The Winter King

CHAPTER 20

The Great Hunt

The next month passed in a strange haze of happiness. Or at least Khamsin imagined this feeling was what happiness must be like.

Wynter began to join Khamsin and Krysti on their daily rides. News of her efforts to save Skala-Holt had spread far and wide, and the Winterfolk who had offered her hostility and suspicion now greeted Khamsin with warm smiles and open arms. Valik was actually making an effort to be amiable, and many ladies of the court began including her in their tight-knit circles. Even the mothers of the top-floor children had softened their stance, and allowed her to share the history of Summerlea with their children without protest.

As December deepened and winter solstice arrived, Konundal quadrupled in size. Every room in Gildenheim filled to bursting as folk from all over the kingdom gathered for the grand Festival of Wyrn, which celebrated the official start of winter. Ice sculptors carved enormous scenes and statues from blocks of ice, all lit by a dazzling display of multicolored lamplight each night. Kham’s favorite was the breathtaking Ice Palace, a giant, life-sized castle built and entirely furnished with ice. It sported a gathering hall, a dining room set with a complete service carved from frosted ice, tower walls you could actually walk on, and three bedrooms that adventuresome Winterfolk could rent for the night. Wynter tried to talk her into taking one of the rooms, but she refused for fear that she might melt the palace down around their ears.

She felt like smiling all the time. Her, Khamsin Coruscate. Even the return of Reika Villani could not dim her happiness.

Each morning, Kham woke in Wynter’s arms, his cool body curled against her warmth, his arms wrapped around her, his hair mingling with hers on the pillows. And each morning, she would smile, stretch like a cat, and roll over to look up into those startling glacier blue eyes, and the fire that ever smoldered between them would spark anew.

Lying in her bed as the first fingers of dawn crept over the horizon, Khamsin clutched Wynter’s pillow to her face, breathed in his scent, and gave a laughing groan as the scent sizzled through her veins, rousing vivid memories of this morning’s vigorous beginning. He was always awake before she was, watching her in silence as she slept, but somehow, that didn’t alarm or bother her. Instead, it made her feel . . . protected. Safe. Even . . . loved.

Kham sat up abruptly and flung the pillow aside. Loved? Where had that come from?

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. Wynter didn’t love her. She wasn’t fool enough to ever dream that he would. She was just a means to an end. A womb to carry his heir. She must never forget that. Never. To start spinning romantic fantasies involving Wynter was idiocy. Granted, if she did, in fact, provide him the heir he needed, her position as Wintercraig’s queen would be secure, but that was politics, not love. Once he had his heir, he might well abandon her bed in favor of another’s. The courtiers’ sly, tittering glances, which had faded when Wynter began lavishing his attention on her, would once again grow sharp as glass.

A powerful gust of wind rattled the windows in their panes.

Kham caught herself instantly. No. She wasn’t going to think like that. This last month had been the most wonderful of her life, and she wasn’t going to ruin it with wild speculation, foolish dreams, or dark, unhappy thoughts. Wynter didn’t love her. She wasn’t going to let herself believe he did. But that didn’t preclude their building a good life together.

Khamsin shoved the rumpled linens and furs aside and rose from the bed. The instant her feet touched the floor, dizziness assailed her. She swayed and clutched one of the solid wooden posters to steady herself, but the dizziness had already passed. Her stomach growled loudly, and Kham laughed and shook her head. She should have eaten more at last night’s dinner meal. If she started fainting from hunger, Wynter would probably insist on hand feeding her himself.

Kham cocked her head to one side, and a slow smile curved across her lips. Come to think of it . . . that had all sorts of interesting possibilities.

With a laugh for her wicked thoughts, she reached for the bellpull and rang for her new maid, a cheery Winterlass named Drifa. Kham had promised Krysti they would make an early start of it this morning. He wanted to take her to a place he claimed had one of the best views in the whole valley.

Wynter looked up as the door to his office opened. Valik entered, but Wyn’s automatic smile of greeting died a swift death at the sight of Valik’s expression.

“What is it?”

“There’s trouble in Jarein Tor. A shepherd came down from the mountains, claiming his flock was slaughtered.” Valik’s gaze flickered. “He says it was garm.”

“He saw them?” Skepticism colored Wynter’s words. Garm rarely left witnesses. If you were close enough to see a garm, it was close enough to follow your scent—and fast enough to rip out your throat and belly before you could go for help.

“Not them. He saw the tracks, heard the sheep scream, and took off running down the mountain. Didn’t stop ’til he reached the village.”

Wynter nodded. “Send an eagle to Friesing. I want Skyr and his men on their way to Jarein Tor within the hour.” If the garm had come, he must move swiftly to kill the beast before it grew bold enough to feed on more than sheep. “If the reports are true, we must call the Hunt.”

“Done.” Valik bowed crisply, pivoted on his heels, and strode out the door.

When he was gone, Wyn forced his clenched fists to relax. Tales of tracks and a sheep’s scream from a frightened shepherd weren’t proof the garm had come. It could be a rogue snow wolf, come down from the glaciers in search of easy prey.

But even as he reassured himself, he knew the words for the lie they were.

The Ice King’s minions were gathering to usher in the return of their god. Laci had warned him they would sense the Ice Heart’s power growing stronger. And Wynter had already passed the point of no return. With each passing day, the icy void in his chest grew colder and spread farther, freezing what was left of his humanity bit by bit.

The only thing holding it at bay now was Khamsin and her Summer-born gifts. Wynter pushed away from his desk and stood. Speaking of his little Summerwitch . . . he had not laid eyes on her nor had one whispered update about her activities since leaving her bed this morning. That did not bode well. If he’d learned one thing about his wife, he’d learned that Absence of Khamsin held a far greater potential for disaster than Khamsin Constantly Underfoot.

“Hold it steady!” Khamsin shouted.

“I’m trying!” Krysti shouted back. Irritation snapped in his voice. “But I’m just a kid, and you’re heavier than you look! I told you I should have gone first.”

She looked over her shoulder and down the ladder fashioned from the trunk of a tall, knotted pine and grinned at the boy clinging to the base of the ladder to keep it from rolling. “You’re doing fine. I’m almost there.”

She reached the top of the tree-trunk ladder and hopped off on the rocky outcropping that jutted out over the tree line to provide what Krysti assured her was one of the best views in all of Wintercraig.

“Coming up!” the boy called from below, and Kham took hold of a broken limb near the top of the tree trunk to hold the ladder steady while Krysti clambered up to join her. He managed in a fraction of the time it had taken her. Of course, he could have climbed the cliff face without a ladder, too.

“What did I tell you?” Krysti dusted his palms on his trousers and gestured to the spectacular vista spread out before them.

“You’re right. It’s gorgeous. Well worth the trouble of the climb.” From the snow-covered spruce on the steep mountainside, to the frosty, evergreen-laden valley below with its wide, rocky river that snaked along the base of the mountains, to the blue, blue sky that seemed to stretch forever, Khamsin was hard-pressed to think of any sight more lovely than the breathtaking grandeur of this rough, rugged land she now called home.

“There is Friesing.” Krysti pointed to a distant gathering of shingled roofs and stone chimneys amid the evergreens. “You can barely see Gildenheim from here.”

They were a good twenty miles east of the palace as the birds flew. Almost twice that distance by land. Kham bit her lip. She’d grown so comfortable in the saddle, she hadn’t even thought about how far or fast they were going. And they’d gone much farther than they ever had before.

She glanced up at the sky. The sun was still high overhead. It was barely past noon, but they would need to start back within the hour. If she and Krysti didn’t get home before dusk, Wynter would organize a search party.

“How did you find this place?” She gazed out across the valley and the rolling hills and mountains of Wintercraig’s lowlands beyond. Vera Sola had been a man-made mountain in the center of a wide, fertile valley. The view there had been of flat, cultivated farmland. Miles and miles of wheat, corn, barley, and more. Nothing so dramatic and untamed as this.

“I had an uncle who lived in a cabin on Jarein Tor, five miles that way.” He pointed to the east. “I used to spend summers here with him, helping him check his traps.”

“That must have been fun.” Krysti never talked about his family. Of course, neither did she. “I never met my uncle—my mother’s brother. He died before I was born.”

Krysti started to say something when a high-pitched shriek ripped through the air.

Khamsin nearly jumped out of her skin. “What in the name of Halla was tha—”

Krysti’s hand clapped over her mouth—hard. He shook his head. The snowy freckles on his golden skin seemed to disappear as his face lost all color. The hand covering her mouth was shaking like a leaf. Whatever that scream was, it had terrified him.

Krysti leaned slowly towards her until his mouth was pressed against her ear. “Don’t . . . move.” His voice was a thready whisper. “Don’t . . . make . . . a . . . sound.”

His fear was contagious. Her heart started to pound. Her throat went dry. She swallowed—or tried to—and nodded.

The scream came again, high-pitched and terrible. Kham scanned the mountainside, trying to follow the sound to its source. She had no idea how far sound could travel. No idea how close the source of that scream might be. She couldn’t see anything moving. Just snow and trees and rock and more snow.

“Can you make the wind blow towards us and down into the valley?” Krysti whispered.

Kham hesitated, then admitted, “I would be afraid to try.” Wynter could have done it easily, but her ability to control her weathergift was still more chance than certainty.

Krysti took a breath. “That’s okay. We’re still upwind. But we need to get away from here as quietly and quickly as possible. Quietly being the most important. Try not to make any noise at all.”

“All right.”

“You go first. I’ll hold the tree.”

She eased her way across the rock to the tree they’d used as a ladder.

As she started down the trunk, Krysti said, “Khamsin?”

She paused and looked up. “Yes?”

“If I tell you to run, you get to Kori and ride away as fast as you can.”

“What?” She barely remembered to keep her voice to a whisper. “No! I’m not abandoning you here. Don’t be ridiculous!”

“We don’t have time to argue!” He glowered at her. “You’re the queen. It’s my job to protect you. I accepted that responsibility the minute I snuck you out without your guards. So this is how it’s going to be.”

“Krysti . . .”

“If I tell you to run, I’m dead already. So you run! And you don’t stop or look back until you reach Gildenheim. Understand?” In that moment, this ten-year-old boy she’d befriended seemed decades older than his years.

She swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “I understand.” There was no doubt in her mind they were genuinely in mortal danger because whatever had produced that scream had turned a ten-year-old boy from laughing child to a grim protector willing not only to berate his queen but to sacrifice his life to ensure her safety. Not that she was ever going to let him do that, of course, but she wasn’t going to waste any more time arguing about it.

“Good. Now go. And be quiet.” He cast a quick glance back over his shoulder. “Right now, silence is more important than speed. They can sense both sound and motion, and much of either will give away our position.”

They who? She wanted to ask, but she’d already delayed them long enough. Khamsin eased her way down the tree trunk, freezing at each infinitesimal crunch and crack as she blindly tested the limbs to support her weight. Just get to the bottom, Khamsin. Take your time. Silence is more important than speed. Climbing down the tree took much longer than her earlier, laughing ascent. She breathed a shuddering sigh of relief when she reached the bottom, then held the trunk to keep it from rolling as Krysti made his way down after her.

He made much shorter work of it, and when he hopped silently to the ground, he held a finger to his lips, and whispered, “Follow me, and try to walk in my footsteps.”

The boy’s clan-gift and his years of hunting the woods with his uncle served him well. He managed to pick a near-silent path to their horses through the snow, rocks, and bracken that carpeted the forest floor. When they reached the horses, he cut one of the blankets into eight pieces and tied them around the horses’ hooves with the roll of twine in his saddlebags. Though the questions were all but burning to get free, Khamsin stayed silent and helped him wrap the horses’ hooves. Krysti helped her mount, swung up in his own saddle, and guided them back to the trail that led down the mountainside to the main valley road.

“We need to get back to Gildenheim—fast,” Krysti said, as they stopped to remove the cloths from the horses’ hooves. “Are you up for a gallop?”

“Of course.” Though Krysti was clearly still concerned enough to keep his voice quiet, he wasn’t whispering anymore. Kham took that to mean the immediate danger was past. “What was that back there? I didn’t see anything.”

“Few ever do—at least not those who live to tell the tale.” Done unwrapping the horses’ hooves, Krysti swung into the saddle and gathered up his reins. “That was a garm, the deadliest monster in all of Wintercraig. We’ve got to tell the king.”

The pair of horses thundered down the valley road towards Gildenheim. Long before they reached it, they saw flocks of birds winging through the sky and heard the echoing sound of horns blowing in the villages around them. Three long blasts. Then a pause, then three long blasts again.

“What does that mean?” Kham asked.

“It means the king already knows about the garm. He’s calling for the Great Hunt.”

“I don’t understand why I have to stay behind. Galacia Frey and her priestesses are going.”

Wynter drew a deep breath and reminded himself to remain patient as his wife crossed her arms and glowered. Ever since Khamsin and Krysti had returned to Gildenheim yesterday, riders had been pouring in through the gates, and the skies were filled with birds sending replies to Gildenheim’s summons. Now dawn was near, and enough Winterfolk had gathered to start the Great Hunt. And Khamsin was not happy that she would not be one of them.

“Laci is going because she’s the High Priestess of Wyrn. She is the guardian of Thorgyll’s Spears, and her presence is required. Her priestesses are going to assist her. They are trained to hunt garm. You are not.”

“But—”

Wynter held up a hand. “Enough. You are not going, no matter how much you wheedle, shout, or stamp your foot. You’re staying here, in Gildenheim, where I know you’ll be safe. My mind is made up.”

She crossed her arms and glared. She had an impressive glare. Those silver eyes, those brows drawn tight across the bridge of her nose, the way her full lips pursed. Well, maybe not the pursed lips. Those just made him want to kiss her.

He sighed and caught her shoulders. “I need you safe, min ros. Don’t you understand? When I realized you and Krysti were alone in the mountains where the garm had been sighted, I thought I was going to lose you.” Just the thought of how close she’d come to death had kept him awake all night long. He didn’t want to know that level of fear again anytime soon.

“You think it will be any better for me, waiting around here while you’re out hunting these creatures? Krysti told me about them. They’re deadly dangerous.”

“Which is exactly why we must hunt them down. Once they come down from the mountain, they’ll hunt and kill anything that crosses their path—and they’ll keep at it until the riders of the Great Hunt stop them.”

“All the more reason for me to go with you. This is my home now. I have as much right and duty to defend it as you and Galacia do.”

“Khamsin, when we first left Summerlea, Valik wanted to stay behind to govern Vera Sola. As the White Sword, it was his right and his duty. I wouldn’t let him stay . . . because I couldn’t risk losing him to a rebel blade. It is your right and duty to defend your home—and it gladdens my heart to know you consider Wintercraig that home now—but I need you to stay here, in the palace, where it’s safe. I can’t risk anything happening to you. If you were hurt . . . if I lost you . . .” He swallowed hard.

Her rebellious, stubborn scowl wavered. “Wyn . . .” The threatening storm in her eyes turned to soft, liquid silver. One slender hand rose towards his face.

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss in her palm. “Please, min ros. Promise me you’ll stay here, out of trouble. Don’t make me command you.” He pulled her close and bent to press another kiss on her lips. Not a wild, explosive kiss of passion, but something long and lingering. A kiss that sang a hymn of devotion with each warm breath and brush of lips upon lips. “Please,” he whispered when at last he pulled away. “Promise me.”

She blinked up at him with hazy eyes and touched her lips in bemusement. “I promise.”

The relief that flooded his heart nearly staggered him. “Thank you.”

“Now, you promise me that you’ll come back safely.”

They both knew any such promise would be a lie, so he said instead, “I’ll move Halla and Hel to do so, Summerlass. On that you have my oath.”

The hunters had gathered. Scores of Wintermen and a handful of strong, battle-tested women. Instead of shining silver armor, they wore pale leathers bleached to shades of white and cream so they blended in with the snowy forest. All were heavily armed with bows and spears and throwing axes as well as swords. And although each hunter wore an expression as grim as death, the aura of anticipation was unmistakable.

These folk were mountain bred. Hunters, all. And this gathering, despite its serious purpose, filled them with a visceral eagerness.

Wynter swung into the saddle. He had slung a bow and quiver across his back, and Gunterfys was strapped securely to his side. In a Great Hunt, everyone carried both a ranged weapon and a sword. The ranged weapon would be their primary defense, and most prayed they would never need to unsheathe the sword. Against a garm, a man’s odds of survival dropped sharply in close combat.

Hodri shifted, snorted a puff of vapor into the cold air, and shook his head. For this hunt, he’d been stripped of his usual bells, so the long, wavy strands of his mane, threaded with thin white ribbons, danced in silence against his strong neck.

A clatter of hooves announced the arrival of Galacia Frey and her two priestesses. Clad in white leather and riding snowy white mares, Galacia and one of the other priestesses each held one of the long, crystalline ice spears they had taken from the wall behind Wyrn’s altar. All three carried long, curving white bows and quivers full of hollow arrows filled with capsules of concentrated acid.

Wynter glanced up at the balcony high above the courtyard and found Khamsin, dressed in defiant scarlet and gold, standing on the stone walk outside her chamber. The sky was overcast and weeping snow that blew on an occasional fitful gust of wind. She was still not happy to be left behind, but Wynter wouldn’t risk her safety in the most dangerous expedition in all of Wintercraig. The Great Hunt never failed to claim lives, and he would face whatever tempest she cared to brew before he let her even chance becoming one of the Hunt’s casualties.

Their eyes met. He raised his hand in a faint salute, then led the Great Hunt out of Gildenheim.

Four days later, the riders of the Great Hunt still had not returned.

Khamsin stood beside the mullioned cathedral windows of Gildenheim’s large gathering room, staring down in brooding silence at the castle’s many terraced gardens. The view was beautiful—the snow-blanketed gardens white and serene, the frozen waterfalls magical, as if time itself had stopped—but even the most exquisite winter beauty couldn’t calm her nerves. She didn’t want to see frosted evergreens sculpted in perfect shapes. She wanted to see the riders of the Great Hunt coming safely home . . . with Wynter in the lead.

The waiting was driving her mad. Normally, Krysti would have been with her, keeping her entertained and her mind occupied, but since they were confined to the palace, she’d insisted he join the top-floor children for their lessons in the afternoons.

The rustle of skirts behind her made her turn. The other ladies of the court were seated throughout the room, occupying themselves with reading, needlework, or quiet conversation. Lady Melle had set down her needlework and crossed the room to join Khamsin at the window.

“I wouldn’t expect them back so soon, Your Grace,” she said. “The Great Hunt usually lasts for many more days. I even remember one when I was a girl that lasted three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” Khamsin stared at her in horror. Three weeks of being locked in this castle, waiting, would drive her mad. “How do you bear it?”

“The waiting is hard, I know.” Lady Melle’s eyes were filled with kindness and sympathy. “And I won’t lie and tell you it ever gets any easier. It doesn’t. This is the sixth Great Hunt in my lifetime. And every time, I’m a bundle of nerves waiting for the men to return.”

“Have you ever ridden with them? I saw other women Hunters besides Lady Frey and her priestesses.”

“Single women only. Widowed or never wed. Married women don’t ride in the Hunt.”

That didn’t seem at all fair to Khamsin. “Why not? If they’re capable and have the desire, why shouldn’t they ride in the Hunt just like the men?”

Lady Melle smiled gently. “Garm are the fiercest, most dangerous beasts in the Craig, my dear. Riders die in the Great Hunt—often. You’re wed to a Winterman. You’ve lived among us long enough to know what that means. Our men would die to keep us safe. We remain in Gildenheim, so fewer of them have to.”

“Has a king of Wintercraig ever died in a Great Hunt?”

Lady Melle hesitated, then admitted, “Yes.”

Kham’s mind filled with an image of Wynter, bleeding his life out in the snow. The vision was so horribly vivid that Khamsin spun back towards the window and took short, fast breaths as she battled back an unexpected rush of tears.

Seeing her distress, the elderly lady exclaimed, “Oh, my dear! No, you mustn’t think such thoughts.” She wrapped an arm around Khamsin’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Wynter of the Craig is no ordinary king. It would take far more than a single garm to bring him to harm.”

Kham leaned into the older woman’s embrace. It was the first time since leaving Gildenheim that a woman had offered Khamsin the comfort of a hug, and that nearly broke the dam holding back a flood of tears.

“There now. There.” Lady Melle patted Kham’s back and murmured soothing noises until the worst of the emotional storm passed.

Sniffling, wiping at her eyes with the palms of her hands, Kham pulled away and tried to regain a measure of composure. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not by nature the weepy sort.”

“Of course you aren’t. These are extraordinary circumstances.” The lady positioned herself between Khamsin and the other ladies in the gathering room. “I should have made a point of preparing you for this myself, and I did not. I beg your pardon.”

Kham smiled wanly and looked up through tear-spiked lashes. “It’s hardly your fault I turned into a waterfall on you.” Khamsin gave herself a stern shake and cleared her throat. “I’ve never been good at waiting. It doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon.”

“None of us are good at it, my queen. That’s why the ladies of the court have always banded together in such times. Company makes the waiting easier to bear.”

Kham gave a watery laugh. “Yes, well, I don’t think needlework will ever make any wait of mine easier.”

Now it was Lady Melle’s turn to smile. “Perhaps not. We will just have to find other pursuits that suit you better. Reading perhaps? Or a game of cards? I understand you enjoy playing Aces.”

“I wouldn’t want to bother the others.”

“Nonsense. You are our queen, and we are your ladies. We are here to see to your comfort, not the other way around.”

Wynter knelt in the crisp snow on the slopes of Mount Trjoll in the Craig. Four days ago, they’d picked up the tracks of the garm a scant half mile from the outcropping where Krysti said he’d taken Khamsin. Until that moment, Wynter hadn’t realized just how close Khamsin and Krysti had come to meeting the monster face-to-face. Garm could cover a half mile in less than a minute. One small change in the direction of the wind, and his Summerlass would never have come home.

Wynter hadn’t slept well since.

From Jarein Tor, they’d tracked the garm through the mountains to Hammrskjoll, up the mountains and through Glacier Pass in the Craig, then west into the Minsk River valley.

“He’s heading towards Skala-Holt,” Wyn murmured.

“I’ll send an eagle to warn them.”

“Let’s hope we’re not too late.” Wyn stood. “Mount up.” He swung into the saddle and gathered up the reins.

“Eagle coming in!”

Wyn looked up to see the broad white span of a snow eagle’s wings soaring through the blue sky. The bird tucked its wings and stooped towards them, slowing at the last moment to land on Valik’s outstretched arm.

Valik removed the message capsule from the bird’s leg. He pumped his arm skyward, setting the eagle back in flight, and tossed a small vole into the air. The eagle snatched its treat from the sky and flew off to a rocky outcropping to eat.

“What news?” Wynter asked as Valik scanned the message.

“Word from the men you sent into the Craig to find the garm’s den.” Valik glanced up, his expression grim. “The garm didn’t just come down to Jarein Tor. Someone lured it there deliberately.

“Your Grace.” A servant Kham didn’t recognize furtively handed her a sealed envelope. “I was asked to deliver this,” she whispered, then hurried away.

Curious. Khamsin opened the envelope and pulled out the folded parchment inside. Scrawled in a sloppy hand across the parchment, the note read:

The Great Hunt is an ambush. They mean to kill the king to end the threat of Rorjak’s return. We must warn him. I’ll be waiting with the horses at the old mill at eleven o’clock. Leave the same way as last Freikasday. Don’t let anyone see you. Burn this note.

The note wasn’t signed, but it could only be from Krysti. Who else knew about last Friekasday’s escape through the hidden door on the western wall?

She thought about Galacia and her priestesses, all armed with deadly weapons that could kill in an instant. Much as Kham didn’t want to believe any of them would kill their king, she knew better. The first loyalty of every priestess was to her goddess, not her king. And no matter how much Wynter and Khamsin might want to deny it, the Ice Heart still held Wynter firmly in its grip, and its power grew stronger with each passing day.

Would Galacia and her acolytes kill Wynter? According to the ladies of the court, the coming of the garm was one of the signs of Rorjak’s return. The rumors that Frost Giants had been involved in the avalanche at Skala-Holt was another. It was possible the priestesses felt time was running out.

Khamsin glanced back over her shoulder at the court ladies playing cards, waiting by the windows, doing anything they could to occupy their time while their men rode in the Great Hunt. It was a quarter ’til ten. If she retired to her room, claiming headache or weariness, it might be a good two to three hours before anyone came looking for her. Time enough for Krysti and her to be well away before their absence was discovered.

Kham slipped the note inside her pocket, summoned a wan look, and went to excuse herself from the court.

Assuming it might be a day or more before they caught up with the Hunt, Khamsin dressed warmly in knitted undergarments, the wool-lined leather trousers and jacket she’d had made for her jaunts with Krysti, and a warm, white, fur-lined, hooded cape that could serve as a bedroll and blanket. Remembering Wynter’s comment about how Winterfolk always prepared for the worst, she rolled a change of clothes and a pouch of dried fruit and meat she’d pilfered from the kitchen inside a woolen blanket and slung that across her back. Then she threw Krysti’s note in the hearth, watched as it turned to ash, and snuck downstairs to the secret exit she and Krysti had used the day they’d given her guards the slip.

The sun was shining bright in the sky. Khamsin turned her cape fur-side out, pulled the hood over her distinctive dark hair, and waited for the guards to pass before she hurried across the open expanse of snowy rock. Her heart remained in her throat, pounding like mad, until she’d descended the craggy cliff-side trail and reached the cover of the trees growing at its base.

Once safely hidden from view, she ran through the trees toward the old mill. There, two saddled mountain ponies were snuffling through the snow by the creek banks, searching for grass. A cloaked figure was sitting on a rock beside them, skipping stones to pass the time.

A twig snapped beneath Kham’s boot as she rushed towards him. The figure leapt off the boulder and whirled around.

Only then did Kham realize that perhaps she should have been more suspicious about the note. Because the identity of the person waiting for her stopped Khamsin dead in her tracks.

“What are you doing here?”

Reika Villani, clad in snug winter white leathers and boots, lowered the furred hood of her thick cape. She’d forgone her usual intricate piles of hair for a pair of braids that made her look more like one of the fresh young girls from Konundal than a veteran of the royal court.

“I’m the one who sent you the note, Your Grace.”

Kham glanced uneasily at the surrounding forest, suspecting a trap. Hoping to buy herself time, she said, “What note?”

“Don’t play games,” Reika snapped. “There isn’t time. I know you don’t trust me, and I accept the blame for that. But if we don’t get to the king soon, he won’t come back from the Hunt alive.”

“You’re right, I don’t trust you,” Kham agreed baldly. “Why should I?”

“Because my mother used to be a priestess of Wyrn. She was in line to be the next High Priestess when she met my father and fell in love. I know what oaths Galacia and her acolytes took. The minute the garm came down from the mountain, Wynter was marked for death.”

When Khamsin didn’t respond, Reika made an exasperated noise.

“Fine, don’t believe me. But I have loved Wynter Atrialan all my life, and I’m not going to sit here and let Wyrn’s minions put him in his grave.” She stalked over to the grazing horses and took the reins of the brown one.

“I brought you a horse.” She swung onto the brown’s saddle and indicated the other horse, a black-and-white highland pony even larger than Kori. “You can come with me or not, as you like. I only sent you that note because I thought your magic might come in handy convincing Lady Frey and her followers to back off.”

Khamsin hesitated. Every instinct urged her not to trust Reika.

Reika watched Khamsin’s indecision and sneered. “Suit yourself. I knew I should have gone myself instead of wasting precious time waiting for you.” Wheeling her mount around, Reika went galloping through the snowy forest towards the main valley road.

“Wyrn curse it,” Kham swore. If Wynter’s life was truly in danger, and she did nothing to warn him, she’d never forgive herself. “I just know I’m going to regret this,” she muttered. She grabbed the pony’s reins, led the mare over to a fallen tree, so she could reach the stirrups, and swung up into the saddle. A kick of her heels sent the pony leaping forward into a fast canter. “Reika! Reika, wait. I’m coming.”

The two of them rode throughout the day and well into the night. They slept in an abandoned hunter’s cabin, before heading out again before sunrise the next morning. Reika stopped regularly to call upon her clan animals, the ermine, to help them guide her to the Hunt. They doubled back more than once, going up and down the mountain, then circling back around. If not for the sun in the sky and Khamsin’s connection to it, Kham would have been completely turned around. But as it was, she knew they were no more than a day’s ride west of Gildenheim.

“This is ridiculous,” Kham complained when they stopped yet again, this time to water the horses while Reika consulted her animal guides yet again. “At this rate, we’ll never reach Wynter in time to warn him.”

Reika cast her a sharp look. “The Hunters are following the garm, and garm don’t exactly run in straight lines for your convenience, Your Grace. If tracking the hunters is too much trouble for you, feel free to go back to Gildenheim.”

Kham clamped her mouth shut. After a few more moments, Reika rose from her crouch, dusted the snow off her knees, and remounted her horse.

“They’re heading this direction.” She pointed up the mountain. “It shouldn’t be too much farther now.”

“What happens when we find them?” Kham asked. “If Galacia and her priestesses mean to kill the king, surely our presence will force their hands.”

“Not if we get to Valik and the White Guard first.” Reika dropped back to ride alongside Kham’s left flank. “You know, Elka and I used to ride in hills just like these when we were girls. She always dreamed of being a princess. Not me. I always dreamed of being queen.”

Kham bit her lip. “Reika . . .”

“Wait.” Reika held up a hand. “What’s that, over there?” She pointed to a spot off to Khamsin’s right.

“What?” Kham peered up the mountain. “I don’t see anything.”

“You will once the garm catch the scent of your blood.”

Every nerve in Khamsin’s body jangled with alarm. She turned back around in time to see Reika throw back her cloak and raise the weapon concealed at her side.

“Time to die, Summer witch.” Reika’s beautiful face twisted into ugly lines of hatred. With a scream of rage, she raised her right arm. Sunlight glinted off the weapon clenched in her fist, a long-handled weapon that ended in five splayed, clawlike spikes.

Khamsin jerked around in the saddle and kicked her heels into her mount’s sides just as Reika brought her strange blade slashing down. Fiery pain ripped down Kham’s back, but it was her mount who caught the worst of the blow as the clawed weapon raked deep furrows across her hindquarters. The mare screamed in pain and reared up on her hind legs, nearly unseating Khamsin. Kham’s thighs clenched tight around the mare’s ribs, heels digging in as she clung to the animal’s back. She grabbed instinctively for the pommel of the saddle with both hands and lost her grip on the reins.

Reika swung her weapon again.

Kham shrieked as pain ripped across her shoulder, arm, and rib cage. The mare’s forelegs slammed back to earth, and the horse shot forward in a wild gallop.

Branches whipped across Kham’s face, the icy needles slicing at her skin, rough bark scraping hot, painful furrows across cheek and brow. She ducked and leaned low over the mare’s neck, burying her face in her mount’s mane to protect herself from the worst of the slashing branches. Her back, shoulder, and side burned like fire, and she could feel the blood flowing from the wounds. She didn’t dare release the saddle to reach for the reins whipping like ribbons in the wind as the mare ran.

Don’t let go, Kham. Whatever you do, don’t let go!

The mare bounded over rocks and streams, leapt fallen trees. Jolt after jolt shook Khamsin to her bones, but she clung to the saddle with desperate strength. Her fingers had curved into bloodless talons around the pommel. The muscles in her hands had turned to steel and locked in place.

Then, abruptly, the horse wasn’t beneath her anymore. One moment, the mare was galloping wildly through the forest, the next the horse dropped like a stone and propelled Khamsin over her head.

Time stretched as Khamsin soared through the air, spiraling as she went. She caught sight of the overcast sky shining silvery gray overhead and huge drifts of snow gathered at the base of the cliffs directly in front of her. The cliff’s ragged black rock rose sharply upwards, its rough surface coated with a thin layer of ice that made the stone gleam with an obsidian sheen.

The next instant, gravity reclaimed her. She landed with a bone-jolting slam atop an unyielding sheet of ice.

Time accelerated in a sudden rush as she spun, spread-eagled, across the surface of a frozen pond. Her feet smacked into the cascade of silvery white icicles that had formed over the waterfall that fed the pond. The ice shattered, and the impact reversed the rotation of her spin and sent her careening, feetfirst into a snowdrift. Great white plumes of snow shot skyward as she came to a jarring halt, then drifted lazily back to earth, dusting her hair and eyelashes with crystalline flakes.

She lay there, stunned and motionless. All the air had been forced from her lungs, and her body seemed to have forgotten how to get more.

Breathe, Khamsin. Breathe.

Her mouth opened. Her throat worked. Seconds later, a long, painful wheeze scraped down the sides of her windpipe.

Deflated lungs refilled. Her eyes rolled back. With that one breath of air, all her other senses leapt back to life with a vengeance. Pain exploded along the hip and shoulder that had taken the brunt of her landing.

She pulled her legs up under her body and pushed up to her hands and knees. Grunts of pain interspersed with bouts of coughing and wheezing as she clambered slowly to her feet.

She wiggled her fingers in her mittens, and flexed ankles, knees, and hips with tender care. Everything was still working. Her nerve endings, especially. Although her hips and shoulder throbbed with each beat of her heart and the furrows down her back and side were dripping copious amounts of blood, she hadn’t broken any bones. That was an unexpected bit of good luck.

Kham hadn’t counted on surviving the gallop without injury. She’d not been certain she’d survive at all, for that matter. Her horse had been too terrified by Reika’s attack.

Kham looked slowly around, trying to get her bearings. She was standing in the center of a frozen pond. A thin layer of snow lay over the slippery surface. And all around the pond, snow was piled high, as if someone had cleared it away.

She frowned and scanned the area again. On the north end of the pond, a black cliff face rose up high above, and a frozen white waterfall spilled down its sides. At the bottom of the fall, a portion of the frozen icicles from the fall had broken away, revealing what looked like the dark entrance to a cave. Her brows lifted as she recognized her surroundings. The skating pond. The one Wynter had immortalized in his Atrium. The one he’d taken her to the day of the Skala-Holt avalanche.

She knew exactly where she was, despite all the circuitous riding she now suspected of being Reika’s attempt to disorient her and make her lose all sense of direction. All she had to do was find her horse, and make her way back down the mountain. The folk in Riverfall would offer her aid.

She scanned the white snowdrifts, trying to find the mare. A splash of dark color at the corner of her eye sent Kham plunging to the left. She slogged her way through higher drifts that had gathered at the base of the trees, trailing drops of blood from her wounded shoulder, and found the mare lying on her side, her neck bent at an odd angle. The horse wasn’t breathing.

Kham sank to her knees, brushing snow from the mare’s motionless face. Her mittened hands curled into fists, and a familiar, volatile emotion bubbled up inside her.

“Damn you, Reika. You’ll pay for this!” The snow clinging to Kham’s wool mittens melted and quickly evaporated into a cloud of warm vapor. Overhead, silvery clouds condensed, growing thicker and darker as heat and moisture gathered. She’d worked hard to keep her emotions in check since the day she’d summoned that blizzard that nearly killed an entire village. But the next time she saw Reika Villani, that winter bitch would learn just how fearsome Storm of Summerlea could be.

And then Khamsin heard the growl.