But she was not her.

She was one of the ones trying to keep him from her.

He redoubled his efforts to free himself, fighting all the hands holding him down. Pain ripped through him and set his belly on fire.

Where was she? Why wasn’t she here?

Had she left him?

A wave of ice swept over the fire, numbing the pain. He went still as stone.

Was that it? She had left him? Abandoned him?

Betrayed him?

“Tildy! Hurry!”

Hands grabbed his face. Pinched shut his nose. Pried open his jaw. More bitter liquid poured in.

He tried to spit that out, too, but now the hands were holding his jaw closed.

He choked, sputtered, started to fight again. The liquid ran down his throat.

Traitors! He would kill them. He would kill them all.

His limbs went heavy as stone. His struggles grew weaker. He couldn’t fight. His thoughts grew hazy. But not even the drug that sapped his strength and dragged him back down into the darkness could numb the growing ache in his heart.

Where was she? Why had she left him?

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

When Khamsin and her escort passed through the village of Konundal, they found it deserted. Not a soul to be found and garm tracks crisscrossing the snow and slushy streets. Now Gildenheim lay before them. The outer gates were open, there were no men on the wall. Blood and the scattered remains of bodies were strewn across the road.

Ungar held out a hand, waving his men into silence and urging them all to crouch. To a man, the Guardsmen drew their bows and nocked an arrow in place, ready to draw and fire.

“Stay here, Your Grace,” Ungar whispered.

“But—”

“Stay! Sven, you, Karl, Leif, and Jan stay with the queen.”

Kham glowered but stayed hunkered down, off to one side of the road, while Ungar and the remaining eight of his Guard crept towards the bloody scene outside Gildenheim’s gates. Clearly, the garm she and Wynter had killed weren’t the only ones that had come down from the Craig. She counted at least three garm corpses, arrows prickling their hides like porcupine quills, and three times as many dead Winterfolk lying alongside them, some torn to shreds, others burned and bristling with almost as many arrows as the garm.

What had happened here?

Ungar and his men passed through the gates and disappeared into the lower bailey. A few minutes later, one of the men came back to wave them in.

Inside the lower bailey, the scene was as grim and bloody as outside the gate, with scores of slain Winterfolk and two more garm.

“They came last night, after sunset.”

Kham turned to find Lord Barsul, Lady Melle, and a number of others gathered beneath the upper bailey’s barbican.

“How many?” Ungar asked.

“Just the five,” Lord Barsul said. “But that was enough.”

“More than enough,” Lady Melle added.

“Where’s Krysti?” Kham interrupted, scanning the gathering crowd with worried eyes. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine, my dear,” Lady Melle soothed. “Last I saw him, he was entertaining the little ones in the upper levels of the palace. Telling them stories of Roland Triumphant and Wynter’s fight with the Ice Giant—so they knew a few garm couldn’t defeat you.”

Kham smiled with relief and affection.

“Did the garm breach the walls?” Ungar asked Lord Barsul.

“They didn’t have to. Most of the guards on the outer wall were ice thralls before we could even sound the alarm.”

“ ‘Ice thralls’?” Kham had never heard the term before.

“A corpse possessed by living frost,” Lord Barsul explained. “The garm killed them with their breath, and they came back as thralls.”

Khamsin frowned. “I don’t understand. The king and I both survived the garm’s breath without becoming one of these . . . ice thralls.”

“Aye, but he hadn’t returned then,” Lady Melle said. “Now, he has.”

A sinking feeling in her stomach warned Kham she wasn’t going to like what Lady Melle said next, but she asked the question anyways. “He who?”

“Rorjak. The Ice King. He has returned.”

CHAPTER 24

Gifts of the Gods

Leaving six guardsmen to help dispose of the dead and sound the Valkyr’s horn, Khamsin and the remaining White Guard made their way up the winding mountain road to the Temple of Wyrn. Though she was screaming with mad grief in her mind, Khamsin kept putting one foot in front of the other. If Barsul was right, and the garm attack and men turning into ice thralls truly meant Rorjak had returned, then Wynter was lost to her. And if Wynter was lost, then Wintercraig needed her to find the sword of Roland now more than ever.

When they reached the temple, they found it as silent and deserted as Konundal had been. Their footsteps on the carved stone floor echoed in the temple’s cavernous main room.

Behind Khamsin, the White Guard pulled their swords.

“I don’t like this,” Ungar said. “Where are the two priestesses? Lady Frey’s with the king, but the other two should have returned here after the Hunt.”

“The second spear is still gone.” Sven nodded towards the altar at the far end of the room. The wall behind it was bare of the crossed ice spears she’d seen on a previous visit. Only the frozen mask of Wyrn remained, and Khamsin could swear the carved face of the goddess watched her approach with icy eyes. On either side of the altar, soaring archways led to sconce-lit hallways veiled by long strands of shimmering crystal beads. “Maybe they went after the garm that attacked Gildenheim.”