The Winter King
Page 43
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“Calm yourself.” Kham brushed the worried excuses aside. “Are you sure you heard correctly? The Winter King plans to kill me if I don’t bear him an heir in a year’s time?”
“He’ll send you to face the mercy of the mountains—and even your father knew what that meant.”
Khamsin slumped back against the seat cushion, this time hardly noticing the pull and sting of her wounds. She didn’t doubt young Bella for a moment. Enjoy your life. What’s left of it. Those were her father’s gloating final words to her. No wonder Verdan had been so determined that she would wed Summerlea’s conqueror and so smugly satisfied to see her off. He believed he was sending her to her death. He relished the idea. Much as he would have liked to do the deed himself, if she died at the Winter King’s hands, Verdan’s hands would be clean. There would be no threat of a blood curse befalling the royal House of Summerlea.
“Forgive me. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. My tongue runs faster than my brain, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry, my lady. Really.”
“It’s all right, Bella.” Kham held up a hand to halt the rush of apologies and self-recrimination. “It was right that you told me. I needed to know. You should never be afraid to tell me anything you think is important.”
“Thank you, my lady. You’re too kind. I’ll remember that in future. But, truly, you look pale, and I can’t help feeling responsible. I know the news was a shock.”
The last thing Kham needed was more hovering. “I’m just feeling a little tired. I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”
“Of course, my lady. Is there anything I can get you? Do for you?”
“No, Bella. I’m fine.” She forced a wan smile. “Please, go back to your knitting.”
Kham lay down face-first on the coach seat, using her arms to pillow her head. As Bella’s knitting needles resumed their rhythmic clacking, she closed her eyes. She hadn’t lied to Bella. She was weary. Her back was hurting, she hadn’t slept much the previous night, and the long hours of jostling in the coach had sapped her strength. But the truth was, she needed time to digest Bella’s news and decide what to do about it.
The man she’d married had declared war on Summerlea and conquered it, true, but the Prince of Summerlea had stolen Wynter Atrialan’s future queen and murdered his brother—his only heir. Many kings had and would go to war over the first offense. All of them would go to war for the second.
Although Wynter was a stranger for all intents and purposes, she could have sworn there was kindness beneath his cold exterior. The way he’d worried that he hadn’t pleasured her in their marriage bed . . . the way he’d come to her defense this morning with her father . . . She and her sisters had paused outside the door to eavesdrop this morning after Khamsin’s unmasking. A part of her had secretly thrilled at the way Wynter declared himself bound to seek justice for any wound done to her. But could he really share such shattering passion with her, avenge the brutal treatment she’d received at her father’s hands, while all the while planning to murder her if she didn’t bear him an heir in a year’s time?
It didn’t make sense. Even Tildy had been sure he was, at heart, an honorable man. Or had all that been a lie, too?
Stop, Kham! Stop! She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead into the cradle of her arms. Bah. She would drive herself mad, seeing treachery at every corner. Yes, Tildy had conspired with Wynter Atrialan to end the war with a marriage between the two Houses. Yes, she had conspired for Khamsin and Wynter to meet. But she had also spent her life caring for Khamsin, looking out for her, protecting, teaching, and nurturing her. No matter how angry Khamsin was, in her heart she knew Tildy would never knowingly have encouraged this marriage if she’d suspected there was a death sentence hanging over it.
Tildy was no naïve innocent. She’d spent her life in and around courts and all their intrigues. Servants knew the evil that their masters did. She had met the Winter King face-to-face, spent six months sizing him up. She’d seen something in him that warranted trusting him with the royal charge she’d spent her life protecting. She would never have suggested the marriage if she didn’t truly believe Khamsin was safer in Wynter Atrialan’s keeping than she was in Verdan Coruscate’s.
So either Bella had misheard, or Tildy had misjudged Wynter Atrialan.
Because what sort of honorable man would wed a woman with the intent to kill her?
Khamsin must somehow have fallen asleep because, the next she knew, the coach had stopped. The sounds of men and horses moving around filtered through the open windows.
She pushed up into a sitting position and groaned. She felt battered and queasy and notably weaker than she had this morning.
Bella flew to her side. “Your Highness! You’re awake. Oh, you don’t look well at all.”
Kham ignored the hovering and peered out the coach window. “We’ve stopped?”
“Yes, to rest and water the horses. Your Highness! What are you doing?”
Kham, who had pushed open the coach door, paused to scowl over her shoulder. “I’m getting out of the coach. What does it look like?”
“But—”
“I’m fine. I just need to stretch my legs.” Unlike her sisters, who’d been trained from birth to sit through long, boring ceremonies without fidgeting, Khamsin had never known confinement. The forced inactivity was stifling.
“He’ll send you to face the mercy of the mountains—and even your father knew what that meant.”
Khamsin slumped back against the seat cushion, this time hardly noticing the pull and sting of her wounds. She didn’t doubt young Bella for a moment. Enjoy your life. What’s left of it. Those were her father’s gloating final words to her. No wonder Verdan had been so determined that she would wed Summerlea’s conqueror and so smugly satisfied to see her off. He believed he was sending her to her death. He relished the idea. Much as he would have liked to do the deed himself, if she died at the Winter King’s hands, Verdan’s hands would be clean. There would be no threat of a blood curse befalling the royal House of Summerlea.
“Forgive me. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. My tongue runs faster than my brain, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry, my lady. Really.”
“It’s all right, Bella.” Kham held up a hand to halt the rush of apologies and self-recrimination. “It was right that you told me. I needed to know. You should never be afraid to tell me anything you think is important.”
“Thank you, my lady. You’re too kind. I’ll remember that in future. But, truly, you look pale, and I can’t help feeling responsible. I know the news was a shock.”
The last thing Kham needed was more hovering. “I’m just feeling a little tired. I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”
“Of course, my lady. Is there anything I can get you? Do for you?”
“No, Bella. I’m fine.” She forced a wan smile. “Please, go back to your knitting.”
Kham lay down face-first on the coach seat, using her arms to pillow her head. As Bella’s knitting needles resumed their rhythmic clacking, she closed her eyes. She hadn’t lied to Bella. She was weary. Her back was hurting, she hadn’t slept much the previous night, and the long hours of jostling in the coach had sapped her strength. But the truth was, she needed time to digest Bella’s news and decide what to do about it.
The man she’d married had declared war on Summerlea and conquered it, true, but the Prince of Summerlea had stolen Wynter Atrialan’s future queen and murdered his brother—his only heir. Many kings had and would go to war over the first offense. All of them would go to war for the second.
Although Wynter was a stranger for all intents and purposes, she could have sworn there was kindness beneath his cold exterior. The way he’d worried that he hadn’t pleasured her in their marriage bed . . . the way he’d come to her defense this morning with her father . . . She and her sisters had paused outside the door to eavesdrop this morning after Khamsin’s unmasking. A part of her had secretly thrilled at the way Wynter declared himself bound to seek justice for any wound done to her. But could he really share such shattering passion with her, avenge the brutal treatment she’d received at her father’s hands, while all the while planning to murder her if she didn’t bear him an heir in a year’s time?
It didn’t make sense. Even Tildy had been sure he was, at heart, an honorable man. Or had all that been a lie, too?
Stop, Kham! Stop! She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead into the cradle of her arms. Bah. She would drive herself mad, seeing treachery at every corner. Yes, Tildy had conspired with Wynter Atrialan to end the war with a marriage between the two Houses. Yes, she had conspired for Khamsin and Wynter to meet. But she had also spent her life caring for Khamsin, looking out for her, protecting, teaching, and nurturing her. No matter how angry Khamsin was, in her heart she knew Tildy would never knowingly have encouraged this marriage if she’d suspected there was a death sentence hanging over it.
Tildy was no naïve innocent. She’d spent her life in and around courts and all their intrigues. Servants knew the evil that their masters did. She had met the Winter King face-to-face, spent six months sizing him up. She’d seen something in him that warranted trusting him with the royal charge she’d spent her life protecting. She would never have suggested the marriage if she didn’t truly believe Khamsin was safer in Wynter Atrialan’s keeping than she was in Verdan Coruscate’s.
So either Bella had misheard, or Tildy had misjudged Wynter Atrialan.
Because what sort of honorable man would wed a woman with the intent to kill her?
Khamsin must somehow have fallen asleep because, the next she knew, the coach had stopped. The sounds of men and horses moving around filtered through the open windows.
She pushed up into a sitting position and groaned. She felt battered and queasy and notably weaker than she had this morning.
Bella flew to her side. “Your Highness! You’re awake. Oh, you don’t look well at all.”
Kham ignored the hovering and peered out the coach window. “We’ve stopped?”
“Yes, to rest and water the horses. Your Highness! What are you doing?”
Kham, who had pushed open the coach door, paused to scowl over her shoulder. “I’m getting out of the coach. What does it look like?”
“But—”
“I’m fine. I just need to stretch my legs.” Unlike her sisters, who’d been trained from birth to sit through long, boring ceremonies without fidgeting, Khamsin had never known confinement. The forced inactivity was stifling.
