The Winter King (39 page)

Wynter yanked his hands free. “Tell that to the people of Hileje who saw their loved ones raped and murdered on your brother’s command.”

Khamsin’s jaw dropped. “That’s a lie!”

“Is it? I held a nine-year-old girl in my arms as she died from what those Summerlea bastards did to her. And I called the wolves and hunted them down like the animals they were. They told me, as they bled out their lives into the snow. They told me who had sent them.
Your brother.
The worthless bastard you call a good man. He ordered them to attack the village as a diversion, to draw me away from Gildenheim so he and Elka could steal one of the most ancient treasures of my House. My brother Garrick discovered the theft and followed him. And your brother killed him. He put an arrow in Garrick’s throat and left him to die in the snow, choking on his own blood.” His eyes flared with pale, cold fire, and his jaw flexed. “My brother wasn’t even sixteen. He was just a boy.”

Khamsin wanted to shout her denial. The words trembled on the tip of her tongue, crying out for release. But they wouldn’t—couldn’t—fall. The rage—and worse, the raw agony—in Wynter’s eyes killed her passionate denial as surely as Falcon’s arrow had killed the young prince of Wintercraig.

She swallowed against the hard, painful lump in her throat. “There must be some other explanation.” That hoarse, weak denial was the best she could muster. She couldn’t hold Wynter’s gaze any longer. It hurt too much to see such naked pain in his eyes. If she’d ever doubted him capable of deep, abiding, unassailable love, she doubted no longer. Wynter hadn’t just loved his brother—he’d adored him. Every bit as much if not more than she loved her own brother.

But if Falcon had done this . . . if he was indeed responsible for the destruction of an entire village and the rape and murder of innocent people . . .

Wynter cupped a hand under her chin, nudging her face back up and waiting for her to look at him. When she did, he said, “There is no other explanation, Khamsin.” The anger and the pain she’d seen a moment ago was gone, replaced by cold, steady resolve. “Falcon Coruscate murdered my brother and ordered the savage death of dozens of innocent villagers in Hileje. I know he is your brother, and I know you love him, but if he ever sets foot on this land again, I will hunt him down, and I
will
end him.” He watched her as he spoke, his gaze intent and unwavering. All the while, his thumb stroked her cheek with frightening tenderness. “And the same fate awaits any man, woman, or child in Wintercraig or Summerlea who offers him aid. Don’t ever doubt that.”

They rode in silence back down the mountainside. The whole way, Khamsin tried to reconcile her memories of the brother she loved and adored with Wynter’s account of an evil, cold-blooded killer who sent men to commit atrocities in order to create a diversion. Everything in her rebelled at the mere suggestion that the brother she loved and the architect of the Hileje massacre could be one and the same. The Falcon she knew aspired to the same, brave, noble ideals as their mutual hero, Roland Soldeus. That Falcon wouldn’t have—
couldn’t
have—condoned the sort of evil Wynter lay at his feet.

No, no, Wynter must be mistaken. There was more to this story. Extenuating circumstances. Something that exonerated her brother or at least made him less culpable for what had happened.

There
had
to be.

As they reached the valley floor and turned east on the main road, they were nearly run over by half a dozen riders galloping at a breakneck pace.

“Ho, there, rider!” Wynter flagged one of the trailing riders down. “What’s wrong?”

The rider reined in his horse long enough to say, “Avalanche. A big one on Mount Fjarmir.”

Wynter and Khamsin spurred their horses and took off at a gallop down the valley road after the other riders.

When they reached Riverfall, Wynter noted with grim approval the red-striped white flags flying and the flocks of birds already winging away in all directions. Avalanche was one of the deadliest dangers in all the north, and every city, village, and hamlet drilled year-round to know what to do when the red-striped avalanche flag flew. Every village and farmhouse near where the avalanche had occurred would have raised their flags and released birds to all the surrounding towns.

“Skala-Holt?” he barked, as he and Khamsin slowed their mounts before the Riverfall’s village hall.

“Aye, Sire!” A man Wyn recognized as Bjork Hrad, the village leader, stepped away from a group of villagers who were packing a sleigh with rescue materials. “Mt. Fjarmir’s entire southern snowfield gave way. The patrols headed up after the blizzard blew through, but it looks like they were too late.”

“Any word from the village?”

“Only from our scout. Skala-Holt’s buried, Your Grace. All two hundred souls.”

Wynter spared a quick glance at his wife. She was sitting motionless in the saddle, her face a frozen mask. He could practically feel the waves of guilt washing over her.

“Can you spare an extra avalanche kit?” he asked. Hrad grabbed a pack from the pile being loaded into the sleigh and handed one up to Wynter. “Thanks. Who’s keeping the children? I’d like the queen to stay with them until we return.”

“No.” Khamsin broke her silence. “You’re not leaving me here. I’m going with the rest of you to help with the rescue.”

“No, you’re not.” His tone left no room for defiance. “People’s lives are at stake. No one will have time to look after you. You’ll just be in the way.”

“I don’t need looking after, and I won’t be in the way.” She shifted her attention to Bjork Hrad. “Sir . . . Mr. Hrad, isn’t it? Please, hand me one of those avalanche kits as well.”

“Hrad, don’t you dare.” Wyn edged Hodri into Khamsin’s path, boxing her in. “Khamsin, I’m ordering you to stay here.”

She raised her brows. “Haven’t you learned yet? I don’t take orders well.” When he didn’t move, she tossed her head, sending dark, white-streaked curls bouncing across the thick ermine lining of her hooded coat. “I’m going. You can try to keep me here, but I’ll just find a way to sneak out. I’m very resourceful that way. I’ll make my way to Skala-Holt on foot if I have to, but I
will
go, and I
will
help those people. You may be able to kill thousands without remorse, but I can’t. I won’t stand by and do nothing while they die. I already have enough on my conscience without that, too.”

Wynter swore beneath his breath and nodded curtly. “Give her the kit, Hrad. And you”—he jabbed a finger in Khamsin’s direction—“you keep to my side at all times. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” She grabbed the kit Hrad handed up to her and slung it over her shoulder.

At least, she didn’t gloat. That made giving in feel a little less like surrender. “Let’s go then.” He spurred Hodri forward, picking his way slowly down the road until they were free of the crowded village. “You are a troublesome, hardheaded wench,” he muttered to his wife when they were out of earshot of the village.

“Am I? How interesting. I had no idea how closely we resembled each other.” She stuck her nose in the air, keeping her gaze fixed firmly forward.

The snippy rebuke left him torn between amusement and annoyance. With anyone else, he would have responded with cold, cutting anger to put her in her place. But the sight of Khamsin’s spear-straight spine, the flash of silver in her eyes, that wild, beautiful riot of lightning-streaked black hair, and the soft, full curve of those lips now pursed in indignation melted any chance of anger. In a world where folk lived in fear of his wrath, this slender woman stood toe to toe with him during even his foulest moods, taking the worst he threw at her and firing back as good as she got. She was no meek, domesticated lamb of a woman any more than he was a tame or gentle man.

They’d created that blizzard, the two of them, because he’d raged like a wounded
garm
when she’d discovered the vulnerable remnants of his soul that he’d hidden away from the world. He didn’t blame her for the storm. He was the one who’d started the fight. He was the one who’d turned her tempest into a howling fury of ice and snow.

But his Summerlander wife, who believed that her great power was a curse—that
she
was a curse—would never forgive herself if the people of Skala-Holt died because of the storm they’d summoned. And for some reason that had nothing to do with his husbandly duty to protect her from all harm, Wynter couldn’t let her bear that burden.

“Yours was not the only magic that helped spawn that blizzard, and you are not responsible for the avalanche. And for the record,” he added softly, “I may have killed thousands in the war, but not without remorse. Certainly not when it came to innocents.”

The sun was setting, but Skala-Holt was still a hive of activity when they arrived. Winterfolk from every nearby croft and village had come with shovels and strong backs and wagons full of women and youths bearing tents, blankets, food, bandages, and medicine. More rescuers poured in by the minute.

If Khamsin hadn’t visited Skala-Holt before, she would not have even known there was a village buried beneath the snow. Except for the few, already-excavated houses, you couldn’t see any sign of it. Not a roof, not a chimney. Nothing. Winterfolk were crawling over the snow, using long, thin sticks to probe what lay beneath.

“Halla help them,” Khamsin breathed in horror. How could anyone have survived?

As if reading her mind, Wynter said, “Since the fall happened during the day, there’s a chance many of them had time to seek shelter.”

“A chance?” Despite Wynter’s assurances that this wasn’t her fault, the mere thought of an entire village dead because of one of her storms made Khamsin’s belly churn.

“All the homes have cellars. Hopefully, the villagers had enough warning to reach them before the avalanche hit. That gives us time to dig them out before they freeze or suffocate. Most buried without some form of shelter will die within the first half hour.”

She swallowed hard. “What can I do to help?”

He handed her a shovel. “Join a search party and start digging. The men with the probes will set flags everywhere they think they’ve found survivors.”

“What about melting them out? Would that help?”

“You think you can do that?”

“You know I’m not very good at controlling my magic, but I can at least try.”

“Then come with me.” He held out a hand and led her up onto the spill of deep, packed snow. They clambered over the icy debris until they reached the closest flag—a pennant of red wool fluttering on a long, thin barb that had been thrust into the snow. A dozen Winterfolk were crowded around, digging their way down through the packed snow. They had already cleared a hole about four feet wide and six feet deep, but hadn’t reached the top of the villager’s house yet.

“The house is another four feet down, at least. See if you can melt down to the rooftop.”

Kham bit her lip. Storms, she could summon. Trying to channel heat in such a small area was a different matter.

“What happens if I melt more than just this area?” The mountains were thick with snow. If she didn’t concentrate heat in a very narrow radius, she risked flooding the valley with snowmelt. “I don’t want to make things worse than they already are.”

“You concentrate on raising the temperature. I’ll keep the snow on the mountains in check.” No hint of fear showed in his expression or his voice. She was struck once more by the reassuring strength that radiated from him. He was a man she would trust to bear the weight of the world. When he wasn’t driving her to distraction or irritating her with his domineering ways.

Truthfully, even then, even at his most distracting and domineering, she would trust him to stand between her and danger and rest assured in the knowledge that danger would dash itself senseless against his unyielding will before it ever had a chance to harm her. He was the rock to which an entire kingdom could anchor itself with perfect confidence.

Kham focused her attention on the hole the rescuers had been digging. She wanted to be as strong as Wynter. She wanted to master that calm, imperturbable sense of certainty that surrounded him like a cloak of invincibility. She wanted his people to look at her and see not the daughter of an enemy king but a woman as strong in her own right as the king they adored. Someone who could complement their king’s strength, not just shelter in it. A woman worthy of their respect—and of his. A queen.

Wynter’s queen.

She focused on the source of her power: the sun’s golden white heat. When she summoned a storm, she let anger fuel her power. She knew she could concentrate the sun’s heat at least on a personal level, as she did when she melted a metal hairbrush or boiled the tea in her teacup. She knew what that felt like . . . like a storm inside her soul, battering against her skin to gain its freedom.

Summoning that feeling on demand was difficult, so she recalled past wrongs, emotional hurts, wounds that had struck hard and deep and never been forgotten. Her father’s face, purple with anger, his eyes flashing a flickering orange like the flames in a hearth. The feel of his signet ring smashing into her cheek, branding her with his fury. Maude Newt and her endless, sneering interference and tattling. Reika Villani trilling with laughter and stroking one slim hand possessively over Wynter’s golden skin, turning to regard Khamsin in mocking challenge, daring the pitiful Summerlander to stop Reika from claiming Wynter as her own.

“It’s working.” Wynter’s voice interrupted her increasingly agitated thoughts.

Kham opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by a cloud of steam. Waves of heat radiated from her palms. She was sinking quickly through a large round hole in the snow. Moments later, her feet came to rest on the steep, shingled roof of a house.

“That’s good! Stand back, Your Grace. We’re coming down.” Ropes spilled over the sides of the crater she’d created, and four Wintermen rappelled rapidly down to join her. Three of them immediately pulled hatchets from their belt loops and began hacking a rescue hole in the roof. The fourth held out a hand.

“Please, my queen, if you will allow me? Karl, Joris, Svert, and I will see to the family. There are many others who could use your help.”