The Winter King
Page 88
“There’s no need to rush yourself, my lady,” Bron intervened when Valik’s expression darkened. “We’ll have another lesson tomorrow, and I’ll teach you the next gait then. For now, why don’t you practice what you’ve learned today and ride Kori back to Gildenheim without the lead line attached?”
“I suppose that’s acceptable.” She acquiesced with more ill grace than she actually felt, so Valik wouldn’t feel compelled to quash the idea just to deprive her. Truth be told, the prospect of putting her newly acquired skills to use was even more appealing than staying in the ring to continue her training.
As they rode back up the hill to Gildenheim, it was all she could do to stop from laughing out loud. She was on a horse, guiding it with her own hands up a curving mountain road, like any other free lady of the court might do. No more prison built of confining walls or her father’s harsh governance.
Effervescence bubbled in her veins. Even Valik’s glowering presence at her side couldn’t dim her happiness. She was wed to a man who might send her to her death in a year, living in a land of haughty strangers who regarded her with all the welcome of a cockroach at a dinner banquet, and currently riding in the company of a man who would rather toss her off the mountain than escort her up it, but for the first time in her life, she felt free.
If Khamsin could have spent every waking hour with Kori and Bron, she would have. She hadn’t returned to visit the top-floor children since that awful Thorgyllsday debacle, so except for the all-too-brief daily lessons with Bron, Kham spent most of the next week suffering through more hours of boring teas, luncheons, and social hours that the well-meaning Lady Melle Firkin had arranged.
Of Wynter, Khamsin continued to see little. Except for his attendance at the evening meal and his nightly visits to her chamber—which remained as breathtakingly passionate as ever—he remained sequestered with his councilmen, stewards, and generals in meeting after meeting. Wynter’s preoccupation was not lost on Reika Villani or her circle of friends. The whispers and laughter behind their fans grew louder as the days progressed, the sly looks bolder. Khamsin held her head high. She wouldn’t give Reika or her friends the satisfaction of knowing how their gloating stung.
Reflecting Kham’s mood, the skies over Gildenheim remained a gloomy, overcast gray that drizzled constant snow.
The one bright spot in her days was the time she spent in the riding ring with Bron. The stable master was a kind, patient, and thorough teacher whose gift for calming high-strung horses worked equally as well for calming high-strung foreign queens. Each morning she counted down the hours until it was time for her lesson. When the lesson was over, she counted down the hours till the next day.
By the end of the week, Bron declared that she’d made enough progress to warrant a treat: a ride into the valley to visit the village of Konundal. They never went faster than a comfortable trot, and Valik stayed close by her side, but it was still Kham’s first real, independent ride, and she thrilled at her newfound freedom.
When they reached the outskirts of the village, Kham sat up straighter in the saddle and looked around with interest. She hadn’t paid much attention when she and Wynter had ridden through on the day of their arrival, but as this was the closest village to the castle, she intended to become very familiar with it.
The buildings were constructed of stone and wood with sharply angled roofs. Scores of stone chimneys rose towards the sky, fragrant wood smoke rising from each one. Cobbled streets had been cleared of snow and covered with grit to keep from turning slippery, and Winterfolk, bundled lightly against what most Summerlanders would consider bitter cold, went about their business as though the frosty air was little more than a spring chill. And perhaps, to them, it was.
For all that it served Gildenheim, the town of Konundal was surprisingly small. What buildings there were could have fit in Vera Sola three times over.
“Our largest cities are the ports Saevar, Loni, and Konumarr,” Bron told her when she said as much. “Wynter has smaller palaces in each of them, but the Craig is the true seat of his power.”
“I thought the city that served Gildenheim would be larger.”
Bron smiled. “Gildenheim is its own city. Konundal is primarily a logging village. Few men of the Craig live in towns. Most have small farms and crofts in the mountains where they raise sheep, horses, cattle, and the next generation of men who will keep Wintercraig strong.”
As they rode down the cobbled street, Khamsin was conscious of the stares she received from the villagers, some curious, some openly hostile. In this land of tall, pale-haired, golden-skinned folk, she could never hope to pass unnoticed, even without her escort of a dozen, icy-eyed White Guard.
They left their horses at the village stable and walked down the main street to the tavern for lunch. The proprietor greeted Valik and Bron with warmth and Khamsin with guarded politeness, and led them to a small, private room in the back.
“The last three years don’t seem to have been as hard on Wintercraig as they were on Summerlea,” Khamsin noted as the servingwoman brought out trays of fresh fruits and vegetables before their meal.
The servingwoman and Kham’s guards all gave her sharp looks.
“We have our share of orphans and widows,” Valik said coolly.
“Far fewer than Summerlea, I’m sure, but that’s not what I meant.” She gestured to the obviously fresh produce in the center of the table. “We all but starved this last year. All our crops in the north and many in the south were destroyed by the prolonged cold, but you seem not to have suffered a similar distress.”
“I suppose that’s acceptable.” She acquiesced with more ill grace than she actually felt, so Valik wouldn’t feel compelled to quash the idea just to deprive her. Truth be told, the prospect of putting her newly acquired skills to use was even more appealing than staying in the ring to continue her training.
As they rode back up the hill to Gildenheim, it was all she could do to stop from laughing out loud. She was on a horse, guiding it with her own hands up a curving mountain road, like any other free lady of the court might do. No more prison built of confining walls or her father’s harsh governance.
Effervescence bubbled in her veins. Even Valik’s glowering presence at her side couldn’t dim her happiness. She was wed to a man who might send her to her death in a year, living in a land of haughty strangers who regarded her with all the welcome of a cockroach at a dinner banquet, and currently riding in the company of a man who would rather toss her off the mountain than escort her up it, but for the first time in her life, she felt free.
If Khamsin could have spent every waking hour with Kori and Bron, she would have. She hadn’t returned to visit the top-floor children since that awful Thorgyllsday debacle, so except for the all-too-brief daily lessons with Bron, Kham spent most of the next week suffering through more hours of boring teas, luncheons, and social hours that the well-meaning Lady Melle Firkin had arranged.
Of Wynter, Khamsin continued to see little. Except for his attendance at the evening meal and his nightly visits to her chamber—which remained as breathtakingly passionate as ever—he remained sequestered with his councilmen, stewards, and generals in meeting after meeting. Wynter’s preoccupation was not lost on Reika Villani or her circle of friends. The whispers and laughter behind their fans grew louder as the days progressed, the sly looks bolder. Khamsin held her head high. She wouldn’t give Reika or her friends the satisfaction of knowing how their gloating stung.
Reflecting Kham’s mood, the skies over Gildenheim remained a gloomy, overcast gray that drizzled constant snow.
The one bright spot in her days was the time she spent in the riding ring with Bron. The stable master was a kind, patient, and thorough teacher whose gift for calming high-strung horses worked equally as well for calming high-strung foreign queens. Each morning she counted down the hours until it was time for her lesson. When the lesson was over, she counted down the hours till the next day.
By the end of the week, Bron declared that she’d made enough progress to warrant a treat: a ride into the valley to visit the village of Konundal. They never went faster than a comfortable trot, and Valik stayed close by her side, but it was still Kham’s first real, independent ride, and she thrilled at her newfound freedom.
When they reached the outskirts of the village, Kham sat up straighter in the saddle and looked around with interest. She hadn’t paid much attention when she and Wynter had ridden through on the day of their arrival, but as this was the closest village to the castle, she intended to become very familiar with it.
The buildings were constructed of stone and wood with sharply angled roofs. Scores of stone chimneys rose towards the sky, fragrant wood smoke rising from each one. Cobbled streets had been cleared of snow and covered with grit to keep from turning slippery, and Winterfolk, bundled lightly against what most Summerlanders would consider bitter cold, went about their business as though the frosty air was little more than a spring chill. And perhaps, to them, it was.
For all that it served Gildenheim, the town of Konundal was surprisingly small. What buildings there were could have fit in Vera Sola three times over.
“Our largest cities are the ports Saevar, Loni, and Konumarr,” Bron told her when she said as much. “Wynter has smaller palaces in each of them, but the Craig is the true seat of his power.”
“I thought the city that served Gildenheim would be larger.”
Bron smiled. “Gildenheim is its own city. Konundal is primarily a logging village. Few men of the Craig live in towns. Most have small farms and crofts in the mountains where they raise sheep, horses, cattle, and the next generation of men who will keep Wintercraig strong.”
As they rode down the cobbled street, Khamsin was conscious of the stares she received from the villagers, some curious, some openly hostile. In this land of tall, pale-haired, golden-skinned folk, she could never hope to pass unnoticed, even without her escort of a dozen, icy-eyed White Guard.
They left their horses at the village stable and walked down the main street to the tavern for lunch. The proprietor greeted Valik and Bron with warmth and Khamsin with guarded politeness, and led them to a small, private room in the back.
“The last three years don’t seem to have been as hard on Wintercraig as they were on Summerlea,” Khamsin noted as the servingwoman brought out trays of fresh fruits and vegetables before their meal.
The servingwoman and Kham’s guards all gave her sharp looks.
“We have our share of orphans and widows,” Valik said coolly.
“Far fewer than Summerlea, I’m sure, but that’s not what I meant.” She gestured to the obviously fresh produce in the center of the table. “We all but starved this last year. All our crops in the north and many in the south were destroyed by the prolonged cold, but you seem not to have suffered a similar distress.”
