The Winter King (42 page)

This was the level of Mount Gerd reserved for rapists, murderers, and traitors. The level from which there was no hope of salvation from kindly villagers in Konundal or the folk of Gildenheim.

The procession came to a halt. Wynter, Khamsin, and the judicars dismounted while several of the White Guard dragged a chained, drooping Belladonna from the prisoner’s cart and brought her to stand before the assemblage.

“Belladonna Rosh of Summerlea,” the head judicar intoned, “you have been found guilty of treason and of crimes against the person of your queen, and you have been sentenced to face the mercy of the mountains. May the gods have mercy on your soul.”

Three days ago, Bella would have answered the judicar’s pronouncement with sneering defiance and hatred, but the Belladonna Rosh who sagged in her bonds and shivered in the cold was a far cry from the fiend who’d gleefully crowed her delight over killing Khamsin’s child.

Kham stood by Wynter’s side as the White Guard dragged Belladonna to the chains hammered into the mountain, stripped away her outer garments, and chained her to a slab of icy rock.

As Khamsin had learned, the worst offenders were not stripped of their clothes but rather warmly bundled, so as to make their death by exposure last as long as possible. And though the grieving mother in Khamsin wanted Bella to suffer for what she’d done, the lonely girl who’d spent the last months viewing Bella as a friend from home couldn’t bring herself to inflict more torture upon her former maid. She had asked Wynter to grant Bella the quickest death, and he had agreed.

She pulled her hand free of Wynter’s and approached the chained maid. “I wish I could say I forgive you, but I don’t. Not for what you did to me. Not for what you tried to do. May the gods grant you no more mercy than you showed my unborn child.”

The maid—no, King Verdan’s hired assassin and spy—looked up with dull eyes and blunted defiance. “This doesn’t end here. I am but one of many.”

Kham nodded. “Perhaps. But after today, the many you speak of will count one less among their number.”

She returned to Wynter’s side. He enfolded her in his arms, pulling her close to his body. He tilted her face up to his and brushed one large thumb across her cheek in a gentle caress.

“Pay her no heed,
min ros.
She’s just trying to get under your skin, the same way she did when she tried to make you doubt your old nurse. She knows of no others serving your father here in Wintercraig, and she confessed your nurse had nothing to do with your father’s schemes. She said everyone in Vera Sola knew Tildavera Greenleaf’s first loyalty was to you.”

“You had her questioned about Tildy?” She frowned up at him. “Why?”

“Because I could see that her accusations were troubling you. And I know what it’s like to be betrayed by someone you trust. I thought you deserved to know the truth.”

He knew her so much better than she realized. She hadn’t truly believed Tildy would have harmed her, but the doubt had still been there, poisoning her mind as surely as Bella’s herbs had poisoned her body. And he’d seen that and put a stop to it.

“Thank you.” She looped her arms around his waist and leaned into him. “Take me home, husband. To Gildenheim.”

C
HAPTER 20

The Great Hunt

The next month passed in a strange haze of happiness. Or at least Khamsin imagined this feeling was what happiness must be like.

Wynter began to join Khamsin and Krysti on their daily rides. News of her efforts to save Skala-Holt had spread far and wide, and the Winterfolk who had offered her hostility and suspicion now greeted Khamsin with warm smiles and open arms. Valik was actually making an effort to be amiable, and many ladies of the court began including her in their tight-knit circles. Even the mothers of the top-floor children had softened their stance, and allowed her to share the history of Summerlea with their children without protest.

As December deepened and winter solstice arrived, Konundal quadrupled in size. Every room in Gildenheim filled to bursting as folk from all over the kingdom gathered for the grand Festival of Wyrn, which celebrated the official start of winter. Ice sculptors carved enormous scenes and statues from blocks of ice, all lit by a dazzling display of multicolored lamplight each night. Kham’s favorite was the breathtaking Ice Palace, a giant, life-sized castle built and entirely furnished with ice. It sported a gathering hall, a dining room set with a complete service carved from frosted ice, tower walls you could actually walk on, and three bedrooms that adventuresome Winterfolk could rent for the night. Wynter tried to talk her into taking one of the rooms, but she refused for fear that she might melt the palace down around their ears.

She felt like smiling all the time.
Her
, Khamsin Coruscate. Even the return of Reika Villani could not dim her happiness.

Each morning, Kham woke in Wynter’s arms, his cool body curled against her warmth, his arms wrapped around her, his hair mingling with hers on the pillows. And each morning, she would smile, stretch like a cat, and roll over to look up into those startling glacier blue eyes, and the fire that ever smoldered between them would spark anew.

Lying in her bed as the first fingers of dawn crept over the horizon, Khamsin clutched Wynter’s pillow to her face, breathed in his scent, and gave a laughing groan as the scent sizzled through her veins, rousing vivid memories of this morning’s vigorous beginning. He was always awake before she was, watching her in silence as she slept, but somehow, that didn’t alarm or bother her. Instead, it made her feel . . . protected. Safe. Even . . . loved.

Kham sat up abruptly and flung the pillow aside. Loved? Where had
that
come from?

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. Wynter didn’t love her. She wasn’t fool enough to ever dream that he would. She was just a means to an end. A womb to carry his heir. She must never forget that.
Never.
To start spinning romantic fantasies involving Wynter was idiocy. Granted, if she did, in fact, provide him the heir he needed, her position as Wintercraig’s queen would be secure, but that was politics, not love. Once he had his heir, he might well abandon her bed in favor of another’s. The courtiers’ sly, tittering glances, which had faded when Wynter began lavishing his attention on her, would once again grow sharp as glass.

A powerful gust of wind rattled the windows in their panes.

Kham caught herself instantly.
No.
She wasn’t going to think like that. This last month had been the most wonderful of her life, and she wasn’t going to ruin it with wild speculation, foolish dreams, or dark, unhappy thoughts. Wynter didn’t love her. She wasn’t going to let herself believe he did. But that didn’t preclude their building a good life together.

Khamsin shoved the rumpled linens and furs aside and rose from the bed. The instant her feet touched the floor, dizziness assailed her. She swayed and clutched one of the solid wooden posters to steady herself, but the dizziness had already passed. Her stomach growled loudly, and Kham laughed and shook her head. She should have eaten more at last night’s dinner meal. If she started fainting from hunger, Wynter would probably insist on hand feeding her himself.

Kham cocked her head to one side, and a slow smile curved across her lips. Come to think of it . . . that had all sorts of interesting possibilities.

With a laugh for her wicked thoughts, she reached for the bellpull and rang for her new maid, a cheery Winterlass named Drifa. Kham had promised Krysti they would make an early start of it this morning. He wanted to take her to a place he claimed had one of the best views in the whole valley.

Wynter looked up as the door to his office opened. Valik entered, but Wyn’s automatic smile of greeting died a swift death at the sight of Valik’s expression.

“What is it?”

“There’s trouble in Jarein Tor. A shepherd came down from the mountains, claiming his flock was slaughtered.” Valik’s gaze flickered. “He says it was
garm.
”

“He saw them?” Skepticism colored Wynter’s words.
Garm
rarely left witnesses. If you were close enough to see a
garm,
it was close enough to follow your scent—and fast enough to rip out your throat and belly before you could go for help.

“Not them. He saw the tracks, heard the sheep scream, and took off running down the mountain. Didn’t stop ’til he reached the village.”

Wynter nodded. “Send an eagle to Friesing. I want Skyr and his men on their way to Jarein Tor within the hour.” If the
garm
had come, he must move swiftly to kill the beast before it grew bold enough to feed on more than sheep. “If the reports are true, we must call the Hunt.”

“Done.” Valik bowed crisply, pivoted on his heels, and strode out the door.

When he was gone, Wyn forced his clenched fists to relax. Tales of tracks and a sheep’s scream from a frightened shepherd weren’t proof the
garm
had come. It could be a rogue snow wolf, come down from the glaciers in search of easy prey.

But even as he reassured himself, he knew the words for the lie they were.

The Ice King’s minions were gathering to usher in the return of their god. Laci had warned him they would sense the Ice Heart’s power growing stronger. And Wynter had already passed the point of no return. With each passing day, the icy void in his chest grew colder and spread farther, freezing what was left of his humanity bit by bit.

The only thing holding it at bay now was Khamsin and her Summer-born gifts. Wynter pushed away from his desk and stood. Speaking of his little Summerwitch . . . he had not laid eyes on her nor had one whispered update about her activities since leaving her bed this morning. That did not bode well. If he’d learned one thing about his wife, he’d learned that Absence of Khamsin held a far greater potential for disaster than Khamsin Constantly Underfoot.

“Hold it steady!” Khamsin shouted.

“I’m trying!” Krysti shouted back. Irritation snapped in his voice. “But I’m just a kid, and you’re heavier than you look! I told you I should have gone first.”

She looked over her shoulder and down the ladder fashioned from the trunk of a tall, knotted pine and grinned at the boy clinging to the base of the ladder to keep it from rolling. “You’re doing fine. I’m almost there.”

She reached the top of the tree-trunk ladder and hopped off on the rocky outcropping that jutted out over the tree line to provide what Krysti assured her was one of the best views in all of Wintercraig.

“Coming up!” the boy called from below, and Kham took hold of a broken limb near the top of the tree trunk to hold the ladder steady while Krysti clambered up to join her. He managed in a fraction of the time it had taken her. Of course, he could have climbed the cliff face without a ladder, too.

“What did I tell you?” Krysti dusted his palms on his trousers and gestured to the spectacular vista spread out before them.

“You’re right. It’s gorgeous. Well worth the trouble of the climb.” From the snow-covered spruce on the steep mountainside, to the frosty, evergreen-laden valley below with its wide, rocky river that snaked along the base of the mountains, to the blue, blue sky that seemed to stretch forever, Khamsin was hard-pressed to think of any sight more lovely than the breathtaking grandeur of this rough, rugged land she now called home.

“There is Friesing.” Krysti pointed to a distant gathering of shingled roofs and stone chimneys amid the evergreens. “You can barely see Gildenheim from here.”

They were a good twenty miles east of the palace as the birds flew. Almost twice that distance by land. Kham bit her lip. She’d grown so comfortable in the saddle, she hadn’t even thought about how far or fast they were going. And they’d gone much farther than they ever had before.

She glanced up at the sky. The sun was still high overhead. It was barely past noon, but they would need to start back within the hour. If she and Krysti didn’t get home before dusk, Wynter would organize a search party.

“How did you find this place?” She gazed out across the valley and the rolling hills and mountains of Wintercraig’s lowlands beyond. Vera Sola had been a man-made mountain in the center of a wide, fertile valley. The view there had been of flat, cultivated farmland. Miles and miles of wheat, corn, barley, and more. Nothing so dramatic and untamed as this.

“I had an uncle who lived in a cabin on Jarein Tor, five miles that way.” He pointed to the east. “I used to spend summers here with him, helping him check his traps.”

“That must have been fun.” Krysti never talked about his family. Of course, neither did she. “I never met my uncle—my mother’s brother. He died before I was born.”

Krysti started to say something when a high-pitched shriek ripped through the air.

Khamsin nearly jumped out of her skin. “What in the name of Halla was tha—”

Krysti’s hand clapped over her mouth—hard. He shook his head. The snowy freckles on his golden skin seemed to disappear as his face lost all color. The hand covering her mouth was shaking like a leaf. Whatever that scream was, it had terrified him.

Krysti leaned slowly towards her until his mouth was pressed against her ear. “Don’t . . . move.” His voice was a thready whisper. “Don’t . . . make . . . a . . . sound.”

His fear was contagious. Her heart started to pound. Her throat went dry. She swallowed—or tried to—and nodded.

The scream came again, high-pitched and terrible. Kham scanned the mountainside, trying to follow the sound to its source. She had no idea how far sound could travel. No idea how close the source of that scream might be. She couldn’t see anything moving. Just snow and trees and rock and more snow.

“Can you make the wind blow towards us and down into the valley?” Krysti whispered.

Kham hesitated, then admitted, “I would be afraid to try.” Wynter could have done it easily, but her ability to control her weathergift was still more chance than certainty.

Krysti took a breath. “That’s okay. We’re still upwind. But we need to get away from here as quietly and quickly as possible. Quietly being the most important. Try not to make any noise at all.”

“All right.”

“You go first. I’ll hold the tree.”

She eased her way across the rock to the tree they’d used as a ladder.

As she started down the trunk, Krysti said, “Khamsin?”

She paused and looked up. “Yes?”

“If I tell you to run, you get to Kori and ride away as fast as you can.”

“What?” She barely remembered to keep her voice to a whisper. “No! I’m not abandoning you here. Don’t be ridiculous!”

“We don’t have time to argue!” He glowered at her. “You’re the queen. It’s my job to protect you. I accepted that responsibility the minute I snuck you out without your guards. So this is how it’s going to be.”

“Krysti . . .”

“If I tell you to run, I’m dead already. So you run! And you don’t stop or look back until you reach Gildenheim. Understand?” In that moment, this ten-year-old boy she’d befriended seemed decades older than his years.

She swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “I understand.” There was no doubt in her mind they were genuinely in mortal danger because whatever had produced that scream had turned a ten-year-old boy from laughing child to a grim protector willing not only to berate his queen but to sacrifice his life to ensure her safety. Not that she was ever going to let him do that, of course, but she wasn’t going to waste any more time arguing about it.

“Good. Now go. And be
quiet.
” He cast a quick glance back over his shoulder. “Right now, silence is more important than speed. They can sense both sound and motion, and much of either will give away our position.”

They who?
She wanted to ask, but she’d already delayed them long enough. Khamsin eased her way down the tree trunk, freezing at each infinitesimal crunch and crack as she blindly tested the limbs to support her weight.
Just get to the bottom, Khamsin. Take your time. Silence is more important than speed.
Climbing down the tree took much longer than her earlier, laughing ascent. She breathed a shuddering sigh of relief when she reached the bottom, then held the trunk to keep it from rolling as Krysti made his way down after her.

He made much shorter work of it, and when he hopped silently to the ground, he held a finger to his lips, and whispered, “Follow me, and try to walk in my footsteps.”

The boy’s clan-gift and his years of hunting the woods with his uncle served him well. He managed to pick a near-silent path to their horses through the snow, rocks, and bracken that carpeted the forest floor. When they reached the horses, he cut one of the blankets into eight pieces and tied them around the horses’ hooves with the roll of twine in his saddlebags. Though the questions were all but burning to get free, Khamsin stayed silent and helped him wrap the horses’ hooves. Krysti helped her mount, swung up in his own saddle, and guided them back to the trail that led down the mountainside to the main valley road.

“We need to get back to Gildenheim—fast,” Krysti said, as they stopped to remove the cloths from the horses’ hooves. “Are you up for a gallop?”

“Of course.” Though Krysti was clearly still concerned enough to keep his voice quiet, he wasn’t whispering anymore. Kham took that to mean the immediate danger was past. “What was that back there? I didn’t see anything.”