The Winter King Read online

  “We’d better start tracking them, then.”

  “There’s more, Wyn.” Valik hesitated, then said, “I think Garrick went after them. He and his friends rode out maybe an hour after the Summerlander. Bron heard them talking about something the Summerlander took that Garrick meant to get back.”

  Wyn’s jaw turned to granite. With Valik close on his heels, he ran back down to the courtyard.

  Still saddled and ready to ride, Wynter’s stallion was waiting in the hands of a stableboy, and beside him, a dozen of Wynter’s elite White Guard held Prince Falcon’s valet at swordpoint. The valet looked nothing like the sleek, meticulously turned-out peacock Wynter’s courtiers had mocked amongst themselves. He’d traded his velvet brocade livery for rough-spun woolens, a furred vest, and a heavy cloak. His knuckles were scraped, and his face sported a bruised jaw and an eye that was swollen shut and rapidly purpling.

  “We found him in the village trying to bribe a merchant to smuggle him out in a trade cart, Your Grace.”

  “Where is he?” Wyn grabbed the valet by his vest, yanking him up so fast the man’s feet left the ground. Wynter was tall, even for a man of the Craig, and holding the Summerlander at eye level left almost two feet between the man’s dangling toes and the icy stone of the courtyard. “Where is that Coruscate bastard you serve?”

  “I don’t know!” Clearly terrified, the man started babbling. “I swear to you, Your Majesty! I didn’t even know he was leaving until one of the maids delivered his note. And that only advised me to leave Wintercraig as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  “In other words, the coward abandoned you while saving his own skin.” Wyn threw the man aside. “Lock him up. If we don’t find his master, he can face the mercy of the mountains in his prince’s stead. The rest of you, mount up. Time to hunt.”

  Minutes later, Wynter, Valik, and two dozen White Guard were galloping down the winding mountain road that led from Gildenheim to the valley below. Wynter howled a call to the wolves as they went, sending a summons to the packs that were spirit-kin to his family’s clan. Wolves were faster in the dense woods, and they tracked by scent rather than sight. The Summerlanders’ smell was alien to this part of the world, so the wolves should have no trouble picking up their trail.

  He wasn’t sure if the prince would try heading south, towards Summerlea, or west to the Llaskroner Fjord. The fjord was closer, and the port there was a busy one, full of strangers from distant lands. For thieves looking to get out of country quickly, that was the better destination. When the wolf call came from the west, Wyn knew he’d guessed right. He whispered to the winds, calling to the old Winterman in the north to blow his icy horn, then summoning the Vestras, the freezing maritime winds of the western seas to send their bone-chilling fog.

  As he and his men rode west, following the call of the wolves, the temperatures began to drop. If the Summer Prince fought back with his own weathergifts, that would pinpoint his location. If he didn’t, the rapidly worsening weather would slow his escape. Either way, Wynter would track him down and make him pay for what he’d done to the people of Hileje.

  The prince had hours on him. That was the purpose of the fire in Hileje—a distraction to get Wynter and his men out of the palace so Falcon Coruscate could steal what he came for and make his escape. But the distraction had been much more than a mere fire. The Summerlanders had raped and murdered dozens of villagers, then locked the rest in the meeting hall and burned them alive.

  Eighty-six lives wiped out in one senseless act of violence. Eighty-six innocent Winterfolk who had depended on their king to protect them. And he had failed.

  The tone of the wolves’ howls suddenly changed, the howls becoming longer, mournful, announcing a loss to the pack. Wynter sent out his thoughts, connecting to the pack mind and seeing through the wolves’ eyes as he searched for the source of that cry. He caught a glimpse of scarlet splashed across the snow, bodies that were clothed not furred.

  “No!” He knew instantly why the wolves howled and for whom. “No! Garrick!” He spurred Hodri faster, galloping at a reckless pace. The wind whistled past his ears. Snow flew from Hodri’s hooves.

  It didn’t take long to reach the clearing where the wolves had gathered. The smell of death filled the air—a dark odor Wynter had smelled before. It was a scent few men ever forgot.

  He reined Hodri in hard, leaping from saddle to ground before the horse fully stopped. The first two bodies were boys Wyn recognized. Garrick’s friends. Fifteen and sixteen years old, barely more than children. Arrow-pierced through their hearts. They’d been dead within minutes of being struck.

  A moaning cough brought Wyn scrambling to his feet. He half-ran, half-stumbled across the snow towards the source of the sound, but when he got there, he felt as if his heart had stopped beating. He fell to his knees.

  The coughing boy was Garrick’s best friend, Junnar. He’d been gut-shot, and the dark, matter-filled blood oozing from the wound told Wynter the boy was a dead man even though his body still clung weakly to the last threads of his life.

  Junnar lay atop the prone, lifeless figure of Wynter’s brother. An arrow—its shaft painted with the Prince of Summerlea’s personal colors—protruded from Garrick’s throat.

  “Garrick?” After moving Junnar to one side and packing his wound with snow to numb the pain, Wyn reached for his brother with trembling hands. His fingers brushed the boy’s face, and he flinched at the coldness of his brother’s flesh. Garrick had been dead for hours. Probably since before Wyn had left Gildenheim in pursuit. How could Wyn have lost the only family he had left in the world and not known it the instant it happened?

  Horses approached from Wynter’s back. Then Valik was there, laying a sympathetic hand on Wynter’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, my friend. I’m so sorry.”

  Wyn nodded numbly. The ache was consuming him. The pain so deep, so indescribable, it was beyond feeling. His whole body felt frozen, like the ice statues he and Garrick carved together.

  “Help Junnar.” How he spoke, he didn’t know. His voice came out a choked, gravelly rasp. “Make him as comfortable as you can.”

  “Of course.”

  He waited for Valik to lift Junnar and settle him off a short distance before gathering Garrick’s body into his arms. He held his brother for a long time, held him until Junnar breathed his last, and the White Guard packed the bodies up for transport back to Gildenheim. Their hunt for Prince Falcon of Summerlea had ended the moment Wynter found his brother’s corpse. But there was no doubt in any of their minds that this was far from over.

  Wynter carried Garrick in front of him on Hodri’s back, cradling his body as he had so many times over the years after their parents had died and it had fallen to him to raise his brother. He carried him all the way to Gildenheim, releasing him only to the weeping servants who would prepare Garrick and the others for the funeral pyre.

  Wynter stood vigil by his brother’s side throughout the night. He murmured words of sympathy to the parents of the other lost boys but shed no tears of his own though his eyes burned. At dusk the following night, he stood, tall and dry-eyed beside the pyres as the flames were lit, and he remained standing, motionless and without speaking, throughout the night and into the next morning. He stood until the pyre was naught but flickering coals. And when it was done, and there was nothing left of his brother but ash, Wynter mounted Hodri and took the long, winding road to the Temple of Wyrn, which was carved into the side of the next mountain.

  Galacia Frey, the imposing and statuesque High Priestess of Wyrn, was waiting for him inside the temple. She had come the night before to bless his brother and the others and to light their pyres, before returning to the temple to await his visit.

  “You know why I have come.”

  Her eyes were steady. “I know. But Wyn, my friend, you know I must ask you to reconsider. You know the price.” />
  “I know and accept it.”

  “There’s no guarantee the goddess will find you worthy,” she warned. “Many men have tried and died.”

  “You think that frightens me? If I die, I will be with my brother. If I survive, I will have the power to avenge him.”

  She closed her eyes briefly and inclined her head. “Then take the path to the left of the altar, Wynter Atrialan, King of the Craig. Leave your armor, clothes and weapons in the trunk by the door. You must enter the test as you entered the world. And may the goddess have mercy on your soul.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Wynter’s Chill

  Vera Sola, Summerlea

  Three years later

  “He’s here!”

  The news swept through the royal palace of Summerlea on an icy wind. Smiles froze on suddenly frightened faces. Laughter—so ebulliently prevalent even after the past three years of bitter war and hardship—faded into silence like the last notes of a dying song.

  High above the palace, amidst the tangled overgrowth of her mother’s long-neglected Sky Garden, Khamsin Coruscate battled an invisible foe beneath the flowering branches of a Snowfire tree, unaware of the fear spreading through the city below. The last few months’ unseasonable cold had left all the other trees in the garden winter-bare, but the Snowfire bloomed defiantly. Its long, slender branches were bursting with bold, hot pink blossoms that filled the air with a heady perfume as if to ward off the invading cold with the deep, lusty scents of summer.

  Despite the Snowfire’s brave show, winter would not be swayed. A light snow had begun to fall, and the tip of Khamsin’s nose had gone pink. She paid it no mind. She was engaged in a ferocious sword fight with a powerful and conniving enemy, Ranulf the Black, the villainous king whose attempt to invade and conquer Summerlea was immortalized in Khamsin’s favorite book, Roland Triumphant: Hero of Summerlea.

  As she lunged and parried, locking blades with her invisible foe, Khamsin didn’t even notice the approach of her maid, Tildy, until the elderly woman stopped directly beside the Snowfire tree and cleared her throat.

  “He’s here, dearly,” Tildy said.

  Khamsin lunged, crowing in victory as her blade struck a killing blow. Straightening, she blinked once to clear her mind of visions of ancient, heroic battles, and squinted at her beloved nurse. “Here? Already?”

  “Riding past the Stone Knights, arrogant as you please, not fifteen minutes ago. Your father and the court have gathered in the upper bailey to greet him.”

  Roland and his foes forgotten, Khamsin snatched up her cloak and the well-worn copy of Roland Triumphant that had inspired her mock battle. She thrust through the long, whiplike branches of the Snowfire, ignoring the sound of ripping cloth and even the painful tug of black curls as hair and clothes caught and tore on the branches. “Why didn’t you come for me sooner? He’ll be coming up the Castle Road by now.”

  “I came as quick as I could, dearly, but he’s an hour early, and these old bones don’t move as fast as once they did. Och, now, look at the mess you’ve made of yourself.” Tildy tsked and shook her neat cap of tight silver-gray plaits. She hurried forward, and Khamsin stood with familiar patience as her nurse clucked about her and quickly repinned her hair to hide the distinctive white streaks that threaded like bolts of lightning through her otherwise unremarkable Summerlander black hair. “Half a dozen tears already and mud on your hem. Your father won’t be pleased if he sees you like this.”

  That was nothing new. When in all of Khamsin’s twenty years had her father ever been pleased with her? Still . . . she couldn’t hold back the hopeful question, “Did he . . . ask for me to join the family?”

  The old nursemaid’s expression faltered for a moment, pity creeping into her gaze. “No, child. He didn’t.”

  Khamsin drew a breath and buried the hurt with a nod. After all this time, it was foolish to still let the rejection hurt. Since age three, she’d lived as little more than a servant, dressed in cast-off gowns, ignored and forgotten, tutored only because Tildy refused to let the mind of a Summerlea princess go ignorant and unprepared. Few outside the palace gates remembered there had ever been a fourth princess of the Summer Throne. Fewer still knew what she looked like, or even that she was still alive. Nonetheless, at every state function, Tildy insisted on dressing her charge like the royal princess of Summerlea she was, and they would wait together, in silence and dying hope, for the summons that never came.

  “It’s all right, Tildy.” She forced a smile. “I’ll just go to the tower and watch from there. The stone amplifies the voices in the bailey, so I’ll hear everything. And I’ll have a much better view, I’m sure.”

  “Dearly . . .”

  Khamsin didn’t want to hear the consolations and excuses, the empty promises that one day her father would realize what a treasure she was. She thrust her book into the nursemaid’s hands, lifted the mud-stained hem of her red velvet skirts, and ran.

  Hard-soled leather boots slapped on cold stone, and her black cape whipped behind her as she darted through the open garden gate and up the steps to the castle tower. Her mother’s garden had been built high on the crest of a small man-made mountain around which the ancient stone walls of Summerlea’s palace and surrounding city ringed like ribbons round a maypole. Only the tower proper—the now-crumbling Keep of Kings—rose higher than her mother’s beloved Sky Garden. The Keep overlooked the palace’s upper bailey and the long, curving lanes that ringed down to the city’s main gates and the valley below.

  With swift familiarity born of years spent running wild through the palace’s many forgotten places, Khamsin darted through the dim corridors. After her mother’s death, the upper reaches of the palace had been locked away, left to weather the years untended and uninhabited. Only a curious child, a princess as neglected as this once-lovely palace realm, had ever dared the King’s wrath and ventured secretly within. It was the one place—the only place—Khamsin had ever felt at home.

  Her cape caught on a protruding nailhead, and the sudden yanking pull all but strangled her. Khamsin ripped at the frogs that clasped the cape around her throat, tearing one free and ripping the delicate lace at her neckline. The cape fell in a puddle of watered silk and black velvet. The simple golden circlet Tildy had so lovingly settled in place in Khamsin’s curls earlier that morning cocked awkwardly over one brow, dislodged by her brief struggles with the cape. With an angry sob, she tore the circlet free and threw it on the pile of silk and velvet.

  Her hair came unpinned again, falling about her shoulder in untamed ringlets, the white streaks that had always been so offensive to her father once more in plain view. She didn’t care. Let him see her and be enraged. At least then he’d be forced to feel something. Even fury was better than years of neglect.

  Leaving her crown and cape where they lay, Kham resumed running. A few moments later, she crossed the wide, cobweb- and dust-covered room that had once been the Queen’s Bower.

  Silent hulks of furniture, shrouded in linen swaths, filled the room. Along the walls, moth-eaten window hangings and tapestries sagged in mournful tatters. After his wife’s death, King Verdan had ordered the bower closed off, Queen Rosalind’s belongings covered with sheets and left where they lay.

  Across the room, a narrow lip of stairs curved up the tower wall to a small landing and an arched doorway. Kham leapt the stairs three at a time and rushed into the small, covered oriel overlooking the courtyard and city below.

  She caught her heaving breath and swiped at the useless tears that still sometimes insisted on spilling from her eyes. She didn’t need her father’s love. She didn’t even need the recognition of her birth status. She had Tildy and her sisters, who loved her despite him. She’d had her brother’s love, too, until he’d run off with the Winter King’s bride. And, of course, she had her mother’s treasures to remind her that Queen Rosalind, at least, had loved her last-born chi
ld even if her husband would not.

  The clatter of hooves in the courtyard below made Khamsin flinch. She glanced down into the bailey and froze. All thoughts of her father and his long neglect swept away in an instant. Stunned awe took their place.

  Now, there was a sight no Summerlander had ever seen before.

  Shining white, brilliant pale, like an army of snow-cloaked conquering ghosts, the soldiers of Winter rode proud into the upper bailey of Summerlea’s royal palace. And at the army’s head, just now passing through the gate, rode the White King himself, Wynter Atrialan, King of the Craig.

  He sat on a snow-white stallion, as cold and merciless as a headsman’s axe just before the chop. Armor of mirror-polished silver plate gleamed from crown to toe. A long, ice blue cape trimmed in white ermine trailed out behind him, covering his mount’s rump and draping down past the Winter King’s own armored heels. At the crown of his helm, a tall ruff of white horsehair ruffled in the chill breeze, and his stallion’s iron-shod hooves rang out on the worn cobble of the courtyard.

  The horse came to a halt. The Winter King swung one long leg over his mount and slid effortlessly to the ground. Summer Sun! He was huge—practically a giant. Taller than any Summerlander, with the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen. Over seven feet of powerful muscles and sheer intimidation. She hadn’t expected that. Beneath his silver helm, a mask in the shape of a snarling wolf’s head hid his face.

  His gauntleted hands rose to unlatch the mask and lift the helm from his head. He tucked it beneath one arm, leaving his sword arm free, fingers resting near the hilt of the now-infamous blade, Gunterfys—Giant Killer. A blade that after the last three years would be better named Ertafys—Summer Killer.

  Even from her vantage point high above, she could see the Winter King’s face. Square jaw, cheekbones high and shapely, skin a surprising golden hue, the color of browned butter. She’d always thought the folk of Wintercraig would be snowy pale, but they weren’t. At least, he wasn’t. Which only made his wealth of long, gleaming white hair and startling pale eyes seem all the more vivid.