The Winter King
by C.L. Wilson
Genre: Fantasy Romance
Publisher: Avon Romance
Wynter Atrialan, the Winter King, once lived in peace with his southern, Summerlander neighbors, but when Falcon, the prince of Summerlea, stole Wynter’s bride and murdered his young brother, Wynter vows vengeance. Calling upon a dangerous Wintercraig magic called the Ice Heart, he gathers his armies and marches against Summerlea, crushing their armies and spreading icy winter in his wake.
After three long, bitter years of battle, Summerlea is defeated and Wynter comes to the heart of the kingdom to issue his terms for their surrender. The prince of Summerlea stole Wynter’s bride and slew Wynter’s Heir. He wants the loss replaced. The Ice Heart is consuming him. Wynter hopes holding his own child in his arms will rekindle the warmth of love and melt the Ice Heart before he becomes the monster of Wintercraig legend, the Ice King.
The Summer King has three very precious daughters whom he loves dearly. Wynter will take one of them to wife. She will have one year to provide him with an Heir. If she fails, he will turn her out in the ice and snow of the mountains and claim another princess for his wife. And so it will continue until Wynter has his Heir or the Summer King is out of daughters. All the while, Wynter will enjoy the vengeance of knowing the Summer King will suffer each day without his beloved daughter(s), as Wynter suffers each day without his own beloved brother.
The plan is perfect—except for one small detail. The Summer King has a fourth daughter. One of which he is not so fond.
Blamed as a child for the death of her beloved mother, Khamsin Coruscate, the forgotten princess of Summerlea, has spent her life hidden from the world like an embarrassing secret. Dressed in cast-off gowns and left to her own devices, with only the determination of her loyal nursemaid to ensure she receives the education befitting an Heir to the Summer Throne, Khamsin haunts the abandoned towers and gardens of Summerlea’s royal palace, close to her beloved late mother’s treasures, and waits for the day her father will recognize her as a Princess of the Rose. But though she dreams of the valor and sacrifices of ancient Summerlea heroes and pines for paternal love that will never come, Khamsin is no sweet, gentle, helpless princess-in-a-tower. She is a fiercely passionate creature with a volatile, rebellious temper that is often as reckless and destructive as the dangerous forces of her weathergift, the power of storms.
Together will their stormy personalities be able to meld or will their powers destroy not only their love but the whole world?
C. L. WILSON grew up camping and waterskiing across America, from Cherry Creek reservoir in Denver, CO, to Lake Gaston on the border of Virginia and North Carolina, to Georgia’s Lake Lanier and Lake Allatoona. When she wasn’t waterskiing and camping on family vacations, you could usually find her with a book in one hand and a sketch pad in the other—either reading, writing stories, or drawing. Sometime around the ninth grade, she decided she was better at drawing her pictures with words than paints and charcoals, and she set aside her sketchpad to focus entirely on writing.
Wilson is active in Tampa Area Romance Authors (TARA), her local chapter of Romance Writers of America. When not engaged in writerly pursuits, she enjoys golfing, swimming, reading, playing video games with her children, and spending time with her friends and family. She is also an avid collector (her husband says pack rat!), and she’s the proud owner of an extensive collection of Dept. 56 Dickens and North Pole villages, unicorns, Lladro figurines, and mint condition comic books.
Wilson currently resides with her husband, their three wonderful children, and their little black cat, Oreo, in a secluded ranch community less than thirty miles away from the crystalline waters and sugar-sand beaches of Anna Maria Island and Siesta Key on Florida’s gulf coast.
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Prologue
~ Scarlet on Snow
King’s Keep
Vera Sola,
Summerlea
“Do you have to
go?” Seventeen year old Khamsin
Coruscate clung to her beloved brother’s hand as if by her grip alone she could
anchor him fast and keep him from leaving.
“You know I do. Our treaties with the Winter King are very
important.”
“But you’ll be
home soon?” Whenever he was gone, the
ancient walls of the royal palace of Summerlea that had been her home and her
prison since birth seemed somehow more confining, more restrictive.
“Not this time,
little sister.” Falcon shook his
head. A strand of black hair that had
pulled free of the queue at the back of his neck brushed against the soft, dark
skin of his cheek. “It will take weeks
to negotiate the treaties.”
Khamsin scowled,
and the wind began to gust, sending Kham’s habitually untamed hair whipping
into her mouth and eyes. “Why does he
have to send you? Why can’t his
ambassador negotiate the treaty? He’s
sending you away because of me, isn’t he?
Because he doesn’t want you spending so much time with me.” Her hands clenched into fists. The wind sent her skirts flying and a dark
cloud rolled across the sun.
Their father,
King Verdan IV of Summerlea, didn’t love her. She knew that. He kept her isolated in a remote part of the
palace, hidden away from his court and his kingdom, on the pretext that her
weathergifts were too volatile and dangerous and she couldn’t control them. That was all true. Kham’s gifts were dangerous, and she couldn’t
control them any better than she could control her own temper. Until now, however, he’d never stooped to
sending his other children away to keep them from visiting her.
“Here now. Be calm.”
Falcon smoothed her wayward curls back, tucking them behind her
ears. Compassion and pity shone softly
in his eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to
leave you. But Father believes I’ll have
the best chance of getting what we want from Wintercraig, and I agree with
him.” Summerlea, once a rich, thriving
kingdom renowned for its fertile fields and abundant orchards, had been in a
slow decline for years. Although the nobles and king maintained a prosperous
façade for political and economic purposes, beneath the gilded domes and bright
splendor of Summerlea’s palaces and grand estates, the rough tatters of neglect
were beginning to show. “Besides, you
won’t be alone while I’m gone. You have
Tildy and the Seasons.”
“It isn’t the
same. They aren’t you.” He was the handsome Prince of Summerlea,
charming, witty, heroic. He’d lived a
life of adventure, most of which he shared with her, entertaining her with the
tales of his exploits…the places he’d seen, the people he’d met. His hunts, his adventures, his triumphs. No matter how much her nursemaid, Tildavera
Greenleaf, doted on Khamsin, or how often the three other princesses, Autumn,
Spring, and Summer, snuck away from their palace duties to spend time with
their ostracized youngest sister, Falcon was the one whose visits she couldn’t
live without.
“Now there’s a
pretty compliment. Careful, my
lady. You’ll turn my head.” He smiled, and warmth poured into her. It was no wonder the ladies of their father’s
court swooned at the slightest attention from him. Falcon had a magical way about him. He could he literally charm the birds from
the trees with his name-gift—controlling any feathered creature on a whim--and
the weathergift inherent in his royal Summerlander blood was stronger than it
had been in any crown prince in generations.
It was as if the Sun itself had taken up residence in his soul, and its
warmth spilled from him each time he smiled.
Kham took a deep
breath. The sharp edge of her temper
abated, and in the skies, the gathering storm began to calm. Perhaps King Verdan truly had chosen to send
his only son as envoy to Wintercraig for political reasons. Long, long ago, as a small child crying
herself to sleep, she’d decided Falcon was the reincarnation of Roland
Triumphant, the Hero of Summerlea, the brave King who had defeated an overwhelming
invasion force with his wit, his weathergifts, and a legendary sword reputed to
be a gift from the Sun God himself. If
anyone could charm the cold, savage folk of the north into concessions most
favorable to Summerlea, Falcon could.
“Will you at
least write to me?” she asked.
“I’ll send you a
bird every week.” He tapped her nose
and gave her a charming, roguish grin. “Cheer up. Just think of all the swordfights you’ll win
when you’re fighting invisible opponents instead of me.”
Kham rolled her
eyes. He’d been teaching her
sword-fighting for years, but she had yet to best him in a match.
“You know,” she
said as they walked towards the doorway leading back into the palace, “it might
actually be a good thing that you’ll be spending months in Wintercraig.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You can use that time to find out what
happened to Roland’s sword.”
Falcon tripped
on an uneven flagstone and grabbed the trunk of a nearby tree to steady
himself. “I’m sure I’ll be much too busy
to chase fairy tales, Storm.”
She frowned in
surprise. “But you’ve always believed
the stories were true.” Blazing, the legendary sword of Roland Soldeus, had
disappeared shortly after the heroic king’s death. Legend claimed it was the Winter King, the
father of Roland’s betrothed, who had spirited the sword away so Roland’s
brother Donal couldn’t claim it. Every
royal Summerlea Heir for the last two millennia had dreamed of finding the
legendary blade and bringing it back home where it belonged. Falcon had spent years chasing lead after
lead, determined that he would be the one to find Blazing and restore Summerlea
to its former glory.
“What about
those letters?” she added. “The really
old ones you found tucked in that monastery?
You said they proved the stories were true.”
“That was six
years ago. I was seventeen. I wanted the stories to be true.” He gave her a quick hug and a brotherly kiss
on the forehead. “I’ve got to run. I’m
meeting with Father and his advisors to go over our list of demands and
concessions one last time before I leave.
I’ll see you in a few months.”
“I’ll miss you
every day.” She trailed after him,
feeling bereft and forlorn when Falcon turned the corner and disappeared from
view. But this time, she also felt
confused. She’d never known Falcon to give up on something he felt passionately
about. And he’d been passionate about
finding Roland’s sword. He’d been
certain he was on the right trail. He’d
shared his discoveries with her because he knew she was just as hungry as he to
find the legendary sword.
So why would he
deny it now?
* * *
Gildenheim,
Wintercraig
“She's not good
for you."
Wynter Atrialan,
King of Wintercraig, cast a sideways glance at his younger brother. "Don't say that, Garrick. I know you've never liked Elka, but in six
months time, she will be my bride and your queen."
Garrick shook
his long, snow-silver hair. Eyes as
bright and blue as the glacier caves in Wintercraig's ice-bound Skoerr
Mountains shone with solemn intensity that made the boy look far older than his
sixteen years.
"You love
too deeply, Wyn. From the moment you
decided to take her to wife, you’ve blinded yourself to her true nature."
Wynter
sighed. "I should not have shared
my worries with you when I first met her."
Wyn was an intensely private man, but he'd never kept secrets from
Garrick. Not one. Wyn had raised his brother since their
parents' death ten years ago. And in
those years, he'd never tried to sweeten the ugly world of politics, never
tried to gloss over his fears or concerns—even when it came to the more
personal but still political matter of selecting a queen. If something happened to him, Garrick would
be king, and Wyn didn’t want his brother thrown into such a position without
preparation.
Unfortunately,
the years of openness and plain, unfettered talk had paid unanticipated
returns. Because of his unflinching
honesty with Garrick, no one in Wintercraig--no one in all the world, for that
matter--knew him better than his young brother.
Not even Wyn's lifelong friend and second-in-command, Valik. Such deep familiarity could be as troublesome
as it was comforting.
"She is
cold," Garrick insisted. "She
does not love you as she should. She
wants to be queen more than she wants to be your wife."
"Elka is a
woman of the Craig. She is as reserved with
her feelings as I."
"Is
she? So that is why she laughs and
smiles so warmly when the Summerlander is near?"
Wynter frowned a
warning at his brother. "Careful,
Garrick. Elka Villani will be my wife
and queen. Insult to her is insult to
me.”
“I offered no
insult. I merely asked a question. And based on my observations, it’s a
perfectly legitimate one.”
“You are
misreading what you see. Elka knows it’s
vital the Summer Prince feels welcome here if we are to come to an amicable
agreement." The lush, fertile
fields of Summerlea provided much needed sustenance to the folk of Wintercraig
during the harsh, cold months of a northern winter. Their grains, fruits and vegetables, which
Wintercraig bought with furs, whale oil and forest products, could mean the
difference between life and death for his people during years when their own
harvests were poor. That had,
unfortunately, been quite often of late, since the summers had grown shorter
and food from Summerlea had been growing steadily more dear after Wynter had
taken the throne. Falcon Coruscate, son
of the weathermage king who ruled Summerlea, had come three months ago at
Wynter’s invitation to negotiate terms of a new treaty that would ensure longer
summers in the north and more affordable trade in foodstuffs for the winters.
“She makes him
feel welcome to more than the court,” Garrick corrected. “She flirts.”
Wyn arched a
brow. “And if she does, where’s the harm
in it? A pretty face and a sweet smile
can persuade a man better than cold figures and dry treaties—especially
self-indulgent peacocks like the Summer Prince.” He smiled when Garrick rolled his eyes. “You don’t remember our mother, but she could
charm a Frost Giant into the fire.
Father used to call her his secret weapon. Elka merely uses her gifts to aid the realm,
as any good queen would.”
Garrick gave a
snort. "How fortunate that she
takes to the task so well. All right, all right.” He held up his hands in
surrender when his brother’s glance sharpened.
He paused a moment, using hammer and chisel to chip unwanted ice from
the frozen sculpture he was working on, then added, “But even if you trust her,
you’d best keep an eye on the Summerlander.
He’s up to something.”
“Foreign
dignitaries are always up to something.
That’s called politics.”
“He’s been
asking too many questions about the Book of Riddles."
Wyn’s hand
stilled momentarily in its work on his own sculpture. “Has he?”
He tried to pull of nonchalance, but shouldn’t have bothered. Garrick knew him too well.
“That’s what
he’s really here for. To get the book
and find Roland’s sword.”
Roland’s sword
was a fabled Summerlea weapon of inconceivable power. It had disappeared three thousand years ago,
not long after the Summer King who first wielded it sacrificed his life to save
his kingdom from invasion. Many myths
and legends swirled around its disappearance.
One of those legends suggested that the Winter King of that time,
fearing the sword’s power would be misused by Roland’s successors, had smuggled
the sword out of Summerlea and hidden it in a place it would never be
found. The Winter King had also left
behind a book of obscure clues and riddles that supposedly led to the sword’s
secret hiding place, in case his own descendants one day had need of the
legendary weapon’s vast power.
“Well, good luck
to him with that,” Wynter said. “The
sword is a myth. It’s long gone by now,
if it ever existed at all. And he won’t
find whatever treasure the Book actually does protect, either, because he will
never find the Book. It’s kept in a
place no man can go.”
“But Elka can.”
He scowled. “Garrick, stop. She is my betrothed. She will be my queen. She would never betray me.”
Garrick heaved a
sigh. “Fine. She is your true and worthy
love. I’ll never suggest otherwise
again.”
“Good.” Wyn pressed his lips together and focused on
the small block of ice sitting on the pedestal before him. Patient as time itself, he carved away the
excess ice until he revealed the hidden beauty inside. Fragile, shimmering, a bouquet of lilies emerged,
petals curved with incredible delicacy, each flower distinct and perfect,
rising up from slender stems of ice.
“What do you think?” he asked when it was done.
"That's
beautiful, Wyn. One of your best
yet."
Wyn smiled. When it came to ice sculptures, Garrick
hoarded his compliments like a miser.
Only perfection earned his highest praise.
"Do you
think she will like it, then? Frost
lilies are her favorite."
Garrick stepped
abruptly away from his own sculpture--a complex scene depicting a family of
deer welcoming their newest, spindly-legged member into the herd--and brushed
the dusting of ice crystals from his furs.
"Any woman who truly loves you would love it, Wyn. It's obvious how much care you put into
it."
"Then she
will love it. You'll see."
“I’m sure she
will,” Garrick said, but his eyes held no conviction.
“Coruscate!”
Wynter’s roar shook the great crystal chandelier that hung in the entry hall of
his palace, Gildenheim. He stormed up
the winding stairs to the wing where royal guests were housed and burst into
the suite that had been occupied for the last two months by the Prince of
Summerlea. The rooms were empty, and
judging by the state of the open drawers and the clothes flung haphazardly about,
the inhabitants had vacated the place in a hurry.
“He’s gone,
Wyn.” Valik, Wynter’s oldest friend and
second in command stepped into the room.
“Laci checked the temple. The
book’s gone, too.”
Wynter swore
under his breath. Barely two weeks ago,
Garrick had warned him to keep an eye on the Summerlea Prince, and Wyn had
dismissed his concerns with such blind, confidence! “When did they leave?”
“About an hour
after we left for Hileje. Elka and his
guard went with him. Bron didn’t think
anything of it. The Summerlander kept
blathering about not letting some fire ten miles away ruin a good day’s hunt.”
“We’d better
start tracking them, then.”
“There’s more,
Wyn.” Valik hesitated, then said, “I
think Garrick went after them. He and
his friends rode out not long after the Summerlander. Bron heard them talking about something the
Summerlander took that Garrick meant to get back.”
Wyn’s jaw turned
to granite. With Valik close on his
heels, he ran back down to the courtyard.
Still saddled
and ready to ride, Wynter’s stallion was waiting in the hands of a stableboy,
and beside him, a dozen of Wynter’s elite White Guard held Prince Falcon’s
valet at swordpoint. The valet looked
nothing like the sleek, meticulously turned-out peacock Wynter’s courtiers had
mocked amongst themselves. He’d traded
his velvet brocade livery for rough-spun woolens, a furred vest, and a heavy
cloak. His knuckles were scraped, and
his face sported a bruised jaw and an eye that was swollen shut and rapidly
purpling.
“We found him in
the village trying to bribe a merchant to smuggle him out in a trade cart, Your
Grace.”
“Where is
he?” Wyn grabbed the valet by his vest,
yanking him up so fast the man’s feet left the ground. Wynter was tall, even for a man of the Craig,
and holding the Summerlander at eye level left almost two feet between the
man’s dangling toes and the icy stone of the courtyard. “Where is that Coruscate bastard you serve?”
“I don’t know!”
Clearly terrified, the man started babbling.
“I swear to you, Your Majesty! I
didn’t even know he was leaving until one of the maids delivered his note. And that only advised me to leave Wintercraig
as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“In other words,
the coward abandoned you while saving his own skin.” Wyn threw the man aside. “Lock him up.
If we don’t find his master, he can face the mercy of the mountains in
his prince’s stead. The rest of you,
mount up. Time to hunt.”
Minutes later,
Wynter, Valik, and two dozen White Guard were galloping down the winding
mountain road that led from Gildenheim to the valley below. Wynter howled a call to the wolves as they
went, sending a summons to the packs that were spirit-kin to his family’s
clan. Wolves were faster in the dense
woods, and they tracked by scent rather than sight. The Summerlanders’ smell was alien to this
part of the world, so the wolves should have no trouble picking up their trail.
He wasn’t sure
if the prince would try heading south, towards Summerlea, or west to the
Llaskroner fjord. The fjord was closer,
and the port there was a busy one, full of strangers from distant lands. For thieves looking to get out of country
quickly, that was the better destination. When the wolf call came from the
west, Wyn knew he’d guessed right. He
whispered to the winds, calling to the old Winterman in the north to blow his
icy horn, then summoning the Vestras, the freezing maritime winds of the
western seas to send their bone-chilling fog.
As he and his
men rode west, following the call of the wolves, the temperatures began to
drop. If the Summer Prince fought back
with his own weathergifts, that would pinpoint his location. If he didn’t, the rapidly worsening weather
would slow his escape. Either way,
Wynter would track him down, and make him pay for what he’d done to the people
of Hileje.
The prince had
hours on him. That was the purpose of
the fire in Hileje—a distraction to get Wynter and his men out of the palace so
Falcon Coruscate could steal what he came for and make his escape. But the distraction had been much more than
a mere fire. The Summerlanders had raped
and murdered dozens of villagers, then locked the rest in the meeting hall and
burned them alive.
Eighty-six lives
wiped out in one senseless act of violence.
Eighty-six innocent Winterfolk who had depended on their king to protect
them. And he had failed.
The tone of the
wolves’ howls suddenly changed, the howls becoming longer, mournful, announcing
a loss to the pack. Wynter sent out his
thoughts, connect to the pack mind and seeing through the wolves’ eyes as he searched
for the source of that cry. He caught a
glimpse of scarlet splashed across the snow, bodies that were clothed not
furred.
“No!” He knew instantly why the wolves howled and
for whom. “No! Garrick!” He spurred Hodri faster, galloping at a
reckless pace. The wind whistled past
his ears. Snow flew from Hodri’s hooves.
It didn’t take
long to reach the clearing where the wolves had gathered. The smell of death filled the air—a dark odor
Wynter had smelled before. It was a scent few men ever forgot.
He reined Hodri
in hard, leaping from saddle to ground before the horse fully stopped. The first two bodies were boys Wyn
recognized. Garrick’s friends. Sixteen
years old, the same age as Garrick.
Arrow-pierced through their hearts.
They’d been dead within minutes of being struck.
A moaning cough
brought Wyn scrambling to his feet. He
half-ran, half-stumbled across the snow towards the source of the sound, but
when he got there, he felt as if his heart had stopped beating. He fell to his knees.
The coughing boy
was Garrick’s best friend, Junnar. He’d
been gut-shot, and the dark, matter-filled blood oozing from the wound told
Wynter the boy was a dead man even though his body still clung weakly to the
last threads of his life.
Junnar lay atop
the prone, lifeless figure of Wynter’s brother.
An arrow--its shaft painted with the Prince of Summerlea’s personal
colors --protruded from Garrick’s throat.
“Garrick?” After
moving Junnar to one side and packing his wound with snow to numb the pain, Wyn
reached for his brother with trembling hands.
His fingers brushed the boy’s face, and he flinched at the coldness of
his brother’s flesh. Garrick had been
dead for hours. Probably since before
Wyn had left Gildenheim in pursuit. How
could Wyn have lost the only family he had left in the world and not known it
the instant it happened?
Horses
approached from Wynter’s back. Then
Valik was there, laying a sympathetic hand on Wynter’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, my
friend. I’m so sorry.”
Wyn nodded
numbly. The ache was consuming him. The pain so deep, so indescribable, it was
beyond feeling. His whole body felt
frozen, like the ice statues he and Garrick carved together.
“Help
Junnar.” How he spoke, he didn’t
know. His voice came out a choked,
gravelly rasp. “Make him as comfortable
as you can.”
“Of course.”
He waited for
Valik to lift Junnar and settle him off a short distance before gathering
Garrick’s body into his arms. He held
his brother for a long time, held him until Junnar breathed his last and the
White Guard packed the bodies up for transport back to Gildenheim. Their hunt for Prince Falcon of Summerlea had
ended the moment Wynter found his brother’s corpse. But there was no doubt in any of their minds
that this was far from over.
Wynter carried
Garrick in front of him on Hodri’s back, cradling his body as he had so many
times over the years after their parents had died and it had fallen to him to
raise his brother. He carried him all
the way to Gildenheim, releasing him only to the weeping servants who would
prepare Garrick and the others for the funeral pyre.
Wynter stood
vigil by his brother’s side throughout the night. He murmured words of sympathy to the parents
of the other lost boys, but shed no tears of his own though his eyes burned. At dusk the following night, he stood, tall
and dry-eyed beside the pyres as the flames were lit and remained standing,
motionless and without speaking, throughout the night and into the next
morning. He stood until the pyre was
naught but flickering coals. And when it
was done and there was nothing left of his brother but ash, Wynter mounted
Hodri and took the long, winding road to the Temple of Wyrn, which was carved
into the side of the next mountain.
Galacia Frey,
the imposing and statuesque High Priestess of Wyrn, was waiting for him inside
the temple. She had come the night
before to bless his brother and the others and to light their pyres, before
returning to the temple to await his visit.
“You know why I
have come.”
Her eyes were
steady. “I know. But Wyn, my friend, you know I must ask you
to reconsider. You know the price.”
“I know and
accept it.”
“There’s no
guarantee the goddess will find you worthy,” she warned. “Many men have tried and died.”
“You think that
frightens me? If I die, I will be with
my brother. If I survive, I will have
the power to avenge him.”
She closed her
eyes briefly and inclined her head.
“Then take the path to the left of the altar, Wynter Atrialan, King of
the Craig. Leave your armor, clothes and
weapons in the trunk by the door. You must
enter the test as you entered the world.
And may the goddess have mercy on your soul.”
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August 6 Review
Musings of the Book-a-holic Fairies, Inc.
http://bookaholicfairies.blogspot.com
August 7 Interview
Pembroke Sinclair.
www.pembrokesinclair.blogspot.com
August 8 Guest blog
Jill Archer
www.jillarcher.com
This book looks fantastic!!
ReplyDeleteIt does! I love the cover...thanks for stopping by!
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