The Winter King
Page 14
He returned to the bathing chamber and left the new arrivals to set up the brief repast, but he kept his sword within easy reach—just in case. The habits of war were hard to break. He was, after all, still a conquering king standing in the heart of the enemy territory.
Wynter tossed the towel on the edge of the bath and ran a brush through his long, pale hair. It was still damp and curled slightly at the ends in the moist warm air of the bathing chamber. He fastened it back with a gilded silver tie and hooked a shining silver ear cuff in the shape of a snow wolf—sign of his family clan—around his left ear. Three silver chains dangled from the ear cuff, each attached to a small silver bell bearing one of three Wintercraig runes symbolizing ice, fire, and the Great Hunt. On his right index finger, he wore his ring of office: an intricately carved platinum signet bearing the royal crest of the Snow Wolf clan. On the little finger of his left hand, he wore another platinum band, this one set with an enormous, breathtaking, blue-white diamond called the Wintercraig Star. Last, he pulled on a short, sleeveless vest of sky blue velvet embroidered in silver threads.
A glance in the beveled mirror hung on the wall reflected back an image of cool, understated elegance. That would do.
He slipped out of the bedroom and halted at the sight of not one but three darkly beautiful Summerlea princesses sitting at the glossy mahogany table.
Spring, Summer, and Autumn had come to share his meal.
In retrospect, Wynter realized, it was a boon to have such surfeit of royal companionship for his repast. He’d thought to observe the Autumn, to determine if she would suit, but enjoying the three of them together gave him a greater understanding of each. He’d taunted them a bit, with their own changed status, treating them more like servants than princesses, just to see if they would be as accommodating as their sire.
They did not disappoint. He’d seen the flash of defiance in Spring’s eyes just before she lifted her own wine cup to his lips as he’d commanded, the resentment in Summer’s when he’d ordered her to sing while he ate, and the way Autumn’s fingers had curled around the knife when he’d told her to cut an apple and feed him the pieces from her own hand after she had taken a bite from each. But he’d also seen each princess shiver when he ran a finger across her soft, pampered skin or leaned a little too close for comfort, and he’d watched each stifle her own flare of temper and bend herself to his will.
They were proud and haughty, like their father, but they were also wise enough to fear the Winter King. And that fear made them swallow their urge for defiance.
When the meal ended, he sent them away, pleased. He’d been right. Any of them would do. That would make things simpler.
Still wearing his cream silk trousers and shirt, with Gunterfys strapped to his hip and Valik striding beside him, Wynter entered the palace’s large map room. King Verdan, still in his ceremonial best, greeted Wynter with cool reserve.
“Verdan.” He nodded to the older man. Four other men stood beside the king, including the general of the last surviving Summerland army and three lords of the king’s council. “You four,” he commanded with brisk disregard, “get out.”
Outrage flashed across all four men’s faces, and across Verdan’s as well.
“What? How dare you, sir!” the general exclaimed.
“These men are my confidants and advisors, leaders of Summerlea,” King Verdan protested, casting a warning look at the leader of his last remaining army. “They have a right to be present at any peace negotiations.”
“Negotiations?” Wynter lifted a brow. “I have come to explain the terms of your surrender. They are nonnegotiable. You can accept them, or you and every living creature in Summerlea can die.”
“You’re bluffing,” one of the other three said. “If you wanted us dead, we’d already be so.”
“I do not bluff. I came here to end the war, but only on my terms. Since the day I took the throne, you Summerlanders set yourself against me, thinking my youth made me an easy mark, mistaking my restraint and efforts at diplomacy as signs of weakness. In your arrogance, you thought I could be easily dispatched, and Wintercraig would be yours for the taking. You thought wrong.” His eyes narrowed, his expression deadly cold, he leaned forward on the table. Frost whitened the polished surface. “You Summerlanders started this war, but I am here to finish it. You can either accept defeat—and the terms that go with it—or you can die. Either way makes no difference to me. I will take what I came for.”
The general flushed a ruddy color and cast an outraged glance at his king. “Sire! There’s no need to accept this disgrace and humiliation. Say the word, and we will stand and fight. We’ll die to a man, like Roland and his army when they triumphed over Ranulf the Black.”
“You wish to die?” Wynter narrowed his gaze on the general. Cold fire came to his call, gathering, burning, at the backs of his eyes. “Very well, then. Die.”
The general went stiff, his mouth freezing open in a stifled cry.
“Stop.” Verdan wasn’t stupid enough to step in the path of the Ice Gaze, but he couldn’t stop himself from the quick, instinctive lurch towards the general.
“The wound you dealt me to start this war was personal,” Wynter said, holding his Gaze. “The price of peace is personal as well. It does not concern your armies or these men, and their presence is neither necessary nor desired.” The general’s lips had turned blue, and his skin had gone pasty white.
Wynter tossed the towel on the edge of the bath and ran a brush through his long, pale hair. It was still damp and curled slightly at the ends in the moist warm air of the bathing chamber. He fastened it back with a gilded silver tie and hooked a shining silver ear cuff in the shape of a snow wolf—sign of his family clan—around his left ear. Three silver chains dangled from the ear cuff, each attached to a small silver bell bearing one of three Wintercraig runes symbolizing ice, fire, and the Great Hunt. On his right index finger, he wore his ring of office: an intricately carved platinum signet bearing the royal crest of the Snow Wolf clan. On the little finger of his left hand, he wore another platinum band, this one set with an enormous, breathtaking, blue-white diamond called the Wintercraig Star. Last, he pulled on a short, sleeveless vest of sky blue velvet embroidered in silver threads.
A glance in the beveled mirror hung on the wall reflected back an image of cool, understated elegance. That would do.
He slipped out of the bedroom and halted at the sight of not one but three darkly beautiful Summerlea princesses sitting at the glossy mahogany table.
Spring, Summer, and Autumn had come to share his meal.
In retrospect, Wynter realized, it was a boon to have such surfeit of royal companionship for his repast. He’d thought to observe the Autumn, to determine if she would suit, but enjoying the three of them together gave him a greater understanding of each. He’d taunted them a bit, with their own changed status, treating them more like servants than princesses, just to see if they would be as accommodating as their sire.
They did not disappoint. He’d seen the flash of defiance in Spring’s eyes just before she lifted her own wine cup to his lips as he’d commanded, the resentment in Summer’s when he’d ordered her to sing while he ate, and the way Autumn’s fingers had curled around the knife when he’d told her to cut an apple and feed him the pieces from her own hand after she had taken a bite from each. But he’d also seen each princess shiver when he ran a finger across her soft, pampered skin or leaned a little too close for comfort, and he’d watched each stifle her own flare of temper and bend herself to his will.
They were proud and haughty, like their father, but they were also wise enough to fear the Winter King. And that fear made them swallow their urge for defiance.
When the meal ended, he sent them away, pleased. He’d been right. Any of them would do. That would make things simpler.
Still wearing his cream silk trousers and shirt, with Gunterfys strapped to his hip and Valik striding beside him, Wynter entered the palace’s large map room. King Verdan, still in his ceremonial best, greeted Wynter with cool reserve.
“Verdan.” He nodded to the older man. Four other men stood beside the king, including the general of the last surviving Summerland army and three lords of the king’s council. “You four,” he commanded with brisk disregard, “get out.”
Outrage flashed across all four men’s faces, and across Verdan’s as well.
“What? How dare you, sir!” the general exclaimed.
“These men are my confidants and advisors, leaders of Summerlea,” King Verdan protested, casting a warning look at the leader of his last remaining army. “They have a right to be present at any peace negotiations.”
“Negotiations?” Wynter lifted a brow. “I have come to explain the terms of your surrender. They are nonnegotiable. You can accept them, or you and every living creature in Summerlea can die.”
“You’re bluffing,” one of the other three said. “If you wanted us dead, we’d already be so.”
“I do not bluff. I came here to end the war, but only on my terms. Since the day I took the throne, you Summerlanders set yourself against me, thinking my youth made me an easy mark, mistaking my restraint and efforts at diplomacy as signs of weakness. In your arrogance, you thought I could be easily dispatched, and Wintercraig would be yours for the taking. You thought wrong.” His eyes narrowed, his expression deadly cold, he leaned forward on the table. Frost whitened the polished surface. “You Summerlanders started this war, but I am here to finish it. You can either accept defeat—and the terms that go with it—or you can die. Either way makes no difference to me. I will take what I came for.”
The general flushed a ruddy color and cast an outraged glance at his king. “Sire! There’s no need to accept this disgrace and humiliation. Say the word, and we will stand and fight. We’ll die to a man, like Roland and his army when they triumphed over Ranulf the Black.”
“You wish to die?” Wynter narrowed his gaze on the general. Cold fire came to his call, gathering, burning, at the backs of his eyes. “Very well, then. Die.”
The general went stiff, his mouth freezing open in a stifled cry.
“Stop.” Verdan wasn’t stupid enough to step in the path of the Ice Gaze, but he couldn’t stop himself from the quick, instinctive lurch towards the general.
“The wound you dealt me to start this war was personal,” Wynter said, holding his Gaze. “The price of peace is personal as well. It does not concern your armies or these men, and their presence is neither necessary nor desired.” The general’s lips had turned blue, and his skin had gone pasty white.
