The Winter King
Page 63
She fastened up her boots, ran a brush through her wild curls. She had just picked up the cloak when a youthful voice called coolly, “It’s time, my lady.”
That brief call was the only warning she received before the tent flaps parted, and Stoli poked his head through.
“Good,” he said. “You are ready. The king says you must eat before we leave. Bjork, the king’s cook, has prepared a plate for you. Follow me.” He ducked back out before she could answer.
Scowling a little over the boy’s high-handedness, she flung her cape over her shoulders and followed him outside. With the exception of Wynter’s tent, which a dozen men were already swiftly disassembling, the trampled snow of what had been the army’s encampment was barren, smoky tendrils of mist rising up from snow-doused cook fires. Less than a tenth of the original force had remained behind, and they were already packed and waiting on the road, ready to march. The cook wagon was packed also, save a single plate of bread, cheese, and borgan and a cup of steaming broth which a large, scarred Winterman who introduced himself as Bjork handed to her.
She thanked him and ate quickly, aware of all the eyes upon her. By the time she was finished, Wynter’s tent had been disassembled and loaded for travel, and Stoli returned to escort her to the waiting carriage.
Just the sight of the four-wheeled torture chamber stopped her in her tracks. The meal she’d just consumed churned in her belly.
“Hurry, please, my lady,” Stoli urged impatiently. “The day’s already half-gone.”
Kham swallowed the sick queasy knot in her throat. If she knew how to ride a horse, she would have asked for one. Nodding, she gathered her skirts. You can bear it, Khamsin. You can bear anything if you put your mind to it. Just open the windows.
The air of stale perfume and sickness still clung to the velvet-lined interior. She opened the window, turned her face towards the fresh outside air, and breathed through her mouth, praying the gods would be merciful and spare her the travel sickness this time. But with the first lurching jolt of the carriage, she knew no mercy was in the offing.
Khamsin threw open the door on the far side and leapt to the ground. Her boots sank knee deep in snow, and the dark blue of her skirts and yards of cloak billowed out around her. She stumbled, slapped a hand on an icy tree trunk to steady herself, and took off running for the privacy of the forest.
Shouts rose up behind her, followed by the clatter of horse hooves pounding frozen ground, but she ignored them and plunged into the snow-covered shadows of the trees. She ran until she could no longer see the road or the Wintermen, and then fell to her knees and emptied her stomach into the snow.
When the nausea passed, she staggered back and fell against the trunk of an aged oak tree, sliding down the rough, broad trunk until she was sitting on the ground. She scrubbed her face with fistfuls of clean, cold snow and dragged breaths of cold air into her lungs.
That was how Wynter found her. Her wild, white-streaked curls tangled about her shoulders, snowflakes glittering in the dark of her lashes and skin, her breathing shallow and skin wan. She glanced up at the sound of Hodri’s belled bridle, then closed her eyes wearily and let her head loll back against the trunk of the tree.
The acrid scent of sickness curled on the winter wind, and the tension that had gripped Wynter’s chest in icy claws began to fade. She’d not been fleeing him. She’d only been seeking privacy to hide her weakness, as all wild things did.
He drew a breath, released it slowly. His fury went with it on a long, chill exhale.
He’d seen her leap from the carriage and race for the cover of the trees, and all he’d been able to think was that she was trying to escape, that she’d sworn to honor her vows and betrayed them at first chance. His fury at the prospect was surprisingly strong and violent. He didn’t know why. He’d been expecting deceit from the moment he’d ridden into Vera Sola, and she’d already been party to one lie.
He swung his leg over Hodri’s hindquarters and dismounted. The snow came halfway up his calves as he walked to her side.
“I can’t go back in that carriage,” she said, her eyes still closed. “I just can’t.”
“No,” he agreed. “I can see that.”
“If I could ride, I’d ask for a horse.”
“If you could ride, I’d give you one.” He reached down to take her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come. Hodri’s strong enough to bear the both of us. You’ll ride with me.”
She gave him such a startled, hopeful look he almost smiled.
“It’s no favor,” he assured her. “We’ll ride hard, and we won’t stop often. And you won’t find the front of my saddle the kindest seat.”
“I won’t complain.” She wouldn’t. Even if the saddle bruised her so badly she could barely walk, she wouldn’t make a peep.
He led her back to Hodri, mounted first, then leaned over to grasp her hand and lift her into the saddle before him. Together, they rode back to the rest of the men, and after a brief hour’s rest, they were back in the saddle and once more heading north at a punishing pace. Wynter, with Khamsin seated before him, rode in the lead.
It wasn’t comfortable. He’d spoken the truth about that. The saddle was crowded, his armor plate against her back was hard as granite, but she didn’t care. Anything was better than the closed, miasmic imprisonment of that carriage.
She leaned her head against Wynter’s armored chest, tilted her chin into the wind, and smiled for the first time in days.
That brief call was the only warning she received before the tent flaps parted, and Stoli poked his head through.
“Good,” he said. “You are ready. The king says you must eat before we leave. Bjork, the king’s cook, has prepared a plate for you. Follow me.” He ducked back out before she could answer.
Scowling a little over the boy’s high-handedness, she flung her cape over her shoulders and followed him outside. With the exception of Wynter’s tent, which a dozen men were already swiftly disassembling, the trampled snow of what had been the army’s encampment was barren, smoky tendrils of mist rising up from snow-doused cook fires. Less than a tenth of the original force had remained behind, and they were already packed and waiting on the road, ready to march. The cook wagon was packed also, save a single plate of bread, cheese, and borgan and a cup of steaming broth which a large, scarred Winterman who introduced himself as Bjork handed to her.
She thanked him and ate quickly, aware of all the eyes upon her. By the time she was finished, Wynter’s tent had been disassembled and loaded for travel, and Stoli returned to escort her to the waiting carriage.
Just the sight of the four-wheeled torture chamber stopped her in her tracks. The meal she’d just consumed churned in her belly.
“Hurry, please, my lady,” Stoli urged impatiently. “The day’s already half-gone.”
Kham swallowed the sick queasy knot in her throat. If she knew how to ride a horse, she would have asked for one. Nodding, she gathered her skirts. You can bear it, Khamsin. You can bear anything if you put your mind to it. Just open the windows.
The air of stale perfume and sickness still clung to the velvet-lined interior. She opened the window, turned her face towards the fresh outside air, and breathed through her mouth, praying the gods would be merciful and spare her the travel sickness this time. But with the first lurching jolt of the carriage, she knew no mercy was in the offing.
Khamsin threw open the door on the far side and leapt to the ground. Her boots sank knee deep in snow, and the dark blue of her skirts and yards of cloak billowed out around her. She stumbled, slapped a hand on an icy tree trunk to steady herself, and took off running for the privacy of the forest.
Shouts rose up behind her, followed by the clatter of horse hooves pounding frozen ground, but she ignored them and plunged into the snow-covered shadows of the trees. She ran until she could no longer see the road or the Wintermen, and then fell to her knees and emptied her stomach into the snow.
When the nausea passed, she staggered back and fell against the trunk of an aged oak tree, sliding down the rough, broad trunk until she was sitting on the ground. She scrubbed her face with fistfuls of clean, cold snow and dragged breaths of cold air into her lungs.
That was how Wynter found her. Her wild, white-streaked curls tangled about her shoulders, snowflakes glittering in the dark of her lashes and skin, her breathing shallow and skin wan. She glanced up at the sound of Hodri’s belled bridle, then closed her eyes wearily and let her head loll back against the trunk of the tree.
The acrid scent of sickness curled on the winter wind, and the tension that had gripped Wynter’s chest in icy claws began to fade. She’d not been fleeing him. She’d only been seeking privacy to hide her weakness, as all wild things did.
He drew a breath, released it slowly. His fury went with it on a long, chill exhale.
He’d seen her leap from the carriage and race for the cover of the trees, and all he’d been able to think was that she was trying to escape, that she’d sworn to honor her vows and betrayed them at first chance. His fury at the prospect was surprisingly strong and violent. He didn’t know why. He’d been expecting deceit from the moment he’d ridden into Vera Sola, and she’d already been party to one lie.
He swung his leg over Hodri’s hindquarters and dismounted. The snow came halfway up his calves as he walked to her side.
“I can’t go back in that carriage,” she said, her eyes still closed. “I just can’t.”
“No,” he agreed. “I can see that.”
“If I could ride, I’d ask for a horse.”
“If you could ride, I’d give you one.” He reached down to take her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come. Hodri’s strong enough to bear the both of us. You’ll ride with me.”
She gave him such a startled, hopeful look he almost smiled.
“It’s no favor,” he assured her. “We’ll ride hard, and we won’t stop often. And you won’t find the front of my saddle the kindest seat.”
“I won’t complain.” She wouldn’t. Even if the saddle bruised her so badly she could barely walk, she wouldn’t make a peep.
He led her back to Hodri, mounted first, then leaned over to grasp her hand and lift her into the saddle before him. Together, they rode back to the rest of the men, and after a brief hour’s rest, they were back in the saddle and once more heading north at a punishing pace. Wynter, with Khamsin seated before him, rode in the lead.
It wasn’t comfortable. He’d spoken the truth about that. The saddle was crowded, his armor plate against her back was hard as granite, but she didn’t care. Anything was better than the closed, miasmic imprisonment of that carriage.
She leaned her head against Wynter’s armored chest, tilted her chin into the wind, and smiled for the first time in days.
