by C. L. Wilson
Tildy met Khamsin’s gaze with unflinching directness, and admitted, “I don’t know. I won’t pretend his condition is anything less than dire. But I promise you I will use every bit of knowledge and skill I possess to do so.”
The tireless efforts Galacia and Khamsin had been making the last week were nothing compared to the relentless regimen Tildy instituted. In no time, she had Khamsin, Galacia, and every Winterman in the lodge jumping to attention whenever she spoke. They rushed to and fro at her command, fetching whatever items she requested, stoking the fire, assisting whenever she needed another pair of hands.
Valik watched Tildy like a hawk. His suspicious gaze followed each move Tildy made, but the Summerlea healer just bustled about with her usual, focused efficiency, whipping up potions and poultices as if she were safely ensconced in her own apothecary.
She set four great pots boiling on the hearth, each containing a different concoction of herbs, crushed minerals, oils, and various ingredients from the satchels she’d brought with her, as well as other fresh items she sent the men to fetch from the forest and nearest village. She added long strips of linen to one of the boiling pots, handed Galacia a stick, and told her to stir.
“The antiseptic solution must soak the linen fibers completely.”
While Galacia stirred, Tildy handed Khamsin a mortar and pestle and ordered her to crush a cup of linseeds, and a dozen cloves of garlic into a paste. Beside Kham, Tildy busied herself grating the bark of a slippery elm into powder.
“I had hoped to find you with child,” Tildy murmured as they worked. “You have been here five months, newly wed. As a daughter of the Rose, your fertility is guaranteed. Has your husband failed to attend you?”
The question made Kham’s jaw drop. “No, of course not! He has ‘attended’ me very well—” She broke off, blushing. She glanced over at Valik, who was talking quietly to one of the guards, and lowered her voice. “If you’re looking to cast blame for my lack of quickening, look no further than Verdan Coruscate. On his command, the Summerlea maid who accompanied me to Wintercraig was secretly dosing me with tansy. We only recently discovered the truth.”
“He wouldn’t . . .” Tildy breathed.
“There was a child, Tildy. She killed it.”
Horror filled Tildy’s eyes. “Oh, dearly, no.” She caught Khamsin’s arm. “Oh, my dear. I don’t know what to say.”
Her news about the child she was now carrying was on the tip of her tongue when Valik noticed them whispering and came over.
“Is there a problem?” Valik stopped near the corner of the hearth, one hand resting on the sheathed sword at his hip.
“No,” Kham said, as Tildy turned her attention back to the herbs she was preparing. “No problem. Tildy was just asking after my health.”
“This is ready,” Tildy announced. She took the bowl of garlic and linseed paste from Khamsin and added a measure of castor oil and the slippery elm bark she’d just grated into a fine powder. After mixing the ingredients, she smeared a thick layer of the gooey paste on a square of boiled cheesecloth.
“Fetch your men,” she ordered Valik. “You must hold your king down to keep him from struggling. This next part will not feel pleasant.”
Valik and five tall, muscular Wintermen ringed Wynter and gripped his limbs. Once they were in place, Tildy poured a steady stream of hot, pungent liquid into the suppurating wound in Wynter’s belly. With a roar, he surged up against the hands holding him down. He writhed, muscles bulging, shouting curses and threats while Valik and the others gritted their teeth and fought to keep him down, their own bodies straining with the effort to keep him under control. Wynter’s head thrashed, strands of sweat-soaked hair whipping about. The bandage tied over his eyes slipped free and fell to the floor. His eyes opened. The irises had turned a cold, deadly white.
“His Gaze!” Valik cried. “Quickly! Cover his eyes!”
The man closest to Wynter’s head reached for the bandage, only to cry out as his fingers went white with frost.
“Wynter!” Abandoning her place by Tildy’s side, Khamsin lunged towards the head of the table. She snatched the bandage off the floor and laid it across Wynter’s eyes, holding it in place by gripping either side of his head. “Hossa, min mann. I’m here. Be calm. Let us help you.” She crooned soothing words, but Wynter continued to struggle.
His arm broke free, and he surged up on the table, lifting several men off their feet until two more rushed forward to grab his flailing wrist and pin him back down on the table.
“You!” she barked to one of the men standing near the cookpots. “Come hold this bandage in place.”
When the man took her place, she raced around to the side of the table and shoved between the men holding Wynter’s arm.
“Let go of his wrist,” she commanded. “I’ve got him.” She clasped her husband’s hand and pressed the warm red Rose on her wrist against his wolf’s head. Energy flared around them in a palpable burst. Wynter’s flailing struggles ceased abruptly.
In the still silence, Khamsin clung to him. She folded their joined hands together beneath her as she bent over his body and laid a free hand on his chest. “I am here, my husband. Be calm now. Let us help you. Please, I need you to live. Do you hear me?” She dragged their joined hands to her lips, kissing his strong, blunt fingers, the broad knuckles. There was so much strength—and so much gentleness—in his hands. “I need you to live.” Wetness gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked, and the tears dropped from her lashes to his skin. “I need you,” she whispered into his hand.
“Quickly, Lady Frey,” Tildy commanded, snapping everyone back to attention, “pull those linen strips from the pot and set them in a bowl to cool. You there, what is your name?”
“Ungar.”
“Ungar, fetch two more buckets of snow. We need to irrigate this wound again.”
Tildy worked with swift efficiency, irrigating the wound two more times with the boiling antiseptic wash she cooled by pouring it over snow. When she was satisfied she’d cleared out as much of the infected matter as she could, she packed the wound with the boiled linen strips, laid the linseed, garlic, and castor oil poultice over the top of that to draw any additional infection out, and covered it all with a length of cheesecloth soaked in honey to seal the wound. The whole time she worked, Khamsin remained bent over Wynter, her Rose clasped to his Wolf. That kept him docile though the Wintermen continued to hold him, just in case.
When she was finished, Tildy set out two hourglasses. A large glass that counted down the hour with a steady stream of pink sand, and a smaller glass whose blue sands ran out every twenty minutes. Three times an hour, as the blue sands ran out, she replaced the poultice and honey-soaked cheesecloth with fresh.
Every hour, when the last of the pink sand ran out, Tildy poured an unpleasant-smelling potion made from willow bark, garlic, purple coneflower root, and barberry down Wynter’s throat, then summoned them all back to Wynter’s side. Valik and five other men would hold him down, and Khamsin would clasp her wrist to his, while Tildy and Galacia removed the poultices and packing, irrigated the wound thoroughly, then repacked the wound with fresh, steaming strips of linen, applied a fresh poultice atop that, and laid a honey-soaked cheesecloth over the entire area.
And so it went the rest of the day, all through the night, and on through a second day. The relentless pace took its toll on all of them, except Tildy, who seemed powered by an inexhaustible supply of energy. Near midnight the second night, when the linen strips they pulled from Wynter’s body came away free of infected matter, Tildy pronounced the most immediate crisis passed.
“The next few days will tell,” Tildy said, “but so long as the infection does not retake a firm hold, he should pull through.”
“Praise the gods.” Kham slumped in relief, leaning forward to rest her forehead on Wynter’s arm. His skin felt cool again.
A tender hand brushed her cheek. “You should rest, dearly. You’re asleep on your feet.” Tildy’s voice grew crisper as she added, “In fact, all of you should seek your beds. I can manage the next few hours on my own.”
“Lady Frey, you and the queen sleep,” Valik seconded. “Ungar, Tol, and I will stand watch with Nurse Greenleaf. I insist,” he added with cold implacability when Tildy started to object. “Go, Laci, Khamsin. I’ll wake you if there’s the smallest hint of trouble.”
Khamsin was too exhausted to argue, so she just pushed to her feet, stumbled down the hallway to the bedroom she had been using this past week, and fell into bed. She was asleep before her head hit the lavender-stuffed pillow.
Sometime later, while the night was still dark and long before she’d slept long enough to feel rested, Khamsin found herself shaken awake.
“Wha—?” she blinked in groggy confusion.
“Here, drink this.”
A wooden cup tapped against Kham’s teeth. Warm liquid splashed over her lips and into her mouth. The liquid, whatever it was, had a strong, sharp flavor and a bitter aftertaste. Kham started to spit it out, but more poured into her mouth, accompanied by a command to “Swallow” and a sharp pinch to close her nostrils and ensure she obeyed.
Left with no choice, Kham swallowed, then coughed as some of the liquid went down her windpipe.
“Quickly,” the same voice ordered in a hushed whisper, “we don’t have much time. I dosed everyone with valerian at the evening meal, but I didn’t dare use enough to keep them sleeping for long.”
“Tildy?” Kham frowned up at her nurse. “What’s going on? Is it Wynter?” Thinking he must have taken a turn for the worst, she leapt out of the bed.
“The Winter King is fine, but it’s time for us to make our escape.” Tildy shoved a woolen gown and thick, furred coat into Kham’s hands. “Here, you’ll need to dress warmly. We’ve a long way to go.”
Khamsin stared at the clothes in confusion. “I don’t understand. What are we escaping?”
“I’m sorry, dearly. I’m so terribly sorry. I’d heard he was an honorable man, or I should never have proposed he wed you. I never dreamed he would murder his own wife if she didn’t bear him a child within the year.”
Kham gaped at her nurse as her groggy mind started to make sense of what was going on. “Are you talking about Wynter?” She shook her head. “He isn’t going to murder me, Tildy.”
“I’m sorry, dearly, but he swore as much to your father, which is of course exactly why Verdan—may he scorch in the fires of Hel!—conspired to prevent you from conceiving a child. I thought by encouraging this marriage, I was sending you away from mortal danger, and instead, I unwittingly sent you into its very jaws. Thank the gods you sent for me before it was too late.” She realized that Kham hadn’t started getting dressed, and exclaimed, “Hurry, dearly! If we’re not well on our way before the valerian wears off, our chance for escape will be lost.”
“Tildy, I’m not going anywhere. I know what Wynter told my father, but the ‘mercy of the mountains’ isn’t the certain death it sounds like. I’m in no danger here.” Kham laid the dress and coat over the back of a nearby chair.
“You may be willing to bet your life on that, but I am not. And neither is your brother.” Tildy snatched the dress up again and sifted through the long folds to find the openings for Khamsin’s head and arms.
Kham stared at Tildy in shock. “You’ve heard from Falcon? But when? How?”
“We’ve been in contact since shortly after your wedding, when I found out the Winter King intended to kill you if you didn’t bear his child within the year. I sent word to him when I found out I was coming here. As soon as we get away from here, I’ll send him a signal, and he’ll let us know where to meet him.” Her face darkened with a scowl. “And you can rest assured, I’ll be informing him about your father’s latest crime against you. Keeping you barren so your blood would be on the Winter King’s hands instead of his own. He has gone mad!” Having located the gown’s neck hole, she loosely scrunched up the wool to make a circle of fabric.
“Here. Raise your arms.” Tildy held up the gown, ready to drop it into place over Kham’s head.
“Tildy.” Kham took the dress from her, tossed it on the bed, and caught her nurse’s hands. “Tildy, stop. If you sent Falcon a signal telling him we’re coming, you’d best send him another one telling him there’s been a change of plans. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“I do. I am Wynter’s wife, his queen—”
“Whom he intends to stake out on some mountain glacier and leave to die!”
Kham shook her head. “He isn’t going to kill me. If that’s what he wanted, I’d already be dead. The only reason he’s out there on that table”—she pointed in the direction of the lodge’s main room—“fighting for his life, is because of me. I was attacked by garm. Just one of them could wipe out an entire village, and Wynter fought off four of them to save me. Does that sound like the actions of a man who wants me dead?”
Tildy looked momentarily nonplussed, but then her shoulders squared, and her jaw firmed. “And if he doesn’t survive? I’ve watched the others closely since I arrived. Lord Valik doesn’t strike me as the trusting sort. None of them do. If the Winter King dies, they’ll kill you without a second thought.”
Khamsin honestly didn’t know what Valik and the others would do, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment. “I won’t leave him, Tildy. And I’m very sorry to have to do this, but you’re not leaving either. At least not until I’m sure he’s out of danger.”
It took a lot to surprise Tildy, but that did. “You would hold me here against my will?”
“To ensure my husband’s survival? In a heartbeat.” Kham tried to soften her ruthless declaration with persuasion, reaching for her former nurse’s hands and squeezing them gently. “I ordered Valik to bring you here because I knew you were the only person in the world who could save Wynter, and that’s what I need you to do.”
“And if I nurse him back to fitness, will you come with me then?”
Kham considered lying. Tildy would believe it because it was what she wanted to hear. But she wouldn’t do that to her nurse. “No, Tildy. My place is here, with my husband and the people of Wintercraig. This is my home now. This is where I belong.”
“But what about your brother? If he doesn’t hear from me, he’ll assume the worst.”
“Are you using preset signals, or can you send him an actual message?”
“Why do you ask?”
That Tildy had answered the question with a question gave Kham all the answer she needed. “You can send messages. Good. Because, I’ve got one for him.”
Khamsin stayed up with Tildy the rest of the night, ostensibly to assist with tending Wynter but really to make sure her nurse didn’t sneak off before Valik and the others roused. Her motives left her feeling guilty and a bit vile—Tildy was the closest thing to a mother Kham had, not some enemy—but Kham kept an eye on her all the same.
Her message to Falcon had been short and sweet: Verdan gone mad. I am safe with Wynter. Stay away. We will defend Wintercraig. Storm.
Falcon and his Calbernan allies might have already invaded Summerlea, but hopefully the realization that Wintercraig had not one but two powerful weathermages to defend it would convince them to turn back.
It was something of a relief when Valik woke. He stirred groggily at first, then jerked full awake, bolting upright in his chair and scanning the room with agitated swiftness when he realized he’d dozed off. Finding nothing amiss, his golden cheeks flushed a dusky red. He didn’t appear to suspect he’d been drugged, and Kham wasn’t about to tell him. Wrong or right, Tildy was family. Unless she directly threatened the safety of Wintercraig, its people, or its king, Kham wouldn’t betray her.
Val
ik cleared his throat, checked on Wynter, then went round the room kicking the other guards awake. “I was just resting my eyes,” he declared gruffly when he made his way back to the hearth.
“The last weeks have been wearisome,” she agreed without rancor.
Valik rubbed the back of his head, grimaced, and muttered, “Much as I hate to admit it, you were right to send for your Summerlea nurse. She has worked a miracle.”
The admission startled a smile from Khamsin. “Miracles are her forte,” she said. “And I don’t blame you for your suspicions. You love him. You want to protect him from harm.” She glanced down at Wynter and caressed his lean, golden cheek with her fingertips, brushing the snowy hair back from his temple. “I can understand that.”
Her voice trailed off, and in the ensuing silence, she felt the weight of Valik’s gaze. Old instincts kicked in, and she pulled her hand back, burying her softer emotions so they could not be used against her. She took a step away from the cot where Wynter lay. “Of course, he’s not out of the woods yet. The slightest infection could destroy all our progress in a heartbeat. But Tildy says she’s never seen a man so determined to live.”
“He is Wynter of the Craig,” Valik said as if that said it all. And perhaps it did.
A huge yawn came upon her without warning. “Sorry. Clearly, I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
“Then you should return to your bed.” For the first time, Valik spoke almost warmly.
“Maybe later. First, there’s something I need to discuss with you and Laci. In private.” Falcon had sent birds to follow Tildy. That’s how she’d been able to signal him. But that also meant Falcon knew where to find Tildy—and, more importantly, where to find Wynter. Kham had thought about it all night long and realized there was no way she could keep that information a secret.
Before Valik could answer, one of the White Guard entered the cabin. “Eagle approaching.”
Valik nodded. “Excuse me for a moment.” He took his leave of Khamsin and headed for the door.