The Winter King
Page 99
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She turned one of the chairs from the hearth to face the windows, already planning to claim this isolated spot as her own. Someplace to get away from the eyes of the court and relax.
“I wonder whose room this is?” Krysti said as he knelt to pick the locks on the desk drawers.
She sank into the large, comfortable chair, drew a deep, happy breath . . . and froze. She didn’t possess her husband’s keen, wolflike ability to discern and identify faint aromas with uncanny accuracy, but she didn’t need to. The worn leather chair was steeped in a scent she already knew better than her own.
“Wynter’s,” she blurted.
Krysti popped up, picklocks dangling from his mouth. “W-w-w . . .” He gulped. “The king’s?”
She leapt to her feet. The chair’s wooden legs scraped over the stone floor as she shoved it back to its original position. “We should leave.”
“Good idea.”
They pelted for the door and scrambled down the steep, winding stairs, not speaking again until they were through the tower door and safe once more on the castle battlements. They looked at one another and burst into helpless laughter.
They were still laughing when they ran into Lord Barsul several minutes later.
He eyed the pair of them askance. “Now that’s the look of mischief if ever I’ve seen it. What have you two been up to?”
“Just learning our way around the castle,” Kham said. Barsul gave a look of such disbelief she couldn’t help but laugh again. “No, truly. That’s all.”
“Well, from the looks of it, that’s trouble enough.” He wagged a finger at them. “Don’t go poking your noses in places they don’t belong.”
“What places would those be?” Kham asked, her eyes wide and innocent. “So we know not to go in them.”
His eyes narrowed. “Anyplace you have to pass through a locked door to reach, for starters.”
Had he seen them on the stairs to Wynter’s aerie? She didn’t dare glance at Krysti. Lord Barsul would read the guilt on their faces.
“That includes the Atrium on the sixth floor of the main palace, do you hear?” Barsul added sternly.
Khamsin and Krysti exchanged a look. They hadn’t finished exploring the sixth floor yet. A secret stair had distracted them.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Barsul warned, correctly interpreting that look. He wagged a stern finger. “Don’t even think about it. Wynter has forbidden anyone to enter the Atrium, and unlike some private places”—his eyes flicked up the mountainside—“that’s one trespass he won’t forgive.”
He’d seen them all right.
Krysti, poor boy, was all but shaking in his boots. Kham grabbed his thin hand and squeezed to reassure him. “Thank you, Lord Barsul. We’ll keep that in mind. Come on, Krysti, let’s go visit the armory. We haven’t been there yet.” With a quick wave farewell, she dragged the boy with her down the stone battlement steps.
Shaking his head and wearing a smile that wavered halfway between affection and bemusement, Lord Barsul watched them go. When they disappeared around the corner of a building, he turned and made his way along the battlements back to the tower room near the front of the castle where Wynter, Valik, and three of Wintercraig’s generals waited.
“Well?” Wynter prompted, as Barsul closed the door behind him.
“They’re just exploring.”
“Is that what you call spying these days?” Valik grumbled.
Barsul gave him a sharp look. “She’s just a girl.”
“She’s the Summer King’s daughter. Do you honestly think she isn’t recording everything she sees and hears, and will send it to her father—or worse, her brother—at first chance?”
“Enough,” Wynter snapped. “The Summer King may have sired her, but he’s no father to her. Do you not remember the state she was in when I wed her?”
“I do remember,” Valik said, “but, consider, Wyn, what better way to earn your sympathy?”
Wynter pushed away from the table and straightened to his full height.
“Valik is right, my king,” one of Wynter’s generals, interrupted. “She may be your wife, but she’s still the Summer King’s daughter and the sister to murdering bride-stealer Falcon Coruscate. We cannot let down our guard.”
“While I appreciate your concern, let me assure you I am neither an idiot nor a lovesick fool. My wife has been under constant surveillance since we left Summerlea, and so will she continue to be. Not because I think she might be working for her father. Any suspicions on that front are misguided. The hatred between them was too real. But I can’t forget, it was a Summerlander who suggested I take a princess to wife, and I can’t ignore the brother’s activities in Calberna.”
He stared down at the map stretched out on the table before him and the scattered sheaf of letters beside it. “If our information is accurate, the Calbernan armada will be ready to sail in three months, which means, come spring, we’ll have an army on our shores. I’m aware Khamsin might use her ‘exploring’ to gather information for her brother and his new allies. But she is my queen, not my hostage. She will not be imprisoned. If her wandering gets too far out of hand, I will put an end to it. For now, it suits my purpose to let her roam.”
He bent his head, focusing his attention back on the maps spread out before him. The current location and troop strength of all Wintercraig’s battalions had been marked. Calbernans by sea posed a difficulty. Both Wintercraig and Summerlea had too many miles of shoreline to patrol—much less defend. Winter’s ice should see them safe until spring, but once the northern passage began its yearly thaw, opening a navigable seaway around the arctic rim, the invaders could land anywhere along Wintercraig’s thousands of miles of coastline.
“I wonder whose room this is?” Krysti said as he knelt to pick the locks on the desk drawers.
She sank into the large, comfortable chair, drew a deep, happy breath . . . and froze. She didn’t possess her husband’s keen, wolflike ability to discern and identify faint aromas with uncanny accuracy, but she didn’t need to. The worn leather chair was steeped in a scent she already knew better than her own.
“Wynter’s,” she blurted.
Krysti popped up, picklocks dangling from his mouth. “W-w-w . . .” He gulped. “The king’s?”
She leapt to her feet. The chair’s wooden legs scraped over the stone floor as she shoved it back to its original position. “We should leave.”
“Good idea.”
They pelted for the door and scrambled down the steep, winding stairs, not speaking again until they were through the tower door and safe once more on the castle battlements. They looked at one another and burst into helpless laughter.
They were still laughing when they ran into Lord Barsul several minutes later.
He eyed the pair of them askance. “Now that’s the look of mischief if ever I’ve seen it. What have you two been up to?”
“Just learning our way around the castle,” Kham said. Barsul gave a look of such disbelief she couldn’t help but laugh again. “No, truly. That’s all.”
“Well, from the looks of it, that’s trouble enough.” He wagged a finger at them. “Don’t go poking your noses in places they don’t belong.”
“What places would those be?” Kham asked, her eyes wide and innocent. “So we know not to go in them.”
His eyes narrowed. “Anyplace you have to pass through a locked door to reach, for starters.”
Had he seen them on the stairs to Wynter’s aerie? She didn’t dare glance at Krysti. Lord Barsul would read the guilt on their faces.
“That includes the Atrium on the sixth floor of the main palace, do you hear?” Barsul added sternly.
Khamsin and Krysti exchanged a look. They hadn’t finished exploring the sixth floor yet. A secret stair had distracted them.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Barsul warned, correctly interpreting that look. He wagged a stern finger. “Don’t even think about it. Wynter has forbidden anyone to enter the Atrium, and unlike some private places”—his eyes flicked up the mountainside—“that’s one trespass he won’t forgive.”
He’d seen them all right.
Krysti, poor boy, was all but shaking in his boots. Kham grabbed his thin hand and squeezed to reassure him. “Thank you, Lord Barsul. We’ll keep that in mind. Come on, Krysti, let’s go visit the armory. We haven’t been there yet.” With a quick wave farewell, she dragged the boy with her down the stone battlement steps.
Shaking his head and wearing a smile that wavered halfway between affection and bemusement, Lord Barsul watched them go. When they disappeared around the corner of a building, he turned and made his way along the battlements back to the tower room near the front of the castle where Wynter, Valik, and three of Wintercraig’s generals waited.
“Well?” Wynter prompted, as Barsul closed the door behind him.
“They’re just exploring.”
“Is that what you call spying these days?” Valik grumbled.
Barsul gave him a sharp look. “She’s just a girl.”
“She’s the Summer King’s daughter. Do you honestly think she isn’t recording everything she sees and hears, and will send it to her father—or worse, her brother—at first chance?”
“Enough,” Wynter snapped. “The Summer King may have sired her, but he’s no father to her. Do you not remember the state she was in when I wed her?”
“I do remember,” Valik said, “but, consider, Wyn, what better way to earn your sympathy?”
Wynter pushed away from the table and straightened to his full height.
“Valik is right, my king,” one of Wynter’s generals, interrupted. “She may be your wife, but she’s still the Summer King’s daughter and the sister to murdering bride-stealer Falcon Coruscate. We cannot let down our guard.”
“While I appreciate your concern, let me assure you I am neither an idiot nor a lovesick fool. My wife has been under constant surveillance since we left Summerlea, and so will she continue to be. Not because I think she might be working for her father. Any suspicions on that front are misguided. The hatred between them was too real. But I can’t forget, it was a Summerlander who suggested I take a princess to wife, and I can’t ignore the brother’s activities in Calberna.”
He stared down at the map stretched out on the table before him and the scattered sheaf of letters beside it. “If our information is accurate, the Calbernan armada will be ready to sail in three months, which means, come spring, we’ll have an army on our shores. I’m aware Khamsin might use her ‘exploring’ to gather information for her brother and his new allies. But she is my queen, not my hostage. She will not be imprisoned. If her wandering gets too far out of hand, I will put an end to it. For now, it suits my purpose to let her roam.”
He bent his head, focusing his attention back on the maps spread out before him. The current location and troop strength of all Wintercraig’s battalions had been marked. Calbernans by sea posed a difficulty. Both Wintercraig and Summerlea had too many miles of shoreline to patrol—much less defend. Winter’s ice should see them safe until spring, but once the northern passage began its yearly thaw, opening a navigable seaway around the arctic rim, the invaders could land anywhere along Wintercraig’s thousands of miles of coastline.
