by C. L. Wilson
While Valik headed out to receive whatever report the eagle was bringing, Tildy called Khamsin to help her with the lengthy process of changing Wynter’s poultices.
“He’s progressing nicely,” she announced when they were done. “He’s not quite so rapid a healer as you, dearly, but if I can keep the king still and free of infection for another week, his chances for survival increase tenfold.”
“That is indeed unfortunate, Nurse Greenleaf.”
Tildy and Khamsin turned in unison to find Valik standing in the lodge doorway. He crossed the threshold and approached the hearth where Wynter lay. His expression was grim, his eyes bleak.
“Like it or not, the king must wake, and we don’t have the luxury of another week to wait.”
CHAPTER 23
Trust and Treasures
“Guards, protect the king. Do not allow Nurse Greenleaf to administer anything to him until I return.” Valik turned to Khamsin. “Walk with me.”
Not waiting for an answer, the White Sword strode out of the lodge.
Kham gaped after him. She turned to Tildy in surprise. “What’s going on?” Suspicion hit hard. “What have you done?”
Tildy help up her hands. “You have my word, I’ve done nothing more than you already know. Now, go, quickly. See what your Lord Valik has to say.”
Khamsin clamped her mouth shut and hurried after Valik. He and Laci were waiting in the clearing outside the cabin. “Come with us.” They turned and walked into the woods.
Valik’s and Galacia’s long legs covered quite a bit of ground in a single stride, and Kham had to run to catch up to them. They strode through the snow-covered forest and ducked inside a cave a good distance from the cabin. Valik pulled a candle from his pocket and lit it while Laci turned to the mouth of the cave and sketched a design in the air. When she blew on her palm, a layer of ice grew from the rock surface inward until the entire mouth of the cave was sealed by a thick ice wall.
“What in Wyrn’s name is going on?”
Galacia spun abruptly around. She clutched Kham’s shoulders in a painful grip, her blue nails like talons. “Tell me true, Summerlander, where do your loyalties lie? And I warn you, I will know if your words are false.”
Khamsin drew back, offended by both the manner and implication of Galacia’s question. “I thought we’d gotten past all this. I’m not a spy.”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked where your loyalties lie.”
“I am Wynter’s wife.”
“Unwillingly wed,” Valik pointed out.
She speared him with a sharp glance. “Perhaps at first,” she conceded. “But no longer.”
“And if you had to choose between Summerlea and Wintercraig?” Galacia asked. “Between Winterfolk and your family?”
Khamsin wet her lips. Unease curled in her belly. “The eagle that flew in this morning. What news did he bring?”
“Answer the question,” Valik snapped.
“I already have,” Kham snapped back. The repeated demands to prove her loyalty and devotion to Wynter had grown beyond wearisome. “Time and time again.”
“Then once more won’t hurt, will it?”
“Oh, for Halla’s sake!” Khamsin cried. “This is my home now! More of a home than Summerlea ever was. Is that what you wanted to hear? That my life there was so pathetic, my existence so miserable, that I am happier here—even living under a constant cloud of suspicion and doubt—than I ever was there?”
“And if you must choose, between your family and Wynter,” Galacia prodded, “who would you choose?”
“Wynter, damn you! I would choose Wynter!”
“Why?”
Kham’s knuckles went white. The words welled up in her throat. They spat from her lips in a fury, each word clear and distinct, no longer bound in silence as they had been in her dreams.
“Because I love him!”
Galacia bowed her head and slowly relaxed her fierce grip on Kham’s shoulders. “Thank you. I told Valik as much, but we both needed to hear you say it.”
Kham spun around and clasped shaking hands across her chest. She loved him. And she’d revealed that vulnerability out loud. To Galacia and Valik.
She swallowed hard and rasped, “What news did the eagle bring?”
“Our defenses in Summerlea have been defeated. Wintercraig is next.”
Kham’s breath caught in her throat. She spun back around. “Tell me.”
Quickly, Galacia relayed the grim news. Leirik’s defenses along the west coast of Summerlea had been overrun by the Calbernans. Aware of Wynter’s illness and desperate to delay the invaders to buy time for his king’s recovery, Leirik had emptied Vera Sola, leading all but a few hundred of the Wintermen under his command to confront the Calbernan army. But no sooner had Leirik emptied the city of defenders than King Verdan, General Furze, and what remained of the former army of Summerlea had retaken Vera Sola. From there, Verdan’s army marched north to join the Calbernans and a force of mercenaries. Leirik and his men put up a strong fight, but cut off from supplies, flanked on two sides and vastly outnumbered, they had been defeated.
“The invaders are even now sailing up the coast,” Galacia concluded. “We believe they mean to take Gildenheim.”
“What can be done?”
“Very little. Without Wynter and his Ice Gaze, there aren’t enough soldiers left to push back a force so large. A contingent of men ride out within the hour to sound the Valkyr’s horn in Gildenheim to summon to service every man, woman, and child old enough to hold a spear.”
“Women and children? Against the armies of Calberna and Summerlea? Are you mad? They’ll be slaughtered!”
“Better an honorable death in battle than life in slavery.”
Khamsin gave a choked laugh, recalling the day she had spoken almost the exact same words to Tildy. That day now seemed a lifetime ago. The Khamsin who’d so passionately spat her defiance was practically a stranger to the Khamsin who now stood before Galacia Frey.
“I once believed the same as you do,” she admitted. “I would gladly have died fighting rather than surrender Summerlea to your people. But if I had, I never would have known what it was to marry, to love. To be happy. Surely even the smallest measure of hope is better than the certainty of death?”
“You have suffered your father’s mercy all your life.” Galacia’s gaze flicked to the imprint of the Summer King’s signet burned into Kham’s cheek. “Would you really wish that on anyone else?”
“That’s different. He hates me. He blames me for my mother’s death. He always has.”
“And you’re his own kin. What do you think he will do to Wynter? To me? To Valik? To the child you’re carrying in your womb? King Verdan has been trying to bleed Wintercraig dry and starve its people into submission since the day Wynter ascended the throne. What do you think he’ll do to us once we have no defenses?”
Kham dropped her gaze, unable to argue the point. “If you truly believe sending all of Wintercraig into battle is the right course of action, then why are we standing here? What do you need me for?”
Galacia hesitated, then admitted, “When the men ride to Gildenheim to sound the Valkyr’s horn, we want you to go with them.”
She glanced between Laci and Valik. “I’m not leaving Wynter.”
“You must. He’s in no shape to fight the armies assembled against us. Even if he were well, you saw for yourself how close he is to losing his battle with the Ice Heart. We dare not let him use his Gaze again, but without it, we stand no chance of defeating the invaders.”
“All the more reason for me to stay here with him.” Kham didn’t see where this was leading.
“There is one weapon we have left. A weapon the invaders will not expect from us.”
“Laci—” Valik gave her a warning frown.
She held up her hands to silence him. “
It’s the only choice, Valik. Without her, we’re doomed, and you know it. This way, we at least have a chance.” Turning back to Khamsin, Galacia said, “What do you know about the Book of Riddles?”
Khamsin frowned. What was Galacia up to? “I know that it’s reputed to contain clues to the location of Roland’s sword. It’s what my brother was after when he was here in Wintercraig.”
“Among other things,” Valik confirmed in a flat voice.
Galacia grimaced at him. “Yes, he took the Book. And it does contain clues leading to the location of Roland’s sword. Your brother has spent the last three years deciphering and following those clues.”
Kham’s mouth went dry. If Falcon had been on the trail of the sword, and now he had amassed an army to attack Wintercraig and reclaim Summerlea . . .
“Falcon has found the sword?” That was the only thing that made sense. He was bringing his army to Wintercraig because he had the sword and was planning to use it to wrest control of Summerlea back from Wynter.
“No, he hasn’t. Not yet. The location in the Book of Riddles does exist, but the sword was moved from there nine hundred years ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because for nine hundred years, the High Priestesses of Wyrn have kept the new location of the sword a secret.”
“You’re saying you know where the Sword of Roland is?”
“Yes.” Galacia took a deep breath, then admitted, “Roland’s sword is in the Temple of Wyrn, at the bottom of the Ice Heart.”
Khamsin gaped at her. “If that’s true, and the priestesses have been keeping the secret for nine hundred years, then why are you telling me now?”
“Because we need you to get it,” Valik said.
Waking was a fight, a slow, clumsy slog through layers of thick, clinging mud. Wynter was exhausted beyond all comprehension, and pain throbbed from every quadrant of his body. He wanted to sink back into the soft, comforting blackness of sleep, but some inexplicable sense of disquiet forced him to rouse.
His eyelids were heavy as lead. Each fluttering attempt to open them sapped his strength, and the darkness called him back with a siren’s song. Rest, Wyn. Sleep. Let it go. Let it all go.
But beneath that hypnotic, oh-so-tempting whisper, a restless tension gathered in his limbs. It crawled through him like a thousand stinging ants.
With a groan, he forced his eyes open.
Blackness greeted him.
At first, he thought it must be night, moonless and lampless. But he could smell burning wood and feel the warmth of a fire whispering across his skin. Fire meant light. Why could he not see it?
Was he blind? Had they taken his eyes to stop him from using his Gaze?
He shook his head in an involuntary denial. Please, Wyrn, not that. Without his eyes, he had no Ice Gaze, and no ability to see his foes in order to fight them. He’d be defenseless as a babe.
But then he realized that, as he shook his head, the blackness in his field of vision lightened and darkened. He became aware of the rub of cloth, tugging at his hair and skin each time his head shifted.
Something was tied around his head, over his eyes.
He reached for it, fingers fumbling at the folds of cloth to pull them away.
Hands grabbed his. “Calm, Wyn. Be calm. All is well.”
The voice sounded familiar. A woman. He quit fighting to reach the bandage covering his eyes and turned his hand to grab hers. Smooth fingers. Cool, long. Slender wrist.
Something missing. Something important. Not her. Wasn’t her.
Where was she?
The sense of urgency was a hammer now. Pounding. He struggled to sit up.
“I need some help here!”
Heavy footsteps pounded across a hard surface as men came running. Metal clanked. Chain rattled. Soldiers. Armored soldiers. The smell of dirt, sweat, men. More hands, much larger and stronger, grabbed his shoulders, arms, and legs, holding him down. Pinning him.
He began to fight in earnest. His body arched, his muscles strained.
“Tildy! Get in here!”
More footsteps. These lighter. Leather soles, not boots. Less weight. Shorter stride. A woman.
Was this one her?
The scent of lemon verbena filled his nostrils. Fear and fury swept through him in equal measure.
Not her! Where was she?
What had they done to her?
He roared. Despite the many hands holding him down, his body came up off the table. One arm broke free. He swung. His arm plowed into something hard and sent it flying.
Crash! A raucous clang of metal, breaking glass, many things falling.
More running footsteps. More hands grabbed his free, swinging arm and pinned it back down.
“Why is he waking? You said he wouldn’t wake?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it. I dosed him enough to keep ten men down.”
“Well, dose him again! Quickly!”
He fought, writhing, roaring. The table beneath him tipped and scooted back and forth.
“Hold him still, damn it! Grab his head!”
Something wet and bitter poured into his mouth. He spat it out and tried to wrench his head free.
“Wyn! Stop it! We’re trying to help you. Please, Wyn. Please. You’re going to hurt yourself.” The familiar voice sounded sad, pleading, worried.
But she was not her.
She was one of the ones trying to keep him from her.
He redoubled his efforts to free himself, fighting all the hands holding him down. Pain ripped through him and set his belly on fire.
Where was she? Why wasn’t she here?
Had she left him?
A wave of ice swept over the fire, numbing the pain. He went still as stone.
Was that it? She had left him? Abandoned him?
Betrayed him?
“Tildy! Hurry!”
Hands grabbed his face. Pinched shut his nose. Pried open his jaw. More bitter liquid poured in.
He tried to spit that out, too, but now the hands were holding his jaw closed.
He choked, sputtered, started to fight again. The liquid ran down his throat.
Traitors! He would kill them. He would kill them all.
His limbs went heavy as stone. His struggles grew weaker. He couldn’t fight. His thoughts grew hazy. But not even the drug that sapped his strength and dragged him back down into the darkness could numb the growing ache in his heart.
Where was she? Why had she left him?
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
When Khamsin and her escort passed through the village of Konundal, they found it deserted. Not a soul to be found and garm tracks crisscrossing the snow and slushy streets. Now Gildenheim lay before them. The outer gates were open, there were no men on the wall. Blood and the scattered remains of bodies were strewn across the road.
Ungar held out a hand, waving his men into silence and urging them all to crouch. To a man, the Guardsmen drew their bows and nocked an arrow in place, ready to draw and fire.
“Stay here, Your Grace,” Ungar whispered.
“But—”
“Stay! Sven, you, Karl, Leif, and Jan stay with the queen.”
Kham glowered but stayed hunkered down, off to one side of the road, while Ungar and the remaining eight of his Guard crept towards the bloody scene outside Gildenheim’s gates. Clearly, the garm she and Wynter had killed weren’t the only ones that had come down from the Craig. She counted at least three garm corpses, arrows prickling their hides like porcupine quills, and three times as many dead Winterfolk lying alongside them, some torn to shreds, others burned and bristling with almost as many arrows as the garm.
What had happened here?
Ungar and his men passed through the gates and disappeared into the lower
bailey. A few minutes later, one of the men came back to wave them in.
Inside the lower bailey, the scene was as grim and bloody as outside the gate, with scores of slain Winterfolk and two more garm.
“They came last night, after sunset.”
Kham turned to find Lord Barsul, Lady Melle, and a number of others gathered beneath the upper bailey’s barbican.
“How many?” Ungar asked.
“Just the five,” Lord Barsul said. “But that was enough.”
“More than enough,” Lady Melle added.
“Where’s Krysti?” Kham interrupted, scanning the gathering crowd with worried eyes. “Is he all right?”
“He’s fine, my dear,” Lady Melle soothed. “Last I saw him, he was entertaining the little ones in the upper levels of the palace. Telling them stories of Roland Triumphant and Wynter’s fight with the Ice Giant—so they knew a few garm couldn’t defeat you.”
Kham smiled with relief and affection.
“Did the garm breach the walls?” Ungar asked Lord Barsul.
“They didn’t have to. Most of the guards on the outer wall were ice thralls before we could even sound the alarm.”
“ ‘Ice thralls’?” Kham had never heard the term before.
“A corpse possessed by living frost,” Lord Barsul explained. “The garm killed them with their breath, and they came back as thralls.”
Khamsin frowned. “I don’t understand. The king and I both survived the garm’s breath without becoming one of these . . . ice thralls.”
“Aye, but he hadn’t returned then,” Lady Melle said. “Now, he has.”
A sinking feeling in her stomach warned Kham she wasn’t going to like what Lady Melle said next, but she asked the question anyways. “He who?”
“Rorjak. The Ice King. He has returned.”
CHAPTER 24
Gifts of the Gods
Leaving six guardsmen to help dispose of the dead and sound the Valkyr’s horn, Khamsin and the remaining White Guard made their way up the winding mountain road to the Temple of Wyrn. Though she was screaming with mad grief in her mind, Khamsin kept putting one foot in front of the other. If Barsul was right, and the garm attack and men turning into ice thralls truly meant Rorjak had returned, then Wynter was lost to her. And if Wynter was lost, then Wintercraig needed her to find the sword of Roland now more than ever.