She swallowed against the hard, painful lump in her throat. “There must be some other explanation.” That hoarse, weak denial was the best she could muster. She couldn’t hold Wynter’s gaze any longer. It hurt too much to see such naked pain in his eyes. If she’d ever doubted him capable of deep, abiding, unassailable love, she doubted no longer. Wynter hadn’t just loved his brother—he’d adored him. Every bit as much if not more than she loved her own brother.

But if Falcon had done this . . . if he was indeed responsible for the destruction of an entire village and the rape and murder of innocent people . . .

Wynter cupped a hand under her chin, nudging her face back up and waiting for her to look at him. When she did, he said, “There is no other explanation, Khamsin.” The anger and the pain she’d seen a moment ago was gone, replaced by cold, steady resolve. “Falcon Coruscate murdered my brother and ordered the savage death of dozens of innocent villagers in Hileje. I know he is your brother, and I know you love him, but if he ever sets foot on this land again, I will hunt him down, and I will end him.” He watched her as he spoke, his gaze intent and unwavering. All the while, his thumb stroked her cheek with frightening tenderness. “And the same fate awaits any man, woman, or child in Wintercraig or Summerlea who offers him aid. Don’t ever doubt that.”

They rode in silence back down the mountainside. The whole way, Khamsin tried to reconcile her memories of the brother she loved and adored with Wynter’s account of an evil, cold-blooded killer who sent men to commit atrocities in order to create a diversion. Everything in her rebelled at the mere suggestion that the brother she loved and the architect of the Hileje massacre could be one and the same. The Falcon she knew aspired to the same, brave, noble ideals as their mutual hero, Roland Soldeus. That Falcon wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—condoned the sort of evil Wynter lay at his feet.

No, no, Wynter must be mistaken. There was more to this story. Extenuating circumstances. Something that exonerated her brother or at least made him less culpable for what had happened.

There had to be.

As they reached the valley floor and turned east on the main road, they were nearly run over by half a dozen riders galloping at a breakneck pace.

“Ho, there, rider!” Wynter flagged one of the trailing riders down. “What’s wrong?”

The rider reined in his horse long enough to say, “Avalanche. A big one on Mount Fjarmir.”

Wynter and Khamsin spurred their horses and took off at a gallop down the valley road after the other riders.

When they reached Riverfall, Wynter noted with grim approval the red-striped white flags flying and the flocks of birds already winging away in all directions. Avalanche was one of the deadliest dangers in all the north, and every city, village, and hamlet drilled year-round to know what to do when the red-striped avalanche flag flew. Every village and farmhouse near where the avalanche had occurred would have raised their flags and released birds to all the surrounding towns.

“Skala-Holt?” he barked, as he and Khamsin slowed their mounts before the Riverfall’s village hall.

“Aye, Sire!” A man Wyn recognized as Bjork Hrad, the village leader, stepped away from a group of villagers who were packing a sleigh with rescue materials. “Mt. Fjarmir’s entire southern snowfield gave way. The patrols headed up after the blizzard blew through, but it looks like they were too late.”

“Any word from the village?”

“Only from our scout. Skala-Holt’s buried, Your Grace. All two hundred souls.”

Wynter spared a quick glance at his wife. She was sitting motionless in the saddle, her face a frozen mask. He could practically feel the waves of guilt washing over her.

“Can you spare an extra avalanche kit?” he asked. Hrad grabbed a pack from the pile being loaded into the sleigh and handed one up to Wynter. “Thanks. Who’s keeping the children? I’d like the queen to stay with them until we return.”

“No.” Khamsin broke her silence. “You’re not leaving me here. I’m going with the rest of you to help with the rescue.”

“No, you’re not.” His tone left no room for defiance. “People’s lives are at stake. No one will have time to look after you. You’ll just be in the way.”

“I don’t need looking after, and I won’t be in the way.” She shifted her attention to Bjork Hrad. “Sir . . . Mr. Hrad, isn’t it? Please, hand me one of those avalanche kits as well.”

“Hrad, don’t you dare.” Wyn edged Hodri into Khamsin’s path, boxing her in. “Khamsin, I’m ordering you to stay here.”

She raised her brows. “Haven’t you learned yet? I don’t take orders well.” When he didn’t move, she tossed her head, sending dark, white-streaked curls bouncing across the thick ermine lining of her hooded coat. “I’m going. You can try to keep me here, but I’ll just find a way to sneak out. I’m very resourceful that way. I’ll make my way to Skala-Holt on foot if I have to, but I will go, and I will help those people. You may be able to kill thousands without remorse, but I can’t. I won’t stand by and do nothing while they die. I already have enough on my conscience without that, too.”

Wynter swore beneath his breath and nodded curtly. “Give her the kit, Hrad. And you”—he jabbed a finger in Khamsin’s direction—“you keep to my side at all times. Agreed?”