“Agreed.” She grabbed the kit Hrad handed up to her and slung it over her shoulder.

At least, she didn’t gloat. That made giving in feel a little less like surrender. “Let’s go then.” He spurred Hodri forward, picking his way slowly down the road until they were free of the crowded village. “You are a troublesome, hardheaded wench,” he muttered to his wife when they were out of earshot of the village.

“Am I? How interesting. I had no idea how closely we resembled each other.” She stuck her nose in the air, keeping her gaze fixed firmly forward.

The snippy rebuke left him torn between amusement and annoyance. With anyone else, he would have responded with cold, cutting anger to put her in her place. But the sight of Khamsin’s spear-straight spine, the flash of silver in her eyes, that wild, beautiful riot of lightning-streaked black hair, and the soft, full curve of those lips now pursed in indignation melted any chance of anger. In a world where folk lived in fear of his wrath, this slender woman stood toe to toe with him during even his foulest moods, taking the worst he threw at her and firing back as good as she got. She was no meek, domesticated lamb of a woman any more than he was a tame or gentle man.

They’d created that blizzard, the two of them, because he’d raged like a wounded garm when she’d discovered the vulnerable remnants of his soul that he’d hidden away from the world. He didn’t blame her for the storm. He was the one who’d started the fight. He was the one who’d turned her tempest into a howling fury of ice and snow.

But his Summerlander wife, who believed that her great power was a curse—that she was a curse—would never forgive herself if the people of Skala-Holt died because of the storm they’d summoned. And for some reason that had nothing to do with his husbandly duty to protect her from all harm, Wynter couldn’t let her bear that burden.

“Yours was not the only magic that helped spawn that blizzard, and you are not responsible for the avalanche. And for the record,” he added softly, “I may have killed thousands in the war, but not without remorse. Certainly not when it came to innocents.”

The sun was setting, but Skala-Holt was still a hive of activity when they arrived. Winterfolk from every nearby croft and village had come with shovels and strong backs and wagons full of women and youths bearing tents, blankets, food, bandages, and medicine. More rescuers poured in by the minute.

If Khamsin hadn’t visited Skala-Holt before, she would not have even known there was a village buried beneath the snow. Except for the few, already-excavated houses, you couldn’t see any sign of it. Not a roof, not a chimney. Nothing. Winterfolk were crawling over the snow, using long, thin sticks to probe what lay beneath.

“Halla help them,” Khamsin breathed in horror. How could anyone have survived?

As if reading her mind, Wynter said, “Since the fall happened during the day, there’s a chance many of them had time to seek shelter.”

“A chance?” Despite Wynter’s assurances that this wasn’t her fault, the mere thought of an entire village dead because of one of her storms made Khamsin’s belly churn.

“All the homes have cellars. Hopefully, the villagers had enough warning to reach them before the avalanche hit. That gives us time to dig them out before they freeze or suffocate. Most buried without some form of shelter will die within the first half hour.”

She swallowed hard. “What can I do to help?”

He handed her a shovel. “Join a search party and start digging. The men with the probes will set flags everywhere they think they’ve found survivors.”

“What about melting them out? Would that help?”

“You think you can do that?”

“You know I’m not very good at controlling my magic, but I can at least try.”

“Then come with me.” He held out a hand and led her up onto the spill of deep, packed snow. They clambered over the icy debris until they reached the closest flag—a pennant of red wool fluttering on a long, thin barb that had been thrust into the snow. A dozen Winterfolk were crowded around, digging their way down through the packed snow. They had already cleared a hole about four feet wide and six feet deep, but hadn’t reached the top of the villager’s house yet.

“The house is another four feet down, at least. See if you can melt down to the rooftop.”

Kham bit her lip. Storms, she could summon. Trying to channel heat in such a small area was a different matter.

“What happens if I melt more than just this area?” The mountains were thick with snow. If she didn’t concentrate heat in a very narrow radius, she risked flooding the valley with snowmelt. “I don’t want to make things worse than they already are.”

“You concentrate on raising the temperature. I’ll keep the snow on the mountains in check.” No hint of fear showed in his expression or his voice. She was struck once more by the reassuring strength that radiated from him. He was a man she would trust to bear the weight of the world. When he wasn’t driving her to distraction or irritating her with his domineering ways.

Truthfully, even then, even at his most distracting and domineering, she would trust him to stand between her and danger and rest assured in the knowledge that danger would dash itself senseless against his unyielding will before it ever had a chance to harm her. He was the rock to which an entire kingdom could anchor itself with perfect confidence.

Kham focused her attention on the hole the rescuers had been digging. She wanted to be as strong as Wynter. She wanted to master that calm, imperturbable sense of certainty that surrounded him like a cloak of invincibility. She wanted his people to look at her and see not the daughter of an enemy king but a woman as strong in her own right as the king they adored. Someone who could complement their king’s strength, not just shelter in it. A woman worthy of their respect—and of his. A queen.