by C. L. Wilson
Who had made this place? Why was it here?
She moved deeper into the ice forest. The snow on the ground was packed in places, providing trails that let her walk through the trees without worrying that she might damage them. With each step, she discovered new statues and scenes hidden amongst the ghostly tree trunks. Squirrels, wolves, foxes, bears, birds, flowers, waterfalls, frozen ponds. And everywhere, life-sized ice sculptures of happy families hiked through forest paths, danced among the trees, skated on frozen ponds, climbed frosted rocks and trees.
After the fourth or fifth family tableau, she realized that the people in each exquisitely rendered family scene were all the same. A mother, a father, and two sons—one at least ten years older than the other. The people aged from scene to scene—most notably, the youngest child grew from infant to toddler, and the boy went from youth to young man—but they were the same people, the same family, carved over and over again.
And then she noticed a scene or two that featured only the boys when they were much older. A handsome teenaged boy with hair that tumbled in his eyes. A towering older brother now grown to manhood, with a face she recognized better than her own.
The truth froze Khamsin where she stood. The statues in this room weren’t just beautifully sculpted art. They were carefully rendered scenes from Wynter’s life.
These statues were memories. Wynter’s memories.
Scenes of his family, his brother, sculpted in ice and hidden here, away from the world. Frozen proof of the love and happiness he’d known before her brother had slain his.
Khamsin tried to stay away from the Atrium. Once she realized the room was a shrine to the family Wynter had loved and lost, going there seemed like an intrusion, a trespass in a sacred space. But the more she tried to stay away, the stronger the place pulled at her.
She told herself not to be driven by her emotions, to keep focused. What was in that room would do nothing to help her survive the coming year. There was no secret, no treasure she could use to bribe her way to safety. No military or political information that might buy her asylum in another kingdom.
And yet, several times a day, she found herself standing before those locked, frosted-glass doors, aching to open them and slip back inside the secret world of happy memories Wynter had created for himself. She’d never known the joy of a close, loving family. Since birth, she’d been reviled, feared, isolated from the warmth her sisters and brother shared, from the love Verdan Coruscate had unstintingly showered upon them. Wynter had grown up with everything that she had been denied: a mother and a father who loved him, laughter, happiness. Belonging.
On the third morning, she gave up her attempts to respect the privacy of his memories. She wanted what she’d never had. Even if she could only vicariously enjoy someone else’s frozen memories of what a loving family felt like.
She sent Krysti away on an errand, made her way to the Atrium, and waited until the coast was clear. Picking the lock was easier the second time. She pulled down on the wolves’ tails and slipped inside Wynter’s frozen wonderland.
In full daylight, the extent of ice forest built inside the Atrium was even more impressive—and more breathtakingly beautiful. With bright sunlight streaming through the glass dome, the frozen forest blazed to pure, radiant, diamondine life. It felt like Halla on earth. Pristine and perfect. And for now, at least, all hers.
She wandered slowly amongst the trees, inspecting and savoring every detail, every leaf, every branch, every delicately etched bird wing, life-sized animal and carved wildflower hidden amongst the trees. Whoever had created these sculptures for Wynter was an incredible artist. What a gift, to be able to form such perfect re-creations of life from blocks of frozen water.
When it came to the scenes of Wynter’s family, she slowed even more, committing each face and expression to memory, as if by doing so she could make those memories her own. The soft curve of his mother’s lips. The warmth of her smile. The pride in his father’s handsome, regal face. The love so plain between them as they watched their children and basked in each other’s company.
What was it like to be surrounded by such love and belonging?
She couldn’t keep her hands to herself. She found herself stroking frozen flower petals, laying her hand on the cold face of the carved toddler, brushing fingertips across the lips of Wynter, the young man, careful not to let her hand linger, for fear that her Summer-born gifts might melt the ice. Even so, with each brush of her hand, she could almost imagine she was there, enjoying a cool spring day in the forest with a family who loved her.
She closed her eyes and imagined that the ice forest was real, that there was a cool breeze blowing through the frozen treetops, fragrant with pine and spruce and loamy soil damp with snowmelt. And when she opened her eyes again, she could hear the birds singing in the trees, the rustle of squirrels and foxes darting through the shrubs and skittering across the bracken on the forest floor. She could hear the low, manly rumble of Wynter’s laughter as he and his brother walked through the woods on a hunt, bows slung across their backs, smiles on their faces as they shared a funny tale. She could hear his mother’s voice, calling her children back to her side, telling them to watch their balance by the stream, and his father telling her not to worry so, that their boys would be fine. They were Craig-born, after all.
The game of pretend felt so real she was loath to leave. She managed only because she knew she would be back the next day, and the next.
Krysti grew suspicious of all the errands she was sending him on, so she had to shorten her visits, but each morning she woke up eager to visit again. And each day, she counted down the minutes until she could. She became quite adept at giving would-be spies the slip, traversing up and down the maze of corridors and stairways in Gildenheim only to circle back around to the Atrium once she’d lost her followers.
And when she stepped inside the Atrium’s secret world, it was as if every wound and burden she’d ever suffered dropped away.
As strange as it sounded, she’d never been happier. And she never wanted the feeling to end. The days turned into a week. The week turned into a second.
And then, inevitably, Wynter returned.
The familiar, ice-and-snow-capped towers of Gildenheim were a welcome sight.
“Home, at last, Hodri,” Wynter murmured. The last two weeks had been long, cold, exhausting, and frustrating. The western defenses were nowhere close to being complete. If Coruscate and his Calbernan friends invaded anytime soon, they would be on Gildenheim’s doorstep before Wynter’s people managed to rally a defense.
Angry that he’d had to replace three of the garrison commanders and send another two thousand men to defend that dangerously undermanned coast, and weary to his bones because he’d forgone sleep for the last four days in his rush to return to Gildenheim, Wynter wanted nothing more than to enjoy a long soak in a steaming-hot tub and fall into his bed for a full day and night of undisturbed slumber. Maybe then he’d be close to feeling human again.
He touched his heels to his mount’s side, and the stallion cantered the remaining distance up the switchback road and through the palace portcullis. Hooves clattered on the courtyard cobbles. The tower lookout had already sent up the cry calling servants to help with the horses and baggage, so as Wynter drew Hodri to a halt, the Steward of the Keep was already standing on the palace steps, waiting to greet him.
“Your Grace.” Deervyn Fjall bowed and motioned to a footman to fetch the king’s saddlebags.
“Fjall.” Wyn tossed Hodri’s reins to a stableboy. “Give him an extra ration of oats and a good rubdown. We rode hard the last three days.”
“Yes, Sire. We’ll take good care of him.” The stableboy patted Hodri’s strong neck and led him away.
Turning his attention to the Steward, Wyn said, “Tell Vinca I want a hot bath and a hot meal.” He started up the stone steps.
“
Yes, sir. Of course.” Deervyn Fjall jogged up the steps beside him. “Your Grace, you asked me to keep an eye out in your absence.” He pitched his voice low so it would not carry.
Wyn paused. “There were more falcons? How many?”
“Three sighted, my lord. We only managed to bring one of them down.” Fjall handed Wynter a tiny, curled slip of paper. “We didn’t catch the person the birds were intended for. Each time, the falcon flew to a different part of the palace.”
Wyn uncurled the message and read the tiny script intended for someone in Gildenheim. His fist closed around the paper, crumpling it, and thrust the wadded slip of paper in his vest pocket. “Thank you, Fjall. Lord Valik and I will take it from here.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The Steward of the Keep bowed again.
Courtiers who’d heard the call announcing Wynter’s return were lined up along the steps three deep. The lines of them dipped low in a rolling wave of bows and curtsies as he passed. He scanned the crowd, automatically seeking the one face that had been in his mind since the day of his departure. The dark, silver-shot locks in a sea of blonds.
She wasn’t there.
Anger and disappointment flared with equal intensity. What now? His queen could not be bothered to welcome him home? There was something more pressing that demanded her attention? Like sending coded messages to her brother, perhaps?
“Where is the queen?”
Fjall blanched white beneath his golden skin. “You said to watch but not to interfere—and not to let her know she was being watching.”
“I know what I said,” Wyn snapped. “You don’t need to remind me of my own orders. Where is she?”
“She’s been going there every day since last week. There’s no sign that she’s done any harm, my lord, but—”
“Where is she?” Ice cracked in his voice.
The Steward swallowed. “The queen is in the Atrium, Your Grace.”
“What are you doing here?”
The guttural bark ripped through the still serenity of the Atrium.
Khamsin, who had been sitting in the icy meadow where the sculptures of Wynter and his family were picnicking, jumped to her feet. She turned in a flurry of skirts to find Wynter standing at the edge of the meadow, practically vibrating with fury.
The temperature in the room plunged. The small meal she’d brought to eat with Wynter’s family went white with frost.
“What are you doing in here?” He advanced upon her, each foot falling heavily upon the ground, all but making the earth shake with each stride. “You knew this room was forbidden. You gave me your oath you would not trespass.”
Kham found herself retreating two steps for every one long stride Wynter advanced. She hadn’t seen him in such a state since the day he’d discovered his bride was not the auburn-haired princess he’d been expecting. No—not even then. She’d never seen him this enraged.
His fingers were clenched in heavy, rock-hard fists. His eyes had gone completely white, and if she hadn’t instantly reached for the power of the sun, his Gaze would have frozen her solid where she stood.
She held out her hands in supplication, truly afraid of him for the first time in a long while. There was no hint of the passionate lover or tender husband in the ice-carved lines of his face. He was all ice, cold and harsh and implacable. “Wynter—I—”
“You what? Thought you’d find some valuable military secrets here that you could send to your brother?”
“No!” Her voice cracked. He suspected she was spying for her brother? She ignored the slight twinge of guilt that reminded her she had come here looking for secrets she could use to ensure her survival. “Of course not! I haven’t spoken to my brother in years! I don’t even know where he is.”
“Then what are you doing here? Is this how you honor your oaths? Valik was right. I’ve been too soft, allowed you too much freedom. And you’ve interpreted my indulgence as a sign of weakness.”
“Valik is an idiot!”
“We’re not talking about Valik!” His roar blasted out with such force that icy leaves in the tree above Khamsin shivered, cracked and fell from the limbs, showering down in a hail of broken ice. “Valik isn’t the one who betrayed my trust, broke my law, and invaded a room he was expressly forbidden to enter! Valik isn’t the one who broke his oath! I should have known better than to ever trust a Summerlander. You come from a long line of liars, murderers, thieves, and cheats. Why should I think you would be any different?”
Fire swept through her veins. Anger, fed by the weeks of Wynter’s abandonment and her own defensive rage at having been caught intruding, burst to life. Lightning whipped through her veins, heating her blood. Overhead, visible through the Atrium’s glass roof, the sky grew dark as clouds gathered.
“You call my family murderers? Ha! You have more blood on your hands than Summerlea’s last three kings combined! How many of our villages did you raze? How many innocent women and children froze to death or starved in the wake of your conquest? And for what? Because your bride preferred my brother’s company to yours! Frankly, after having been wed to you these last months now, I don’t blame her!”
His brows shot up, and the temperature dropped commensurately. The sky overhead went white as the gathered clouds began pouring out ice and snow. “You complain of the care I have shown you?”
“ ‘Care’?” She all but screeched the word. “To what ‘care’ exactly do you refer? You mean the way you ignore me for weeks on end? That care? Or the way you have made it clear to every member of your court that I am to be ostracized and treated as a source of pathetic amusement?”
“You blame me because you haven’t managed to win my people’s regard?”
“Of course you’re to blame! You’ve done everything but posted a written edict instructing your people to revile me. You and your precious Valik and that vile cousin of his.”
Wind howled through the palace turrets and rattled the Atrium’s glass panes. Her anger had started as a defensive response to Wynter’s own fury, but as the accusations poured from her lips, Kham began to realize just how much rage and resentment she’d bottled up inside her. And considering that she’d spent a lifetime fighting to keep her temper in check—and usually failing with disastrous results—she could scarcely believe that she’d kept so much emotion contained for so long.
“I made you my queen!” Wynter bellowed. His eyes had gone pure white, and a cloud enveloped the pair of them, shifting back and forth between frost and steam as they both unleashed pent-up anger.
“Queen of what?” she shouted back. “Your indifference? You brought me to this iceberg and abandoned me here!”
“You expected love sonnets and roses? You are here to bear my heir, nothing more.”
Lightning ripped across the sky. Thunder boomed, deafeningly close. If she’d ever had any doubt that he considered her anything more than a convenient womb, he’d just cleared that up.
“Winter’s Frost! You could drive a saint to murder.” Wynter dragged his hands through his hair. “None of this justifies your presence here. This room is off-limits.”
“Oh, right! Because this room is just full of secrets that could imperil the kingdom! My gods! Just imagine what horrors would ensue if I told my brother that the Winter King once had a family he loved!”
“This is my place. Mine! I don’t want you here! What part of that don’t you understand?”
The rejection drove into her like a knife, parting her ribs and ripping into her heart.
Lightning struck the Atrium’s roof. The glass shattered.
Wynter dove for Khamsin, catching her around the waist with one big arm and sweeping her off her feet, carrying her clear of the lethal rain of razor-sharp glass. They landed in the snowdrift near one of the statues of Wynter and his family.
But instead of earning Kham’s gratitude, Wyn’s rescue only e
nraged her further. She closed her hands into fists and beat them on his chest. It was like beating a marble statue. He didn’t move and her hands throbbed. She shoved against him, writhing and pushing to free herself.
“Get off me! Get off, damn you! Don’t pretend concern for my safety. It’s just another form of lying, and I’m sick of it! Do you hear me? You’re no different than my father!”
Snow fell through the broken Atrium roof in thick sheets, swirling about on fierce gusts of winds, until the entire room looked like a child’s blown-glass globe filled with oil and bits of white crystal that, when shaken, would “snow” over some tiny carved scene inside the globe.
“I am nothing like your father.” He caught her wrists and pinned her to the snow-covered floor, holding her easily as she struggled and bucked against him.
“No, you’re worse. He’s at least always been honest about wanting me dead.” Her chest heaved. Her whole body was hot and flushed. “There never really was any hope I’d come out of this year alive, was there? You just held out the possibility of mercy to keep me docile and compliant, all the while ensuring none of your people would speak for me when the time came.”
He gave a bark of mocking laughter. “You call this docile?”
The laughter made her temper flare like water poured on hot oil. She began to struggle in earnest, writhing and thrashing about in an attempt to break free. During her struggles, her skull whacked into his jaw with a loud crack. Pain exploded across her forehead. She fell back, dizzy and moaning as stars danced before her eyes.
Wynter, barely fazed, flexed his jaw from side to side and glared at her.
“Damn it, Khamsin, stop before you hurt yourself.”