The Winter King

by C. L. Wilson

  “Watch your tongue, woman.” Lifelong retainer she might be, but Tildavera Greenleaf had long ago forgotten her place.

  “Or what? You’ll beat me, too?”

  “Don’t tempt me.” He paced the office floor, thinking rapidly. Yes, he’d been harsh, but the damnable girl had refused to bend, and he’d been forced to break her. He’d been counting on the nursemaid’s skill with herbs and the girl’s own cursedly efficient self-healing abilities to mitigate the worst of the wounds he’d inflicted. “If you can’t have her ready for the wedding, Tildavera, you can at least have her ready for the wedding night.”

  “Surely you’re joking.”

  “Do I look like I’m joking? Aren’t you the one who said consummation was the only way to ensure the White King wouldn’t demand the marriage be annulled once he realizes he’s wed to that . . . abomination instead of the Season he’s expecting? Have him wed her and bed her and whisk her out of the city before he realizes he’s been duped, you said.”

  “That was before I knew you’d beaten her near to death!”

  “She’ll survive. She always does. But the reasons for insisting on consummation haven’t changed just because the hour grows late, and you’ve discovered that your skills aren’t quite what you’ve always touted them to be.”

  He kicked at the small scorch mark on his office carpet left by the burning ash of Rosalind’s picture and diary. Many potentially lethal accidents had befallen the girl in the years following Rosalind’s death, most of them natural, a few less so, but she had survived each one unscathed. Contagion never touched her, deadly blows turned away at the last moment, even the few grievous wounds she’d suffered over the years healed swiftly, without infection or scarring. It was as if the gods themselves sat on her shoulder, protecting her from sickness and peril.

  Well, now he had an opportunity to rid himself of her once and for all, and he wasn’t about to suffer her presence a moment longer than necessary.

  “There will be a wedding. By proxy if necessary.” He stopped pacing and looked up. “Come to think of it, that’s probably the best solution all around.” The idea hadn’t occurred to him until now, but it had great potential. “One of the Seasons can stand in for her . . . Autumn, I think. He showed interest in her.”

  His mind churned through all the possible ways the plan could go wrong and all the ways to keep that from happening. “We’ll keep Autumn heavily veiled—and make up some excuse for it, of course—and have the girl switch places with her when she goes to disrobe for the wedding night. If he does insist on seeing his bride’s face before the vows are spoken, he’ll think he’s getting exactly what he wanted. You could even put a little something in his drink to disorient him and ensure he consummates the marriage without realizing she’s not one of the Seasons.”

  His biggest fear all day had been that Wynter Atrialan would learn his bride’s true identity before he bedded her and annul the marriage. But this . . . this could work. After all, for all that he despised her, the girl was a princess of Summerlea . . . she did bear the Rose . . . and Wynter had not demanded a particular daughter to be his wife. He’d just said to choose one. Any fault in not knowing what he might get lay entirely with him.

  If the Winter King happened to kill the girl in a fury when he realized how he’d been tricked . . . well, he’d just be ridding Verdan of the albatross that had hung around his neck for the last two decades.

  Verdan turned and frowned at the old nursemaid, who was still standing near his desk. “Are you still here, Tildavera? What are you waiting for? Go make this happen.”

  “Haven’t you heard what I’ve been telling you? You wounded her severely. Even if Autumn stands in for her at the wedding, healing Khamsin enough to withstand a consummation tonight is beyond even my skills.”

  He lifted a speaking brow. “Don’t be so modest. I’ve seen you fix a posset that had a gutted soldier laughing and smiling only hours after his intestines had been stuffed back inside him. The girl’s wounds might not have healed enough to let her stand and walk about, but the pain is something you can mask. Especially as all she has to do is lie there and spread her legs.”

  “Blessed Sun!” she exclaimed. “How can you be such a monster? You’re her father! Rosalind was her mother! Hate the part of you that lives in her if you must, but how can you hate the part of her that came from our Rose?”

  Heat rushed into his veins. “She murdered my Rose. I don’t just hate her, I loathe the very air she breathes!” he spat. He turned away, fighting to rein in his temper before Tildavera earned more than sharp words. “Make her ready, Nurse. And close the door behind you when you leave.”

  Khamsin dragged herself across the room, using each stick of furniture as a crutch to help her keep her feet as she shuffled back from the tiny bathing room towards the lamplit bed. The thin silk robe she’d draped around her body brushed against the fragile new skin on her back, each light touch sending bolts of pain shooting through her, and despite Tildy’s constant ministrations, Kham’s muscles had stiffened up so that every step punished her for making the effort. Of course, considering that earlier today she’d barely been able even to sit up without screaming, the ability to move about the room at all was nothing short of a miracle.

  How she was going to stand before a priest for a lengthy wedding ceremony was another matter altogether.

  The White King, like her father, did not strike her as a man who brooked delays, but just traversing the small distance from bed to bathroom left her breathless, weak, and dizzy. Even if King Verdan had her carried into the church, how could she stand before the altar under her own power to recite her vows?

  Curious, testing herself to see how much she could bear, Khamsin straightened her back and released her hold on the furniture.

  She stood there, swaying slightly, counting each second as it passed.

  The door opened, Tildy’s voice cried out, “Dearly!”

  Forgetting herself, Kham instinctively turned towards her nurse. Pain shot down her back. Muscles seized, and her knees buckled. She cried out and grabbed hold of the furniture, barely managing to stop herself from collapsing to the ground.

  “What are you doing? You’re in no condition to be up and walking around.” Tildy rushed to Khamsin’s side and nudged a supporting shoulder under her arm. “Here. Hold on to me. I’ll help you back to bed.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to get up,” Kham protested, but she didn’t have the strength to struggle as Tildy herded back towards the waiting bed. “The wedding’s only a few hours away.” Now that she understood the full extent of her father’s loathing, she was ready to have the marriage over and done with. Whatever Wintercraig held in store, it couldn’t be worse than what her father would do to her if she stayed here.

  “Autumn will stand as your proxy,” her nurse soothed. “The wedding will take place without you. You need to rest and concentrate on healing.” She pushed aside the heavy drapes she’d hung to prevent her herb-infused healing steam from dissipating, and ushered Kham towards the waiting, lamplit mattress. “Come lie back down, dearly. I’ll fix a posset for the pain and freshen the ointment on your back and the herbs in the kettle. Hedgewick can bring up a few more lamps from the cellar.”

  Khamsin’s hand shot out, closing round the bedpost. “No, Tildy.”

  “Shh, all right, dearly,” the nursemaid soothed. “No more lamps. It’s already bright and warm as a summer morning anyways.”

  “No,” Kham said again. “I’m not talking about the lamps. I’m talking about the wedding. I will say my vows, not Autumn.”

  “Out of the question! You can hardly stand!”

  “He hasn’t broken me, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he has,” she rasped. She didn’t have to say who “he” was. “I made this choice. I will see it through, not Autumn.” Her legs were shaking, the muscles in her legs weak. She clutch
ed the bedpost tighter.

  “Khamsin . . .”

  “You cannot dissuade me, Tildy. I’ve had the last three days to think about this.” She lifted her chin and called upon every ounce of haughty Coruscate pride to keep her standing. “For the first time since my mother’s death, he’s going to have to admit—in public and before the court—that I, Khamsin Coruscate, am a princess of Summerlea. How could you possibly imagine I would let one of my sisters stand in my place when that happens?”

  Tildy bit her lip, and her brow wrinkled with concern. “Khamsin, listen to me. You don’t understand. As far as Wynter Atrialan knows, Summerlea only has three princesses. He only knows their giftnames, and we can’t run the risk of having him discover that the Khamsin Coruscate he agreed to wed is not Spring, Summer, or Autumn.”

  Khamsin’s brows drew together. “Why would he care? A princess is a princess.”

  “Not to your father, and not to him. He knows how much your father loves your sisters. He wants to strike a blow to Verdan’s heart by taking one of the Seasons to wife. If he discovers the deception before the marriage is consummated, he can simply annul the ceremony and marry one of your sisters instead. Your father doesn’t want that to happen, and neither do I. This is your chance to get out of Summerlea. Sooner or later, your father will find a way to kill you if you stay. I’ve no doubt of that now. Wintercraig is the safest place for you—at least until your brother returns to us.”

  “Falcon isn’t coming back. If Summerlea hadn’t lost the war, he might one day have returned, but now? It would be a death sentence.”

  “Perhaps not. Your brother didn’t just steal the Winter King’s bride when he fled Gildenheim. He also took an ancient treasure called the Book of Riddles—a book he believed would lead him to the secret hiding place of Roland’s sword. He’s been searching for the sword ever since.”

  Khamsin’s jaw dropped. “Blazing? Falcon’s searching for Blazing?” She shook her head, remembering that day in the Sky Garden so long ago, when she’d suggested he search for Blazing. Remembering Falcon’s stumble, which she’d attributed to an uneven paving stone rather than a guilty conscience. Remembering how he’d scoffed at the idea as a child’s fairy tale. And all the while, searching for the sword had been his intent. The pieces clicked into place like the sliding parts of a puzzle box. “That’s why Father sent him.” Not to train Falcon how to negotiate a treaty, and not to charm the Winterfolk into better concessions, but to charm someone—probably Wynter’s bride—into helping him steal the Book of Riddles.

  Kham swallowed hard, astonished that she’d never figured it out before. Like everyone else, when told the story of Falcon’s falling in love and eloping with the Winter King’s bride, she’d accepted it without question.

  “Even if that’s true, Tildy, how could you possibly know it?”

  “Given the right herbs, a man will tell you any and everything he knows.” Tildy raised her brows pointedly. “And from the latest I could glean, your brother is very close to finding the sword. Once he does, your safety is guaranteed. With Blazing in his possession, he’ll be strong enough to win back the freedom of Summerlea and claim the throne for himself, as he will surely do once he realizes the crime Verdan has committed against his own House.”

  “And if Falcon doesn’t find the sword?”

  “You’ll still be Queen of the Craig and safe from your father’s machinations. Which is why it’s imperative this wedding to take place, and in order for that to happen, the Winter King must believe he’s wedding a Season.”

  “Even if I veil my face and pretend to be one of my sisters, what’s to stop the White King from killing me the moment he discovers the truth?” Khamsin pointed out. “I’ve met him. I’ve felt his power. He doesn’t strike me as the forgiving sort.”

  “He demanded one of Verdan’s daughters to wife. He’ll get one. He may be angry when he discovers you’re not the Season he was expecting; but once the marriage is consummated, his own honor will keep him to the terms of his agreement. Ultimately, it’s an heir he’s after, one capable of ascending both the Summer and Winter Thrones.”

  “How can you know that, Tildy? And don’t tell me he talks under the influence of herbs, too. You’ve never even met the man.”

  A strange look crossed Tildy’s face. A flash of regret, a hint of shame, followed directly by grim determination.

  Khamsin’s knees gave out, and not even pride could keep her standing. She collapsed to the bed, realization dawning. Shock made the muscles of her face go lax. “But you have met him, haven’t you, Tildy.” Dismay, accusation, horror: All crept into her voice. “You’re the traitor who’s been feeding him information.”

  Tildy’s jaw clenched, and her chin thrust out. “I’m no traitor. I’m a loyal servant of Queen Rosalind. I swore on her deathbed that I would do everything in my power to ensure your well-being, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “By betraying my family to our enemy?”

  Tildy held out her hands. “Dearly—”

  “Don’t call me that!” Khamsin cried, flinching away from those treacherous, once-loved hands. “How long have you been spying for him?”

  The nurse heaved a great sigh. “Six months.”

  Khamsin’s shoulders slumped. Six months. Since before the last two fierce battles that had sealed Summerlea’s fate. “Did you help him destroy my father’s armies?”

  “Of course not! Summerlea’s defeat was already certain. I simply helped him understand he could achieve the victory he wanted without razing Vera Sola to the ground.”

  “You’re the one who told him about Falcon’s room. You encouraged him to demand the bower.” The pieces all fell into place. “You wanted me to go up there and retrieve mother’s things. You were hoping I would run into him.”

  “I had to know if you and he would suit. I would never have let you wed him otherwise. The results have been promising. He hasn’t stopped asking about you, and his steward has queried half the palace about the maid with the white-streaked hair.”

  A chill shivered across Khamsin’s skin. Fear, partly, but partly something else. Something that left behind heat, not cold.

  Immediately on the heels of that shiver came a new realization that made the blood drain from her face.

  “You’re the one who convinced King Verdan that I should be the Winter King’s bride. You’re the reason he took me into the mountain and beat me until I agreed to this marriage.” She pressed the heel of her palm against her chest, trying to stop the painful ache of her heart. “Why?” Her lips trembled. “Am I really such a monster? All these years, I thought you loved me. Has that all been a lie?”

  “How can you even suggest that?” Tildy cried. “Everything I’ve done I’ve done for love of you and your mother.”

  “For love, you sent him to beat me into submission?”

  “I told you, I had no idea that your father would dare brutalize you the way he did. Until then, I hadn’t realized how truly mad he has become. But his behavior only assures me that I did the right thing in encouraging this marriage.” Tildy reached for Khamsin’s hands, but when Kham flinched away, the nurse drew a breath and bowed her head. “One day, dearly, you’ll see this was the only way I could protect you. If you were to remain here, in Summerlea, Verdan would find a way to kill you. I’m certain of it.”

  Khamsin crossed her arms. “And you think my fate will be any different with the Winter King?” The memory of his touch, his voice, made her shiver.

  “Wynter Atrialan wants heirs. Once you wed him, you’ll be safe from your father’s wrath, and once you provide him with his heirs, your position as his queen will be secure. If your brother returns with Roland’s sword, you and your children will be safe. If he doesn’t, your children—Rosalind’s grandchildren—will inherit both Summerlea and Wintercraig. It’s the best future I could have hoped to give you, dearly. Al
l you need to do is let Autumn stand as your proxy, then you consummate the marriage before he discovers the truth.”

  The idea that Falcon might truly be the long-awaited Heir of Roland who would return the legendary sword, Blazing, to Summerlea seemed such a fantasy, she didn’t spare it a thought. But the other . . . how Verdan would howl to see Khamsin’s child on the throne of Summerlea. How he would rage and storm about. That thought alone was almost enough to convince her.

  Even without that satisfaction, she had to admit that Tildy was right. If Khamsin didn’t get out now, her father would find some other way to rid himself of her. The gods and her own good fortune had kept her alive until now, but she couldn’t count on such graces forever.

  She clutched the silk robe closer about her neck and winced as the fabric pulled the tender wounds on her back. “Very well,” she agreed. “I’ll wed the Winter King, but not by proxy. Veil me as heavily as you must to hide my identity, but either I stand to speak my vows, or they will not be spoken.”

  “You’re too weak, and you’re in too much pain,” Tildy protested. “I can see it on your face. You can’t possibly make it through the ceremony and the wedding feast.”

  Khamsin smiled grimly. “I wasn’t asking for your permission, Nurse Greenleaf. I was explaining the conditions of my cooperation. The only thing I require from you is your herbalist skills to mix up a fresh ointment for my back. You will find a way to block the worst of the pain, and I’ll find a way to make it through this farce.”

  CHAPTER 5

  A Draught of Wanton Appetence

  Wynter stood at the chapel altar, his temper increasing by the moment. The wedding should have begun thirty minutes ago, but the bride had yet to make her appearance.

  “Think she’s got cold feet?” Valik murmured under his breath.

  “She’s about to get a lot more than that,” he muttered back. The temperature in the chapel had begun to drop, proof of his blossoming ire. The Winter King would not kindly suffer humiliation at Summerlea hands.