The Winter King
Page 166
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Oh, Storm, you never were a good liar.” Falcon shook his head in reproof. “So, it’s really real, and you found it. But how did you know where to look? Was it in the Ice Heart?”
She clamped her lips shut and tried to keep her expression blank, but Falcon had always been able to read her too well.
“So that’s true, too, is it? The source of the Winter King’s deadliest magic lies inside the Temple of Wyrn?” He arched a brow, and said, “I don’t think it’s exactly fair that they’ve been hoarding all this power for so long, do you? Maybe I should pay a little visit to the Ice Heart before I meet your husband in battle.”
Her eyes narrowed and she thought of Ungar, Sven, and the people of Hillje, murdered so her brother could claim Roland’s sword. “Maybe you should. Just go inside and take the path to the left of the altar.”
He laughed without humor. “You’ve changed, little sister. Three years ago, you would never have considered sending me to my death. Oh, yes,” he said when she grimaced, “Elka warned me about the dangers guarding the temple’s secrets.”
“Three years ago, I thought you were a hero. I thought you were brave and honorable, a Prince of Summerlea worthy of being Roland’s Heir. But heroes don’t run around murdering innocent people to get what they want, like my men here, and the people of Hillje, and fifteen-year-old boys.”
“Enough.” All hint of brotherly affection evaporated from Falcon’s expression, leaving a cold, hard mask. He extended his hand and flexed his fingers in curt command. “Give me the sword, Storm.”
“No.” She yanked Blazing free of its sheath and held it before her. The white diamond in the hilt sparkled with light. “You’ll get it over my dead body and no other way. I’m taking this sword to Wynter.”
Her brother sighed. “You never could do things the easy way.” His eyes flicked to a spot behind her, and he gave a sharp nod.
She spun, power crackling up her arm as Roland’s sword blazed to life, but the second of the imposter White Guards had crept too near while Falcon and she were talking. He smashed the butt of his sword into her temple. Stars exploded across her vision, then blackness descended.
Khamsin woke with a splitting headache and pain radiating from every part of her body. It was dark, and she was lying on her side beside a fire. Some sort of heavy, hooded cloak was draped around her. She could see the stars overhead, but she couldn’t feel her connection to the sun. She groaned and tried to sit up, but her hands were tied behind her back, and her feet were bound. Her brother, Falcon, was sitting a few feet away on a log by the fire, holding Roland’s sword.
He turned his head in her direction. “You’re awake. That’s good. I was beginning to think Verge had killed you.”
“He nearly did,” she muttered. She struggled unsuccessfully to sit up, then flopped back down with a groan as her head threatened to split in two. “Did he have to hit me so hard?”
The corner of Falcon’s mouth curled up in a familiar, wry smile. He came over and pulled her into a sitting position. “To be fair, you were threatening us with a weapon capable of unparalleled destruction. Which is one of the reasons you’re tied up and wearing that lead cape.”
The flash of affectionate warmth roused by his wry grin winked out. He’d brought a cape lined with lead to cut off her connection to the sun. He’d come to Wintercraig prepared to stifle her weathergifts and render her helpless. So much for his claims of wanting to rescue her.
Falcon returned to his seat and resumed his examination of Roland’s sword. “It looks just like all the old pictures, doesn’t it? I can’t believe it’s really real.”
Once upon a time, she would have shared his awed reverence. No longer. Now he was the enemy, and he’d just stolen a weapon so powerful it could obliterate every living creature in Wintercraig. And he was standing between her and her chance to save Wynter before it was too late.
“Yes, it’s real,” she said. “What are you planning to do with it?”
Falcon looked up. “Take back what’s mine, of course.” He caressed the clear white diamond in Blazing’s hilt, slid the blade back in its sheath. “I know you think the worst of me, Storm, but I’m not a bad man. I did what I had to do to restore glory to Summerlea.”
Khamsin gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Summerlea lies frozen beneath a blanket of snow, its armies slaughtered, its people conquered. Where, exactly, is the glory in that? You think all the children orphaned by the war are singing your praises?”
“Summerlea will rise again. Summerlea will be great once more. The world will tremble at our name, as they did for millennia. This sword ensures that.” He patted Blazing’s jeweled hilt.
“Do you even hear yourself, Falcon? Is that what you think Roland’s sword is for? To make the world tremble in fear?”
“Don’t be simple, Storm. To be strong, a king needs to be feared. Nobility is a fine ideal, but real life demands something a bit more . . . practical.”
“That’s the answer of a weak man, not a strong king.”
“So says the woman married to the man who swallowed the essence of a god,” he shot back.
Kham looked away. Love and grief had driven Wynter to make a terrible choice, it was true. But at his core, Wynter was kind. His people loved and respected him. Yes, he could be harsh when the situation warranted, but that harshness was tempered with a determination to do what was right rather than what was most expedient or most profitable. He was a fair man and an excellent king, unswerving in his dedication to the safety and security of Wintercraig and its people. Kham had never loved or respected a man more. Not even Falcon.
She clamped her lips shut and tried to keep her expression blank, but Falcon had always been able to read her too well.
“So that’s true, too, is it? The source of the Winter King’s deadliest magic lies inside the Temple of Wyrn?” He arched a brow, and said, “I don’t think it’s exactly fair that they’ve been hoarding all this power for so long, do you? Maybe I should pay a little visit to the Ice Heart before I meet your husband in battle.”
Her eyes narrowed and she thought of Ungar, Sven, and the people of Hillje, murdered so her brother could claim Roland’s sword. “Maybe you should. Just go inside and take the path to the left of the altar.”
He laughed without humor. “You’ve changed, little sister. Three years ago, you would never have considered sending me to my death. Oh, yes,” he said when she grimaced, “Elka warned me about the dangers guarding the temple’s secrets.”
“Three years ago, I thought you were a hero. I thought you were brave and honorable, a Prince of Summerlea worthy of being Roland’s Heir. But heroes don’t run around murdering innocent people to get what they want, like my men here, and the people of Hillje, and fifteen-year-old boys.”
“Enough.” All hint of brotherly affection evaporated from Falcon’s expression, leaving a cold, hard mask. He extended his hand and flexed his fingers in curt command. “Give me the sword, Storm.”
“No.” She yanked Blazing free of its sheath and held it before her. The white diamond in the hilt sparkled with light. “You’ll get it over my dead body and no other way. I’m taking this sword to Wynter.”
Her brother sighed. “You never could do things the easy way.” His eyes flicked to a spot behind her, and he gave a sharp nod.
She spun, power crackling up her arm as Roland’s sword blazed to life, but the second of the imposter White Guards had crept too near while Falcon and she were talking. He smashed the butt of his sword into her temple. Stars exploded across her vision, then blackness descended.
Khamsin woke with a splitting headache and pain radiating from every part of her body. It was dark, and she was lying on her side beside a fire. Some sort of heavy, hooded cloak was draped around her. She could see the stars overhead, but she couldn’t feel her connection to the sun. She groaned and tried to sit up, but her hands were tied behind her back, and her feet were bound. Her brother, Falcon, was sitting a few feet away on a log by the fire, holding Roland’s sword.
He turned his head in her direction. “You’re awake. That’s good. I was beginning to think Verge had killed you.”
“He nearly did,” she muttered. She struggled unsuccessfully to sit up, then flopped back down with a groan as her head threatened to split in two. “Did he have to hit me so hard?”
The corner of Falcon’s mouth curled up in a familiar, wry smile. He came over and pulled her into a sitting position. “To be fair, you were threatening us with a weapon capable of unparalleled destruction. Which is one of the reasons you’re tied up and wearing that lead cape.”
The flash of affectionate warmth roused by his wry grin winked out. He’d brought a cape lined with lead to cut off her connection to the sun. He’d come to Wintercraig prepared to stifle her weathergifts and render her helpless. So much for his claims of wanting to rescue her.
Falcon returned to his seat and resumed his examination of Roland’s sword. “It looks just like all the old pictures, doesn’t it? I can’t believe it’s really real.”
Once upon a time, she would have shared his awed reverence. No longer. Now he was the enemy, and he’d just stolen a weapon so powerful it could obliterate every living creature in Wintercraig. And he was standing between her and her chance to save Wynter before it was too late.
“Yes, it’s real,” she said. “What are you planning to do with it?”
Falcon looked up. “Take back what’s mine, of course.” He caressed the clear white diamond in Blazing’s hilt, slid the blade back in its sheath. “I know you think the worst of me, Storm, but I’m not a bad man. I did what I had to do to restore glory to Summerlea.”
Khamsin gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Summerlea lies frozen beneath a blanket of snow, its armies slaughtered, its people conquered. Where, exactly, is the glory in that? You think all the children orphaned by the war are singing your praises?”
“Summerlea will rise again. Summerlea will be great once more. The world will tremble at our name, as they did for millennia. This sword ensures that.” He patted Blazing’s jeweled hilt.
“Do you even hear yourself, Falcon? Is that what you think Roland’s sword is for? To make the world tremble in fear?”
“Don’t be simple, Storm. To be strong, a king needs to be feared. Nobility is a fine ideal, but real life demands something a bit more . . . practical.”
“That’s the answer of a weak man, not a strong king.”
“So says the woman married to the man who swallowed the essence of a god,” he shot back.
Kham looked away. Love and grief had driven Wynter to make a terrible choice, it was true. But at his core, Wynter was kind. His people loved and respected him. Yes, he could be harsh when the situation warranted, but that harshness was tempered with a determination to do what was right rather than what was most expedient or most profitable. He was a fair man and an excellent king, unswerving in his dedication to the safety and security of Wintercraig and its people. Kham had never loved or respected a man more. Not even Falcon.
