The Winter King (17 page)

He was surprisingly graceful in his every move. Kingly. So much more than just brute force wrapped in a dangerously handsome package. Even his hands, so broad and so capable of destruction, moved with disarming grace and unexpected delicacy as they tore small chunks of bread from a still-warm loaf and handled slender silverware with deft ease.

She couldn’t help but recall the way those hands had moved over her, claiming without hesitation, drawing sensation after sensation from her untutored, arras-enflamed flesh, until she screamed for him to grant her release. Even now, just watching him spread melting butter on bread sent an unnerving flood of heat sweeping through her.

His nostrils flared, and he stilled for a betraying instant. His lashes lifted, ice blue eyes potent with awareness and a look that made her heart stutter in her chest.

“Hungry for something else, wife?” His voice dropped to a low, rumbling, throaty growl that made the hairs all over her body stand on end.

She drew a shaky breath and closed her eyes to free herself from the arcane magic of his gaze. “No, I couldn’t eat another bite,” she replied with deliberate obtuseness. “I’m very tired. All I need at the moment is sleep—uninterrupted sleep,” she added quickly. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was issuing an invitation. “On a bed that isn’t moving.”

He popped the morsel of bread in his mouth and drained his mug of mulled wine before rising and dusting off his hands. “Baroc!”

The tent flaps parted. The young soldier who’d been standing guard over Khamsin earlier stepped inside. “Your Grace?”

“Fetch the queen’s maid.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” The young Winterman bowed and backed out of the tent. Moments later, he returned, with Bella in tow.

Wide-eyed and openly terrified, the young maid looked ready to keel over if Wynter so much as frowned in her direction.

“What’s your name, girl?”

“B-Bella, Your M-Majesty.”

“It’s Your Grace, Bella, not Your Majesty, and your mistress is tired. Help ready her for bed. I understand those lamps will help her back heal, so light them all. We still have a long road ahead of us, and the sooner she is healed, the sooner we can increase our pace.” He glanced at Khamsin. “Will you be wanting a bath, my queen?”

The offer surprised her. It was a consideration she’d not expected from him. “No,” she murmured. “Thank you, I’m fine.”

“Very well.” He gestured curtly to dismiss Baroc, then crossed the tent to take a seat at the lacquered camp desk set up in one corner.

Khamsin started to object, then gave it up. There was no point in objecting to his presence. This was his tent, and she was his wife. And except for the fact that darkness and arras had hidden the sight of her from him last night, he already knew her body more intimately than any other person in the world.

Gathering her skirts, she walked to the small sleeping area separated from the main tent by the folding, four-foot-tall screens. With the growing lamps ringed around the sleeping pallet still unlit and the small, makeshift chamber wreathed in shadow, the screened wall offered a small sense of privacy. Her trunk had been set beside the mound of furs and pillows, near the outer tent wall.

“There should be a length of white sheeting in my trunk,” she told Bella softly. “Fetch it, please.” The young maid lifted the trunk lid and rummaged around inside for a few moments before locating the folded white cloth and handing it to Kham. “Thank you. No, don’t light the lamps just yet. Help me out of this gown first.”

While the maid unlaced the loose ties at the back of her gown, Kham glanced over the tops of the screens towards Wynter. He was sitting at the camp desk, reviewing a small sheaf of papers, periodically pausing to dip a quill in ink and scratch notations on the papers.

The cooler air of the tent swirled across Kham’s shoulders and back as Bella freed the last of the laces, and the gown fell open.

As if he were there on that small breath of air, tasting the warmth of her bare skin, instantly and intimately aware of her, Wynter looked up, directly into her eyes. Kham’s breath caught in her throat. She clutched the loose gown to her chest, fighting the shocking desire to let it fall from her body beneath Wynter’s burning gaze.

Bella moved between them and spread out the sheet in her hand, blocking Wynter’s view. “This is as much privacy as I can give you, my lady,” she murmured. “Powerful as he is, I don’t think he can see through people.”

Kham dragged in a shaky breath and fought the hysterical urge to laugh, wishing she were half as modest as Bella thought she was. She forced her fingers to loosen their grip on her gown. It tumbled down around her ankles in a puddle of fabric. Bella moved with swift industry, wrapping Kham’s nakedness in swaths of cool, silky linen. Khamsin clutched the edges of the fabric between her breasts, letting the bulk of the sheeting drape low, just skimming the top of her buttocks and leaving her back bare for healing.

Not daring to glance in Wynter’s direction, she knelt on the thick, padded pallet while Bella lit the growing lamps one by one. A muffled sound came from the main tent area, followed by a brief swirl of cold wind. Even without turning to look, Kham knew that Wynter had left.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Bella muttered, confirming it. “I don’t know what to make of him. He acts so concerned for your health, you’d almost think he actually cared. It’s hard to believe he intends to abandon you on some frozen glacier and leave you there to die if you don’t give him a child before year’s end. Seems cold and unnatural, if you ask me. Now, let me turn these growing lamps up a bit, then you just lie still while I clean your wounds.” Bella gently stroked a damp cloth over Khamsin’s back. With Wynter gone and the growing lamps turned on full, the temperature in the small sleeping area rose quickly to a warm, toasty bake. “There now, that feels better doesn’t it? Summer warm, like home the way it used to be.”

It did feel better. The warm light soaked into Kham’s skin like rain into thirsty soil. She closed her eyes and murmured a wordless agreement. She heard Bella kneel on the floor beside her, heard the quiet snick of a jar opening, then felt Bella’s hands gently began rubbing Tildy’s cream into her skin. Her touch was kinder than it had been in the jolting coach, and if Khamsin closed her eyes, she could almost believe it was Tildy, not Bella, tending her with a mother’s love.

Tears burned at the backs of her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Her path had been laid out, and Tildy would not ever again walk it with her. Khamsin, who had never truly been alone in the world, would have to learn to be so. The child who had always found refuge in her nursemaid’s maternal love would have to become a woman, strong and self-sufficient.

Because no matter what it took, Khamsin had no intention of letting any man—husband, king, or the Sun God himself—stake her out on a glacier and leave her to die.

C
HAPTER 8

A Flame in Snow

Four days later, Wynter paced outside Khamsin’s carriage, his body humming with pent-up energy. Valik stood rock still a few feet behind him, no less agitated than Wynter but better able to hide it. Inside the carriage, the Wintercraig army’s most experienced surgeon, Jorgun Magnusson, was examining Khamsin, whose health had taken an alarming turn for the worse.

She hadn’t complained. Not even once. The stubborn little weatherwitch just suffered her misery in silence and soldiered on. That near-heroic stoicism was not what Wynter had come to expect from Summerlanders, and it would have won his grudging admiration if not for the way she and her maid had conspired to hide her worsening condition from him.

Wynter had slowed his army’s pace to a crawl, hoping that would lessen Khamsin’s travel sickness. He’d stopped frequently so she could rest, hoping that would bolster her strength, but she’d grown so thin and wan she was near transparent. He’d even drawn back the snow clouds that had blanketed Summerlea skies for so long, hoping direct sunlight would provide her a measure of healing that the growing lamps had not.

This morning, though, she’d been so quiet and withdrawn that he’d paid a surprise visit to check on her himself during their midmorning stop. And he’d caught the maid trying to dispose of the breakfast Khamsin had supposedly eaten three hours earlier! After threatening to freeze the maid with a cold so deep she would never thaw, the truth came tumbling out.

Two days! For two days now, Khamsin had not been able to keep more than a cup of broth in her stomach. And she’d hidden that from him!

His fury at her deception was stronger than any emotion he’d felt since the day he’d learned of his brother’s death. He wanted to roar and gnash his teeth. He wanted to stomp so hard the earth would shake and rip trees up out of the ground in a violent rage that would do a wounded giant proud.

Behind him, the carriage door opened, and Wynter spun around to watch Jorgun alight from the conveyance.

“Well?” His jaw clenched as he waited for the surgeon’s answer, but he knew, even before Jorgun slowly shook his head, what that answer would be.

“She’s much worse, Your Grace. Fever’s set in, and her wounds are going septic. If we don’t stop long enough to cure the infection and let her fully heal, I doubt she’ll reach the borders of Wintercraig alive.

The prognosis left Wynter stunned. Like Valik, Jorgun was no exaggerator. His grave concern meant she was all but knocking on death’s door.

“We’ll stop here then,” Wynter decided abruptly. “And you will do everything in your power to heal her.” He turned to his second-in-command. “Valik, ask for volunteers—fifty men, no more—to stay with me and the queen until Jorgun says she’s well enough to travel. You and the rest of the men continue on to the Craig. You’ve been gone from home long enough. There’s no need for you to delay your return.”

Valik’s spine went stiff and a stubborn, all-too-familiar light entered his eyes. “I won’t leave my king in the middle of enemy territory with a sick woman. Especially not when that woman is the daughter of your enemy. Not with five hundred men to guard you.”

Wynter arched a brow. “You think I can’t protect myself without you?”

“I think you’ll be distracted. Whether you like it or not, she’s gotten under your skin. She’s been there since that first day in the tower, and you know it. And I don’t trust it. I’ll handpick those men—a hundred, not fifty—and
we
will stay with you. The others can go on ahead.”

Wynter’s eyes narrowed. “You’re an impudent get, Valik Stone-skull.”

“Take after my friend, the king of rock-headedness.” Valik saluted briskly, then turned his mount around to charge down the line.

They set up camp by the road’s edge, in the remains of what had been a wheat field. The rest of the army marched north at a brisk pace, carrying Khamsin’s young maid with them. She’d protested the dismissal at first until Wynter near froze her with a look. She’d known her mistress’s condition was worsening and not only had she not alerted Valik or Wynter to the truth, but she’d helped Khamsin mask the true depth of her illness until it was almost too late.

Valik set up a perimeter around the encampment and appointed shifts of men to stand sentry. A dozen soldiers rode out to hunt for game, while a dozen more headed east along a narrow road to see what they might scavenge from local farmhouses and villages.

Wynter carried Khamsin from the fetid stuffiness of the coach to his tent. Shame and fear battled inside him. She’d lost so much weight, she seemed little more than bones wrapped in a thin casing of flesh.

“Light a fire in the stove, and set out those lamps around the pallet.” His men had prepared the surgeon’s cot in the center of the tent, closest to the iron stove and farthest from the snowy chill that seeped through the edges of the canvas. Gently, he laid his bride facedown upon the prepared bedding. He turned her head to one side so she could breathe without restriction and smoothed the soft ringlets of white-streaked hair back from her face. Her skin was burning to the touch.

“Stubborn, damned-fool woman,” he muttered. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

He hadn’t thought her that sort. She’d struck him as the kind more likely to fry him with lightning than suffer in silence.

Not that she’d been in any shape to summon lightning lately. He’d almost begun wishing for a thundercloud on the horizon and the misery of torrential rain.

He unlaced the back of her gown and parted the loose-fitting fabric. His jaw clenched at the sight of her back. The skin was red and inflamed around the wounds, and infection—quite a bit of it—had most definitely set in. Red streaks radiated out from several of the deeper lacerations, and underlying the scent of blood and pus was the first hint of a smell that made Wynter’s blood run cold.

Jorgun, standing near Wynter’s elbow, handed him a small, capped pot.

“What’s this?” Wynter growled, removing the lid and sniffing the gooey contents within.

“The herbalist’s salve. For her wounds.”

Wynter recapped the pot and tossed it aside. “What good has it done her? I’ll be damned if we waste another second on failed remedies. Don’t you have a better solution?”

“I’m a surgeon, not an herbalist.”

“But you’ve treated enough battle wounds to know a few basic healing aids for festering wounds. Tell me what you need. I’ll send men to find it.”

The surgeon didn’t waste time arguing. “I need pine needles boiled in snowmelt for a wound wash to clear out the worst of the infection. Send some men to see if they can find fresh chickweed. If they can’t find fresh, then boil some of our dried supply along with chamomile and comfrey for a poultice. I’ll need honey to dress the wounds when I’m done, and willowbark tea to bring down the fever. And my king?”

Wynter paused at the outer doorway and glanced back.

Jorgun met his eyes with grim urgency. “If you want her to live, tell the men to hurry.”

Wynter gave a curt nod and ducked through the tent flaps.

Within minutes, a cookfire had been built just outside the tent, and several kettles were boiling away, one containing pine needles gathered from a nearby stand of trees, another filled with willowbark for fever. A dozen men were scouring the snow-covered countryside for fresh chickweed, but Wynter wasn’t waiting on them. A third kettle filled with dried chickweed, comfrey, and chamomile was boiling alongside the others.

When the pine-needle concoction was ready, Wynter grabbed an old wineskin, packed a funnel with snow, and ladled the steaming wound wash into the funnel. The snow melted and cooled the mixture slightly. He repeated the process, testing the wash against his own skin as Jorgun had instructed, until the wineskin was full of hot, but not scorching, liquid.

Grabbing up a stack of cloths used to bind soldiers’ wounds, he carried the pine-needle infusion into the tent and handed it to Jorgun. Jorgun’s assistant, Frig, was tucking bolsters of cloth around Khamsin.

“I’ll need you both to hold her down,” the surgeon said. “She isn’t going to like this very much.” Jorgun waited for Wynter to grasp his wife’s shoulders and Frig to pin her ankles, then he uncorked the wineskin.

The instant the hot, pungent liquid poured over her infected back, Khamsin reared up, writhing and screaming. She would have thrown herself off the cot had Wynter and Frig not held her fast. Runnels of steaming liquid washed over Khamsin’s skin and ran in streamers down her sides into the absorbent towels Frig had arranged around her.

The wineskin emptied quickly, but a second was already waiting. As Jorgun aimed the spout of hot liquid directly into the worst of her lacerations to irrigate the inflamed flesh, a stream of filthy invectives poured out of her mouth.

In the distance, thunder began to rumble.

Wynter grinned, teeth clenched. “That’s it, little flower. Get angry.” But her supply of energy depleted quickly, and before the surgeon emptied the second wineskin, her slender body went limp. Wynter’s savage grin faded, and he shared a brief, grim look with Jorgun.

The surgeon continued working in silence, probing Khamsin’s wounds, lancing several areas where the infection had gone deep, irrigating everything with fresh pine wash. When he was finally satisfied the wounds were clean, he stepped back and gestured to Wynter.

“Hold her, Your Grace. And get as much of this willowbark tea down her throat as you can.”

Wyn nodded and cradled her against his chest, pouring dribbles of tea into her mouth while Frig and Jorgun replaced the pine-wash-soaked blankets with fresh, dry bedding. When they were done, he laid her back down on the fresh, clean blankets.

One of the men carried in the kettle that smelled of comfrey, chamomile, and chickweed. It was already swimming with soaked linen squares. Wynter fished them out with a stick, wrung them gently—hissing a little at the burn of hot liquid on his palms—and handed them to Jorgun, who placed the steaming, herb-soaked cloths over Khamsin’s back.

When the poultices cooled, Jorgun removed them and smeared a generous layer of honey over the open lacerations to help prevent additional infection from entering the wounds.

An hour later, the process started over again. Throughout the afternoon and deep into the night, Jorgun, Wynter, and Frig worked to defeat the feverish infection that held Khamsin in its grip. The battle continued through the next day, and the next, but despite their efforts, the infection would not give up its hold. The poison had settled deep, and no matter what sort of progress they made, a few hours later the battle would rage again.

Close to midnight on the third day, her temperature spiked, and she began rambling in delirium and thrashing about. Electricity crackled along her fingertips as wild energy sought an outlet. A tempest gathered in the sky. The tent walls shuddered in howling gusts of wind. Rain sluiced down in sheets, falling so fast and furious, it was as if a river were pouring from the sky. Lightning shattered the darkness in merciless barrages, illuminating the tent walls like shades over a candle and turning cloud-blackened night as bright as day. Concussive thunderclaps shook the earth and left Wynter’s ears ringing.

“Winter’s Frost!” The tent flaps flung open, and Valik, who had been standing guard with the men, leapt inside. “That lightning struck so close, it damned near singed my eyebrows!” He scowled at Khamsin’s thrashing body. “It’s her, isn’t it? She’s feeding this storm. You’ve got to knock her out before she kills us all.”

Wynter scowled at his friend. “I will not hit a woman, and especially not my wife.”

“Wyn, those clouds will spawn a cyclone if she keeps feeding them energy.”

“No! She suffers now because of what her father did to her. I will not hurt her more.”

“Well, you’d best do something! A few more minutes of this storm, and we’ll all die, including your precious Summerlander bride.”

As if to prove his point, the whole tent suddenly went bright as day, and a thunderous boom nearly knocked them all off their feet.

Wynter swore beneath his breath. Valik was right. The storm outside was deadly. It had to be stopped. He laid a hand on his wife’s burning forehead. Khamsin’s fever was driving her delirium, and her delirium was driving the storm. If he could bring down her fever, the storm should calm. Since none of the surgeon’s remedies had worked, there was only one other way Wyn knew to lower Khamsin’s temperature.

He closed his eyes and drew on the coldness within him, summoning the power of the Ice Heart. Not much. He wanted to cool her fever, not freeze her to death. Even so, just that tiny summoning ate away at the small reserve of warmth inside him.

That was the insidious price of the Ice Heart. Each use of its power, no matter how minute, robbed him of some irretrievable portion of his humanity. After three years of war and death, so little of his former self remained, he felt even the tiniest additional loss like a hammer to the heart. He could literally feel himself growing more distant, more unfeeling, more like the dread, soulless monster of legend.

When the backs of his eyes began to burn, he opened them and stared down at Khamsin, releasing the cold in a long, sweeping Gaze that traveled up and down the length of her body. The temperature around them dropped, becoming brisk. Her breath puffed out in small clouds of steam. His did not. What lived inside him was so much colder than even the frozen wastelands of the north that each exhaled breath grew warmer rather than colder when it hit the air.

He smoothed his hands across her flesh, rubbing the skin so his Gaze chilled but did not freeze and bending close to breathe cool air upon her in its wake. The burning heat in her skin began to cool. Her thrashing stilled.

Outside, lightning still crashed and boomed as strong as ever.

“Well, that didn’t work,” Valik shouted over the din.

Wynter swore under his breath. “The storm has already gathered enough energy to sustain itself.” It was a fearsome storm, far, far worse than the little thundershower she’d summoned last week in Vera Sola. “I’ll need to bleed some of it off before things will settle down.” Wyn cast a glance back at his friend, and his eyes widened. Valik’s hair had begun to lift in a pale halo around his face. The air around him had begun to glow an eerie shade of violet. “Valik!” he cried, “Move!”