The Winter King
Page 23
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“My fault again.” She’d heard those stories, too. How she had grown in Queen Rosalind’s belly like a cancer, sapping her strength, robbing her of health, draining the very life from her.
“No, child. The doctor had already told both Rose and your father that Autumn should be their last child. But your mother wouldn’t listen, and your father couldn’t keep away.” Tildy’s hands, gentle and loving, brushed the tangled, sweat-dampened curls from Khamsin’s face. “It’s not you your father despises, Khamsin. It’s himself. Because he couldn’t stay away. When he looks at you, he sees the proof of his own weakness and can’t stand it.”
A tear—such a useless, silly thing—trickled from the corner of Kham’s eye. It flowed across the bridge of her nose, clung for a moment until its own weight grew too great for it to bear, then dropped soundless to the cotton sheets where it was instantly absorbed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Khamsin murmured. “I’m leaving.” She met Tildy’s sorrowful gaze and forced the corner of her mouth to tilt up in a smile. “I’m getting married, Tildy.”
The nursemaid’s chin trembled, and fresh tears swam in her eyes. “I know, dearly,” she said when finally she’d regained enough of her composure to speak. “He sent me to speed up your healing. He wants you wed the night after next and gone the following morning.”
Wynter stalked the tower ramparts, staring out over the miles of the once-fertile valley that was the heart Summerlea. Snow covered the land from the orchards of the northern foothills bordering the Craig to the vineyards of the rolling western hills to the flat southern fields where the husks of wheat, corn, oats and cotton stood withered and lifeless in their white winter coat.
He’d come to conquer, and he had. Nothing lived here except by his will. The far south, beyond his sight, had yielded food enough to feed the people of this kingdom for a few months more, but after that, without respite from the cold, Summerlanders would begin dying by the thousands.
He would ensure it, did Verdan not agree to his terms.
The clank of metal on stone made him turn. His hand dropped instinctively to cover the hilt of Gunterfys, strapped to his armored waist. He’d been outside the palace today, and though he’d shed his helmet and gauntlets downstairs, the rest of him was still clad in full battle armor. The war might be won, but he wasn’t fool enough to trust the Summerlanders with an unobstructed shot at his back.
The grip on his sword loosened when he saw the white horsehair plume of Valik’s helmet. “Well?”
His longtime friend approached and held out a sealed roll of paper. “This was just delivered downstairs. The runner is waiting for your reply.”
Wynter broke the red wax seal bearing the imprint of Verdan’s signet and unrolled the stiff paper. He scanned the inked message once, twice. His lips tightened fractionally.
“Well?” Valik prompted when Wynter lifted his gaze.
“He has agreed. With certain conditions.” He held out the note so Valik could read it for himself and watched his eyebrows climb when he reached the last lines of the message.
“The arrogant old bastard. He’s ordering you to plow her before you leave.”
“Wed her, bed her, and get out,” Wynter agreed. “Don’t forget that last bit.”
“Saw it,” Valik said grimly. “He as good as came right out and said blood will flow in the streets if you don’t leave the day after the wedding.” He passed the message back.
Wynter folded the note and tucked it into the cuff of his armor. He didn’t need to read the words again. Every looping scrawl of Verdan’s hand was already committed to memory. The message was brief, bitter, and as arrogant as the Summer King ever would be:
We are agreed. Though I would rather see all Summerlea laid waste than surrender one of my beloved daughters to be your wife, one of the princesses has nonetheless agreed to be your bride. The wedding will take place Freikasday evening, three nights from now, and as any concerned father would when his daughter’s life hangs in the balance, I require proof of consummation before you leave Summerlea. My physician will examine the princess the next morning.
She will be prepared to depart immediately thereafter. I’m sure the folk of Wintercraig are anxious for your return, and a prolonged departure would be unwise. As you know, the citizens of Summerlea are extraordinarily devoted to their beloved Seasons.
V
“What answer will you give him?”
Wynter shrugged. “I will accept, of course. It’s what I came for.”
Valik’s mouth gaped open. “You’re serious? You’re going to wed her, plow her, and leave town, just like he wants?”
He almost smiled at his friend’s astonishment. “A demand for immediate consummation isn’t unusual when great Houses forge matrimonial ties. Whether I do the deed now or later makes no difference to me, but he obviously fears I will hold myself from her and use her lack of quickening as an excuse to kill her and claim another princess.” What the Summer King hadn’t properly calculated was how badly Wynter wanted an heir. Though he would quite willingly strip Verdan of every daughter in his effort to get one, he’d intended from the start to sow his Summerlea field with vigor.
“And the speedy withdrawal? You plan to grant him that, too?”
“I am ready for home. I’m sure you and your men are, too. We’ve been gone long enough.”
“No, child. The doctor had already told both Rose and your father that Autumn should be their last child. But your mother wouldn’t listen, and your father couldn’t keep away.” Tildy’s hands, gentle and loving, brushed the tangled, sweat-dampened curls from Khamsin’s face. “It’s not you your father despises, Khamsin. It’s himself. Because he couldn’t stay away. When he looks at you, he sees the proof of his own weakness and can’t stand it.”
A tear—such a useless, silly thing—trickled from the corner of Kham’s eye. It flowed across the bridge of her nose, clung for a moment until its own weight grew too great for it to bear, then dropped soundless to the cotton sheets where it was instantly absorbed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Khamsin murmured. “I’m leaving.” She met Tildy’s sorrowful gaze and forced the corner of her mouth to tilt up in a smile. “I’m getting married, Tildy.”
The nursemaid’s chin trembled, and fresh tears swam in her eyes. “I know, dearly,” she said when finally she’d regained enough of her composure to speak. “He sent me to speed up your healing. He wants you wed the night after next and gone the following morning.”
Wynter stalked the tower ramparts, staring out over the miles of the once-fertile valley that was the heart Summerlea. Snow covered the land from the orchards of the northern foothills bordering the Craig to the vineyards of the rolling western hills to the flat southern fields where the husks of wheat, corn, oats and cotton stood withered and lifeless in their white winter coat.
He’d come to conquer, and he had. Nothing lived here except by his will. The far south, beyond his sight, had yielded food enough to feed the people of this kingdom for a few months more, but after that, without respite from the cold, Summerlanders would begin dying by the thousands.
He would ensure it, did Verdan not agree to his terms.
The clank of metal on stone made him turn. His hand dropped instinctively to cover the hilt of Gunterfys, strapped to his armored waist. He’d been outside the palace today, and though he’d shed his helmet and gauntlets downstairs, the rest of him was still clad in full battle armor. The war might be won, but he wasn’t fool enough to trust the Summerlanders with an unobstructed shot at his back.
The grip on his sword loosened when he saw the white horsehair plume of Valik’s helmet. “Well?”
His longtime friend approached and held out a sealed roll of paper. “This was just delivered downstairs. The runner is waiting for your reply.”
Wynter broke the red wax seal bearing the imprint of Verdan’s signet and unrolled the stiff paper. He scanned the inked message once, twice. His lips tightened fractionally.
“Well?” Valik prompted when Wynter lifted his gaze.
“He has agreed. With certain conditions.” He held out the note so Valik could read it for himself and watched his eyebrows climb when he reached the last lines of the message.
“The arrogant old bastard. He’s ordering you to plow her before you leave.”
“Wed her, bed her, and get out,” Wynter agreed. “Don’t forget that last bit.”
“Saw it,” Valik said grimly. “He as good as came right out and said blood will flow in the streets if you don’t leave the day after the wedding.” He passed the message back.
Wynter folded the note and tucked it into the cuff of his armor. He didn’t need to read the words again. Every looping scrawl of Verdan’s hand was already committed to memory. The message was brief, bitter, and as arrogant as the Summer King ever would be:
We are agreed. Though I would rather see all Summerlea laid waste than surrender one of my beloved daughters to be your wife, one of the princesses has nonetheless agreed to be your bride. The wedding will take place Freikasday evening, three nights from now, and as any concerned father would when his daughter’s life hangs in the balance, I require proof of consummation before you leave Summerlea. My physician will examine the princess the next morning.
She will be prepared to depart immediately thereafter. I’m sure the folk of Wintercraig are anxious for your return, and a prolonged departure would be unwise. As you know, the citizens of Summerlea are extraordinarily devoted to their beloved Seasons.
V
“What answer will you give him?”
Wynter shrugged. “I will accept, of course. It’s what I came for.”
Valik’s mouth gaped open. “You’re serious? You’re going to wed her, plow her, and leave town, just like he wants?”
He almost smiled at his friend’s astonishment. “A demand for immediate consummation isn’t unusual when great Houses forge matrimonial ties. Whether I do the deed now or later makes no difference to me, but he obviously fears I will hold myself from her and use her lack of quickening as an excuse to kill her and claim another princess.” What the Summer King hadn’t properly calculated was how badly Wynter wanted an heir. Though he would quite willingly strip Verdan of every daughter in his effort to get one, he’d intended from the start to sow his Summerlea field with vigor.
“And the speedy withdrawal? You plan to grant him that, too?”
“I am ready for home. I’m sure you and your men are, too. We’ve been gone long enough.”
