by C. L. Wilson
“ ‘They rode, the last one hundred, their banners lifted high.
Their armor gleamed like silver beneath the sun’s bright eye.
Before them, clad in golden scales, his brow with sunlight wreathed,
Rode Roland, the Triumphant, the Heir of Rose and Lea.
Oh, ever will a man be born more glorious than these,
The greatest sons of Summer led by their shining king?’ ”
Krysti’s hands clenched into fists, his little face was tense and flushed. “Did they do it? Did they beat them?”
She smiled at him, as Tildy had so often smiled at her. “Be patient, Krysti. Let me finish reading, and you will learn.” She bent her head back to the book and continued reading where she left off. “ ‘The first two lines of Golgoth fell back in dazzled fear, as Roland and the hundred charged forth to meet their spears.’ ” The last charge of Roland and the Hundred consumed more than fifteen pages in the book, describing in detail how valiantly those great knights had battled, how each mighty hero had fallen, how the clouds rolled in and cast a gray gloom across the battlefield as if the sky itself mourned their passing. Finally, only Roland and a dozen of his men remained in a field soaked with blood and littered with the enemy’s dead. Around them, the last ten thousand of the Golgoth’s army drew near, ringing the king and his men. Defeat was certain, but even then Roland would not surrender. He lifted his mighty sword, Blazing, high into the air and called upon the full measure of his Summer gifts.
Overhead, the clouds parted. Those watching from the hills surrounding the battled plain reported seeing a shaft of golden sunlight beam down upon the place where Roland stood, as if the sun itself had answered his call and showered its strength upon him. The last twelve Summerlea knights fell to their knees around him. They bowed their heads and reached out to lay their gauntleted hands upon him. Roland Triumphant gave a final shout, in a voice that boomed across the plain like the thunder of god: “Avires Coruscate Rosa!” Long live the Radiant Rose!
And from him exploded a vast, deadly force, like none had ever seen before or since. He flared blinding bright, so bright the watchers on the surrounding hills cried out and shielded their eyes, and rings of blazing golden light rolled out in stunning waves. The light swept across the plains for a radius of two miles, flattening the enemy army, incinerating everything in its path. It was as if the sun had fallen to earth and burst its strength upon the plain. Out and out, the rings of flaming light roared, until the watchers on the mountains cried out in fear, certain they, too, would be consumed by its blazing fury. But just before the deadly brilliance reached them, the fiery light receded like a wave upon sand. The rings raced back towards the center of the field, towards Roland, and met once more with a mighty boom. A tower of light and smoke shot up into the sky, and crackling blades of golden light speared the heavens.
Then it was over. The plain stood barren, emptied of all but a small ring of bodies. Roland’s last twelve Summerlea knights were laid out like the petals of a daisy, their armor shining with a high polish, their skin cleansed of blood and the grime of battle, their faces peaceful and untouched as if they had been purified in death. And there, in the center of them all, rising up from a patch of rich, untouched green Summerlea grass, was Roland’s mighty sword, Blazing, its hilt pointing towards the sun. The great ruby in its pommel was clear as a star, shining with a radiance unmatched by any diamond or earthly gem. That sword and that unearthly stone were all that remained of Roland, Summerlea’s greatest king.
Khamsin closed the book. Krysti had tears in his eye, as moved by the story as she always was. Even now her eyes were damp, and her throat felt closed and aching.
“He was a great hero,” the boy whispered.
She nodded. “A hero of heroes. A king of kings. There’s never been a man to match him. He led Summerlea to greatness and secured its safety for generations to come. There’s a statue of him outside the walls of Vera Sola. He’s the first of the Stone Knights guarding the city gates. A statue of his brother Donal, from whom my line descends, stands on the opposite side.”
“Where is Roland’s sword Blazing now?”
“It disappeared not long after his death, never to be seen again. Many a Summerlea knight has set out to find it, but none ever has.”
A brief silence fell. Krysti cleared his throat and said, “Our king, Wynter, is a hero too. A legend in the Craig. Barely two months shy of his sixteenth birthday, he killed a Frost Giant single-handedly.”
“I’ve heard something about that. I understand it’s quite a feat.”
“It’s never been done before. Frost Giants stand fifteen feet tall”—Krysti clambered to his feet and raised his hands far over his head to demonstrate—“and their fists are like boulders. They carry great swords with razor-sharp serrated edges that can shatter swords and cleave fully armored men in two with a single blow.” His lips drew back in a snarling grimace, and he hacked and slashed with gusto.
Khamsin hid a smile, charmed by the child’s enthusiasm. “And Wynter faced one of these terrible creatures in single combat?”
“He did. He’d only just earned his knighthood. To celebrate, he and his family went ice fishing on Lake Ibree, when the Frost Giant caught them unawares. It struck him a blow that knocked him senseless, then killed his mother and father and was going to slay his brother, the little prince, when Wynter reawakened. Even knowing he was unlikely to survive, Wynter threw himself before his brother, armed only with his sword.” He leapt forward and assumed a defensive stance, hands clenched around his imaginary sword. The sword swung, accompanied by hearty slashing and battle noises as Krysti the Giant Killer fought his foe. He stopped in midswing, and added, “Gunterfys was forged in the fires of Mount Freika, did you know? And blessed by the priestess of Wyrn as it was made. They say it is a sword that will never be broken.”
“No, I didn’t know that.” She filed that away, wondering how much of it was true and how much was legend. “I suppose it’s only fitting. A mighty hero should have a very special sword. Did Wynter and the Frost Giant fight for hours? Did they battle throughout the day and into the night?”
Krysti gave her a look. “That’s only in the legends. Most men couldn’t battle a Frost Giant for more than a few minutes and live. As big as they are, they have all the advantage. One blow would shatter a man’s bones into dust.”
“Ah. Of course. Sorry.” Properly chastened, Khamsin nodded. “Go on with your story.”
“The battle was fierce—and it did last almost ten minutes. King Wynter—well, he was Prince Wynter then—knew he could not let the Frost Giant’s sword or fist strike him. He used his smaller size and speed against the monster, darting in and out, slashing its flesh in a hundred shallow wounds—to weaken him, you know?” The mattress bounced and rolled as he lunged, parried, and hacked at his invisible foe. “But that only made the Frost Giant furious. The creature swung one enormous fist and sent Wynter flying across the clearing. Wynter barely had time to rise on one knee before the monster was upon him, his terrible sword raised high, ready to strike the killing blow.”
Even knowing that Wynter had survived the attack, Khamsin felt her body tense. “What happened?”
“There was nothing he could do to stop the blow. All he could do was block it. So he raised Gunterfys with both hands and used it like a shield.” On his knees, Krysti demonstrated. “The giant’s sword crashed down. Any other man with any other sword would have been cleaved in two right there where he knelt, but Wynter and his sword held fast. The monster’s blade shattered. While the Frost Giant stumbled and tried to recover his balance, Wynter jumped to his feet and put all his might into a fearsome blow. The Frost Giant fell, and Prince Wynter leapt upon his chest and drove his sword straight through the monster’s heart.” With a triumphant cry, Krysti drove his imaginary blade home. His savage expression faded, and he straightened. “Wynter buried his parents th
ere on the mountainside where they died, then he put his little brother on his back and carried him all the way back home. When they reached Gildenheim, Wynter was king, and his sword bore a new name.”
“That is a heroic tale, indeed,” Kham said. “It should be recorded in a book and passed down through the ages so none will ever forget it.”
“I imagine it will be.”
Krysti stayed with her past dinnertime until night turned the sky inky black and he could barely keep his eyes open. Bella herded him out and went with him to seek their pallets in the servants’ quarters.
As she doused the lights and settled into bed, Khamsin thought of Wynter and the day Gunterfys earned its name. Krysti’s retelling of that day had been so vivid. Her heart had gone out to Wynter and to the little prince whose next breath depended solely on his brother’s strength and courage.
For the last three years, no Summerlander had said Wynter’s name without calling a curse upon it. He was the Winter King, the demon of the north, the enemy.
But now, after hearing Wynter’s story, after seeing the admiration shining from Krysti’s eyes, and feeling it echoed in her own heart, she realized that to his own people, Wynter was a hero, as noble and determined in his own way as Roland had been in his.
He wasn’t a perfect man. Far from it. He’d made Summerlea pay a terrible price for Falcon’s trespass. But, for the first time, she considered how Wynter must have felt when he learned that the woman he loved had run off with Falcon and that his brother, the only member of his family whom he’d been able to save from the Frost Giant’s attack, had been slain trying to stop them.
Grief could drive even good people mad. Look at her father’s lifelong hatred of her. Look at the woman from Konundal who’d poisoned Kham for an offhand remark.
Wynter’s vengeance had been bloody and consuming, but after hearing the story about Wynter’s family and the Frost Giant, she was having a much harder time hating him for it. The Sun knew, her own temper was just as volatile and deadly.
If a Winterman had slain her beloved brother, would not she, too, have sought a terrible revenge?
Khamsin was up and about the next day, despite the objections of Lady Frey. “I am healed. The sun has seen to it. See?” She ran circles about the room until she was dizzy. “I was healed yesterday, too, but I stayed in bed as you wanted. Not today.”
“No horses,” the priestess compromised. “And no running. Keep to the castle.”
“Agreed!” She grabbed Krysti’s hand, bolted for the door, and that was the last anyone saw of them until they returned, covered with dirt, dust, and cobwebs, to grab a quick lunch. Then they were off again and did not return until supper. The next day, it was the same.
Khamsin reacquainted herself with all the areas of the castle Vinca had shown her, then set about discovering the rest. She and Krysti explored every inch of the Gildenheim, from the damp, pitch-black dungeons to a private tower built near the mountain’s peak, accessible only by a long, narrow, winding stairway etched into the mountainside. They discovered it when Krysti—who had no end of interesting talents—picked the lock on a strange wooden door inside one of the guard towers on the battlements.
“I’m not a professional thief,” he vowed when he produced the picks, “but you never know when being able to open a door might come in handy—even save your life if the night is cold, and you’ve nowhere warm to sleep.”
“I won’t tell,” she promised, then grinned, “so long as you teach me how to use those.”
He laughed. “Agreed.”
A few moments more, and the lock snicked open. Krysti raised the latch and opened the door. Behind it lay nothing but a dark, curving stair, and, well, what sort of adventurers could find a secret stair and not investigate where it led? They slipped through the door, climbed the stair, and found the private tower room perched far above the palace walls. Another quick lock-pick saw them inside.
Inside was a cozy, round, tower room, sparsely but richly furnished. A bed, a desk, a stone hearth with two full buckets of coal beside it, two spacious cushioned chairs facing the hearth, and a large wooden wardrobe. Apart from the one wall that faced the mountain—and into which a small bathroom closet had been built—all the walls were curved and set with high, arched windows that looked out over the castle, the valley, and the vast, seemingly endless range of snowy peaks that was the Craig.
The room was like an aerie perched high above the world. Gildenheim lay sprawled out below her, a shining jewel of snowy, ice-silvered granite. She spied a solitary cloaked figure walking through the uppermost terrace of the western garden. A bird flew down from one of the garden’s evergreen trees to alight on the figure’s outstretched arm. A few minutes later, the bird took to the air and winged away. A hunting falcon, perhaps? Or maybe a messenger bird, bringing reports from some other part of the kingdom.
She turned one of the chairs from the hearth to face the windows, already planning to claim this isolated spot as her own. Someplace to get away from the eyes of the court and relax.
“I wonder whose room this is?” Krysti said as he knelt to pick the locks on the desk drawers.
She sank into the large, comfortable chair, drew a deep, happy breath . . . and froze. She didn’t possess her husband’s keen, wolflike ability to discern and identify faint aromas with uncanny accuracy, but she didn’t need to. The worn leather chair was steeped in a scent she already knew better than her own.
“Wynter’s,” she blurted.
Krysti popped up, picklocks dangling from his mouth. “W-w-w . . .” He gulped. “The king’s?”
She leapt to her feet. The chair’s wooden legs scraped over the stone floor as she shoved it back to its original position. “We should leave.”
“Good idea.”
They pelted for the door and scrambled down the steep, winding stairs, not speaking again until they were through the tower door and safe once more on the castle battlements. They looked at one another and burst into helpless laughter.
They were still laughing when they ran into Lord Barsul several minutes later.
He eyed the pair of them askance. “Now that’s the look of mischief if ever I’ve seen it. What have you two been up to?”
“Just learning our way around the castle,” Kham said. Barsul gave a look of such disbelief she couldn’t help but laugh again. “No, truly. That’s all.”
“Well, from the looks of it, that’s trouble enough.” He wagged a finger at them. “Don’t go poking your noses in places they don’t belong.”
“What places would those be?” Kham asked, her eyes wide and innocent. “So we know not to go in them.”
His eyes narrowed. “Anyplace you have to pass through a locked door to reach, for starters.”
Had he seen them on the stairs to Wynter’s aerie? She didn’t dare glance at Krysti. Lord Barsul would read the guilt on their faces.
“That includes the Atrium on the sixth floor of the main palace, do you hear?” Barsul added sternly.
Khamsin and Krysti exchanged a look. They hadn’t finished exploring the sixth floor yet. A secret stair had distracted them.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Barsul warned, correctly interpreting that look. He wagged a stern finger. “Don’t even think about it. Wynter has forbidden anyone to enter the Atrium, and unlike some private places”—his eyes flicked up the mountainside—“that’s one trespass he won’t forgive.”
He’d seen them all right.
Krysti, poor boy, was all but shaking in his boots. Kham grabbed his thin hand and squeezed to reassure him. “Thank you, Lord Barsul. We’ll keep that in mind. Come on, Krysti, let’s go visit the armory. We haven’t been there yet.” With a quick wave farewell, she dragged the boy with her down the stone battlement steps.
Shaking his head and wearing a smile that wavered halfway between affection and bemusement, Lord Barsul wa
tched them go. When they disappeared around the corner of a building, he turned and made his way along the battlements back to the tower room near the front of the castle where Wynter, Valik, and three of Wintercraig’s generals waited.
“Well?” Wynter prompted, as Barsul closed the door behind him.
“They’re just exploring.”
“Is that what you call spying these days?” Valik grumbled.
Barsul gave him a sharp look. “She’s just a girl.”
“She’s the Summer King’s daughter. Do you honestly think she isn’t recording everything she sees and hears, and will send it to her father—or worse, her brother—at first chance?”
“Enough,” Wynter snapped. “The Summer King may have sired her, but he’s no father to her. Do you not remember the state she was in when I wed her?”
“I do remember,” Valik said, “but, consider, Wyn, what better way to earn your sympathy?”
Wynter pushed away from the table and straightened to his full height.
“Valik is right, my king,” one of Wynter’s generals, interrupted. “She may be your wife, but she’s still the Summer King’s daughter and the sister to murdering bride-stealer Falcon Coruscate. We cannot let down our guard.”
“While I appreciate your concern, let me assure you I am neither an idiot nor a lovesick fool. My wife has been under constant surveillance since we left Summerlea, and so will she continue to be. Not because I think she might be working for her father. Any suspicions on that front are misguided. The hatred between them was too real. But I can’t forget, it was a Summerlander who suggested I take a princess to wife, and I can’t ignore the brother’s activities in Calberna.”
He stared down at the map stretched out on the table before him and the scattered sheaf of letters beside it. “If our information is accurate, the Calbernan armada will be ready to sail in three months, which means, come spring, we’ll have an army on our shores. I’m aware Khamsin might use her ‘exploring’ to gather information for her brother and his new allies. But she is my queen, not my hostage. She will not be imprisoned. If her wandering gets too far out of hand, I will put an end to it. For now, it suits my purpose to let her roam.”