The Winter King (29 page)

“Our largest cities are the ports Saevar, Loni, and Konumarr,” Bron told her when she said as much. “Wynter has smaller palaces in each of them, but the Craig is the true seat of his power.”

“I thought the city that served Gildenheim would be larger.”

Bron smiled. “Gildenheim is its own city. Konundal is primarily a logging village. Few men of the Craig live in towns. Most have small farms and crofts in the mountains where they raise sheep, horses, cattle, and the next generation of men who will keep Wintercraig strong.”

As they rode down the cobbled street, Khamsin was conscious of the stares she received from the villagers, some curious, some openly hostile. In this land of tall, pale-haired, golden-skinned folk, she could never hope to pass unnoticed, even without her escort of a dozen, icy-eyed White Guard.

They left their horses at the village stable and walked down the main street to the tavern for lunch. The proprietor greeted Valik and Bron with warmth and Khamsin with guarded politeness, and led them to a small, private room in the back.

“The last three years don’t seem to have been as hard on Wintercraig as they were on Summerlea,” Khamsin noted as the servingwoman brought out trays of fresh fruits and vegetables before their meal.

The servingwoman and Kham’s guards all gave her sharp looks.

“We have our share of orphans and widows,” Valik said coolly.

“Far fewer than Summerlea, I’m sure, but that’s not what I meant.” She gestured to the obviously fresh produce in the center of the table. “We all but starved this last year. All our crops in the north and many in the south were destroyed by the prolonged cold, but you seem not to have suffered a similar distress.”

“It would have been easier on the king to simply cast winter across the entire continent,” Bron explained, “but that would have brought suffering to his own people. So instead, he drew entirely on the power of the Ice Heart to create an island of winter across Summerlea while leaving Wintercraig’s weather patterns relatively untouched. Our growing seasons have been cooler and much shorter, but we’ve had them.”

“The Ice Heart?” Khamsin repeated.

“The power he embraced when he declared war on Summerlea.”

“You mean the power he used to conquer Summerlea was not his own?”

Valik cleared his throat loudly, and Bron fell silent. “The king’s powers and where they come from are none of your concern,” Valik declared.

“The king is my husband. That makes everything about him my concern. However, since the subject obviously disturbs you, let us choose a different one.” She kept her own expression cool and calm. Her initial question had been simple curiosity, but Valik’s reaction piqued her interest. The abrupt end of the conversation could only mean there was something about the Ice Heart Valik did not want Summerlanders to know. Her mind seized the thread of the interrupted conversation and followed it down the only logical path. If the Ice Heart was not a power Wynter had been born with, it had come from somewhere.

That last thought led to an even more disturbing contemplation. Could the power be taken from him? Could someone—like herself, for instance—strip Wynter of his devastating power and return the Summer Throne to its rightful heirs?

They passed the remaining time in the inn without incident. The servingwoman delivered their food, Bron and Khamsin were careful to keep their conversations limited to neutral topics, and Valik remained his typical scowling self.

Unfortunately, the meal, though delicious, didn’t sit well on Khamsin’s stomach. Half an hour after leaving the tavern, her belly churned as discomfortingly as her troubled thoughts. Subterfuge and intrigue did not suit her. Like Roland, she would rather stand in the face of overwhelming odds and shout her defiance than skulk in the shadows and steal victory through ignoble means.

She’d agreed to the terms of peace. She’d wed Wynter of her own free will. She’d pledged her loyalty and the fruits of her life to him. And even if he did plan to turn her out to face the mercy of the mountains if she did not bear him a child in a year, did that nullify her own oaths? Could she continue to take Wynter into her arms and into her body while plotting to betray him? The very idea made her stomach hurt.

Unaware of her increasing distress, Bron escorted her around town and acquainted her with the various shops and shopkeepers. A few greeted her with a frigidness that bordered on hostility, but most seemed more approachable than the nobles in the palace. Kham gave a silent snort. Not that
that
was difficult.

In a field at the far end of town, some sort of gathering was under way. Dozens of tents had been erected, and workmen were unloading dozens more from arriving caravans. Piles of snow cleared from the tent plots formed an odd, impromptu maze of walls and walkways. Khamsin watched three strapping young men wrestle a set of tent poles into place on a freshly cleared plot. The men laughed and joked as they worked, long, fair hair swinging in belled plaits, teeth flashing white and dazzling in golden-skinned faces.

“What is all this?” Khamsin asked, as Bron guided her down a path between two lines of erected tents. Several merchants had already begun to set out their wares: furs and leathers, delicate, multicolored glassware, colorful ribbons, buttons and beads enough to make frippery-loving Summer giddy with happiness.

“The villagers are preparing for a
samdar-hald,
” he replied. “A celebration gathering. For at least the next month, Winterfolk from all corners of the kingdom will gather here. There will be hunting and trading and music and dancing, and each week a
gildi,
a great feast, that you and Wynter will attend.”

“What are they celebrating? The end of the war?”

“That, too,” Bron said, “but this
samdar
’s main purpose is to celebrate your marriage.”

Her stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant lurch. She pressed her hand against her belly. “My marriage?” she repeated weakly.

“It’s not every day the king takes a wife,” a familiar voice drawled from behind.

Khamsin spun around in surprise. “Wynter?” He was standing on the snowy street behind her, clad in a simple huntsman’s garb of worn leathers and a white snowbear vest. “What are you doing here?”

“They told me you’d gone riding. Rather than sit in my office envying you, I decided to join you. I trust you have no objections?”

Before she could answer, a shout from a merchant several tents down drew their attention. Wynter snatched her up and thrust her behind him, holding her there with one broad hand, while Valik and the guards spun into action, surrounding them with a wall of steel armor and razor-sharp swords.

“Stop! Thief!”

A small, filthy little figure wrapped in shreds of mangy fur and moth-eaten cloth barreled toward them, only to draw up with in alarm at the sight of the soldiers and their swords. Khamsin had a brief glimpse of wide silvery blue eyes in a grimy face.

A boy. No more than nine or ten. The hand pressing Kham against Wynter’s back relaxed.

“Thief! Thief!”

The boy opened his mouth and muttered a curse so foul it singed her ears, then darted towards a snowbanked corridor between the tents.

Wynter caught him in midlunge by the collar of his moldy clothes and hoisted him into the air. The boy dangled there, limbs swinging wildly, his little teeth bared in a fierce snarl while even fouler curses poured out of his mouth in a defiant flood.

“Silence, boy,” Wynter snapped. “You stand in the presence of the queen.”

“Sod the farking queen, and sod you, too, you plague-ridden pus bag. Buggering, rat-farking sod! Put me down! Thorgyll freeze off your maggoty balls if you don’t!”

“Well, that’s charming,” Wynter muttered. He grasped the boy by the ankles and dunked him headfirst into a nearby pile of snow. “That’s to cool your head, boy,” he said when he lifted the boy’s snow-covered face back out of the drift. “Now hush.”

“Fark you, dung-breath!” The child shook his head, spraying snow and curses in a wide arc.

Wynter clenched his jaw and dunked him again.

“Slime-crapping puke bag!”

Dunk.

“Miserable rat-fark!”

Dunk.

“Dung-eating butt fly!”

Dunk. Dunk.

“Finished?” Wynter asked. The child blinked snow-spangled lashes and glared, but held his silence. “Good.” Wynter flipped the boy over, set him back on his feet and settled a firm grip around his thin neck. “Now, what’s going on here?”

The merchant, a large, heavyset man bundled in thick but simple woolens and furs, pointed a finger at the child. “He is a thief! That’s what’s going on. He stole a slingbow from me. Snatched it right off my table, bold as brass!”

“That true, boy?”

The child hawked and spat and remained silent.

Wynter’s jaw went hard as stone. “Don’t try me, boy. You won’t like what it gets you. Empty your pockets. Now,” he barked when the child didn’t instantly obey.

With a mutinous look, the boy reached into his ragged clothes, pulled out the pilfered slingbow, and flung it on the ground at the merchant’s feet. “There! Take your stinking slingbow! Now let me go!”

“What else have you got in those pockets?” the merchant demanded. “What else have you stolen that I didn’t see you take?”

“I didn’t take nothing else!”

“I told you to empty your pockets, and I meant it,” Wynter ordered. He gave the lad a warning shake.

Scowling, the boy began tossing down a veritable hoard of small treasures and trinkets: a handful of copper coins, a ball of twine, several smooth rocks, a collapsible knife, a pair of flint stones, a rabbit’s foot, and a silver wristband set with small gemstones.

The merchant pounced on the wristband. “Didn’t steal anything else, eh? Then where would the likes of you get this? Or are we supposed to believe it was a gift of the Valkyr?”

The boy lunged forward, almost breaking free from Wynter’s grip. “That belonged to my mother, you great boar’s ass! Give it back!”

“Your mother?” The merchant laughed. “Right, and I’m the King Under the Mountain. I’ll just show this to the other merchants and see if any of them are missing this pretty trinket.”

The boy gave a howl of fury and began kicking and flailing wildly. One foot caught Khamsin in the stomach with enough force to knock her down and drive the air from her lungs. She lay on the hard ground, gasping for air and shuddering as clammy waves of nausea washed over her from head to toe.

“Take him,” Wynter muttered, shoving the boy—now shocked into fearful submission—towards Valik. He knelt by Khamsin’s side and helped her to sit up. “Wife, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she muttered. She rose to her feet, then wished she’d stayed on the ground. Her knees were shaking, and her vision was starting to swim.

“Wife?” The boy was staring at Wyn and Khamsin with wide eyes. “But if she’s the queen, that would make you the . . .”

“King,” Wynter confirmed.

“Of Wintercraig,” Valik added. “Whom you just called a—what was the exact phrase—ah, yes, a plague-ridden pus bag.” He gave the child a stern shake.

The boy’s golden skin took on a greenish cast. His gaze darted from Wynter to Khamsin and back again. “I-I—”

Khamsin took pity on him. “There’s no need to look so frightened. I’m fine.”
Liar!
Her stomach, where the child had kicked her, was beginning to cramp. “And I’m sure the king has been called worse.” That earned her an arch look from her spouse, which she ignored. “There’s no harm done.”

“Not that that excuses you from any other crimes you may have committed,” Wynter said. “I want the truth of what’s going on here. You can start by telling me your name.”

For a moment, Khamsin thought the child might remain defiant, but apparently kicking his new queen in the belly and calling his king a pus bag had exhausted the boy’s hunger for rebelliousness. At least temporarily. “Kr-Krysti. My name is Krysti.”

“Wise decision, Krysti,” Wynter praised. “Now, you say this bracelet belonged to your mother. I suggest you take us to her so she can confirm what you say.”

“Does she know you’re stealing from honest merchants?” the merchant standing nearby piped up.

Krysti cast a sullen glare at the man. “She’s dead. She and my father both died three years ago.”

“Your mother’s dead?” Khamsin repeated. “And that bracelet was hers?”

The child nodded.

“Give it back to him,” Khamsin ordered the merchant.

“But Your Grace—” the man protested. He turned to Wynter. “Sire!”

“He said it belonged to his mother,” she interrupted. “I believe him. Look at what he pulled from his pockets. Nothing else there seems obviously stolen or unusual for a boy to carry around. And I will not see any child parted from a remembrance of his mother.” The cramping in her stomach had become sharp pain. Alternating waves of heat and cold washed over her. She took a breath and swallowed. “If I’m wrong, I will compensate whichever merchant he robbed and see the boy suitably punished. So, give the bracelet back to him. Now.”

Glowering, the merchant did as he was told. The boy clutched the bracelet so fiercely, Khamsin knew she’d been right. That small band of silver
was
precious to the boy, and in a way no stolen trinket could have been.

“My thanks.” Her skin felt cold and tight. If she didn’t find privacy soon, she was going to humiliate herself in front of Wynter, Valik, and half the village, but something about the boy would not just let her walk away. Maybe it was his defiance. Maybe it was the way he clutched his mother’s bracelet, as if that small piece of metal held every ounce of happiness in his world. He reminded her of herself. Half-wild, full of fire and fierce rebellion. Desperately clinging to whatever small, precious memories of love he could find.

“Do you have any other family, Krysti?”

The boy’s grimy chin thrust up in the air. “No, and I need none. I can take care of myself.”

“Clearly not. At least not without stealing.” Her lips pressed tight together as her stomach clenched with another sharp pain, and bile rose in her throat.

“Khamsin?” Wynter frowned down at her. “Are you all right?”