C. Wilson - The Winter King

“Father, I—”

“Silence!” His hand swept out, cracking against her cheek in a fierce, explosive blow.

Her head snapped back. Tears of pain filled her eyes. Inside her mouth, blood welled up where the edge of her teeth had cut the soft inner lining of her cheek.

“Papa,” Autumn protested, half rising from the couch where she and her other two sisters sat, having been summoned as always to witness their youngest sister’s disgrace. “You know she didn’t mean it. You know how Storm gets when she feels threatened.” Storm was Khamsin’s giftname, but only her siblings ever called her by it. Her father never called her anything but “girl.”

“Sit down, Autumn, and be silent.”

“But Papa—”

“I said sit !”

Autumn sat. She cast Khamsin an apologetic glance. Kham shook her head slightly. This was not Autumn’s fight, nor was it her place to intervene. Khamsin had long ago outgrown the need for her siblings to protect her from their father’s wrath even if they still insisted on trying whenever he was particularly furious.

Her father’s full, dark green velvet robes swung as he spun back around towards Khamsin. “Since you obviously cannot be trusted to control yourself, you will remain in your room until the Winter King departs.”

She nodded, not daring to speak.

“If you make one more misstep,” he warned, “if you so much as ruffle a breeze through the White King’s hair or even breathe in defiance of my will, I will cast you out. I will banish you from this kingdom on pain of death. Do you hear me, girl?”

“Papa!” This time the protest came from all three sisters.

Khamsin couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to warn them off. Her father’s threat was stunning, vicious, and wholly unexpected. She’d known for a long, long time that he didn’t love her, but she’d never realized how deep and truly bitter his feelings were. How he must despise her to ever make such a threat.

“Stop it, Papa,” Spring ordered. Cool and sensible as always—capable of almost as fierce a temper as Khamsin, but far more able to control it—she crossed to Khamsin’s side and laid a protective hand on her arm. “Pain of death? She is an heir to the Summer Throne. There’s not a person in this kingdom who would curse their family house by spilling her blood, and you know it.”

“It’s not Storm’s fault the Winter King is here,” Autumn added. She stood, straightened her deep purple gown with a snap of her wrist, and went to join Spring at Khamsin’s side. Her copper curls bounced at she cocked her head to one side and thrust out a delicate, imperious chin. “Everyone in this room knows exactly where that blame lies.”

When King Verdan bristled, Summer rose and wrapped her arms around her father’s waist. Of all his children, she was his favorite. She was everyone’s favorite, blessed with a sunny nature and a ready smile.

“Enough, Papa. I’m sure Storm’s sorry for what she did, and I’m sure she didn’t mean to endanger the peace. Let her stay in her room, as you suggested, and avoid any further confrontations with the Winter King. The rest of us will do our best to show him how gracious and hospitable Summerlanders can be.” She smiled, her deep blue eyes full of forced cheer. “Maybe that will help soften his terms of surrender.”

The Summer King regarded his three oldest daughters for a long moment. The heat issuing from his body began to dissipate, and the room grew noticeably cooler. But when he turned back to Khamsin, the loathing in his gaze made her flinch.

“Get to your room, girl. Don’t dare step one foot outside your door until I send word that you may. Tildavera will bring you your meals. If I find out you’ve disobeyed me, I won’t kill you or banish you, but believe me, I’ll make you wish I had.”

Khamsin curtsied and turned for the door. She didn’t speak. Tears gripped her throat in a chokehold, and if she tried to say a word, they would burst forth in a humiliating gush. She hadn’t cried in front of her father in years—not since the day he’d told her she was responsible for her mother’s death.

With half his men deployed at strategic points throughout the city, and the other half taking up positions in and around the palace, Wynter returned to seek the room, bath, and refreshment he’d demanded.

King Verdan himself escorted Wynter through the warm, colorful halls of the main palace building and up several flights of stairs into the old, stone keep that crowned the city. Valik and a prune-faced harridan who’d introduced herself as Maude Newt, Mistress of Servants, trailed behind, along with half a dozen Wintercraig guards.

The air grew a little colder as they entered the keep, the surroundings a bit more lonely and somber, but Wynter actually liked that better than the crowded frills and luxuries of the palace. Cold stone and privacy suited his nature. He was a man who lived in a harsh, uncompromising land of solitude, danger, and stark beauty.

The small party climbed two flights of stone steps in the tower before reaching the floor that housed the newly renovated Queen’s Bower. A knot of young, gray-clad serving girls stood at attention just inside the wide, arching doorway that led into the bower. They bobbed erratic, nervous curtsies as he passed.

Wynter walked through a set of wide double doors into the long-abandoned room his spies had told him was a rotting ruin. However deteriorated it might have been before, nothing now could be further from the truth. The room sparkled and gleamed from corner to corner, and the air was rich with the scents of flowers, herbs, fresh sawdust, and a strong sprinkling of bleach. The furnishings were exceptional, both in quality and beauty. Wynter’s gaze roved over the room, searching for subtle points of complaint. He found none. Verdan, it seemed, had outdone himself.

“This will do.” He glanced at the servant girls. “Prepare my bath.”

They squeaked and bobbed and nearly tumbled over each other like a litter of clumsy wolf pups in their rush to do his bidding.

“I will expect refreshments and your daughter’s company within the hour,” he reminded the Summer King with a cool look.

“Of course.” Verdan bowed his head slightly. “Newt here will see to any other needs you may have. Just use the bellpull to summon her.” He pointed to a long, tasseled pull near the double doors. “I had thought we would discuss terms in the map room downstairs. Will two hours from now give you sufficient time to prepare?”

“Two hours is fine.” He didn’t want to leave Verdan stewing for too long, lest worry blossom into something unwise.

“I’ll send my steward Gravid to guide the way.” Verdan spun on his heel and departed.

The Mistress of Servants lingered behind long enough to drop a quick, deep curtsy and reiterate the offer of her services. “If you need anything, Your Majesty, anything at all, just call on Newt. I’ll see you get whatever you desire.”

“Very good.” There was an obsequiousness to her tone and slyness to her darting gaze that he did not care for. “For now, Newt, privacy is what I desire most. And Newt? Wintercraig kings are addressed as ‘Your Grace,’ not ‘Your Majesty.’ ”

“I understand, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace. Just send the girls out when they’re done.” She bowed and backed out of the Queen’s Bower. The doors, now guarded by Wynter’s own men stationed outside in the hall, closed behind her.

Silence fell over the bower, broken only by the sound of splashing water coming from the bathing chamber. Wynter and Valik stood still and wordless, watching each other and waiting in patience silence. A moment later, the four trembling young maids emerged from the bedchamber like wary does mincing into an open glade.