The Winter King

by C. L. Wilson

  He snarled at her. While others might doubt the gods still actively manifested their power in the world of men, Wynter knew better. For now, at least, Galacia had won. “You always were an annoying wretch of a girl.” He gave her a last, black scowl, heaved out an irritated gust of air, and shoved Gunterfys back in its sheath. “Well, did I pass your test?”

  “What do you think?”

  He gave her a sullen look. “I think if I hadn’t, I’d already be dead.”

  A ghost of a smile warmed her eyes. She straightened and slowly raised the spear until its sharp tip pointed towards the roof of the ice cave. “The flame only burns flesh that still retains the heat of life. If the Ice Heart had consumed you, the fire would have remained blue and cold.” She turned her back to him and set the spear back in place with its twin on the wall.

  “You’ve shown your hand, priestess. If I do become the Ice King, I won’t be fool enough to return here and let you prove it.”

  “I know,” she agreed, “but the refusal will be proof enough on its own.”

  “I am so warned.” His pride was still smarting at the way she’d outmaneuvered him. He’d never liked losing to her. He still didn’t. “Do what you must, Galacia. You always have.” He turned and headed for the entrance to the cave.

  “There was a reason I needed to test you today,” she called after him.

  He ignored her. He’d had enough of her mysteries and torments.

  “The garm have come.”

  He stopped. Turned slowly back. The garm were deadly, giant wolflike monsters from the ice fields of the Craig, pets and servants of the Frost Giants, Rorjak’s deadly minions. His brows drew together in a scowl. “Barsul said nothing of it.”

  “He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him. I haven’t told anyone until you, just now.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “No. Not seen.” Already her haughty air of superiority was returning. She circled the altar, running a long, blue-nailed finger along the edge. “Smelled them on the wind.”

  “I have not.”

  “Your nose is full of weatherwitch.” She arched a brow. “Did you think I would not scent her on you?”

  “I know better than that.” Her mother was Snow Wolf clan, like him. Galacia and he had run together with the wolves as children, until Wyrn had called her to service on her tenth birthday. He knew she had enough blood of the wolf in her to grant her a portion of its power. “I wed her to sire an heir, and the begetting of one has proven much more enjoyable than I’d dared hope. Summerfolk are exceedingly passionate.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Jealous, Laci?” he jabbed, unable to resist a taunt of his own. Deliberately, he used the name he’d used when they’d run together as children. Until she’d been called by Wyrn, her parents and his had intended her to be his bride. But as a priestess of Wyrn, her bed was as cold as the goddess she served.

  She didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s good that part of this marriage agrees with you. An enjoyable duty is a pleasure, not a chore, and thus more likely to be completed well and swiftly.”

  The cool response irritated him, so he dug his next barb a little deeper. “Well, if that’s your measure, a dozen of my children should already be growing in her womb.”

  She gave him a brittle smile. “Only a dozen? You disappoint me, Wyn.”

  That brittleness shamed him. He’d struck her, all right, and hard, and there was no excuse for it. She’d not chosen her path; it had been chosen for her. Wyrn had called her at age ten, before she’d even known boys were good for more than beating in footraces and games of war. She’d never known a man’s love or passion, and never would. She’d never hold a child of her own. “Laci . . .”

  She cut him off. Already, the brief moment of vulnerability had passed. She was once more the icy Lady Frey, Wyrn’s priestess, coldly distant and impervious to the frailties of human emotion. “In truth, even if you didn’t reek of your Summer witch, I’d be surprised if you could detect the garm. Their scent is very faint, and I myself can only catch it when the wind is just right. And if not for the dreams Wyrn sends me, I would not have noticed even that. They are still keeping to the mountains, but I doubt it will be long before they grow bolder.”

  “I will organize a Hunt.”

  “A Hunt? Where? Through the entire breadth and depth of the Craig?” She laughed shortly. “You won’t have any idea where to start until they strike, and you find a trail fresh enough to follow. And the moment you mention the garm, your own life will be in danger. There are those who would stab you in the back rather than risk the coming of the Ice King.”

  “Including you, as I just discovered.”

  “Including me.” Her gaze was every bit as steady as his. “I am Wyrn’s, after all.”

  He gave a rueful laugh. She was an honest woman. Often brutally so, but that was one of the qualities he’d always liked about her. He’d rather have an honest spear aimed at his back than a faceful of lies and political machinations.

  “Barsul told me about the men sent to face the mercy of the mountains. Is that because of the growing power of the Ice Heart, too?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s possible.”

  “Then why not kill me now and have done with it? You had your chance. Why didn’t you take it?”

  “All hope is not yet lost. Besides, I know Barsul told you of Calberna and the Summer Prince. If you are slain, invasion is a certainty, and from more than just Calberna. The only thing that’s kept the foreign kings at bay these last years has been the fear that you would turn the power of the Ice Heart on their own kingdoms and lay them waste.”

  “I suppose I should thank Falcon, then. If not for his efforts to raise a Calbernan army, I would have been greeted with spears instead of wreaths.”

  The blue-tinted nails idly scraped the ice altar, and the tower of frozen curls tilted slightly to one side. Galacia’s pale eyes remained cool and steady.

  Wyn scowled at her, recognizing that look. She’d already said all she would. “So the garm have come, but I should stay here and do nothing? That is your advice?”

  “You should stay here and impregnate your little weatherwitch. That is my advice. Your idea in wedding her was a good one. Hold your child in your arms while there’s still warmth enough in you to feel the love you need to melt the Ice Heart. The surest way to drive back the garm is to rob their masters of hope for victory.”

  Wynter snorted. “Between you, Barsul, and my queen’s own father, I’ve never had so many friends urging me to bed a woman.” Not that the idea of spending the next year in bed plowing Khamsin every chance he got was unappealing.

  “It’s never been so important. Too much is at stake, and time is a luxury you don’t have.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “Not long. Probably less than a year if you continue to use the power. A weaker man would have succumbed long before now.”

  Wynter absorbed the information without flinching. He’d known how high the price of the Ice Heart could be, but after holding Garrick’s body in his arms, no amount of wise counsel could have swayed him from charting his course of vengeance.

  “If the garm have come,” he said, “I will not leave my people unprotected. They must be warned, no matter the cost to me.”

  “Then send outriders to the remote farms and villages,” Galacia replied—quickly enough that Wyn realized she’d already decided what he should do before he’d stepped foot inside the temple. “Claim rumors of marauding darkwolves. Have the villagers form town watches to patrol the woods and report anything suspicious. Warn them to keep their livestock penned close and avoid traveling through the woods in parties smaller than three. If the garm do venture down from the mountains, I doubt they will be bold enough at first to do more than prey on the alone and unwary.”

  “The mom
ent the villagers find the first tracks, they’ll know the truth.”

  “Yes, but by then, your bride could be pregnant. That may provide hope enough to hold potential assassins at bay. Regicide is not a crime Winterfolk easily embrace.”

  “Only priestesses of Wyrn, eh, Laci?”

  She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, her face a cool, expressionless mask.

  He shrugged his shoulders to release the gathered tension in them. “Was there anything else, or are we done?”

  “We’re done,” she said. “I’ll show you out.”

  After one last, brief glance at the ice spears and the carved, frozen face of Wyrn behind the altar, Wynter fell into step beside the severe, stately woman who’d once been his friend and intended bride. At the temple entrance, the wind of the high reaches rushed over them, blowing Wynter’s hair all around his face. Galacia’s stood impervious to it. Like the goddess she served, she was a tower of ice, untouched by the elements.

  He spat out a mouthful of hair and bowed to her as temple protocol demanded. “Thank you for the warnings, Lady Frey, and the advice.” And because they had once been friends, and there would always be a part of him that wished they still were, he added, “If it comes to it, Laci, there’s none I’d rather have hold the spear than you.”

  As he walked away, Galacia remained standing in the temple entrance, watching him make his way down the rocky path back towards Gildenheim and his Summerlea bride.

  “You are wrong, Wyn,” she murmured, knowing the wind would whisk her words far away from his ears. If he’d turned at this moment, he would have been surprised by the regret in her pale eyes. “I would not slay you easily. I’d do it, but never easily.”

  Khamsin scowled as Bella and two Wintercraig maids fussed and muttered around her as they tried to ready her for her first dinner with the Wintercraig court. Summer Sun! Why had she ever thought she wanted to take part in the pomp and ceremony of court life? Just preparing for dinner was a production that sapped her patience to a bare thread.

  Although there’d been no time in Summerlea to prepare a wardrobe suitable for her role as the new Winter Queen (assuming her father would even go to such expense on her behalf), her sisters had each donated several gowns from their own court wardrobes. Gildenheim’s seamstresses had spent several hours “winterizing” one of Spring’s gowns with a new, padded silk underdress and a fitted, ermine-trimmed overdress.

  “There now, my lady,” Bella murmured. She tied off the last stitch to repair some damaged beadwork and snipped the thread, then stood back and ran a critical eye over everything. “All done, and presentable enough for a dinner in any court, I’d say.”

  Kham’s head jerked on a sudden, wincing pain, and she scowled at the Wintercraig maid dressing her hair. “Good, then perhaps you can finish my hair. While I still have some of it left.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Bella dismissed the remaining Winterfolk and set to work finishing Khamsin’s hair.

  When they were gone, some of the tension drained from Kham’s shoulders. She closed her eyes and let the silence wash over her. It was quiet here. Elsewhere in the palace, stone walls and marble floors let sound echo, but here the hardwood floors and the profusion of rugs and hangings helped muffle unwanted noise. And for once, Bella wasn’t chattering like a magpie.

  Khamsin frowned. Chatter. Magpie.

  Birds.

  Her eyes opened. She sat up straight. “Bella, where are my birds? The tanagers Spring gave me.” In the mirror, Kham saw a strange stillness come over her maid’s face. “Bella?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the girl said. “They didn’t survive the journey.”

  “What? But when did they die? How?”

  “I think the cold killed them. It happened the day you were so ill, and the Winter King sent me away. I buried them by the side of the road, back in Summerlea.”

  Khamsin’s shoulders slumped. Poor little things. She’d tried to keep them warm, but apparently it hadn’t been enough. The thought of the tiny songbirds with their greenish yellow winter coats lying dead in the snow, their cheerful song forever silenced, made her want to cry.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Bella murmured.

  “No, it’s not your fault. Some things just weren’t meant for this place.” Kham closed her eyes and fought back the burning press of tears. It was so foolish to cry, but they’d been such sweet, darling little things. And they’d sung so cheerfully together as the coach had carried Khamsin farther and farther from the only home she’d ever known.

  By the time Bella finished fixing the last curl in place, Khamsin had her emotions in check. Her eyes were dry, her face composed. Tildy would have been proud.

  Kham stood and regarded her reflection with a critical eye. Her gown was silvery white satin, with a heavily beaded bodice, long, unadorned skirts gracefully behind her. Ice blue satin slippers, embroidered with silver thread and crystal beads, peeped out beneath the gown’s hem. The ice blue velvet overdress nipped in at the waist and fastened with a row of three diamond and aquamarine buttons. The collar of thick, soft ermine covered her shoulders and framed her bronze face and dark, upswept hair. Wynter’s ring, the Wintercraig Star, was her only jewelry.

  A knock sounded on the doors in the outer chamber. Bella hurried to answer it. As Khamsin picked up her skirts to follow, a flash of white in the mirror made her spin around in alarm.

  Wynter stood inside her bedroom, near her dressing room door. He was clad in white from head to toe. His inscrutable gaze swept over her.

  She pressed a hand to her rapidly beating heart. “How did you get in here?”

  He waved a careless hand behind him. “There is a connecting door from your dressing room to mine.” One would think white would make him seem softer, kinder, less threatening even, but it only made him look taller, broader, and more dangerous. A wolf in lamb’s clothing. The hair at his temples had been drawn back again and braided in three thin, silver-ringed plaits that framed his face.

  “Wintercraig colors suit you,” he said. Before she could do more than blink in surprise at the compliment, he held out a small box. “Here. I meant to return these to you.”

  Curious, Kham opened the box and looked inside. “My mother’s things!” Kham set the box on her bed and pulled them out—her mother’s gardening journal, her jeweled brush, comb, and mirror. Kham ran her fingers over the familiar, beloved objects. Emotion welled up so suddenly, she nearly humiliated herself by bursting into tears.

  “Thank you.” Kham busied herself setting her mother’s thing out on her dresser. “These are very dear to me. They’re all I have left of my mother.” She turned back to find Wynter regarding her with an inscrutable gaze.

  “You must have loved her very much.”

  She’d revealed too much. Not wanting him to use her vulnerability against her, she said, “I’m told I did. She died when I was three.” She lifted her chin and added bluntly, “I summoned the storm that killed her.”

  She’d meant to shock him. And to warn him not to underestimate her or her magic. But instead of responding with wariness or concern or even surprise, his gaze softened, and his voice, when he spoke, brushed across the broken parts of her soul like warm velvet. “I’m so sorry, min ros. I can only image the pain you’ve carried all these years.” He stepped closer and slid a hand through her hair, cupping her head in his palm, stroking her temple with his thumb. “But you were a child, Khamsin. A baby. Even if you summoned the storm, no one in their right mind could ever blame you for what happened.”

  She ached to lean into him, to let the guilt fall away, but she moved away instead, rejecting his comfort and offer of absolution. “You weren’t there. You don’t know anything about it.”

  “No, but I was there when you awakened in my tent and realized you’d called a fierce storm in your delirium. I saw how alarmed you were by the mere thou
ght that you might have injured someone with your magic. And those were my men you worried about. Soldiers who’d been your enemies only days before.” He shook his head. “You aren’t a killer, Khamsin. You aren’t a monster or a curse on anyone’s House. And you didn’t kill your mother.”

  Her throat grew so tight, she couldn’t speak. She could only stand there, blinking and trying desperately not to cry.

  He didn’t try to hold or comfort her again. He merely waited for her to recover her composure, then held out an arm. “Come, Summerlass. The court is waiting, and they will not thank us if we let their food grow cold.”

  She took his arm in silence and walked beside him as he led her out of their private wing and down to the banquet hall on the palace’s second level. She snuck surreptitious glances at him as they walked.

  She did not understand this man she’d married. Every time she thought she’d figured him out, he surprised her. How could he be so cold one minute, yet so passionate the next? How could he offer her such disarming kindness and compassion, while planning to execute her at year’s end if she didn’t bear him a child? Was one aspect merely a show he put on? And if so, which side of him was the mask and which was the true Wynter Atrialan?

  Within minutes of entering the banquet hall, Khamsin felt lost and alone, surrounded by cool-eyed men and women who laughed with tinkling little shivers of sound behind fans of snowy-egret plumes. No one was openly rude. In fact, they were all coolly polite. But she was conscious of their eyes upon her, and conscious of her relative smallness, her foreign darkness. She found herself wishing that she’d worn rich, bold, Summerlea colors tonight—wine, scarlet, emerald green, imperial purple, anything but the pale white and ice blue that made her look like a stranger trying desperately to fit in.

  The feeling of alienation was intensified by the presence of Valik’s dinner companion, his cousin Reika Villani. Khamsin remembered the sleek, tall beauty from earlier in the day. She was the woman who had gripped Wynter’s hands with such fervor at the reception. As it turned out, Reika was actually Valik’s cousin by marriage, the daughter of his uncle’s second wife. Apparently, she had become a close friend of Wynter’s years ago, when he and Valik would hunt on the old man’s abundant acreage.