Before the war, when the relations between Summerlea and Wintercraig were still congenial, her brother, Falcon, and his friends had often roamed the hills and valleys of Wintercraig—hunting snowbear in the mountains. Khamsin couldn’t recall if he’d ever complained about the cold. He’d talked about the snow, the piles of white drifts, high as a man. He’d talked about icicles hanging like crystals from the trees and waterfalls frozen in midplummet. He’d talked about the stark, serene, snow-spangled beauty and the way snow splashed like seafoam around his horse’s legs as he rode. She’d drunk the glorious stories of his adventures as eagerly as she’d absorbed the words on the pages of the books she so loved, and if he’d mentioned any unpleasantness, she’d long since forgotten it.

Falcon. Just thinking of him brought a storm of fond memories and bittersweet emotions. Beloved brother. Handsome warrior-prince. Daring adventurer. Charming rogue. How she’d loved him. How she’d missed him.

She’d never understood what madness had led him to throw away his life and toss two kingdoms into turmoil. Tildy’s revelation about the Book of Riddles and Falcon’s quest to find the sword of Roland had cleared up a good deal of the confusion, but that didn’t explain why he’d compounded his crime by running off with another man’s bride—a king’s bride, no less.

Now, after experiencing the consuming pleasure of Wynter’s passion, she had a better understanding of what might have driven her brother on that front.

Where was Falcon? she wondered, staring out over the land where he’d decided to doom them all. Had he found Roland’s sword, after all, or had the Book of Riddles merely led him on a fruitless chase after an imaginary treasure? Did he and his Winterlady even know what a terrible price others had paid for their reckless passion and thievery? Did either of them even care?

“He’s in Calberna.” Lord Chancellor Firkin’s gnarled finger tapped a spot on the map laid out before Wynter and drew back quickly at the first telling flash of white in his king’s eyes.

Wynter stared hard at the blue-shaded outline of a sprawling chain of islands in the western sea. The familiar, cold bite of vengeance sent streamers of ice racing through his veins, radiating out from his chest. Had the map been a man, it would have frozen dead on the spot. As it was, a fine layer of frost crystallized on the inked parchment, blurring the cartographer’s meticulously drawn boundaries and notations. “With her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think they found what they were looking for?”

“It’s possible. The prince has been haunting the courts of the West, trying to raise an army he could lead back to Summerlea.”

“Has he found one in Calberna?”

“We suspect so. Our Calbernan eyes have gone blind. Four of our informants went missing, the rest have grown too fearful to talk, and three of our couriers were slain, their dispatches stolen.”

“Post lookouts along the coast.” Wynter ran a finger down the line of Summerlea’s western coast. A trail of frost sprouted up in its wake. “Send word to Leirik in Vera Sola. I want Verdan’s guard doubled. And send more men to Calberna, to replace those we lost. If Coruscate has found an ally, I want to know it before an army sets sail.”

“I’ll take word to Vera Sola myself,” Valik declared. “If the Calbernans are sending an army, I should be the one to command the battalions in Summerlea.”

“No!” Wynter shot a fierce glare at his friend. “You’re not going to Vera Sola. I’ve already told you that.”

“But Leirik—”

“You’ve trained Leirik well. It’s his command. Yours is the defense of Wintercraig.” He shot a hard, commanding look at Chancellor Firkin. “You’ve heard my orders. Carry them out.”

“It shall be done, Your Grace.” Firkin bowed and whispered instructions to two of the noblemen who served him. They each snapped a bow and hurried away. Firkin waved impatient hands at the rest of the council in a silent command to clear the room. When they were gone, he closed the door and approached the hearth.

“Wynter, lad,” he said with the affectionate familiarity of an old family friend, “it’s good to have you back. You’ve been away too long.” He clapped a hand on Wynter’s armored shoulder. “You should get out of this armor. Relax and shed the weight of war. Visit the hot springs of Mount Freika. Run with the wolves. Take your new bride for a ride.” He wagged his brows. “Or, better yet, just ride her instead. Start working on that heir you’ve promised us.”

Valik’s expression turned sour. “No worries there, Barsul. Believe me, if she doesn’t pup in nine months, it won’t be for any lack of effort on Wyn’s part. He’s so besotted, I’m starting to think she’s cast some sort of love spell on him.” His voice was flat, devoid of any teasing note. Ever since Khamsin had summoned that deadly storm—nearly driving Wynter into the Ice King’s grip and miraculously healing herself in the process—Valik had been growing increasingly concerned over what he called Wynter’s “obsession” with his new bride. He was convinced there was some sort of subversive Summerlander magic at work.

“Enough, Valik,” Wynter growled. To Lord Firkin, he said, “If Calberna has offered Coruscate an army, there’s much work to be done to ready Wintercraig defenses. But I see your point,” he added when Firkin started to object. “I’ll make time for gentler things.”