The Winter King (28 page)

Wyn grimaced. “Carriages don’t agree with her any better than lutefisk and eels.”

Lady Melle’s brows rose. “That would have been useful information to know before now, Wynter,” she said with an uncharacteristic snap in her voice.

Wyn closed his eyes against the sudden whip of icy temper rising inside him. Before drinking the Ice Heart, Lady Melle’s scold would have made him blush in shame. Now it made fury bite hard, the Ice King in him fuming at her impertinence. But Wynter would slit his own throat before allowing himself to harm, either by word or deed, the gentle, big-hearted woman who had been a surrogate mother to Garrick . . . and to himself, insomuch as he would let her. “You know it now, Lady Melle,” he said when he trusted himself to speak.

She heaved a sigh, oblivious to her own mortal peril. “Honestly, my boy, could you make this any more difficult? You don’t want her wandering all over the palace, you don’t want her walking alone outside, you don’t want her interfering in the running of the palace, the servants are up in arms over her attempt to interfere in their children’s education, and Wyrn knows she can’t sit still for any length of time. One short hour after our luncheon pushes her to the very limits of her endurance. I’ve had several ladies express their concern that she might lose her temper and strike us dead with a lightning bolt. Something must be done!”

“What do you suggest, Lady Melle?” One of the many admirable traits of Lady Melle, she never presented a problem without also offering a solution.

“She needs a friend, my dear. She’s a young girl in a strange place. She needs someone she can talk to. Someone she can do things with.”

Lady Melle’s mouth quirked in a deprecating smile. “I’m too old to chase around with her hither and yon, and the ladies, forgive me, fear her magic and frankly haven’t warmed up to the poor thing any more than she has to them.”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“I wish I did. I’ve been racking my brain. I was going to speak to Barsul about it tonight, see if he could suggest anyone.”

“I’ll think on it. Thank you, Lady Melle.” Wynter stood up, signaling an end to the meeting.

Lady Melle rose and headed for the door, then paused when she reached it. “I like her, Wynter. I like her quite a lot, and I didn’t expect to. Yes, she has a temper—and a hard time keeping it contained—but there’s also a kindness in her, and a great deal of loneliness. I don’t think she’s the threat Valik believes her to be. You really should spend more time with her.”

“Thank you, Lady Melle,” Wynter said again, his voice polite, his gaze deliberately noncommittal.

Lady Melle sighed and let herself out.

The freezing rain and snow continued to fall all day. Wynter left his office early to share dinner with the court, but Khamsin’s chair remained conspicuously empty.

“I’m so sorry about the queen’s ill health at today’s luncheon,” Reika said, as the servants carried trays of fragrant fish dishes around the table. “Valik told me she didn’t travel well, but I would never have thought her fragile stomach extended to mealtimes. We Winterfolk are such a hardy lot.” With a smile, she turned to help herself to a serving of broiled mackerel. “I do hope the coming winter won’t be too difficult for her constitution.”

Though spoken with solicitous concern, Reika’s remark somehow managed to make it sound like Khamsin was a weakling who didn’t measure up to the rigorous demands of life in Wintercraig. The implication didn’t sit well with Wynter.

“She is much stronger than those who don’t know her might think,” he replied. “But thank you for your concern, Lady Villani. You remind me that I should go check on my wife.” Reika gaped at him as he tossed his napkin on the table and stood. “If you will excuse me.”

Wynter strode out of the dining hall and took the stairs three at a time. When he reached the wing that housed his and Khamsin’s chambers, he didn’t bother with his usual habit of accessing Khamsin’s bedchamber through the connecting door between their rooms. Instead, he went straight through the main doors to her suite, startling her little maid, whom he dismissed with a curt command and a sharp wave of his hand.

He found Khamsin sitting on her balcony, wet clothes plastered to her body, her skin ice-cold. He didn’t need to ask how she was feeling. Her battered emotions were all too obvious as they played out across the stormy night sky. No cracks of lightning or wild winds tonight. Just heavy clouds and wet, falling snow. She didn’t even put up a fight when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her back inside.

Because he’d dismissed her maid, Wynter tended to her needs himself, stripping her of her sodden garments, toweling her dry with soft cloths from her bathing chamber, lowering a fine, fragrant linen gown over her head. Through it all, she stood unnaturally still and docile, without a single toss of her head or rebellious flash in her eyes. When he was done, she climbed into bed and looked at him with dull eyes.

“Will you be coming to bed, Your Grace?”

He wanted to howl. She wasn’t some spineless, timid lass. She was Khamsin—Storm—full of fire and defiance and strong, reckless, stubborn will. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed her wildness, her vitality, or how much he looked forward to seeing it every night.

“No,” he said. “You’ve been ill. You should get your rest.”

She didn’t toss her head and remind him of his need for an heir or her motivation to provide him one. She merely looked at him for one long moment, then lay down on her side, her back to him, and pulled the covers up around her shoulders.

She looked so small and alone in her vast bed.

Valik would warn him to harden his heart, that she was manipulating him. But Wynter knew from the top-floor maids that Kham had spent the entire morning locked in one of the unused bedrooms upstairs, crying. Hiding her vulnerability as she always did.

It alarmed him that she wasn’t hiding it now, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving her tonight would be a mistake.

Trusting his instincts, Wyn walked to the other side of the bed, shed his clothes, then climbed into the bed beside his wife. He expected her to turn to him, but she didn’t.

Instead, her back still to him, she said, “I thought you weren’t going to stay.”

Her voice sounded different. Thicker.

She was still hiding her vulnerability, after all.

He reached for her, easily conquering her slight resistance as he turned her over to face him. She wouldn’t look at him, damp, spiky lashes hiding her eyes.

“I changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Gently, as if she were fragile crystal that would shatter at the slightest pressure, he touched his lips to her eyes, nuzzling away her tears, then brushed soft, lingering kisses across her cheeks until her slender arm twined around his neck, and she lifted her mouth to his.

They didn’t speak. They simply loved in silence, letting their hands, their lips, their bodies speak for them. Long, lingering caresses. Tender, healing kisses. The slow, steady glide of bodies moving together in wordless communion.

Afterwards, exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she fell asleep in his arms. He lay there for more than an hour, just holding her and watching her sleep, and he realized that Valik might just be right to fear that Wynter’s Summerlea bride was working some sort of enchantment on him. The fiery, passionate, willful Khamsin drew him like a moth to flame and brought those frozen parts of him back to life. But this Khamsin, the wounded, needing Khamsin who couldn’t hide her pain, she seeped into the cracks in his icy armor, penetrating much deeper than was comfortable or safe.

He wasn’t ready for that, so he left her in the middle of the night.

She wasn’t the only one who hid her vulnerabilities.

C
HAPTER 13

Passions, Purloiners, and Purgatives

Khamsin was both bereft and grateful when she woke up alone the next morning. Bereft because she was becoming used to the feel of Wynter lying beside her, and grateful because his absence excused her from any awkwardness over last night’s embarrassing show of weakness.

She took a sip of her morning tea, only to grimace and set it aside. Bitter again. Tildy had always brewed the perfect cup of tea, but Bella clearly needed more instruction. She was either using too many leaves or steeping the tea too long.

The door to her wardrobe room opened, and Bella whisked in.

“Bella, about the tea,” Kham began, only to break off with a scowl when she saw Bella carrying a frosted taupe outfit trimmed with white fur. “What’s that? I told you to lay out my red dress.” After yesterday’s humiliating debacle, she was determined to gird herself in her brightest, most defiant Summerlea armor before facing the Wintercraig court.

“Mistress Narsk delivered this this morning along with a note from the king. You’re to meet Lord Valik in the upper bailey no later than ten o’clock to receive your first riding lesson.”

“Riding lesson?” Every bruised and wilted part of Khamsin’s soul suddenly perked up. “I’m to have a riding lesson?”

“Apparently so, ma’am. But you’d best hurry. It’s already a quarter ’til nine.”

Kham leapt to her feet. Bella had already drawn her bath, but rather than enjoying a leisurely morning soak as she’d intended, Khamsin washed in record time. There wasn’t time to dry her hair before the fire, so she toweled it off and secured the damp, unruly curls with a brown bow. Then she threw on her new split riding skirt and fur-lined coat from Mistress Narsk, wolfed down the last half of her now-cold meat pie, washed it down with a few sips of the too-bitter jasmine tea, and bolted for the door.

She reached the courtyard just as Gildenheim’s clock tower began to toll ten o’clock.

Valik was already there, and he greeted her with the cold eyes and stony expression she’d come to expect from him.

“This way,” he said in a clipped voice. He led her across the courtyard, through the portcullis, and down into the larger, lower bailey that was bustling with industry. Here, a blacksmith’s forge, farrier, saddler, and hay barn had all been built along the northern wall to serve the enormous stables carved into the side of the mountain.

A broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and thick queue of ash blond hair met them just inside the building. Valik introduced him as Bron, the stable master.

Bron smelled of horses, hay, and snow, and his eyes were deep, vivid green rather than the typical Wintercraig blue. “I’ll bring you Kori to start with,” he said. His voice was low and deep and musical—and filled with more warmth than any Winterfolk save Lady Melle had shown her so far. It set Kham instantly at ease. “She’s a kind lass, with gentle ways. She’ll teach you what you need to know and be patient until you learn it. Later, when you’ve found your seat, you may want to choose another mount, one with a bit more fire in her soul.”

He marched down the corridor, returning a few minutes later with a large, black horse in tow. The mare had a thick, winter coat and a long, striking white mane and tail.

“This is Kori,” he said. “Hold out your hand to greet her.”

Kham stared at the horse with trepidation. Big as a Summerlea shire horse, with thick powerful muscles and hooves like great, iron-shod rocks, Kori was intimidating. The top of Kham’s head barely reached the mare’s withers. And that mouthful of very large teeth seemed quite capable of taking off Kham’s hand with a single chomp.

Bron smiled slightly and whispered something into the horse’s ear. The horse gave a whinnying neigh that sounded like laughter, then tossed her head, sending the long strands of her snowy mane dancing.

“It’s a fine compliment that you find Kori impressive enough to fear,” Bron said, “but there’s no need. She’ll not harm you.”

“I’m not afraid,” Kham lied quickly, then blushed at Bron’s steady look. “Well, not much.”
At least trying not to be.
Determined not to look like a coward, Kham sucked in a breath and held out her hand, palm up. The animal’s nose nudged Kham’s hand experimentally, snuffling at her, then the thick, velvety lips nuzzled her palm. It tickled. Kham fought the urge to snatch back her hand.

“She likes you,” Bron murmured. “Reach out now, and rub her cheek.”

She followed the stable master’s instructions, running her hands across the animal’s warm, heavy body, learning where and how to touch her and where not to. He showed her how to approach the mare’s hindquarters, how to curry her thick hide, how to inspect her legs and hooves and use a hoof pick to scrape the mare’s hooves free of collected matter. By the time he was done, Kori was saddled and bridled, and Khamsin had lost a good bit of her fear.

“I’ll take Kori’s lead myself,” Valik said. “The riding ring is a half mile down the mountain.”

She started to object to his leading her down the mountain like an infant, but decided not to push the grumpy Winterman. The prospect of her first riding lesson was the greatest treat she’d ever received. If she had to suffer being leashed to Valik as the price of that treat, so be it.

But suffering his brooding, unfriendly silence the whole way was another matter. She was used to people despising her, but she preferred to know the reason why.

“Is it my Summerlander blood you find so offensive, Lord Valik,” she asked, as they rode, “or do you dislike me on your cousin’s account?”

His expression didn’t change. “Why would I dislike you on Elka’s account? You had nothing to do with her choices.”

“I wasn’t talking about the cousin who ran off with my brother. I was talking about Reika, the one who’s set her cap for my husband.”

That put a crack in his stony expression. Valik’s brows shot up. He gave a bark of disbelieving laughter and looked at her like she’d just sprouted a second head. “Reika has no interest in Wynter.”

She barely kept her jaw from dropping. “Of course she’s interested. I’ll wager she’s wanted him since the first day she met him.”

“You’re daft, Summerlander.”

“No, but you are blind, Winterman. Good gods.” She shook her head. “Who knew men of the north were so easy to deceive?”

Valik’s expression went sharp as a razor and hard as stone. The deadly promise of lethal force emanated from every pore, and his eyes were cold enough to freeze the marrow in her bones. “We are not so easily duped, Summerlander. And as your countrymen learned to their woe, we deal severely with those who try.”

“Ah, so that’s it. You think I’m involved in some plot against the king.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. Anyone who knew her in the slightest—well, any clear-thinking someone, at least—would never contemplate such a ridiculous charge. “In case you haven’t noticed, subtleties are not my forte. When I wish someone harm, they storming well know it.”

Valik cast a quick glance at the cloudless sky before saying, “So, you’re an innocent, are you? As honest as the day is long? It was not you pretending to be your sister Autumn, the Season my king
thought
he was taking to wife?”

She bit her lip. “I never lied. Wynter wanted a Summerlea princess to wife, and he got one. If he neither named the specific princess he wanted—nor lifted my veil to discover which one he was getting—how is that my fault?”

Valik’s eyes narrowed. “Lady, you wed and bed my king full-knowing he thought you were another—then say you did nothing wrong—yet you wonder why I consider you as low and untrustworthy as the rest of your kin? What would your father have done, had he found himself so cheated?”

Color stained Kham’s cheeks. Verdan would likely have separated his bride’s head from her shoulders, then declared war on her kin.

“Exactly,” Valik snapped, reading her answer on her face. “Wynter Atrialan possesses more honor in his little finger than your entire family combined, and I will never forget how you used that honor against him. Nor do I intend to let you do so again.”

He tossed Kori’s lead line to one of the other guards and spurred his mount forward, moving as far up ahead as the lead line would allow. An uncomfortable silence descended. Kham glanced at the others. To a man, they wore blank expressions and kept their gazes fixed straight ahead.

Bron tapped his heels to his mount’s side and moved up to the spot Valik had vacated. In a friendly, conversational tone clearly meant to end the awkward silence, he said, “I’m curious that you’ve never ridden before, my lady. The ladies of your father’s court do not ride?”

She forced a smile. “They do, but I was never part of my father’s court. He hated me even more than Lord Valik does.”

Bron winced. “Forgive me. I do not mean to pry.”

“No need to apologize. I’ve had a lifetime to get used to it.” She would never forget or forgive what Verdan had done to her, but from the moment that carriage had carried her past the Stone Knights guarding the gates of Vera Sola, the Summer King had lost the power to hurt her. “My mother’s nurse raised me in a remote part of the palace and educated me to the best of her ability, but since I wasn’t allowed to leave the palace, I never learned to ride. I confess I’m quite looking forward to it. Other than the journey here, this is the greatest adventure of my life.”

“Well, I’ll do my best to make the lessons enjoyable.”

True to Bron’s word, once they reached the riding ring, the lesson was one of the most pleasant experiences of her life, if, perhaps, a little too tame and too short for her liking. Khamsin learned how to mount and dismount, position her feet in the stirrups, and hold the reins. Bron led Kori around the ring on the lead line until he was satisfied Khamsin had gotten the hang of what he taught her. Then he unclipped the chain and let her walk the horse around the ring on her own. The mare, Kori, was a dream: sweet-natured, obedient, and responsive. Khamsin was eager to go on to the second gait, the trot, when Valik declared the lesson was at an end.

“Bron has plenty of work waiting for him at the palace, as do the rest of us.”

“Oh, but—”

“There’s no need to rush yourself, my lady,” Bron intervened when Valik’s expression darkened. “We’ll have another lesson tomorrow, and I’ll teach you the next gait then. For now, why don’t you practice what you’ve learned today and ride Kori back to Gildenheim without the lead line attached?”

“I suppose that’s acceptable.” She acquiesced with more ill grace than she actually felt, so Valik wouldn’t feel compelled to quash the idea just to deprive her. Truth be told, the prospect of putting her newly acquired skills to use was even more appealing than staying in the ring to continue her training.

As they rode back up the hill to Gildenheim, it was all she could do to stop from laughing out loud. She was on a horse, guiding it with her own hands up a curving mountain road, like any other free lady of the court might do. No more prison built of confining walls or her father’s harsh governance.

Effervescence bubbled in her veins. Even Valik’s glowering presence at her side couldn’t dim her happiness. She was wed to a man who might send her to her death in a year, living in a land of haughty strangers who regarded her with all the welcome of a cockroach at a dinner banquet, and currently riding in the company of a man who would rather toss her off the mountain than escort her up it, but for the first time in her life, she felt free.

If Khamsin could have spent every waking hour with Kori and Bron, she would have. She hadn’t returned to visit the top-floor children since that awful Thorgyllsday debacle, so except for the all-too-brief daily lessons with Bron, Kham spent most of the next week suffering through more hours of boring teas, luncheons, and social hours that the well-meaning Lady Melle Firkin had arranged.

Of Wynter, Khamsin continued to see little. Except for his attendance at the evening meal and his nightly visits to her chamber—which remained as breathtakingly passionate as ever—he remained sequestered with his councilmen, stewards, and generals in meeting after meeting. Wynter’s preoccupation was not lost on Reika Villani or her circle of friends. The whispers and laughter behind their fans grew louder as the days progressed, the sly looks bolder. Khamsin held her head high. She wouldn’t give Reika or her friends the satisfaction of knowing how their gloating stung.

Reflecting Kham’s mood, the skies over Gildenheim remained a gloomy, overcast gray that drizzled constant snow.

The one bright spot in her days was the time she spent in the riding ring with Bron. The stable master was a kind, patient, and thorough teacher whose gift for calming high-strung horses worked equally as well for calming high-strung foreign queens. Each morning she counted down the hours until it was time for her lesson. When the lesson was over, she counted down the hours till the next day.

By the end of the week, Bron declared that she’d made enough progress to warrant a treat: a ride into the valley to visit the village of Konundal. They never went faster than a comfortable trot, and Valik stayed close by her side, but it was still Kham’s first real, independent ride, and she thrilled at her newfound freedom.

When they reached the outskirts of the village, Kham sat up straighter in the saddle and looked around with interest. She hadn’t paid much attention when she and Wynter had ridden through on the day of their arrival, but as this was the closest village to the castle, she intended to become very familiar with it.

The buildings were constructed of stone and wood with sharply angled roofs. Scores of stone chimneys rose towards the sky, fragrant wood smoke rising from each one. Cobbled streets had been cleared of snow and covered with grit to keep from turning slippery, and Winterfolk, bundled lightly against what most Summerlanders would consider bitter cold, went about their business as though the frosty air was little more than a spring chill. And perhaps, to them, it was.

For all that it served Gildenheim, the town of Konundal was surprisingly small. What buildings there were could have fit in Vera Sola three times over.