The Winter King

by C. L. Wilson

  The priestess gave a snort of disbelief and shook her head. “Wynter would have parted your head from your shoulders, taken all three of your sisters as concubines, slaughtered everyone else involved in the deception, and frozen the whole of Vera Sola on the spot. After ripping your father’s entrails from his still-living body and calling the snow wolves to feast upon them, of course.”

  Kham’s throat felt strangely tight. She swallowed. “He wouldn’t have done that. Honor would have compelled him to keep the agreement.”

  Lady Frey’s eyes filled with a mix of pity, irritation, and sympathy. “Honor would play no part in it. He swallowed the Ice Heart. He has used its power to the fullest for three whole years.” She stared at Kham’s blank face, then her own comprehension dawned. “You don’t know what that means, do you? He hasn’t told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  Lady Frey closed the lid on her potions case and sat on the edge of Khamsin’s bed. “The Ice Heart is a dreadful power. Those who embrace it freeze from the inside out. Once in its grip, compassion and honor are mere things of memory, easily forgotten, just as easily foresworn. Wynter’s heart—his humanity—is freezing. He’s dying. As I told him, I’m surprised he’s lasted as long as he has. A weaker man would have succumbed long ago.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “Come to think of it, I suppose Valik deserves much of the credit. Wyn loves him like a brother.”

  Kham put her hands to her head, framing her eyes and pressing her fingers hard against her temples to block out peripheral distractions and focus on what the priestess was saying. “Wynter is dying, you say. His humanity is freezing. But how has Valik been able to help him?”

  “Love, child. That’s what it’s all about. Wyn is losing the capacity to love—to feel anything. And when all warm emotion is gone, the man we know as Wynter will cease to be. A monster of unimaginable power will inhabit his body—a dark god who was once a man, Rorjak, the Ice King.”

  “Wyrn’s husband? The one Thorgyll slew with his spears?”

  “Yes.”

  Khamsin slumped back against the pillows. She’d read the legend of Thorgyll and his mighty ice spears. “Why are you telling me this? I’m an heir to the Summer Throne? Aren’t you afraid I’ll use this knowledge to destroy Wintercraig?”

  Lady Frey laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Only a madman utterly lost to reason could even contemplate such a thing.” She leaned forward, her eyes bleak. “Listen to me, Summerlander, for this is the direst of warnings. If the Ice King is born, there will be no victory for any human ever again. The vengeance Wynter wreaked upon your land is nothing compared to what Rorjak will do. He will cast the entire world into endless winter. Your family’s powers, which are derived from the sun, will fade. The Frost Giants and their monstrous wolves, the garm, will reign at Rorjak’s side, and all humankind will be nothing but meat for their table. It is the day the Frost Giants live for: Carnak, the end of the world.”

  Even though the poisons had long since been purged from her body, Kham’s stomach gave a queasy lurch. “If this magic is dreadful, what on earth are you doing with it? Why would you keep it unguarded for any man to use?”

  “Unguarded? The Ice Heart is Wintercraig’s most carefully hidden and lethally defended treasure. It is the essence of the god-king Rorjak, the mortal-born man whom Wyrn loved so much, she gave him immortality. Because of her gift, even though his body could be destroyed, his godly essence never could. So after slaying him with Wyrn’s spears, Thorgyll gathered that essence and hid it away in a place he thought would be safe. And for thousands of years, it has been. Many have tried to embrace the Ice Heart, but except for a rare few, they died before ever reaching the place of its confinement. Wynter is one of the few. I should have known he would be. He is, after all, a legend in his own right, the man who at the age of sixteen slew a Frost Giant single-handedly.”

  “If the Ice Heart is consuming him, how do we stop it?”

  “Bear him a child. It was love for his brother—grief over his death—that drove Wynter down this path. Love for his child is the thing he hopes will save him.”

  “Love can melt the Ice Heart?”

  “It’s the only thing that can.”

  “That’s why he said if I didn’t bear him a child within the year, he’d slay me and take one of my sisters to wife.”

  The priestess’s eyebrows shot up. “He said he’d slay you if you didn’t give him a child?”

  “Several times. Only he tried to pretty it up with a Wintercraig euphemism, saying he’d send me to face the mercy of the mountains.”

  Lady Frey scowled and rolled her eyes skyward. “Idiot men. Wyrn save me from them all.” She leaned forward, her piercing eyes intent. “Listen to me, Khamsin. Wynter doesn’t have a year left. The Ice Heart’s grip is very strong, and if he can’t break free of it, he will not long survive. As to the mercy of the mountains, I suspect he has deliberately misled you as to what it truly means. No doubt, he thought fear was the best way to force your compliance because he is a great buffoon of a man who does not understand women with the hearts of warriors any more than he understands women with the hearts of snakes.” Her lips drew back, baring her teeth in what was a very close imitation of a wolf’s snarl.

  Despite her initial dislike of Lady Frey, with her chilly aloofness and ice-dagger eyes, Khamsin now realized she could like this woman very much indeed.

  The priestess’s snarl faded, and she eyed Khamsin in silent consideration. “Perhaps you should get out of bed today after all,” she finally said. “I know you’ll be doing so anyways as soon as I leave the room, and this way at least I can keep an eye on you for another few hours.” She rose to her feet and, without turning her head, called out, “Come in, Summerlander. See that your mistress eats as much as she can, then help her dress. Bundle her warmly. Krysti, go to the stables and tell Bron to prepare a litter.” To Khamsin, she added, “And you will promise me to stay in the litter and to tell me the instant you feel the least bit unwell. Agree now, or this will not happen.”

  “Agreed.” The word popped out before she even thought about it. She blinked and gave a wry laugh. “What did I just agree to? Where are you taking me?”

  Lady Frey drew herself up to her full height, looking icy, beautiful and remotely regal. “To the slopes of Mount Gerd, to witness the mercy of the mountains.”

  With both Valik and Wynter gone, there was no one to gainsay Lady Frey. Lord Barsul tried, but he withered quickly beneath the priestess’s icy glare. Within the hour, the small party rode out: six armed guards, Lady Frey riding a shining white beauty of a horse, Krysti bundled thickly and riding a shaggy tan mountain pony, and Khamsin borne in a drape-covered litter suspended between two large draft horses.

  The litter wasn’t quite as stomach-churning a ride as the carriage had been, and Khamsin alleviated her travel sickness by keeping the curtains drawn back. The brisk, cold air on her face and being able to see where they were going staved off the worst of the sickness.

  The journey to Mount Gerd was a two-hour, six-mile trek across rough mountain terrain that ended with a nerve-racking traversal of a crumbling stone bridge stretched over a deep gorge between mountains. On the far side of the bridge, perhaps a half mile from the ice-capped summit, a small round lodge had been built into the mountain. Smoke curled from lodge’s chimney, and as they approached, two guards in leather armor emerged to greet them.

  “Where are they?” Lady Frey asked. “And when?”

  “Second elevation, about an hour ago,” came the cryptic reply.

  “My thanks.” The priestess turned her horse left towards a rocky path that curved around the mountain face. The rest of the party followed in single file.

  The road turned down, and the air grew slightly warmer as they descended several hundred feet. Stark, snow- and lichen-covered rocks gave way to carpets of ground-hugging juniper. The rocky path
split in two. One fork headed down towards the lower elevations, but they did not turn. Instead, they leveled out, traveling laterally across the mountain’s face. A few minutes later, the horses slowed, then came to a halt. Khamsin stuck out her head to see what was going on, but all she could see was the back end of her guards’ horses. The sound of approaching riders echoed against the stony mountainside. She knew who it was even before she saw Hodri’s shining whiteness and Wynter’s grim face and blazing eyes. Just the sight of him sent a warm, electric tingle shivering through her blood.

  He didn’t have the same reaction to her. He took one look at her, and snapped, “Draw the curtains, woman! And pull those furs around you before you catch your death!” He whirled his horse around. “Damn it, Laci! What in Wyrn’s name are you thinking? Two days ago, she lay near death, and today you cart her through the mountaintops? Are you mad, or just trying to finish the job that idiot servingwoman started?”

  Laci? Kham poked her head back out through the litter curtains and watched Wynter confront Lady Frey. He did not seem the least bit afraid of her as he bellowed insults at her for her “dim-witted bit of insanity” for bringing Khamsin to Mount Gerd.

  Lady Frey seemed neither surprised nor impressed by his rage. “I brought her to witness the mercy of the mountains!” she snapped back. “As she was the injured party, it’s more than her right, and you know it. Besides, some fool has left her with the impression that the mercy of the mountains is a sentence of certain death—and told her that is her fate if she doesn’t bear your child in a year’s time!”

  For a moment Wynter looked nonplussed—and decidedly guilty—but then his jaw clenched tight, and his teeth bared in a snarl. “She drew her own conclusions. I told no lies.”

  “Idiot! Lunkhead! Bah! I should leave you to your fate. If I liked you even slightly less, that’s exactly what I’d do.” The priestess glared, her usual air of icy remoteness completely shredded.

  Kham smiled. Ooh, she could easily like Lady Frey.

  “Besides,” the priestess continued, “she was awake. If I’d left her on her own, she’d be running around the palace. This way, I’ve successfully managed to keep her lying down in that litter for several hours.”

  Kham’s smile turned into a frown. Then again, maybe not so easily. She didn’t like being manipulated.

  Wynter turned his head and caught Kham looking at him. His nostrils flared. “Fine,” he snapped. “Show her and be done with it. But then it’s straight back to Gildenheim, and she stays in bed the rest of the night and tomorrow with no complaints.”

  “Agreed,” Lady Frey answered before Kham could do more than open her mouth. “Even if I have to drug her again.” She cast back a look of such icy promise that Kham scowled and sank back against the litter cushions.

  Wynter and his riders turned their mounts around and headed back the way they’d come. The rest of them followed. Several minutes later, the path widened to a small plateau carved into the side of the mountain. Here, the snow had been trampled down.

  The horses bearing the litter halted. Wynter pushed aside the curtains and lifted her out, but he did not set her down. “You shouldn’t be walking,” he growled when she protested. “You shouldn’t be here at all, so be silent or I’ll stuff you back in that litter and send the horses racing home to Gildenheim.”

  She scowled her disapproval of his high-handed ways, then tried not to be too obvious when a brisk gust of wind made her snuggle closer to him for protection. Khamsin could see both hoofprints and boot prints all about. On the far side of the plateau, several large iron rings had been bolted into the mountainside. A pile of chain and two empty manacles lay in the snow near the center rings.

  The servingwoman was nowhere to be seen.

  “There’s no one here,” Khamsin said.

  Wynter grunted. “The mountains have been merciful.”

  She glared and thumped his steel breastplate. “Enough of this cryptic ‘mercy’ nonsense. Speak plainly. What happened to the woman from the tavern? Where did she go? Is she dead? Did you even bring her here at all?”

  His lips compressed. He strode towards the far side of the plateau. As they neared, Khamsin could see another path leading down the mountain. Fresh footprints had flattened the snow. Wynter pointed down below, where a group of some half dozen bundled people were descending on horseback. “She is there.”

  Khamsin squinted at the party. “Alive?”

  “Against my better judgment.” Grim dissatisfaction rumbled in his voice. “I would have cleaved her in two when they first brought her to the palace and told me what she’d done, but Laci, Valik, and Barsul stopped me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Winterfolk are the mercy of the mountains. We live in a harsh world, where our survival often depends on one another. There is no room in the clans for people who cannot be trusted, but we are not brutes or barbarians. The woman admitted to putting a purgative in your food, but, even Laci agreed that if she’d truly meant to kill you, there are dozens of more effective poisons she could have used to ensure your death. Those people down there are the folk from Konundal who were willing to climb the mountain and offer her mercy. She will be taken away from this province. If she ever returns, or commits any other serious crime, she will be taken to the glaciers and left there to die.”

  Khamsin watched the party below make its way slowly down the mountainside. “And if she had killed me—even accidentally?”

  Wynter’s jaw hardened. “Then no amount of mercy could have saved her. You are my wife, under my protection. Harm to you is harm to me.”

  “And if I do not bear the child you require? You would really chain me to this mountain and leave me to face my death?”

  “I am the King of Wintercraig and you are my wife. I cannot take another woman to wife so long as you live. The mercy of the mountains is a symbolic death. Just as that woman is now dead to us, so, too, would you be.”

  She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Symbolically or truly? Do you really think your countrymen would climb the mountain to offer me, the daughter of the Summer King, mercy?”

  He held her gaze, his own unwavering. “That, Khamsin, depends entirely upon you. Give us reason to believe you are worthy of mercy, and I have no doubt you will find it.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Heroes and Hazards

  Khamsin thought about those words all the way back to Gildenheim. Her original plan had been to settle in and befriend the locals with an eye towards using what knowledge she could glean from them to escape the threat of death. Now, she realized, she had even greater reason to put that plan into action. The people she had thought to befriend for information and assistance were the very ones who had the power to set her free should she indeed end up chained to the slopes of Mount Gerd.

  When they reached the palace, Wynter plucked her from the litter and carried her in his arms from the courtyard to her bedroom. He set her on the plump, fur-covered mattress with a warning to “Stay there!” then he was gone. Her tingling, vibrant sense of awareness and excitement went with him, but she was too proud to call him back.

  She was tempted to rise from her bed, but he’d been wise enough to wring a promise from her that she would not. What pleasure she derived from his trust in her word was completely eclipsed by his willingness to use it against her. But she had given her oath. So, except for occasional trips to the bathroom, for the night and the day that followed, she stayed in bed and soaked up the light from her lamps and the sun and let her body heal.

  She would have been bored to distraction except for Krysti. He kept her company the whole second day and turned out to be a delightful companion. He scrounged up a deck of cards, taught her a game called Aces, and they played for two hours. He warned her at the start that he wouldn’t let her win, and he didn’t. He beat her soundly at every game in the first hour, but she just narrowed her eyes, set
her jaw and demanded another game. She won her first hand at the end of the second hour.

  “You are a good opponent,” she told him with grudging admiration, “but I’m starting to get the hang of it. Don’t expect to win as often when we play again tomorrow.”

  He smiled at the scowl she couldn’t quite wipe off her face. “You don’t like to lose.”

  “Never,” she agreed. “Not for any reason. I never have. I’m like Roland that way.”

  “Roland?”

  She looked at him aghast. It was plain he didn’t know who she was talking about. “Roland Soldeus,” she prompted, “the Hero of Summerlea? The ancient king who held back an invasion force of fifty thousand with a mere three thousand men?” Still no recognition. She hesitated for a moment, remembering the humiliating rejection with the top-floor children, but thrust the pain of that remembered wound away. Krysti had sworn her a year of service. He couldn’t very well turn his back on her.

  “Roland was an ancestor of mine. Well,” she corrected, “an ancestor of mine was his brother. I have a book about his most famous battles there on the table. Hand it to me, and I will read to you about the greatest hero who ever lived.”

  Krysti crawled to the other side of the bed and came back with the worn book with the tarnished silver letters stamped into the spine. Kham opened the book and began to read. In no time, she was as engrossed as ever in the tale of Roland Triumphant. Lying beside her on the bed, his chin propped on his hands, eyes shining like stars, Krysti drank in the tales of the legendary Summerlea warrior with as much eager excitement as she ever had. And when she read the tale of Roland’s last and greatest battle, her throat closed up as it always did when she reached the part where his horn sounded a lonely, stirring cry across the valley of dead and dying, gathering Roland’s remaining men for one final, desperate charge against the invading hordes.