmth. Already, the inside of the tent was several degrees warmer than the outside, and without the wind and the sting of cold rain cutting through her clothes, it was almost cozy.

  The interior of the tent had been decorated, the canvas walls covered in colorful, intricate hunting scenes depicting silvery white snow wolves and white-haired Wintermen on horseback hunting deer, bear, and wild pigs through forests of aspen, spruce, and pine that transformed seamlessly from one season to the next.

  The scenes weren’t bloody or brutal. They were beautiful—a celebration of nature and survival, with the entire cycle of life depicted in a never-ending circle of seasons. Tucked away within the painting were scenes of nature renewing itself: a tiny fawn curled in the underbrush, a rocky den filled with wolf pups, bear cubs climbing a tree while their mother ate berries from a bush nearby. Eagles and falcons soared overhead, hovering above nests filled with eggs and fledglings. The painting was so vivid, she could almost hear the rustle of the gold-painted aspen leaves shivering in the autumn winds, feel the chill blowing across the snow-frosted tops of the trees in the winter scene, and smell the flowers of the cool mountain summer.

  Fascinated, she approached one tent wall to examine it, wondering what sort of paint they’d used that would remain adhered so well to a canvas that was constantly rolled and unrolled and submitted to the harsh conditions of military campaigns. Each line was made up of thousands of tiny little dots of shimmering, multicolored dyes. The canvas had essentially been tattooed, and the artistry and painstaking attention to detail was astonishing.

  Had the Winter King commissioned the illustration? Surely a man who surrounded himself with such exquisite beauty couldn’t be a heartless monster?

  Behind her, Bella finished cleaning their muddy shoes, lined them up neatly beside the tent flap, then wandered around the interior, inspecting the place with a jaundiced eye and dismissing the exquisite mural with a careless shrug. “Well, it certainly isn’t the palace, is it?” she sniffed when she’d finished her inspection.

  “That depends on what part of the palace you’re used to,” Khamsin snapped, irritated by the girl’s contempt for the fascinating, foreign beauty around them. The young maid gave her a wounded look, and Kham instantly felt guilty. No doubt Bella had been raised to believe Summerlea was the pinnacle of beauty against which all the world was judged and found inferior. “Remember, Bella,” she said in a calmer, more congenial tone, “this is an army encampmen
t. I doubt Roland himself traveled half so well.”

  “Roland was warrior first and courtier second,” a brisk masculine voice said from the tent entrance. “A man after my own heart, even if he was a Summerlander.”

  Both Khamsin and Bella gasped and whirled around to see Wynter straighten to his full height just inside the tent. His armor was coated in glassy ice where the falling rain had touched the metal plates and frozen on contact. His wolf’s head visor was pushed up, out of his face, revealing golden skin and cold, cold eyes.

  Those narrowed eyes pinned Khamsin in place. “Valik tells me you’ve refused the offer of the evening meal.”

  Kham’s throat felt suddenly dry, and her belly took a nervous lurch. “I—”

  “You will eat. You can do so willingly, or I can hold you down and force the food down your throat myself. One way or the other, it makes no difference to me.”

  What softening she might have been feeling for him froze in a snap. She’d never been one to take orders well. As soon as someone said “you must,” her instinctive response was “I won’t!” Even when she would otherwise have been happy saying “I will.”

  Her hands curled into fists. “As I told Lord Valik, I am not hungry.” Sparks flashed in her eyes. Outside, lightning cracked, and thunder boomed with enough force to shake the tent walls.

  Wynter didn’t so much as flinch. “You. Girl. Get out,” he ordered Bella. His narrowed eyes remained fixed on Khamsin, unblinking, not flickering for even an instant.

  The maid didn’t hesitate. Gathering up her skirts, she fled. She didn’t even stop to cover her head against the rain that was now pelting down in sheets.

  As soon as she was gone, Wynter moved. One moment he was standing by the tent flap, the next he was upon Khamsin, his large hand gripping her by the back of the neck, holding her in place with effortless strength.

  “The scent of your magic on the wind is familiar to me . . . Storm. You were the one who challenged me in the sky that first day.”