The Winter King

CHAPTER 18

A Surfeit of Snow

The next morning, as Wynter sat in his office reviewing the documents that had stacked up in his absence, it occurred to him that he’d never gotten either the long soak in a steaming tub nor the night of undisturbed sleep he’d been looking forward to. The soak had been shared and short-lived, with most of the steaming water ending up on the floor of his bathing chamber before it had time to cool. And his sleep—what little he’d gotten—had been in Khamsin’s bed rather than his own.

He should have been exhausted today. Instead, he felt more invigorated than he had in months. The few hours he had slept, with Khamsin draped over him, had been deep and dreamless and utterly restorative. Despite a second bath they’d shared again this morning, he could still smell her on his skin, and the scent kept distracting him as he attempted to plow his way through the mountain of papers awaiting his review.

The fifth time his mind went wandering while attempting to read the same single paragraph in a report, Wyn gave up. The paperwork would have to wait. He pushed back from his desk and summoned Deervyn Fjall. After explaining what he wanted and sending Fjall to see it done, Wynter went in search of his wife. He found his Summerlass in the grand dining room with Lady Melle Firkin and a dozen ladies of the court.

Wyn paused just outside the doors to observe them. Though the ladies were sitting scant feet away from his wife, there was an invisible but distinct gulf between them. The ladies chatted amongst themselves, never addressing Khamsin except when prodded into conversation by Lady Melle, and even then their voices were cold and clipped. Khamsin’s lovely, expressive face was drawn in a blank mask, all her bright vitality and passion tamped down and hidden away, leaving a lifeless, wooden caricature of Wyn’s wild summer Rose. The sight made his hands clench, and he had to wrestle his temper and his magic into submission before he stepped into the room.

“Your Grace!” The gathered ladies jumped to their feet and dropped into swift but graceful curtsies.

“Your Grace.” Khamsin executed her own, much slower but equally graceful curtsy. “I wasn’t expecting the pleasure of your company this morning.”

“Were you not?” He bent down and dropped a kiss upon her upturned lips, aware of the ladies watching with avid interest and no small surprise. “I spent the better part of the last two months staying away until you were fully recovered from your illness. I am resolved to make up for lost time. I thought we might go for a ride.”

“I—of-of course. I would like that very much.”

Clearly, he’d shocked her. Wynter discovered he liked shocking her. He liked the way darker color flooded her cheeks, turning that beautiful brown skin a dusky rose.

“Go change into your riding habit. I’ll meet you by the stables. Ladies.” He bowed to the women of his court.

The gossip was buzzing before he even left the room. Good. His queen, who had been an outcast in her own home all her life, would not be an outcast in his.

Yesterday, Khamsin had accused him of sabotaging her efforts to fit in with his court and his people. He hadn’t deliberately set out to do so, but he couldn’t pretend that his determination to avoid her hadn’t resulted in precisely that outcome. And Galacia was right, too. He had failed in his duty to look after Khamsin properly. He had contributed to her alienation and misery—he, who was bound by the laws of Wintercraig, to put her well-being before his own.

That disgraceful lack of care ended today.

Over Valik’s objections, they rode out alone, without a single guard in attendance. Not the King and Queen of Wintercraig, but Khamsin and Wynter, husband and wife.

Thanks in no small part to the storm, he and Khamsin had generated yesterday, Wintercraig lay buried under three feet of fresh snow. Tree boughs sagged under the weight accumulated on their branches. Travel was possible only because crews of men had been working around the clock since the end of the storm to clear the main roads. Piles of packed snow six feet deep lined the thoroughfares.

Khamsin eyed the wintry scene with open dismay. “Did we do this?”

Wyn hesitated. Even though the ferocity of their storm had faded when anger turned to passion, he hadn’t thought to disperse it until hours later. The new accumulation of snow was definitely their fault. He wouldn’t lie to her, but neither did he want her fretting all day over something they could not change, so he said, “Winter storms have swept the Craig long before you or I were born. It’s the price of living in one of the most beautiful lands in all of Mystral.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Noticed that, did you?” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “All right, yes, the storm we called—you and I together—brought the snow. But it would have come on its own some other time. Blizzards far worse than the one we called are commonplace in the Craig. And we need the snow, Khamsin. We thank Wyrn for sending it. Come spring, the waterfalls will flow from the mountaintops, and our land will turn green and lush and more beautiful than any place in the world.”

That mollified her enough to wipe the dreadful guilt from her gaze. She leaned back in the saddle and gazed at the breathtaking scenery around them.

“I can’t deny it is beautiful.” The mountains of the Craig towered into clear, cloudless blue skies, their jagged black peaks now entirely covered in flows of white. The valley and forested lowland mountains sparkled in the sunlight like the pristine crystalline perfection of the Atrium’s ice forest. “You’re sure we didn’t hurt anyone? No one got caught out in the storm?”

“Winterfolk know how to survive blizzards,” he assured her. “No one goes out at this time of year without protective gear and supplies enough to weather a bad storm. And that includes me.” He patted the saddlebags and blanket roll tied to the back of his saddle.

“What about the snow on the mountains?” She eyed the towering peaks. “Krysti warned me about the danger of avalanches when we were out riding.”

“They are always a danger,” he admitted, “but since before my grandfather’s time, we have sent teams of men in the mountains to keep the snowpacks under control.”

“How do they do that? Are they weathermages?”

He smiled. “No. They’re ordinary Wintermen who climb the mountains after every storm to measure the ice packs, and when necessary, start smaller avalanches to clear the snow.”

“And that works?” She looked plainly skeptical.

“There are still deadly avalanches, of course, but far fewer than before.”

They had reached Skala-Holt, the furthest distance west of Gildenheim Khamsin and Krysti had ever ridden. The villagers Khamsin had been trying so hard to win over stopped in their tracks when she rode in with Wynter at her side.

“I’m hungry,” Wynter announced. “How about you? The pub here serves a delicious venison stew.”

Khamsin hesitated. Liese, Skala-Holt’s pubkeeper who’d lost her husband in the war, had made it clear Khamsin wasn’t welcome in her establishment. Oh, Liese had never outright refused to serve Wintercraig’s queen, but her thinly veiled hostility and curt tone had made Kham and Krysti’s few visits to the pub very uncomfortable.

“It’s already getting late,” Kham hedged. “We should be heading back.”

But Wynter had already brought Hodri to a halt beside the pub’s front door. “We’ll eat here,” he said. He dismounted and came around to help Khamsin down. He handed the reins of their mounts to a waiting stablelad and, with a cool nod to the gathering villagers, put a hand on the small of Kham’s back and escorted her into the pub.

A fire burned merrily in the hearth. Half a dozen villagers were seated at the bar and tables. Liese, the pubkeeper, started to scowl when she saw Khamsin walk through the door, then froze when Wynter ducked in behind her and straightened to his full height. All conversation in the room ceased.

“Your Grace.” Liese came around the pub’s bartop. Her gaze darted nervously to Khamsin’s face. “Your Grace.” She dipped an awkward curtsy.

“Good day, Liese,” Khamsin murmured.

“I was just singing the praises of your venison stew to my queen,” Wynter said. “We’d like two bowls and a loaf of your fresh bread. And two pints of mead.”

“Aye, Your Graces, right away.” The pubkeeper served them with more deference and alacrity than she’d ever shown Khamsin, and within minutes, they were enjoying a hot, simple meal of truly delicious stew and fresh, fragrant bread slathered with creamy butter.

Wynter chatted with the other patrons as they ate, making a point of including Khamsin in the conversation. Several times, he reached across the table to lift Kham’s left hand and press a kiss against her wrist, a gesture not missed by his audience.

When the meal was over. Wynter dropped a handful of coins on the table, thanked Liese for the excellent food and service, and ushered Khamsin out the door.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said as she stepped into his cupped hands for a boost into the saddle.

Wynter played dumb. “I don’t mind helping you into the saddle.”

She gave him a look, in response to which he arched a single, silvery brow and smiled a challenge. She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t need you fighting my battles.” She laid the reins across Kori’s neck, turning the mare back towards Gildenheim.

“Wrong way, wife,” Wyn said as he swung into his saddle. “We’re headed west.”

She frowned. “Shouldn’t we start back? We’re already going to be riding most of the way to Gildenheim in the dark.” It was mid-November, and the days were short, the sun setting by four o’clock.

“We’re not going back to Gildenheim.”

“Where are we going?”

He smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see.”

They rode west another three hours, stopping for the night at an inn in a small village called Riverfall. Khamsin had never met the villagers here, but with Wynter by her side, they were all smiles and warm welcome. They spent a pleasant night spooned together in a soft, warm bed whose rope springs squeaked so loudly Kham could hardly meet the innkeeper’s eyes without blushing the next morning.

They set off again at first light, leaving the main road to follow a winding, recently cleared switchback road that zigzagged up the mountain.

The forest was so peaceful. White, covered with pristine snow broken only by the occasional tracks of wildlife. Every once in a while, a flurry of snow would topple from the branches of the trees, disturbed by a winter bird taking flight. The serene quiet was broken only by the steady clop-clop of their mounts’ hooves and the chime of the bridle bells.

As they rode up the mountain, they passed a dozen Wintermen coming down, snow shovels strapped to their backs. The men murmured greetings and doffed their hats before continuing down the path Wynter and Khamsin had just traversed.

Thirty minutes later, the cleared pathway ended at a small, frozen mountain lake, which had also been completely cleared of snow, leaving a smooth, silvery surface of thick ice.

Wynter rode Hodri to the edge of the lake and tied his bridle to a tree next to a pile of hay that had been left atop a cleared section of snow.

“Wynter?” What was this place? Obviously, he’d arranged for the road and pond to be cleared so he could bring her here, but she wasn’t sure why.

He held up a hand to help Khamsin from the saddle.

“Don’t you recognize it?”

“No. Krysti and I never rode this far from Gildenheim.”

“My family has a hunting lodge about an hour’s ride further up the mountain. We used to come here often when I was a boy. The ice gets thick, and the waterfall freezes every winter.” He pointed to an incredible spray of what looked like frosted white stalactites tumbling down the side of the mountain.

The frozen waterfall looked strangely familiar though she was sure she’d never been here before. Then she processed Wynter’s comment about his childhood, and the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

“It’s the skating pond from the Atrium!” Now that she’d made the connection, she was shocked at how accurately Wynter had portrayed this spot. “Is there really a cave behind the waterfall?”

“Why don’t you go see for yourself?” Wynter turned to the saddlebags strapped to the back of Hodri’s saddle and turned back with two pairs of metal blades fitted with leather straps. He patted a large rock. “Sit here, and I’ll put on your skates.”

She eyed the skating contraptions with trepidation. “I don’t know how to skate.”

“It’s not that hard. I’ll teach you.” He patted the rock again. When she made no move to do as he said, he arched one silvery brow. “You aren’t scared, are you?”

That got her back up. “Of course not.”

“Then come and let me help you with your skates.”

Khamsin grudgingly went to sit on the rock. Wynter knelt before her and fitted the skating blade to the bottom of her boot. The blade itself was fastened to a hard layer of leather and metal. One set of leather straps tied around the toe of her boot, and another two sets crisscrossed around her heel, ankle, and foot to hold the skate securely in place.

When he finished buckling her skates, Wynter sat beside her to don his own. He stood up and reached for her hands to help her to her feet.

The skate blades immediately tilted sideways, and she fell against Wynter.

“Find your balance. Don’t let your ankles fold. Try to stand upright on the blades.”

She tried to straighten her ankles, only to have them fold the other direction. “Easier said than done.”

“You can do it.” He steadied her as she straightened up again. “Good. Now just stand there for a minute. Get used to the feel of balancing on the blades. That’s really the hardest part of skating. Everything else is simple.”

“All right.” She concentrated on keeping her ankles steady. It took a little effort, but all the riding and climbing she’d done with Krysti had strengthened the muscles of her calves and ankles and improved her balance significantly.

“Try to stand without holding on to me.”

When she felt steady, she loosened her grip on him, then let go completely. Her ankles wobbled a tiny bit, but she managed to retain her balance.

“Well done. Now, let’s get you on the ice.”

She nodded and held Wynter’s hand as he led her down the snowy bank to the opening in the wall of snow piled around the frozen pond. Wynter stepped onto the ice and glided backward several feet to give her room.

The moment she stepped off the embankment onto the ice, her front foot began to slide out from under her.

“Balance.” Wynter caught and steadied her. “Put both feet on the ice. Good,” he praised when she did so. “Now, bend your knees and lean forward. That’s it. You’re doing wonderfully. Now, just hold on to me, and I’ll lead you around the ice until you get the feel for the skates.”

Khamsin held on to him for dear life, her legs and ankles wobbling terribly as he skated backward and pulled her slowly around the perimeter of the frozen pond.

“You say some people actually enjoy this?” she asked, as they started their second circuit.

He laughed. The low, throaty sound shivered up her spine. “Thoroughly, min ros. You’ll understand once you get the hang of it. Now, I want you to put your weight on your right foot and start pushing off with your left. Yes, like that. Don’t worry. I’ve got you. I won’t let you go.”

“I thought you were going to show me the cave behind the waterfall,” she reminded him, as they circled the pond a third time.

“That was my excuse to get you out on the ice. It’s there, I promise. When you feel ready, you can skate over there and see for yourself.”

“I didn’t realize you were so sneaky.”

“Are you not having fun?”

“I suppose.” She was actually. He was smiling. The fresh air, white snow, blue sky, and bright golden sun made her feel happy and light-hearted. It was a perfect, beautiful day. The kind of day he’d sculpted in the Atrium. The kind of day he’d known so many of as a child.

And then she realized what he was doing.

He was giving her a memory of her own to cherish.

The knowledge robbed her of breath and made her throat go suddenly and painfully tight. She blinked back the rush of tears that blurred her vision and threatened to spill over and embarrass her. She coughed to loosen her throat and looked away to hide her unsettled emotions.

“Did you bring Elka here, too?” Good glory! Where in Halla’s name had that come from? “I’m sorry,” she babbled. “Don’t answer that. It’s none of my business.”

“You are my wife. Of course what came before in my life is your business, just as what came before in your life is mine. And, no, I never brought her here. She wasn’t much of a skater.”

Kham bit her lip. She was curious about Wynter’s former betrothed and had been for a long while. Fear of broaching a too-touchy subject and losing what small gains she’d made among the noblewomen had kept her from asking anyone at court about her. But Wynter had just opened that door and invited her in.

“What was she like? Elka, I mean.” What about her had so entranced first Wynter, then Falcon that had led two kingdoms to war?

He shrugged. “Tall, cool, beautiful, restrained with her emotions. She had her passions, of course, but she kept them hidden most of the time.”

In other words, the exact opposite of Khamsin. “Do you wish I were more like her?”

His head whipped around. “Good goddess, no!” He looked completely shocked. “Have I ever given you cause to think so?”

“No . . . but you like her cousin very much. Don’t deny it.”

She squawked in surprise when Wynter caught her about the waist and pulled her up against him, leaving her feet dangling above the ice. His head swooped down to claim her lips. He kissed her thoroughly, driving the breath out of her lungs and every last thought of Reika Villani out of her mind. When he set her back on her feet, she nearly went sprawling in an ungainly heap of boneless limbs and jellied muscles.

“You have no cause for concern on that score, min ros. Reika Villani is an old family friend and Valik’s cousin. She has never been any more than that to me, nor ever will be. You, on the other hand, are much, much more and have been since the moment I first set eyes on you.” He cupped her chin and ran a thumb over her lower lip. His eyes followed the same path with thrilling intensity. “Your father thought he scored a victory over me when he tricked me into marrying you instead of one of your sisters, but he unwittingly gave me the one daughter I wanted most.”

“H-he did?”

Wynter smiled, a slow, devastating smile that nearly melted her where she stood. “Oh, yes. Never doubt it.”

As abruptly as it had appeared, the smoldering intensity in his eyes winked out, and he pushed her back to arm’s length.

“Now, I want you to keep skating, but this time, only hold one of my hands. If you need to stop, for any reason, don’t panic. Just bend your knees slightly inward and push out with one or both of your feet. Like this.” He released one of her hands and skated a half circle around her, stopping with a sideways motion that scraped a fine layer of powdered ice off the frozen surface of the pond. “See?”

“Uh-huh . . .” Khamsin held Wynter’s one hand in a death grip. “All right. Here goes.” She pushed off with her left foot, the way he’d shown her. Her ankles wobbled. The skates slid on the ice. She flung her free arm out to the side to steady herself. She started falling backward, and in a panic, lunged for Wynter.

He caught her around her waist to steady her. “I’ve got you. Don’t panic. Just bend your knees. Lean forward over your skates. Keep your balance centered over the skates. There. All right. Try that again.”

“I think maybe skating isn’t for me.”

“I had no idea I’d married such a coward.”

“Neither did I, but apparently we were both wrong.”

He laughed. “No, we weren’t. I wed a fierce and fearless Summerlass with lightning in her hair and a storm in her eyes. Come now, eldi-kona. Show me what you’re made of.”

He thought she was fierce and fearless? Khamsin clenched her jaw and squared her shoulders, determined not to disappoint him. “All right.”

She bent her knees slightly, working hard to stop her ankles from wobbling and keep the metal blades of the skates perpendicular to the ice. She leaned forward slightly over her bent knees, as Wynter had instructed, and pushed off with her left foot again.

Whether because she was concentrating more, or because she was simply determined not to fall and embarrass herself in front of him, she managed to maintain her balance. This time, she completed an entire circuit around the pond, holding only one of his hands; and then, feeling slightly braver, she made a second circuit without holding on to him at all.

“Very good, Summerlass. You’re getting the hang of it. I knew you could do it.” He glided across the ice alongside her, spinning in lazy, graceful circles, his long white hair blowing around his face and shoulders.

“You’re showing off.”

“No.” He smiled. “This is showing off.” He pushed off with a sudden burst of strength and skated rapidly along the perimeter of the pond, gathering speed as he went. As he circled back around to pass her, he crouched slightly, gathering strength, and leapt into the air in front of her, his body spinning like a top. He landed on one skate several yards away, then twirled, skated back her way, and slid to a stop in a spray of powdered ice.

She gaped at him. “I hope you’re not expecting me to try that.”

He laughed, white teeth flashing against golden skin. “Maybe one day.”

She arched both brows. Maybe never was more like it. “Right . . . um, so where is that cave you were telling me about?”

“This way, little coward.” Still chuckling, he put an arm around her waist and skated with her over to the frozen streams of water that had formed layer upon layer of breathtaking falls of icicles. “Crouch down over here, where the ice is thinner. Do you see it?”

She bent over, trying to peer through the slivers of dark space between the frozen streams of water. “I think so.”

“Hold on.” Wynter slammed a fist into the frozen fall, breaking off several large chunks. “There. Do you see?”

Now she could see the black stone behind the waterfall and the blacker shadow of a small cave bored into the rock at the base of the fall. “I see it. How far does it go back?”

“Twenty feet or so. It gets tight pretty quickly though. I doubt I’d fit more than three feet beyond the opening anymore, but when I was your size, I’d crawl back as far as I could squeeze in. I used to pretend it was a dragon cave, and that if I went deep enough, I’d find the dragon’s treasure.”

It was difficult to imagine him as a child, despite having seen the sculptures in the Atrium. He was so . . . masculine. So intimidating. Seven feet of pure, unequivocal male.

“Did Garrick hunt dragon treasure in this cave, too?”

“Of course. He even found some of the dragon’s gold.”

Her head reared back. “No, he didn’t.”

“Oh, he did.” Wynter’s expression was one of complete sincerity. For an instant, he almost had her believing the dragon’s gold was real, until he said, “I know because I put it there myself. Same as my father did when I was a boy.”

A laugh broke from her lips. “Did Garrick know?”

“Of course not. Not until much later. That would have ruined the magic.”

Something squeezed tight around her heart. She’d never imagined Wynter as a father. Husband, yes. Lover, definitely. King, warrior, hero. But never a father. Not even when she knew he wanted children.

But now, hearing him talk about Garrick, having seen the love he’d carved so clearly into every sculpture in the Atrium, she saw a different side of the man she’d married. And she realized he wasn’t the sort of man who would sire children and leave others to raise them. He would be involved in his children’s lives, devoted to them. He would be a good father—no, a great one. A father who loved his children. A father who would salt a cave with gold to spark the imagination of his son. The sort of father Verdan Coruscate had never been to her.

And she realized she wanted for her children everything she’d never had for herself: happiness, belonging, security, the knowledge that their parents—both their parents—loved and wanted them.

“Wynter?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

He helped her to her feet. “You’re welcome, min ros.”

“Can we come back again sometime?”

His smile warmed her. “Anytime you like.”

They stayed another hour or two at the pond, skating across the silvery ice and talking. They were some of the most enjoyable hours Khamsin had spent in recent memory. She felt like she and Wynter were actually getting to know one another in a way neither time nor circumstance had allowed them to before.

It was odd to realize that Wynter, who knew her more intimately than any man in her life, knew so little about her outside of the bedroom. Or that she knew so little about him. But the more she learned, the more she liked.

He was a good man, this fierce conqueror from the north. The sort of man she’d always admired: steadfast, brave, and true. Not perfect. Thank Halla. A perfect man would have only made her feel miserably inadequate, a hopeless sinner to his shining saint. His temper was every bit as terrible as her own. And he was not one to forgive trespasses. Ever.

But for the first time since their marriage, she could actually envision making a life here. A good life. A happy life. A life with Wynter.

“So what were you and Krysti doing all these past weeks when you went on your rides?” he asked, as they sat on the fallen log to remove their skates.

She shrugged. “Mostly just riding. He took me to several of the nearby villages and introduced me to the villagers.” Her nose wrinkled. “They aren’t very fond of Summerlanders.”

“I doubt there are very many Summerlanders who are very fond of Winterfolk either. War has that effect on folk.”

“I suppose. But the war is over. Wasn’t that the whole point of our marriage?”

“Old grudges die hard.”

She frowned. “What old grudges could your people possibly have? Surely, they aren’t all like that woman in Konundal, blaming every death in the war on Summerlea? If you hadn’t invaded Summerlea, those Winterfolk would still be alive. And so would thousands of Summerlanders.”

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. She and Wynter had been having such a good day. They’d actually been talking, communicating, getting to know each other. But the tension that underscored their relationship from the start ratcheted instantly back up as Wynter’s expression went from friendly and open to distinctly frosty.

“I did not start the war,” he bit out. “Your brother did that when he murdered my brother.”

“I realize that,” she agreed quickly. “I didn’t mean it to sound otherwise.” But then her innate loyalty to Summerlea compelled her to add, “But war didn’t bring your brother back. All it did was cost more lives.”

“So you would have advised me to do nothing?”

“Of course not. But, diplomacy—”

“Diplomacy?” Frost crackled across her clothes and the tree trunk. With a curse, Wynter spun around and stalked a short distance away. “From the day I took the throne, your father set out to weaken my kingdom and undermine my rule. He bled us dry for years, raising prices on Summerlea crops, delivering inferior goods, undermining our alliances with other kingdoms. I tried every diplomatic means at my disposal to avoid war. I sent my ambassadors. I welcomed his. The threat of starvation loomed over my kingdom, but still I tried diplomacy. Your father took every concession I offered as proof of my weakness. My restraint only made him bolder, more certain Wintercraig was his for the taking. And then he sent your brother, who again I foolishly welcomed in the name of diplomacy.”

“I’m sorry.” She reached out to take his hands, hoping to impress upon him the depths of her sincerity. “I’m sorry for all the evils Verdan Coruscate visited upon you. But Falcon—he isn’t like that. I know you blame him for your brother’s death, but it must have been an accident or self-defense. Falcon wouldn’t kill someone in cold blood. He’s a good man.”

Wynter yanked his hands free. “Tell that to the people of Hileje who saw their loved ones raped and murdered on your brother’s command.”

Khamsin’s jaw dropped. “That’s a lie!”

“Is it? I held a nine-year-old girl in my arms as she died from what those Summerlea bastards did to her. And I called the wolves and hunted them down like the animals they were. They told me, as they bled out their lives into the snow. They told me who had sent them. Your brother. The worthless bastard you call a good man. He ordered them to attack the village as a diversion, to draw me away from Gildenheim so he and Elka could steal one of the most ancient treasures of my House. My brother Garrick discovered the theft and followed him. And your brother killed him. He put an arrow in Garrick’s throat and left him to die in the snow, choking on his own blood.” His eyes flared with pale, cold fire, and his jaw flexed. “My brother wasn’t even sixteen. He was just a boy.”

Khamsin wanted to shout her denial. The words trembled on the tip of her tongue, crying out for release. But they wouldn’t—couldn’t—fall. The rage—and worse, the raw agony—in Wynter’s eyes killed her passionate denial as surely as Falcon’s arrow had killed the young prince of Wintercraig.

She swallowed against the hard, painful lump in her throat. “There must be some other explanation.” That hoarse, weak denial was the best she could muster. She couldn’t hold Wynter’s gaze any longer. It hurt too much to see such naked pain in his eyes. If she’d ever doubted him capable of deep, abiding, unassailable love, she doubted no longer. Wynter hadn’t just loved his brother—he’d adored him. Every bit as much if not more than she loved her own brother.

But if Falcon had done this . . . if he was indeed responsible for the destruction of an entire village and the rape and murder of innocent people . . .

Wynter cupped a hand under her chin, nudging her face back up and waiting for her to look at him. When she did, he said, “There is no other explanation, Khamsin.” The anger and the pain she’d seen a moment ago was gone, replaced by cold, steady resolve. “Falcon Coruscate murdered my brother and ordered the savage death of dozens of innocent villagers in Hileje. I know he is your brother, and I know you love him, but if he ever sets foot on this land again, I will hunt him down, and I will end him.” He watched her as he spoke, his gaze intent and unwavering. All the while, his thumb stroked her cheek with frightening tenderness. “And the same fate awaits any man, woman, or child in Wintercraig or Summerlea who offers him aid. Don’t ever doubt that.”

They rode in silence back down the mountainside. The whole way, Khamsin tried to reconcile her memories of the brother she loved and adored with Wynter’s account of an evil, cold-blooded killer who sent men to commit atrocities in order to create a diversion. Everything in her rebelled at the mere suggestion that the brother she loved and the architect of the Hileje massacre could be one and the same. The Falcon she knew aspired to the same, brave, noble ideals as their mutual hero, Roland Soldeus. That Falcon wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—condoned the sort of evil Wynter lay at his feet.

No, no, Wynter must be mistaken. There was more to this story. Extenuating circumstances. Something that exonerated her brother or at least made him less culpable for what had happened.

There had to be.

As they reached the valley floor and turned east on the main road, they were nearly run over by half a dozen riders galloping at a breakneck pace.

“Ho, there, rider!” Wynter flagged one of the trailing riders down. “What’s wrong?”

The rider reined in his horse long enough to say, “Avalanche. A big one on Mount Fjarmir.”

Wynter and Khamsin spurred their horses and took off at a gallop down the valley road after the other riders.

When they reached Riverfall, Wynter noted with grim approval the red-striped white flags flying and the flocks of birds already winging away in all directions. Avalanche was one of the deadliest dangers in all the north, and every city, village, and hamlet drilled year-round to know what to do when the red-striped avalanche flag flew. Every village and farmhouse near where the avalanche had occurred would have raised their flags and released birds to all the surrounding towns.

“Skala-Holt?” he barked, as he and Khamsin slowed their mounts before the Riverfall’s village hall.

“Aye, Sire!” A man Wyn recognized as Bjork Hrad, the village leader, stepped away from a group of villagers who were packing a sleigh with rescue materials. “Mt. Fjarmir’s entire southern snowfield gave way. The patrols headed up after the blizzard blew through, but it looks like they were too late.”

“Any word from the village?”

“Only from our scout. Skala-Holt’s buried, Your Grace. All two hundred souls.”

Wynter spared a quick glance at his wife. She was sitting motionless in the saddle, her face a frozen mask. He could practically feel the waves of guilt washing over her.

“Can you spare an extra avalanche kit?” he asked. Hrad grabbed a pack from the pile being loaded into the sleigh and handed one up to Wynter. “Thanks. Who’s keeping the children? I’d like the queen to stay with them until we return.”

“No.” Khamsin broke her silence. “You’re not leaving me here. I’m going with the rest of you to help with the rescue.”

“No, you’re not.” His tone left no room for defiance. “People’s lives are at stake. No one will have time to look after you. You’ll just be in the way.”

“I don’t need looking after, and I won’t be in the way.” She shifted her attention to Bjork Hrad. “Sir . . . Mr. Hrad, isn’t it? Please, hand me one of those avalanche kits as well.”

“Hrad, don’t you dare.” Wyn edged Hodri into Khamsin’s path, boxing her in. “Khamsin, I’m ordering you to stay here.”

She raised her brows. “Haven’t you learned yet? I don’t take orders well.” When he didn’t move, she tossed her head, sending dark, white-streaked curls bouncing across the thick ermine lining of her hooded coat. “I’m going. You can try to keep me here, but I’ll just find a way to sneak out. I’m very resourceful that way. I’ll make my way to Skala-Holt on foot if I have to, but I will go, and I will help those people. You may be able to kill thousands without remorse, but I can’t. I won’t stand by and do nothing while they die. I already have enough on my conscience without that, too.”

Wynter swore beneath his breath and nodded curtly. “Give her the kit, Hrad. And you”—he jabbed a finger in Khamsin’s direction—“you keep to my side at all times. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” She grabbed the kit Hrad handed up to her and slung it over her shoulder.

At least, she didn’t gloat. That made giving in feel a little less like surrender. “Let’s go then.” He spurred Hodri forward, picking his way slowly down the road until they were free of the crowded village. “You are a troublesome, hardheaded wench,” he muttered to his wife when they were out of earshot of the village.

“Am I? How interesting. I had no idea how closely we resembled each other.” She stuck her nose in the air, keeping her gaze fixed firmly forward.

The snippy rebuke left him torn between amusement and annoyance. With anyone else, he would have responded with cold, cutting anger to put her in her place. But the sight of Khamsin’s spear-straight spine, the flash of silver in her eyes, that wild, beautiful riot of lightning-streaked black hair, and the soft, full curve of those lips now pursed in indignation melted any chance of anger. In a world where folk lived in fear of his wrath, this slender woman stood toe to toe with him during even his foulest moods, taking the worst he threw at her and firing back as good as she got. She was no meek, domesticated lamb of a woman any more than he was a tame or gentle man.

They’d created that blizzard, the two of them, because he’d raged like a wounded garm when she’d discovered the vulnerable remnants of his soul that he’d hidden away from the world. He didn’t blame her for the storm. He was the one who’d started the fight. He was the one who’d turned her tempest into a howling fury of ice and snow.

But his Summerlander wife, who believed that her great power was a curse—that she was a curse—would never forgive herself if the people of Skala-Holt died because of the storm they’d summoned. And for some reason that had nothing to do with his husbandly duty to protect her from all harm, Wynter couldn’t let her bear that burden.

“Yours was not the only magic that helped spawn that blizzard, and you are not responsible for the avalanche. And for the record,” he added softly, “I may have killed thousands in the war, but not without remorse. Certainly not when it came to innocents.”

The sun was setting, but Skala-Holt was still a hive of activity when they arrived. Winterfolk from every nearby croft and village had come with shovels and strong backs and wagons full of women and youths bearing tents, blankets, food, bandages, and medicine. More rescuers poured in by the minute.

If Khamsin hadn’t visited Skala-Holt before, she would not have even known there was a village buried beneath the snow. Except for the few, already-excavated houses, you couldn’t see any sign of it. Not a roof, not a chimney. Nothing. Winterfolk were crawling over the snow, using long, thin sticks to probe what lay beneath.

“Halla help them,” Khamsin breathed in horror. How could anyone have survived?

As if reading her mind, Wynter said, “Since the fall happened during the day, there’s a chance many of them had time to seek shelter.”

“A chance?” Despite Wynter’s assurances that this wasn’t her fault, the mere thought of an entire village dead because of one of her storms made Khamsin’s belly churn.

“All the homes have cellars. Hopefully, the villagers had enough warning to reach them before the avalanche hit. That gives us time to dig them out before they freeze or suffocate. Most buried without some form of shelter will die within the first half hour.”

She swallowed hard. “What can I do to help?”

He handed her a shovel. “Join a search party and start digging. The men with the probes will set flags everywhere they think they’ve found survivors.”

“What about melting them out? Would that help?”

“You think you can do that?”

“You know I’m not very good at controlling my magic, but I can at least try.”

“Then come with me.” He held out a hand and led her up onto the spill of deep, packed snow. They clambered over the icy debris until they reached the closest flag—a pennant of red wool fluttering on a long, thin barb that had been thrust into the snow. A dozen Winterfolk were crowded around, digging their way down through the packed snow. They had already cleared a hole about four feet wide and six feet deep, but hadn’t reached the top of the villager’s house yet.

“The house is another four feet down, at least. See if you can melt down to the rooftop.”

Kham bit her lip. Storms, she could summon. Trying to channel heat in such a small area was a different matter.

“What happens if I melt more than just this area?” The mountains were thick with snow. If she didn’t concentrate heat in a very narrow radius, she risked flooding the valley with snowmelt. “I don’t want to make things worse than they already are.”

“You concentrate on raising the temperature. I’ll keep the snow on the mountains in check.” No hint of fear showed in his expression or his voice. She was struck once more by the reassuring strength that radiated from him. He was a man she would trust to bear the weight of the world. When he wasn’t driving her to distraction or irritating her with his domineering ways.

Truthfully, even then, even at his most distracting and domineering, she would trust him to stand between her and danger and rest assured in the knowledge that danger would dash itself senseless against his unyielding will before it ever had a chance to harm her. He was the rock to which an entire kingdom could anchor itself with perfect confidence.

Kham focused her attention on the hole the rescuers had been digging. She wanted to be as strong as Wynter. She wanted to master that calm, imperturbable sense of certainty that surrounded him like a cloak of invincibility. She wanted his people to look at her and see not the daughter of an enemy king but a woman as strong in her own right as the king they adored. Someone who could complement their king’s strength, not just shelter in it. A woman worthy of their respect—and of his. A queen.

Wynter’s queen.

She focused on the source of her power: the sun’s golden white heat. When she summoned a storm, she let anger fuel her power. She knew she could concentrate the sun’s heat at least on a personal level, as she did when she melted a metal hairbrush or boiled the tea in her teacup. She knew what that felt like . . . like a storm inside her soul, battering against her skin to gain its freedom.

Summoning that feeling on demand was difficult, so she recalled past wrongs, emotional hurts, wounds that had struck hard and deep and never been forgotten. Her father’s face, purple with anger, his eyes flashing a flickering orange like the flames in a hearth. The feel of his signet ring smashing into her cheek, branding her with his fury. Maude Newt and her endless, sneering interference and tattling. Reika Villani trilling with laughter and stroking one slim hand possessively over Wynter’s golden skin, turning to regard Khamsin in mocking challenge, daring the pitiful Summerlander to stop Reika from claiming Wynter as her own.

“It’s working.” Wynter’s voice interrupted her increasingly agitated thoughts.

Kham opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by a cloud of steam. Waves of heat radiated from her palms. She was sinking quickly through a large round hole in the snow. Moments later, her feet came to rest on the steep, shingled roof of a house.

“That’s good! Stand back, Your Grace. We’re coming down.” Ropes spilled over the sides of the crater she’d created, and four Wintermen rappelled rapidly down to join her. Three of them immediately pulled hatchets from their belt loops and began hacking a rescue hole in the roof. The fourth held out a hand.

“Please, my queen, if you will allow me? Karl, Joris, Svert, and I will see to the family. There are many others who could use your help.”

Kham blinked. “Of course, I—oh!” She started in surprise as the man wrapped his arms around her. But before she could think to fend him off, he’d looped a harness around her waist and thighs and hooked her to a loop in a second rope. He caught her hands, then dropped them with an exclamation of surprise as the remnant heat scorched him through his gloves.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Kham plunged her hands into the packed snow to cool them.

“Hold the rope tight, Your Grace, and don’t let go. Understand?”

“I—yes, yes, of course.” She wrapped her now-cooler hands around the rope.

“Good.” He gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “You did good, my queen.” As her jaw went slack in surprise from the unexpected compliment, he cupped his hands around his mouth and leaned back to shout, “Up!”

Kham’s rope went taut, and she fought for balance as she was suddenly hoisted up, off the buried rooftop. When she reached the top of the crater, two burly men helped her to her feet while a pair of well-bundled women freed her from the harness straps and rope.

“Come, Your Grace, quickly. Over here.”

She caught a brief glimpse of Wynter, who nodded approvingly, before she was hustled off to the closest dig site and asked to summon her magic again.

The sun set, and the rescuers broke out torches to light the area. Kham called upon her gifts again and again, melting her way down to the buried homes so the Winterfolk could locate and rescue survivors. Not every hunt ended in joy. Each time the rescuers unearthed a body rather than a living soul, guilt struck Khamsin hard. That pain fed into her power, keeping her going long past the point of exhaustion, but when the Winterfolk urged her to take a break and rest, she waved them off and stumbled to the next flag in the snow. So long as there were people buried beneath the snow, she was determined to do everything she could to help them.

The last house she uncovered belonged to Derik and Starra Freijel. She stood, swaying, by the lip of the pit she’d melted through the snow and waited for the rescuers to dig through the rubble of the house to find the cellar. At last, the couple and their two children were pulled from their icy prison, and the jubilant shout went up, “Alive! They’re alive!”

Thank all the gods. Khamsin took two steps and collapsed facedown in the snow, utterly spent. The frozen flakes sizzled beneath her palms and melted against her overheated face. Her whole body was running such a high temperature, she felt on fire.

Big hands turned her over and gathered her close against a familiar hard chest. She tried to open her eyes, tried to give Wynter some sort of sardonic quip, but the effort was too much. Her head fell limply back against his arm.

Cool lips touched hers, and a refreshingly icy breeze swept over her, cooling her more. “Do that again,” she mumbled. “Feels nice.” She was rewarded by more cooling kisses against her closed eyelids and hot brow. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes. I’m stronger than I look.”

“I know, min ros. I know.” Wynter’s husky voice whispered in her ear. “Tomorrow, you’ll be ready to fight Frost Giants barehanded, but for now, just rest.”

Of the two hundred folk who called Skala-Holt their home, only twenty-one had been lost to the mountain of ice and snow that had come crashing down upon them. It was the most successful avalanche rescue in Wintercraig history, thanks in no small part to Khamsin. That truth did not go unnoticed, and Winterfolk lined up five thick to doff their hats and offer up prayers and thanks as Wynter carried his unconscious queen past. He released her only long enough to mount Hodri, then the gathered villagers handed her back up to him and he carried her before him all the way home, not stopping until they reached Gildenheim.

She did not wake during the long road home, nor when he carried her to her room, nor even when put her in her bed and sat beside her to divest her of her coat and boots and unlace the ties of her bodice so she could breathe without restriction. The only time she stirred, was when he rose from the bed to leave.

Her fingers curled around his wrist. “Stay,” she whispered.

She’d never asked him to stay before. Ever. And how shocking that such a tiny little word, such a small, whispered request, could rob the strength from his body and leave him trembling.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he vowed. He pulled away only long enough to pull off his boots and clothing, then he crawled into bed and gathered her in his arms, spooning his body against hers. “Sleep, min ros.” He brushed the hair back from her still-overheated brow and rested his head against hers.

Long after she surrendered to sleep, he remained there, holding her close, breathing in the sweet aromas of her scent and basking in her radiant warmth. He’d been so cold for so long. So numb to any feeling but vengeance and hatred, both of which had burned like icy blue flame in his heart, their bitter, frozen brittleness consuming more and more of him by the day.

Valik and Laci he loved dearly, but only with Khamsin did the ice retreat. Summerlander and daughter of an enemy king she might be, but she was also the only one left in his life who could make him feel again. Truly feel, as he had before the day of Garrick’s death, before he drank the Ice Heart. There was no doubt in his mind that the fiery, irresistible passion that raged between them was all that was keeping the Ice Heart at bay.

And now, understanding that, he also understood the real reason he’d stayed away from her for so long. It wasn’t just because he feared losing control of himself. It wasn’t just because he feared he might hurt her. He’d stayed away because of a deeper fear, one he would never admit aloud: that he might surrender himself to Khamsin’s beguilement only to find her as false as Elka had been.

Elka’s betrayal, he had survived. Khamsin’s would destroy him.

Wynter nuzzled the soft, curling mass of dark hair, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent that had lodged so deep in his olfactory memory that no other woman would ever supplant it. No amount of willpower or self-denial could change that. Wynter now accepted the truth he’d suspected since the day Khamsin had been poisoned and her blood stained the snow scarlet.

His wolf had recognized Khamsin as its mate.

She might betray him to her family, torment him unto madness, bring his kingdom to ruin, but come good or ill, love or hatred, trust or betrayal, Wynter of the Craig would never take another woman to wife.

Because when snow wolves mated, they mated for life.

“Whatever you do, Khamsin, don’t betray me,” he whispered. “Don’t ever betray me.”