And she realized she wanted for her children everything she’d never had for herself: happiness, belonging, security, the knowledge that their parents—both their parents—loved and wanted them.

“Wynter?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

He helped her to her feet. “You’re welcome, min ros.”

“Can we come back again sometime?”

His smile warmed her. “Anytime you like.”

They stayed another hour or two at the pond, skating across the silvery ice and talking. They were some of the most enjoyable hours Khamsin had spent in recent memory. She felt like she and Wynter were actually getting to know one another in a way neither time nor circumstance had allowed them to before.

It was odd to realize that Wynter, who knew her more intimately than any man in her life, knew so little about her outside of the bedroom. Or that she knew so little about him. But the more she learned, the more she liked.

He was a good man, this fierce conqueror from the north. The sort of man she’d always admired: steadfast, brave, and true. Not perfect. Thank Halla. A perfect man would have only made her feel miserably inadequate, a hopeless sinner to his shining saint. His temper was every bit as terrible as her own. And he was not one to forgive trespasses. Ever.

But for the first time since their marriage, she could actually envision making a life here. A good life. A happy life. A life with Wynter.

“So what were you and Krysti doing all these past weeks when you went on your rides?” he asked, as they sat on the fallen log to remove their skates.

She shrugged. “Mostly just riding. He took me to several of the nearby villages and introduced me to the villagers.” Her nose wrinkled. “They aren’t very fond of Summerlanders.”

“I doubt there are very many Summerlanders who are very fond of Winterfolk either. War has that effect on folk.”

“I suppose. But the war is over. Wasn’t that the whole point of our marriage?”

“Old grudges die hard.”

She frowned. “What old grudges could your people possibly have? Surely, they aren’t all like that woman in Konundal, blaming every death in the war on Summerlea? If you hadn’t invaded Summerlea, those Winterfolk would still be alive. And so would thousands of Summerlanders.”

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. She and Wynter had been having such a good day. They’d actually been talking, communicating, getting to know each other. But the tension that underscored their relationship from the start ratcheted instantly back up as Wynter’s expression went from friendly and open to distinctly frosty.

“I did not start the war,” he bit out. “Your brother did that when he murdered my brother.”

“I realize that,” she agreed quickly. “I didn’t mean it to sound otherwise.” But then her innate loyalty to Summerlea compelled her to add, “But war didn’t bring your brother back. All it did was cost more lives.”

“So you would have advised me to do nothing?”

“Of course not. But, diplomacy—”

“Diplomacy?” Frost crackled across her clothes and the tree trunk. With a curse, Wynter spun around and stalked a short distance away. “From the day I took the throne, your father set out to weaken my kingdom and undermine my rule. He bled us dry for years, raising prices on Summerlea crops, delivering inferior goods, undermining our alliances with other kingdoms. I tried every diplomatic means at my disposal to avoid war. I sent my ambassadors. I welcomed his. The threat of starvation loomed over my kingdom, but still I tried diplomacy. Your father took every concession I offered as proof of my weakness. My restraint only made him bolder, more certain Wintercraig was his for the taking. And then he sent your brother, who again I foolishly welcomed in the name of diplomacy.”

“I’m sorry.” She reached out to take his hands, hoping to impress upon him the depths of her sincerity. “I’m sorry for all the evils Verdan Coruscate visited upon you. But Falcon—he isn’t like that. I know you blame him for your brother’s death, but it must have been an accident or self-defense. Falcon wouldn’t kill someone in cold blood. He’s a good man.”

Wynter yanked his hands free. “Tell that to the people of Hileje who saw their loved ones raped and murdered on your brother’s command.”

Khamsin’s jaw dropped. “That’s a lie!”

“Is it? I held a nine-year-old girl in my arms as she died from what those Summerlea bastards did to her. And I called the wolves and hunted them down like the animals they were. They told me, as they bled out their lives into the snow. They told me who had sent them. Your brother. The worthless bastard you call a good man. He ordered them to attack the village as a diversion, to draw me away from Gildenheim so he and Elka could steal one of the most ancient treasures of my House. My brother Garrick discovered the theft and followed him. And your brother killed him. He put an arrow in Garrick’s throat and left him to die in the snow, choking on his own blood.” His eyes flared with pale, cold fire, and his jaw flexed. “My brother wasn’t even sixteen. He was just a boy.”

Khamsin wanted to shout her denial. The words trembled on the tip of her tongue, crying out for release. But they wouldn’t—couldn’t—fall. The rage—and worse, the raw agony—in Wynter’s eyes killed her passionate denial as surely as Falcon’s arrow had killed the young prince of Wintercraig.