The waiting was driving her mad. Normally, Krysti would have been with her, keeping her entertained and her mind occupied, but since they were confined to the palace, she’d insisted he join the top-floor children for their lessons in the afternoons.

The rustle of skirts behind her made her turn. The other ladies of the court were seated throughout the room, occupying themselves with reading, needlework, or quiet conversation. Lady Melle had set down her needlework and crossed the room to join Khamsin at the window.

“I wouldn’t expect them back so soon, Your Grace,” she said. “The Great Hunt usually lasts for many more days. I even remember one when I was a girl that lasted three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” Khamsin stared at her in horror. Three weeks of being locked in this castle, waiting, would drive her mad. “How do you bear it?”

“The waiting is hard, I know.” Lady Melle’s eyes were filled with kindness and sympathy. “And I won’t lie and tell you it ever gets any easier. It doesn’t. This is the sixth Great Hunt in my lifetime. And every time, I’m a bundle of nerves waiting for the men to return.”

“Have you ever ridden with them? I saw other women Hunters besides Lady Frey and her priestesses.”

“Single women only. Widowed or never wed. Married women don’t ride in the Hunt.”

That didn’t seem at all fair to Khamsin. “Why not? If they’re capable and have the desire, why shouldn’t they ride in the Hunt just like the men?”

Lady Melle smiled gently. “Garm are the fiercest, most dangerous beasts in the Craig, my dear. Riders die in the Great Hunt—often. You’re wed to a Winterman. You’ve lived among us long enough to know what that means. Our men would die to keep us safe. We remain in Gildenheim, so fewer of them have to.”

“Has a king of Wintercraig ever died in a Great Hunt?”

Lady Melle hesitated, then admitted, “Yes.”

Kham’s mind filled with an image of Wynter, bleeding his life out in the snow. The vision was so horribly vivid that Khamsin spun back towards the window and took short, fast breaths as she battled back an unexpected rush of tears.

Seeing her distress, the elderly lady exclaimed, “Oh, my dear! No, you mustn’t think such thoughts.” She wrapped an arm around Khamsin’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Wynter of the Craig is no ordinary king. It would take far more than a single garm to bring him to harm.”

Kham leaned into the older woman’s embrace. It was the first time since leaving Gildenheim that a woman had offered Khamsin the comfort of a hug, and that nearly broke the dam holding back a flood of tears.

“There now. There.” Lady Melle patted Kham’s back and murmured soothing noises until the worst of the emotional storm passed.

Sniffling, wiping at her eyes with the palms of her hands, Kham pulled away and tried to regain a measure of composure. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not by nature the weepy sort.”

“Of course you aren’t. These are extraordinary circumstances.” The lady positioned herself between Khamsin and the other ladies in the gathering room. “I should have made a point of preparing you for this myself, and I did not. I beg your pardon.”

Kham smiled wanly and looked up through tear-spiked lashes. “It’s hardly your fault I turned into a waterfall on you.” Khamsin gave herself a stern shake and cleared her throat. “I’ve never been good at waiting. It doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon.”

“None of us are good at it, my queen. That’s why the ladies of the court have always banded together in such times. Company makes the waiting easier to bear.”

Kham gave a watery laugh. “Yes, well, I don’t think needlework will ever make any wait of mine easier.”

Now it was Lady Melle’s turn to smile. “Perhaps not. We will just have to find other pursuits that suit you better. Reading perhaps? Or a game of cards? I understand you enjoy playing Aces.”

“I wouldn’t want to bother the others.”

“Nonsense. You are our queen, and we are your ladies. We are here to see to your comfort, not the other way around.”

Wynter knelt in the crisp snow on the slopes of Mount Trjoll in the Craig. Four days ago, they’d picked up the tracks of the garm a scant half mile from the outcropping where Krysti said he’d taken Khamsin. Until that moment, Wynter hadn’t realized just how close Khamsin and Krysti had come to meeting the monster face-to-face. Garm could cover a half mile in less than a minute. One small change in the direction of the wind, and his Summerlass would never have come home.

Wynter hadn’t slept well since.

From Jarein Tor, they’d tracked the garm through the mountains to Hammrskjoll, up the mountains and through Glacier Pass in the Craig, then west into the Minsk River valley.

“He’s heading towards Skala-Holt,” Wyn murmured.

“I’ll send an eagle to warn them.”

“Let’s hope we’re not too late.” Wyn stood. “Mount up.” He swung into the saddle and gathered up the reins.

“Eagle coming in!”

Wyn looked up to see the broad white span of a snow eagle’s wings soaring through the blue sky. The bird tucked its wings and stooped towards them, slowing at the last moment to land on Valik’s outstretched arm.

Valik removed the message capsule from the bird’s leg. He pumped his arm skyward, setting the eagle back in flight, and tossed a small vole into the air. The eagle snatched its treat from the sky and flew off to a rocky outcropping to eat.