The Winter King

by C. L. Wilson

  But just as Wynter prepared to summon his power and send this city plunging into ice, a commotion arose at the far end of the chapel.

  Garbed in deep sapphire velvet, the same stunning shade of blue as the waters of Lake Ibree in the heart of the Craig, Wynter’s bride had arrived. Verdan stood before her, looking like he’d swallowed something vile, while she stood in the chapel doorway, Spring and Summer at each elbow. Autumn, then, was to be his queen.

  If not for the simple process of elimination and his own memorable sense of smell, he would not have known it. She was so heavily veiled that even when she stepped up to take her place beside him, he couldn’t make out the shadow of her features behind the layers of concealing silk. But her scent was familiar . . . perhaps even a little overpowering. She’d not applied her perfume quite so liberally the day she and her sisters had joined him for a meal.

  Suspicious, he frowned and drew her scent deeper into his lungs, examining. No, she smelled of Autumn, even beneath the perfume, but there was something else mixed in. He couldn’t make it out. It was masked by the strong smell of herbs: wintergreen, poppy, a few others he didn’t recognize. Was she so unwilling that she’d had to drink a cup of strong courage before entering the chapel?

  He reached for her outer veil, and Verdan all but leapt between them.

  “Remember your promise, sir!” he hissed. “Do not shame her before the court!”

  Ten minutes before the wedding had been scheduled to start, Verdan had come to the groom’s dressing room to speak with Wynter. The princess had been weeping over the prospect of leaving her home and family, he said, and she didn’t want to shame herself by letting the court see her blotchy and red-eyed from tears. Wynter had agreed to leave her veil intact.

  Now, he shriveled his bride’s father with an icy glance. When Verdan stepped back, Wynter bent close to her ear, and whispered, “Willingly or not, Autumn, you have consented to be my wife. I will have what I want from you, but this marriage doesn’t have to be a battle, unless you make it so. Remember that.” He ran a finger down the side of the silken veils, finding her jaw and caressing it gently.

  She trembled. The little puffs of her breath made the silken veils flutter, and the tiny beads on her gown winked and shimmered as her body shook with fine tremors. “I understand,” she answered in a voice so low it was practically inaudible.

  “Good.” He turned to face the priest and nodded.

  The wedding ceremony began.

  Khamsin stood trembling as the seconds crawled by with excruciating slowness.

  For a moment there, at the beginning of the ceremony, she’d thought the Winter King would unmask her, but he had not. Thanks, she supposed, to Tildy.

  “Wear Autumn’s dress and perfume,” she had advised. She’d tapped the edge of her nose. “The Snow Wolf clan sees with more than just their eyes.”

  Khamsin had passed the two first hurdles of the night: fooling the Winter King and keeping her veils intact. Now she turned all her focused energies on making it through the ceremony without collapsing.

  Her lower back burned like fire, each bruised and torn muscle protesting even so simple an activity as standing. Perspiration gathered at her neck and along her spine, trickling down her back beneath the hot velvets, stinging the salved and bandaged wounds. Despite doubling the strength of her salve, Tildavera had not been able to block the pain entirely, and in a fit of spite intended to wound Tildy as she was wounded, Khamsin had declared her refusal to drink any draught mixed by a traitor’s hand.

  She was regretting that prideful urge now. The throbbing ache from her wounds brought tears swimming to her eyes. She dare not lock her knees for fear of losing consciousness, but finally, in desperation, she reached out to grasp the altar railing and leaned heavily against it.

  Beside her the White King—only minutes away from being her husband—took a step closer. “You are ill?”

  She shook her head and pushed herself back to her feet before he could take hold of her arm. “Dizzy,” she muttered. “I haven’t eaten.”

  To her surprise, the Winter King gave the priest an unmistakable gesture to hurry up. She regarded him in confusion, grateful for the protection of her veils that kept him from seeing her expression. Wasn’t he the cold, harsh enemy of her family? Wasn’t he the anathema of all she loved? And yet, he’d offered her peace between them—even if that offer had carried the distinct feel of a warning—and now he showed this . . . courtesy.

  “Who gives this woman and by what grant?” the priest finally asked, bringing the nuptial ceremony towards its close.

  Behind her, King Verdan—she would never call him Father again, not even in her own thoughts—rose to his feet. In a clear voice, he said, “I, Verdan Coruscate, King of Summerlea, give this woman, Her Royal Highness Angelica Mariposa Rosalind Khamsin Gianna Coruscate, a royal princess of Summerlea and an heir to the Summer Throne, by grant of patrimony.”

  Despite the jab of pain that shot down her hips and the backs of her legs, Khamsin’s spine straightened. Her chin lifted. She’d been recognized, at last, before the court and her family as both princess and a rightful heir to the Summer Throne.

  Well, that was a miracle worth a caning or two all on its own.

  “And does the princess,” the priest intoned, drawing her back round to face the altar, “vow to accept this man, Wynter Crystalin Boreal Atrialan, King of Wintercraig, as her husband and liege, binding herself to him, keeping only unto him, accepting his counsel and his care, and offering him all the fruits of her life until the gods call him home?”

  “The princess,” she said, “does so vow.”

  “And does the King of Wintercraig vow to accept this woman, Angelica Mariposa Rosalind Khamsin Gianna Coruscate, a princess of Summerlea, as his wife and queen, binding himself to her, keeping only unto her, accepting her counsel and her care, and offering her all the fruits of his life until the gods call her home?”

  “The king does so vow.”

  “Your Highness, please extend your right hand and bare the Rose.”

  She held out her right arm and turned back the full cuff, baring her wrist with its unmistakable Summerlea Rose birthmark.

  “Your Grace, your left hand, sir.”

  Beside her, Wynter held out his left arm and, with a strange half smile, flipped back his own silk cuff and turned up his inner wrist to reveal a pale white wolf’s head shining against the golden hue of his skin.

  She had heard the Wintercraig royal family bore a similar mark to the heirs of the Summer Throne, but she’d never seen one before. It was beautiful, in a cold, fierce, wild way. As she looked at it, she had the strangest vision of that wolf’s head coming to life, turning its head to look straight at her, and snarling both challenge and warning. A chill swept through her, brisk and cool, followed almost immediately by a flush of heat as the Summerlea Rose on her own wrist began to burn.

  “Your Grace, Your Highness, please join hands.” The priest held a short length of tasseled silken cord—the symbol of the union about to be forged—beneath Khamsin’s wrist.

  Holding her gaze as if he could see straight through her veils, Wynter turned his forearm wolf-down and curled his fingers around hers.

  “Before these witnesses, and with the blessings of the gods, let these two people be joined, and may the bond never be sundered.” Kham stood stiffly by the Winter King’s side as the priest wrapped the tasseled ends of the cords around their wrists and pulled gently. Wynter’s cool, icy Snow Wolf slid over dark Summerlander skin to cover Khamsin’s Rose.

  A jolt of energy shot through her body as the two marks met. She cried out and grabbed hold of the altar rail. Beside her, Wynter’s spine went stiff, his muscles rigid.

  Lightning flashed in the sky, close enough to illuminate the chapel with a blast of blinding whiteness. Thunder cracked with deafening fury. Women screamed. Several of t
he tall, stained-glass windows flanking the church nave shattered, and a harsh, icy wind howled in, swirling sheets of snow into the room, blowing out every flame in the room and plunging the wedding party into darkness.

  No longer able to force compliance from her legs, Khamsin collapsed against the altar rail and sank to the carpeted steps in a billow of velvet skirts. The loosely tied cords tying her wrist to the Winter King’s tugged apart, and her hand fell free.

  “Valik,” the Winter King snapped.

  A match flared. A tiny flame flickered to life. Its pale glow illuminated Valik’s cupped hand. As he began to moved towards one of the lamps to relight it, Khamsin glanced up at Wynter. His pupils had gone wide, and his reflected an eerie, shiny red glow.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. His concern seemed genuine. For all that his eyes were fierce and his face a frozen mask, a thread of sincerity softened his voice.

  “I’m fine,” she lied. Her back was on fire. Her vision was blurry. She wasn’t sure she could stand again even if she had to—which she did, of course. Somehow, she was going to have to get up and walk out of this chapel under her own strength. She still had to make it through the wedding feast . . . and the bedding.

  “That was . . . interesting.”

  Despite the pain flaring up and down her spine, she gave a quick, wry laugh. “Yes, it was,” she agreed.

  She knew that when the forces of Winter and Summer clashed—either in nature or on the battlefield—sparks had a tendency to fly. But this was a first. She wasn’t sure whether the explosive response was a one-time shock caused by the joining of two powerful forces or the ominous portent of a stormy relationship to come.

  Already, the wind had died down, and around the chapel, more lights flickered as the servants hurried to relight the candelabras. Khamsin curled her fingers around the railing and tried to pull herself up. A strong hand cupped her elbow and lifted her easily to her feet. She glanced up in surprise at the Winter King. Was he a kind man after all? “Thank you.”

  He inclined his head fractionally. “It would not do to have the new Queen of Wintercraig collapse at her own wedding.”

  The little flicker of warmth she’d been feeling snuffed out. Immediately, she castigated herself for her brief moment of moonstruck fancy. What ridiculous foolish sentimental tripe had she been thinking? Marriages between great houses were about wealth and power, not people. He was concerned about appearances, not her.

  “I’m fine. I can walk on my own.” She tried to tug her arm free, but his fingers remained clamped around her elbow.

  “Allow me to escort my bride to our wedding feast.” It was not a request.

  Did he think she would bolt? Where would she go?

  Even so, her first instinct was to resist his effort to impose his will on her. She hated restrictions of any kind, and she always struggled against even the slightest effort to cage her. She tugged her arm harder. His fingers went cold. Goose bumps pebbled her arm beneath the warmth of her velvet sleeves.

  “Do not be foolish, Autumn,” he whispered. His voice was soft but utterly without warmth. “I will not tolerate open defiance. Especially not here, in public, before your father’s court.”

  Already her brief spurt of resistance was fading. She didn’t have the energy to sustain it. Not now, at least.

  Surrendering, she let him lead her down the chapel aisle and outside to the open courtyard that had once been a lush, manicured garden filled with carefully carved and tended hedges and flowering trees surrounding a sparkling fountain. The fountain was silent now, the water drained to prevent it from freezing. The flowering trees were skeletal ghosts standing guard at the four corners, and a light blanket of snow covered the fancifully carved hedges, flower beds, and lawn.

  Khamsin drew a deep breath as they headed back to the main palace. The air was brisk and chill, a welcome relief to the stifling warmth of her veils and velvets. It cleared her head, and helped her to remember that the man walking beside her was no gentle lord but a conquering warrior, the enemy to whom she had just been sold as the price of her life and the survival of her family and war-torn homeland.

  The wedding feast was a long, dull affair for which Wynter had little patience and even less interest. He suffered it only because he knew his bride—the still-veiled princess beside him—was weak from lack of sustenance. She’d practically collapsed twice on the way to the banquet hall—would have fallen except for his hand at her elbow. He’d suggested she retire to her rooms to rest, but she’d refused, saying she simply needed something to eat and drink. She appeared to have been right. The slender hands carrying the wine cup to her lips weren’t trembling half so badly now as they had been an hour ago.

  “Eat,” he’d commanded when they’d first sat down, and the servants had placed plates of steaming meats and vegetables before them. After her first few laborious efforts to eat with the veils still shrouding her face, he’d ordered her to remove them.

  She hadn’t. Showing a spine he was beginning to realize was much stronger than he’d originally thought, she’d folded back only enough of the layered silks to bare her chin and lower lip. The rest of her face remained hidden from view.

  He’d allowed her the small rebellion. She would learn soon enough that no one flouted his will without consequence. At the moment, he had the victory he’d earned, the princess he’d demanded, and a wedding night yet awaiting him. He could afford to be magnanimous.

  A spate of boisterous, drunken laughter made him glance towards the far end of the hall. Verdan, face flushed with drink and probably one or more of the intoxicating herbs offered at all the tables, stood beside a table of Summerlea lords, laughing and lifting his cup in a toast. On the dance floor nearby, a dozen or more brightly clad courtiers twirled and pranced as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  Wynter’s lip curled. Summerlanders. Self-indulgent, hedonistic fools. Look at them—Verdan chief among them—celebrating their own defeat as if it were somehow their victory. And here he’d thought they would all be crying in their wine, not drowning in it.

  Beside him, Autumn set her cup down and pushed back the plate of fruit and cheeses he’d insisted she sample after the main meal. Her father and friends might drink and dance, but she, who was paying the price for their lives, had no appetite for blind frolic.

  Nor did he.

  Wynter pushed back his chair and stood. He held out a hand to his bride. “Come, my queen. Let us retire.”

  “What? Surely you aren’t leaving so soon?” Verdan, loud and laughing, stumbled forward. The wine in his cup sloshed over the rim.

  “It is late, and your daughter is tired.”

  “But you can’t leave without the final toast. It’s tradition. Spring! Summer!” Verdan wheeled around and called to his other daughters. “Bring the wedding cup!”

  The two princesses came forward, one carrying a large, jeweled goblet, the other a golden pitcher set with sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. Summer poured a stream of dark red wine into the cup in Spring’s hands, and Spring offered it to her father. He set aside his own wine cup to take the wedding goblet and raise it up so all in the hall could see.

  “A wedding toast,” he cried, “to a successful and prosperous union between the Houses of Wintercraig and Summerlea. May my daughter and the Winter King find the happiness they deserve, and may we all find victory in peace.”

  Echoing cries of “happiness!” and “peace and prosperity!” rang out across the banquet hall as the wedding guests raised their own cups in response.

  Verdan handed the wedding goblet to his daughter. “Drink, daughter. The wine is the blessing, and it must be consumed between the two of you. Half to you, and half to your groom.”

  Autumn hesitated, then reached for the cup and took it from her father’s hands. Slowly, she raised the cup to her lips.

  Wynter put a hand over hers, halting her
. He didn’t think Verdan would harm his own beloved daughter, but the strange, smug, expectant air about him raised Wynter’s suspicions. Something was amiss. “A blessing for peace and prosperity should be shared, don’t you think?” He held the Summer King’s too-bright gaze. “Join us, Verdan.” Without taking his eyes from his enemy, Wynter called, “Bring a fresh cup.”

  After a brief commotion, a servant appeared, clean goblet in hand. He bowed quickly and offered the cup to Verdan.

  Wynter took the jeweled goblet from his bride’s hands and sniffed it. The overpowering aroma of the heated wine coupled with an overpowering mélange of spices and herbs. The scents were too varied, many of them strong enough to mask the delicate scents of certain poisons. There was only one way to test the safety of the cup’s contents.

  He poured a portion of the marriage brew into the Summer King’s cup. “You first, Verdan.”

  The Summer King arched a haughty brow. “So suspicious,” he sneered. “Do you think I would poison my own child?” He gave a snort, threw back the wine in one gulp, and tossed the empty cup on the table. The remnant liquid spilled out, staining the white tablecloth between the two kings with drops of ruby red, like blood spilled on snow.

  Wynter didn’t take his eyes from the other man’s face. If there was anything in the wine, it certainly wasn’t poison. Even if he might let his beloved daughter Autumn drink a cup of death, Verdan would never sacrifice himself that way. He didn’t have the spine for it. And other than a faint increase of heat in the man’s already-alcohol-soaked veins, Wynter could detect no effects of any possible additives in the wine.

  “Satisfied?” The Summer King sneered. Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention to Autumn, and said, “Drink, daughter, to your future and the future of Summerlea.”

  This time, when Wynter’s bride lifted the cup to her lips, he didn’t stop her. She took an experimental sip, paused, then drained half the wine in three continuous gulps before handing the rest to him.