The Winter King
Page 105
That reaction was the real reason he’d stayed away from his wife, despite being cleared to resume marital relations. He remembered the sheets on their wedding bed, stained scarlet with her blood because he’d been too consumed with his drug-amplified lust to notice her wounds or her discomfort. He hadn’t trusted himself to go near her until he was certain of his self-control.
But it seemed clear that self-control around Khamsin was a pipe dream. The more he stayed away, the stronger the attraction grew. What he felt for her now so outstripped the arras-driven lust of their wedding night, he could scarce comprehend it. They could not go on this way. He could not go on this way.
“When I return, wife, our separation ends. Gods help us both.”
The moment Wynter broke eye contact and headed back inside, Khamsin’s lungs started working again. She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, then folded over in a paroxysm of coughing as the cold air chafed her throat and lungs.
“You all right?” Krysti gave her several solid thwacks on the back.
“I’m coughing, not choking.” She shoved his hand away and scowled. “Stop hitting me.”
“Sorry.”
Now he looked hurt. She sighed. That one look she’d exchanged with Wynter across the full distance of the courtyard had left her feeling tightly wound. If she didn’t find something to keep her mind occupied, she’d spend the whole day obsessing about why he was continuing to avoid her—and obsessing about him. And that would be a very bad thing. Especially with that snowstorm brewing on the horizon.
Kham turned back to Krysti and forced an overbright smile. “Come show me how to climb like you did earlier when we were out.” When riding this morning, they’d stopped by a stream to water the horses, and Krysti had scrambled up a pile of tumbled boulders like a bounding mountain goat. “I want to learn how to do that, too. You think you can teach me?” He’d already taught her how to pick a lock, and she was getting quite proficient at it.
“I don’t know. Maybe. But you’re not Big Horn clan.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Big Horn clanfolk are born sure-footed. It’s one of our clan-gifts. Like the way the king can scent things like a wolf, since he’s Snow Wolf clan.” Krysti glanced around. “If I’m going to teach you, we need a better place to practice. There’s a good climbing wall in one of the upper gardens that wouldn’t be too difficult for beginners. We can use that.”
“Wonderful. Lead the way.” As she followed him, Kham steadfastly refused to glance back at that now-empty balcony outside Wynter’s rooms. “So each clan has its own clan-gifts?” she asked, determined to focus her mind on something unrelated to her husband.
“Yes.”
“And everyone in that clan shares the same gifts? Not just the clan’s ruling family?”
“Weathergifts don’t manifest outside the immediate royal family, but clan-gifts are different. All Winterfolk have them. Some clan members have more gifts or a stronger ability in a particular gift than others, but there’s always at least one core clan-gift that all members of that clan possess.”
Khamsin nodded thoughtfully. All Summerlanders had a way with growing things—that was one of the reasons for the kingdom’s exceptional fertility and prosperity—but they didn’t have “clan-gifts” like Winterfolk. Occasionally, however, a member of the royal family was born with an affinity for a particular animal, as had happened with her brother Falcon. The royal historians attributed those gifts to the handful of Wintercraig brides wed over the centuries to the Heirs of the Rose, starting with the Wintercraig princess who’d married Roland’s brother Donal two thousand years ago.
“How many clans are there?”
Krysti shrugged. “I don’t know. Twenty or thirty. Maybe a few more. I was supposed to start learning clanlore three years ago, but my parents died.”
In all the time they’d been together, Krysti hadn’t opened up about his family. Since she knew what it was like to lose a parent, she hadn’t pressed him for more information. Some wounds stayed fresh for a long time. But the fact that he’d brought them up made her think maybe he was ready to talk.
“What were they like? Your parents?”
“Nice. They loved me.” He cast her a quick glance, as if daring her to dispute it.
“I’m sure they did.” The corner of her mouth kicked up. “You’re very lovable.”
He flushed a little and gave her a friendly shove. She laughed, glad he’d taken the gentle tease in stride. That told her he wasn’t upset with the line of questioning and gave her tacit approval to probe a little further.
“Was your father a soldier?”
“No. He was a tanner and a leatherworker. Mam, too.”
“How did they die?”
“Our village burned down, but I don’t want to talk about it.” Krysti put on a burst of speed, forcing her to jog to keep up with him.
“Krysti!” She chased after him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Yes, you did.”
She bit her lip. Yes, she had. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. Let’s hurry. We’re wasting daylight.” He jogged up another set of stone stairs, taking them two at a time.
Chastened, Kham followed him in silence. They continued up stair after stair until they reached the uppermost level of the main palace.
But it seemed clear that self-control around Khamsin was a pipe dream. The more he stayed away, the stronger the attraction grew. What he felt for her now so outstripped the arras-driven lust of their wedding night, he could scarce comprehend it. They could not go on this way. He could not go on this way.
“When I return, wife, our separation ends. Gods help us both.”
The moment Wynter broke eye contact and headed back inside, Khamsin’s lungs started working again. She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, then folded over in a paroxysm of coughing as the cold air chafed her throat and lungs.
“You all right?” Krysti gave her several solid thwacks on the back.
“I’m coughing, not choking.” She shoved his hand away and scowled. “Stop hitting me.”
“Sorry.”
Now he looked hurt. She sighed. That one look she’d exchanged with Wynter across the full distance of the courtyard had left her feeling tightly wound. If she didn’t find something to keep her mind occupied, she’d spend the whole day obsessing about why he was continuing to avoid her—and obsessing about him. And that would be a very bad thing. Especially with that snowstorm brewing on the horizon.
Kham turned back to Krysti and forced an overbright smile. “Come show me how to climb like you did earlier when we were out.” When riding this morning, they’d stopped by a stream to water the horses, and Krysti had scrambled up a pile of tumbled boulders like a bounding mountain goat. “I want to learn how to do that, too. You think you can teach me?” He’d already taught her how to pick a lock, and she was getting quite proficient at it.
“I don’t know. Maybe. But you’re not Big Horn clan.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Big Horn clanfolk are born sure-footed. It’s one of our clan-gifts. Like the way the king can scent things like a wolf, since he’s Snow Wolf clan.” Krysti glanced around. “If I’m going to teach you, we need a better place to practice. There’s a good climbing wall in one of the upper gardens that wouldn’t be too difficult for beginners. We can use that.”
“Wonderful. Lead the way.” As she followed him, Kham steadfastly refused to glance back at that now-empty balcony outside Wynter’s rooms. “So each clan has its own clan-gifts?” she asked, determined to focus her mind on something unrelated to her husband.
“Yes.”
“And everyone in that clan shares the same gifts? Not just the clan’s ruling family?”
“Weathergifts don’t manifest outside the immediate royal family, but clan-gifts are different. All Winterfolk have them. Some clan members have more gifts or a stronger ability in a particular gift than others, but there’s always at least one core clan-gift that all members of that clan possess.”
Khamsin nodded thoughtfully. All Summerlanders had a way with growing things—that was one of the reasons for the kingdom’s exceptional fertility and prosperity—but they didn’t have “clan-gifts” like Winterfolk. Occasionally, however, a member of the royal family was born with an affinity for a particular animal, as had happened with her brother Falcon. The royal historians attributed those gifts to the handful of Wintercraig brides wed over the centuries to the Heirs of the Rose, starting with the Wintercraig princess who’d married Roland’s brother Donal two thousand years ago.
“How many clans are there?”
Krysti shrugged. “I don’t know. Twenty or thirty. Maybe a few more. I was supposed to start learning clanlore three years ago, but my parents died.”
In all the time they’d been together, Krysti hadn’t opened up about his family. Since she knew what it was like to lose a parent, she hadn’t pressed him for more information. Some wounds stayed fresh for a long time. But the fact that he’d brought them up made her think maybe he was ready to talk.
“What were they like? Your parents?”
“Nice. They loved me.” He cast her a quick glance, as if daring her to dispute it.
“I’m sure they did.” The corner of her mouth kicked up. “You’re very lovable.”
He flushed a little and gave her a friendly shove. She laughed, glad he’d taken the gentle tease in stride. That told her he wasn’t upset with the line of questioning and gave her tacit approval to probe a little further.
“Was your father a soldier?”
“No. He was a tanner and a leatherworker. Mam, too.”
“How did they die?”
“Our village burned down, but I don’t want to talk about it.” Krysti put on a burst of speed, forcing her to jog to keep up with him.
“Krysti!” She chased after him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Yes, you did.”
She bit her lip. Yes, she had. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. Let’s hurry. We’re wasting daylight.” He jogged up another set of stone stairs, taking them two at a time.
Chastened, Kham followed him in silence. They continued up stair after stair until they reached the uppermost level of the main palace.
