The Winter King
Page 41
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“If ever again you consider deceiving me or harming anyone under my care, remember today,” Wynter advised in a voice of pure ice. “And consider this also: I will now do everything in my power to ensure that Khamsin’s child—the child of the daughter you loathe—will be the next ruler to sit on the Summer Throne.”
Leaving Verdan huddled on the floor, Wynter strode out of the room.
Khamsin was waiting for him outside, standing near the golden Summerlea coach he’d commandeered for the long journey back to Wintercraig. Her sisters were ringed around her, weeping, while she stood stoic and brave despite all she’d suffered. Feeling returned to Wynter in a painful rush, and he wanted to turn back around and freeze what he’d left of Verdan.
Instead, he drew a breath and started forward. “Time to go, wife. Say your farewells.”
Storm gray eyes met his. “My fa— King Verdan?”
“He lives, but he will never raise that hand to another. Say your farewells and get in the coach. I weary of Summerlea.”
She hesitated, almost as if she considered defying him, then thought the better of it. Turning to her sisters, she gave each a final hug.
“We each put a gift inside the coach for you,” Spring told her. “A little bit of Summerlea to take with you to your new home. Remember what I told you last night.”
“Write to us,” Summer entreated, “as often you can. Let us know you are well.”
“I put the growing lamps in the coach as well, and more of Tildy’s herbs,” Autumn said. “Be sure to use them each night until you’re fully healed.”
He gave her a few minutes more, until impatience outweighed generosity. Did her sisters not see she was already tiring? “Enough. Get in the coach.” He reached for her, and his approach was enough to drive her sisters back, as he’d expected it would. He took her slender hand and helped her into the carriage. At the touch, he felt again that little jolt of electric warmth, and the frigid ice surrounding his heart began to thaw.
The maid Verdan had insisted Wynter take to care for his bride was already inside, huddled in the far corner of the roomy coach, next to a collection of potted plants—most ridiculously ill suited to the world Khamsin was about to enter. Rosebushes, citrus trees . . . and was that a birdcage? Chirping song warbled from the cloth-covered cage, confirming his suspicions. Winter’s Frost! Songbirds. Probably the delicate, summer-fond kind that would keel over on their little pampered birdie feet and die at the first hard frost.
Which idiot sister had given her those things? He was the Winter King, emphasis on Winter. What part of that did they not understand? He pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose, squeezing as the first throb of a headache began to blossom. She already thought him such a monster that she’d let herself be beat near to death before agreeing to wed him. How much more would she hate him if he let her little tropical remembrance garden die? Or had that been the whole point of such a wedding-gift?
His arrogant claims to Valik and his own original plans to the contrary, Wynter had discovered he didn’t want a cold, political marriage. Last night, albeit beneath the influence of a potent drug, he’d shared one of the most intensely passionate nights of his life. With her. Khamsin Coruscate. His wife. Not the studied perfection of Elka’s lovemaking but something wild and elemental and very, very stirring. Just one taste had already addicted him. The hunger to experience such powerful, unleashed passion again was already an ache so deep it hurt.
“Are you . . . not riding with me?” she asked when he made no move to enter the carriage.
“No. Get what rest you can. Have your maid see to your back.” He slammed the carriage door shut and stepped back. It wouldn’t do to let her know the power she held over him. Unwilling though she might have been, she’d had a hand in deceiving him. She was a Summerlander witch, just like the rest of them. He could not forget that.
He whistled, and his white stallion, Hodri, trotted to his side, tossing his head and sending the long, silvery strands of his mane flying. Wyn thrust a plated boot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle in a smooth, practiced motion. Beneath him, Hodri pranced a little as he adjusted to the weight, then settled.
“Come, my loyal friend,” he whispered, stroking Hodri’s strong neck. “Time to leave this Summerland behind.” He lifted a gauntleted hand, and cried out, “Men of the Craig! The hot springs of Mount Freika are waiting, as are the lonely arms of your wives. Let’s go home.”
The gathered Wintermen gave a great cheer. Wynter clucked a command, and Hodri began his elegant, high-stepping walk down the long, curving lanes that led out to the valley below and north to the mountains beyond. The carriage holding Khamsin gave a lurch, and the iron-shod wheels began their rumbling forward motion. Within moments, thousands of hooves were ringing against cobblestone, filling the city with the sound of their departure.
CHAPTER 7
Summer’s End
Shards of pain shot up Khamsin’s back as the coach jolted northward along the frozen rutted roads of Summerlea. The journey was made longer by the presence of a young maid, Belladonna Rosh, who’d been chattering since the moment they left Vera Sola. At first, Kham had enjoyed the conversation. She’d spent so much time alone, it was nice to have a companion. But after the second hour and the third . . . well, silence was a gift she’d never truly appreciated.
Each hour, Bella changed the dressings on Kham’s back and rubbed a fresh layer of cream on her skin, but the dutiful attention made little difference. The meager sunlight that filtered through the gray clouds was not nearly enough to catalyze Kham’s natural healing ability, and the constant jostling of the carriage tore open more fragile, healing seams of flesh than Bella’s ministrations could keep up with. To make matters worse, Khamsin discovered she wasn’t a good traveler. The constant rock and sway of the coach left her feeling decidedly queasy. Her insistence on sitting upright didn’t help matters, but she’d had enough of feeling helpless and weak. Eventually, each time the carriage hit a hard bump, Bella would leap across the carriage to Khamsin’s side and start wailing over her like she was on death’s door.
Leaving Verdan huddled on the floor, Wynter strode out of the room.
Khamsin was waiting for him outside, standing near the golden Summerlea coach he’d commandeered for the long journey back to Wintercraig. Her sisters were ringed around her, weeping, while she stood stoic and brave despite all she’d suffered. Feeling returned to Wynter in a painful rush, and he wanted to turn back around and freeze what he’d left of Verdan.
Instead, he drew a breath and started forward. “Time to go, wife. Say your farewells.”
Storm gray eyes met his. “My fa— King Verdan?”
“He lives, but he will never raise that hand to another. Say your farewells and get in the coach. I weary of Summerlea.”
She hesitated, almost as if she considered defying him, then thought the better of it. Turning to her sisters, she gave each a final hug.
“We each put a gift inside the coach for you,” Spring told her. “A little bit of Summerlea to take with you to your new home. Remember what I told you last night.”
“Write to us,” Summer entreated, “as often you can. Let us know you are well.”
“I put the growing lamps in the coach as well, and more of Tildy’s herbs,” Autumn said. “Be sure to use them each night until you’re fully healed.”
He gave her a few minutes more, until impatience outweighed generosity. Did her sisters not see she was already tiring? “Enough. Get in the coach.” He reached for her, and his approach was enough to drive her sisters back, as he’d expected it would. He took her slender hand and helped her into the carriage. At the touch, he felt again that little jolt of electric warmth, and the frigid ice surrounding his heart began to thaw.
The maid Verdan had insisted Wynter take to care for his bride was already inside, huddled in the far corner of the roomy coach, next to a collection of potted plants—most ridiculously ill suited to the world Khamsin was about to enter. Rosebushes, citrus trees . . . and was that a birdcage? Chirping song warbled from the cloth-covered cage, confirming his suspicions. Winter’s Frost! Songbirds. Probably the delicate, summer-fond kind that would keel over on their little pampered birdie feet and die at the first hard frost.
Which idiot sister had given her those things? He was the Winter King, emphasis on Winter. What part of that did they not understand? He pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose, squeezing as the first throb of a headache began to blossom. She already thought him such a monster that she’d let herself be beat near to death before agreeing to wed him. How much more would she hate him if he let her little tropical remembrance garden die? Or had that been the whole point of such a wedding-gift?
His arrogant claims to Valik and his own original plans to the contrary, Wynter had discovered he didn’t want a cold, political marriage. Last night, albeit beneath the influence of a potent drug, he’d shared one of the most intensely passionate nights of his life. With her. Khamsin Coruscate. His wife. Not the studied perfection of Elka’s lovemaking but something wild and elemental and very, very stirring. Just one taste had already addicted him. The hunger to experience such powerful, unleashed passion again was already an ache so deep it hurt.
“Are you . . . not riding with me?” she asked when he made no move to enter the carriage.
“No. Get what rest you can. Have your maid see to your back.” He slammed the carriage door shut and stepped back. It wouldn’t do to let her know the power she held over him. Unwilling though she might have been, she’d had a hand in deceiving him. She was a Summerlander witch, just like the rest of them. He could not forget that.
He whistled, and his white stallion, Hodri, trotted to his side, tossing his head and sending the long, silvery strands of his mane flying. Wyn thrust a plated boot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle in a smooth, practiced motion. Beneath him, Hodri pranced a little as he adjusted to the weight, then settled.
“Come, my loyal friend,” he whispered, stroking Hodri’s strong neck. “Time to leave this Summerland behind.” He lifted a gauntleted hand, and cried out, “Men of the Craig! The hot springs of Mount Freika are waiting, as are the lonely arms of your wives. Let’s go home.”
The gathered Wintermen gave a great cheer. Wynter clucked a command, and Hodri began his elegant, high-stepping walk down the long, curving lanes that led out to the valley below and north to the mountains beyond. The carriage holding Khamsin gave a lurch, and the iron-shod wheels began their rumbling forward motion. Within moments, thousands of hooves were ringing against cobblestone, filling the city with the sound of their departure.
CHAPTER 7
Summer’s End
Shards of pain shot up Khamsin’s back as the coach jolted northward along the frozen rutted roads of Summerlea. The journey was made longer by the presence of a young maid, Belladonna Rosh, who’d been chattering since the moment they left Vera Sola. At first, Kham had enjoyed the conversation. She’d spent so much time alone, it was nice to have a companion. But after the second hour and the third . . . well, silence was a gift she’d never truly appreciated.
Each hour, Bella changed the dressings on Kham’s back and rubbed a fresh layer of cream on her skin, but the dutiful attention made little difference. The meager sunlight that filtered through the gray clouds was not nearly enough to catalyze Kham’s natural healing ability, and the constant jostling of the carriage tore open more fragile, healing seams of flesh than Bella’s ministrations could keep up with. To make matters worse, Khamsin discovered she wasn’t a good traveler. The constant rock and sway of the coach left her feeling decidedly queasy. Her insistence on sitting upright didn’t help matters, but she’d had enough of feeling helpless and weak. Eventually, each time the carriage hit a hard bump, Bella would leap across the carriage to Khamsin’s side and start wailing over her like she was on death’s door.
