The Winter King
Page 30
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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 the 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.
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 the 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.
