“What news?” Wynter asked as Valik scanned the message.

“Word from the men you sent into the Craig to find the garm’s den.” Valik glanced up, his expression grim. “The garm didn’t just come down to Jarein Tor. Someone lured it there deliberately.

“Your Grace.” A servant Kham didn’t recognize furtively handed her a sealed envelope. “I was asked to deliver this,” she whispered, then hurried away.

Curious. Khamsin opened the envelope and pulled out the folded parchment inside. Scrawled in a sloppy hand across the parchment, the note read:

The Great Hunt is an ambush. They mean to kill the king to end the threat of Rorjak’s return. We must warn him. I’ll be waiting with the horses at the old mill at eleven o’clock. Leave the same way as last Freikasday. Don’t let anyone see you. Burn this note.

The note wasn’t signed, but it could only be from Krysti. Who else knew about last Friekasday’s escape through the hidden door on the western wall?

She thought about Galacia and her priestesses, all armed with deadly weapons that could kill in an instant. Much as Kham didn’t want to believe any of them would kill their king, she knew better. The first loyalty of every priestess was to her goddess, not her king. And no matter how much Wynter and Khamsin might want to deny it, the Ice Heart still held Wynter firmly in its grip, and its power grew stronger with each passing day.

Would Galacia and her acolytes kill Wynter? According to the ladies of the court, the coming of the garm was one of the signs of Rorjak’s return. The rumors that Frost Giants had been involved in the avalanche at Skala-Holt was another. It was possible the priestesses felt time was running out.

Khamsin glanced back over her shoulder at the court ladies playing cards, waiting by the windows, doing anything they could to occupy their time while their men rode in the Great Hunt. It was a quarter ’til ten. If she retired to her room, claiming headache or weariness, it might be a good two to three hours before anyone came looking for her. Time enough for Krysti and her to be well away before their absence was discovered.

Kham slipped the note inside her pocket, summoned a wan look, and went to excuse herself from the court.

Assuming it might be a day or more before they caught up with the Hunt, Khamsin dressed warmly in knitted undergarments, the wool-lined leather trousers and jacket she’d had made for her jaunts with Krysti, and a warm, white, fur-lined, hooded cape that could serve as a bedroll and blanket. Remembering Wynter’s comment about how Winterfolk always prepared for the worst, she rolled a change of clothes and a pouch of dried fruit and meat she’d pilfered from the kitchen inside a woolen blanket and slung that across her back. Then she threw Krysti’s note in the hearth, watched as it turned to ash, and snuck downstairs to the secret exit she and Krysti had used the day they’d given her guards the slip.

The sun was shining bright in the sky. Khamsin turned her cape fur-side out, pulled the hood over her distinctive dark hair, and waited for the guards to pass before she hurried across the open expanse of snowy rock. Her heart remained in her throat, pounding like mad, until she’d descended the craggy cliff-side trail and reached the cover of the trees growing at its base.

Once safely hidden from view, she ran through the trees toward the old mill. There, two saddled mountain ponies were snuffling through the snow by the creek banks, searching for grass. A cloaked figure was sitting on a rock beside them, skipping stones to pass the time.

A twig snapped beneath Kham’s boot as she rushed towards him. The figure leapt off the boulder and whirled around.

Only then did Kham realize that perhaps she should have been more suspicious about the note. Because the identity of the person waiting for her stopped Khamsin dead in her tracks.

“What are you doing here?”

Reika Villani, clad in snug winter white leathers and boots, lowered the furred hood of her thick cape. She’d forgone her usual intricate piles of hair for a pair of braids that made her look more like one of the fresh young girls from Konundal than a veteran of the royal court.

“I’m the one who sent you the note, Your Grace.”

Kham glanced uneasily at the surrounding forest, suspecting a trap. Hoping to buy herself time, she said, “What note?”

“Don’t play games,” Reika snapped. “There isn’t time. I know you don’t trust me, and I accept the blame for that. But if we don’t get to the king soon, he won’t come back from the Hunt alive.”

“You’re right, I don’t trust you,” Kham agreed baldly. “Why should I?”

“Because my mother used to be a priestess of Wyrn. She was in line to be the next High Priestess when she met my father and fell in love. I know what oaths Galacia and her acolytes took. The minute the garm came down from the mountain, Wynter was marked for death.”

When Khamsin didn’t respond, Reika made an exasperated noise.

“Fine, don’t believe me. But I have loved Wynter Atrialan all my life, and I’m not going to sit here and let Wyrn’s minions put him in his grave.” She stalked over to the grazing horses and took the reins of the brown one.

“I brought you a horse.” She swung onto the brown’s saddle and indicated the other horse, a black-and-white highland pony even larger than Kori. “You can come with me or not, as you like. I only sent you that note because I thought your magic might come in handy convincing Lady Frey and her followers to back off.”

Khamsin hesitated. Every instinct urged her not to trust Reika.