by C. L. Wilson
“Is it my Summerlander blood you find so offensive, Lord Valik,” she asked, as they rode, “or do you dislike me on your cousin’s account?”
His expression didn’t change. “Why would I dislike you on Elka’s account? You had nothing to do with her choices.”
“I wasn’t talking about the cousin who ran off with my brother. I was talking about Reika, the one who’s set her cap for my husband.”
That put a crack in his stony expression. Valik’s brows shot up. He gave a bark of disbelieving laughter and looked at her like she’d just sprouted a second head. “Reika has no interest in Wynter.”
She barely kept her jaw from dropping. “Of course she’s interested. I’ll wager she’s wanted him since the first day she met him.”
“You’re daft, Summerlander.”
“No, but you are blind, Winterman. Good gods.” She shook her head. “Who knew men of the north were so easy to deceive?”
Valik’s expression went sharp as a razor and hard as stone. The deadly promise of lethal force emanated from every pore, and his eyes were cold enough to freeze the marrow in her bones. “We are not so easily duped, Summerlander. And as your countrymen learned to their woe, we deal severely with those who try.”
“Ah, so that’s it. You think I’m involved in some plot against the king.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. Anyone who knew her in the slightest—well, any clear-thinking someone, at least—would never contemplate such a ridiculous charge. “In case you haven’t noticed, subtleties are not my forte. When I wish someone harm, they storming well know it.”
Valik cast a quick glance at the cloudless sky before saying, “So, you’re an innocent, are you? As honest as the day is long? It was not you pretending to be your sister Autumn, the Season my king thought he was taking to wife?”
She bit her lip. “I never lied. Wynter wanted a Summerlea princess to wife, and he got one. If he neither named the specific princess he wanted—nor lifted my veil to discover which one he was getting—how is that my fault?”
Valik’s eyes narrowed. “Lady, you wed and bed my king full-knowing he thought you were another—then say you did nothing wrong—yet you wonder why I consider you as low and untrustworthy as the rest of your kin? What would your father have done, had he found himself so cheated?”
Color stained Kham’s cheeks. Verdan would likely have separated his bride’s head from her shoulders, then declared war on her kin.
“Exactly,” Valik snapped, reading her answer on her face. “Wynter Atrialan possesses more honor in his little finger than your entire family combined, and I will never forget how you used that honor against him. Nor do I intend to let you do so again.”
He tossed Kori’s lead line to one of the other guards and spurred his mount forward, moving as far up ahead as the lead line would allow. An uncomfortable silence descended. Kham glanced at the others. To a man, they wore blank expressions and kept their gazes fixed straight ahead.
Bron tapped his heels to his mount’s side and moved up to the spot Valik had vacated. In a friendly, conversational tone clearly meant to end the awkward silence, he said, “I’m curious that you’ve never ridden before, my lady. The ladies of your father’s court do not ride?”
She forced a smile. “They do, but I was never part of my father’s court. He hated me even more than Lord Valik does.”
Bron winced. “Forgive me. I do not mean to pry.”
“No need to apologize. I’ve had a lifetime to get used to it.” She would never forget or forgive what Verdan had done to her, but from the moment that carriage had carried her past the Stone Knights guarding the gates of Vera Sola, the Summer King had lost the power to hurt her. “My mother’s nurse raised me in a remote part of the palace and educated me to the best of her ability, but since I wasn’t allowed to leave the palace, I never learned to ride. I confess I’m quite looking forward to it. Other than the journey here, this is the greatest adventure of my life.”
“Well, I’ll do my best to make the lessons enjoyable.”
True to Bron’s word, once they reached the riding ring, the lesson was one of the most pleasant experiences of her life, if, perhaps, a little too tame and too short for her liking. Khamsin learned how to mount and dismount, position her feet in the stirrups, and hold the reins. Bron led Kori around the ring on the lead line until he was satisfied Khamsin had gotten the hang of what he taught her. Then he unclipped the chain and let her walk the horse around the ring on her own. The mare, Kori, was a dream: sweet-natured, obedient, and responsive. Khamsin was eager to go on to the second gait, the trot, when Valik declared the lesson was at an end.
“Bron has plenty of work waiting for him at the palace, as do the rest of us.”
“Oh, but—”
“There’s no need to rush yourself, my lady,” Bron intervened when Valik’s expression darkened. “We’ll have another lesson tomorrow, and I’ll teach you the next gait then. For now, why don’t you practice what you’ve learned today and ride Kori back to Gildenheim without the lead line attached?”
“I suppose that’s acceptable.” She acquiesced with more ill grace than she actually felt, so Valik wouldn’t feel compelled to quash the idea just to deprive her. Truth be told, the prospect of putting her newly acquired skills to use was even more appealing than staying in the ring to continue her training.
As they rode back up the hill to Gildenheim, it was all she could do to stop from laughing out loud. She was on a horse, guiding it with her own hands up a curving mountain road, like any other free lady of the court might do. No more prison built of confining walls or her father’s harsh governance.
Effervescence bubbled in her veins. Even Valik’s glowering presence at her side couldn’t dim her happiness. She was wed to a man who might send her to her death in a year, living in a land of haughty strangers who regarded her with all the welcome of a cockroach at a dinner banquet, and currently riding in the company of a man who would rather toss her off the mountain than escort her up it, but for the first time in her life, she felt free.
If Khamsin could have spent every waking hour with Kori and Bron, she would have. She hadn’t returned to visit the top-floor children since that awful Thorgyllsday debacle, so except for the all-too-brief daily lessons with Bron, Kham spent most of the next week suffering through more hours of boring teas, luncheons, and social hours that the well-meaning Lady Melle Firkin had arranged.
Of Wynter, Khamsin continued to see little. Except for his attendance at the evening meal and his nightly visits to her chamber—which remained as breathtakingly passionate as ever—he remained sequestered with his councilmen, stewards, and generals in meeting after meeting. Wynter’s preoccupation was not lost on Reika Villani or her circle of friends. The whispers and laughter behind their fans grew louder as the days progressed, the sly looks bolder. Khamsin held her head high. She wouldn’t give Reika or her friends the satisfaction of knowing how their gloating stung.
Reflecting Kham’s mood, the skies over Gildenheim remained a gloomy, overcast gray that drizzled constant snow.
The one bright spot in her days was the time she spent in the riding ring with Bron. The stable master was a kind, patient, and thorough teacher whose gift for calming high-strung horses worked equally as well for calming high-strung foreign queens. Each morning she counted down the hours until it was time for her lesson. When the lesson was over, she counted down the hours till the next day.
By the end of the week, Bron declared that she’d made enough progress to warrant a treat: a ride into the valley to visit the village of Konundal. They never went faster than a comfortable trot, and Valik stayed close by her side, but it was still Kham’s first real, independent ride, and she thrilled at her newfound freedom.
When they reached the outskirts of the village, Kham sat up straighter in the saddle and looked around with interest. She hadn’t paid much atten
tion when she and Wynter had ridden through on the day of their arrival, but as this was the closest village to the castle, she intended to become very familiar with it.
The buildings were constructed of stone and wood with sharply angled roofs. Scores of stone chimneys rose towards the sky, fragrant wood smoke rising from each one. Cobbled streets had been cleared of snow and covered with grit to keep from turning slippery, and Winterfolk, bundled lightly against what most Summerlanders would consider bitter cold, went about their business as though the frosty air was little more than a spring chill. And perhaps, to them, it was.
For all that it served Gildenheim, the town of Konundal was surprisingly small. What buildings there were could have fit in Vera Sola three times over.
“Our largest cities are the ports Saevar, Loni, and Konumarr,” Bron told her when she said as much. “Wynter has smaller palaces in each of them, but the Craig is the true seat of his power.”
“I thought the city that served Gildenheim would be larger.”
Bron smiled. “Gildenheim is its own city. Konundal is primarily a logging village. Few men of the Craig live in towns. Most have small farms and crofts in the mountains where they raise sheep, horses, cattle, and the next generation of men who will keep Wintercraig strong.”
As they rode down the cobbled street, Khamsin was conscious of the stares she received from the villagers, some curious, some openly hostile. In this land of tall, pale-haired, golden-skinned folk, she could never hope to pass unnoticed, even without her escort of a dozen, icy-eyed White Guard.
They left their horses at the village stable and walked down the main street to the tavern for lunch. The proprietor greeted Valik and Bron with warmth and Khamsin with guarded politeness, and led them to a small, private room in the back.
“The last three years don’t seem to have been as hard on Wintercraig as they were on Summerlea,” Khamsin noted as the servingwoman brought out trays of fresh fruits and vegetables before their meal.
The servingwoman and Kham’s guards all gave her sharp looks.
“We have our share of orphans and widows,” Valik said coolly.
“Far fewer than Summerlea, I’m sure, but that’s not what I meant.” She gestured to the obviously fresh produce in the center of the table. “We all but starved this last year. All our crops in the north and many in the south were destroyed by the prolonged cold, but you seem not to have suffered a similar distress.”
“It would have been easier on the king to simply cast winter across the entire continent,” Bron explained, “but that would have brought suffering to his own people. So instead, he drew entirely on the power of the Ice Heart to create an island of winter across Summerlea while leaving Wintercraig’s weather patterns relatively untouched. Our growing seasons have been cooler and much shorter, but we’ve had them.”
“The Ice Heart?” Khamsin repeated.
“The power he embraced when he declared war on Summerlea.”
“You mean the power he used to conquer Summerlea was not his own?”
Valik cleared his throat loudly, and Bron fell silent. “The king’s powers and where they come from are none of your concern,” Valik declared.
“The king is my husband. That makes everything about him my concern. However, since the subject obviously disturbs you, let us choose a different one.” She kept her own expression cool and calm. Her initial question had been simple curiosity, but Valik’s reaction piqued her interest. The abrupt end of the conversation could only mean there was something about the Ice Heart Valik did not want Summerlanders to know. Her mind seized the thread of the interrupted conversation and followed it down the only logical path. If the Ice Heart was not a power Wynter had been born with, it had come from somewhere.
That last thought led to an even more disturbing contemplation. Could the power be taken from him? Could someone—like herself, for instance—strip Wynter of his devastating power and return the Summer Throne to its rightful heirs?
They passed the remaining time in the inn without incident. The servingwoman delivered their food, Bron and Khamsin were careful to keep their conversations limited to neutral topics, and Valik remained his typical scowling self.
Unfortunately, the meal, though delicious, didn’t sit well on Khamsin’s stomach. Half an hour after leaving the tavern, her belly churned as discomfortingly as her troubled thoughts. Subterfuge and intrigue did not suit her. Like Roland, she would rather stand in the face of overwhelming odds and shout her defiance than skulk in the shadows and steal victory through ignoble means.
She’d agreed to the terms of peace. She’d wed Wynter of her own free will. She’d pledged her loyalty and the fruits of her life to him. And even if he did plan to turn her out to face the mercy of the mountains if she did not bear him a child in a year, did that nullify her own oaths? Could she continue to take Wynter into her arms and into her body while plotting to betray him? The very idea made her stomach hurt.
Unaware of her increasing distress, Bron escorted her around town and acquainted her with the various shops and shopkeepers. A few greeted her with a frigidness that bordered on hostility, but most seemed more approachable than the nobles in the palace. Kham gave a silent snort. Not that that was difficult.
In a field at the far end of town, some sort of gathering was under way. Dozens of tents had been erected, and workmen were unloading dozens more from arriving caravans. Piles of snow cleared from the tent plots formed an odd, impromptu maze of walls and walkways. Khamsin watched three strapping young men wrestle a set of tent poles into place on a freshly cleared plot. The men laughed and joked as they worked, long, fair hair swinging in belled plaits, teeth flashing white and dazzling in golden-skinned faces.
“What is all this?” Khamsin asked, as Bron guided her down a path between two lines of erected tents. Several merchants had already begun to set out their wares: furs and leathers, delicate, multicolored glassware, colorful ribbons, buttons and beads enough to make frippery-loving Summer giddy with happiness.
“The villagers are preparing for a samdar-hald,” he replied. “A celebration gathering. For at least the next month, Winterfolk from all corners of the kingdom will gather here. There will be hunting and trading and music and dancing, and each week a gildi, a great feast, that you and Wynter will attend.”
“What are they celebrating? The end of the war?”
“That, too,” Bron said, “but this samdar’s main purpose is to celebrate your marriage.”
Her stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant lurch. She pressed her hand against her belly. “My marriage?” she repeated weakly.
“It’s not every day the king takes a wife,” a familiar voice drawled from behind.
Khamsin spun around in surprise. “Wynter?” He was standing on the snowy street behind her, clad in a simple huntsman’s garb of worn leathers and a white snowbear vest. “What are you doing here?”
“They told me you’d gone riding. Rather than sit in my office envying you, I decided to join you. I trust you have no objections?”
Before she could answer, a shout from a merchant several tents down drew their attention. Wynter snatched her up and thrust her behind him, holding her there with one broad hand, while Valik and the guards spun into action, surrounding them with a wall of steel armor and razor-sharp swords.
“Stop! Thief!”
A small, filthy little figure wrapped in shreds of mangy fur and moth-eaten cloth barreled toward them, only to draw up with in alarm at the sight of the soldiers and their swords. Khamsin had a brief glimpse of wide silvery blue eyes in a grimy face.
A boy. No more than nine or ten. The hand pressing Kham against Wynter’s back relaxed.
“Thief! Thief!”
The boy opened his mouth and muttered a curse so foul it singed her ears, then darted towards a snowbanked corridor between the tents.
Wynter caught him in mid
lunge by the collar of his moldy clothes and hoisted him into the air. The boy dangled there, limbs swinging wildly, his little teeth bared in a fierce snarl while even fouler curses poured out of his mouth in a defiant flood.
“Silence, boy,” Wynter snapped. “You stand in the presence of the queen.”
“Sod the farking queen, and sod you, too, you plague-ridden pus bag. Buggering, rat-farking sod! Put me down! Thorgyll freeze off your maggoty balls if you don’t!”
“Well, that’s charming,” Wynter muttered. He grasped the boy by the ankles and dunked him headfirst into a nearby pile of snow. “That’s to cool your head, boy,” he said when he lifted the boy’s snow-covered face back out of the drift. “Now hush.”
“Fark you, dung-breath!” The child shook his head, spraying snow and curses in a wide arc.
Wynter clenched his jaw and dunked him again.
“Slime-crapping puke bag!”
Dunk.
“Miserable rat-fark!”
Dunk.
“Dung-eating butt fly!”
Dunk. Dunk.
“Finished?” Wynter asked. The child blinked snow-spangled lashes and glared, but held his silence. “Good.” Wynter flipped the boy over, set him back on his feet and settled a firm grip around his thin neck. “Now, what’s going on here?”
The merchant, a large, heavyset man bundled in thick but simple woolens and furs, pointed a finger at the child. “He is a thief! That’s what’s going on. He stole a slingbow from me. Snatched it right off my table, bold as brass!”
“That true, boy?”
The child hawked and spat and remained silent.
Wynter’s jaw went hard as stone. “Don’t try me, boy. You won’t like what it gets you. Empty your pockets. Now,” he barked when the child didn’t instantly obey.
With a mutinous look, the boy reached into his ragged clothes, pulled out the pilfered slingbow, and flung it on the ground at the merchant’s feet. “There! Take your stinking slingbow! Now let me go!”