The Winter King

CHAPTER 22

Lies, Love, and Loyalties

“She’s waking.”

Khamsin frowned at the sound of Valik’s voice. What was Wynter’s second-in-command doing in her bedchamber? Her exceedingly territorial husband would not like that at all.

The thought almost made her smile, until the memories came rushing back.

The Great Hunt. Reika Villani’s deceit. The garm.

Kham’s eyes snapped open, and she sat bolt upright.

“Wynter!”

She cried her husband’s name, then fell abruptly silent. She wasn’t in her bedchamber. And Valik was not the only Winterman crowded around her.

She was sitting on a narrow bed in a strange room she didn’t recognize. Half a dozen White Guard in full plate mail surrounded her, swords drawn, their pale eyes cold, their golden faces frozen in expressions that ranged from impassivity to outright menace.

Her chest went tight, and dread washed over her in an icy wave.

She sought Valik’s face in the crowd around her and fixed her gaze on him. “What’s happened? Where is Wynter? Does he live?”

All she could think was that Wynter was dead. And a sick, terrible feeling consumed her. He couldn’t be dead. Not him. Not the fierce northern king who fought Frost Giants and won, who battled four garm with just his sword and his own fierce will.

Not Wynter.

Not her husband.

Not the man she—she—

“Valik!” she cried. “Tell me what’s happened to Wynter!” She lunged forward, rising up on her knees, only to gasp in pain and spin abruptly to one side when one arm was nearly wrenched from its socket. “What in the name of—” Her voice broke off.

A metal cuff circled one wrist. And that cuff was attached to a short length of metal chain that tied her to the wooden frame of the bed.

“Valik!” She yanked at the chain, then turned to him in disbelief. “What is the meaning of this? Why am I chained? Where is Wynter?”

Valik ignored her questions. “What were you doing outside of the palace during the Great Hunt?” His tone was cold enough to freeze water.

“What?”

“The king ordered you to remain within the walls of Gildenheim until he returned from the Hunt, yet you defied him. You snuck out of the palace and rode into the forests without guard or escort and without informing anyone of your destination or intent. You will explain yourself!”

She drew herself up, summoning every ounce of royal Coruscate arrogance she could muster. “The Queen of Wintercraig doesn’t answer to you, Steward! And as I have already explained my actions to my husband, I am quite certain you are not interrogating me on his command. Now, where is Wynter? I order you to take me to him!”

In a flash, Valik’s sword was under her chin, the point pressed against her throat. The other guards raised their swords, too.

“Three days ago, a Calbernan army landed an invasion force in Summerlea, led by your brother, the thief and murderer, Falcon Coruscate. Your father and his generals have escaped their confinement and are presumably on their way to join the Calbernans. And the very day those forces made landfall, you rode out of Gildenheim alone and for reasons unknown.”

“What?” Falcon had raised an army? He was waging more war?

“Given what we now know,” Valik was saying, “you can understand why the king has ordered your actions thoroughly investigated.”

Khamsin stared at Valik in horror. Wynter thought she had betrayed him? Even after he’d risked his life to save her from the garm? Even after she’d risked her life to save him, too?

She put a hand over her heart and pressed down in counterforce against the sharp, squeezing pain. Oh, Khamsin, you fool. He’s a Winterman! He protected you for the same reason he always did—because so long as you’re his wife, that’s his duty. And what have you done? Idiot! Fool! Ridiculous girl! You’ve gone and fallen in love with him.

Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes closed in weary despair. “Take your sword from my throat, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Valik must have been convinced because after a silent moment, the sword beneath her chin pulled back. A quick glance showed the others had followed suit.

Kham wrapped her free arm around her waist, holding herself tight, keeping her head bent and eyes down. Her heart was breaking.

Steady, Kham. You’ve survived worse. Only it didn’t feel that way. Even that horrible day in Vera Sola, when her father had taken her into the dark inside the mountain and beaten her to the brink of death, she hadn’t felt such despair.

“As I told Wyn—” Her voice came out rough and scratchy. Her throat was tight and dry she could barely speak. She swallowed painfully and forced herself to start again. “As I told my husband, I received a note saying his life was in danger. That people meant to kill him during the Great Hunt. I went to warn him. I thought the note was from Krysti, but instead it came from Reika Villani, and the trap wasn’t for Wynter, it was for me.”

Several of the men shifted. From the looks on their faces, it was clear they didn’t believe her. Valik, however, remained steady and still, his gaze never leaving Khamsin’s face.

“What sort of trap?”

“She led me into the forest towards the garm, then she attacked me. She had some sort of pronged weapon that cut like sharp claws. Said my blood would draw the garm. She intended them to kill me. And if Wynter hadn’t come along, her plan would have succeeded.”

“Yet here you stand without a scratch on you,” Valik pointed out.

“Thanks to the storm. And if you don’t believe me, go back to where you found me. You’ll find the trail of blood leading back to the place your cousin attacked me.”

“And why would she want you dead?”

Khamsin’s brows shot up. “Because she wants to be Wynter’s queen, of course! That’s what she’s always wanted.”

“You lie!” one of the guards shouted.

“Wulf!” Valik snapped.

“You can’t possibly believe her, Valik!” The man named Wulf shot back. “She’s a Summerlander. As deceitful and murderous as the rest of her kin. Lady Reika knew better than to enter the forest during a Great Hunt! But this one”—he gestured to Khamsin with his sword—“wouldn’t understand the extent of the danger. She probably thought that with the castle emptied, it was the perfect time to send word to her family, or meet with a Calbernan spy. It’s more likely the Lady Reika saw her sneaking out and risked her own life to follow her and see what she was up to. And the Summerlander killed her for it.”

“Sven! Ungar!” Valik snapped. “Get him out of here.”

As the guards marched Wulf towards the door, Kham shook her head and turned to Valik, expecting to see realization and maybe even some hint of apology in his expression. Instead, she found him regarding her with narrow-eyed suspicion. It was the first time in a month he’d regarded her thusly.

“Valik? You can’t honestly think that man’s accusations are true. Reika told me Wynter’s life was in danger in order to lure me out of the palace and into a trap. She’s the one who led me into the forest. She attacked me.”

When he still said nothing, she threw her hands into the air. “Oh, for Halla’s sake! If I was out there meeting with enemy agents or sending secret invasion plans to my brother or whatever ridiculous thing you’re accusing me of doing, why would I have stopped those two garm from killing Wynter?”

Valik’s brows lifted. “You defeated those two garm? With Wynter’s sword? Forgive me, but I doubt you could lift Gunterfys, much less use it to slay two garm.”

“I’m not talking about the two garm Wynter killed,” she retorted. “I’m talking about the other two—the ones that would have ripped him to pieces if I hadn’t incinerated them.”

“There were no others, you evil bitch!” Wulf shouted from the doorway.

“Sven! Ungar!” Valik roared.

“Sorry, my lord,” one of the men escorting Wulf apologized. To his prisoner, he hissed, “Harm to her is harm to him, you idiot. Keep talking, and you’ll find yourself chained on the glaciers for treason.”

Khamsin turned her attention slowly back to Valik. She could feel the storm building inside her. They didn’t know about the garm she’d burned to ash with her lightning. They thought there’d only been two of the monsters—both slain by Wynter. But Wynter knew how many he’d faced. If Wynter were the one who had ordered this interrogation, they would know that, too.

She looked up slowly, and she knew by the way Valik went so still that her eyes must have gone pure, shifting silver. Proof of the dangerous, lethal power gaining strength inside her.

“Where is my husband?” she demanded in a low voice. “And cease with your lies. Does he still live?”

A muscle flexed in Valik’s jaw. “He lives.”

“But he never sent you here. He never told you to interrogate me. He never thought I was my brother’s spy.”

After a long, bitter hesitation, Valik spat out the truth. “He has not awakened since we found you both.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Wynter had not doubted her. He had not watched her risk her life to save him, then turned around and accused her of betrayal. Her fingers closed around the chain that tied her to the bed. Searing heat bloomed in her palm.

“Then you will take me to him. Now.” Her eyes flashed. Metal clanked against the bedpost as the heat-softened links of the chain attached to her wrist pulled apart.

The Wintermen raised their swords in swift response, pointing the business ends her way in naked threat, but just as quickly, her hands shot out, fingers splayed. White-hot electricity crackled at her fingertips.

“Do not,” she bit out. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, but if you try to keep me from my husband even a moment longer, I’ll fry you where you stand.”

The guards looked to Valik for guidance, and Khamsin held his gaze, steady and fierce, until he gave a curt nod.

“Very well,” he agreed. “I’ll take you to him.” His eyes turned wintry. “But I warn you, lady, storm gifts or no, harm him in any way, and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

With half a dozen swords pointed at her back, Khamsin followed Valik down an unlit hallway and into the spacious gathering room of what appeared to be some sort of hunting lodge. Animal pelts covered the floor and rustic furniture. Antlers and other hunting trophies adorned walls fashioned from tree trunks polished and darkened with age. A fire roared in a huge stone hearth that dominated the majority of one wall.

Galacia Frey stood before the fire. She was still dressed in her white leathers from the Great Hunt. She held Thorgyll’s freezing spear in one hand.

The priestess arched a brow. “I take it she convinced you?” she said to Valik.

He grimaced. “In a manner of speaking.”

Galacia glanced at the melted chain dangling from Khamsin’s handcuff, and the corner of her mouth curled. “So I see.”

“Where is Wynter?” Khamsin interrupted. “Valik said he would take me to him.” More sparks crackled at her fingertips. If this was another trap . . .

“And so he has,” Galacia assured her. She gestured towards the hearth. “The king lies there. In the fire.”

“In the—? Are you mad?” Khamsin gasped in horror and spun towards the hearth. The opening was as tall as she was, twice as wide, and easily six feet deep, and inside, stretched out on a raised metal grate and surrounded by orange flames, lay Wynter.

“Blessed Sun! What have you done?” Pushing Valik aside, she ran towards the hearth. She shoved her arms into the flames, intending to grab Wynter and pull him to safety, but before she could secure a grip, Galacia wrapped an arm around her waist and flung her away.

Kham came up fast, magic rising, a familiar violet glow surrounding her.

“Do not.” Galacia was crouched for battle. The business end of Thorgyll’s glittering crystalline spear was pointed at Khamsin. “The fire does not harm him. He is untouched. Look. See for yourself.”

Still holding her magic ready, Kham inched closer to the hearth and risked a swift glance at Wynter. What she saw made her rub her eyes and move closer still. That was indeed Wynter lying on the metal grate in the center of the flames. He was naked, his flesh still torn from his battle with the garm, but she could see no hint of injury from the fire licking at his skin.

The flames surrounded him. The heat was searing. Yet his body seemed impervious to its fiery environment.

“What sorcery is this?” She turned to Lady Frey.

“It is the Ice Heart,” the priestess replied. “It has him so firmly in its grip, fire cannot harm him now. At most, its warmth retards the final stages of the Ice Heart’s conquest. It was the only option I could think of to try to keep Rorjak’s essence from consuming the last remnants of Wynter’s humanity. The very power that threatens to consume him also keeps him alive.” Galacia’s mouth turned down. “Gods do not die.”

“Is there nothing you can do to revive him?”

“I? No. Not while he remains in this state. To do so would be to destroy us all.”

“But you just said the Ice Heart has not fully claimed him yet.”

“I said some small part of Wynter remains. And that is true, else his body would have healed itself, and the last battle would already have begun. But he is too far gone, and the power of the Ice Heart is too strong.”

“If all hope was lost, you would already have slain him.” Khamsin nodded to the crystalline spear clutched in Galacia’s hands. “That is one of Thorgyll’s freezing spears, is it not?”

Lady Frey lowered the spear and straightened up from her crouch. “You’re right, Summerlander. There was one small hope that stayed my hand.”

“What hope is that?”

Galacia looked up, pinning Khamsin with a gaze as sharp as the point of her spear.

“You.”

“Are you sure about this?” Khamsin stood outside the hunting lodge, staring up at the rapidly darkening sky. Galacia and Valik stood beside the cabin door. “You’re assuming a great deal if you think my touch alone can push back the Ice Heart.”

“Valik assures me he’s seen proof of it more than once,” Galacia said.

Kham cast a glance over at Valik. Despite his renewed distrust of her, Wynter’s second was convinced that Khamsin’s gift-magic was the only fire hot enough to pull Wynter back from the brink of the Ice Heart’s grip. Apparently, when Valik and his men had arrived after the garm attack, Khamsin was still lying across Wynter’s body, where she had collapsed. According to Valik, the moment he separated the two of them, Wynter’s body had grown colder, turning icy within a matter of minutes.

He’d kept Kham and Wynter together until Galacia had come up with the idea of putting Wynter’s body in the fire.

Now, they all expected Khamsin to summon her storm. Only this time, they expected her to master that storm specifically to superheat her body the way she had when she’d attacked the garm. She’d already tried using the crackling electricity she’d managed to generate on her own, but even heat strong enough to soften metal couldn’t do much more than thaw the layer of ice that formed around Wynter’s body the instant they removed him from the flames.

She needed lightning, and lots of it. She needed the same fury she’d summoned to defeat the garm.

The door to the lodge opened, and six Wintermen walked out, carrying the metal grate that held their king. The men laid Wynter’s body on the ground before her. In the short time it had taken to carry him from the hearth in the lodge to the fire, ice had already coated his skin.

Khamsin stepped closer. She couldn’t get used to the sight of Wynter lying so still, his larger-than-life vitality trapped in a form as rigid and lifeless as those ice sculptures of his dead family that he had enshrined in Gildenheim’s Atrium. Even those rare times when she’d awakened to find him sleeping beside her, all it took was the slightest movement, the faintest sound, to bring him snapping back to consciousness, ready for battle.

Ready to protect her from the tiniest threat.

Her. Storm. The forgotten princess hidden away like a shameful secret, the daughter reviled as much for her tempestuous nature as for the dangerous, volatile gifts that came with it.

The first crack of lightning lit the sky, and thunder boomed. Khamsin continued to feed power to the storm, stoking its volatile engine with more heat, more cold, more moisture. Her waterlogged riding skirts whipped around her legs, beginning to steam as her body temperature rapidly increased.

Wynter was the first man who’d ever championed her. The first man who’d ever stood up to her father in her defense. The only man who’d never feared what she was or what she was capable of.

But that wasn’t why she loved him. That had merely cleared the path for her heart to follow. She’d started to love him the day she’d entered the Atrium and found herself looking directly into his heart. Or had it been the day in the forests of Summerlea, when he’d shed his armor, exposing himself to an assassin’s arrow rather than allow his plate mail to catch on her hair and cause her discomfort? Or the day he arranged for her riding lessons, giving her her first taste of freedom?

Oh, what did it matter? Somewhere along the way, she’d begun to want more of him than mere passion. Somewhere along the way, she’d begun wanting to be not just his wife, but his love. And she’d begun to dream of giving him the child he so desired, not to save herself, but to see warmth and joy replace the icy remoteness in his eyes. Because she wanted to bring back some measure of happiness into his life, to give him the love he’d once known with his family.

To save him, the way he had saved her.

Now, here was her chance.

Kham fixed her gaze on Wynter’s still face. With her focus on saving him, her mind didn’t have time to worry about the deadly consequences of the storm. And that lack of fear freed her. It was almost like staring at a point in the distance until all the world went out of focus.

Her consciousness separated from her body and spread out once more into the storm, orchestrating the flows of air, encouraging the ionization that unleashed the concentrated power of the sun in the brilliant explosions of light and heat that speared the sky. For the safety of those at the lodge, she tried to keep the lightning in the clouds until the storm had grown so fierce it battered her will, wrestling for freedom.

“You should go inside now.” Her voice sounded thick and deep, rumbling like thunder. She didn’t know how much control she would have once she unleashed the power currently concentrated in the clouds overhead. Even with the garm, she’d only channeled that force—not tried to absorb it into her own body. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Neither Valik, nor Galacia, nor any of the Wintermen budged. Khamsin didn’t take her focus off the storm. She’d warned them. If they chose not to heed her, whatever happened would be on their heads, not hers.

She raised her arms. Warmth became heat. Heat became fire. Fire became a wild, consuming blaze that rushed through every cell of her body. The air around her went violet, glowing with energy. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and loosed the bonds holding the lightning in check.

The sky went brilliant white. A lightning bolt, thick as the trunk of a tree, shot from the sky, racing down the tendrils of plasma she’d sent up into the clouds.

Her body shuddered, arching towards the sky as the bolt speared and seared her. For one instant, her entire being seemed to dissolve and scatter to the winds. Mind, flesh, thought, breath, blood, all flew apart in a split second, only to draw back into a cohesive whole the next. She rode the heat, the pain, the wildness as the lightning’s energy raced through her body, seeking an outlet. She would not give it that. Heat consumed her, hotter than the sun. She screamed in agony but held fast.

Another bolt ripped from sky to ground, shooting into her body. Then another, and another. Rain turned to sleet, then to hail. Great, plum-sized rocks of ice slammed down from the heavens.

Dimly, she heard someone shouting, “Enough! Khamsin! Enough! You’ll kill us all!”

Valik clung to the trunk of a nearby tree. Khamsin watched him through a shimmering, violet-silver haze as he yelled, “Khamsin! Save Wynter!”

She continued to hold up her hands for a few moments longer, summoning more lightning. It shot to the ground, finding her unerringly. Her chest expanded on a breathless, voiceless scream. And then, she pushed out, into the heavens, sending a bolus of energy back up into the clouds, punching a hole in the center of the storm and sending the riotous clouds spinning outward at such speed that the clouds ripped apart and skidded across the sky in harmless bits.

Her skin was incandescent. A near-blinding glow suffused her, illuminating her flesh from the inside out. She could see the faint traceries of her veins, not blue or red, but shining golden white, as if her very blood had turned to liquid sunlight.

She fell to her knees beside Wynter. The ice had formed an inch-thick shell around his body, and his golden skin had taken on a bluish white tint beneath it. She reached out slowly. The power inside her was so hot, she was afraid to touch him for fear she might incinerate him as she had the garm. But as her glowing hands hovered over his body, the thick layer of ice enveloping Wynter began to melt, providing the answer she sought. She didn’t need to touch him or unleash the concentrated lightning inside her. Her proximity alone was enough.

She passed her hands over his prone form. Icemelt dripped off of him in runnels. She noticed as she did so that her own body was cooling as his warmed. The blue-white tint of his skin faded a little more with each pass. When she was certain her touch would not burn him, she laid her entire body atop his, so that the remaining heat inside her could radiate into his thawing flesh. Closing her eyes, she laid her head upon his chest, threaded her fingers through his, and covered the white wolf on his wrist with her Summerlea Rose.

How long she lay there, she didn’t know. Possibly minutes. Possibly hours. Time had no meaning until the moment she heard the first faint throb of sound in her ear. Several long moments later, she heard a second throb follow the first. Now each second of silence seemed to last a century as she waited for the next faint pulse of sound. The next pulse came, a fraction sooner than the last. Then another and another, until a steady rhythm tapped in her ear.

Wynter’s heart was beating once more.

The cold, stiff fingers threaded through hers flexed. Barely more than a twitch of movement, but she felt it all the same.

She lifted her head and held her breath as she watched him. His lashes fluttered, lids lifting slowly. She laid her palm against the side of his face, stroking his skin lightly. He was still cold—so, so cold—but his flesh no longer felt like it was carved from an unyielding block of ice.

“Wynter . . . husband.” A smile trembled on her lips.

He stared at her for a moment with blank incomprehension, dazed, as if he didn’t recognize her. But then, he blinked. His lips moved, forming a soundless word. Wife.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Yes, husband. It’s me, Khamsin, your wife.” She leaned closer, brushing kisses across his cold skin. “You worried us all.”

His lips moved again in another soundless word. Where?

“We’re at your family’s hunting lodge, near the skating pond. You saved us from the garm, but were badly hurt in the process. Valik and the Hunters found us. We are safe now, Wynter. You made sure of that.” She’d never reassured another person in her life. Never had cause to do so, but the words tumbled out so naturally, the need to put him at ease seemed as necessary as breathing. And she couldn’t stop running her hands over his skin, touching him, feeling terrible, icy cold fade as mortal life returned to him.

His body shifted, as if he were trying to rise, but a groan slipped from his lips, and his face creased in pain. Then, to her horror, his eyes rolled back in his head, he gave a ragged sigh, and his body went completely limp.

“Wynter?” She shook him. “Husband?” He didn’t respond. Fear rose, swift and hard. She shook him again and shouted for help. “Galacia! Valik!”

The pair were at Wynter’s side in an instant.

“He has lost more blood than most could survive, and this wound across his belly is worrisome. The intestine was cut. The risk of deadly infection is very high.” Galacia flicked a grim gaze at Khamsin, then turned to Valik. “We need to get him back inside immediately.”

“You said if I called the lightning, that would save him.”

“From the Ice Heart. And you did—at least temporarily. But these are deadly wounds. Now that his flesh is mortal once more, his wounds have the power to kill him. If I can’t heal him, he may still die.”

“What?” Outrage boiled up inside Kham. “Why didn’t you tend his wounds earlier?”

Galacia gave her a sharp look. “You felt him. His body had turned to ice. How could I tend him in that condition? How could I stitch through skin hard as stone?”

“And now?”

“Now we put my healing abilities to the test.”

Kham found herself shunted aside as the men hoisted Wynter up and carried him back into the lodge. Kham stared after them, trying desperately to quell the knot of fear rising in her throat. Wynter could still die.

“Valik.” She caught the Steward’s arm. “We need Tildy—Tildavera Greenleaf—my old nurse. There’s no better healer in all of Summerlea, possibly all of Mystral. I’ve seen her bring soldiers back from the brink of death, when every other healer said they could not be saved.”

“She’s the one who came to our camp, isn’t she? The one who sold Wyn on the idea of marrying one of your father’s daughters.” He gave a derisive snort. “No.”

She reached for him again. “Listen to me. I know you don’t trust her—or me, for that matter—and I don’t care. If Galacia can save Wynter on her own, you won’t need to let Tildy anywhere near him. But if she can’t . . .” She let her voice trail off.

Valik shook his head. “Even if I said yes, it would take weeks to get word to Vera Sola then get her here. Wynter doesn’t have that kind of time.”

“No, it won’t.” Galacia looked up from Wynter’s side. “She’s already on her way to Gildenheim. Wynter sent for her ten days ago.”

“What?” Valik and Khamsin said in unison. They looked at each other, then both turned back to Galacia.

“Wynter sent for Tildy?”

“He never told me that,” Valik burst out at the same time.

Laci leveled a stern glance on Valik. “If your king has ceased to confide in you, Valik, perhaps you should look to your own heart for the reason why.” Then with a haughty sniff, she added, “He sent for Tildavera Greenleaf because he thought Khamsin would want a familiar face to attend her during her pregnancy.”

“My . . . what?” Kham’s jaw dropped. “Who said I’m pregnant?”

Galacia’s brows shot up. “Are you telling me you didn’t know?” Her lips tightened, and she glared at Wynter’s unconscious face. “I love you dearly, Wynter Atrialan, but you are a great lunkheaded lummox of a man.” To Khamsin, she said, “You have been suffering spells of dizziness, yes? Feeling a little queasy at mealtimes?”

“Yes, but—”

“Your scent has changed, too. Wynter pointed it out to me. He said he’d noticed a similar change when you first arrived at Gildenheim, but he didn’t realize what it meant until after we discovered what that Rosh woman had done. Your body is changing, thus altering your scent, making you dizzy, and making you queasy, because you are with child.”

Khamsin felt dizzy now. She grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself and laid a hand on her still flat belly. “But how can that be?”

Galacia arched an expressive brow. “Considering that you and Wynter have been mating like a pair of mink the last six weeks, I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question?”

Kham grimaced and rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Are you sure? There is no mistake?”

“You’ve had no bleeding since Belladonna Rosh was sent to the mercy of the mountains, have you?”

Kham’s face went hot. Mortified to have Valik and all the other men in the room listening to the intimate details of her bodily functions, she shook her head.

“Then there’s no mistake. By the end of summer, you’ll give birth to the next heir to the Winter Throne. Congratulations, my queen, and please don’t tell Wynter I was the one who informed you. He must have been waiting for you to realize the truth and tell him yourself.”

“I think I need to sit down.” Kham circled around the chair she was clinging to and sank down upon it. She was going to have a child. A child. Hers and Wynter’s.

“Anyways,” Galacia continued briskly, “the point I was trying to make is that Tildavera Greenleaf is at least halfway here by now—probably closer. And if she’s as good a healer as Khamsin says, then we should bring her here posthaste.”

Kham lifted her head. “Find her, Valik. Bring her here.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “That’s not a request. That’s a command from your queen.”

It was a gamble, forcing him to acknowledge her rank or strip her of it before the White Guard. If he denied her, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. But she was done being the foreigner in their midst. It was past time all of them accepted that she was here to stay.

After several long, tense moments, Valik bowed before her. “Yes, my queen.”

Khamsin brushed a cool, damp cloth gently across Wynter’s forehead. In the three days since she’d driven back the effects of the Ice Heart, the infection Galacia feared most had set in. A putrescence of the belly, caused by a mix of the slash to Wynter’s intestine and the poison carried in the claws and fangs of the garm.

Fever raged in the body that had only days before been frozen solid.

Wynter lapsed in and out of consciousness as the infection spread through his veins. Around the wound, his golden skin had turned an angry purplish red, with streaks of inflamed color radiating outward, and his breathing had become shallow and labored. He was clinging to life by a thread, growing weaker by the hour.

If they didn’t find a way to draw out the infection soon, he would die.

“Khamsin . . .” Wynter muttered her name as his head tossed on the pillow stuffed with fragrant herbs.

“I’m here, husband.” She leaned down to press her lips to his burning forehead. Her fingers squeezed his hand. “I’m right here beside you.”

“. . . Khamsin . . .” His brows drew together. “. . . the garm . . . must save . . .”

“You did save me. I’m right here beside you. You slew the garm, husband. We are both safe. They cannot hurt us anymore.” She stroked the silvery white hair back from his temples. “Come back to me, Wynter. Please. I . . . need you.”

The door to the hunting lodge opened. A burst of cold air swirled through the opening. Valik entered, his boots caked with snow.

“She’s here.”

Kham turned. “Tildy?”

“Aye. And I pray she’s as good as you say she is.”

She leapt to her feet and ran outside just as two dozen armed and armored riders came galloping up. Tildy, bundled in so many layers she looked like a stuffed swan, was clinging to the back of one of the riders. Two of Valik’s men reached up to help her out of the saddle.

“Tildy!” Khamsin started towards her old nursemaid, then hesitated. For days, she’d been wondering how this reunion would go. She’d been so hard and unforgiving over Tildy’s role in her marriage.

But when those old eyes fell upon her, Tildy’s arms opened wide. “Dearly!” The face Kham had never thought to see again beamed out from its nest of dark woolens and furs. Then Tildy’s arms were around her, and the familiar scent of lemon verbena filled her nose.

“Oh, Tildy, I’ve missed you.” Her own arms came up to pull Tildy close and hold her tight. Kham squeezed her eyes shut against threatening tears as a tumult of emotions welled up. “I’m so glad you’re here. Wynter is very ill. Nothing we’ve tried has worked. The infection grows stronger by the day.”

“Of course. Just let me get my things.”

“The men will bring your belongings.”

Tildy and Khamsin both turned to find Valik close beside them. He was regarding Tildy with the same cold suspicion he’d heretofore reserved for Khamsin.

“Valik, this is Tildavera Greenleaf, my former nurse. Tildy, this is Valik Arngildr, Wynter’s Steward of Troops.”

“We’ve met,” he said. “Several times, as a matter of fact.”

To Tildy’s credit, she held his gaze without faltering. “Indeed, sir. I remember the occasions well.”

“The question is, who do you spy for now, Nurse Greenleaf?”

“No one, my lord. My days of intrigue are over. I have come only to serve my princess.”

“Your queen.”

“Pardon?”

“To serve your queen. Khamsin is no longer your princess. She is Queen of the Craig and of Summerlea.”

Tildy blinked. “Of course. I but spoke from the habit of years.”

Valik inclined his head, his expression inscrutable. “The king lies this way.”

Kham gave Valik a questioning look, surprised by his unexpected defense of her position. His response was a curt nod and a stiff bow. One arm extended towards the door in an invitation for her to precede him.

Well, that was interesting. Among themselves, Valik still suspected Khamsin of being her brother’s spy, but with outsiders, he circled the spears. Shaking her head in bemusement, Kham led the way into the lodge.

As the men carried in Tildy’s bags and boxes of supplies, Khamsin introduced Tildy to Galacia, and Laci brought Tildy up to speed on Wynter’s condition and all the remedies they had already attempted.

Tildy listened intently, interrupting only to ask an occasional question. When Galacia finished, Tildy approached Wynter and began her own examination. She inspected the stitched slashes and bite marks that scored his chest, legs, and arms, rolled him to his side to examine the wounds on his back, and gently probed the gaping, infected wound in his belly. Pus and violet-tinged blood seeped out in response to the slightest pressure.

“You say the creature that made these wounds carried poison in its fangs and claws?”

“The garm,” Galacia confirmed. “Yes. The poison is so lethal, most men would have died within a day of receiving even the least of the king’s injuries.”

“Is that poison to blame for the strange hue of his blood?”

Galacia hesitated, then said, “No. That is a separate issue.”

Tildy looked up sharply. “A separate issue? What sort of issue? What else ails him beside the wounds and poisoning?” She frowned as Khamsin and Galacia exchanged glances. “If you expect me to heal him, you must tell me everything you know about his condition. The smallest detail might be the key to saving his life.”

Once, not so long ago, Khamsin would have answered Tildy without a second thought, but these months in Wintercraig had changed her. Her heart—her loyalty—lay here now, tied to the man she had wed. No matter what his feelings for her, no matter what the outcome of their marriage, she would not betray his secrets.

“Galacia is right, Tildy. The color of Wynter’s blood has nothing to do with the infection. If anything, the cause of it has probably done more to keep him alive this long than all our potions and poultices. For now, just focus on curing the infection. If he does not soon show signs of improvement, we can talk again.”

Kham knew Tildy wasn’t happy to be left in the dark, but except for a slight tightening of her lips, the Summerlea nurse was careful not to show it.

“Very well, I’ll work with what I can see and what information you feel comfortable in sharing. You were wise to leave this wound open.” Tildy gestured to the hole in Wynter’s abdomen. “Whoever stitched the torn intestine has a fine hand, but once the intestine is ruptured, controlling the putrefaction is nearly impossible. How often are you irrigating the wound?”

“Every four hours.”

“Make it once an hour. I will mix up a special wash to use, as well as poultices to draw out the poison. If he doesn’t improve within four hours, I will need to cleanse the entire cavity.”

“Tildy.” Kham laid a hand on the nurse’s shoulder and waited for her to look up. “Can you save him?”

Tildy met Khamsin’s gaze with unflinching directness, and admitted, “I don’t know. I won’t pretend his condition is anything less than dire. But I promise you I will use every bit of knowledge and skill I possess to do so.”

The tireless efforts Galacia and Khamsin had been making the last week were nothing compared to the relentless regimen Tildy instituted. In no time, she had Khamsin, Galacia, and every Winterman in the lodge jumping to attention whenever she spoke. They rushed to and fro at her command, fetching whatever items she requested, stoking the fire, assisting whenever she needed another pair of hands.

Valik watched Tildy like a hawk. His suspicious gaze followed each move Tildy made, but the Summerlea healer just bustled about with her usual, focused efficiency, whipping up potions and poultices as if she were safely ensconced in her own apothecary.

She set four great pots boiling on the hearth, each containing a different concoction of herbs, crushed minerals, oils, and various ingredients from the satchels she’d brought with her, as well as other fresh items she sent the men to fetch from the forest and nearest village. She added long strips of linen to one of the boiling pots, handed Galacia a stick, and told her to stir.

“The antiseptic solution must soak the linen fibers completely.”

While Galacia stirred, Tildy handed Khamsin a mortar and pestle and ordered her to crush a cup of linseeds, and a dozen cloves of garlic into a paste. Beside Kham, Tildy busied herself grating the bark of a slippery elm into powder.

“I had hoped to find you with child,” Tildy murmured as they worked. “You have been here five months, newly wed. As a daughter of the Rose, your fertility is guaranteed. Has your husband failed to attend you?”

The question made Kham’s jaw drop. “No, of course not! He has ‘attended’ me very well—” She broke off, blushing. She glanced over at Valik, who was talking quietly to one of the guards, and lowered her voice. “If you’re looking to cast blame for my lack of quickening, look no further than Verdan Coruscate. On his command, the Summerlea maid who accompanied me to Wintercraig was secretly dosing me with tansy. We only recently discovered the truth.”

“He wouldn’t . . .” Tildy breathed.

“There was a child, Tildy. She killed it.”

Horror filled Tildy’s eyes. “Oh, dearly, no.” She caught Khamsin’s arm. “Oh, my dear. I don’t know what to say.”

Her news about the child she was now carrying was on the tip of her tongue when Valik noticed them whispering and came over.

“Is there a problem?” Valik stopped near the corner of the hearth, one hand resting on the sheathed sword at his hip.

“No,” Kham said, as Tildy turned her attention back to the herbs she was preparing. “No problem. Tildy was just asking after my health.”

“This is ready,” Tildy announced. She took the bowl of garlic and linseed paste from Khamsin and added a measure of castor oil and the slippery elm bark she’d just grated into a fine powder. After mixing the ingredients, she smeared a thick layer of the gooey paste on a square of boiled cheesecloth.

“Fetch your men,” she ordered Valik. “You must hold your king down to keep him from struggling. This next part will not feel pleasant.”

Valik and five tall, muscular Wintermen ringed Wynter and gripped his limbs. Once they were in place, Tildy poured a steady stream of hot, pungent liquid into the suppurating wound in Wynter’s belly. With a roar, he surged up against the hands holding him down. He writhed, muscles bulging, shouting curses and threats while Valik and the others gritted their teeth and fought to keep him down, their own bodies straining with the effort to keep him under control. Wynter’s head thrashed, strands of sweat-soaked hair whipping about. The bandage tied over his eyes slipped free and fell to the floor. His eyes opened. The irises had turned a cold, deadly white.

“His Gaze!” Valik cried. “Quickly! Cover his eyes!”

The man closest to Wynter’s head reached for the bandage, only to cry out as his fingers went white with frost.

“Wynter!” Abandoning her place by Tildy’s side, Khamsin lunged towards the head of the table. She snatched the bandage off the floor and laid it across Wynter’s eyes, holding it in place by gripping either side of his head. “Hossa, min mann. I’m here. Be calm. Let us help you.” She crooned soothing words, but Wynter continued to struggle.

His arm broke free, and he surged up on the table, lifting several men off their feet until two more rushed forward to grab his flailing wrist and pin him back down on the table.

“You!” she barked to one of the men standing near the cookpots. “Come hold this bandage in place.”

When the man took her place, she raced around to the side of the table and shoved between the men holding Wynter’s arm.

“Let go of his wrist,” she commanded. “I’ve got him.” She clasped her husband’s hand and pressed the warm red Rose on her wrist against his wolf’s head. Energy flared around them in a palpable burst. Wynter’s flailing struggles ceased abruptly.

In the still silence, Khamsin clung to him. She folded their joined hands together beneath her as she bent over his body and laid a free hand on his chest. “I am here, my husband. Be calm now. Let us help you. Please, I need you to live. Do you hear me?” She dragged their joined hands to her lips, kissing his strong, blunt fingers, the broad knuckles. There was so much strength—and so much gentleness—in his hands. “I need you to live.” Wetness gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked, and the tears dropped from her lashes to his skin. “I need you,” she whispered into his hand.

“Quickly, Lady Frey,” Tildy commanded, snapping everyone back to attention, “pull those linen strips from the pot and set them in a bowl to cool. You there, what is your name?”

“Ungar.”

“Ungar, fetch two more buckets of snow. We need to irrigate this wound again.”

Tildy worked with swift efficiency, irrigating the wound two more times with the boiling antiseptic wash she cooled by pouring it over snow. When she was satisfied she’d cleared out as much of the infected matter as she could, she packed the wound with the boiled linen strips, laid the linseed, garlic, and castor oil poultice over the top of that to draw any additional infection out, and covered it all with a length of cheesecloth soaked in honey to seal the wound. The whole time she worked, Khamsin remained bent over Wynter, her Rose clasped to his Wolf. That kept him docile though the Wintermen continued to hold him, just in case.

When she was finished, Tildy set out two hourglasses. A large glass that counted down the hour with a steady stream of pink sand, and a smaller glass whose blue sands ran out every twenty minutes. Three times an hour, as the blue sands ran out, she replaced the poultice and honey-soaked cheesecloth with fresh.

Every hour, when the last of the pink sand ran out, Tildy poured an unpleasant-smelling potion made from willow bark, garlic, purple coneflower root, and barberry down Wynter’s throat, then summoned them all back to Wynter’s side. Valik and five other men would hold him down, and Khamsin would clasp her wrist to his, while Tildy and Galacia removed the poultices and packing, irrigated the wound thoroughly, then repacked the wound with fresh, steaming strips of linen, applied a fresh poultice atop that, and laid a honey-soaked cheesecloth over the entire area.

And so it went the rest of the day, all through the night, and on through a second day. The relentless pace took its toll on all of them, except Tildy, who seemed powered by an inexhaustible supply of energy. Near midnight the second night, when the linen strips they pulled from Wynter’s body came away free of infected matter, Tildy pronounced the most immediate crisis passed.

“The next few days will tell,” Tildy said, “but so long as the infection does not retake a firm hold, he should pull through.”

“Praise the gods.” Kham slumped in relief, leaning forward to rest her forehead on Wynter’s arm. His skin felt cool again.

A tender hand brushed her cheek. “You should rest, dearly. You’re asleep on your feet.” Tildy’s voice grew crisper as she added, “In fact, all of you should seek your beds. I can manage the next few hours on my own.”

“Lady Frey, you and the queen sleep,” Valik seconded. “Ungar, Tol, and I will stand watch with Nurse Greenleaf. I insist,” he added with cold implacability when Tildy started to object. “Go, Laci, Khamsin. I’ll wake you if there’s the smallest hint of trouble.”

Khamsin was too exhausted to argue, so she just pushed to her feet, stumbled down the hallway to the bedroom she had been using this past week, and fell into bed. She was asleep before her head hit the lavender-stuffed pillow.

Sometime later, while the night was still dark and long before she’d slept long enough to feel rested, Khamsin found herself shaken awake.

“Wha—?” she blinked in groggy confusion.

“Here, drink this.”

A wooden cup tapped against Kham’s teeth. Warm liquid splashed over her lips and into her mouth. The liquid, whatever it was, had a strong, sharp flavor and a bitter aftertaste. Kham started to spit it out, but more poured into her mouth, accompanied by a command to “Swallow” and a sharp pinch to close her nostrils and ensure she obeyed.

Left with no choice, Kham swallowed, then coughed as some of the liquid went down her windpipe.

“Quickly,” the same voice ordered in a hushed whisper, “we don’t have much time. I dosed everyone with valerian at the evening meal, but I didn’t dare use enough to keep them sleeping for long.”

“Tildy?” Kham frowned up at her nurse. “What’s going on? Is it Wynter?” Thinking he must have taken a turn for the worst, she leapt out of the bed.

“The Winter King is fine, but it’s time for us to make our escape.” Tildy shoved a woolen gown and thick, furred coat into Kham’s hands. “Here, you’ll need to dress warmly. We’ve a long way to go.”

Khamsin stared at the clothes in confusion. “I don’t understand. What are we escaping?”

“I’m sorry, dearly. I’m so terribly sorry. I’d heard he was an honorable man, or I should never have proposed he wed you. I never dreamed he would murder his own wife if she didn’t bear him a child within the year.”

Kham gaped at her nurse as her groggy mind started to make sense of what was going on. “Are you talking about Wynter?” She shook her head. “He isn’t going to murder me, Tildy.”

“I’m sorry, dearly, but he swore as much to your father, which is of course exactly why Verdan—may he scorch in the fires of Hel!—conspired to prevent you from conceiving a child. I thought by encouraging this marriage, I was sending you away from mortal danger, and instead, I unwittingly sent you into its very jaws. Thank the gods you sent for me before it was too late.” She realized that Kham hadn’t started getting dressed, and exclaimed, “Hurry, dearly! If we’re not well on our way before the valerian wears off, our chance for escape will be lost.”

“Tildy, I’m not going anywhere. I know what Wynter told my father, but the ‘mercy of the mountains’ isn’t the certain death it sounds like. I’m in no danger here.” Kham laid the dress and coat over the back of a nearby chair.

“You may be willing to bet your life on that, but I am not. And neither is your brother.” Tildy snatched the dress up again and sifted through the long folds to find the openings for Khamsin’s head and arms.

Kham stared at Tildy in shock. “You’ve heard from Falcon? But when? How?”

“We’ve been in contact since shortly after your wedding, when I found out the Winter King intended to kill you if you didn’t bear his child within the year. I sent word to him when I found out I was coming here. As soon as we get away from here, I’ll send him a signal, and he’ll let us know where to meet him.” Her face darkened with a scowl. “And you can rest assured, I’ll be informing him about your father’s latest crime against you. Keeping you barren so your blood would be on the Winter King’s hands instead of his own. He has gone mad!” Having located the gown’s neck hole, she loosely scrunched up the wool to make a circle of fabric.

“Here. Raise your arms.” Tildy held up the gown, ready to drop it into place over Kham’s head.

“Tildy.” Kham took the dress from her, tossed it on the bed, and caught her nurse’s hands. “Tildy, stop. If you sent Falcon a signal telling him we’re coming, you’d best send him another one telling him there’s been a change of plans. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“I do. I am Wynter’s wife, his queen—”

“Whom he intends to stake out on some mountain glacier and leave to die!”

Kham shook her head. “He isn’t going to kill me. If that’s what he wanted, I’d already be dead. The only reason he’s out there on that table”—she pointed in the direction of the lodge’s main room—“fighting for his life, is because of me. I was attacked by garm. Just one of them could wipe out an entire village, and Wynter fought off four of them to save me. Does that sound like the actions of a man who wants me dead?”

Tildy looked momentarily nonplussed, but then her shoulders squared, and her jaw firmed. “And if he doesn’t survive? I’ve watched the others closely since I arrived. Lord Valik doesn’t strike me as the trusting sort. None of them do. If the Winter King dies, they’ll kill you without a second thought.”

Khamsin honestly didn’t know what Valik and the others would do, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment. “I won’t leave him, Tildy. And I’m very sorry to have to do this, but you’re not leaving either. At least not until I’m sure he’s out of danger.”

It took a lot to surprise Tildy, but that did. “You would hold me here against my will?”

“To ensure my husband’s survival? In a heartbeat.” Kham tried to soften her ruthless declaration with persuasion, reaching for her former nurse’s hands and squeezing them gently. “I ordered Valik to bring you here because I knew you were the only person in the world who could save Wynter, and that’s what I need you to do.”

“And if I nurse him back to fitness, will you come with me then?”

Kham considered lying. Tildy would believe it because it was what she wanted to hear. But she wouldn’t do that to her nurse. “No, Tildy. My place is here, with my husband and the people of Wintercraig. This is my home now. This is where I belong.”

“But what about your brother? If he doesn’t hear from me, he’ll assume the worst.”

“Are you using preset signals, or can you send him an actual message?”

“Why do you ask?”

That Tildy had answered the question with a question gave Kham all the answer she needed. “You can send messages. Good. Because, I’ve got one for him.”

Khamsin stayed up with Tildy the rest of the night, ostensibly to assist with tending Wynter but really to make sure her nurse didn’t sneak off before Valik and the others roused. Her motives left her feeling guilty and a bit vile—Tildy was the closest thing to a mother Kham had, not some enemy—but Kham kept an eye on her all the same.

Her message to Falcon had been short and sweet: Verdan gone mad. I am safe with Wynter. Stay away. We will defend Wintercraig. Storm.

Falcon and his Calbernan allies might have already invaded Summerlea, but hopefully the realization that Wintercraig had not one but two powerful weathermages to defend it would convince them to turn back.

It was something of a relief when Valik woke. He stirred groggily at first, then jerked full awake, bolting upright in his chair and scanning the room with agitated swiftness when he realized he’d dozed off. Finding nothing amiss, his golden cheeks flushed a dusky red. He didn’t appear to suspect he’d been drugged, and Kham wasn’t about to tell him. Wrong or right, Tildy was family. Unless she directly threatened the safety of Wintercraig, its people, or its king, Kham wouldn’t betray her.

Valik cleared his throat, checked on Wynter, then went round the room kicking the other guards awake. “I was just resting my eyes,” he declared gruffly when he made his way back to the hearth.

“The last weeks have been wearisome,” she agreed without rancor.

Valik rubbed the back of his head, grimaced, and muttered, “Much as I hate to admit it, you were right to send for your Summerlea nurse. She has worked a miracle.”

The admission startled a smile from Khamsin. “Miracles are her forte,” she said. “And I don’t blame you for your suspicions. You love him. You want to protect him from harm.” She glanced down at Wynter and caressed his lean, golden cheek with her fingertips, brushing the snowy hair back from his temple. “I can understand that.”

Her voice trailed off, and in the ensuing silence, she felt the weight of Valik’s gaze. Old instincts kicked in, and she pulled her hand back, burying her softer emotions so they could not be used against her. She took a step away from the cot where Wynter lay. “Of course, he’s not out of the woods yet. The slightest infection could destroy all our progress in a heartbeat. But Tildy says she’s never seen a man so determined to live.”

“He is Wynter of the Craig,” Valik said as if that said it all. And perhaps it did.

A huge yawn came upon her without warning. “Sorry. Clearly, I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

“Then you should return to your bed.” For the first time, Valik spoke almost warmly.

“Maybe later. First, there’s something I need to discuss with you and Laci. In private.” Falcon had sent birds to follow Tildy. That’s how she’d been able to signal him. But that also meant Falcon knew where to find Tildy—and, more importantly, where to find Wynter. Kham had thought about it all night long and realized there was no way she could keep that information a secret.

Before Valik could answer, one of the White Guard entered the cabin. “Eagle approaching.”

Valik nodded. “Excuse me for a moment.” He took his leave of Khamsin and headed for the door.

While Valik headed out to receive whatever report the eagle was bringing, Tildy called Khamsin to help her with the lengthy process of changing Wynter’s poultices.

“He’s progressing nicely,” she announced when they were done. “He’s not quite so rapid a healer as you, dearly, but if I can keep the king still and free of infection for another week, his chances for survival increase tenfold.”

“That is indeed unfortunate, Nurse Greenleaf.”

Tildy and Khamsin turned in unison to find Valik standing in the lodge doorway. He crossed the threshold and approached the hearth where Wynter lay. His expression was grim, his eyes bleak.

“Like it or not, the king must wake, and we don’t have the luxury of another week to wait.”