“Laci is going because she’s the High Priestess of Wyrn. She is the guardian of Thorgyll’s Spears, and her presence is required. Her priestesses are going to assist her. They are trained to hunt garm. You are not.”

“But—”

Wynter held up a hand. “Enough. You are not going, no matter how much you wheedle, shout, or stamp your foot. You’re staying here, in Gildenheim, where I know you’ll be safe. My mind is made up.”

She crossed her arms and glared. She had an impressive glare. Those silver eyes, those brows drawn tight across the bridge of her nose, the way her full lips pursed. Well, maybe not the pursed lips. Those just made him want to kiss her.

He sighed and caught her shoulders. “I need you safe, min ros. Don’t you understand? When I realized you and Krysti were alone in the mountains where the garm had been sighted, I thought I was going to lose you.” Just the thought of how close she’d come to death had kept him awake all night long. He didn’t want to know that level of fear again anytime soon.

“You think it will be any better for me, waiting around here while you’re out hunting these creatures? Krysti told me about them. They’re deadly dangerous.”

“Which is exactly why we must hunt them down. Once they come down from the mountain, they’ll hunt and kill anything that crosses their path—and they’ll keep at it until the riders of the Great Hunt stop them.”

“All the more reason for me to go with you. This is my home now. I have as much right and duty to defend it as you and Galacia do.”

“Khamsin, when we first left Summerlea, Valik wanted to stay behind to govern Vera Sola. As the White Sword, it was his right and his duty. I wouldn’t let him stay . . . because I couldn’t risk losing him to a rebel blade. It is your right and duty to defend your home—and it gladdens my heart to know you consider Wintercraig that home now—but I need you to stay here, in the palace, where it’s safe. I can’t risk anything happening to you. If you were hurt . . . if I lost you . . .” He swallowed hard.

Her rebellious, stubborn scowl wavered. “Wyn . . .” The threatening storm in her eyes turned to soft, liquid silver. One slender hand rose towards his face.

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss in her palm. “Please, min ros. Promise me you’ll stay here, out of trouble. Don’t make me command you.” He pulled her close and bent to press another kiss on her lips. Not a wild, explosive kiss of passion, but something long and lingering. A kiss that sang a hymn of devotion with each warm breath and brush of lips upon lips. “Please,” he whispered when at last he pulled away. “Promise me.”

She blinked up at him with hazy eyes and touched her lips in bemusement. “I promise.”

The relief that flooded his heart nearly staggered him. “Thank you.”

“Now, you promise me that you’ll come back safely.”

They both knew any such promise would be a lie, so he said instead, “I’ll move Halla and Hel to do so, Summerlass. On that you have my oath.”

The hunters had gathered. Scores of Wintermen and a handful of strong, battle-tested women. Instead of shining silver armor, they wore pale leathers bleached to shades of white and cream so they blended in with the snowy forest. All were heavily armed with bows and spears and throwing axes as well as swords. And although each hunter wore an expression as grim as death, the aura of anticipation was unmistakable.

These folk were mountain bred. Hunters, all. And this gathering, despite its serious purpose, filled them with a visceral eagerness.

Wynter swung into the saddle. He had slung a bow and quiver across his back, and Gunterfys was strapped securely to his side. In a Great Hunt, everyone carried both a ranged weapon and a sword. The ranged weapon would be their primary defense, and most prayed they would never need to unsheathe the sword. Against a garm, a man’s odds of survival dropped sharply in close combat.

Hodri shifted, snorted a puff of vapor into the cold air, and shook his head. For this hunt, he’d been stripped of his usual bells, so the long, wavy strands of his mane, threaded with thin white ribbons, danced in silence against his strong neck.

A clatter of hooves announced the arrival of Galacia Frey and her two priestesses. Clad in white leather and riding snowy white mares, Galacia and one of the other priestesses each held one of the long, crystalline ice spears they had taken from the wall behind Wyrn’s altar. All three carried long, curving white bows and quivers full of hollow arrows filled with capsules of concentrated acid.

Wynter glanced up at the balcony high above the courtyard and found Khamsin, dressed in defiant scarlet and gold, standing on the stone walk outside her chamber. The sky was overcast and weeping snow that blew on an occasional fitful gust of wind. She was still not happy to be left behind, but Wynter wouldn’t risk her safety in the most dangerous expedition in all of Wintercraig. The Great Hunt never failed to claim lives, and he would face whatever tempest she cared to brew before he let her even chance becoming one of the Hunt’s casualties.

Their eyes met. He raised his hand in a faint salute, then led the Great Hunt out of Gildenheim.

Four days later, the riders of the Great Hunt still had not returned.

Khamsin stood beside the mullioned cathedral windows of Gildenheim’s large gathering room, staring down in brooding silence at the castle’s many terraced gardens. The view was beautiful—the snow-blanketed gardens white and serene, the frozen waterfalls magical, as if time itself had stopped—but even the most exquisite winter beauty couldn’t calm her nerves. She didn’t want to see frosted evergreens sculpted in perfect shapes. She wanted to see the riders of the Great Hunt coming safely home . . . with Wynter in the lead.