The Winter King

by C. L. Wilson

  He was handsome. Beyond handsome.

  She hadn’t expected that either. Khamsin sucked in a breath, then coughed as the cold air dried and chilled her throat.

  Silver-blue eyes, clear and cold as glacier ice, cast upward, finding her in one swift, sharp instant, pinning her in place. All thought fled her mind. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She could only stare, captured and frozen, as the Winter King’s fearsome gaze held and plundered her.

  How long she stood there, motionless, she couldn’t say. Each moment lasted a lifetime. First ice, then fire scorched her cheeks. Then ice again when, at last, the Winter King turned his gaze away and freed her.

  She stumbled back into the shadows and lifted trembling hands to cover her face. Her heart pounded heavy in her chest, each beat a labored thud. The blood in her veins felt slow and sluggish, her mind dazed, and a distinct chill had invaded her flesh.

  She was shivering violently by the time she reached the bottom of her stairs.

  “Dearly!” Tildy exclaimed in worried tones. The old nursemaid limped across the room to bundle Khamsin up in the warm velvet folds of her abandoned cape. “What were you thinking, child, to stand up there in the wind with naught to cover you but one thin dress? Your skin’s gone cold as ice.”

  “S-sorry, Tildy,” Khamsin apologized through numb lips and chattering teeth. With one long glance, the Winter King had all but frozen her to death. The only spot of warmth on all her skin was the small, rose-shaped birthmark on her inner right wrist—proof of her royal Summerlea heritage.

  Wynter cast a cold, keen, wary gaze around the courtyard, missing nothing. The sound from up high a few minutes ago had set him on edge. He’d shot an Ice Gaze at the would-be assassin, only to capture instead a dark, unruly-haired servant girl dressed in some noblewoman’s cast-off gown and watching the proceedings in the courtyard with wide gray eyes.

  He’d known in an instant she was no assassin. There was something . . . innocent . . . about her. Something intriguing about the wild tumble of black curls streaked with white, like glacial waterfalls frozen against black rock. Well, no matter. He wasn’t here to entertain himself with servants—even the intriguing, pretty ones. Not that she’d willingly come within a hundred yards of him again. Had he held his Gaze a moment longer, he would have frozen her where she stood.

  Wynter directed his attention back to the royal family of Summerlea, who had assembled on the palace steps as he’d commanded. King Verdan, his dark, swarthy face as full of false pride as ever, stood at the forefront, clad in full court dress. Still fit after thirty years of kingship and decades of indulgent living, the Summer King boasted a vivid masculine beauty. He was tall and well-muscled, with dark, snapping eyes, rich coloring, and an intrinsic Summer warmth so different than the colder, paler folk of the north.

  His son, the prince called Falcon, had been much the same.

  Was that foreign warmth the temptation that had lured Elka from her vows?

  Behind Verdan, standing as close together as they could without appearing to huddle, waited his three lovely daughters. They were—justly so, Wynter now realized—as famous for their exotic beauty as for their Summerlea gifts. What their real names were, he neither knew nor cared. They were easy enough to identify by their giftnames: Spring, the eldest, a tall, cool beauty with bright green eyes and inky hair straight as falls of snowmelt pelting down a cliff side; Summer, the middle daughter, whose thick waves of blue-black hair and summer blue eyes promised a warmth long lacking in the Craig; and the youngest, Autumn, a haughty, exquisite creature of breathtaking beauty, blessed with loose, flowing ringlets of a rare, deep auburn that set off her pansy purple eyes to perfection. These were Summerlea’s greatest treasures: the three Seasons, beloved daughters of the Summer King.

  The corner of Wynter’s mouth curled in a faint smile. This victory would not be without its pleasures.

  “King Verdan.” He turned his gaze upon the former ally whom he’d spent the last three years bringing to heel. “I have come, as I vowed when last we met on the field of battle, to issue the terms of peace and claim what is my due.”

  Summerlea’s ruler nodded stiffly. “I am prepared to receive and meet your demands.”

  “Are you? Good.” Wynter gestured to the white-cloaked army behind him. “First, you will quarter my men. Your Steward of the Keep will escort my Steward of Troops, Lord Arngildr, on a tour of the city and palace defenses. He will deploy my men throughout the city . . . to discourage any courageous acts of rebellion your loyal followers might entertain,” he added with a cold, knowing smile.

  Verdan flushed but did not look away.

  “You will quarter me as well,” Wynter continued. “Richly. With a warm bath and a hot meal to refresh me after my journey. And one of your beloved daughters . . .” He perused the three princesses and settled on the haughty beauty with the flashing purple eyes. “Autumn, I think . . . to share my meal.” Again he smiled, without a hint of warmth. “To discourage any . . . overspicing.”

  “Very well,” Verdan bit out, not rising to the bait. “We have prepared a suite for you. Luxurious in every appointment. You will not be disappointed.”

  “Won’t I? I understand the rooms you have prepared for me once belonged to your son, Prince Falcon.” He enjoyed the shock on Verdan’s face and the quick, panicked flicker of his eyes. Let him wonder how the Winter King had learned that bit of news. “Did you really think I would rest in the bedchamber of the thief who stole my bride and murdered my heir?” Just the mention of that terrible day brought the memory of it back in vivid color. White. The color of fresh-fallen snow. Spruce green. The color of Wintercraig’s forest and Garrick’s hunting leathers. Red. The color of Garrick’s blood. So much blood. Blue. The color of the sky, of Garrick’s sightless eyes, and of the Summerlea prince’s arrow rising up from Garrick’s throat.

  Wynter’s jaw tightened. The now-familiar burn of power sparked at the backs of his eyes. If he unleashed what lived inside him, he could kill every living thing in the city in a matter of minutes.

  “I—but—” Verdan clamped his lips closed and gathered his composure. He bowed. “Then, of course, we will make other preparations.”

  Wynter blanked the signs of temper from his face. “I understand the upper levels of your tower are unoccupied.” He nodded at the stone edifice behind the Summer King. The servant girl was gone from the small oriel above. “I will take those.”

  “The tower has been unoccupied for years. It has fallen into a state of disrepair. Surely—”

  “Consider it a test of your willingness to please me. Your servants have six hours to see to it. Clean, well-appointed rooms, a warm bath, and a hot meal,” he repeated. “And your daughter, the princess Autumn, with a pleasant smile on her face, to dine with me. While you see it done, I will tour the city with Valik and your steward.”

  “But . . . the war . . . your terms for peace?”

  “When I am rested and refreshed, we will meet to discuss the particulars of Summerlea’s surrender and the price of peace between us.” When no one moved, he lifted one mocking brow. “Six hours is little enough time to produce the perfection I demand. Believe me, King Verdan, you would be wise to ensure I am pleased with your hospitality. I am a far less forgiving man than once I was. You and your son taught me the folly of dealing gently with Summerlanders.”

  “He’s taking my mother’s rooms?” Khamsin stared at Tildy in dismay. “How could Father allow it?”

  The nursemaid gathered a pile of fresh, folded bedclothes and bath towels from a linen room fragrant with rosemary. “He could hardly say no, now could he, dearly?” Tildy answered practically. “Conquered kings may keep their heads but rarely their pride or authority. There’s a new king in Summerlea now, child, and his name is Wynter of the Craig. Best we all get used to it.”

  “But . . . my mother’s rooms . . . the Sky Garden . .
.”

  “Is his, to do with as he pleases.” Tildy nodded her head at the open door. “Close the door, dearly, to keep in the scent.”

  “I don’t accept that.” She shut the door. “I won’t accept that. My mother’s rooms are off-limits . . . private. It’s been that way all my life.”

  “That was your father’s law. This is the White King’s will. We do as he commands now.”

  “Why? Because he beat a shivering army into surrender? Bah! Politics and the rules of war be damned! We should not bow to this usurper’s demands like a pack of frightened mice!” The invasion of her mother’s rooms was personal. It was a defilement of a silent, sacred memorial to the beauteous Summerlea queen who’d died long before her time.

  Tildy stopped in her tracks, her spine going straight as a poker. She turned and cast a dark glance back at Khamsin, a silent reminder of who had raised whom from infancy. “Politics? Is that what you think this is?” the older woman asked in an arch voice. “Mind your temper, and use that brain God gave you! This isn’t politics we’re talking about. It’s survival. Your father’s and your own to boot. Displease the Winter King, and we’ll none of us see another spring.”

  “What joy does a slave find in spring?” Khamsin countered bitterly. “Better to die a hero’s death like Roland than live ten lifetimes cowering beneath a conqueror’s heel!”

  “Hush!” Setting the pile of linens on a nearby table, Tildy crossed the room to take Khamsin’s shoulders in a firm grip and shake her soundly. “That is childish idiocy speaking. I’ve taught you better. Roland died a hero, aye, but his line died with him. You are an heir to the Summer Throne. So long as you and your family live—even one of you—there is hope for us all. Would you fling yourself to your death without a care for those who love you? Without a thought for those whose care you ought to put before your own? Have I failed so utterly that I’ve raised a blind, vain fool instead of a princess fit to wear the crown?”

  Feeling sullen—shamed and wounded by the scold—Khamsin dropped her gaze. “No,” she muttered. “You haven’t failed, Tildy.” She shook free of her nursemaid’s harsh grip. Her velvet-clad arms crossed over her chest. “Fine.” She couldn’t summon gracious defeat, but then, she’d never been able to do that—not even when the defeat was as minor as losing a game of chess. “I will not obstruct.” Her eyes flashed. “But I won’t help either.”

  The nursemaid sighed and shook her long-ago-silvered hair. “That would be too much to ask, dearly. I’ll be happy just to hear you promise not to summon a cyclone in his bath—especially not when he’s in it.”

  Kham kicked a nearby table leg and scuffed the toe of her leather slipper. Tildy knew her too well. “No cyclone. I promise.” Her gaze shot up with sudden defiance. “But I am going to collect the dearest of my mother’s belongings before he claims her rooms.” She’d never dared remove them before now, lest her father discover she’d entered the tower against his will.

  “As well you should.” Tildy had been Queen Rosalind’s nursemaid, too. She had followed her charge from the gentle, oceanside kingdom of Seahaven, twenty-eight years ago, and stayed to raise Rosalind’s children as she had raised Rosalind herself.

  Tildy started to pick up her linens again, then stopped and turned to wrap Khamsin in a tight, loving embrace. “Don’t fight so hard against things you can’t change, child. You’ll batter yourself to death. Learn to change what you can and accept what you can’t. Be the palm that bends in the wind to withstand the gale.”

  Khamsin stood silent as Tildy walked out the door.

  She was no flexible palm. She was, instead, like the Snowfire in her mother’s garden, bursting into bright, defiant bloom when temperatures plummeted and snow began to fall, daring winter to do its worst.

  She scowled and clenched her long, slender fingers into fists. She’d vowed no obstructions to the claiming of her mother’s rooms, and she’d vowed not to summon cyclones in the White King’s bath. But if the conqueror harmed her family or her home, she’d make him sorry. Her eyes narrowed, and she felt a familiar electric jolt of energy down to her soles.

  Outside, the wind picked up speed.

  Wynter frowned. The storm had come from nowhere, quick and violent. The sky overhead had gone dark as slate. Gusting wind howled through winding cobbled lanes and between stone buildings, rattling thick glass windows in their panes. All along the King’s Path, the cobbled road that corkscrewed up the palace mount, live oaks and citrus trees battered their brittle, winter-slain branches against the ancient stone walls. Without further warning, the dark clouds opened the floodgates. Rain pelted down, first in painful, stinging drops, then torrential sheets. The Summerlea steward escorting him leapt for the shelter of a covered walkway nearby.

  Wynter turned his face up and squinted at the storm-darkened sky. Cold rain sluiced down his cheeks, saturating his hair and soaking the padded tunic he wore beneath his armor. Beside him, Valik, his ever-loyal friend and steward, stood still and watchful, equally as impervious to the downpour.

  “There is a weathermage at work,” Wynter said. “A strong one.”

  “Aye.” Valik put a gauntleted hand on his sword hilt. “Ill intent?” As usual in the company of foreigners, the steward’s clipped speech was trimmed down to the fewest possible words.

  “Just a warning, I think.” The dark clouds overhead were capable of deadly hail and lightning and even cyclones, but Wynter could sense none of that in the roiling sky.

  “Coruscate?”

  “I doubt it. If King Verdan wielded this kind of power, we’d have seen it long before now on the battlefield. He’s never been able to summon more than a short-lived heat wave in my presence.”

  “Princess?” Weathergifts were the purview of royal houses, and strong weathergifts rarely passed outside the direct royal line.

  “Possibly.” Wynter almost smiled at the thought. “That would certainly make things interesting, wouldn’t it?”

  Valik cast him a flat, emotionless look.

  He returned a savage grin and gave a grunt of dark laughter that sounded more like a snow wolf’s warning growl. The brief, sharp-edged humor faded as quickly as it had come, and Wynter turned his attention back to the storm. Knowing what was coming, Valik and the rest of the Wintercraig men stepped back to give their king room.

  “Well, princess,” Wynter murmured, “let’s see what you’re made of.”

  He opened the source of his magic and drew power into his body. His vision went hazy white and began to whirl, as if a blizzard blew in the depths of his eyes. Power pushed against the edges of his control, seeking release. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep it caged.

  The air around him began to spin, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, capturing the falling rain so that not a single drop touched him. Behind his closed lids, he could see the vortex begin to flash and spark. A crackling sound filled his ears—rain freezing in midair, exploding into brittle, porous ice crystals that showered down upon the ground.

  He spread his arms, gauntleted palms facing up. The vortex grew wider still, and faster, until it was a howling wind that drowned out the storm’s raucous fury. He held the vortex for several seconds, feeding it power, nowhere near enough to approach his full, lethal strength, but enough nonetheless to make his capabilities known. Enough to make the weatherwitch yelp. He threw his arms up over his head, jerked his head back, and opened his eyes.

  Concentrated power, surrounded by whirling wind and ice, shot skyward in a column of blazing light and plowed into the heart of the storm overhead. Lightning exploded across the sky, sending frightened onlookers rushing for cover. Rain froze in midair and shattered, sending a blizzard of ice crystals raining down upon the city.

  He felt the weathermage’s breathless shock, tasted the scent of definite feminine power and outrage on the wind. And, to his pleasure, a hint of fear. Good. The precocious princess h
ad probably never met her match. Until now.

  She would learn, as her father had learned, that the Winter King was no spineless, pampered weakling to be threatened without a care. She would learn, as her brother would learn if the coward ever dared return to face the man he’d wronged, that the wild, impetuous tempest of summer was no match for the hard, relentless dominion of winter.

  The first lesson had been given—and received. He felt the Summerlander witch withdraw from the sky. The wind fell silent and, aided by Wynter’s magic, the raging storm dissipated as quickly as it had formed, towering black storm clouds melting into thick swaths of winter gray. In the ensuing calm, snow fell in large, soft flakes to blanket the ground below.

  Wynter turned to the cowering Summerlea steward. The man’s black eyes held raw fear now, and his bronzed skin had assumed a sickly grayish green cast. Good. Nothing birthed respect and acquiescence faster than fear.

  “You may continue the tour,” the Winter King said.

  With visible effort, the steward gathered his composure. He straightened the long folds of his burgundy wool and velvet robes and ran trembling hands through his perfumed hair, smoothing the shoulder-length black curls back into some semblance of order.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said when he was done, his tone filled with a new, much warier respect. “This way, please.” Sweeping one voluminously sleeved arm out before him to indicate that Wynter should precede him, the steward resumed the tour of the palace and city defenses.

  As they turned the corner, Wynter glanced back up the road behind, to the upper bailey and ancient keep crowning the city mount. Which one, he wondered. Which one of King Verdan’s three lovely, headstrong daughters had thrown down the gauntlet?

  Khamsin leaned against the wall, clutching her chest and breathing hard. For the second time today, she’d felt the hard edge of the Winter King’s power. Icy, fierce, instantly identifiable, it had plowed into her like a fist to the belly, driving the air from her lungs and sending her staggering backward to slam into the stone wall. Her ears were still ringing, and the lump at the back of her head made her hiss when she ran inspecting fingertips over it.