by C. L. Wilson
He thought she was fierce and fearless? Khamsin clenched her jaw and squared her shoulders, determined not to disappoint him. “All right.”
She bent her knees slightly, working hard to stop her ankles from wobbling and keep the metal blades of the skates perpendicular to the ice. She leaned forward slightly over her bent knees, as Wynter had instructed, and pushed off with her left foot again.
Whether because she was concentrating more, or because she was simply determined not to fall and embarrass herself in front of him, she managed to maintain her balance. This time, she completed an entire circuit around the pond, holding only one of his hands; and then, feeling slightly braver, she made a second circuit without holding on to him at all.
“Very good, Summerlass. You’re getting the hang of it. I knew you could do it.” He glided across the ice alongside her, spinning in lazy, graceful circles, his long white hair blowing around his face and shoulders.
“You’re showing off.”
“No.” He smiled. “This is showing off.” He pushed off with a sudden burst of strength and skated rapidly along the perimeter of the pond, gathering speed as he went. As he circled back around to pass her, he crouched slightly, gathering strength, and leapt into the air in front of her, his body spinning like a top. He landed on one skate several yards away, then twirled, skated back her way, and slid to a stop in a spray of powdered ice.
She gaped at him. “I hope you’re not expecting me to try that.”
He laughed, white teeth flashing against golden skin. “Maybe one day.”
She arched both brows. Maybe never was more like it. “Right . . . um, so where is that cave you were telling me about?”
“This way, little coward.” Still chuckling, he put an arm around her waist and skated with her over to the frozen streams of water that had formed layer upon layer of breathtaking falls of icicles. “Crouch down over here, where the ice is thinner. Do you see it?”
She bent over, trying to peer through the slivers of dark space between the frozen streams of water. “I think so.”
“Hold on.” Wynter slammed a fist into the frozen fall, breaking off several large chunks. “There. Do you see?”
Now she could see the black stone behind the waterfall and the blacker shadow of a small cave bored into the rock at the base of the fall. “I see it. How far does it go back?”
“Twenty feet or so. It gets tight pretty quickly though. I doubt I’d fit more than three feet beyond the opening anymore, but when I was your size, I’d crawl back as far as I could squeeze in. I used to pretend it was a dragon cave, and that if I went deep enough, I’d find the dragon’s treasure.”
It was difficult to imagine him as a child, despite having seen the sculptures in the Atrium. He was so . . . masculine. So intimidating. Seven feet of pure, unequivocal male.
“Did Garrick hunt dragon treasure in this cave, too?”
“Of course. He even found some of the dragon’s gold.”
Her head reared back. “No, he didn’t.”
“Oh, he did.” Wynter’s expression was one of complete sincerity. For an instant, he almost had her believing the dragon’s gold was real, until he said, “I know because I put it there myself. Same as my father did when I was a boy.”
A laugh broke from her lips. “Did Garrick know?”
“Of course not. Not until much later. That would have ruined the magic.”
Something squeezed tight around her heart. She’d never imagined Wynter as a father. Husband, yes. Lover, definitely. King, warrior, hero. But never a father. Not even when she knew he wanted children.
But now, hearing him talk about Garrick, having seen the love he’d carved so clearly into every sculpture in the Atrium, she saw a different side of the man she’d married. And she realized he wasn’t the sort of man who would sire children and leave others to raise them. He would be involved in his children’s lives, devoted to them. He would be a good father—no, a great one. A father who loved his children. A father who would salt a cave with gold to spark the imagination of his son. The sort of father Verdan Coruscate had never been to her.
And she realized she wanted for her children everything she’d never had for herself: happiness, belonging, security, the knowledge that their parents—both their parents—loved and wanted them.
“Wynter?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
He helped her to her feet. “You’re welcome, min ros.”
“Can we come back again sometime?”
His smile warmed her. “Anytime you like.”
They stayed another hour or two at the pond, skating across the silvery ice and talking. They were some of the most enjoyable hours Khamsin had spent in recent memory. She felt like she and Wynter were actually getting to know one another in a way neither time nor circumstance had allowed them to before.
It was odd to realize that Wynter, who knew her more intimately than any man in her life, knew so little about her outside of the bedroom. Or that she knew so little about him. But the more she learned, the more she liked.
He was a good man, this fierce conqueror from the north. The sort of man she’d always admired: steadfast, brave, and true. Not perfect. Thank Halla. A perfect man would have only made her feel miserably inadequate, a hopeless sinner to his shining saint. His temper was every bit as terrible as her own. And he was not one to forgive trespasses. Ever.
But for the first time since their marriage, she could actually envision making a life here. A good life. A happy life. A life with Wynter.
“So what were you and Krysti doing all these past weeks when you went on your rides?” he asked, as they sat on the fallen log to remove their skates.
She shrugged. “Mostly just riding. He took me to several of the nearby villages and introduced me to the villagers.” Her nose wrinkled. “They aren’t very fond of Summerlanders.”
“I doubt there are very many Summerlanders who are very fond of Winterfolk either. War has that effect on folk.”
“I suppose. But the war is over. Wasn’t that the whole point of our marriage?”
“Old grudges die hard.”
She frowned. “What old grudges could your people possibly have? Surely, they aren’t all like that woman in Konundal, blaming every death in the war on Summerlea? If you hadn’t invaded Summerlea, those Winterfolk would still be alive. And so would thousands of Summerlanders.”
She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. She and Wynter had been having such a good day. They’d actually been talking, communicating, getting to know each other. But the tension that underscored their relationship from the start ratcheted instantly back up as Wynter’s expression went from friendly and open to distinctly frosty.
“I did not start the war,” he bit out. “Your brother did that when he murdered my brother.”
“I realize that,” she agreed quickly. “I didn’t mean it to sound otherwise.” But then her innate loyalty to Summerlea compelled her to add, “But war didn’t bring your brother back. All it did was cost more lives.”
“So you would have advised me to do nothing?”
“Of course not. But, diplomacy—”
“Diplomacy?” Frost crackled across her clothes and the tree trunk. With a curse, Wynter spun around and stalked a short distance away. “From the day I took the throne, your father set out to weaken my kingdom and undermine my rule. He bled us dry for years, raising prices on Summerlea crops, delivering inferior goods, undermining our alliances with other kingdoms. I tried every diplomatic means at my disposal to avoid war. I sent my ambassadors. I welcomed his. The threat of starvation loomed over my kingdom, but still I tried diplomacy. Your father took every concession I offered as proof of my weakness. My restraint only made him bolder, more certain Wintercraig was his for the taking. And then he sent your brother, who
again I foolishly welcomed in the name of diplomacy.”
“I’m sorry.” She reached out to take his hands, hoping to impress upon him the depths of her sincerity. “I’m sorry for all the evils Verdan Coruscate visited upon you. But Falcon—he isn’t like that. I know you blame him for your brother’s death, but it must have been an accident or self-defense. Falcon wouldn’t kill someone in cold blood. He’s a good man.”
Wynter yanked his hands free. “Tell that to the people of Hileje who saw their loved ones raped and murdered on your brother’s command.”
Khamsin’s jaw dropped. “That’s a lie!”
“Is it? I held a nine-year-old girl in my arms as she died from what those Summerlea bastards did to her. And I called the wolves and hunted them down like the animals they were. They told me, as they bled out their lives into the snow. They told me who had sent them. Your brother. The worthless bastard you call a good man. He ordered them to attack the village as a diversion, to draw me away from Gildenheim so he and Elka could steal one of the most ancient treasures of my House. My brother Garrick discovered the theft and followed him. And your brother killed him. He put an arrow in Garrick’s throat and left him to die in the snow, choking on his own blood.” His eyes flared with pale, cold fire, and his jaw flexed. “My brother wasn’t even sixteen. He was just a boy.”
Khamsin wanted to shout her denial. The words trembled on the tip of her tongue, crying out for release. But they wouldn’t—couldn’t—fall. The rage—and worse, the raw agony—in Wynter’s eyes killed her passionate denial as surely as Falcon’s arrow had killed the young prince of Wintercraig.
She swallowed against the hard, painful lump in her throat. “There must be some other explanation.” That hoarse, weak denial was the best she could muster. She couldn’t hold Wynter’s gaze any longer. It hurt too much to see such naked pain in his eyes. If she’d ever doubted him capable of deep, abiding, unassailable love, she doubted no longer. Wynter hadn’t just loved his brother—he’d adored him. Every bit as much if not more than she loved her own brother.
But if Falcon had done this . . . if he was indeed responsible for the destruction of an entire village and the rape and murder of innocent people . . .
Wynter cupped a hand under her chin, nudging her face back up and waiting for her to look at him. When she did, he said, “There is no other explanation, Khamsin.” The anger and the pain she’d seen a moment ago was gone, replaced by cold, steady resolve. “Falcon Coruscate murdered my brother and ordered the savage death of dozens of innocent villagers in Hileje. I know he is your brother, and I know you love him, but if he ever sets foot on this land again, I will hunt him down, and I will end him.” He watched her as he spoke, his gaze intent and unwavering. All the while, his thumb stroked her cheek with frightening tenderness. “And the same fate awaits any man, woman, or child in Wintercraig or Summerlea who offers him aid. Don’t ever doubt that.”
They rode in silence back down the mountainside. The whole way, Khamsin tried to reconcile her memories of the brother she loved and adored with Wynter’s account of an evil, cold-blooded killer who sent men to commit atrocities in order to create a diversion. Everything in her rebelled at the mere suggestion that the brother she loved and the architect of the Hileje massacre could be one and the same. The Falcon she knew aspired to the same, brave, noble ideals as their mutual hero, Roland Soldeus. That Falcon wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—condoned the sort of evil Wynter lay at his feet.
No, no, Wynter must be mistaken. There was more to this story. Extenuating circumstances. Something that exonerated her brother or at least made him less culpable for what had happened.
There had to be.
As they reached the valley floor and turned east on the main road, they were nearly run over by half a dozen riders galloping at a breakneck pace.
“Ho, there, rider!” Wynter flagged one of the trailing riders down. “What’s wrong?”
The rider reined in his horse long enough to say, “Avalanche. A big one on Mount Fjarmir.”
Wynter and Khamsin spurred their horses and took off at a gallop down the valley road after the other riders.
When they reached Riverfall, Wynter noted with grim approval the red-striped white flags flying and the flocks of birds already winging away in all directions. Avalanche was one of the deadliest dangers in all the north, and every city, village, and hamlet drilled year-round to know what to do when the red-striped avalanche flag flew. Every village and farmhouse near where the avalanche had occurred would have raised their flags and released birds to all the surrounding towns.
“Skala-Holt?” he barked, as he and Khamsin slowed their mounts before the Riverfall’s village hall.
“Aye, Sire!” A man Wyn recognized as Bjork Hrad, the village leader, stepped away from a group of villagers who were packing a sleigh with rescue materials. “Mt. Fjarmir’s entire southern snowfield gave way. The patrols headed up after the blizzard blew through, but it looks like they were too late.”
“Any word from the village?”
“Only from our scout. Skala-Holt’s buried, Your Grace. All two hundred souls.”
Wynter spared a quick glance at his wife. She was sitting motionless in the saddle, her face a frozen mask. He could practically feel the waves of guilt washing over her.
“Can you spare an extra avalanche kit?” he asked. Hrad grabbed a pack from the pile being loaded into the sleigh and handed one up to Wynter. “Thanks. Who’s keeping the children? I’d like the queen to stay with them until we return.”
“No.” Khamsin broke her silence. “You’re not leaving me here. I’m going with the rest of you to help with the rescue.”
“No, you’re not.” His tone left no room for defiance. “People’s lives are at stake. No one will have time to look after you. You’ll just be in the way.”
“I don’t need looking after, and I won’t be in the way.” She shifted her attention to Bjork Hrad. “Sir . . . Mr. Hrad, isn’t it? Please, hand me one of those avalanche kits as well.”
“Hrad, don’t you dare.” Wyn edged Hodri into Khamsin’s path, boxing her in. “Khamsin, I’m ordering you to stay here.”
She raised her brows. “Haven’t you learned yet? I don’t take orders well.” When he didn’t move, she tossed her head, sending dark, white-streaked curls bouncing across the thick ermine lining of her hooded coat. “I’m going. You can try to keep me here, but I’ll just find a way to sneak out. I’m very resourceful that way. I’ll make my way to Skala-Holt on foot if I have to, but I will go, and I will help those people. You may be able to kill thousands without remorse, but I can’t. I won’t stand by and do nothing while they die. I already have enough on my conscience without that, too.”
Wynter swore beneath his breath and nodded curtly. “Give her the kit, Hrad. And you”—he jabbed a finger in Khamsin’s direction—“you keep to my side at all times. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” She grabbed the kit Hrad handed up to her and slung it over her shoulder.
At least, she didn’t gloat. That made giving in feel a little less like surrender. “Let’s go then.” He spurred Hodri forward, picking his way slowly down the road until they were free of the crowded village. “You are a troublesome, hardheaded wench,” he muttered to his wife when they were out of earshot of the village.
“Am I? How interesting. I had no idea how closely we resembled each other.” She stuck her nose in the air, keeping her gaze fixed firmly forward.
The snippy rebuke left him torn between amusement and annoyance. With anyone else, he would have responded with cold, cutting anger to put her in her place. But the sight of Khamsin’s spear-straight spine, the flash of silver in her eyes, that wild, beautiful riot of lightning-streaked black hair, and the soft, full curve of those lips now pursed in indignation melted any chance of anger. In a world where folk lived in fear of his wrath, this slender woman stood toe to
toe with him during even his foulest moods, taking the worst he threw at her and firing back as good as she got. She was no meek, domesticated lamb of a woman any more than he was a tame or gentle man.
They’d created that blizzard, the two of them, because he’d raged like a wounded garm when she’d discovered the vulnerable remnants of his soul that he’d hidden away from the world. He didn’t blame her for the storm. He was the one who’d started the fight. He was the one who’d turned her tempest into a howling fury of ice and snow.
But his Summerlander wife, who believed that her great power was a curse—that she was a curse—would never forgive herself if the people of Skala-Holt died because of the storm they’d summoned. And for some reason that had nothing to do with his husbandly duty to protect her from all harm, Wynter couldn’t let her bear that burden.
“Yours was not the only magic that helped spawn that blizzard, and you are not responsible for the avalanche. And for the record,” he added softly, “I may have killed thousands in the war, but not without remorse. Certainly not when it came to innocents.”
The sun was setting, but Skala-Holt was still a hive of activity when they arrived. Winterfolk from every nearby croft and village had come with shovels and strong backs and wagons full of women and youths bearing tents, blankets, food, bandages, and medicine. More rescuers poured in by the minute.
If Khamsin hadn’t visited Skala-Holt before, she would not have even known there was a village buried beneath the snow. Except for the few, already-excavated houses, you couldn’t see any sign of it. Not a roof, not a chimney. Nothing. Winterfolk were crawling over the snow, using long, thin sticks to probe what lay beneath.
“Halla help them,” Khamsin breathed in horror. How could anyone have survived?
As if reading her mind, Wynter said, “Since the fall happened during the day, there’s a chance many of them had time to seek shelter.”
“A chance?” Despite Wynter’s assurances that this wasn’t her fault, the mere thought of an entire village dead because of one of her storms made Khamsin’s belly churn.