They rode for eight days. The pace was grueling, the saddle unforgiving, but Khamsin kept her vow not to complain. Despite his outward coldness, Wynter did everything he could to make her comfortable.

The first day of riding sideways across the saddle left her thighs and bu**ocks black-and-blue from bouncing, and when they stopped for the night, Khamsin remained standing during dinner and barely managed to hobble the short distance to Wynter’s tent. He made her lift her skirts to show him the damage. He let out what sounded like a stream of muttered curses in his language, rubbed a healing liniment into her abused posterior, and slept curled tight around her throughout the night. She woke the next morning to find that someone had slit the skirt and the bottom half of her chemise and sewn them back together into wide, loose-fitting trousers. Wynter wouldn’t tell her who had done it; he just told her gruffly to put them on and be silent. She rode astride after that.

He drew back the clouds to help her body’s sun-fed healing powers regenerate more quickly, and despite the snow on the ground, the warming air and her own hot Summerlea blood soon had her throwing off her cloak. The crisp, cool wind on her face was refreshing, and she loved the free, unfettered feel of it. Even if her hair did keep getting blown into the joints of Wynter’s plate mail and ripping out by the roots.

The third morning, ignoring the fierce objections of his men and Valik, in particular, Wynter left off his armor. He claimed it was easier on Hodri—that the armor weighed more than Khamsin, and without it, Hodri would not feel the added burden of a second rider. That made a certain sense, and Khamsin would have believed him without question had she not overheard Valik hissing at Wynter after breakfast that his soft-hearted foolishness was going to get him bloody killed.

“We may have crossed the Rill, but we’re nowhere near out of danger. One arrow in your unprotected back is all it takes, Wyn! Put your damned armor back on, and don’t give me that blather about weights and double riders! I saw you plucking her hair from your mail last night and scowling like you’d torn it from her scalp with your own two hands. Your mail could rub her skin bloody, and I’d still tell you to wear it.”

But he didn’t, and from that day on, Khamsin rode snuggled close against Wynter’s body, without the wall of cold steel between them. When they made camp, he came to their tent after dinner, rubbed healing liniment on her thighs and bu**ocks, then curled his body around hers with exquisite care. She slept each night spooned against his large, muscled form, and woke each morn to the dizzying sensation of hard, erect flesh sliding into her body while his hands stroked her br**sts and teased the bud of flesh between her legs until she cried out and shattered with pleasure.

On the eighth day, Khamsin caught sight of silvery white shapes darting amongst the trees on either side. Wolves.

“They give escort,” Wynter murmured against her ear. “It’s not much farther now. We’ll reach the Craig by tomorrow midday.”

“The Craig? But . . . aren’t we already there? We crossed the river days ago.” And much to her surprise, the snow that had blanketed Summerlea for the past three years was conspicuously absent on the Wintercraig side of the river. Instead, the land was in full, brilliant autumn bloom, and the only snow she’d seen yet was gathered on the very tops of the mountains.

She felt his smile. “The kingdom of Wintercraig starts at the Rill, it’s true; but ask any Winterman, and he’ll tell you, these are the Hills. That”—he pointed—“is the Craig.”

Khamsin’s breath caught in her throat. They’d crested the summit of a small mountain pass, and the trees broke enough to offer up a dazzling view of a wide, forested valley, filled with vibrant autumn color and towering evergreens. In the distance, great, jagged, snow-covered peaks rose up from the ground like ancient walls of stone and ice, filling the horizon as far as her eyes could see.

CHAPTER 10

Wintercraig

Once more clad in full armor that shone dazzling silver and white, with ice blue banners streaming in the mountain breeze, Wynter and his men rode slowly up the winding stone road toward the towering castle perched high atop a steep granite cliff.

Riding sideways before him, draped in another of Autumn’s warmest gowns, Khamsin stared up the breathtaking heights and the magical, ice-silvered spires, parapets, and buttresses of the castle that seemed to grow from the very rock itself.

Gildenheim, crown of the world.

Wynter’s palace. Her new home.

She turned her head to look at Wynter, wanting to see his face as they drew near the summit. The wolf’s head visor was open, but even so, his face was a mask that yielded no secrets. He kept his eyes forward, his face expressionless.

As they rounded the last switchback curve and rode the final stretch of stone road that passed beneath Gildenheim’s massive iron gates, Wynter straightened in the saddle, putting a small but notable distance between them. The arm that curved around her waist pulled back and went stiff as an iron pike.

The courtyard was wide and filled with people, with more lining three deep along every stone stairway, parapet and crenellated walk. Soldiers in armor of leather and steel. Peasants bulky in furs and wool. And on the wide, sprawling palace steps, a host of cool-eyed nobles stood waiting, their regal Winterfolk height draped in fur-trimmed velvets, fine wools, and silk brocades in all the frosted shades of winter: ice blue, cream, white, cloud gray, snow-frosted evergreen, palest taupe.

The peasants and soldiers cheered as Wynter and his army rode past, but the nobles remained aloofly silent. Khamsin regarded them in silence. Tension twisted in her belly. There was not one dark head among them, nor one welcoming smile. Cold and haughty, as icy as she’d first thought Wynter to be, they watched her in silence, spearing her with their unblinking gazes. Never had she felt more alien or more unwelcome.