The Winter King (49 page)

“Then there’s no mistake. By the end of summer, you’ll give birth to the next heir to the Winter Throne. Congratulations, my queen, and please don’t tell Wynter I was the one who informed you. He must have been waiting for you to realize the truth and tell him yourself.”

“I think I need to sit down.” Kham circled around the chair she was clinging to and sank down upon it. She was going to have a child.
A child.
Hers and Wynter’s.

“Anyways,” Galacia continued briskly, “the point I was trying to make is that Tildavera Greenleaf is at least halfway here by now—probably closer. And if she’s as good a healer as Khamsin says, then we should bring her here posthaste.”

Kham lifted her head. “Find her, Valik. Bring her here.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “That’s not a request. That’s a command from your queen.”

It was a gamble, forcing him to acknowledge her rank or strip her of it before the White Guard. If he denied her, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. But she was done being the foreigner in their midst. It was past time all of them accepted that she was here to stay.

After several long, tense moments, Valik bowed before her. “Yes, my queen.”

Khamsin brushed a cool, damp cloth gently across Wynter’s forehead. In the three days since she’d driven back the effects of the Ice Heart, the infection Galacia feared most had set in. A putrescence of the belly, caused by a mix of the slash to Wynter’s intestine and the poison carried in the claws and fangs of the
garm.

Fever raged in the body that had only days before been frozen solid.

Wynter lapsed in and out of consciousness as the infection spread through his veins. Around the wound, his golden skin had turned an angry purplish red, with streaks of inflamed color radiating outward, and his breathing had become shallow and labored. He was clinging to life by a thread, growing weaker by the hour.

If they didn’t find a way to draw out the infection soon, he would die.

“Khamsin . . .” Wynter muttered her name as his head tossed on the pillow stuffed with fragrant herbs.

“I’m here, husband.” She leaned down to press her lips to his burning forehead. Her fingers squeezed his hand. “I’m right here beside you.”

“. . . Khamsin . . .” His brows drew together. “. . . the
garm
. . . must save . . .”

“You did save me. I’m right here beside you. You slew the
garm,
husband. We are both safe. They cannot hurt us anymore.” She stroked the silvery white hair back from his temples. “Come back to me, Wynter. Please. I . . . need you.”

The door to the hunting lodge opened. A burst of cold air swirled through the opening. Valik entered, his boots caked with snow.

“She’s here.”

Kham turned. “Tildy?”

“Aye. And I pray she’s as good as you say she is.”

She leapt to her feet and ran outside just as two dozen armed and armored riders came galloping up. Tildy, bundled in so many layers she looked like a stuffed swan, was clinging to the back of one of the riders. Two of Valik’s men reached up to help her out of the saddle.

“Tildy!” Khamsin started towards her old nursemaid, then hesitated. For days, she’d been wondering how this reunion would go. She’d been so hard and unforgiving over Tildy’s role in her marriage.

But when those old eyes fell upon her, Tildy’s arms opened wide. “Dearly!” The face Kham had never thought to see again beamed out from its nest of dark woolens and furs. Then Tildy’s arms were around her, and the familiar scent of lemon verbena filled her nose.

“Oh, Tildy, I’ve missed you.” Her own arms came up to pull Tildy close and hold her tight. Kham squeezed her eyes shut against threatening tears as a tumult of emotions welled up. “I’m so glad you’re here. Wynter is very ill. Nothing we’ve tried has worked. The infection grows stronger by the day.”

“Of course. Just let me get my things.”

“The men will bring your belongings.”

Tildy and Khamsin both turned to find Valik close beside them. He was regarding Tildy with the same cold suspicion he’d heretofore reserved for Khamsin.

“Valik, this is Tildavera Greenleaf, my former nurse. Tildy, this is Valik Arngildr, Wynter’s Steward of Troops.”

“We’ve met,” he said. “Several times, as a matter of fact.”

To Tildy’s credit, she held his gaze without faltering. “Indeed, sir. I remember the occasions well.”

“The question is, who do you spy for now, Nurse Greenleaf?”

“No one, my lord. My days of intrigue are over. I have come only to serve my princess.”

“Your queen.”

“Pardon?”

“To serve your queen. Khamsin is no longer your princess. She is Queen of the Craig and of Summerlea.”

Tildy blinked. “Of course. I but spoke from the habit of years.”

Valik inclined his head, his expression inscrutable. “The king lies this way.”

Kham gave Valik a questioning look, surprised by his unexpected defense of her position. His response was a curt nod and a stiff bow. One arm extended towards the door in an invitation for her to precede him.

Well, that was interesting. Among themselves, Valik still suspected Khamsin of being her brother’s spy, but with outsiders, he circled the spears. Shaking her head in bemusement, Kham led the way into the lodge.

As the men carried in Tildy’s bags and boxes of supplies, Khamsin introduced Tildy to Galacia, and Laci brought Tildy up to speed on Wynter’s condition and all the remedies they had already attempted.

Tildy listened intently, interrupting only to ask an occasional question. When Galacia finished, Tildy approached Wynter and began her own examination. She inspected the stitched slashes and bite marks that scored his chest, legs, and arms, rolled him to his side to examine the wounds on his back, and gently probed the gaping, infected wound in his belly. Pus and violet-tinged blood seeped out in response to the slightest pressure.

“You say the creature that made these wounds carried poison in its fangs and claws?”

“The
garm,
” Galacia confirmed. “Yes. The poison is so lethal, most men would have died within a day of receiving even the least of the king’s injuries.”

“Is that poison to blame for the strange hue of his blood?”

Galacia hesitated, then said, “No. That is a separate issue.”

Tildy looked up sharply. “A separate issue? What sort of issue? What else ails him beside the wounds and poisoning?” She frowned as Khamsin and Galacia exchanged glances. “If you expect me to heal him, you must tell me everything you know about his condition. The smallest detail might be the key to saving his life.”

Once, not so long ago, Khamsin would have answered Tildy without a second thought, but these months in Wintercraig had changed her. Her heart—her loyalty—lay here now, tied to the man she had wed. No matter what his feelings for her, no matter what the outcome of their marriage, she would not betray his secrets.

“Galacia is right, Tildy. The color of Wynter’s blood has nothing to do with the infection. If anything, the cause of it has probably done more to keep him alive this long than all our potions and poultices. For now, just focus on curing the infection. If he does not soon show signs of improvement, we can talk again.”

Kham knew Tildy wasn’t happy to be left in the dark, but except for a slight tightening of her lips, the Summerlea nurse was careful not to show it.

“Very well, I’ll work with what I can see and what information you feel comfortable in sharing. You were wise to leave this wound open.” Tildy gestured to the hole in Wynter’s abdomen. “Whoever stitched the torn intestine has a fine hand, but once the intestine is ruptured, controlling the putrefaction is nearly impossible. How often are you irrigating the wound?”

“Every four hours.”

“Make it once an hour. I will mix up a special wash to use, as well as poultices to draw out the poison. If he doesn’t improve within four hours, I will need to cleanse the entire cavity.”

“Tildy.” Kham laid a hand on the nurse’s shoulder and waited for her to look up. “Can you save him?”

Tildy met Khamsin’s gaze with unflinching directness, and admitted, “I don’t know. I won’t pretend his condition is anything less than dire. But I promise you I will use every bit of knowledge and skill I possess to do so.”

The tireless efforts Galacia and Khamsin had been making the last week were nothing compared to the relentless regimen Tildy instituted. In no time, she had Khamsin, Galacia, and every Winterman in the lodge jumping to attention whenever she spoke. They rushed to and fro at her command, fetching whatever items she requested, stoking the fire, assisting whenever she needed another pair of hands.

Valik watched Tildy like a hawk. His suspicious gaze followed each move Tildy made, but the Summerlea healer just bustled about with her usual, focused efficiency, whipping up potions and poultices as if she were safely ensconced in her own apothecary.

She set four great pots boiling on the hearth, each containing a different concoction of herbs, crushed minerals, oils, and various ingredients from the satchels she’d brought with her, as well as other fresh items she sent the men to fetch from the forest and nearest village. She added long strips of linen to one of the boiling pots, handed Galacia a stick, and told her to stir.

“The antiseptic solution must soak the linen fibers completely.”

While Galacia stirred, Tildy handed Khamsin a mortar and pestle and ordered her to crush a cup of linseeds, and a dozen cloves of garlic into a paste. Beside Kham, Tildy busied herself grating the bark of a slippery elm into powder.

“I had hoped to find you with child,” Tildy murmured as they worked. “You have been here five months, newly wed. As a daughter of the Rose, your fertility is guaranteed. Has your husband failed to attend you?”

The question made Kham’s jaw drop. “No, of course not! He has ‘attended’ me very well—” She broke off, blushing. She glanced over at Valik, who was talking quietly to one of the guards, and lowered her voice. “If you’re looking to cast blame for my lack of quickening, look no further than Verdan Coruscate. On his command, the Summerlea maid who accompanied me to Wintercraig was secretly dosing me with tansy. We only recently discovered the truth.”

“He wouldn’t . . .” Tildy breathed.

“There was a child, Tildy. She killed it.”

Horror filled Tildy’s eyes. “Oh, dearly, no.” She caught Khamsin’s arm. “Oh, my dear. I don’t know what to say.”

Her news about the child she was now carrying was on the tip of her tongue when Valik noticed them whispering and came over.

“Is there a problem?” Valik stopped near the corner of the hearth, one hand resting on the sheathed sword at his hip.

“No,” Kham said, as Tildy turned her attention back to the herbs she was preparing. “No problem. Tildy was just asking after my health.”

“This is ready,” Tildy announced. She took the bowl of garlic and linseed paste from Khamsin and added a measure of castor oil and the slippery elm bark she’d just grated into a fine powder. After mixing the ingredients, she smeared a thick layer of the gooey paste on a square of boiled cheesecloth.

“Fetch your men,” she ordered Valik. “You must hold your king down to keep him from struggling. This next part will not feel pleasant.”

Valik and five tall, muscular Wintermen ringed Wynter and gripped his limbs. Once they were in place, Tildy poured a steady stream of hot, pungent liquid into the suppurating wound in Wynter’s belly. With a roar, he surged up against the hands holding him down. He writhed, muscles bulging, shouting curses and threats while Valik and the others gritted their teeth and fought to keep him down, their own bodies straining with the effort to keep him under control. Wynter’s head thrashed, strands of sweat-soaked hair whipping about. The bandage tied over his eyes slipped free and fell to the floor. His eyes opened. The irises had turned a cold, deadly white.

“His Gaze!” Valik cried. “Quickly! Cover his eyes!”

The man closest to Wynter’s head reached for the bandage, only to cry out as his fingers went white with frost.

“Wynter!” Abandoning her place by Tildy’s side, Khamsin lunged towards the head of the table. She snatched the bandage off the floor and laid it across Wynter’s eyes, holding it in place by gripping either side of his head. “
Hossa, min mann.
I’m here. Be calm. Let us help you.” She crooned soothing words, but Wynter continued to struggle.

His arm broke free, and he surged up on the table, lifting several men off their feet until two more rushed forward to grab his flailing wrist and pin him back down on the table.

“You!” she barked to one of the men standing near the cookpots. “Come hold this bandage in place.”

When the man took her place, she raced around to the side of the table and shoved between the men holding Wynter’s arm.

“Let go of his wrist,” she commanded. “I’ve got him.” She clasped her husband’s hand and pressed the warm red Rose on her wrist against his wolf’s head. Energy flared around them in a palpable burst. Wynter’s flailing struggles ceased abruptly.

In the still silence, Khamsin clung to him. She folded their joined hands together beneath her as she bent over his body and laid a free hand on his chest. “I am here, my husband. Be calm now. Let us help you. Please, I need you to live. Do you hear me?” She dragged their joined hands to her lips, kissing his strong, blunt fingers, the broad knuckles. There was so much strength—and so much gentleness—in his hands. “I need you to live.” Wetness gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked, and the tears dropped from her lashes to his skin. “I need you,” she whispered into his hand.

“Quickly, Lady Frey,” Tildy commanded, snapping everyone back to attention, “pull those linen strips from the pot and set them in a bowl to cool. You there, what is your name?”

“Ungar.”

“Ungar, fetch two more buckets of snow. We need to irrigate this wound again.”

Tildy worked with swift efficiency, irrigating the wound two more times with the boiling antiseptic wash she cooled by pouring it over snow. When she was satisfied she’d cleared out as much of the infected matter as she could, she packed the wound with the boiled linen strips, laid the linseed, garlic, and castor oil poultice over the top of that to draw any additional infection out, and covered it all with a length of cheesecloth soaked in honey to seal the wound. The whole time she worked, Khamsin remained bent over Wynter, her Rose clasped to his Wolf. That kept him docile though the Wintermen continued to hold him, just in case.