Wintervale
The Complete Duology
M. H. Woodscourt
Woodscourt Publishing
Contents
The Crow King
I. The Quest to Swan Castle
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
II. The Trial at Crow Castle
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
III. The Secrets of Ilid
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Appendix
Acknowledgments
The Winter King
I. The Battle for Bayton
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
II. Crossing the Delesar
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
III. Keep Talbethé
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
IV. Crown of the Blighted
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
The End
Appendix
Acknowledgments
Dearest Reader
About the Author
Also by M. H. Woodscourt
The Crow King
Book One of Wintervale
Copyright © 2021 by M. H. Woodscourt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Box set cover designed by M. H. Woodscourt.
To George Washington, whose life and character inspired Gwyn’s story. May good men always laud your name.
Part I
The Quest to Swan Castle
Chapter 1
Mist curled over the quiet hills of Vinwen. Somewhere a bird trilled, prophesying the coming dawn, and the sun answered with a ring of gold spilling over the horizon as it peeked at the slumbering world. Lazy clouds drifted by, grey, dappled with faint pinks and yellows.
Sitting on the wooden fence, Gwynter ren Terare squinted against the hovering gloom in the valley below, eyes fixed on the road. He strained for any sound beyond the faint chirrup of crickets, the song of birds, the gush of the nearby stream. A crow cawed as it landed on the fence.
There. Just there. A faint neigh. The rattle of a wheel against a stray stone. A cracking whip. Gwyn shoved against the rough wood post, leapt to his feet atop the fence, and wobbled once before he caught his balance. Perched, he soon made out the distant shape of the coming carriage, a single lantern bobbing to pierce the predawn shadows.
Gwyn grinned and jumped from the fence. The crow screamed and flew off. Gwyn loped along the streambank up toward the manor house. His shoulder-length hair flounced in his eyes, but he ignored it as he cut through a protesting gaggle of geese and threw himself against the kitchen door to stumble inside.
“Mercy, child!” cried Mavell, spoon in hand. “You look a sight. What awful trouble could there be so early as this?”
Gwyn shook his head as he gasped for air, leaning forward, hands on his legs. He gulped a few times before he could utter a word. “Lawen’s coming. Almost here. Down the road a bit.” He straightened and headed for a bucket of water on the table, took up a ladle, and helped himself to a long, cool drink.
The cook grabbed the ladle, poured water into a cup, and handed that to Gwyn. “Master Lawen, already? Surely not. He’s not to come until tomorrow, so his letter said.”
Gwyn drained the cup. He held it out to let Mavell ladle him another. “But he’s always early. I had a feeling to watch for him, and here he comes.”
“And how do you know it’s Master Lawen?”
Gwyn smiled. “I always know.”
She pursed her lips but didn’t argue. There seemed no point, they both knew that.
“Well,” the slender woman said, rubbing her hands against her apron. “If it is Master Lawen, oughtn’t you go off and clean yourself up for his arrival? Your mother will have a fit if you greet him looking like a shepherd’s boy.” She swatted Gwyn’s backside with the ladle. “Off with you, go on.”
Gwyn chuckled and trotted out of the kitchen and into a long gallery. His feet echoed against the flagstones. He cast a glance out the windows to find that full dawn had banished grey in favor of a thousand shades of green and brilliant gold. He could hear the geese and chickens griping and dogs barking as the carriage rolled along the private drive leading to the house. Gwyn thought he heard the crunch of gravel and his heart leapt.
Lawen! Home, at last. How long had it been? A year or longer. Mount Vinwen had felt hollow in his absence, though none of the others appeared to notice.
Gwyn reached his room, brushed off his trousers to dislodge any dirt or wood splinters, and changed his coarse shirt for fine woven linen. He slipped on stockings, yanked on a pair of polished boots, then caught his hair in a ponytail. A last inspection in his mirror. Gwyn awarded himself a curt, militaristic nod. He tugged one last time on his long shirt front, wrapped his belt atop it, clicked his heels, and headed downstairs.
In the main vestibule he found the rest of the ren Terares assembled, even Mother, though her lips pressed tight and her eyebrows arched above eyes sharp as needles. She turned toward Gwyn as he reached the bottom of the sweeping staircase and her gaze softened.
“Gwyn, dearheart. Thank you for not looking like a peasant this morning.”
He kissed her cheeks. “Good morning, Mother. I thought this occasion warranted the change.”
She sighed. “Yes, I suppose the master is home today.”
Gwyn brushed off her tone, not willing to let it se
ep in. He could understand her resentment in a way. Last year Tynveer ren Terare, Gwyn and Lawen’s blood father, had been killed in a skirmish against the savage Ilidreth. Now Lawen was the master of Mount Vinwen, and Mother, Tynveer’s second wife after Lawen’s mother had passed, now suspected her stepson would soon send her and her three children to live at another of his estates, but Gwyn knew better. There was no kinder soul in all Simaerin than his elder half-brother.
The sound of crunching gravel outside the front doors ceased as the carriage bounced to a stop. Gwyn’s younger sisters laughed and tumbled forward as the servants pulled the manor doors aside to admit the Master of Vinwen.
“Sila, Neirin,” said Mother. “Do try to behave like human beings.” Though her tone was harsh, she wore a fond smile as she followed them out onto the wide porch.
Gwyn came last, clamping down on an urge to rush forth and barrel into Lawen as soon as he descended from the carriage. He couldn’t wait to see Lawen in full dress: that rich red tabard bright over the full armor worn in the Crow King’s service. The silhouette of a crow in profile painted against the gleaming breastplate. A broadsword strapped at the hip, heavy and sure in the possession of Lawen ren Terare.
The footman jumped from his perch behind the carriage and came forward to open the door. Lawen unfolded himself from within, and Gwyn felt his excitement crescendo—then die on a sour note. Indeed, it was Lawen, though he wore no armor; instead, a shawl wrapped around his shoulders, plain travel garb beneath that. His complexion was pale, his green eyes sunken, black hair lank and damp with sweat. Even so, a smile adorned his ashen lips as he took in the sight before him.
“My beautiful family.” He extended his arms to greet them. Gwyn’s heart wrung in his chest and he sprang forward to catch Lawen as the man staggered. Gwyn steadied him, feeling the brittle thinness of his half-brother’s arm in his grasp.
“My dear Lawen!” exclaimed Mother. “Are you wounded? We heard nothing of any battle.”
Lawen shook his head. “Only a little ill, that’s all. I’ve been granted an extended leave to care for myself until this passes. Don’t fret over me.” He turned to Gwyn. “My word, little brother. You’ve outgrown me, and only fourteen years of age. That should be against some ancient law of birthright.” He coughed; a throaty, ragged sound. “I could do with a little water.”
“Of course,” Mother said, motioning inside. “Gwyn, take him into the parlor. I’ll have Cook bring water and something to eat.”
Gwyn guided Lawen inside and past the staircase into a parlor off the main gallery. He helped Lawen to sink into a plush wingback chair. Lawen panted and his hands trembled. Gwyn stared at those thin fingers as his chest tightened around his heart.
Sila and Neirin hovered at the door, wide-eyed and speechless. Lawen smiled at them, then dropped his head against the chairback. He closed his eyes. “Needn’t worry so much. Just a bad cold.”
Gwyn arched an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen such a cold as this.”
Lawen’s smile stretched. “You worry too much, Gwynny.”
He drew back. “I’m not six anymore, Lawen. It’s Gwyn now.”
“Such a grownup.” Lawen coughed until the fit doubled him over. Gwyn watched with humming fear as his heartbeat raced in his ears. At last the man sat straight and let his head fall back and roll to the side. He gasped. “You...really need to...enjoy your childhood a little...a little bit longer...you know...”
Gwyn tried a wry smile. “I’ll not take that advice from a man who joined the Crow King’s army to escape growing crops.”
Lawen rasped out a chuckle. “Very well, very well. Your point is made, although one might argue that my advice is now the voice of experience. Enjoy your crops, Gwynny. Killing people isn’t...quite the glory...our Sovereign King would like us to believe...”
Gwyn rested a hand on his brother’s thin arm. “Enough of that for now. Just rest. You’ve come home to recover, not to pawn your estate off on me.”
Lawen laughed again. “Justly rebuked. I shall repent by taking a nap.”
Gwyn backed away from the chair, his smile warming. “Just so. But first, here’s Mavell with your water.”
Four days after Lawen’s homecoming, Gwyn stood with the house steward and family physician on the landing of the manor’s second floor. He listened to the rumble of the steward set against the treble of the physician, as they discussed the health of their master.
“I’ve bled him,” the physician said. “But he only grows weaker.”
Gwyn rubbed an itch on his neck, turning from the two men to study the world outside the nearest window. Little Sila chased the geese down in the courtyard, while Neirin looked on, laughing. Several milkmaids swept past them on their way to the barn. Gwyn’s eyes traveled to the forest beyond the estate’s cultivated fields. A half dozen crows rested on the far fence. His neck itched again.
“Gwyn.”
Mother’s voice. He turned to find her cresting the staircase and offered a solemn smile. “Yes, Lady Mother?”
“A letter has arrived from Lawen’s commanding officer.” She held aloft the folded parchment. “I thought you and Doctor Hesegg should be aware of its contents.” She swept forward, skirts rustling against the stone floor. “According to General Cadogan’s personal physician, Lawen is dying.”
Gwyn’s heart convulsed. His light eyes danced between Mother and the physician, both shorter than him, and he felt as though they shrank in his sight, farther, farther. He was floating away. Not Lawen. Please not Lawen too.
“Lawen knows,” Mother went on. “He knows and he’s said nothing.”
Gwyn’s feet found solid ground again. “He doesn’t wish to worry us, Mother.”
Her grip tightened on the letter, crinkling it. “Doctor Hesegg, is there anything you can do?”
He shook his head. “I’ve tried every treatment I know, my lady, and none have aided him in the least. All that is left in my power is to keep him somewhat comfortable until he either recovers or...” He offered a gentle shrug.
Gwyn slipped away from Mother, from the physician, and the steward, to approach Lawen’s door. He entered the darkened room and choked on the close air. It smelled of sweat, blood, sickness. It reeked of death, just as when Father lay so still in his coverlets, ghost departed.
“Gwyn?” came a harsh whisper from the dark lump in the four-post bed.
He padded nearer. “Yes, Lawen. I’m here.”
“You sound so grim. Is the doctor taking my cold too seriously?”
“General Cadogan sent a letter to Mother. We know how sick you are.”
A deep sigh sounded in the gloom. “I am sorry he did that, Gwyn. I didn’t want to worry you.”
Scalding heat speared Gwyn’s heart and pounded through his head. He fisted his hands and trembled against an outburst. When he spoke, his voice hung low and soft. “Did you think to deceive us until the very end, Lawen? Did you think the truth would be easier to bear when it became too late for farewells?”
The coverlet rustled and a thin hand rose from the darkness. “Come here, little brother.”
Gwyn’s fists loosened and his shoulders drooped. He knelt beside the bed and clasped Lawen’s hand, seeking his brother’s face in the gloom. There. Gaunt and tight, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Forgive me the coward’s path,” Lawen whispered. “I didn’t think I could abide seeing my death reflected in your eyes. In truth I’ve been sick a long while; Father alone knew of it, but I begged him to say nothing. I’ve sought help from all sorts of healers, some less than reputable, but to no avail. And then Father was killed by the Ilidreth, and—” His voice broke. “Oh, Gwyn, I nearly died of guilt when we got word. Father went to the Ilidreth for my sake. He heard they could cure what others can’t, but of course it was folly to try. The Ilidreth hate humans too much to hear a desperate man out.”
Gwyn stared, a chill shooting down his spine as he imagined how Father must’ve begged to be spared, if only long en
ough to save his son. Rage rang in his ears, but he swallowed hard and urged it to be silent. Anger, Father had often told him, should never be given purchase in a man’s mind; not if he wanted to be respectable. Not if he wanted to be wise.
When the fury stilled enough, Gwyn squeezed his brother’s hand. “I would forgive anything of which you’re guilty, Lawen, but I don’t see how you could be. I’ve never faced death for myself. How can I know how it feels?” He bowed his head to rest his brow against his brother’s knuckles. He trembled. Lawen was so strong, so noble, an officer in the Crow King’s army, yet…
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