The Winter King
Page 48
Fascinated, she approached one tent wall to examine it, wondering what sort of paint they’d used that would remain adhered so well to a canvas that was constantly rolled and unrolled and submitted to the harsh conditions of military campaigns. Each line was made up of thousands of tiny little dots of shimmering, multicolored dyes. The canvas had essentially been tattooed, and the artistry and painstaking attention to detail was astonishing.
Had the Winter King commissioned the illustration? Surely a man who surrounded himself with such exquisite beauty couldn’t be a heartless monster?
Behind her, Bella finished cleaning their muddy shoes, lined them up neatly beside the tent flap, then wandered around the interior, inspecting the place with a jaundiced eye and dismissing the exquisite mural with a careless shrug. “Well, it certainly isn’t the palace, is it?” she sniffed when she’d finished her inspection.
“That depends on what part of the palace you’re used to,” Khamsin snapped, irritated by the girl’s contempt for the fascinating, foreign beauty around them. The young maid gave her a wounded look, and Kham instantly felt guilty. No doubt Bella had been raised to believe Summerlea was the pinnacle of beauty against which all the world was judged and found inferior. “Remember, Bella,” she said in a calmer, more congenial tone, “this is an army encampment. I doubt Roland himself traveled half so well.”
“Roland was warrior first and courtier second,” a brisk masculine voice said from the tent entrance. “A man after my own heart, even if he was a Summerlander.”
Both Khamsin and Bella gasped and whirled around to see Wynter straighten to his full height just inside the tent. His armor was coated in glassy ice where the falling rain had touched the metal plates and frozen on contact. His wolf’s head visor was pushed up, out of his face, revealing golden skin and cold, cold eyes.
Those narrowed eyes pinned Khamsin in place. “Valik tells me you’ve refused the offer of the evening meal.”
Kham’s throat felt suddenly dry, and her belly took a nervous lurch. “I—”
“You will eat. You can do so willingly, or I can hold you down and force the food down your throat myself. One way or the other, it makes no difference to me.”
What softening she might have been feeling for him froze in a snap. She’d never been one to take orders well. As soon as someone said “you must,” her instinctive response was “I won’t!” Even when she would otherwise have been happy saying “I will.”
Her hands curled into fists. “As I told Lord Valik, I am not hungry.” Sparks flashed in her eyes. Outside, lightning cracked, and thunder boomed with enough force to shake the tent walls.
Wynter didn’t so much as flinch. “You. Girl. Get out,” he ordered Bella. His narrowed eyes remained fixed on Khamsin, unblinking, not flickering for even an instant.
The maid didn’t hesitate. Gathering up her skirts, she fled. She didn’t even stop to cover her head against the rain that was now pelting down in sheets.
As soon as she was gone, Wynter moved. One moment he was standing by the tent flap, the next he was upon Khamsin, his large hand gripping her by the back of the neck, holding her in place with effortless strength.
“The scent of your magic on the wind is familiar to me . . . Storm. You were the one who challenged me in the sky that first day.”
She considered giving him a little taste of lightning, but the way he looked right now, if she attacked, he’d likely just snap her neck. Her jaw tightened as she gritted her teeth and held back her temper.
Wynter smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. “Don’t think for one instant you could actually defeat me. You would only hurt yourself trying. I hold the Ice Heart, and the power of that is something you can scarce imagine.” The fingers at the back of Khamsin’s neck began to stroke her skin. “Now, my men are going to deliver your evening meal, and you are going to eat it. Every last bite. Do you understand?”
“I told you, I’m not hu—” She broke off in a fit of coughing. His grip had tightened slightly, and his fingers had gone cold. The chill spread rapidly through her skin, making her throat feel so dry she could not continue to speak.
In a voice of toneless calm, he told her, “You are wed to me. Your survival and welfare are my responsibility now, and I will tolerate no defiance in that regard. Best you learn that now, and accept it. Your life in the coming months will be much easier for it.” His fingers relaxed their grip just slightly, and the biting cold faded as quickly as it had come. “Now, one more time, you need to eat. You are wounded, and your body needs nourishment, so it can heal.”
Her lips compressed in a tight line. Whatever food passed her lips would most likely come right back up, but the mighty Winter King had spoken. “Fine,” she snapped. “You want me to eat? I’ll eat. Now let go of me.” She wrenched herself out of his grip and glared at him.
He regarded her with imperturbable calm. “I’ll be back when your meal is ready.” He turned and ducked through the tent flaps.
Left with no one on whom to vent her spleen, Kham gave a long, furious hiss of displeasure and kicked a small, glazed pot sitting on the floor near the brazier. Unfortunately, the pot turned out to be cast iron and heavy as a boulder. Instead of rolling across the tent floor with a satisfying rattle, it stayed where it was, and she yelped at the stinging jolt of pain that shot halfway up her leg from her now-throbbing big toe.
Had the Winter King commissioned the illustration? Surely a man who surrounded himself with such exquisite beauty couldn’t be a heartless monster?
Behind her, Bella finished cleaning their muddy shoes, lined them up neatly beside the tent flap, then wandered around the interior, inspecting the place with a jaundiced eye and dismissing the exquisite mural with a careless shrug. “Well, it certainly isn’t the palace, is it?” she sniffed when she’d finished her inspection.
“That depends on what part of the palace you’re used to,” Khamsin snapped, irritated by the girl’s contempt for the fascinating, foreign beauty around them. The young maid gave her a wounded look, and Kham instantly felt guilty. No doubt Bella had been raised to believe Summerlea was the pinnacle of beauty against which all the world was judged and found inferior. “Remember, Bella,” she said in a calmer, more congenial tone, “this is an army encampment. I doubt Roland himself traveled half so well.”
“Roland was warrior first and courtier second,” a brisk masculine voice said from the tent entrance. “A man after my own heart, even if he was a Summerlander.”
Both Khamsin and Bella gasped and whirled around to see Wynter straighten to his full height just inside the tent. His armor was coated in glassy ice where the falling rain had touched the metal plates and frozen on contact. His wolf’s head visor was pushed up, out of his face, revealing golden skin and cold, cold eyes.
Those narrowed eyes pinned Khamsin in place. “Valik tells me you’ve refused the offer of the evening meal.”
Kham’s throat felt suddenly dry, and her belly took a nervous lurch. “I—”
“You will eat. You can do so willingly, or I can hold you down and force the food down your throat myself. One way or the other, it makes no difference to me.”
What softening she might have been feeling for him froze in a snap. She’d never been one to take orders well. As soon as someone said “you must,” her instinctive response was “I won’t!” Even when she would otherwise have been happy saying “I will.”
Her hands curled into fists. “As I told Lord Valik, I am not hungry.” Sparks flashed in her eyes. Outside, lightning cracked, and thunder boomed with enough force to shake the tent walls.
Wynter didn’t so much as flinch. “You. Girl. Get out,” he ordered Bella. His narrowed eyes remained fixed on Khamsin, unblinking, not flickering for even an instant.
The maid didn’t hesitate. Gathering up her skirts, she fled. She didn’t even stop to cover her head against the rain that was now pelting down in sheets.
As soon as she was gone, Wynter moved. One moment he was standing by the tent flap, the next he was upon Khamsin, his large hand gripping her by the back of the neck, holding her in place with effortless strength.
“The scent of your magic on the wind is familiar to me . . . Storm. You were the one who challenged me in the sky that first day.”
She considered giving him a little taste of lightning, but the way he looked right now, if she attacked, he’d likely just snap her neck. Her jaw tightened as she gritted her teeth and held back her temper.
Wynter smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. “Don’t think for one instant you could actually defeat me. You would only hurt yourself trying. I hold the Ice Heart, and the power of that is something you can scarce imagine.” The fingers at the back of Khamsin’s neck began to stroke her skin. “Now, my men are going to deliver your evening meal, and you are going to eat it. Every last bite. Do you understand?”
“I told you, I’m not hu—” She broke off in a fit of coughing. His grip had tightened slightly, and his fingers had gone cold. The chill spread rapidly through her skin, making her throat feel so dry she could not continue to speak.
In a voice of toneless calm, he told her, “You are wed to me. Your survival and welfare are my responsibility now, and I will tolerate no defiance in that regard. Best you learn that now, and accept it. Your life in the coming months will be much easier for it.” His fingers relaxed their grip just slightly, and the biting cold faded as quickly as it had come. “Now, one more time, you need to eat. You are wounded, and your body needs nourishment, so it can heal.”
Her lips compressed in a tight line. Whatever food passed her lips would most likely come right back up, but the mighty Winter King had spoken. “Fine,” she snapped. “You want me to eat? I’ll eat. Now let go of me.” She wrenched herself out of his grip and glared at him.
He regarded her with imperturbable calm. “I’ll be back when your meal is ready.” He turned and ducked through the tent flaps.
Left with no one on whom to vent her spleen, Kham gave a long, furious hiss of displeasure and kicked a small, glazed pot sitting on the floor near the brazier. Unfortunately, the pot turned out to be cast iron and heavy as a boulder. Instead of rolling across the tent floor with a satisfying rattle, it stayed where it was, and she yelped at the stinging jolt of pain that shot halfway up her leg from her now-throbbing big toe.
