The Winter King
Page 156
“All the more reason for me to stay here with him.” Kham didn’t see where this was leading.
“There is one weapon we have left. A weapon the invaders will not expect from us.”
“Laci—” Valik gave her a warning frown.
She held up her hands to silence him. “It’s the only choice, Valik. Without her, we’re doomed, and you know it. This way, we at least have a chance.” Turning back to Khamsin, Galacia said, “What do you know about the Book of Riddles?”
Khamsin frowned. What was Galacia up to? “I know that it’s reputed to contain clues to the location of Roland’s sword. It’s what my brother was after when he was here in Wintercraig.”
“Among other things,” Valik confirmed in a flat voice.
Galacia grimaced at him. “Yes, he took the Book. And it does contain clues leading to the location of Roland’s sword. Your brother has spent the last three years deciphering and following those clues.”
Kham’s mouth went dry. If Falcon had been on the trail of the sword, and now he had amassed an army to attack Wintercraig and reclaim Summerlea . . .
“Falcon has found the sword?” That was the only thing that made sense. He was bringing his army to Wintercraig because he had the sword and was planning to use it to wrest control of Summerlea back from Wynter.
“No, he hasn’t. Not yet. The location in the Book of Riddles does exist, but the sword was moved from there nine hundred years ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because for nine hundred years, the High Priestesses of Wyrn have kept the new location of the sword a secret.”
“You’re saying you know where the Sword of Roland is?”
“Yes.” Galacia took a deep breath, then admitted, “Roland’s sword is in the Temple of Wyrn, at the bottom of the Ice Heart.”
Khamsin gaped at her. “If that’s true, and the priestesses have been keeping the secret for nine hundred years, then why are you telling me now?”
“Because we need you to get it,” Valik said.
Waking was a fight, a slow, clumsy slog through layers of thick, clinging mud. Wynter was exhausted beyond all comprehension, and pain throbbed from every quadrant of his body. He wanted to sink back into the soft, comforting blackness of sleep, but some inexplicable sense of disquiet forced him to rouse.
His eyelids were heavy as lead. Each fluttering attempt to open them sapped his strength, and the darkness called him back with a siren’s song. Rest, Wyn. Sleep. Let it go. Let it all go.
But beneath that hypnotic, oh-so-tempting whisper, a restless tension gathered in his limbs. It crawled through him like a thousand stinging ants.
With a groan, he forced his eyes open.
Blackness greeted him.
At first, he thought it must be night, moonless and lampless. But he could smell burning wood and feel the warmth of a fire whispering across his skin. Fire meant light. Why could he not see it?
Was he blind? Had they taken his eyes to stop him from using his Gaze?
He shook his head in an involuntary denial. Please, Wyrn, not that. Without his eyes, he had no Ice Gaze, and no ability to see his foes in order to fight them. He’d be defenseless as a babe.
But then he realized that, as he shook his head, the blackness in his field of vision lightened and darkened. He became aware of the rub of cloth, tugging at his hair and skin each time his head shifted.
Something was tied around his head, over his eyes.
He reached for it, fingers fumbling at the folds of cloth to pull them away.
Hands grabbed his. “Calm, Wyn. Be calm. All is well.”
The voice sounded familiar. A woman. He quit fighting to reach the bandage covering his eyes and turned his hand to grab hers. Smooth fingers. Cool, long. Slender wrist.
Something missing. Something important. Not her. Wasn’t her.
Where was she?
The sense of urgency was a hammer now. Pounding. He struggled to sit up.
“I need some help here!”
Heavy footsteps pounded across a hard surface as men came running. Metal clanked. Chain rattled. Soldiers. Armored soldiers. The smell of dirt, sweat, men. More hands, much larger and stronger, grabbed his shoulders, arms, and legs, holding him down. Pinning him.
He began to fight in earnest. His body arched, his muscles strained.
“Tildy! Get in here!”
More footsteps. These lighter. Leather soles, not boots. Less weight. Shorter stride. A woman.
Was this one her?
The scent of lemon verbena filled his nostrils. Fear and fury swept through him in equal measure.
Not her! Where was she?
What had they done to her?
He roared. Despite the many hands holding him down, his body came up off the table. One arm broke free. He swung. His arm plowed into something hard and sent it flying.
Crash! A raucous clang of metal, breaking glass, many things falling.
More running footsteps. More hands grabbed his free, swinging arm and pinned it back down.
“Why is he waking? You said he wouldn’t wake?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it. I dosed him enough to keep ten men down.”
“Well, dose him again! Quickly!”
He fought, writhing, roaring. The table beneath him tipped and scooted back and forth.
“Hold him still, damn it! Grab his head!”
Something wet and bitter poured into his mouth. He spat it out and tried to wrench his head free.
“Wyn! Stop it! We’re trying to help you. Please, Wyn. Please. You’re going to hurt yourself.” The familiar voice sounded sad, pleading, worried.
“There is one weapon we have left. A weapon the invaders will not expect from us.”
“Laci—” Valik gave her a warning frown.
She held up her hands to silence him. “It’s the only choice, Valik. Without her, we’re doomed, and you know it. This way, we at least have a chance.” Turning back to Khamsin, Galacia said, “What do you know about the Book of Riddles?”
Khamsin frowned. What was Galacia up to? “I know that it’s reputed to contain clues to the location of Roland’s sword. It’s what my brother was after when he was here in Wintercraig.”
“Among other things,” Valik confirmed in a flat voice.
Galacia grimaced at him. “Yes, he took the Book. And it does contain clues leading to the location of Roland’s sword. Your brother has spent the last three years deciphering and following those clues.”
Kham’s mouth went dry. If Falcon had been on the trail of the sword, and now he had amassed an army to attack Wintercraig and reclaim Summerlea . . .
“Falcon has found the sword?” That was the only thing that made sense. He was bringing his army to Wintercraig because he had the sword and was planning to use it to wrest control of Summerlea back from Wynter.
“No, he hasn’t. Not yet. The location in the Book of Riddles does exist, but the sword was moved from there nine hundred years ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because for nine hundred years, the High Priestesses of Wyrn have kept the new location of the sword a secret.”
“You’re saying you know where the Sword of Roland is?”
“Yes.” Galacia took a deep breath, then admitted, “Roland’s sword is in the Temple of Wyrn, at the bottom of the Ice Heart.”
Khamsin gaped at her. “If that’s true, and the priestesses have been keeping the secret for nine hundred years, then why are you telling me now?”
“Because we need you to get it,” Valik said.
Waking was a fight, a slow, clumsy slog through layers of thick, clinging mud. Wynter was exhausted beyond all comprehension, and pain throbbed from every quadrant of his body. He wanted to sink back into the soft, comforting blackness of sleep, but some inexplicable sense of disquiet forced him to rouse.
His eyelids were heavy as lead. Each fluttering attempt to open them sapped his strength, and the darkness called him back with a siren’s song. Rest, Wyn. Sleep. Let it go. Let it all go.
But beneath that hypnotic, oh-so-tempting whisper, a restless tension gathered in his limbs. It crawled through him like a thousand stinging ants.
With a groan, he forced his eyes open.
Blackness greeted him.
At first, he thought it must be night, moonless and lampless. But he could smell burning wood and feel the warmth of a fire whispering across his skin. Fire meant light. Why could he not see it?
Was he blind? Had they taken his eyes to stop him from using his Gaze?
He shook his head in an involuntary denial. Please, Wyrn, not that. Without his eyes, he had no Ice Gaze, and no ability to see his foes in order to fight them. He’d be defenseless as a babe.
But then he realized that, as he shook his head, the blackness in his field of vision lightened and darkened. He became aware of the rub of cloth, tugging at his hair and skin each time his head shifted.
Something was tied around his head, over his eyes.
He reached for it, fingers fumbling at the folds of cloth to pull them away.
Hands grabbed his. “Calm, Wyn. Be calm. All is well.”
The voice sounded familiar. A woman. He quit fighting to reach the bandage covering his eyes and turned his hand to grab hers. Smooth fingers. Cool, long. Slender wrist.
Something missing. Something important. Not her. Wasn’t her.
Where was she?
The sense of urgency was a hammer now. Pounding. He struggled to sit up.
“I need some help here!”
Heavy footsteps pounded across a hard surface as men came running. Metal clanked. Chain rattled. Soldiers. Armored soldiers. The smell of dirt, sweat, men. More hands, much larger and stronger, grabbed his shoulders, arms, and legs, holding him down. Pinning him.
He began to fight in earnest. His body arched, his muscles strained.
“Tildy! Get in here!”
More footsteps. These lighter. Leather soles, not boots. Less weight. Shorter stride. A woman.
Was this one her?
The scent of lemon verbena filled his nostrils. Fear and fury swept through him in equal measure.
Not her! Where was she?
What had they done to her?
He roared. Despite the many hands holding him down, his body came up off the table. One arm broke free. He swung. His arm plowed into something hard and sent it flying.
Crash! A raucous clang of metal, breaking glass, many things falling.
More running footsteps. More hands grabbed his free, swinging arm and pinned it back down.
“Why is he waking? You said he wouldn’t wake?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it. I dosed him enough to keep ten men down.”
“Well, dose him again! Quickly!”
He fought, writhing, roaring. The table beneath him tipped and scooted back and forth.
“Hold him still, damn it! Grab his head!”
Something wet and bitter poured into his mouth. He spat it out and tried to wrench his head free.
“Wyn! Stop it! We’re trying to help you. Please, Wyn. Please. You’re going to hurt yourself.” The familiar voice sounded sad, pleading, worried.
