The Winter King (31 page)

“Bear him a child. It was love for his brother—grief over his death—that drove Wynter down this path. Love for his child is the thing he hopes will save him.”

“Love can melt the Ice Heart?”

“It’s the only thing that can.”

“That’s why he said if I didn’t bear him a child within the year, he’d slay me and take one of my sisters to wife.”

The priestess’s eyebrows shot up. “He said he’d slay you if you didn’t give him a child?”

“Several times. Only he tried to pretty it up with a Wintercraig euphemism, saying he’d send me to face the mercy of the mountains.”

Lady Frey scowled and rolled her eyes skyward. “Idiot men. Wyrn save me from them all.” She leaned forward, her piercing eyes intent. “Listen to me, Khamsin. Wynter doesn’t have a year left. The Ice Heart’s grip is very strong, and if he can’t break free of it, he will not long survive. As to the mercy of the mountains, I suspect he has deliberately misled you as to what it truly means. No doubt, he thought fear was the best way to force your compliance because he is a great buffoon of a man who does not understand women with the hearts of warriors any more than he understands women with the hearts of snakes.” Her lips drew back, baring her teeth in what was a very close imitation of a wolf’s snarl.

Despite her initial dislike of Lady Frey, with her chilly aloofness and ice-dagger eyes, Khamsin now realized she could like this woman very much indeed.

The priestess’s snarl faded, and she eyed Khamsin in silent consideration. “Perhaps you should get out of bed today after all,” she finally said. “I know you’ll be doing so anyways as soon as I leave the room, and this way at least I can keep an eye on you for another few hours.” She rose to her feet and, without turning her head, called out, “Come in, Summerlander. See that your mistress eats as much as she can, then help her dress. Bundle her warmly. Krysti, go to the stables and tell Bron to prepare a litter.” To Khamsin, she added, “And you will promise me to stay in the litter and to tell me the instant you feel the least bit unwell. Agree now, or this will not happen.”

“Agreed.” The word popped out before she even thought about it. She blinked and gave a wry laugh. “What did I just agree to? Where are you taking me?”

Lady Frey drew herself up to her full height, looking icy, beautiful and remotely regal. “To the slopes of Mount Gerd, to witness the mercy of the mountains.”

With both Valik and Wynter gone, there was no one to gainsay Lady Frey. Lord Barsul tried, but he withered quickly beneath the priestess’s icy glare. Within the hour, the small party rode out: six armed guards, Lady Frey riding a shining white beauty of a horse, Krysti bundled thickly and riding a shaggy tan mountain pony, and Khamsin borne in a drape-covered litter suspended between two large draft horses.

The litter wasn’t quite as stomach-churning a ride as the carriage had been, and Khamsin alleviated her travel sickness by keeping the curtains drawn back. The brisk, cold air on her face and being able to see where they were going staved off the worst of the sickness.

The journey to Mount Gerd was a two-hour, six-mile trek across rough mountain terrain that ended with a nerve-racking traversal of a crumbling stone bridge stretched over a deep gorge between mountains. On the far side of the bridge, perhaps a half mile from the ice-capped summit, a small round lodge had been built into the mountain. Smoke curled from lodge’s chimney, and as they approached, two guards in leather armor emerged to greet them.

“Where are they?” Lady Frey asked. “And when?”

“Second elevation, about an hour ago,” came the cryptic reply.

“My thanks.” The priestess turned her horse left towards a rocky path that curved around the mountain face. The rest of the party followed in single file.

The road turned down, and the air grew slightly warmer as they descended several hundred feet. Stark, snow- and lichen-covered rocks gave way to carpets of ground-hugging juniper. The rocky path split in two. One fork headed down towards the lower elevations, but they did not turn. Instead, they leveled out, traveling laterally across the mountain’s face. A few minutes later, the horses slowed, then came to a halt. Khamsin stuck out her head to see what was going on, but all she could see was the back end of her guards’ horses. The sound of approaching riders echoed against the stony mountainside. She knew who it was even before she saw Hodri’s shining whiteness and Wynter’s grim face and blazing eyes. Just the sight of him sent a warm, electric tingle shivering through her blood.

He didn’t have the same reaction to her. He took one look at her, and snapped, “Draw the curtains, woman! And pull those furs around you before you catch your death!” He whirled his horse around. “Damn it, Laci! What in Wyrn’s name are you thinking? Two days ago, she lay near death, and today you cart her through the mountaintops? Are you mad, or just trying to finish the job that idiot servingwoman started?”

Laci? Kham poked her head back out through the litter curtains and watched Wynter confront Lady Frey. He did not seem the least bit afraid of her as he bellowed insults at her for her “dim-witted bit of insanity” for bringing Khamsin to Mount Gerd.

Lady Frey seemed neither surprised nor impressed by his rage. “I brought her to witness the mercy of the mountains!” she snapped back. “As she was the injured party, it’s more than her right, and you know it. Besides, some fool has left her with the impression that the mercy of the mountains is a sentence of certain death—and told her that is her fate if she doesn’t bear your child in a year’s time!”

For a moment Wynter looked nonplussed—and decidedly guilty—but then his jaw clenched tight, and his teeth bared in a snarl. “She drew her own conclusions. I told no lies.”

“Idiot! Lunkhead! Bah! I should leave you to your fate. If I liked you even slightly less, that’s exactly what I’d do.” The priestess glared, her usual air of icy remoteness completely shredded.

Kham smiled. Ooh, she could easily like Lady Frey.

“Besides,” the priestess continued, “she was awake. If I’d left her on her own, she’d be running around the palace. This way, I’ve successfully managed to keep her lying down in that litter for several hours.”

Kham’s smile turned into a frown. Then again, maybe not so easily. She didn’t like being manipulated.

Wynter turned his head and caught Kham looking at him. His nostrils flared. “Fine,” he snapped. “Show her and be done with it. But then it’s straight back to Gildenheim, and she stays in bed the rest of the night and tomorrow with no complaints.”

“Agreed,” Lady Frey answered before Kham could do more than open her mouth. “Even if I have to drug her again.” She cast back a look of such icy promise that Kham scowled and sank back against the litter cushions.

Wynter and his riders turned their mounts around and headed back the way they’d come. The rest of them followed. Several minutes later, the path widened to a small plateau carved into the side of the mountain. Here, the snow had been trampled down.

The horses bearing the litter halted. Wynter pushed aside the curtains and lifted her out, but he did not set her down. “You shouldn’t be walking,” he growled when she protested. “You shouldn’t be here at all, so be silent or I’ll stuff you back in that litter and send the horses racing home to Gildenheim.”

She scowled her disapproval of his high-handed ways, then tried not to be too obvious when a brisk gust of wind made her snuggle closer to him for protection. Khamsin could see both hoofprints and boot prints all about. On the far side of the plateau, several large iron rings had been bolted into the mountainside. A pile of chain and two empty manacles lay in the snow near the center rings.

The servingwoman was nowhere to be seen.

“There’s no one here,” Khamsin said.

Wynter grunted. “The mountains have been merciful.”

She glared and thumped his steel breastplate. “Enough of this cryptic ‘mercy’ nonsense. Speak plainly. What happened to the woman from the tavern? Where did she go? Is she dead? Did you even bring her here at all?”

His lips compressed. He strode towards the far side of the plateau. As they neared, Khamsin could see another path leading down the mountain. Fresh footprints had flattened the snow. Wynter pointed down below, where a group of some half dozen bundled people were descending on horseback. “She is there.”

Khamsin squinted at the party. “Alive?”

“Against my better judgment.” Grim dissatisfaction rumbled in his voice. “I would have cleaved her in two when they first brought her to the palace and told me what she’d done, but Laci, Valik, and Barsul stopped me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Winterfolk
are
the mercy of the mountains. We live in a harsh world, where our survival often depends on one another. There is no room in the clans for people who cannot be trusted, but we are not brutes or barbarians. The woman admitted to putting a purgative in your food, but, even Laci agreed that if she’d truly meant to kill you, there are dozens of more effective poisons she could have used to ensure your death. Those people down there are the folk from Konundal who were willing to climb the mountain and offer her mercy. She will be taken away from this province. If she ever returns, or commits any other serious crime, she will be taken to the glaciers and left there to die.”

Khamsin watched the party below make its way slowly down the mountainside. “And if she had killed me—even accidentally?”

Wynter’s jaw hardened. “Then no amount of mercy could have saved her. You are my wife, under my protection. Harm to you is harm to me.”

“And if I do not bear the child you require? You would really chain me to this mountain and leave me to face my death?”

“I am the King of Wintercraig and you are my wife. I cannot take another woman to wife so long as you live. The mercy of the mountains is a symbolic death. Just as that woman is now dead to us, so, too, would you be.”

She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Symbolically or truly? Do you really think your countrymen would climb the mountain to offer
me
, the daughter of the Summer King, mercy?”

He held her gaze, his own unwavering. “That, Khamsin, depends entirely upon you. Give us reason to believe you are worthy of mercy, and I have no doubt you will find it.”

C
HAPTER 15

Heroes and Hazards

Khamsin thought about those words all the way back to Gildenheim. Her original plan had been to settle in and befriend the locals with an eye towards using what knowledge she could glean from them to escape the threat of death. Now, she realized, she had even greater reason to put that plan into action. The people she had thought to befriend for information and assistance were the very ones who had the power to set her free should she indeed end up chained to the slopes of Mount Gerd.

When they reached the palace, Wynter plucked her from the litter and carried her in his arms from the courtyard to her bedroom. He set her on the plump, fur-covered mattress with a warning to “Stay there!” then he was gone. Her tingling, vibrant sense of awareness and excitement went with him, but she was too proud to call him back.

She was tempted to rise from her bed, but he’d been wise enough to wring a promise from her that she would not. What pleasure she derived from his trust in her word was completely eclipsed by his willingness to use it against her. But she had given her oath. So, except for occasional trips to the bathroom, for the night and the day that followed, she stayed in bed and soaked up the light from her lamps and the sun and let her body heal.

She would have been bored to distraction except for Krysti. He kept her company the whole second day and turned out to be a delightful companion. He scrounged up a deck of cards, taught her a game called Aces, and they played for two hours. He warned her at the start that he wouldn’t let her win, and he didn’t. He beat her soundly at every game in the first hour, but she just narrowed her eyes, set her jaw and demanded another game. She won her first hand at the end of the second hour.

“You are a good opponent,” she told him with grudging admiration, “but I’m starting to get the hang of it. Don’t expect to win as often when we play again tomorrow.”

He smiled at the scowl she couldn’t quite wipe off her face. “You don’t like to lose.”

“Never,” she agreed. “Not for any reason. I never have. I’m like Roland that way.”

“Roland?”

She looked at him aghast. It was plain he didn’t know who she was talking about. “Roland Soldeus,” she prompted, “the Hero of Summerlea? The ancient king who held back an invasion force of fifty thousand with a mere three thousand men?” Still no recognition. She hesitated for a moment, remembering the humiliating rejection with the top-floor children, but thrust the pain of that remembered wound away. Krysti had sworn her a year of service. He couldn’t very well turn his back on her.

“Roland was an ancestor of mine. Well,” she corrected, “an ancestor of mine was his brother. I have a book about his most famous battles there on the table. Hand it to me, and I will read to you about the greatest hero who ever lived.”

Krysti crawled to the other side of the bed and came back with the worn book with the tarnished silver letters stamped into the spine. Kham opened the book and began to read. In no time, she was as engrossed as ever in the tale of Roland Triumphant. Lying beside her on the bed, his chin propped on his hands, eyes shining like stars, Krysti drank in the tales of the legendary Summerlea warrior with as much eager excitement as she ever had. And when she read the tale of Roland’s last and greatest battle, her throat closed up as it always did when she reached the part where his horn sounded a lonely, stirring cry across the valley of dead and dying, gathering Roland’s remaining men for one final, desperate charge against the invading hordes.

“ ‘They rode, the last one hundred, their banners lifted high.

Their armor gleamed like silver beneath the sun’s bright eye.

Before them, clad in golden scales, his brow with sunlight wreathed,

Rode Roland, the Triumphant, the Heir of Rose and Lea.

Oh, ever will a man be born more glorious than these,

The greatest sons of Summer led by their shining king?’ ”

Krysti’s hands clenched into fists, his little face was tense and flushed. “Did they do it? Did they beat them?”

She smiled at him, as Tildy had so often smiled at her. “Be patient, Krysti. Let me finish reading, and you will learn.” She bent her head back to the book and continued reading where she left off. “
‘The first two lines of Golgoth fell back in dazzled fear, as Roland and the hundred charged forth to meet their spears.’
” The last charge of Roland and the Hundred consumed more than fifteen pages in the book, describing in detail how valiantly those great knights had battled, how each mighty hero had fallen, how the clouds rolled in and cast a gray gloom across the battlefield as if the sky itself mourned their passing. Finally, only Roland and a dozen of his men remained in a field soaked with blood and littered with the enemy’s dead. Around them, the last ten thousand of the Golgoth’s army drew near, ringing the king and his men. Defeat was certain, but even then Roland would not surrender. He lifted his mighty sword, Blazing, high into the air and called upon the full measure of his Summer gifts.

Overhead, the clouds parted. Those watching from the hills surrounding the battled plain reported seeing a shaft of golden sunlight beam down upon the place where Roland stood, as if the sun itself had answered his call and showered its strength upon him. The last twelve Summerlea knights fell to their knees around him. They bowed their heads and reached out to lay their gauntleted hands upon him. Roland Triumphant gave a final shout, in a voice that boomed across the plain like the thunder of god: “
Avires Coruscate Rosa!
” Long live the Radiant Rose!

And from him exploded a vast, deadly force, like none had ever seen before or since. He flared blinding bright, so bright the watchers on the surrounding hills cried out and shielded their eyes, and rings of blazing golden light rolled out in stunning waves. The light swept across the plains for a radius of two miles, flattening the enemy army, incinerating everything in its path. It was as if the sun had fallen to earth and burst its strength upon the plain. Out and out, the rings of flaming light roared, until the watchers on the mountains cried out in fear, certain they, too, would be consumed by its blazing fury. But just before the deadly brilliance reached them, the fiery light receded like a wave upon sand. The rings raced back towards the center of the field, towards Roland, and met once more with a mighty boom. A tower of light and smoke shot up into the sky, and crackling blades of golden light speared the heavens.

Then it was over. The plain stood barren, emptied of all but a small ring of bodies. Roland’s last twelve Summerlea knights were laid out like the petals of a daisy, their armor shining with a high polish, their skin cleansed of blood and the grime of battle, their faces peaceful and untouched as if they had been purified in death. And there, in the center of them all, rising up from a patch of rich, untouched green Summerlea grass, was Roland’s mighty sword, Blazing, its hilt pointing towards the sun. The great ruby in its pommel was clear as a star, shining with a radiance unmatched by any diamond or earthly gem. That sword and that unearthly stone were all that remained of Roland, Summerlea’s greatest king.

Khamsin closed the book. Krysti had tears in his eye, as moved by the story as she always was. Even now her eyes were damp, and her throat felt closed and aching.

“He was a great hero,” the boy whispered.

She nodded. “A hero of heroes. A king of kings. There’s never been a man to match him. He led Summerlea to greatness and secured its safety for generations to come. There’s a statue of him outside the walls of Vera Sola. He’s the first of the Stone Knights guarding the city gates. A statue of his brother Donal, from whom my line descends, stands on the opposite side.”

“Where is Roland’s sword Blazing now?”

“It disappeared not long after his death, never to be seen again. Many a Summerlea knight has set out to find it, but none ever has.”

A brief silence fell. Krysti cleared his throat and said, “Our king, Wynter, is a hero too. A legend in the Craig. Barely two months shy of his sixteenth birthday, he killed a Frost Giant single-handedly.”

“I’ve heard something about that. I understand it’s quite a feat.”

“It’s never been done before. Frost Giants stand fifteen feet tall”—Krysti clambered to his feet and raised his hands far over his head to demonstrate—“and their fists are like boulders. They carry great swords with razor-sharp serrated edges that can shatter swords and cleave fully armored men in two with a single blow.” His lips drew back in a snarling grimace, and he hacked and slashed with gusto.

Khamsin hid a smile, charmed by the child’s enthusiasm. “And Wynter faced one of these terrible creatures in single combat?”

“He did. He’d only just earned his knighthood. To celebrate, he and his family went ice fishing on Lake Ibree, when the Frost Giant caught them unawares. It struck him a blow that knocked him senseless, then killed his mother and father and was going to slay his brother, the little prince, when Wynter reawakened. Even knowing he was unlikely to survive, Wynter threw himself before his brother, armed only with his sword.” He leapt forward and assumed a defensive stance, hands clenched around his imaginary sword. The sword swung, accompanied by hearty slashing and battle noises as Krysti the Giant Killer fought his foe. He stopped in midswing, and added, “Gunterfys was forged in the fires of Mount Freika, did you know? And blessed by the priestess of Wyrn as it was made. They say it is a sword that will never be broken.”

“No, I didn’t know that.” She filed that away, wondering how much of it was true and how much was legend. “I suppose it’s only fitting. A mighty hero should have a very special sword. Did Wynter and the Frost Giant fight for hours? Did they battle throughout the day and into the night?”

Krysti gave her a look. “That’s only in the legends. Most men couldn’t battle a Frost Giant for more than a few minutes and live. As big as they are, they have all the advantage. One blow would shatter a man’s bones into dust.”

“Ah. Of course. Sorry.” Properly chastened, Khamsin nodded. “Go on with your story.”

“The battle was fierce—and it did last almost ten minutes. King Wynter—well, he was Prince Wynter then—knew he could not let the Frost Giant’s sword or fist strike him. He used his smaller size and speed against the monster, darting in and out, slashing its flesh in a hundred shallow wounds—to weaken him, you know?” The mattress bounced and rolled as he lunged, parried, and hacked at his invisible foe. “But that only made the Frost Giant furious. The creature swung one enormous fist and sent Wynter flying across the clearing. Wynter barely had time to rise on one knee before the monster was upon him, his terrible sword raised high, ready to strike the killing blow.”

Even knowing that Wynter had survived the attack, Khamsin felt her body tense. “What happened?”

“There was nothing he could do to stop the blow. All he could do was block it. So he raised Gunterfys with both hands and used it like a shield.” On his knees, Krysti demonstrated. “The giant’s sword crashed down. Any other man with any other sword would have been cleaved in two right there where he knelt, but Wynter and his sword held fast. The monster’s blade shattered. While the Frost Giant stumbled and tried to recover his balance, Wynter jumped to his feet and put all his might into a fearsome blow. The Frost Giant fell, and Prince Wynter leapt upon his chest and drove his sword straight through the monster’s heart.” With a triumphant cry, Krysti drove his imaginary blade home. His savage expression faded, and he straightened. “Wynter buried his parents there on the mountainside where they died, then he put his little brother on his back and carried him all the way back home. When they reached Gildenheim, Wynter was king, and his sword bore a new name.”

“That is a heroic tale, indeed,” Kham said. “It should be recorded in a book and passed down through the ages so none will ever forget it.”

“I imagine it will be.”

Krysti stayed with her past dinnertime until night turned the sky inky black and he could barely keep his eyes open. Bella herded him out and went with him to seek their pallets in the servants’ quarters.

As she doused the lights and settled into bed, Khamsin thought of Wynter and the day Gunterfys earned its name. Krysti’s retelling of that day had been so vivid. Her heart had gone out to Wynter and to the little prince whose next breath depended solely on his brother’s strength and courage.

For the last three years, no Summerlander had said Wynter’s name without calling a curse upon it. He was the Winter King, the demon of the north, the enemy.

But now, after hearing Wynter’s story, after seeing the admiration shining from Krysti’s eyes, and feeling it echoed in her own heart, she realized that to his own people, Wynter was a hero, as noble and determined in his own way as Roland had been in his.

He wasn’t a perfect man. Far from it. He’d made Summerlea pay a terrible price for Falcon’s trespass. But, for the first time, she considered how Wynter must have felt when he learned that the woman he loved had run off with Falcon and that his brother, the only member of his family whom he’d been able to save from the Frost Giant’s attack, had been slain trying to stop them.

Grief could drive even good people mad. Look at her father’s lifelong hatred of her. Look at the woman from Konundal who’d poisoned Kham for an offhand remark.

Wynter’s vengeance had been bloody and consuming, but after hearing the story about Wynter’s family and the Frost Giant, she was having a much harder time hating him for it. The Sun knew, her own temper was just as volatile and deadly.

If a Winterman had slain her beloved brother, would not she, too, have sought a terrible revenge?

Khamsin was up and about the next day, despite the objections of Lady Frey. “I am healed. The sun has seen to it. See?” She ran circles about the room until she was dizzy. “I was healed yesterday, too, but I stayed in bed as you wanted. Not today.”

“No horses,” the priestess compromised. “And no running. Keep to the castle.”

“Agreed!” She grabbed Krysti’s hand, bolted for the door, and that was the last anyone saw of them until they returned, covered with dirt, dust, and cobwebs, to grab a quick lunch. Then they were off again and did not return until supper. The next day, it was the same.