The Winter King

  “What else have you got in those pockets?” the merchant demanded. “What else have you stolen that I didn’t see you take?”

  “I didn’t take nothing else!”

  “I told you to empty your pockets, and I meant it,” Wynter ordered. He gave the lad a warning shake.

  Scowling, the boy began tossing down a veritable hoard of small treasures and trinkets: a handful of copper coins, a ball of twine, several smooth rocks, a collapsible knife, a pair of flint stones, a rabbit’s foot, and a silver wristband set with small gemstones.

  The merchant pounced on the wristband. “Didn’t steal anything else, eh? Then where would the likes of you get this? Or are we supposed to believe it was a gift of the Valkyr?”

  The boy lunged forward, almost breaking free from Wynter’s grip. “That belonged to my mother, you great boar’s ass! Give it back!”

  “Your mother?” The merchant laughed. “Right, and I’m the King Under the Mountain. I’ll just show this to the other merchants and see if any of them are missing this pretty trinket.”

  The boy gave a howl of fury and began kicking and flailing wildly. One foot caught Khamsin in the stomach with enough force to knock her down and drive the air from her lungs. She lay on the hard ground, gasping for air and shuddering as clammy waves of nausea washed over her from head to toe.

  “Take him,” Wynter muttered, shoving the boy—now shocked into fearful submission—towards Valik. He knelt by Khamsin’s side and helped her to sit up. “Wife, are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” she muttered. She rose to her feet, then wished she’d stayed on the ground. Her knees were shaking, and her vision was starting to swim.

  “Wife?” The boy was staring at Wyn and Khamsin with wide eyes. “But if she’s the queen, that would make you the . . .”

  “King,” Wynter confirmed.

  “Of Wintercraig,” Valik added. “Whom you just called a—what was the exact phrase—ah, yes, a plague-ridden pus bag.” He gave the child a stern shake.

  The boy’s golden skin took on a greenish cast. His gaze darted from Wynter to Khamsin and back again. “I-I—”

  Khamsin took pity on him. “There’s no need to look so frightened. I’m fine.” Liar! Her stomach, where the child had kicked her, was beginning to cramp. “And I’m sure the king has been called worse.” That earned her an arch look from her spouse, which she ignored. “There’s no harm done.”

  “Not that that excuses you from any other crimes you may have committed,” Wynter said. “I want the truth of what’s going on here. You can start by telling me your name.”

  For a moment, Khamsin thought the child might remain defiant, but apparently kicking his new queen in the belly and calling his king a pus bag had exhausted the boy’s hunger for rebelliousness. At least temporarily. “Kr-Krysti. My name is Krysti.”

  “Wise decision, Krysti,” Wynter praised. “Now, you say this bracelet belonged to your mother. I suggest you take us to her so she can confirm what you say.”

  “Does she know you’re stealing from honest merchants?” the merchant standing nearby piped up.

  Krysti cast a sullen glare at the man. “She’s dead. She and my father both died three years ago.”

  “Your mother’s dead?” Khamsin repeated. “And that bracelet was hers?”

  The child nodded.

  “Give it back to him,” Khamsin ordered the merchant.

  “But Your Grace—” the man protested. He turned to Wynter. “Sire!”

  “He said it belonged to his mother,” she interrupted. “I believe him. Look at what he pulled from his pockets. Nothing else there seems obviously stolen or unusual for a boy to carry around. And I will not see any child parted from a remembrance of his mother.” The cramping in her stomach had become sharp pain. Alternating waves of heat and cold washed over her. She took a breath and swallowed. “If I’m wrong, I will compensate whichever merchant he robbed and see the boy suitably punished. So, give the bracelet back to him. Now.”

  Glowering, the merchant did as he was told. The boy clutched the bracelet so fiercely, Khamsin knew she’d been right. That small band of silver was precious to the boy, and in a way no stolen trinket could have been.

  “My thanks.” Her skin felt cold and tight. If she didn’t find privacy soon, she was going to humiliate herself in front of Wynter, Valik, and half the village, but something about the boy would not just let her walk away. Maybe it was his defiance. Maybe it was the way he clutched his mother’s bracelet, as if that small piece of metal held every ounce of happiness in his world. He reminded her of herself. Half-wild, full of fire and fierce rebellion. Desperately clinging to whatever small, precious memories of love he could find.

  “Do you have any other family, Krysti?”

  The boy’s grimy chin thrust up in the air. “No, and I need none. I can take care of myself.”

  “Clearly not. At least not without stealing.” Her lips pressed tight together as her stomach clenched with another sharp pain, and bile rose in her throat.

  “Khamsin?” Wynter frowned down at her. “Are you all right?”

  She dragged in a shallow breath and waved him off. “You were caught stealing, Krysti. We have returned what you took, and I’ve offered compensation to any other merchant you may have robbed. You owe me a debt. I claim a year of your service in payment. Starting now. You will be my page. And no more stealing. It isn’t honorable.” The last several sentences came out in a desperate rush. She spun away. Her belly was rippling with cramps. Sweat beaded her upper lip. “Bron, please have someone escort Krysti back to the palace. I need to—to—”

  “Khamsin?” Wynter reached for her arm.

  She twisted out of his reach and spun away, walking quickly back towards stables at the center of town where the horses were waiting.

  She’d just cleared the last row of tents, when a brutal onslaught of cramps doubled her over. A low cry broke past her lips. Her knees gave out and she sat abruptly in the snow.

  “Khamsin!” Wynter raced towards her, dropping to his knees beside her. Valik, Bron, and the guards followed close on his heels, forming a protective line between Khamsin and the crowd of curious Winterfolk. Krysti was still clutched in one of Valik’s hands.

  “Bron,” Wynter snapped, “fetch the horses. Loke, ride back to Gildenheim. Summon Lady Frey to the Queen’s chambers. Valik, bind that boy. He’s coming with us.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her!” Krysti’s voice broke the ensuing silence. “I swear, I didn’t!”

  “Be silent, boy!” Valik barked.

  Khamsin laid a hand on Wynter’s arm. “Not his fault,” she said. “Felt ill since lunch. Ah!” She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw as another series of violent cramps racked her body. “Merciful sun!” she breathed when the seized muscles finally relaxed.

  The clatter of horse hooves on cobblestone announced Bron’s return with several horses in tow, Hodri among them.

  “You’ll ride back with me.” Wynter gathered Khamsin into his arms and rose to his feet, lifting her with effortless strength. “No arguments.”

  “Wyn.” Valik’s voice was low, quiet, but filled with urgency. “Look.” He nodded at the snow-covered ground near Wynter’s feet.

  Wynter glanced down. His body went still. The arms holding Khamsin clenched a little tighter. “Khamsin . . . you are wounded?”

  “No, I—” She frowned and followed his gaze. Bright red glistened in the patch of compressed snow where she’d been sitting. “What in the name of—ah!” Another brutal series of cramps tore through her body.

  Her eyes widened in fear as a hot gush of blood soaked her thighs and the dense folds of her skirts.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Mercy of the Mountains

  Rays of sunlight fell over Khamsin’s face, bringing warmth and the familiar, energizing tingle of powe
r sparking in her veins. Lost in hazy, pleasant dreams of summer and her brother Falcon sneaking up into the Sky Garden to play Swords and Warriors with her, she tried to resist consciousness, but the dreams faded despite her strongest efforts to cling to them.

  She stretched, then hissed as a dozen tiny needles of pain stabbed her abdomen in response. She opened her eyes, blinked at the silvery blue satin canopy overhead, and sat up.

  She was in her room in Gildenheim. She sensed the sun’s position high in the sky. Her brow creased in a frown. It was midday, and she was still abed?

  A whisper of fabric and a cool wind made her turn towards the bedroom door. Lady Galacia Frey entered.

  “Ah, you’ve finally awakened. Good. How do you feel?”

  Kham scowled. Feel?

  “You lost quite a bit of blood. Between that and the restorative herbs I gave you, you may still feel a little . . . disoriented.”

  Memories were coming back. Terrible cramping pain. Bright red blood, so much of it the air filled with a sweet, metallic stench. Her own hoarse screams as she writhed in agony, feeling as though her body were ripping apart from the inside out.

  “You are a very lucky woman, Summerlander. If Wynter hadn’t acted so quickly to get you back to the palace and had the foresight to have me waiting when you arrived—and if your own powers hadn’t fought so hard to heal you—you would not be alive.”

  “What happened?”

  Lady Frey gave a small, elegant shrug. “You were poisoned. One of the servingwomen in the tavern in town admitted to putting a Wintercraig emetic called Lady’s Blush in your food. She lost her husband, father, and three brothers in the war. Grief turned to madness when she heard you claiming Summerlea suffered more greatly in the war than Wintercraig.”

  “She tried to kill me.”

  “Lady’s Blush isn’t normally lethal. She claims she only meant to make you sick, but she must have been far more heavy-handed with the herb than she admits. One of the side effects is a raised heartbeat and blood that flows much more rapidly through the veins, both of which give the ladies who consume it a blush in their cheeks—hence the name. When the orphan boy kicked you, he must have ruptured a vessel in your womb, and with the Lady’s Blush in your system, you began to hemorrhage. If Wynter hadn’t used the Ice Gaze to freeze your blood and slow down your heart rate, you would have bled to death before I could determine the cause of your illness and administer an antidote.”

  “Where is Wynter now?”

  Lady Frey turned to a small bedside table on which rested several stoppered flagons. “Attending important matters of state.” She uncorked a silvery blue bottle and poured a thin stream of liquid into a crystal glass, then added chartreuse liquid from a small green vial and a powder from a third, capped pot. She stirred the concoction with a long, thin silver wand and turned to offer it to Khamsin. “Here. Drink this. It’s a restorative that will help you regain your strength. Drink,” she added again when Khamsin hesitated. A smile flirted on Lady Frey’s smooth, pale lips. “I promise, it’s not poison.”

  Kham took the glass and sniffed cautiously at its contents. It smelled of verbena and something she didn’t recognize. Deciding that if Lady Frey had wished her ill, Kham would be dead already, she tilted the glass to her lips and drank. The liquid had the slightly thickened consistency of warmed honey and a sharp aftertaste that the lemony verbena couldn’t hide. She made a face and handed the glass back to Lady Frey.

  “Perhaps not poison, but I think I’ll just have broth or borgan the next time.”

  The priestess gave a small laugh. “Wynter is not fond of my potions either. If it can’t be killed and stewed or roasted, he wants nothing of it.”

  “Sounds good to me.” She sat up and threw back the covers. A rush of dizziness made her sway, but she fought it off.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Kham glanced at the priestess in surprise. “I’m awake. I’m getting up.”

  “Absolutely not. I forbid it. You very nearly bled to death. You’re still bleeding, in fact, and probably will be for another week or two until your womb heals. Your body hasn’t had any substantial nourishment in two days—”

  “Two days!” Kham exclaimed.

  Lady Frey grimaced impatiently but explained, “It was vital that you stayed as motionless as possible while we tried to stop the hemorrhaging, so I added a sedative to the Lady’s Blush antidote. You’re only awake now because the worst of the bleeding has passed and because I didn’t dare keep you without food any longer. You stay where you are. You’re not leaving that bed for at least another day.” She turned her head and barked over her shoulder, “Boy!”

  A small white-blond head poked through the doorway.

  “Has the queen’s maid returned from the kitchens?”

  “No, ma’am. Not yet.”

  Kham stared at the child. There was something familiar about him. He cast a shy, hesitant glance in her direction, and his silvery blue eyes met hers. Recognition dawned. The boy. The little pinch-pocket from the Konundal fairgrounds. What was his name?

  “Krysti?”

  The boy jumped as if a ghost had popped out of the bed, and cried, “Boo!” then lurched into an awkward bow. “Your Grace.”

  Someone had scrubbed him from head to toe and found him a set of spotless, well-tailored clothes to replace his previous moldy tatters. His face was small and thin, with a pointed chin, arching brows, and a dusting of silvery freckles that looked like snowflakes across the bridge of his nose. The corners of his eyes were tilted up, and the ears peeking through the thick strands of his pale, raggedly cropped hair had a slight point at their tops. If a snow fox had transformed into a boy, Kham fancied he would have looked just like Krysti.

  “I am surprised to see you here,” she said.

  The child shrugged and grimaced. “It’s not like I had much choice. Lord Valik brought me here for questioning the day you were—the day you got so sick.”

  “But clearly he has since let you go. You are not in chains, and someone has obviously provided for you.” She gestured to his clean clothes and tidy hair.

  “Once they found out about the poisoning, they let me go.”

  “Yet you are still here. I’m sure you could have run away if you’d wanted to. Why didn’t you?”

  “You said I owed you a year of service. The king commanded me to stay to serve it.” Krysti dropped his head and stared hard at his hands. His fingers were clenched so tight the knuckles were white. “I shouldn’t have stolen the slingbow. My parents were honest folk, and they raised me to be the same. I only took it because I was hungry. My traps haven’t been catching much, so I thought I’d have better luck with a slingbow.” He looked up, his eyes earnest. “Honest.”

  “I believe you, but since it seems you are to be in my service, I must warn you. I will not tolerate thievery in future. Is that clear? You are a page to the new queen of Wintercraig. Your behavior will reflect upon me.”

  The child nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Excellent. Then for your first task, my young page, please find my maid Bella and tell her I wish to dress.”

  The boy bowed and darted off. When he was gone, Lady Frey lifted a cool brow. “I’ve told you how close you came to death, Your Grace. I must insist you stay abed to recuperate. I will summon the king to ensure your compliance if I must.”

  Khamsin smiled a challenge. “Lady Frey, there are two things about me you should know. First, I am far harder to kill than anyone gives me credit. My sire has been trying for years without success. I am awake and alive, which means I’ve already survived the grieving widow’s attempt. As long as I avoid vigorous activity, sunshine and fresh air should have me completely healed by dinnertime tomorrow.

  “Second,” Kham leaned forward, and her smile faded, “no one—not my father, not my husband, not the Sun God himself—c
an make me do something I do not choose of my own will.”

  Lady Frey’s expression did not change. “You are very young to make such a bold statement. Life has a way of throwing such challenges back in our faces.”

  “What makes you think it hasn’t already done so many times over?”

  To Kham’s surprise, the priestess’s cold mask cracked. She smiled. “Ah, now I understand why you have Wynter tied up in such knots. You are a Valkyr in the flesh. He probably can’t decide whether to protect you, battle you, or toss you on your back and fark you. Wyrn help him.”

  Kham tried not to let the shock show on her face. She had Wynter tied up in knots? Was the woman serious?

  “What an heir your child will make. Wynter chose well.” Still smiling, Lady Frey began to pack her things in a small, fur-lined case.

  “He didn’t choose me at all.” Some perverse need to wipe the smile off Lady Frey’s face made her point that out. “He wanted one of my sisters and my fa—the Summer King tricked him into marrying me instead.”

  “Did he?” Lady Frey chuckled and shook her head.

  “You find that amusing? Wynter did not, I can assure you.”

  “That is not what I find amusing—well, it is, but not in the way you mean.”

  “Explain.”

  “You say no one—not even the gods—could force you to accept something not of your own choosing. Wynter is no different, or do you not recognize your own qualities when you see them in another?”

  “I—” She frowned. “He signed a treaty. He could not break it once it was signed, and our marriage was consummated.”

  “My dear girl, Wynter Atrialan turned his back on our laws, the pleadings and threats of his council, centuries of taboo, and his own almost certain destruction to embrace the Ice Heart, Wintercraig’s most deadly magic. He used that forbidden magic to wreak three years of deadly vengeance on the whole of Summerlea for your brother’s crimes. He was prepared to wipe every Summerlander off the face of the earth. You were all already walking corpses so far as he was concerned. Do you honestly think something as flimsy as a signed piece of paper and a marriage ceremony would have stayed his hand had he not wanted you for his bride?”