After a long, considering moment, Lady Melle waved off Gunter the footman, and said, “Of course, my dear. Go have your walk. Only please don’t stay out too long. The king would have my head if you caught cold.”

Kham beamed her first genuine smile in the last two hours. “I never catch cold.” Impulsively, she threw her arms around the older woman and kissed her on the cheek, then just as quickly jumped back and blushed, very conscious of the Winterladies whispering behind their fans. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I don’t suppose I should have done that.” She’d never had cause to put Tildy’s comportment lessons into real practice, but she did know queens didn’t go about throwing their arms around their ladies and smacking kisses on their cheeks.

Lady Melle, once she got over her surprise, just smiled even more warmly than she had before and patted Kham’s hand. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, my dear. Gunter, send someone to fetch the queen’s wrap, then please escort the queen to the east garden.”

Fifteen minutes later, with a warm fur coat over her red velvet dress, Kham turned her face up to the icy drizzle that even now was softening to a fine mist as the dark clouds began to lighten and break up. She took a deep breath of the clean, brisk air, flung her arms out, and whirled in a circle. Summer Sun, that felt good!

The garden was empty and quiet. The bustling sounds from the two large baileys at the front of Gildenheim were muted here. Several fountains burbled peacefully among manicured walks. Instead of beds of bright summer flowers, the gardens here had been planted with evergreen shrubs and sculpted trees and plants that sported bright leaves or berries in shades of purple and red and a ghostly silvery gray.

There was a maze in the center of the garden, grown from holly bushes. Kham glanced back at the arching windows of the banquet hall where she had lunched with the ladies of the court, then turned and dove into the maze, following the twisting paths between the dense hedges. It wasn’t a particularly difficult maze, and Kham found the center after only a couple of wrong turns. There, a ring of wooden benches surrounded a lovely, three-tiered fountain.

Scarlet flashed at the corner of her eye, and she turned her head to see a bright red cardinal alight atop one of the benches on the other side of the fountain. She smiled. She’d always loved birds. They reminded her of her brother because wherever Falcon went, birds always congregated. They flocked to him with the same eager devotion as his many beautiful female companions.

Kham watched the cardinal hop down and peck at the cold ground beneath the bench and wished she’d brought bread crumbs from the luncheon. She’d have to do that tomorrow.

A shadow passed over the center of maze, and the cardinal took wing, disappearing into the dense holly bushes. Kham glanced up to see a large, snowy white falcon soaring across the sky. It circled Gildenheim on outstretched wings, then dove in to land on a window ledge near the top of the castle’s tallest spire.

“Where are you, Falcon?” she murmured aloud. Had her brother finally found Roland’s sword? And if he had, when he heard about the conditions of her marriage—the threat hanging over her head—would he come to Wintercraig to save her? That was just the sort of grand, heroic gesture Falcon loved most.

So why did the idea of Falcon riding to her rescue fill her with dread?

Her gaze wandered down the gray stone spire and traveled across the rings of fortified battlements that protected Gildenheim as if it were the greatest treasure of the kingdom. She thought about the cheers of the people gathered in the bailey to greet their king and his new bride, and the genuine care and concern he’d shown for the villagers they met along the way.

She was married to Wynter of the Craig. She was his now. His wife, his queen . . . and his key to retaining unequivocal control of Summerlea once she gave him an heir. After the last weeks together, she knew enough about her husband to know he would never surrender anything he considered his. If Falcon came for her, there would be battle, a war that would not end until either Falcon or Wynter lay dead.

And if Falcon had Blazing, the victor would not be Wynter of the Craig.

For no reason Khamsin cared to examine too closely, that thought left her feeling more ill than the awful fish dishes she’d not been able to escape at lunch.

Kham met with Vinca later that afternoon, but the tour of the palace wasn’t remotely as helpful or extensive as Khamsin had hoped it would be. They visited only the kitchens, wine cellars, the servants’ quarters, and portions of the lower four levels of the main palace.

Kham didn’t like the wine cellars. They’d been dug deep into the mountain, through solid rock, and they reminded Kham too much of the place King Verdan had taken her to beat her into compliance with his plans. Especially since her connection to the sun disappeared when she stepped across the cellar threshold.

Rattled by those memories, her curt, “Yes, quite impressive,” and the abrupt way she then turned and headed for the door didn’t win her any points with Vinca or the wine steward. She was too proud and too protective of her vulnerability to apologize for her behavior. Instead, she announced briskly, “I believe I’ve seen enough of the kitchens. I would prefer to spend the rest of our tour above stairs.”

She didn’t draw an easy breath until they reached the first floor, and she stood in a beam of sunlight shining through a large, arched window.

Wynter’s palace servants were too well trained to show disapproval, but the tiny hint of warmth that had been in Vinca’s voice at the start of the tour disappeared after that visit to the cellars, and it never returned. With cool, dispassionate efficiency, Vinca escorted Khamsin through the lower four levels of the palace proper, which housed banqueting halls, the throne room, rooms of state, and an entire wing of rooms they did not enter, which Vinca said were used by Wynter, his cabinet, and the many folk involved in the governance of the kingdom. In addition, there were all manner of parlors and galleries and a tremendous library that would have made Summer and Spring sigh with pleasure. Everywhere were terraces and balconies overlooking the mountains, the valley below, Konundal, the village at the foot of Gildenheim’s mountain, and the many, multileveled gardens built into the side of the mountain and integrated into the palace itself as it went up and up.