The Winter King

CHAPTER 10

Wintercraig

Once more clad in full armor that shone dazzling silver and white, with ice blue banners streaming in the mountain breeze, Wynter and his men rode slowly up the winding stone road toward the towering castle perched high atop a steep granite cliff.

Riding sideways before him, draped in another of Autumn’s warmest gowns, Khamsin stared up the breathtaking heights and the magical, ice-silvered spires, parapets, and buttresses of the castle that seemed to grow from the very rock itself.

Gildenheim, crown of the world.

Wynter’s palace. Her new home.

She turned her head to look at Wynter, wanting to see his face as they drew near the summit. The wolf’s head visor was open, but even so, his face was a mask that yielded no secrets. He kept his eyes forward, his face expressionless.

As they rounded the last switchback curve and rode the final stretch of stone road that passed beneath Gildenheim’s massive iron gates, Wynter straightened in the saddle, putting a small but notable distance between them. The arm that curved around her waist pulled back and went stiff as an iron pike.

The courtyard was wide and filled with people, with more lining three deep along every stone stairway, parapet and crenellated walk. Soldiers in armor of leather and steel. Peasants bulky in furs and wool. And on the wide, sprawling palace steps, a host of cool-eyed nobles stood waiting, their regal Winterfolk height draped in fur-trimmed velvets, fine wools, and silk brocades in all the frosted shades of winter: ice blue, cream, white, cloud gray, snow-frosted evergreen, palest taupe.

The peasants and soldiers cheered as Wynter and his army rode past, but the nobles remained aloofly silent. Khamsin regarded them in silence. Tension twisted in her belly. There was not one dark head among them, nor one welcoming smile. Cold and haughty, as icy as she’d first thought Wynter to be, they watched her in silence, spearing her with their unblinking gazes. Never had she felt more alien or more unwelcome.

An older man standing near the bottom step broke away from the crowd of nobles and walked towards Wynter’s approaching horse. His white hair was cropped to his chin and swinging with thin braids hung with small silver bells. His eyes were sky blue in a deeply lined golden face, his robes a paler blue, trimmed generously with white fur.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” he said in a voice rough with age. Gnarled hands reached out hooked around the straps of Hodri’s belled bridle. “Welcome home, at last.”

“Thank you, Barsul. It’s good to be back.” Wynter looked around the courtyard, his gaze sliding over each and every face crowded around. “This sight is one I’ve dreamed of now for three long years.” He raised his voice so that it traveled easily from one end of the courtyard to the other. “Well met, my friends, my people. At last the war is over.” Cheers rose up from all around the walls. He waited for them to die down before he continued. “I bring you victory.” More cheers. “I bring you peace.” At that, the women shouted with such enthusiasm they all but drowned out the cheers of their men. “I bring you Khamsin Coruscate, princess of Summerlea.” He grasped the hood of Khamsin’s cloak and drew it back to bare her bronzed face and dark flowing curls, then grasped her wrist and lifted it high, brandishing the Rose. “Now Khamsin Atrialan, Queen of the Craig, and soon, Freika willing, mother of my heirs.”

The cheers that followed that outdid all the others, but the eyes of those cheering watched Khamsin without warmth. She knew they did not cheer in welcome of her but rather to celebrate that their king had returned to them, this time vowing his desire for life instead of death. The courtyard erupted in a shower of white and green, as the Winterfolk tossed snowflowers, garlands of twined ivy and holly leaves, sprigs of fragrant fir, and clusters of mistletoe and partridge berry. Symbols of peace and unity and fertility and life. Well wishes for their king and his future heirs.

Wynter dismounted and reached up to help Khamsin down from the saddle before introducing her to the man who had greeted them.

“Khamsin, this is Barsul Firkin, Lord Chancellor of Wintercraig, who served as White Sword during my father’s reign.”

The old man bowed, his eyes cool and assessing. “Welcome to Wintercraig, Your Grace.”

“Lord Chancellor Firkin.” Khamsin worked to keep a calm expression as she frantically raked her memory for the protocol to follow when being introduced to high-ranking dignitaries of foreign lands. Was she supposed to extend her hand? Lord Firkin looked surprised when she did, but after a brief hesitation, he lifted it to his lips and brushed a cool, dry kiss across the backs of her fingers.

Wynter removed his gauntlets and splayed one hand across the small of Khamsin’s back. Subtle pressure nudged her forward, past Lord Firkin to another, slightly younger man. “And this is Lord Deervyn Fjall, Steward of the Keep.”

“Welcome to Gildenheim, the jewel of Wintercraig, Your Grace,” Lord Fjall murmured.

“Lord Fjall oversees everything that pertains to the provisioning, protection, and operations of the castle,” Wynter said. “If you need anything, his office will handle your request.”

Khamsin nodded but didn’t offer her hand again.

They moved past Lord Fjall to a towering, ice-eyed woman, whose pale gold hair looked like yards of stiff, curling ribbons piled atop her head. Unlike the wools and velvets of so many others, her gown was a severely cut sheath of pristine white brocade, her cloak an impressive fall of pure white snowbear pelt that draped from shoulder to floor, with yards of the thick fur left to puddle at her feet. Her eyes were so pale a blue, they seemed almost colorless, and Khamsin stifled a shiver.

“Lady Galacia Frey, High Priestess of Wyrn.”

Wyrn. Quickly, Khamsin riffled through her small store of knowledge about the northern gods. Wyrn was Keeper of the Ice, the goddess who’d given Thorgyll his freezing spears. Khamsin had never been much of a reader of god lore—except as it pertained to the heroes and warrior-kings of Summerlea—but she knew enough to know that Wyrn was an important and powerful goddess who was supposedly responsible for bringing winter to the world.

Well, if Wyrn were anything like her priestess, Khamsin already didn’t like her much. She definitely didn’t like the critical way Lady Galacia’s eyes swept over her, then turned to Wynter, dismissing Khamsin out of hand.

“We are glad for your return, my king,” the priestess said. “Wyrn requests your presence at her altar.”

The hand at Khamsin’s back twitched ever so slightly. “I will come today, before nightfall,” Wynter agreed.

Lady Galacia’s tower of frozen curls inclined in a cool nod. “We will await you.” She turned once more to Khamsin. “You and I will visit later, at a time of Wyrn’s choosing. When that time comes, Lord Fjall will tell you the way.”

Khamsin’s spine stiffened. Oh, really? But before she had a chance to open her mouth, Wynter’s hand was firmly nudging her forward.

The next woman in line was a blond-haired beauty with piles of soft ringlets and limpid blue eyes. She clutched Wynter’s hands with a fervor that made Kham’s eyes narrow. Wynter introduced her as Reika Villani, Valik’s cousin. Kham disliked her on sight. There was something about her that reminded Kham of the women who scrabbled to be King Verdan’s next mistress in the Summer court.

They continued on down the line. Wynter introduced dozens of people, far too many for Khamsin to keep them straight. The gathered nobles became a blur of golden skin and hair that came in all shades of pale, from golden blond to silver to snowy white. Finally, the introductions ended, and she and Wynter walked up the wide, stone stairs into the palace halls.

If she’d expected Wynter’s palace to be cold and austere, nothing could have been further from the truth. The walls were pure granite, but what should have seemed heavy and overpowering had instead been carved with astonishing delicacy. Graceful, curving archways and fluted columns soared high towards a vaulted ceiling. A massive crystal chandelier hung high overhead. All around, adorned with shimmering falls of cut crystal and gleaming patterned streams of silver and gold metals in varying shades, the walls seemed to glow with prismatic hues. Scattered clusters of furniture, upholstered in sumptuous velvets and brocades, added a rich, approachable welcome, and twin silver-gilt stairways, curving like slides of ice, spiraled up to numerous balconied levels overhead.

Khamsin caught herself gaping and had to consciously press her lips together to keep her jaw from falling slack again.

Servants in pale taupe and frosted forest green stood waiting at the base of the curved stairways. An older woman with a white apron pinned to the front of her forest green gown and her white hair caught up in a plait that wound around the top of her head like a crown stood at the head of the assemblage.

“This is Vinca, Gildenheim’s Mistress of Servants,” Wynter said. “She’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Welcome to Wintercraig, Your Grace,” Vinca murmured as she offered a brief, respectful curtsy. “This way, please.” She turned, indicating the curving staircase to her left.

Khamsin glanced uncertainly at Wynter, but he was already striding away towards a waiting cluster of noblemen. She wanted to call out, to ask him where he was going and when she would see him again.

She opened her mouth to call to him, then realized almost Wynter’s entire court was watching her, their eyes cool and sly. No doubt they were waiting with bated amusement to see what the little Summerlander witch would do now that her husband had brought her to his palace and abandoned her practically on the doorstep. The hand that had started to reach out for Wynter dropped back to her side and clutched the folds of her gown in a tight grip. Without a word, she turned and followed Mistress Vinca up the stairs.

Being ignored and shuttled off out of view is nothing new to you, Khamsin, she reminded herself sternly. You’ve had a lifetime of it. Why is this any different?

It wasn’t. And yet . . . it was.

Since waking in the tent after that horrific storm, she’d hardly left Wynter’s side—and he, hers. They’d slept together, ridden together, taken their meals together, woken up in each other’s arms.

Oh, Kham, no. You haven’t gone and gotten feelings for him? He’s the enemy!

No, no, not that. Not . . . feelings. She knew what he was, and what he would do to her if she didn’t bear him the heir he sought. She hadn’t forgotten. It was just that . . . well . . . they’d established a sort of rapport between them. They’d become almost friends, in a way.

Friends?

All right. Not friends, exactly.

Not friends of any kind. He is the enemy king who just crushed your country beneath his heel, and you are his war prize. Your only value to him is your womb. You can’t afford to forget that. Fail to bear him an heir, and he’ll slay you as thoughtlessly as he slew all those thousands of your countrymen.

She knew that. She hadn’t forgotten it. How could she?

You’re living on borrowed time, and if you let yourself get stupid and sentimental, you’ll never survive this. So stop thinking like a girl and start thinking like a man. No, start thinking like a warrior-king. You’re all alone in the heart of enemy territory. There’s no way to get back home. What should you do? What would Roland do?

Good question. What would Roland do if he were trapped alone in enemy territory with no way back home and a lethal deadline hanging over his head? Khamsin’s spine straightened. Her chin rose a notch higher. Roland would settle in, establish a home base, familiarize himself with the terrain and its inhabitants. He would befriend every enemy and absorb every bit of knowledge that would help him—if not to conquer, at least to survive.

They’d reached the top of the long staircase and turned left down the balustraded walk that overlooked the entry hall. The people downstairs had started to drift away, but a number of the Winterfolk still remained, and Khamsin was conscious of their watchful eyes upon her.

Let them look. She was Khamsin Coruscate Atrialan, Summerlea princess, and the Winter King’s wife. But she was also Khamsin, Bringer of Storms. She was not some helpless victim. She was a daughter of the Rose, Heir to the Summer Throne. Just as Roland had met the enemy and triumphed, so too would she.

Her first order of business would be learning her way around the palace. At Vera Sola, she’d known every nook and cranny of the palace, every hidden and forbidden inch. And that had given her a certain sense of power, of freedom, even sequestered as she was from the rest of the world. The floundering sense of alienness assailing her now couldn’t be borne. She would learn the passageways of Gildenheim until she could walk them with her eyes closed. She would discover the palace’s secrets and make them her own.

She made careful note of each turn Vinca made as they walked through the palace halls. At the end of the walkway, they turned right through an archway and followed that short, wide hall to a round, open gathering area that linked five corridors. The first corridor on the left led to a long wing that doubled back towards the front of the palace and split into two angled hallways, each terminated by a spacious, skylit vestibule surrounded by several pairs of gilded doors. Vinca took the right fork and approached the large center doors, which were painted silver-blue and chased with platinum bands. Two footmen stood guard outside those doors, and as Khamsin and Vinca drew near, the footmen reached for the crystal doorknobs and swung the doors inward in a smooth silence.

“Here we are, Your Grace,” Vinca announced. “These are your chambers.”

Khamsin stepped inside and despite her stern admonitions to think like a man and a warrior-king, she couldn’t help catching her breath in a dazzled, purely feminine reaction to the spacious elegance spread out before her. Thick furs and brightly woven carpets were scattered liberally across gleaming wooden floors. Furniture of delicate, gilded metalwork and stone sat harmoniously alongside bureaus of rich, inlaid woods and groupings of armchairs and divans. Silk brocade drapes framed a wall of windows that opened to a wide balcony.

A blur of dark, rich color in the sea of glittering winter shades caught her stunned gaze, and she turned towards it and saw Bella.

“Bella!” she exclaimed eagerly. Though the girl was little more than a stranger assigned to serve her, she was from Summerlea, a face from home. They were foreigners together in this cold, icy land, and that forged a unique bond between them. Khamsin almost flung her arms around the little maid before she caught herself. She stifled the urge to give Bella an exuberant hug and settled for a more appropriate, but fervent, clasp of hands. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Not half so glad as I am to see you, Your Highness,” Bella said. “They made me leave and wouldn’t let me go back. I didn’t even know if you’d lived or died until yesterday, when the scouts rode in to say the Winter King was coming.”

“It’s all right, Bella.” She patted the maid’s hand. “As you can see, I’m perfectly fit.”

“Ahem.” The slight clearing of Vinca’s throat made Khamsin turn. “Your bedroom, Your Grace, is through those doors on the left, as is a private parlor, bath, and dressing room.” The Mistress of Servants strode towards the wall of windows and threw open the leaded-glass doors to let in a swirl of crisp air. “From here, you have an excellent view of the mountains, Gildenheim’s western gardens, and the river valley. The king has ordered Mistress Narsk to provide your new wardrobe more suited to our climate.”

“I don’t need new clothes. The ones I have are perfectly fine.” The perfumes of her sisters still clung to their gowns. Kham didn’t want to lose that attachment to home.

“You’ll need something more suited to our weather, ma’am. Winter will soon be upon us, and you’ll need much warmer clothes. King’s orders.”

“I see. Well, then it seems I will be expanding my wardrobe.” Kham gave a tight smile. She had no intention of giving up her sisters’ things any more than she’d been willing to abandon her mother’s things without a fight. This Mistress Narsk could make all the clothes she liked, but that didn’t mean Kham had to wear them. Except for outer garments and perhaps a few underclothes more suited to this icy clime, Kham was not going to change who she was or how she dressed.

“Very good, ma’am. Mistress Narsk and her seamstresses will be here at twelve to take your measurements. I’ll have a small lunch brought up. Meanwhile, if you need anything, just give this cord a tug. It will ring down to the servants’ quarters, and someone will answer your summons.”

“Thank you, Vinca.”

The woman curtsied. “I’ll leave you to get settled.”

“Vinca?”

The Mistress of Servants paused. “Ma’am?”

“Who will be giving me a tour of the palace, and when can I expect them?”

Surprise flashed briefly across Vinca’s face before being suppressed behind a calm mask. “The arrangements have not yet been made.”

“Make them, please,” Khamsin said. “For tomorrow, if at all possible. I don’t want to feel like a stranger in my new home.” Her voice was firm, her gaze steady.

Vinca bobbed another curtsy. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to it immediately.”

When she left, Bella made a beeline for the open balcony doors and started to pull them closed. “Winterfolk!” she grumbled. “Opening windows every chance they get, even when the air’s cold enough to freeze the blood in a body’s veins.”

“No, Bella, leave it for now. I’ve gotten used to the fresh air.”

Bella stopped, looked a little outraged, then tugged her cloak more snugly about her throat and moved away from the open doors.

Only then did Khamsin realize the girl was wrapped in so many layers she resembled a stuffed Harvest goose. Kham had been so glad to see a familiar face, she hadn’t noticed anything else. “I’m sorry. Are you cold? Close the doors then, and fuel the fire.”

She watched Bella add logs to the already-burning fire in the hearth, then hold her hands to the heat emanating from the flames and huddle close.

“Does it feel very cold to you?” Khamsin asked. “Outside, I mean.”

“As a frost witch’s teat,” Bella muttered.

Now that was surpassingly strange. Khamsin suddenly realized she hadn’t felt the cold in days. Not really. Not since waking in Wynter’s tent after her illness. She’d put it down to her Summerlea blood, but Bella was a Summerlander, too, and she was obviously suffering. Was it her magic, then? The heat of her weathergifts?

Curious, she cracked open the leaded-glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. A cold wind caught her full in the face and tore the pins from her hair, sending curls spiraling madly about. She knew it was cold. She could feel the chill on her skin, see it in the frosty mist of her exhale before the wind whipped it away, but it wasn’t unbearable. Bracing, yes, but no more than that. Nothing like the cold that had penetrated her bones that day when Wynter had caught her with his Ice Gaze. What did that mean? Assuming it meant anything at all.

Before the war, when the relations between Summerlea and Wintercraig were still congenial, her brother, Falcon, and his friends had often roamed the hills and valleys of Wintercraig—hunting snowbear in the mountains. Khamsin couldn’t recall if he’d ever complained about the cold. He’d talked about the snow, the piles of white drifts, high as a man. He’d talked about icicles hanging like crystals from the trees and waterfalls frozen in midplummet. He’d talked about the stark, serene, snow-spangled beauty and the way snow splashed like seafoam around his horse’s legs as he rode. She’d drunk the glorious stories of his adventures as eagerly as she’d absorbed the words on the pages of the books she so loved, and if he’d mentioned any unpleasantness, she’d long since forgotten it.

Falcon. Just thinking of him brought a storm of fond memories and bittersweet emotions. Beloved brother. Handsome warrior-prince. Daring adventurer. Charming rogue. How she’d loved him. How she’d missed him.

She’d never understood what madness had led him to throw away his life and toss two kingdoms into turmoil. Tildy’s revelation about the Book of Riddles and Falcon’s quest to find the sword of Roland had cleared up a good deal of the confusion, but that didn’t explain why he’d compounded his crime by running off with another man’s bride—a king’s bride, no less.

Now, after experiencing the consuming pleasure of Wynter’s passion, she had a better understanding of what might have driven her brother on that front.

Where was Falcon? she wondered, staring out over the land where he’d decided to doom them all. Had he found Roland’s sword, after all, or had the Book of Riddles merely led him on a fruitless chase after an imaginary treasure? Did he and his Winterlady even know what a terrible price others had paid for their reckless passion and thievery? Did either of them even care?

“He’s in Calberna.” Lord Chancellor Firkin’s gnarled finger tapped a spot on the map laid out before Wynter and drew back quickly at the first telling flash of white in his king’s eyes.

Wynter stared hard at the blue-shaded outline of a sprawling chain of islands in the western sea. The familiar, cold bite of vengeance sent streamers of ice racing through his veins, radiating out from his chest. Had the map been a man, it would have frozen dead on the spot. As it was, a fine layer of frost crystallized on the inked parchment, blurring the cartographer’s meticulously drawn boundaries and notations. “With her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think they found what they were looking for?”

“It’s possible. The prince has been haunting the courts of the West, trying to raise an army he could lead back to Summerlea.”

“Has he found one in Calberna?”

“We suspect so. Our Calbernan eyes have gone blind. Four of our informants went missing, the rest have grown too fearful to talk, and three of our couriers were slain, their dispatches stolen.”

“Post lookouts along the coast.” Wynter ran a finger down the line of Summerlea’s western coast. A trail of frost sprouted up in its wake. “Send word to Leirik in Vera Sola. I want Verdan’s guard doubled. And send more men to Calberna, to replace those we lost. If Coruscate has found an ally, I want to know it before an army sets sail.”

“I’ll take word to Vera Sola myself,” Valik declared. “If the Calbernans are sending an army, I should be the one to command the battalions in Summerlea.”

“No!” Wynter shot a fierce glare at his friend. “You’re not going to Vera Sola. I’ve already told you that.”

“But Leirik—”

“You’ve trained Leirik well. It’s his command. Yours is the defense of Wintercraig.” He shot a hard, commanding look at Chancellor Firkin. “You’ve heard my orders. Carry them out.”

“It shall be done, Your Grace.” Firkin bowed and whispered instructions to two of the noblemen who served him. They each snapped a bow and hurried away. Firkin waved impatient hands at the rest of the council in a silent command to clear the room. When they were gone, he closed the door and approached the hearth.

“Wynter, lad,” he said with the affectionate familiarity of an old family friend, “it’s good to have you back. You’ve been away too long.” He clapped a hand on Wynter’s armored shoulder. “You should get out of this armor. Relax and shed the weight of war. Visit the hot springs of Mount Freika. Run with the wolves. Take your new bride for a ride.” He wagged his brows. “Or, better yet, just ride her instead. Start working on that heir you’ve promised us.”

Valik’s expression turned sour. “No worries there, Barsul. Believe me, if she doesn’t pup in nine months, it won’t be for any lack of effort on Wyn’s part. He’s so besotted, I’m starting to think she’s cast some sort of love spell on him.” His voice was flat, devoid of any teasing note. Ever since Khamsin had summoned that deadly storm—nearly driving Wynter into the Ice King’s grip and miraculously healing herself in the process—Valik had been growing increasingly concerned over what he called Wynter’s “obsession” with his new bride. He was convinced there was some sort of subversive Summerlander magic at work.

“Enough, Valik,” Wynter growled. To Lord Firkin, he said, “If Calberna has offered Coruscate an army, there’s much work to be done to ready Wintercraig defenses. But I see your point,” he added when Firkin started to object. “I’ll make time for gentler things.”

He stayed there with Valik and Firkin for more than an hour, talking not about war but about the Craig, the changes that had happened since he’d left three years ago, the small, personal things Barsul hadn’t put to ink during their years of correspondence, and more. Three men had been sent last month to face the mercy of the mountains: two rapists and a child-killer. All had perished in the ice and snow. It was unusual to have so many such crimes in a single month.

Wynter had known one of the men. He’d been a rough sort of Winterman, but Wyn had never considered him brutal enough to ram a fist into his own son’s head with enough force to slay him.

“Things are starting to change, Wynter,” Lord Firkin said, “and not for the better.”

“Is it the Ice Heart, do you think?” he asked. “Has the power grown so strong in me that it can now feed on others?”

“That’s a question for Lady Frey.”

“Then I suppose I should go get cleaned up and pay her a visit.” Wynter took leave of Valik and Firkin and headed up to his rooms. His valet helped him shed his armor and ran a hot bath so he could wash off the stink of travel. Lady Frey objected to the presence of unwashed men in the goddess’s temple.

As he pulled on clean clothes, his hand absently rubbed his chest, and he thought about the men who’d met their fate on the mountain. Was he to blame for the madness that had gripped them? He couldn’t shake the possibility. His chest still felt cold and tight after freezing that map in the council room.

Valik was right to suspect Kham’s Summerlander magic was affecting Wyn, but not in the way he thought. Ever since the night of Khamsin’s terrible storm, Wyn had spent most of his time in her company, and he’d realized he felt more human and more at peace than he had in years. He’d hoped that meant the Ice Heart was melting, but today, within minutes of leaving her on the steps of the palace, he’d felt himself growing colder, more impatient, angrier. That brief flash of icy fury that froze the map wasn’t dissipating as quickly as it had in the past. And that did not bode well. Not for him, and not for any Winterman.

In fact, the only time he wasn’t aware of the cold in his chest was when he wrapped himself in Khamsin’s heat.

The front of Wynter’s breeches went tight, and he swore softly under his breath. This part of Wynter’s obsession, Valik had gotten right. All Wyn had to do was think about the little weatherwitch, and he grew hard as stone. That didn’t bode well for him either. She was a Summerlander, sister to Wynter’s bitterest enemy, that bride-stealing, child-killer, Falcon. They’d wed not out of affection but political expediency. He knew where her loyalties lay, and it wasn’t with him. If he was foolish enough to let himself care for her, she would use his affection, as Elka had, to betray him.

No, so long as that Rose burned on her wrist, she was someone he could never trust enough to love. She was a womb to bear his child. Attachment to her, need—even if only sexual—was dangerous.

And yet, even knowing how vital it was to keep an emotional distance between them, he found himself opening the door that joined his rooms to hers and walking through it.

She wasn’t there. He knew it as soon as he entered. Her scent was slightly faded rather than fresh, and there was a certain dull emptiness to the air that would have been charged with energy had she been present.

Her clothes now hung in the dressing room. All her plants and potted trees had been arranged around the upholstered sofa in the reading alcove. Delicate crystal flacons of perfume were displayed neatly on the stone top of her vanity. Wynter made a mental note to return the book and jeweled toiletry set he’d taken from her back in Vera Sola, and to have several of the growing lamps delivered to her rooms to keep her blasted remembrance garden alive.

He wandered from her bedroom into her large receiving parlor. Here, her scent was strongest. She’d stood there, by that couch. He crossed to it and breathed deep. Yes, here. Other women had been with her, half a dozen of them, but hers was a scent easily separated from the rest. So different from her sister Autumn’s. How had he ever been fooled before? Hers was a scent so distinct, he would recognize it anywhere now, no matter how diluted.

The cape she’d worn this morning lay draped across the chaise. He bent to pick it up and pressed it against his face. It smelled of her. The jasmine she’d used to wash her hair, and the bold, electric freshness that reminded him of the mountains after a powerful spring storm.

He wanted to close his eyes and rub his face in the gathered cloth, marking himself with her scent, marking her cloak with his. Instead, he forced his fingers open and let the fabric spill to the floor.

“Your Majesty? May I help you?”

Wynter turned swiftly. Foolish, Wyn! Very foolish! No one had been able to sneak up on him in years, but he’d been so preoccupied, he hadn’t sensed the little Summerlander maid’s approach.

“Where is your mistress?”

“In the west gardens, my lord. She said she needed fresh air after Mistress Narsk and the seamstresses left.”

Wynter walked to the balcony windows and looked out. Sure enough, several stories down to the west, he found his wife traversing the walks of the terraced western gardens. She’d donned one of her fur-lined Summerlander cloaks, but her head was bare, her distinctive dark hair easy to spot even at a distance.

The moment he clapped eyes on her, he felt the tug in his chest. The yearning to go to her, walk with her, bask in her fiery warmth.

Before he could act on that yearning, logic prevailed. Distance. He must at all costs keep a wise distance. Besides, she needed time to settle in, and he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Resolute, he turned and headed back to his own rooms.