by C. L. Wilson
She opened the door to the parlor and stepped through. Reika Villani was standing near the hearth, looking out the bank of windows across the valley far below. She turned at the sound of the opening door. Her gown and hair were as pale, elegant, and perfect as they had been last night, her face a confection of graceful features dominated by big, heavily lashed blue eyes that narrowed as she took in Khamsin’s rumpled appearance.
“Your Grace.” Reika curtsied in a smooth, unhurried motion.
“Lady Villani,” Kham murmured in reply. How odd her new title sounded after a lifetime of being just “Storm,” “dearly,” or “girl.” “You caught me just rising from bed. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” She smoothed a hand across her rumpled hair and gave what she hoped looked like an embarrassed smile. Reika’s lips tightened, and Khamsin turned to reach for the teapot in order to hide the flash of triumph she feared might show in her eyes. Those years of watching from the shadows had not gone to waste. She understood the manipulations and maneuverings of court ladies, and even though she’d never participated in their intrigues before, she had claws of her own and was not averse to using them.
Last night, she’d been too weary from travel, too unsettled by the strangeness of her new environment, and taken aback by Wynter’s apparent obliviousness to what Kham considered Reika Villani’s blatant drawing of battle lines. This morning, she was none of those things. Hours of incendiary passion and the memory of Wynter’s voice whispering that he, too, would honor his vows left her feeling far more secure in her new position and determined to put Reika Villani firmly into hers.
“My maid has prepared a pot of jasmine tea,” she said, pouring the fragrant liquid into a warmed porcelain cup. “Shall I pour you a cup?”
“Thank you, but no, Your Grace,” Reika demurred. “I’m not very fond of tea.”
Kham blew on her drink to cool it. The first sip made her reach for the sugar. Bella had steeped it so long it had gone bitter. She sipped again, then added more sugar and turned back to her elegant guest, who was watching her intently.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this morning, Lady Villani?”
The woman smoothed a hand over her expensively gowned hips and summoned a surprisingly convincing expression of worry and remorse. “I’m afraid we may have somehow gotten off on the wrong foot last night.”
“What makes you think that?” Kham asked in a mild tone. She lifted her teacup and regarded Reika over its rim.
“Well . . . I . . .” Clearly, she hadn’t expected Khamsin to play ignorant. “The way you left the dinner . . . it was obvious you were upset.” She took a half step forward, wringing her hands. Kham thought that was a particularly nice touch. “It’s just that Wynter—ah, I mean, the king—and I are such old and dear friends. I fear we might have made you feel a little left out.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Lady Villani. I understood perfectly the nature of your relationship with my husband.”
“Oh . . . well, that is good . . .”
“Yes, it is, though perhaps not in the way you mean. Roland Soldeus always said understanding the nature of one’s enemy is the path to ensuring his defeat.”
Great blue eyes blinked in charming confusion. “Enemy? Defeat?” Reika gave a tinkling laugh. “You have me at a loss. Surely you’re not suggesting that I—”
Khamsin lifted a hand to cut her off. “Lady Villani, please. Spare me your fluttering lashes and false confusion. I am not susceptible to your charms.”
Lady Villani made one last attempt to cling to her illusion of innocence. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Let us be frank with one another. You want my husband. I will not share him with you. There, the matter is out in the open now, and the battle lines are drawn.”
“Indeed.” Reika’s voice had a new, hard edge that hadn’t been there before, and her eyes changed from limpid pools to glittering stone. “Well, like your countrymen before you, Summerlander, this is one battle in which you will find yourself far outmatched.”
Khamsin took another sip of her tea and curled her fingers around the porcelain cup. Energy from the confrontation was gathering inside her, and she could feel its electric warmth beginning to speed the blood in her veins, making the hot tea seem cooler by comparison. “It must have been very hard for you to want a man so badly only to have your sister snatch him away. And then, after she left him, and he was free once more, to have him go off to war for three long years and return with yet another woman on his arm, a wife no less. You have my sympathy. I know what it is like to want something you cannot have.”
“Keep your sympathy. I have no need of it.” The corner of Reika’s mouth curled in a sneer. “He only wed you to secure the peace and breed an heir acceptable to both kingdoms. You are simply a means to an end, chosen for your bloodline, nothing more. Any Summerlea princess could stand in your stead.”
The words struck deep, catching Khamsin unprepared and surprisingly vulnerable. Reika wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, so why did it hurt to hear it?
Stung, and wanting to sting back, she touched the faint abrasions Wynter had left on her neck and forced a smug, triumphant smile. “Really? Then he truly is an amazing master of deception, to be able to feign such convincing passion again . . . and again . . . and again . . .”
The woman went quite still. For a moment, Kham thought her barb had struck home, but Reika was not so easy a target. Her eyes grew calm and intent. “Yes,” she agreed smoothly, “he is a very . . . intense lover and skillful enough to make a woman lose all reason. It’s one of the things I’ve missed most these last three years. And I can see how an inexperienced girl might assume the power of his sexuality implies a bond that doesn’t really exist.”
Kham’s confidence faltered. She would have sworn Reika and Wynter had never been lovers. She lifted her teacup and took a sip to hide her dismay.
Reika stood beside Khamsin, smiling with cool serenity, no doubt silently gloating that her second, well-aimed blow had struck home even more deeply than the first. And that made Khamsin’s temper simmer.
Walk away, dearly. Tildy, who understood peace, would say. Just walk away.
But Roland, who understood war, would have offered different advice. Behind your enemy’s smile lies treachery. Show him that behind yours lies steel. Fail to do so, and you only make him bolder.
Khamsin stared down into the fragrant, golden brown depths of her tea. She was no wise, peaceful Tildy, no matter how she might try. She was a daughter of the Sun, capable of warmth, but just as capable of fire and lethal volatility.
Khamsin tightened her grip on the teacup and turned back to face her adversary. “What do you know of the Heirs to the Summer Throne, Lady Villani?”
Blond brows drew together in a delicate frown. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Royal Family of Summerlea—my family, and my ancestors before me—what do you know of us?”
“I . . . don’t understand how that has any bearing on this conversation.”
“It has great bearing. Have you ever heard of Roland Soldeus—Roland Triumphant, the Hero of Summerlea? No? Perhaps you should do a little reading, broaden your horizons.” She flashed a brief, tight smile. “Roland once crushed a well-supplied army of fifty thousand invaders with scarcely three thousand men of his own. They say he blazed bright as the sun, and that his sword shot beams of burning fire, and that his enemies burst into flames before him, and the charred dust of their bodies blew away on the fierce, hot winds—the khamsins—he could summon at will. My family can trace its lineage back to his brother, Donal. The same powerful blood that ran in Roland’s veins runs in mine.”
She looked up and captured Reika Villani’s gaze with her own. “I did not retire from the banquet hall last night because I feared you. I left because I feared what I might do to you if I stayed.” Curlin
g clouds of steam rose up before her face. She saw Reika glance down, saw her eyes widen in shock at the sight of Khamsin’s tea bubbling madly in its cup. “Do not make yourself my enemy,” she concluded softly. “Do not poach what I have claimed as mine.”
Dark movement glimpsed from the corner of her eye made Khamsin turn. Bella stood in the doorway. “Your bath is ready, Your Majesty,” she said.
“Thank you, Bella.” Kham set the teacup down on a small lamp table near Reika’s frozen figure. “And thank you for coming, Lady Villani. Our discussion has been very enlightening. I hope I’ve made my position clear. Bella will show you out.”
Fired up by her confrontation with Reika Villani, Kham waved aside the pale cream gown Bella had laid out for this morning’s luncheon with the ladies of the court and chose instead to garb herself in bright, vivid, Summerland colors. Thus armored, she marched down to the small banquet hall where the ladies had gathered and met their cool gazes, head-on. She had not come to these people as a supplicant, but as a queen. Their queen—even if only for the next twelve months. They would give her the respect and deference due her station.
Something of that determination must have shown on her face because the ladies all curtsied deeply upon her arrival and regarded her with wariness.
“Your Grace, this way, please.” Lady Firkin gestured towards the table. “You were so tired from your journey. I thought a more informal luncheon today would be a good way to introduce you to the ladies of the court.”
Kham eyed the banquet table, laden with extravagant gold, silver, and crystal place settings, each chair attended by a private footman. This was informal? She hesitated to think what a dinner of state might look like. But she murmured something polite to acknowledge Lady Firkin’s thoughtfulness.
For the next forty-five minutes, Kham pasted a pleasant expression and did her best to contain her restlessness as Lady Firkin introduced her to the ladies of the court. Tildy had spent countless hours training Khamsin for just such an event. A princess of the Rose was expected to be a gracious hostess of her father’s kingdom, and in keeping with those duties, she was expected to remember names, titles, and other pertinent information about the courtiers and guests who frequented her father’s court.
Unfortunately, Kham had never been particularly good at those lessons, and though she was careful to repeat each lady’s name three times and came up with mnemonics to tie the name and the face together (Crooked nose, Lady Ros. Catty smile, Lady Wyle), it didn’t take long for her to become overwhelmed. There were only a handful of ladies she remembered from yesterday’s introductions: Lady Firkin, the tall, imposing priestess Galacia Frey, and, of course, Reika Villani, who was there, smiling as if she and Khamsin had not just squared off as enemies less than two hours ago.
Aware that this morning’s confrontation with Valik’s cousin had only been the first salvo in their personal war, Khamsin watched Reika from the corner of her eye, noting which of the ladies paused to speak with her and which sat closest to her. Kham had no doubt Reika would use every tool in her arsenal to achieve victory, including conscripting her friends into her service. Since Khamsin couldn’t very well go around asking everyone if they were Reika’s confidantes, she would simply have to be observant and take care to watch her back.
Turning to the Winterlady at her side—what was her name? Oh, yes, crooked nose, Lady Ros— Khamsin said, “Tell me a little about yourself, Lady Ros. Where are you from and how long have you been at court?”
Finally, a quiet gong called the ladies to luncheon. Khamsin took the queen’s seat at the head of the table, conscious of the many eyes upon her as the servants offered her all manner of strange, unfamiliar dishes. She tried to steer clear of foodstuffs she couldn’t identify or those with an odd smell, especially after the fishy aroma of several different seafood dishes left her feeling rather green about the gills.
“You don’t like fish, Your Grace?” Reika Villani asked after Kham waved away a particularly odiferous mackerel dish. “How unfortunate. Seafood is a staple of every Wintercraig meal.” Her tone made Khamsin’s aversion sound like a calamitous shortcoming.
Kham’s jaw clenched. “Quite the contrary, I love fish,” she declared, and just to wipe the mocking, superior smile off Reika Villani’s face, she forced herself to accept a portion of the next fish dish that came her way. Though the smell and texture made her want to retch, she ate several bites, holding Reika Villani’s gaze the whole time.
Two seats down on Khamsin’s right, Galacia Frey watched the visual skirmish between Reika and Kham, and when it was over, she gave Kham what looked like an approving nod and tucked into her own meal. Kham would have basked in what felt like a small victory, except that for the rest of the meal, what she’d eaten kept trying to make a reappearance. Outside, pale gray clouds began to gather in the clear, sunny sky.
After the meal, Galacia Frey took her leave, and the rest of the women retired to the gathering room next door to work on needlecrafts and socialize. Khamsin was hopeless with a needle and woefully inadequate as a casual conversationalist. Her questions sounded more like interrogations, and because she was so uncertain as to which ladies were Reika Villani’s cronies, her own answers were so guarded they came across as curt and off-putting.
Only with Lady Melle Firkin was Kham able to relax. The wife of Lord Chancellor Barsul Firkin had kind eyes, a warm smile, and a disarming way of putting Khamsin completely at ease. Within the first half hour of the luncheon, Lady Firkin’s polite, deferential use of titles gave way to “my dear” this and “my dear” that.
With any other person, Khamsin might have stiffened up and drawn away from such familiarity, but she couldn’t bring herself to rebuke the elderly woman for speaking to her more like a daughter than a queen, especially when the lady confessed, “Lord Firkin and I had a daughter, Astrid. She died of lung fever when she was seventeen. You remind me of her. She had the same fire in her eyes that you do. She never backed down from anything, even things that frightened her.” Then she patted Khamsin’s hand, smiled, and said, “I have a good feeling about you, my dear. I think you may be just what our king and this court has needed for a long time.”
“Thank you, Lady Firkin,” Khamsin said with a small, genuine smile.
“Please, call me Lady Melle. I’m not much of one for standing on formalities. I hope you don’t mind. The king has been like a son to Lord Barsul and me. We helped raise young Prince Garrick after their parents died.”
“How did the king’s parents die?”
“Frost Giant attack. Such a tragedy. Wynter barely escaped with his life. And then to take the throne so young. He wasn’t even sixteen. Such a burden for a boy to shoulder, especially when some took his youth as a sign of weakness. But weakness is a trait no one who knows him would ever associate with Wynter of the Craig.”
“No, I would imagine not,” Kham agreed. She started to ask Lady Melle more questions about the man she’d married, but Lady Wyle came up and asked Lady Melle to join a card game. Lady Wyle invited Khamsin to join as well, but the lady’s insincere smirk of a smile and too-watchful eyes made Kham decline.
“No, please go on. I don’t play cards.” Most court card games required four or more to play, so Kham, always alone, had never had the opportunity to learn. And the last thing she wanted to do when her sisters and brothers had snuck up to visit her was while away their precious, purloined time with card games.
It didn’t take long for Khamsin to regret letting Lady Melle leave her side. Sitting alone, without Lady Melle’s warm presence to buffer her, she was acutely aware of the Winterladies watching her every move, many of them sly-eyed, sumptuously gowned adversaries waiting for the first sign of weakness.
Tension coiled inside her. Sitting still for any length of time had never been easy for her, and sitting there while her every move was watched and measured was indescribably unpleasant. She was a child of the ele
ments, accustomed to doing as she pleased and running free through the abandoned towers of the King’s Keep. She wasn’t made to sit for hours on end, confined and coiffed, surrounded by women whose conversation revolved around fashion, running households, and raising children. Kham would much rather be outside with the men, watching them train with their weapons—better yet, swinging a sword of her own. Falcon had often practiced with her, and those were some of the happiest times of life.
Her foot started tapping. Conversation dwindled. Ladies cast sidelong glances her way. She jammed her feet against the ground and kept them there.
Conversation resumed. More baby talk. More discussion of ribbons. One of the ladies had a new maid to dress her hair, and wasn’t she doing a splendid job?
Kham’s fingers began to drum restlessly against the armrests of her chair.
The lady with the hairdressing maid glanced Kham’s way, bit her lip, and fell silent.
Kham clutched the armrests as if her life depended on it.
Outside, the thin clouds that had gathered during the luncheon grew heavy and dark.
“Oh, dear.” Lady Ros glanced out at the rapidly darkening sky. “It looks like we’re in for a bit of a storm.”
“That came up fast,” another woman murmured. “There wasn’t a cloud in the sky this morning.”
Now they were going to talk about the weather? Kham leapt to her feet, unable to bear it any longer.
All the Winterladies rose as well and looked her way. “I have a bit of a headache,” Kham lied, working hard to keep the bark out of her voice. “I think I’ll go for a walk outside.”