The Winter King

CHAPTER 12

Allies and Enemies

When Khamsin woke again, full daylight was streaming through her bedchamber windows, and Wynter was gone.

She laid her hand on the empty sheets. They were cool to the touch. Her body was aching and sore in more places than she’d ever known existed, but already the need for him was rising again. Her fingers smoothed over the indentation in the pillow beside hers and plucked a long, silvery white strand of Wynter’s hair from the linen. She brushed the strand across her lips, remembering the feel of his silken hair sliding over her as his body surged against hers. She wished he’d stayed. She wished she’d woken, as she had so many times in the night, to find him there beside her, his eyes intent, his magnificent body stretched out on the sheets, naked and inviting.

A knock sounded at the bedroom door, and the door swung open. Bella entered, carrying a thick robe draped over one arm.

Khamsin tucked the strand of Wynter’s hair beneath her pillow and sat up, dragging the linen top sheet free to wrap around her body. She sniffed the air. A warm, delicate aroma had wafted into the room. “Is that jasmine tea?”

The maid gave a smile. “Mistress Greenleaf said it was your favorite. There’s a pot steeping on the hearth. Will you rise, or shall I bring you a cup here?”

“I’ll get up.” Khamsin smothered a yawn and stretched. “What time is it?”

“Half ten, ma’am.”

“What? Half past ten?” Kham leapt from the bed. “Why didn’t you wake me? What about Vinca and the tour of the palace?”

“The king left word that you were not to be disturbed. Mistress Vinca has rescheduled your tour of the palace for this afternoon. Lady Firkin has arranged a luncheon for you with the ladies of the court before that. Mistress Narsk delivered a new gown for the luncheon a few moments ago.” Bella held the robe open for Khamsin, who swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. As Khamsin thrust her arms into the robe’s sleeves, Bella added, “And Lady Villani is waiting in the parlor. She said she needed to speak with you. Shall I tell her to come back later?”

Khamsin froze. “Lady Villani?” What could Reika Villani possibly want? Khamsin put a hand to her tangled hair. She looked a mess: bed-rumpled, her lips still swollen from Wynter’s passionate kisses, faint marks on her neck where he’d nipped at her skin. Reika Villani would take one look at her and know how Khamsin had spent her night. Kham’s eyes narrowed. “No,” she said slowly. “Thank you, Bella, but I’ll see her now.” She tightened the robe’s sash. “I would like a hot bath though when I return, and a little something to eat. I didn’t have much of an appetite last night, but now I’m famished.”

She opened the door to the parlor and stepped through. Reika Villani was standing near the hearth, looking out the bank of windows across the valley far below. She turned at the sound of the opening door. Her gown and hair were as pale, elegant, and perfect as they had been last night, her face a confection of graceful features dominated by big, heavily lashed blue eyes that narrowed as she took in Khamsin’s rumpled appearance.

“Your Grace.” Reika curtsied in a smooth, unhurried motion.

“Lady Villani,” Kham murmured in reply. How odd her new title sounded after a lifetime of being just “Storm,” “dearly,” or “girl.” “You caught me just rising from bed. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” She smoothed a hand across her rumpled hair and gave what she hoped looked like an embarrassed smile. Reika’s lips tightened, and Khamsin turned to reach for the teapot in order to hide the flash of triumph she feared might show in her eyes. Those years of watching from the shadows had not gone to waste. She understood the manipulations and maneuverings of court ladies, and even though she’d never participated in their intrigues before, she had claws of her own and was not averse to using them.

Last night, she’d been too weary from travel, too unsettled by the strangeness of her new environment, and taken aback by Wynter’s apparent obliviousness to what Kham considered Reika Villani’s blatant drawing of battle lines. This morning, she was none of those things. Hours of incendiary passion and the memory of Wynter’s voice whispering that he, too, would honor his vows left her feeling far more secure in her new position and determined to put Reika Villani firmly into hers.

“My maid has prepared a pot of jasmine tea,” she said, pouring the fragrant liquid into a warmed porcelain cup. “Shall I pour you a cup?”

“Thank you, but no, Your Grace,” Reika demurred. “I’m not very fond of tea.”

Kham blew on her drink to cool it. The first sip made her reach for the sugar. Bella had steeped it so long it had gone bitter. She sipped again, then added more sugar and turned back to her elegant guest, who was watching her intently.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this morning, Lady Villani?”

The woman smoothed a hand over her expensively gowned hips and summoned a surprisingly convincing expression of worry and remorse. “I’m afraid we may have somehow gotten off on the wrong foot last night.”

“What makes you think that?” Kham asked in a mild tone. She lifted her teacup and regarded Reika over its rim.

“Well . . . I . . .” Clearly, she hadn’t expected Khamsin to play ignorant. “The way you left the dinner . . . it was obvious you were upset.” She took a half step forward, wringing her hands. Kham thought that was a particularly nice touch. “It’s just that Wynter—ah, I mean, the king—and I are such old and dear friends. I fear we might have made you feel a little left out.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Lady Villani. I understood perfectly the nature of your relationship with my husband.”

“Oh . . . well, that is good . . .”

“Yes, it is, though perhaps not in the way you mean. Roland Soldeus always said understanding the nature of one’s enemy is the path to ensuring his defeat.”

Great blue eyes blinked in charming confusion. “Enemy? Defeat?” Reika gave a tinkling laugh. “You have me at a loss. Surely you’re not suggesting that I—”

Khamsin lifted a hand to cut her off. “Lady Villani, please. Spare me your fluttering lashes and false confusion. I am not susceptible to your charms.”

Lady Villani made one last attempt to cling to her illusion of innocence. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Let us be frank with one another. You want my husband. I will not share him with you. There, the matter is out in the open now, and the battle lines are drawn.”

“Indeed.” Reika’s voice had a new, hard edge that hadn’t been there before, and her eyes changed from limpid pools to glittering stone. “Well, like your countrymen before you, Summerlander, this is one battle in which you will find yourself far outmatched.”

Khamsin took another sip of her tea and curled her fingers around the porcelain cup. Energy from the confrontation was gathering inside her, and she could feel its electric warmth beginning to speed the blood in her veins, making the hot tea seem cooler by comparison. “It must have been very hard for you to want a man so badly only to have your sister snatch him away. And then, after she left him, and he was free once more, to have him go off to war for three long years and return with yet another woman on his arm, a wife no less. You have my sympathy. I know what it is like to want something you cannot have.”

“Keep your sympathy. I have no need of it.” The corner of Reika’s mouth curled in a sneer. “He only wed you to secure the peace and breed an heir acceptable to both kingdoms. You are simply a means to an end, chosen for your bloodline, nothing more. Any Summerlea princess could stand in your stead.”

The words struck deep, catching Khamsin unprepared and surprisingly vulnerable. Reika wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, so why did it hurt to hear it?

Stung, and wanting to sting back, she touched the faint abrasions Wynter had left on her neck and forced a smug, triumphant smile. “Really? Then he truly is an amazing master of deception, to be able to feign such convincing passion again . . . and again . . . and again . . .”

The woman went quite still. For a moment, Kham thought her barb had struck home, but Reika was not so easy a target. Her eyes grew calm and intent. “Yes,” she agreed smoothly, “he is a very . . . intense lover and skillful enough to make a woman lose all reason. It’s one of the things I’ve missed most these last three years. And I can see how an inexperienced girl might assume the power of his sexuality implies a bond that doesn’t really exist.”

Kham’s confidence faltered. She would have sworn Reika and Wynter had never been lovers. She lifted her teacup and took a sip to hide her dismay.

Reika stood beside Khamsin, smiling with cool serenity, no doubt silently gloating that her second, well-aimed blow had struck home even more deeply than the first. And that made Khamsin’s temper simmer.

Walk away, dearly. Tildy, who understood peace, would say. Just walk away.

But Roland, who understood war, would have offered different advice. Behind your enemy’s smile lies treachery. Show him that behind yours lies steel. Fail to do so, and you only make him bolder.

Khamsin stared down into the fragrant, golden brown depths of her tea. She was no wise, peaceful Tildy, no matter how she might try. She was a daughter of the Sun, capable of warmth, but just as capable of fire and lethal volatility.

Khamsin tightened her grip on the teacup and turned back to face her adversary. “What do you know of the Heirs to the Summer Throne, Lady Villani?”

Blond brows drew together in a delicate frown. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Royal Family of Summerlea—my family, and my ancestors before me—what do you know of us?”

“I . . . don’t understand how that has any bearing on this conversation.”

“It has great bearing. Have you ever heard of Roland Soldeus—Roland Triumphant, the Hero of Summerlea? No? Perhaps you should do a little reading, broaden your horizons.” She flashed a brief, tight smile. “Roland once crushed a well-supplied army of fifty thousand invaders with scarcely three thousand men of his own. They say he blazed bright as the sun, and that his sword shot beams of burning fire, and that his enemies burst into flames before him, and the charred dust of their bodies blew away on the fierce, hot winds—the khamsins—he could summon at will. My family can trace its lineage back to his brother, Donal. The same powerful blood that ran in Roland’s veins runs in mine.”

She looked up and captured Reika Villani’s gaze with her own. “I did not retire from the banquet hall last night because I feared you. I left because I feared what I might do to you if I stayed.” Curling clouds of steam rose up before her face. She saw Reika glance down, saw her eyes widen in shock at the sight of Khamsin’s tea bubbling madly in its cup. “Do not make yourself my enemy,” she concluded softly. “Do not poach what I have claimed as mine.”

Dark movement glimpsed from the corner of her eye made Khamsin turn. Bella stood in the doorway. “Your bath is ready, Your Majesty,” she said.

“Thank you, Bella.” Kham set the teacup down on a small lamp table near Reika’s frozen figure. “And thank you for coming, Lady Villani. Our discussion has been very enlightening. I hope I’ve made my position clear. Bella will show you out.”

Fired up by her confrontation with Reika Villani, Kham waved aside the pale cream gown Bella had laid out for this morning’s luncheon with the ladies of the court and chose instead to garb herself in bright, vivid, Summerland colors. Thus armored, she marched down to the small banquet hall where the ladies had gathered and met their cool gazes, head-on. She had not come to these people as a supplicant, but as a queen. Their queen—even if only for the next twelve months. They would give her the respect and deference due her station.

Something of that determination must have shown on her face because the ladies all curtsied deeply upon her arrival and regarded her with wariness.

“Your Grace, this way, please.” Lady Firkin gestured towards the table. “You were so tired from your journey. I thought a more informal luncheon today would be a good way to introduce you to the ladies of the court.”

Kham eyed the banquet table, laden with extravagant gold, silver, and crystal place settings, each chair attended by a private footman. This was informal? She hesitated to think what a dinner of state might look like. But she murmured something polite to acknowledge Lady Firkin’s thoughtfulness.

For the next forty-five minutes, Kham pasted a pleasant expression and did her best to contain her restlessness as Lady Firkin introduced her to the ladies of the court. Tildy had spent countless hours training Khamsin for just such an event. A princess of the Rose was expected to be a gracious hostess of her father’s kingdom, and in keeping with those duties, she was expected to remember names, titles, and other pertinent information about the courtiers and guests who frequented her father’s court.

Unfortunately, Kham had never been particularly good at those lessons, and though she was careful to repeat each lady’s name three times and came up with mnemonics to tie the name and the face together (Crooked nose, Lady Ros. Catty smile, Lady Wyle), it didn’t take long for her to become overwhelmed. There were only a handful of ladies she remembered from yesterday’s introductions: Lady Firkin, the tall, imposing priestess Galacia Frey, and, of course, Reika Villani, who was there, smiling as if she and Khamsin had not just squared off as enemies less than two hours ago.

Aware that this morning’s confrontation with Valik’s cousin had only been the first salvo in their personal war, Khamsin watched Reika from the corner of her eye, noting which of the ladies paused to speak with her and which sat closest to her. Kham had no doubt Reika would use every tool in her arsenal to achieve victory, including conscripting her friends into her service. Since Khamsin couldn’t very well go around asking everyone if they were Reika’s confidantes, she would simply have to be observant and take care to watch her back.

Turning to the Winterlady at her side—what was her name? Oh, yes, crooked nose, Lady Ros— Khamsin said, “Tell me a little about yourself, Lady Ros. Where are you from and how long have you been at court?”

Finally, a quiet gong called the ladies to luncheon. Khamsin took the queen’s seat at the head of the table, conscious of the many eyes upon her as the servants offered her all manner of strange, unfamiliar dishes. She tried to steer clear of foodstuffs she couldn’t identify or those with an odd smell, especially after the fishy aroma of several different seafood dishes left her feeling rather green about the gills.

“You don’t like fish, Your Grace?” Reika Villani asked after Kham waved away a particularly odiferous mackerel dish. “How unfortunate. Seafood is a staple of every Wintercraig meal.” Her tone made Khamsin’s aversion sound like a calamitous shortcoming.

Kham’s jaw clenched. “Quite the contrary, I love fish,” she declared, and just to wipe the mocking, superior smile off Reika Villani’s face, she forced herself to accept a portion of the next fish dish that came her way. Though the smell and texture made her want to retch, she ate several bites, holding Reika Villani’s gaze the whole time.

Two seats down on Khamsin’s right, Galacia Frey watched the visual skirmish between Reika and Kham, and when it was over, she gave Kham what looked like an approving nod and tucked into her own meal. Kham would have basked in what felt like a small victory, except that for the rest of the meal, what she’d eaten kept trying to make a reappearance. Outside, pale gray clouds began to gather in the clear, sunny sky.

After the meal, Galacia Frey took her leave, and the rest of the women retired to the gathering room next door to work on needlecrafts and socialize. Khamsin was hopeless with a needle and woefully inadequate as a casual conversationalist. Her questions sounded more like interrogations, and because she was so uncertain as to which ladies were Reika Villani’s cronies, her own answers were so guarded they came across as curt and off-putting.

Only with Lady Melle Firkin was Kham able to relax. The wife of Lord Chancellor Barsul Firkin had kind eyes, a warm smile, and a disarming way of putting Khamsin completely at ease. Within the first half hour of the luncheon, Lady Firkin’s polite, deferential use of titles gave way to “my dear” this and “my dear” that.

With any other person, Khamsin might have stiffened up and drawn away from such familiarity, but she couldn’t bring herself to rebuke the elderly woman for speaking to her more like a daughter than a queen, especially when the lady confessed, “Lord Firkin and I had a daughter, Astrid. She died of lung fever when she was seventeen. You remind me of her. She had the same fire in her eyes that you do. She never backed down from anything, even things that frightened her.” Then she patted Khamsin’s hand, smiled, and said, “I have a good feeling about you, my dear. I think you may be just what our king and this court has needed for a long time.”

“Thank you, Lady Firkin,” Khamsin said with a small, genuine smile.

“Please, call me Lady Melle. I’m not much of one for standing on formalities. I hope you don’t mind. The king has been like a son to Lord Barsul and me. We helped raise young Prince Garrick after their parents died.”

“How did the king’s parents die?”

“Frost Giant attack. Such a tragedy. Wynter barely escaped with his life. And then to take the throne so young. He wasn’t even sixteen. Such a burden for a boy to shoulder, especially when some took his youth as a sign of weakness. But weakness is a trait no one who knows him would ever associate with Wynter of the Craig.”

“No, I would imagine not,” Kham agreed. She started to ask Lady Melle more questions about the man she’d married, but Lady Wyle came up and asked Lady Melle to join a card game. Lady Wyle invited Khamsin to join as well, but the lady’s insincere smirk of a smile and too-watchful eyes made Kham decline.

“No, please go on. I don’t play cards.” Most court card games required four or more to play, so Kham, always alone, had never had the opportunity to learn. And the last thing she wanted to do when her sisters and brothers had snuck up to visit her was while away their precious, purloined time with card games.

It didn’t take long for Khamsin to regret letting Lady Melle leave her side. Sitting alone, without Lady Melle’s warm presence to buffer her, she was acutely aware of the Winterladies watching her every move, many of them sly-eyed, sumptuously gowned adversaries waiting for the first sign of weakness.

Tension coiled inside her. Sitting still for any length of time had never been easy for her, and sitting there while her every move was watched and measured was indescribably unpleasant. She was a child of the elements, accustomed to doing as she pleased and running free through the abandoned towers of the King’s Keep. She wasn’t made to sit for hours on end, confined and coiffed, surrounded by women whose conversation revolved around fashion, running households, and raising children. Kham would much rather be outside with the men, watching them train with their weapons—better yet, swinging a sword of her own. Falcon had often practiced with her, and those were some of the happiest times of life.

Her foot started tapping. Conversation dwindled. Ladies cast sidelong glances her way. She jammed her feet against the ground and kept them there.

Conversation resumed. More baby talk. More discussion of ribbons. One of the ladies had a new maid to dress her hair, and wasn’t she doing a splendid job?

Kham’s fingers began to drum restlessly against the armrests of her chair.

The lady with the hairdressing maid glanced Kham’s way, bit her lip, and fell silent.

Kham clutched the armrests as if her life depended on it.

Outside, the thin clouds that had gathered during the luncheon grew heavy and dark.

“Oh, dear.” Lady Ros glanced out at the rapidly darkening sky. “It looks like we’re in for a bit of a storm.”

“That came up fast,” another woman murmured. “There wasn’t a cloud in the sky this morning.”

Now they were going to talk about the weather? Kham leapt to her feet, unable to bear it any longer.

All the Winterladies rose as well and looked her way. “I have a bit of a headache,” Kham lied, working hard to keep the bark out of her voice. “I think I’ll go for a walk outside.”

Lady Melle cast a glance out the windows, where rain had begun to fall. “A walk, my dear? In the cold and rain?”

“I like the rain,” Kham snapped, and the shocked, hurt look on Lady Melle’s face made her feel like a brute. She took a breath, forcing down her temper. “I’m sorry. This headache has me on edge. But I do like the rain, and the cold doesn’t bother me.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Lady Melle’s polite use of Khamsin’s honorific instead of the warm, maternal “my dear” made Kham feel even worse. The white-haired lady waved to one of the footmen. “Send for our maids, Gunter. We need oiled jackets and rainshades. The queen wishes to go for a walk.”

“No. Gunter, wait.” Kham held up a staying hand. “Lady Melle, none of you need to come with me. Stay here inside where it’s warm.” Lady Melle had a surprisingly stubborn look in her eyes, so Kham moved closer and dropped her voice to a low whisper to admit, “This morning has been just a little . . . overwhelming. I need some time to myself.”

And then, because it suddenly occurred to her that Lady Melle’s determination to accompany her stemmed from reasons other than politeness and court etiquette, she added, “I won’t go far. I’ll keep to the gardens you can see from these windows.”

After a long, considering moment, Lady Melle waved off Gunter the footman, and said, “Of course, my dear. Go have your walk. Only please don’t stay out too long. The king would have my head if you caught cold.”

Kham beamed her first genuine smile in the last two hours. “I never catch cold.” Impulsively, she threw her arms around the older woman and kissed her on the cheek, then just as quickly jumped back and blushed, very conscious of the Winterladies whispering behind their fans. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I don’t suppose I should have done that.” She’d never had cause to put Tildy’s comportment lessons into real practice, but she did know queens didn’t go about throwing their arms around their ladies and smacking kisses on their cheeks.

Lady Melle, once she got over her surprise, just smiled even more warmly than she had before and patted Kham’s hand. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, my dear. Gunter, send someone to fetch the queen’s wrap, then please escort the queen to the east garden.”

Fifteen minutes later, with a warm fur coat over her red velvet dress, Kham turned her face up to the icy drizzle that even now was softening to a fine mist as the dark clouds began to lighten and break up. She took a deep breath of the clean, brisk air, flung her arms out, and whirled in a circle. Summer Sun, that felt good!

The garden was empty and quiet. The bustling sounds from the two large baileys at the front of Gildenheim were muted here. Several fountains burbled peacefully among manicured walks. Instead of beds of bright summer flowers, the gardens here had been planted with evergreen shrubs and sculpted trees and plants that sported bright leaves or berries in shades of purple and red and a ghostly silvery gray.

There was a maze in the center of the garden, grown from holly bushes. Kham glanced back at the arching windows of the banquet hall where she had lunched with the ladies of the court, then turned and dove into the maze, following the twisting paths between the dense hedges. It wasn’t a particularly difficult maze, and Kham found the center after only a couple of wrong turns. There, a ring of wooden benches surrounded a lovely, three-tiered fountain.

Scarlet flashed at the corner of her eye, and she turned her head to see a bright red cardinal alight atop one of the benches on the other side of the fountain. She smiled. She’d always loved birds. They reminded her of her brother because wherever Falcon went, birds always congregated. They flocked to him with the same eager devotion as his many beautiful female companions.

Kham watched the cardinal hop down and peck at the cold ground beneath the bench and wished she’d brought bread crumbs from the luncheon. She’d have to do that tomorrow.

A shadow passed over the center of maze, and the cardinal took wing, disappearing into the dense holly bushes. Kham glanced up to see a large, snowy white falcon soaring across the sky. It circled Gildenheim on outstretched wings, then dove in to land on a window ledge near the top of the castle’s tallest spire.

“Where are you, Falcon?” she murmured aloud. Had her brother finally found Roland’s sword? And if he had, when he heard about the conditions of her marriage—the threat hanging over her head—would he come to Wintercraig to save her? That was just the sort of grand, heroic gesture Falcon loved most.

So why did the idea of Falcon riding to her rescue fill her with dread?

Her gaze wandered down the gray stone spire and traveled across the rings of fortified battlements that protected Gildenheim as if it were the greatest treasure of the kingdom. She thought about the cheers of the people gathered in the bailey to greet their king and his new bride, and the genuine care and concern he’d shown for the villagers they met along the way.

She was married to Wynter of the Craig. She was his now. His wife, his queen . . . and his key to retaining unequivocal control of Summerlea once she gave him an heir. After the last weeks together, she knew enough about her husband to know he would never surrender anything he considered his. If Falcon came for her, there would be battle, a war that would not end until either Falcon or Wynter lay dead.

And if Falcon had Blazing, the victor would not be Wynter of the Craig.

For no reason Khamsin cared to examine too closely, that thought left her feeling more ill than the awful fish dishes she’d not been able to escape at lunch.

Kham met with Vinca later that afternoon, but the tour of the palace wasn’t remotely as helpful or extensive as Khamsin had hoped it would be. They visited only the kitchens, wine cellars, the servants’ quarters, and portions of the lower four levels of the main palace.

Kham didn’t like the wine cellars. They’d been dug deep into the mountain, through solid rock, and they reminded Kham too much of the place King Verdan had taken her to beat her into compliance with his plans. Especially since her connection to the sun disappeared when she stepped across the cellar threshold.

Rattled by those memories, her curt, “Yes, quite impressive,” and the abrupt way she then turned and headed for the door didn’t win her any points with Vinca or the wine steward. She was too proud and too protective of her vulnerability to apologize for her behavior. Instead, she announced briskly, “I believe I’ve seen enough of the kitchens. I would prefer to spend the rest of our tour above stairs.”

She didn’t draw an easy breath until they reached the first floor, and she stood in a beam of sunlight shining through a large, arched window.

Wynter’s palace servants were too well trained to show disapproval, but the tiny hint of warmth that had been in Vinca’s voice at the start of the tour disappeared after that visit to the cellars, and it never returned. With cool, dispassionate efficiency, Vinca escorted Khamsin through the lower four levels of the palace proper, which housed banqueting halls, the throne room, rooms of state, and an entire wing of rooms they did not enter, which Vinca said were used by Wynter, his cabinet, and the many folk involved in the governance of the kingdom. In addition, there were all manner of parlors and galleries and a tremendous library that would have made Summer and Spring sigh with pleasure. Everywhere were terraces and balconies overlooking the mountains, the valley below, Konundal, the village at the foot of Gildenheim’s mountain, and the many, multileveled gardens built into the side of the mountain and integrated into the palace itself as it went up and up.

At the fourth floor, Vinca turned to Khamsin and announced the end of the tour. “What about the rest of the palace?” Kham gestured to the gilded stairways twining up to floors they hadn’t visited yet.

“Naught that would be of interest to Your Grace,” Vinca said. “Mostly just rooms used by the nobles and visiting dignitaries and their servants when they are at court, and most of those are empty now.”

“How many more floors are there?”

“Another ten, not counting the towers, but three of those are servants’ quarters.”

Kham gasped. “So many?” She’d realized Gildenheim was massive. She just hadn’t realized how massive.

“There was talk of building an upper palace before the war.” Vinca smiled with pride before she caught herself and marshaled her expression back into a cool mask. “Things are much quieter here these last three years.”

Kham shook her head. “If Gildenheim got any larger, you would need a horse to ride from one end of the palace to the other.”

“Winterfolk are a hardy breed, and walking does the body good,” Vinca replied crisply. Then she sighed, and admitted, “But an expansion is unlikely to happen anytime soon. Wars are costly, and not just to the treasury.”

A brief, tense silence fell between them at the reminder of the terrible price of war.

Vinca cleared her throat. “If there won’t be anything else, Your Grace? Dinner will be served in less than two hours, and I have a number of duties yet to attend to.”

“Of course. Thank you very much for the tour, Vinca.”

“My pleasure, Your Grace. Shall I escort you back to your chambers?”

Kham wasn’t ready to go back to her rooms. She wanted to explore a little more. “No, you go on. I’ll find my way there.”

Vinca made no move to leave. She gnawed on her bottom lip, then said, “The king would not be pleased if I were to abandon you here alone.”

“If I tell you to go, you aren’t abandoning me.” Kham’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. “Believe me, if the king doesn’t like it, he’ll know where the blame lies.” When Vinca still remained where she was, Kham arched a brow. A flicker of irritation stirred in her breast. “I’ll be fine, Vinca. I need to learn my way around. Now is as good a time as any.”

Left with no alternative but to leave or directly disobey the woman who was—however temporarily—her queen, Vinca dipped a curtsy and made her way back downstairs.

Once she was gone, Kham turned and started down the wide corridor that led to another set of stairs. Ten more levels? Plus all those towers and turrets? Her pulse quickened. She was an explorer at heart. Quiet, abandoned places with their musty old secrets had been her home for years, and she’d spent a lifetime ferreting through forgotten treasures, imagining where they’d come from, who had left them there.

True to Vinca’s word, however, the fifth floor was nothing more than living quarters for palace guests—many of those rooms unoccupied, and utterly disappointing on the hidden-treasure front. Still, she opened every door that wasn’t locked and peered inside.

The rooms were graciously appointed, luxurious without the sometimes garish opulence of the palace at Vera Sola. Kham didn’t want to admit it, but the restrained elegance of these rooms appealed to her. And every one of the rooms, occupied or not, was maintained in a perfect state of readiness.

She was inspecting a small study, admiring the cream brocade couches and the beaded embroidery of ice blue velvet drapes, when a young maid approached and bobbed a quick curtsy.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. It’s half past six, and the king sent me to escort you to your chambers to change for the evening meal.”

Had Vinca reported that she’d left Kham unattended in the upper levels of the palace? Or had one of the servants on this floor taken exception to her poking her nose in all the rooms?

Kham considered sending the maid back without her, then discarded the notion. If she defied him, Wynter’s next emissary would likely be one of his White Guard, and she had no desire to be marched back downstairs like a wayward prisoner. Her exploring for the day had come to an end.

“What’s your name?” she asked the maid, as they made their way to the main staircase.

The girl looked surprised. “Greta, Your Grace.”

“Have you worked here long—at the palace, I mean?”

“Since I was eight, Your Grace.”

Kham frowned. “Eight seems awfully young to go into service. Is it customary for Wintercraig children to work at so young an age?”

Greta lifted her chin. “My father died in a Great Hunt not long after Prince Wynter became king. My mum had four children and a fifth on the way. The king saw to it that we had a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and work, because Winterfolk don’t take charity. Mum works in the kitchens. I started doing top-floor work until I was old enough to move downstairs.”

“Top-floor work?”

“Keeping the upstairs tidy. Seventh floor and higher.” She bit her lip. “No one really uses those rooms anymore,” she admitted, “but the king wouldn’t let Mistress Vinca close them up even during the war. Said it was important to keep the palace ready for whatever the future holds. It’s mostly the little ones who tend the unused rooms.”

“The little ones?”

“Too old to stay in the nursery but too young to do heavy work. Mostly they just dust and sweep and change the linens. Like I did when I first came here. My sister Fenna still does top-floor work. But she’s ten next year, and she’ll be training with the seamstress.”

“What about your brothers and sisters?”

“My brother Skander—he’s sixteen—works in the stables, but he’ll be training for the White Guard soon. My brother Tarn is an armorer’s apprentice. Linnet—she’s thirteen—works with the gardener. Some of the little ones work with the gardener, too, during the summer, but this time of year, it gets too cold, so they can’t stay out for long. Top-floor work is better. And there’s schooling in the mornings.”

“What sort of schooling?”

Greta frowned as if the question made no sense. “The usual. Reading, writing, doing figures.” She made a face. “History.”

Kham’s brows raised in genuine surprise. “Where I come from, Greta, there’s nothing usual in that. Only the merchants and the nobility educate their children.” It was a long-held belief of many a Summerlander noble that their farmhands and manual laborers had no need for books and mathematics. Education tended to give the menial classes “ideas” that caused all manner of societal problems. “And, history is fascinating.”

“I could never like it.” Greta shook her head. “All those battles and kings and dates. Deadly boring.”

“Oh, no,” Kham objected. “All those lives, those heroes, those tales of great adventures and sacrifice. It’s the very furthest from boring anything could ever be.”

“If you say so, Your Grace.” The young maid looked unconvinced.

“I shall prove it to you. When is the next history lesson?”

“History is every Thorgyllsday at ten o’clock.”

“Excellent. Next Thorgyllsday, you will escort me to wherever these lessons are held, and I’ll share a bit of history from my country that I promise you is anything but boring. It’s the story of Summerlea’s greatest king, Roland Soldeus.”

Greta didn’t look too enthusiastic about the prospect, but Kham attributed that to Greta’s self-professed dislike of history. She’d wager not one of these Winterchildren had ever heard the epic tale of Roland Triumphant. She had no doubt they’d love it as much as she did once.

The prospect of sharing Roland’s valiant tale kept her smiling all the way to the dining hall, where the sight of Gildenheim’s assembled nobles greeted her like a splash of cold water in the face. As the footman rang a bell and announced her arrival, Kham doused her smile and took a deep breath, girding herself for yet another mealtime ordeal.

The next week fell into a stultifying pattern. Although Wynter ate his evening meals with the court and visited her bedchamber nightly, she saw very little of him during the day. Her attempts to get involved in the actual running of the palace were politely but firmly rebuffed, leaving her to fill her time as best she could. She spent her mornings exploring the upper levels of the palace and talking to the children or sitting in on their lessons. Then came the interminably long luncheon and tedious social hour with the ladies of the court, followed by an hour spent walking through the gardens and feeding the birds—which might have been blessedly private and peaceful had not several of the ladies and several White Guard taken to accompanying her. In the afternoons, she wandered about the palace and tried to get to know the servants and Winterfolk who lived and worked in Gildenheim.

Then Thorgyllsday rolled around, bringing with it the much-anticipated history lesson. Khamsin sprang out of bed, eagerly donned a royal blue gown that had belonged to Summer, and raced upstairs, her copy of Roland Triumphant clutched to her chest. When she entered the little classroom, however, instead of a roomful of children waiting for their lesson, she found empty chairs and a history teacher who informed her that all the children had been called away to tend other matters.

“How disappointing,” Kham said. “Perhaps I could come back next week.”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” the history teacher informed her, “but if you intend to teach them about Roland Soldeus, I expect their mothers will have work for them next week as well.”

She swallowed hard. “I see.” All week long, she’d noticed that some of the children had been disappearing from the classes, not to return, but she’d assumed that they’d just been reassigned to work in other parts of the palace. It hadn’t occurred to her that she was the reason they’d been withdrawn from the classes. “What if I were to teach them about one of Wintercraig’s heroes instead?” She didn’t know any stories about Wintercraig heroes, but there was a big library in the palace. Surely there must be something she could use in there to excite these children about history.

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” the teacher said. “Perhaps it’s best if you leave the education of Wintercraig children to Winterfolk.”

Kham stumbled back. There was no misunderstanding this message: She was a Summerlander, and she was unwelcome here. “Of course. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Mortified, Kham spun on her heel and walked rapidly down the hall towards the stairs. All the way, she fought a losing battle with tears and had to duck into one of the abandoned bedrooms to hide when the dam burst and the flood of hot, salty wetness spilled down her cheeks. She’d faced rejection before, and plenty of it, but she couldn’t remember the last time anything had wounded her like this. This rejection was personal, and it bloodied her in places she’d thought long ago inured against hurt.

She cried until her tears were spent, then wiped her eyes and sat locked in the room until her face was no longer blotchy or swollen, and her eyes lost their puffy red rims. When she finally emerged from the room, half a dozen servants loitering about in the hallway scattered like mice. Kham watched them go with a hardened heart. She’d offered these people friendship, and they’d thrown it back in her face. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she marched downstairs to her scheduled luncheon with the ladies of the court. There, at least, she had never felt at home enough to let down her guard. And because she hadn’t let down her guard, the Winterladies of the court couldn’t hurt her the way the upstairs children just had.

Or so she thought until she reached the dining hall, and Lady Melle came forward, smiling sweetly, her hands outstretched.

“Come in, my dear, come in. We were beginning to worry you’d gotten lost.” As they took their seats at the banquet table, Lady Melle beamed. “Cook has outdone herself today. She’s prepared a special treat just for you. I understand it’s one of your favorites.” She waved over the first of a line of servants carrying covered trays of food. The server whipped off the deep tray with a flourish. A cloud of steam billowed forth as the servant holding the tray held it out for Khamsin’s inspection. “Lutefisk and eels,” Lady Melle announced with a happy smile.

Kham’s eyes widened, and her nostrils flared at the sight—and dreadful aroma—of the pile of gelatinous white fish surrounded by a sea of broth swimming with onions, garlic, and long black eels. Her stomach gave a terrible lurch.

The Winterladies gasped in surprise as Kham leapt to her feet so fast she sent her chair flying.

“My dear!” Lady Melle cried.

“Your Grace!” someone else exclaimed.

Kham clapped a hand over her mouth, grabbed her skirts in one hand, and bolted for the door. Please, let me make it out of the room. Don’t let me shame myself before them. Please, let me make it out of the room.

She didn’t make it.

“She puked over lutefisk and eels?” Valik asked when Lady Melle finished her report of this afternoon’s disastrous luncheon. “Who doesn’t like lutefisk and eels? They’re delicious!”

“Valik.” Wynter gave his second-in-command a pointed look and jerked his head in the direction of the door. Valik grimaced but tromped out. When he was gone, Wyn leaned back in his chair and regarded Lady Melle over steepled fingers.

“It appears to have been a prank,” Lady Melle explained. “Cook received a note saying the queen was pining for lutefisk and eels, declaring it one of her favorites. Needless to say, that doesn’t appear to be true.”

They were seated in his private office in the western tower. To Wyn’s left, a wide window of leaded-glass panes looked out over the Minsk River valley far below. Not that you could see that valley now. Dark clouds cloaked Gildenheim in a heavy mist, harbinger of the afternoon storm that had rolled in like clockwork every day around noon for the past week. The storm should have already broken up, since Khamsin’s daily luncheon with her ladies had come to its unfortunate end over an hour ago, but his weatherwitch queen was working a different misery out in the sky today, and snow was falling with no sign of letting up anytime soon.

It was early for snow, even in Craig, but whether Khamsin’s daily storms or the Ice Heart was to blame, Wynter didn’t know.

“Apart from today’s unfortunate incident, how is my queen settling in?”

“Truthfully?”

Wyn gave a curt nod.

“She’s not.” Lady Melle threw up her hands in distress. “I’m sorry, my dearest, but the poor thing’s miserable. Our food doesn’t agree with her. She can’t ply a needle to save her life. The ladies tried reading some of their favorite novels to her, but she grew so restless and impatient, I thought we were going to have a tempest right there in the gathering hall. She likes the outdoors, but she hates having us following her, watching her every move. I thought she might like to take a trip with me down to Konundal, but she doesn’t ride, and when I suggested having a carriage brought round, well, I swear I nearly saw some of that lightning Lord Valik says she can call.”

Wyn grimaced. “Carriages don’t agree with her any better than lutefisk and eels.”

Lady Melle’s brows rose. “That would have been useful information to know before now, Wynter,” she said with an uncharacteristic snap in her voice.

Wyn closed his eyes against the sudden whip of icy temper rising inside him. Before drinking the Ice Heart, Lady Melle’s scold would have made him blush in shame. Now it made fury bite hard, the Ice King in him fuming at her impertinence. But Wynter would slit his own throat before allowing himself to harm, either by word or deed, the gentle, big-hearted woman who had been a surrogate mother to Garrick . . . and to himself, insomuch as he would let her. “You know it now, Lady Melle,” he said when he trusted himself to speak.

She heaved a sigh, oblivious to her own mortal peril. “Honestly, my boy, could you make this any more difficult? You don’t want her wandering all over the palace, you don’t want her walking alone outside, you don’t want her interfering in the running of the palace, the servants are up in arms over her attempt to interfere in their children’s education, and Wyrn knows she can’t sit still for any length of time. One short hour after our luncheon pushes her to the very limits of her endurance. I’ve had several ladies express their concern that she might lose her temper and strike us dead with a lightning bolt. Something must be done!”

“What do you suggest, Lady Melle?” One of the many admirable traits of Lady Melle, she never presented a problem without also offering a solution.

“She needs a friend, my dear. She’s a young girl in a strange place. She needs someone she can talk to. Someone she can do things with.”

Lady Melle’s mouth quirked in a deprecating smile. “I’m too old to chase around with her hither and yon, and the ladies, forgive me, fear her magic and frankly haven’t warmed up to the poor thing any more than she has to them.”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“I wish I did. I’ve been racking my brain. I was going to speak to Barsul about it tonight, see if he could suggest anyone.”

“I’ll think on it. Thank you, Lady Melle.” Wynter stood up, signaling an end to the meeting.

Lady Melle rose and headed for the door, then paused when she reached it. “I like her, Wynter. I like her quite a lot, and I didn’t expect to. Yes, she has a temper—and a hard time keeping it contained—but there’s also a kindness in her, and a great deal of loneliness. I don’t think she’s the threat Valik believes her to be. You really should spend more time with her.”

“Thank you, Lady Melle,” Wynter said again, his voice polite, his gaze deliberately noncommittal.

Lady Melle sighed and let herself out.

The freezing rain and snow continued to fall all day. Wynter left his office early to share dinner with the court, but Khamsin’s chair remained conspicuously empty.

“I’m so sorry about the queen’s ill health at today’s luncheon,” Reika said, as the servants carried trays of fragrant fish dishes around the table. “Valik told me she didn’t travel well, but I would never have thought her fragile stomach extended to mealtimes. We Winterfolk are such a hardy lot.” With a smile, she turned to help herself to a serving of broiled mackerel. “I do hope the coming winter won’t be too difficult for her constitution.”

Though spoken with solicitous concern, Reika’s remark somehow managed to make it sound like Khamsin was a weakling who didn’t measure up to the rigorous demands of life in Wintercraig. The implication didn’t sit well with Wynter.

“She is much stronger than those who don’t know her might think,” he replied. “But thank you for your concern, Lady Villani. You remind me that I should go check on my wife.” Reika gaped at him as he tossed his napkin on the table and stood. “If you will excuse me.”

Wynter strode out of the dining hall and took the stairs three at a time. When he reached the wing that housed his and Khamsin’s chambers, he didn’t bother with his usual habit of accessing Khamsin’s bedchamber through the connecting door between their rooms. Instead, he went straight through the main doors to her suite, startling her little maid, whom he dismissed with a curt command and a sharp wave of his hand.

He found Khamsin sitting on her balcony, wet clothes plastered to her body, her skin ice-cold. He didn’t need to ask how she was feeling. Her battered emotions were all too obvious as they played out across the stormy night sky. No cracks of lightning or wild winds tonight. Just heavy clouds and wet, falling snow. She didn’t even put up a fight when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her back inside.

Because he’d dismissed her maid, Wynter tended to her needs himself, stripping her of her sodden garments, toweling her dry with soft cloths from her bathing chamber, lowering a fine, fragrant linen gown over her head. Through it all, she stood unnaturally still and docile, without a single toss of her head or rebellious flash in her eyes. When he was done, she climbed into bed and looked at him with dull eyes.

“Will you be coming to bed, Your Grace?”

He wanted to howl. She wasn’t some spineless, timid lass. She was Khamsin—Storm—full of fire and defiance and strong, reckless, stubborn will. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed her wildness, her vitality, or how much he looked forward to seeing it every night.

“No,” he said. “You’ve been ill. You should get your rest.”

She didn’t toss her head and remind him of his need for an heir or her motivation to provide him one. She merely looked at him for one long moment, then lay down on her side, her back to him, and pulled the covers up around her shoulders.

She looked so small and alone in her vast bed.

Valik would warn him to harden his heart, that she was manipulating him. But Wynter knew from the top-floor maids that Kham had spent the entire morning locked in one of the unused bedrooms upstairs, crying. Hiding her vulnerability as she always did.

It alarmed him that she wasn’t hiding it now, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving her tonight would be a mistake.

Trusting his instincts, Wyn walked to the other side of the bed, shed his clothes, then climbed into the bed beside his wife. He expected her to turn to him, but she didn’t.

Instead, her back still to him, she said, “I thought you weren’t going to stay.”

Her voice sounded different. Thicker.

She was still hiding her vulnerability, after all.

He reached for her, easily conquering her slight resistance as he turned her over to face him. She wouldn’t look at him, damp, spiky lashes hiding her eyes.

“I changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Gently, as if she were fragile crystal that would shatter at the slightest pressure, he touched his lips to her eyes, nuzzling away her tears, then brushed soft, lingering kisses across her cheeks until her slender arm twined around his neck, and she lifted her mouth to his.

They didn’t speak. They simply loved in silence, letting their hands, their lips, their bodies speak for them. Long, lingering caresses. Tender, healing kisses. The slow, steady glide of bodies moving together in wordless communion.

Afterwards, exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she fell asleep in his arms. He lay there for more than an hour, just holding her and watching her sleep, and he realized that Valik might just be right to fear that Wynter’s Summerlea bride was working some sort of enchantment on him. The fiery, passionate, willful Khamsin drew him like a moth to flame and brought those frozen parts of him back to life. But this Khamsin, the wounded, needing Khamsin who couldn’t hide her pain, she seeped into the cracks in his icy armor, penetrating much deeper than was comfortable or safe.

He wasn’t ready for that, so he left her in the middle of the night.

She wasn’t the only one who hid her vulnerabilities.