The Winter King (9 page)

Wynter turned away. “I’ve held the Ice Heart too long. If something happened to you, I fear I’d do the unspeakable.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant clatter of the city below and the whistle of the cool wind blowing past.

Wynter turned his face into the wind, closed his eyes, and drew the crisp air deep into his lungs. Cold as it was, the air was still warmer than the frigid mass that dwelled deep inside him.

Behind him, in a much calmer, even casual tone, Valik said, “Verdan’s note doesn’t say which one of the Seasons will be your bride.”

Wynter’s mouth turned up at the corner. Not the smoothest of segues, but he was grateful for the change of subject all the same. Thank Wyrn, Valik wasn’t one to wallow in emotion.

“Any one of the princesses will do,” he said. His spy had told him Verdan loved each of the Seasons madly, and that was all that mattered. The Summer King would suffer the loss of his beloved daughter, as Wynter suffered each day without his brother.

“I’ll inform Leirik of your plans and prep my men for departure.”

“Have Verdan’s runner inform him that we are in agreement.”

“I will.”

“And Valik?” Keeping his eyes on the frozen Summerlea landscape, he asked, “Did you find anything more about the little maid?”

“She’s the last thing you should be thinking about right now.”

“Did you?”

Valik huffed out a breath. “No. I asked around, like you wanted, but no one seems to have heard of a maid fitting her description.”

“That Newt woman knew her.”

“She’s Verdan’s stooge. I thought you wanted me to be more discreet. Papa wouldn’t be too happy to know his daughter’s groom is hunting a mistress before the vows are even spoken—especially if you’re right about why he wants to ensure the marriage is consummated.”

Wynter opened his mouth to deny that his interest in the maid was sexual, then closed it. Who was he trying to fool? He hadn’t sent his best friend and closest confidant on a fruitless search of the palace to find the maid just so Wynter and she could exchange stain-removal recipes. He wanted to find her so he could assuage the hunger that still curled in his belly and had kept his body in a state of semiarousal ever since.

It was probably for the best that her fellow servants were hiding her from him. Had Valik found her, Wyn honestly doubted he’d have any interest in attending his bride on their wedding night, and that would have caused a number of problems.

“Carry on.”

Steel clanked as Valik thumped a gauntleted hand against his chest and bowed. “My king.”

When he was gone, Wynter remained where he stood, his gaze sweeping the winding levels of the city below in slow, moody passes. He should forget her, just as Valik said, but he couldn’t. The little maid, with her storm-cloud eyes and storm-tossed hair, simply would not leave his thoughts.

The rest of the afternoon and the following two days passed without event. While the palace below was in a flurry of activity preparing for the royal wedding and subsequent feast Verdan had insisted on hosting, Wynter spent most of his time sequestered in the bower, signing grants of office for the Wintercraig men who would be putting the country back in order after his departure, and poring over maps and the stacks of active treaties he’d ordered brought to him from Verdan’s library. Before his invasion, Summerlea had had a thriving trade with numerous kingdoms and several enviable strategic alliances. It was Wynter’s hope to reestablish both commercial and diplomatic ties once the transition of power was complete.

As for the current royal family, after Wynter’s departure, the deposed king would be exiled to one of his smaller country estates, away from Summerlea’s political heart, and kept there under guard to dissuade him from fomenting rebellion. The two Seasons Wynter was not taking to wife would remain in the city under Leirik’s watchful eye—hostages in case Verdan did anything foolish. Active rule of the country would pass to Wynter’s appointed governor: Leirik at first, then a nonmilitary figure when the country restabilized; and once Wynter had his heir, he would marry off the other Seasons to neighboring princes in return for economic, political, and military favors.

The terms were more than generous. Verdan kept his head, and his daughters retained their titles as princesses of Summerlea. The prince, Falcon, had, of course, lost his lands, title, and inheritance, but so long as he stayed beyond the Wynter’s reach, he could keep his life. All things considered, the deposed king had little to complain about, and the signed and sealed parchments outlining the transition of power were now neatly packed in Wynter’s own correspondence bags.

By sunset on the third day, he had completed all of the most pressing paperwork, and the only vital document left that required his signature and seal was the marriage certificate that Verdan’s steward Gravid had delivered personally. Two copies of the certificate—one for him and one for Summerlea—lay before him. He picked up the top copy and regarded the simple piece of parchment that, once signed, witnessed, and consecrated before a priest, would make a princess of Summerlea his queen.

Her Royal Highness, Angelica Mariposa Rosalind Khamsin Gianna Coruscate.

That was the name of the stranger who had agreed to be his wife.

Which Season she was, Wynter still hadn’t a clue. He’d asked Verdan, whose only response had been a curt, “Does it matter?” It didn’t, or rather shouldn’t. And he’d be damned if he’d ask the pinch-faced prune of a steward waiting to take a signed copy of the certificate back to Verdan. Whichever one she was, the princess and her witness had already signed both copies of the marriage document.

Her signature was shaky, he noted, as if she’d been trembling (or crying?) when she’d signed. His lips thinned. Poor little flower. Such a terrible fate, to be his queen. He dipped his quill in the inkwell and signed first one copy, then the other, with a steady, sweeping flourish, then added his own pale silver-blue wax impressed with Wintercraig’s Snow Wolf seal beneath the red wax medallion bearing the Summerlea Rose.

He passed the documents to Valik, who signed as his witness, then sanded both signatures, waited a few seconds for the ink to dry, and handed one copy to Gravid.

“Well,” he murmured after Verdan’s steward had departed, “that’s that.”

“It is,” Valik agreed.

“There’s only the wedding and bedding left.”

Valik grunted.

“When is the ceremony?”

His friend glanced at the small brass clock set on a nearby table. “In an hour.”

“Guess we’d best both get ready.” Neither of them was dressed for a royal wedding.

Valik looked at him askance, and it was no wonder. Wynter had never been one to drag his feet. Why was he dragging them now?

“Full plate mail?” Valik asked.

He considered it, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I feel in the mood for a fight, if he’s fool enough to give me one, but I won’t go looking like I’m expecting one.” He rose to his feet and paced restlessly. Signing the marriage certificate should have left him filled with cold triumph. Instead, he felt hollow.

“Wyn?”

“What?” He turned to regard his lifelong friend.

“Put her from your mind.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“It is to me. I’ve never seen you like this. I don’t know what spell the little witch cast on you, but I don’t like it. You don’t know who she is or where she came from. For all you know, she was a Coruscate spy sent to find your weaknesses. Forget her.”

“It’s not just her, Valik.”
Liar
, his mind immediately whispered. “I can’t help thinking there must be more than this. The victory doesn’t feel . . . complete.”

“Give it time.” Valik clapped him on the back. “Tonight you claim your prize. After a few pleasant hours in the soft company of your Season, I’ve no doubt you’ll feel better.”

“What do you mean she isn’t going to be ready for the wedding?” Verdan glowered at the old woman who’d been his wife’s beloved nurse, then caretaker of his wild, unmanageable youngest child. “You’ve had the better part of three days.”

“And I’ve spent all of that just trying to undo the worst of the injuries you dealt her!” Tildavera snapped. “I’ve done everything in my power to speed her healing. Ointments, herbal baths, I even ordered the servants to bring up all the growing lamps we’ve been using to keep some measure of fresh fruit and vegetable on your table. The best I’ve been able to do is help her breathe without pain and grow a thin layer of new skin over most of the lacerations you inflicted.” She put her hands on her hips. “There’s no possible way she can stand before the priest or sit for hours at the wedding feast in her current condition.”

“Unacceptable. I’ve already told the Winter King the wedding will take place tonight, and he’s already agreed to it. You’re supposed to be a master herbalist. I let you go to her only on the condition that you could get her fit for tonight. Now can you do it or not?”

The old woman got an affronted, self-righteous look on her face. “I am indeed a master herbalist, but no amount of herbal remedy or even full summer sun could possibly erase what you did to her—not in the short time you’ve given me. It will be a week at the earliest before she’s fully healed. If you wanted her capable of wedding, you should have restrained yourself rather than beating her within an inch of her life!”

“Watch your tongue, woman.” Lifelong retainer she might be, but Tildavera Greenleaf had long ago forgotten her place.

“Or what? You’ll beat me, too?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He paced the office floor, thinking rapidly. Yes, he’d been harsh, but the damnable girl had refused to bend, and he’d been forced to break her. He’d been counting on the nursemaid’s skill with herbs and the girl’s own cursedly efficient self-healing abilities to mitigate the worst of the wounds he’d inflicted. “If you can’t have her ready for the wedding, Tildavera, you can at least have her ready for the wedding night.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking? Aren’t you the one who said consummation was the only way to ensure the White King wouldn’t demand the marriage be annulled once he realizes he’s wed to that . . . abomination instead of the Season he’s expecting? Have him wed her and bed her and whisk her out of the city before he realizes he’s been duped, you said.”

“That was before I knew you’d beaten her near to death!”

“She’ll survive. She always does. But the reasons for insisting on consummation haven’t changed just because the hour grows late, and you’ve discovered that your skills aren’t quite what you’ve always touted them to be.”

He kicked at the small scorch mark on his office carpet left by the burning ash of Rosalind’s picture and diary. Many potentially lethal accidents had befallen the girl in the years following Rosalind’s death, most of them natural, a few less so, but she had survived each one unscathed. Contagion never touched her, deadly blows turned away at the last moment, even the few grievous wounds she’d suffered over the years healed swiftly, without infection or scarring. It was as if the gods themselves sat on her shoulder, protecting her from sickness and peril.

Well, now he had an opportunity to rid himself of her once and for all, and he wasn’t about to suffer her presence a moment longer than necessary.

“There will be a wedding. By proxy if necessary.” He stopped pacing and looked up. “Come to think of it, that’s probably the best solution all around.” The idea hadn’t occurred to him until now, but it had great potential. “One of the Seasons can stand in for her . . . Autumn, I think. He showed interest in her.”

His mind churned through all the possible ways the plan could go wrong and all the ways to keep that from happening. “We’ll keep Autumn heavily veiled—and make up some excuse for it, of course—and have the girl switch places with her when she goes to disrobe for the wedding night. If he does insist on seeing his bride’s face before the vows are spoken, he’ll think he’s getting exactly what he wanted. You could even put a little something in his drink to disorient him and ensure he consummates the marriage without realizing she’s not one of the Seasons.”

His biggest fear all day had been that Wynter Atrialan would learn his bride’s true identity
before
he bedded her and annul the marriage. But this . . . this could work. After all, for all that he despised her, the girl was a princess of Summerlea . . . she did bear the Rose . . . and Wynter had not demanded a
particular
daughter to be his wife. He’d just said to choose one. Any fault in not knowing what he might get lay entirely with him.

If the Winter King happened to kill the girl in a fury when he realized how he’d been tricked . . . well, he’d just be ridding Verdan of the albatross that had hung around his neck for the last two decades.

Verdan turned and frowned at the old nursemaid, who was still standing near his desk. “Are you still here, Tildavera? What are you waiting for? Go make this happen.”

“Haven’t you heard what I’ve been telling you? You wounded her severely. Even if Autumn stands in for her at the wedding, healing Khamsin enough to withstand a consummation tonight is beyond even my skills.”

He lifted a speaking brow. “Don’t be so modest. I’ve seen you fix a posset that had a gutted soldier laughing and smiling only hours after his intestines had been stuffed back inside him. The girl’s wounds might not have healed enough to let her stand and walk about, but the pain is something you can mask. Especially as all she has to do is lie there and spread her legs.”

“Blessed Sun!” she exclaimed. “How can you be such a monster? You’re her father! Rosalind was her mother! Hate the part of you that lives in her if you must, but how can you hate the part of her that came from our Rose?”

Heat rushed into his veins. “She murdered my Rose. I don’t just hate her, I loathe the very air she breathes!” he spat. He turned away, fighting to rein in his temper before Tildavera earned more than sharp words. “Make her ready, Nurse. And close the door behind you when you leave.”

Khamsin dragged herself across the room, using each stick of furniture as a crutch to help her keep her feet as she shuffled back from the tiny bathing room towards the lamplit bed. The thin silk robe she’d draped around her body brushed against the fragile new skin on her back, each light touch sending bolts of pain shooting through her, and despite Tildy’s constant ministrations, Kham’s muscles had stiffened up so that every step punished her for making the effort. Of course, considering that earlier today she’d barely been able even to sit up without screaming, the ability to move about the room at all was nothing short of a miracle.