The Winter King (15 page)

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’ll just stretch my legs a bit before we get going again.”

The steward’s expression didn’t change one whit. “As you wish.” He bowed, a brief, curt folding of his body. “My name is Valik. If you need anything, just ask for me.”

“Thank you . . .” She hesitated. What had the palace servants called him? Sir? Lord? “Lord Valik,” she finished, just to be safe. Better to honor him with a title greater than was his due than insult him with a lesser one. From what she’d observed over the years, nobles would duel over the slightest perceived insult to their vaunted lineages.

Valik turned his head slightly and snapped out a brief command. Six armored men jumped to attention. “These men will guard you while you walk,” he said.

“A guard isn’t necessary,” Khamsin said. “We won’t be going far.”

“They will guard you all the same. The war may be over, but the peace has barely begun,” he explained before she could protest again. “Wynter would kill us all if we took chances with your safety.”

Because he wanted the pleasure of killing her himself at year’s end?

Kham caught the caustic retort before it left her tongue. It wouldn’t do to tip her hand. When the time came, she intended to ask Wynter Atrialan to his face. She’d have a better chance of getting a genuine reaction from him if the question came as a surprise.

“Very well,” she answered instead. “I thank you for the consideration.” She turned away and curled a hand around Bella’s arm. “Come, Bella, let’s walk.”

Much to her own irritation, Khamsin tired quickly. Within ten minutes, her knees started going wobbly, and she gave in to Bella’s badgering and headed back for the coach. There, the young maid insisted on bringing Khamsin a bowl of stew, a hunk of cheese, and a little fresh fruit, but the sight of the food only threatened to further unsettle her travel-tossed stomach. She barely managed a few bites of stew and cheese and one segment of orange before pushing the plate away.

“You need to eat, Your Highness,” Bella murmured. “You need to keep up your strength.”

“Perhaps later.” Kham pressed a hand over her face. “I think I’ll just lie down and try to sleep a little more before we get started again. Please, just help me undo my laces—and leave the curtains up. The sun isn’t very strong, but it’s still better than nothing.”

Khamsin stretched out facedown on the cushioned carriage seat while Bella unlaced the back of Kham’s gown and pushed the fabric aside to bare her battered skin.

“Shall I put a little more of Mistress Greenleaf’s cream on your wounds, ma’am?”

“No, it’s been less than an hour since the last time. Leave it for now.” She pulled a fringed and tasseled velvet pillow under her cheek and gave a small sigh. Without the constant jolting, the carriage seat seemed a much softer and more welcoming sleeping couch. Weariness washed over her in a sudden wave, and her eyes closed. Despite the light of the winter gray sky shining through her closed eyelids, sleep descended with unexpected speed.

When she woke, the carriage was once more on the move, and Bella was dozing in the corner on the opposite side of the coach. Kham pushed herself up and stifled a groan. The skin of her back felt tight and tender, and her stomach gave a threatening lurch.

A warble called out from the birdcage. Bella had removed the cover earlier in the day. Within the cage, the mating pair of songbirds clung to their swaying perches. A gift from Spring, the birds were Khamsin’s favorite: scarlet tanagers. During spring and summer breeding, the male’s plumage turned a brilliant shade of scarlet, striking against the glossy black of his wings and tail, but even though it wasn’t yet September, both birds still wore the greenish yellow of their winter, nonbreeding plumage.

“Poor little things,” she murmured. “You both look as green as I feel.”

Remembering the orange she had discarded earlier, Kham opened the hamper on the coach floor, found the remaining pieces of fruit wrapped in cheesecloth, and slipped one of the plump segments into the bottom of the birdcage. The male was the first to hop off his perch and inspect the fruit. His head dipped, beak nipping experimentally at the bit of orange. A few moments later, his mate joined him, chirping brightly and fluttering her greenish gray wings.

Leaving the birds to their meal, Kham leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes. She couldn’t get comfortable. Every lurch and jolt of the carriage pulled at her tender back, and though the cushions were upholstered in velvet, the constant rubbing quickly became a painful friction and forced her to lie back down just to stop aggravating her wounds.

Bella woke and applied more of Tildy’s cream, for what good it did. She tried to keep Kham entertained by reading from the collection of Summerlea histories, but the familiar tales didn’t hold half their usual fascination. The little bit of food Kham had eaten churned about in her stomach for the next two hours, and when they stopped again to rest the horses, Khamsin voluntarily went racing for the privacy of a snow-blanketed cornfield.

The guards Valik had assigned to her attempted to follow, but she whirled on them. “I will have privacy,” she snapped. “I promise if you follow me, it will be the last living thing you ever do.” Her hair crackled about her. It wasn’t a bluff. Sick as she felt, there was enough sunlight to feed her power, and her limited supply of docile, obedient Khamsin had run out hours ago. Agreeing to eat that godforsaken stew was the last concession she was capable of today.

Luckily for them, their years of serving the Winter King had taught the men when a weatherwitch meant business. They backed off and simply stood guard near the edge of the frozen field.

She plunged deep into the cornfield with no fear of getting lost in the six-foot stalks. The sun, the source of her power, was in the sky. Even hidden behind a blanket of winter gray clouds, she knew exactly where it was and she knew her exact position relative to it. When the sun was in the sky, no Heir of the Rose would ever be lost.

When she reached a spot far enough away from the road to be truly private, she stopped. What remained of the food in her stomach didn’t take much coaxing to leave her, and she immediately felt worlds better. She even took the time to step a little farther off and tend to her other needs—an experience she found thoroughly primitive and revolting. She’d never been a pampered princess, but now she realized there were some things she considered basic necessities of life. Like a working toilet. And something besides snow and dried corn husks to go with it.

When she returned to the field, Valik was waiting, blue eyes flashing and a scold on his lips for the way she’d gone off without her guards.

She brushed aside his objections. “There are some matters I refuse to tend to with an audience, Lord Valik. Since you won’t give me the luxury of a posting inn, the least you can afford me is privacy.” When he opened his mouth to object again, she held up a hand. “That is
not
negotiable.”

Valik went off muttering.

Khamsin smiled for the first time all day. The victory was small, but it was hers. Gathering her skirts, she stepped up on the mounting block positioned by the carriage door. A silvery glint at the corner of her eye made her pause and turn. Her smile faded.

Half a mile up the line, the unmistakable figure of Wynter, shining in polished steel armor, was seated on his impressive white charger. The distance was too great to see his face, but somehow she knew his gaze was fixed upon her. For several seconds, she stood there, frozen by some unnameable force. Then a soldier approached Wynter, and his head turned, and the spell was broken.

Khamsin dove for the protection of the coach. Her heart pounded like a hammer in her chest, and her skin felt flushed and chilled all at the same time. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. What was it about the Winter King that drove through her defenses as if they were paper and shattered her senses with a single glance?

“Ma’am?” Bella’s dark eyes watched her with open concern. “Are you still feeling ill? Should I call for Lord Valik?”

“No,” Kham said quickly. “No, Bella, thank you. I’m fine. I’m feeling much better.”

Strangely enough, it was true. Even from a distance, that one brief, electric exchange with Wynter felt like a shot of pure, unrefracted sunlight. The powerful energy of it still tingled throughout her body, shocking and revitalizing.

Unfortunately, that energy didn’t last long . . . and neither did the respite from the travel sickness that had plagued Khamsin all day. Shortly after resuming their journey, she was back to feeling green and wishing she were anywhere but in a carriage. The interior of the sumptuous, velvet-lined coach began to feel like a torture chamber.

The light shining through the carriage windows grew dimmer as the blanket of soft gray clouds overhead began to darken.

The first, fat, cold drop of rain splashed against Wynter’s sculpted white snow-wolf visor and hit him squarely in the eye, blinding him for a brief moment. A second drop quickly followed the first, then half a dozen more. Within minutes, a steady rain was falling. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Valik rode up alongside him. “That came up fast,” he said.

Wynter nodded, squinting at the horizon, barely visible through the falling rain. They hadn’t made as much progress as he would have liked. Irritability made him want to blame his bride for the delay, but he’d been the one to slow his army’s usual lightning pace in consideration of the wounded princess following behind him in the carriage. Just as he’d been the one to hold up the column for almost two hours while she’d slept. They’d only made fifteen miles today, considerably less than the forty he expected from an army of Wintermen. Vera Sola was still plainly visible on the southern horizon—or would have been except for the rain—and if he didn’t pick up the pace, it would be a month before they reached Wintercraig.

He glanced over his shoulder, towards the carriage following a half mile down the long line of mounted knights and infantry.
She
had not complained about the journey. Even sick as she was—and he knew she was not traveling well—she’d not complained. She’d protested about the guards he’d assigned to watch over her and threatened to fry them if they followed her into the fields when she went to tend to her personal matters, but she’d not voiced so much as a whimper about her illness or their pace, nor placed demands on his men—which was a surprise. Even amongst his own folk, noblewomen were notorious gluttons for attention and indulgence.

“Send word down the line,” he said. “We’ll camp here for the night.”

Valik nodded and started to turn his horse around.

“And Valik? There are lamps in the carriage that are apparently supposed to help her back heal faster. Have them set them up in my tents. I’ll see to the men while you get her settled.” At Valik’s raised brows, Wynter added, “Your face is prettier than mine, or so I’m told. She may find it easier to do what you ask than what I command.”

“You’re forgetting she kicked me in my pretty face last time I asked her to do something she didn’t want to do.”

Wyn gave a grunt of laughter. “Better than kicking you in the balls.” Then he sobered. “And see to it she actually eats and drinks something.” She’d taken little nourishment all day, and though he’d allowed it, knowing anything she ate was likely to come back up once they started moving again, they were stopping for the night now, and she needed to eat. Her body needed sustenance to heal. “If she balks, tell her I’ll force it down her throat myself if I must.”

Valik shook his head. “I’ll let you tell her that.” He rubbed his jaw. “I want to be able to chew my dinner.”

At first, Khamsin thought the latest stop was just another pause to rest and water the horses. With Bella’s help, she straightened her clothing, donned her hooded cloak, and descended from the carriage, hoping to take at least a brief walk to stretch her own cramped legs. Rain was pelting down in gray sheets. Two soldiers stood beside the carriage door, holding up a canvas tarp to protect her from the rain. She waved them off, opening her own oilskin parasol instead. To her surprise, the long column of men in front of and behind the carriage were fanning out along the roadsides and beginning to pitch their tents.

“We’re stopping for the night?”

The White King’s steward stood waiting for her, still fully armored, but his eagle’s head visor had been pushed back to reveal his face. Of the Winter King, there was no sign.

“He’s gone to check on the men,” the steward said, guessing the reason for Khamsin’s searching gaze. He stood, unflinching, as the pouring rain sluiced down his golden brown cheeks. His eyes were a pale blue, but nowhere near as icy as the Winter King’s. “He does not rest until all the men and their horses have been seen to.”

Khamsin tried not to show her surprise. The image of a caring king, one who put his men’s needs before his own, didn’t mesh with the harsh, heartless monster most Summerlanders considered Wynter Atrialan to be.

“As his Steward of Troops, should you not be the one checking on the men?” she asked.

Valik smiled without warmth. “My king thought you might find mine a less frightening face. You should stay in the carriage until the tents are up. There’s no need to stand in the wet.”

“I like the rain. It’s cleansing. And why would whether I’m frightened or not make any difference?” she countered. “Fear changes nothing. My fate is the same either way.”

“It matters to the king.” He gave a short bow. There was a snap to his voice that hadn’t been there just a moment ago. “If you want to stand in the rain, suit yourself. Just stay out of the way of the men while they set up the encampment. Loke and Baroc here will guard your safety.” He nodded curtly at the two soldiers beside her.

Khamsin wanted to kick herself. Less than a full day into their journey, and she was already turning Wynter’s steward against her—not that he’d viewed her kindly to begin with. His jaw probably still hurt from meeting the hard edge of her boot.

“Sir,” she said. “Lord Valik.” She laid a hand on his arm and snatched it back when his spine went stiff as a pike. She bit her lip, shoved down her innate pride and her own desire to take offense at his flinch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I only meant that I don’t need pampering. I prefer to face my fate head-on—even when it frightens me.”