by C. L. Wilson
Summer Sun! She’d never known anyone besides herself capable of generating such concentrated fury in the skies.
She pushed off the wall, winced at the stab of pain from the swan’s egg on her skull, and headed down the servants’ hall toward the tower at an uncharacteristically restrained pace. No more confrontations for her today. Once she snuck into the tower and gathered up the dearest of her mother’s possessions, she would flee back to the sanctuary of her own room and stay there.
For once, she was actually glad her father hadn’t summoned her to join the family. No doubt the Winter King would be dining with them tonight, and after two run-ins with him, she would happily spend the rest of her life avoiding a third.
CHAPTER 2
The Price of Peace
Garbed in a plain gray servant’s frock, with her distinctive hair hidden beneath a linen kerchief, Khamsin climbed the stairs to the tower floor that housed the Queen’s Bower. The sight that greeted her actually stopped her in her tracks.
The melancholy but peaceful silence that had pervaded the King’s Keep all her life was gone, ripped away by the mad rush of hundreds of servants sweeping, polishing, waxing, and dusting. Half a dozen carpenters snatched from their workshops worked at a frantic pace to replace rotting floorboards, while drapers tore down moth-eaten window hangings and hung new tasseled velvets in their stead. A small army of footmen carted new furniture up from the lower levels of the palace. Maude Newt, the Mistress of Servants, stood at one end of the room, overseeing the cleanup with steely gray eyes and snapping orders left and right.
Someone bumped Khamsin hard from behind, making her stagger forward.
“Out of the way, girl,” a man growled in an irritated voice. He and another man, both sweating from exertion, hauled a large, upholstered divan past and set it down along with a host of other furniture cluttered against one wall on a stretch of mended, waxed, and polished floor.
“You there!”
Khamsin turned to find Maude Newt’s iron glare pinned on her.
“Quit gawking like a daft looby and get about your business. We’ve barely two hours remaining to get these rooms restored and spotless.”
An angry retort leapt to Kham’s tongue but, remembering her disguise, she bit it back. “Yes, ma’am,” she said instead, with galling subservience. The birthmark on her wrist blazed with heat, and the urge to send a little lightning bolt up Newt’s skirt was almost more than she could bear. She suppressed the urge with effort, bobbed a brittle curtsy, and sped off towards the door leading to her mother’s bedchamber.
I’m here for my mother’s things, she reminded herself silently. I’m not here to teach Maude Newt a lesson even if the wizened old lemon deserves it!
Controlling her temper had never been easy for Khamsin. Since infancy—since the first sentient days of life in her mother’s womb—hot, wild, rebellious emotion had always lain just below the surface, simmering, waiting for the smallest spark to set her off. There were times Tildy despaired of ever teaching her control. There were times Kham despaired of ever being more than the hot, destructive wind for which she was named.
As she crossed the bower to the bedchamber, she felt Newt’s hard glare boring into her back, gaining reprieve only when she ducked out of sight through the sleeping-chamber door. Well, at least her disguise seemed to be working. If Maude Newt had recognized her, she’d have run straight away to tell King Verdan that Summerlea’s disgrace of a fourth princess was dressed like a servant and skulking in an area of the palace she’d been forbidden to enter.
Khamsin entered the sleeping chamber and froze in her tracks once more. This had apparently been the first room tackled by the crew of frantic servants because its transformation was already complete. Kham could only stand in the doorway and gape.
Her mother’s bed was gone. A new, larger bed rested in its place, piled with several thick, fresh ticks that two young maids were industriously covering with scented sheets. The wood floor, scattered with plush woven rugs, gleamed like polished copper. Every last cobweb and mote of dust had been banished from sight. Sumptuous velvet hangings and tapestries robbed the chill from the cold stone outer wall, and a fire blazed in the wide hearth that opened through a shared inner stone wall to the bathing room beyond. A pot of fragrant herbs simmered over the flames to fill both the sleeping and bathing chambers with a fresh, warm scent to chase away the musty odor of neglect.
Others might find the room’s transformation a pleasant surprise. Khamsin did not. Anger knotted in her belly. She didn’t like change. She didn’t like these hundreds of servants invading her mother’s space—her space—and turning the forlorn but comforting familiarity of her childhood sanctuary into a perfect, spotless foreign world where she no longer belonged.
She turned towards the place where her mother’s dresser had stood earlier today, and an invisible fist closed around her heart. The dresser was gone.
She spun around, scanning the room in rapid, frantic sweeps. The irreplaceable treasures she’d come to collect had vanished as well. Where were her mother’s golden, gem-studded hairbrush, comb and mirror? Where was the small painted miniature of her mother’s likeness? Most of all, where were the two slim, bound books—the gardener’s journal and the private diary—written in Queen Rosalind’s own hand?
“You two!” she snapped at the young girls making the bed. “What happened to my—to the queen’s belongings?”
One of the two girls pursed her lips. “And who is it askin’?” she sneered, scanning Khamsin’s modest dress with a dismissive gaze.
Kham’s fingers curled in a fist. I am in disguise. I am a servant, she reminded herself. Servants do not rudely order other servants around—unless you’re Maude Newt.
“I’m a new girl, just come to the palace to serve Princess Summer,” she improvised. “She sent me to collect a few of her mother’s things before the White King takes up residence.”
That wiped the sneer off the girl’s face. The warm, kind-hearted Summer was beloved by the palace servants. Few would begrudge her the slightest request. In a more accommodating voice, the girl said, “Anything fit for the trash heap has already been taken away. Everything else was carted off to the old solar. If there’s anything of the queen’s worth keeping, it’s most likely there.”
“Thank you.” Khamsin drew a breath and plunged back into the frenetic rush of the Queen’s Bower, weaving through the crowd of carpenters, maids, and other workers. The solar was an adjoining antechamber accessible through a connecting door on the southern wall. Kham reached the door and turned the knob.
Locked. She ground her back teeth together in frustration. The door was locked, and Kham knew who was the most likely person to have the solar key in her possession.
She glanced over her shoulder in Maude Newt’s direction. The Mistress of Servants was talking to a tall guardsman wearing the king’s livery. Khamsin couldn’t hear what they were saying, but when Newt jabbed a bony, emphatic finger towards the queen’s bedchamber, it was obvious the woman must have seen through her disguise.
Time to go. She’d come back later after getting a spare key from Tildy. Right now, she’d best make a quick escape before the Newt caught her. The steely-eyed Mistress of Servants would love nothing better than to catch Khamsin in some sort of mischief and report her to the king.
Khamsin ducked through the bower door and shoved past the stream of workers crowding the hall and stairway. Behind her, she heard a man’s voice call out, “Princess!” but she ignored him and plunged down the stairs.
She raced two flights down and kept running until she reached her room. She’d barely changed out of the plain frock into one of her sister Autumn’s cast-off gowns of spruce green worsted wool when a knock sounded on the door. Kham stuffed the servant’s gown and linen kerchief under her bed and ran both hands through her disheveled curls to smooth them before opening the door.
/> A liveried guardsman—different from the man in the tower—stood outside her door. “Your Highness.” He bowed shortly, his face a blank slate. “The king requests your presence.”
“What in the name of the Sun were you thinking?”
Khamsin stood stiff and silent, eyes focused blindly straight ahead. Her father, King Verdan, still clad in the formal court dress he’d donned to greet Wynter Atrialan, paced the floor of his private office. Heat radiated off him in waves. He was furious. With her. Not because of the tower, but because of the storm before that.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know it was you? Are you that great a fool that you would openly attack the Winter King before the terms of peace are even settled? With half his army waiting in our streets, ready to slaughter us all at the slightest provocation?”
Her gaze snapped up, guilt and worry suddenly swamping her. She hadn’t meant it that way. She’d only meant it as a warning . . . something to let the White King know not all denizens of Summerlea were cowed by his presence. She hadn’t stopped to consider that he might interpret her storm as an act of war.
“Father, I—”
“Silence!” His hand swept out, cracking against her cheek in a fierce, explosive blow.
Her head snapped back. Tears of pain filled her eyes. Inside her mouth, blood welled up where the edge of her teeth had cut the soft inner lining of her cheek.
“Papa,” Autumn protested, half rising from the couch where she and her other two sisters sat, having been summoned as always to witness their youngest sister’s disgrace. “You know she didn’t mean it. You know how Storm gets when she feels threatened.” Storm was Khamsin’s giftname, but only her siblings ever called her by it. Her father never called her anything but “girl.”
“Sit down, Autumn, and be silent.”
“But Papa—”
“I said sit!”
Autumn sat. She cast Khamsin an apologetic glance. Kham shook her head slightly. This was not Autumn’s fight, nor was it her place to intervene. Khamsin had long ago outgrown the need for her siblings to protect her from their father’s wrath even if they still insisted on trying whenever he was particularly furious.
Her father’s full, dark green velvet robes swung as he spun back around towards Khamsin. “Since you obviously cannot be trusted to control yourself, you will remain in your room until the Winter King departs.”
She nodded, not daring to speak.
“If you make one more misstep,” he warned, “if you so much as ruffle a breeze through the White King’s hair or even breathe in defiance of my will, I will cast you out. I will banish you from this kingdom on pain of death. Do you hear me, girl?”
“Papa!” This time the protest came from all three sisters.
Khamsin couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to warn them off. Her father’s threat was stunning, vicious, and wholly unexpected. She’d known for a long, long time that he didn’t love her, but she’d never realized how deep and truly bitter his feelings were. How he must despise her to ever make such a threat.
“Stop it, Papa,” Spring ordered. Cool and sensible as always—capable of almost as fierce a temper as Khamsin, but far more able to control it—she crossed to Khamsin’s side and laid a protective hand on her arm. “Pain of death? She is an heir to the Summer Throne. There’s not a person in this kingdom who would curse their family house by spilling her blood, and you know it.”
“It’s not Storm’s fault the Winter King is here,” Autumn added. She stood, straightened her deep purple gown with a snap of her wrist, and went to join Spring at Khamsin’s side. Her copper curls bounced at she cocked her head to one side and thrust out a delicate, imperious chin. “Everyone in this room knows exactly where that blame lies.”
When King Verdan bristled, Summer rose and wrapped her arms around her father’s waist. Of all his children, she was his favorite. She was everyone’s favorite, blessed with a sunny nature and a ready smile.
“Enough, Papa. I’m sure Storm’s sorry for what she did, and I’m sure she didn’t mean to endanger the peace. Let her stay in her room, as you suggested, and avoid any further confrontations with the Winter King. The rest of us will do our best to show him how gracious and hospitable Summerlanders can be.” She smiled, her deep blue eyes full of forced cheer. “Maybe that will help soften his terms of surrender.”
The Summer King regarded his three oldest daughters for a long moment. The heat issuing from his body began to dissipate, and the room grew noticeably cooler. But when he turned back to Khamsin, the loathing in his gaze made her flinch.
“Get to your room, girl. Don’t dare step one foot outside your door until I send word that you may. Tildavera will bring you your meals. If I find out you’ve disobeyed me, I won’t kill you or banish you, but believe me, I’ll make you wish I had.”
Khamsin curtsied and turned for the door. She didn’t speak. Tears gripped her throat in a chokehold, and if she tried to say a word, they would burst forth in a humiliating gush. She hadn’t cried in front of her father in years—not since the day he’d told her she was responsible for her mother’s death.
With half his men deployed at strategic points throughout the city, and the other half taking up positions in and around the palace, Wynter returned to seek the room, bath, and refreshment he’d demanded.
King Verdan himself escorted Wynter through the warm, colorful halls of the main palace building and up several flights of stairs into the old, stone keep that crowned the city. Valik and a prune-faced harridan who’d introduced herself as Maude Newt, Mistress of Servants, trailed behind, along with half a dozen Wintercraig guards.
The air grew a little colder as they entered the keep, the surroundings a bit more lonely and somber, but Wynter actually liked that better than the crowded frills and luxuries of the palace. Cold stone and privacy suited his nature. He was a man who lived in a harsh, uncompromising land of solitude, danger, and stark beauty.
The small party climbed two flights of stone steps in the tower before reaching the floor that housed the newly renovated Queen’s Bower. A knot of young, gray-clad serving girls stood at attention just inside the wide, arching doorway that led into the bower. They bobbed erratic, nervous curtsies as he passed.
Wynter walked through a set of wide double doors into the long-abandoned room his spies had told him was a rotting ruin. However deteriorated it might have been before, nothing now could be further from the truth. The room sparkled and gleamed from corner to corner, and the air was rich with the scents of flowers, herbs, fresh sawdust, and a strong sprinkling of bleach. The furnishings were exceptional, both in quality and beauty. Wynter’s gaze roved over the room, searching for subtle points of complaint. He found none. Verdan, it seemed, had outdone himself.
“This will do.” He glanced at the servant girls. “Prepare my bath.”
They squeaked and bobbed and nearly tumbled over each other like a litter of clumsy wolf pups in their rush to do his bidding.
“I will expect refreshments and your daughter’s company within the hour,” he reminded the Summer King with a cool look.
“Of course.” Verdan bowed his head slightly. “Newt here will see to any other needs you may have. Just use the bellpull to summon her.” He pointed to a long, tasseled pull near the double doors. “I had thought we would discuss terms in the map room downstairs. Will two hours from now give you sufficient time to prepare?”
“Two hours is fine.” He didn’t want to leave Verdan stewing for too long, lest worry blossom into something unwise.
“I’ll send my steward Gravid to guide the way.” Verdan spun on his heel and departed.
The Mistress of Servants lingered behind long enough to drop a quick, deep curtsy and reiterate the offer of her services. “If you need anything, Your Majesty, anything at all, just call on Newt. I’ll see you get whatever you desire.”
“Very
good.” There was an obsequiousness to her tone and slyness to her darting gaze that he did not care for. “For now, Newt, privacy is what I desire most. And Newt? Wintercraig kings are addressed as ‘Your Grace,’ not ‘Your Majesty.’ ”
“I understand, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace. Just send the girls out when they’re done.” She bowed and backed out of the Queen’s Bower. The doors, now guarded by Wynter’s own men stationed outside in the hall, closed behind her.
Silence fell over the bower, broken only by the sound of splashing water coming from the bathing chamber. Wynter and Valik stood still and wordless, watching each other and waiting in patience silence. A moment later, the four trembling young maids emerged from the bedchamber like wary does mincing into an open glade.
“Your bath is ready, sir,” one of them whispered.
“Good.” Wynter jerked his head toward the double doors. “Out.”
The maids bolted.
Valik waited until they heard the sound of the maids’ shoes clattering down the stone steps before speaking. “Well, he managed it.”
Wynter nodded. “Surprisingly well, too.” He stripped off his gauntlets and tossed them on a nearby table, then walked to the two large, glassed windows cut into the stone wall and threw up the sash on each of them. Cold brisk air swirled in, carrying with it a light flurry of snow. He breathed deep and left the windows open so the draft could clear away the sweet, heavy aroma hanging in the room. “It seems Verdan is sincere in his efforts to be accommodating. Perhaps he’ll acquiesce to my terms after all, and I can take what I’ve come for through peaceful means rather than violence.”
Valik grunted, plucked a round green grape from a bowl of fruit, and popped it into his mouth. He bit down, then grimaced and spit the crushed grape into his hand. “Sour. You didn’t allow warmth enough for their crops to ripen this year.”
