The Winter King by C. L. Wilson
Mortified, Kham spun on her heel and walked rapidly down the hall towards the stairs. All the way, she fought a losing battle with tears and had to duck into one of the abandoned bedrooms to hide when the dam burst and the flood of hot, salty wetness spilled down her cheeks. She’d faced rejection before, and plenty of it, but she couldn’t remember the last time anything had wounded her like this. This rejection was personal, and it bloodied her in places she’d thought long ago inured against hurt.
She cried until her tears were spent, then wiped her eyes and sat locked in the room until her face was no longer blotchy or swollen, and her eyes lost their puffy red rims. When she finally emerged from the room, half a dozen servants loitering about in the hallway scattered like mice. Kham watched them go with a hardened heart. She’d offered these people friendship, and they’d thrown it back in her face. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she marched downstairs to her scheduled luncheon with the ladies of the court. There, at least, she had never felt at home enough to let down her guard. And because she hadn’t let down her guard, the Winterladies of the court couldn’t hurt her the way the upstairs children just had.
Or so she thought until she reached the dining hall, and Lady Melle came forward, smiling sweetly, her hands outstretched.
“Come in, my dear, come in. We were beginning to worry you’d gotten lost.” As they took their seats at the banquet table, Lady Melle beamed. “Cook has outdone herself today. She’s prepared a special treat just for you. I understand it’s one of your favorites.” She waved over the first of a line of servants carrying covered trays of food. The server whipped off the deep tray with a flourish. A cloud of steam billowed forth as the servant holding the tray held it out for Khamsin’s inspection. “Lutefisk and eels,” Lady Melle announced with a happy smile.
Kham’s eyes widened, and her nostrils flared at the sight—and dreadful aroma—of the pile of gelatinous white fish surrounded by a sea of broth swimming with onions, garlic, and long black eels. Her stomach gave a terrible lurch.
The Winterladies gasped in surprise as Kham leapt to her feet so fast she sent her chair flying.
“My dear!” Lady Melle cried.
“Your Grace!” someone else exclaimed.
Kham clapped a hand over her mouth, grabbed her skirts in one hand, and bolted for the door. Please, let me make it out of the room. Don’t let me shame myself before them. Please, let me make it out of the room.
She didn’t make it.
“She puked over lutefisk and eels?” Valik asked when Lady Melle finished her report of this afternoon’s disastrous luncheon. “Who doesn’t like lutefisk and eels? They’re delicious!”
“Valik.” Wynter gave his second-in-command a pointed look and jerked his head in the direction of the door. Valik grimaced but tromped out. When he was gone, Wyn leaned back in his chair and regarded Lady Melle over steepled fingers.
“It appears to have been a prank,” Lady Melle explained. “Cook received a note saying the queen was pining for lutefisk and eels, declaring it one of her favorites. Needless to say, that doesn’t appear to be true.”
They were seated in his private office in the western tower. To Wyn’s left, a wide window of leaded-glass panes looked out over the Minsk River valley far below. Not that you could see that valley now. Dark clouds cloaked Gildenheim in a heavy mist, harbinger of the afternoon storm that had rolled in like clockwork every day around noon for the past week. The storm should have already broken up, since Khamsin’s daily luncheon with her ladies had come to its unfortunate end over an hour ago, but his weatherwitch queen was working a different misery out in the sky today, and snow was falling with no sign of letting up anytime soon.
It was early for snow, even in Craig, but whether Khamsin’s daily storms or the Ice Heart was to blame, Wynter didn’t know.
“Apart from today’s unfortunate incident, how is my queen settling in?”
“Truthfully?”
Wyn gave a curt nod.
“She’s not.” Lady Melle threw up her hands in distress. “I’m sorry, my dearest, but the poor thing’s miserable. Our food doesn’t agree with her. She can’t ply a needle to save her life. The ladies tried reading some of their favorite novels to her, but she grew so restless and impatient, I thought we were going to have a tempest right there in the gathering hall. She likes the outdoors, but she hates having us following her, watching her every move. I thought she might like to take a trip with me down to Konundal, but she doesn’t ride, and when I suggested having a carriage brought round, well, I swear I nearly saw some of that lightning Lord Valik says she can call.”
Wyn grimaced. “Carriages don’t agree with her any better than lutefisk and eels.”
Lady Melle’s brows rose. “That would have been useful information to know before now, Wynter,” she said with an uncharacteristic snap in her voice.
Wyn closed his eyes against the sudden whip of icy temper rising inside him. Before drinking the Ice Heart, Lady Melle’s scold would have made him blush in shame. Now it made fury bite hard, the Ice King in him fuming at her impertinence. But Wynter would slit his own throat before allowing himself to harm, either by word or deed, the gentle, big-hearted woman who had been a surrogate mother to Garrick . . . and to himself, insomuch as he would let her. “You know it now, Lady Melle,” he said when he trusted himself to speak.
She heaved a sigh, oblivious to her own mortal peril. “Honestly, my boy, could you make this any more difficult? You don’t want her wandering all over the palace, you don’t want her walking alone outside, you don’t want her interfering in the running of the palace, the servants are up in arms over her attempt to interfere in their children’s education, and Wyrn knows she can’t sit still for any length of time. One short hour after our luncheon pushes her to the very limits of her endurance. I’ve had several ladies express their concern that she might lose her temper and strike us dead with a lightning bolt. Something must be done!”
“What do you suggest, Lady Melle?” One of the many admirable traits of Lady Melle, she never presented a problem without also offering a solution.
“She needs a friend, my dear. She’s a young girl in a strange place. She needs someone she can talk to. Someone she can do things with.”
Lady Melle’s mouth quirked in a deprecating smile. “I’m too old to chase around with her hither and yon, and the ladies, forgive me, fear her magic and frankly haven’t warmed up to the poor thing any more than she has to them.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“I wish I did. I’ve been racking my brain. I was going to speak to Barsul about it tonight, see if he could suggest anyone.”
“I’ll think on it. Thank you, Lady Melle.” Wynter stood up, signaling an end to the meeting.
Lady Melle rose and headed for the door, then paused when she reached it. “I like her, Wynter. I like her quite a lot, and I didn’t expect to. Yes, she has a temper—and a hard time keeping it contained—but there’s also a kindness in her, and a great deal of loneliness. I don’t think she’s the threat Valik believes her to be. You really should spend more time with her.”
“Thank you, Lady Melle,” Wynter said again, his voice polite, his gaze deliberately noncommittal.
Lady Melle sighed and let herself out.
The freezing rain and snow continued to fall all day. Wynter left his office early to share dinner with the court, but Khamsin’s chair remained conspicuously empty.
“I’m so sorry about the queen’s ill health at today’s luncheon,” Reika said, as the servants carried trays of fragrant fish dishes around the table. “Valik told me she didn’t travel well, but I would never have thought her fragile stomach extended to mealtimes. We Winterfolk are such a hardy lot.” With a smile, she turned to help herself to a serving of broiled mackerel. “I do hope the coming wint
Though spoken with solicitous concern, Reika’s remark somehow managed to make it sound like Khamsin was a weakling who didn’t measure up to the rigorous demands of life in Wintercraig. The implication didn’t sit well with Wynter.
“She is much stronger than those who don’t know her might think,” he replied. “But thank you for your concern, Lady Villani. You remind me that I should go check on my wife.” Reika gaped at him as he tossed his napkin on the table and stood. “If you will excuse me.”
Wynter strode out of the dining hall and took the stairs three at a time. When he reached the wing that housed his and Khamsin’s chambers, he didn’t bother with his usual habit of accessing Khamsin’s bedchamber through the connecting door between their rooms. Instead, he went straight through the main doors to her suite, startling her little maid, whom he dismissed with a curt command and a sharp wave of his hand.
He found Khamsin sitting on her balcony, wet clothes plastered to her body, her skin ice-cold. He didn’t need to ask how she was feeling. Her battered emotions were all too obvious as they played out across the stormy night sky. No cracks of lightning or wild winds tonight. Just heavy clouds and wet, falling snow. She didn’t even put up a fight when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her back inside.
Because he’d dismissed her maid, Wynter tended to her needs himself, stripping her of her sodden garments, toweling her dry with soft cloths from her bathing chamber, lowering a fine, fragrant linen gown over her head. Through it all, she stood unnaturally still and docile, without a single toss of her head or rebellious flash in her eyes. When he was done, she climbed into bed and looked at him with dull eyes.
“Will you be coming to bed, Your Grace?”
He wanted to howl. She wasn’t some spineless, timid lass. She was Khamsin—Storm—full of fire and defiance and strong, reckless, stubborn will. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed her wildness, her vitality, or how much he looked forward to seeing it every night.
“No,” he said. “You’ve been ill. You should get your rest.”
She didn’t toss her head and remind him of his need for an heir or her motivation to provide him one. She merely looked at him for one long moment, then lay down on her side, her back to him, and pulled the covers up around her shoulders.
She looked so small and alone in her vast bed.
Valik would warn him to harden his heart, that she was manipulating him. But Wynter knew from the top-floor maids that Kham had spent the entire morning locked in one of the unused bedrooms upstairs, crying. Hiding her vulnerability as she always did.
It alarmed him that she wasn’t hiding it now, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving her tonight would be a mistake.
Trusting his instincts, Wyn walked to the other side of the bed, shed his clothes, then climbed into the bed beside his wife. He expected her to turn to him, but she didn’t.
Instead, her back still to him, she said, “I thought you weren’t going to stay.”
Her voice sounded different. Thicker.
She was still hiding her vulnerability, after all.
He reached for her, easily conquering her slight resistance as he turned her over to face him. She wouldn’t look at him, damp, spiky lashes hiding her eyes.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Gently, as if she were fragile crystal that would shatter at the slightest pressure, he touched his lips to her eyes, nuzzling away her tears, then brushed soft, lingering kisses across her cheeks until her slender arm twined around his neck, and she lifted her mouth to his.
They didn’t speak. They simply loved in silence, letting their hands, their lips, their bodies speak for them. Long, lingering caresses. Tender, healing kisses. The slow, steady glide of bodies moving together in wordless communion.
Afterwards, exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she fell asleep in his arms. He lay there for more than an hour, just holding her and watching her sleep, and he realized that Valik might just be right to fear that Wynter’s Summerlea bride was working some sort of enchantment on him. The fiery, passionate, willful Khamsin drew him like a moth to flame and brought those frozen parts of him back to life. But this Khamsin, the wounded, needing Khamsin who couldn’t hide her pain, she seeped into the cracks in his icy armor, penetrating much deeper than was comfortable or safe.
He wasn’t ready for that, so he left her in the middle of the night.
She wasn’t the only one who hid her vulnerabilities.
CHAPTER 13
Passions, Purloiners, and Purgatives
Khamsin was both bereft and grateful when she woke up alone the next morning. Bereft because she was becoming used to the feel of Wynter lying beside her, and grateful because his absence excused her from any awkwardness over last night’s embarrassing show of weakness.
She took a sip of her morning tea, only to grimace and set it aside. Bitter again. Tildy had always brewed the perfect cup of tea, but Bella clearly needed more instruction. She was either using too many leaves or steeping the tea too long.
The door to her wardrobe room opened, and Bella whisked in.
“Bella, about the tea,” Kham began, only to break off with a scowl when she saw Bella carrying a frosted taupe outfit trimmed with white fur. “What’s that? I told you to lay out my red dress.” After yesterday’s humiliating debacle, she was determined to gird herself in her brightest, most defiant Summerlea armor before facing the Wintercraig court.
“Mistress Narsk delivered this this morning along with a note from the king. You’re to meet Lord Valik in the upper bailey no later than ten o’clock to receive your first riding lesson.”
“Riding lesson?” Every bruised and wilted part of Khamsin’s soul suddenly perked up. “I’m to have a riding lesson?”
“Apparently so, ma’am. But you’d best hurry. It’s already a quarter ’til nine.”
Kham leapt to her feet. Bella had already drawn her bath, but rather than enjoying a leisurely morning soak as she’d intended, Khamsin washed in record time. There wasn’t time to dry her hair before the fire, so she toweled it off and secured the damp, unruly curls with a brown bow. Then she threw on her new split riding skirt and fur-lined coat from Mistress Narsk, wolfed down the last half of her now-cold meat pie, washed it down with a few sips of the too-bitter jasmine tea, and bolted for the door.
She reached the courtyard just as Gildenheim’s clock tower began to toll ten o’clock.
Valik was already there, and he greeted her with the cold eyes and stony expression she’d come to expect from him.
“This way,” he said in a clipped voice. He led her across the courtyard, through the portcullis, and down into the larger, lower bailey that was bustling with industry. Here, a blacksmith’s forge, farrier, saddler, and hay barn had all been built along the northern wall to serve the enormous stables carved into the side of the mountain.
A broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and thick queue of ash blond hair met them just inside the building. Valik introduced him as Bron, the stable master.
Bron smelled of horses, hay, and snow, and his eyes were deep, vivid green rather than the typical Wintercraig blue. “I’ll bring you Kori to start with,” he said. His voice was low and deep and musical—and filled with more warmth than any Winterfolk save Lady Melle had shown her so far. It set Kham instantly at ease. “She’s a kind lass, with gentle ways. She’ll teach you what you need to know and be patient until you learn it. Later, when you’ve found your seat, you may want to choose another mount, one with a bit more fire in her soul.”
He marched down the corridor, returning a few minutes later with a large, black horse in tow. The mare had a thick, winter coat and a long, striking white mane and tail.
“This is Kori,” he said. “Hold out your hand to greet her.”
&
Bron smiled slightly and whispered something into the horse’s ear. The horse gave a whinnying neigh that sounded like laughter, then tossed her head, sending the long strands of her snowy mane dancing.
“It’s a fine compliment that you find Kori impressive enough to fear,” Bron said, “but there’s no need. She’ll not harm you.”
“I’m not afraid,” Kham lied quickly, then blushed at Bron’s steady look. “Well, not much.” At least trying not to be. Determined not to look like a coward, Kham sucked in a breath and held out her hand, palm up. The animal’s nose nudged Kham’s hand experimentally, snuffling at her, then the thick, velvety lips nuzzled her palm. It tickled. Kham fought the urge to snatch back her hand.
“She likes you,” Bron murmured. “Reach out now, and rub her cheek.”
She followed the stable master’s instructions, running her hands across the animal’s warm, heavy body, learning where and how to touch her and where not to. He showed her how to approach the mare’s hindquarters, how to curry her thick hide, how to inspect her legs and hooves and use a hoof pick to scrape the mare’s hooves free of collected matter. By the time he was done, Kori was saddled and bridled, and Khamsin had lost a good bit of her fear.
“I’ll take Kori’s lead myself,” Valik said. “The riding ring is a half mile down the mountain.”
She started to object to his leading her down the mountain like an infant, but decided not to push the grumpy Winterman. The prospect of her first riding lesson was the greatest treat she’d ever received. If she had to suffer being leashed to Valik as the price of that treat, so be it.
But suffering his brooding, unfriendly silence the whole way was another matter. She was used to people despising her, but she preferred to know the reason why.