An older man standing near the bottom step broke away from the crowd of nobles and walked towards Wynter’s approaching horse. His white hair was cropped to his chin and swinging with thin braids hung with small silver bells. His eyes were sky blue in a deeply lined golden face, his robes a paler blue, trimmed generously with white fur.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” he said in a voice rough with age. Gnarled hands reached out hooked around the straps of Hodri’s belled bridle. “Welcome home, at last.”

“Thank you, Barsul. It’s good to be back.” Wynter looked around the courtyard, his gaze sliding over each and every face crowded around. “This sight is one I’ve dreamed of now for three long years.” He raised his voice so that it traveled easily from one end of the courtyard to the other. “Well met, my friends, my people. At last the war is over.” Cheers rose up from all around the walls. He waited for them to die down before he continued. “I bring you victory.” More cheers. “I bring you peace.” At that, the women shouted with such enthusiasm they all but drowned out the cheers of their men. “I bring you Khamsin Coruscate, princess of Summerlea.” He grasped the hood of Khamsin’s cloak and drew it back to bare her bronzed face and dark flowing curls, then grasped her wrist and lifted it high, brandishing the Rose. “Now Khamsin Atrialan, Queen of the Craig, and soon, Freika willing, mother of my heirs.”

The cheers that followed that outdid all the others, but the eyes of those cheering watched Khamsin without warmth. She knew they did not cheer in welcome of her but rather to celebrate that their king had returned to them, this time vowing his desire for life instead of death. The courtyard erupted in a shower of white and green, as the Winterfolk tossed snowflowers, garlands of twined ivy and holly leaves, sprigs of fragrant fir, and clusters of mistletoe and partridge berry. Symbols of peace and unity and fertility and life. Well wishes for their king and his future heirs.

Wynter dismounted and reached up to help Khamsin down from the saddle before introducing her to the man who had greeted them.

“Khamsin, this is Barsul Firkin, Lord Chancellor of Wintercraig, who served as White Sword during my father’s reign.”

The old man bowed, his eyes cool and assessing. “Welcome to Wintercraig, Your Grace.”

“Lord Chancellor Firkin.” Khamsin worked to keep a calm expression as she frantically raked her memory for the protocol to follow when being introduced to high-ranking dignitaries of foreign lands. Was she supposed to extend her hand? Lord Firkin looked surprised when she did, but after a brief hesitation, he lifted it to his lips and brushed a cool, dry kiss across the backs of her fingers.

Wynter removed his gauntlets and splayed one hand across the small of Khamsin’s back. Subtle pressure nudged her forward, past Lord Firkin to another, slightly younger man. “And this is Lord Deervyn Fjall, Steward of the Keep.”

“Welcome to Gildenheim, the jewel of Wintercraig, Your Grace,” Lord Fjall murmured.

“Lord Fjall oversees everything that pertains to the provisioning, protection, and operations of the castle,” Wynter said. “If you need anything, his office will handle your request.”

Khamsin nodded but didn’t offer her hand again.

They moved past Lord Fjall to a towering, ice-eyed woman, whose pale gold hair looked like yards of stiff, curling ribbons piled atop her head. Unlike the wools and velvets of so many others, her gown was a severely cut sheath of pristine white brocade, her cloak an impressive fall of pure white snowbear pelt that draped from shoulder to floor, with yards of the thick fur left to puddle at her feet. Her eyes were so pale a blue, they seemed almost colorless, and Khamsin stifled a shiver.

“Lady Galacia Frey, High Priestess of Wyrn.”

Wyrn. Quickly, Khamsin riffled through her small store of knowledge about the northern gods. Wyrn was Keeper of the Ice, the goddess who’d given Thorgyll his freezing spears. Khamsin had never been much of a reader of god lore—except as it pertained to the heroes and warrior-kings of Summerlea—but she knew enough to know that Wyrn was an important and powerful goddess who was supposedly responsible for bringing winter to the world.

Well, if Wyrn were anything like her priestess, Khamsin already didn’t like her much. She definitely didn’t like the critical way Lady Galacia’s eyes swept over her, then turned to Wynter, dismissing Khamsin out of hand.

“We are glad for your return, my king,” the priestess said. “Wyrn requests your presence at her altar.”

The hand at Khamsin’s back twitched ever so slightly. “I will come today, before nightfall,” Wynter agreed.

Lady Galacia’s tower of frozen curls inclined in a cool nod. “We will await you.” She turned once more to Khamsin. “You and I will visit later, at a time of Wyrn’s choosing. When that time comes, Lord Fjall will tell you the way.”

Khamsin’s spine stiffened. Oh, really? But before she had a chance to open her mouth, Wynter’s hand was firmly nudging her forward.

The next woman in line was a blond-haired beauty with piles of soft ringlets and limpid blue eyes. She clutched Wynter’s hands with a fervor that made Kham’s eyes narrow. Wynter introduced her as Reika Villani, Valik’s cousin. Kham disliked her on sight. There was something about her that reminded Kham of the women who scrabbled to be King Verdan’s next mistress in the Summer court.

They continued on down the line. Wynter introduced dozens of people, far too many for Khamsin to keep them straight. The gathered nobles became a blur of golden skin and hair that came in all shades of pale, from golden blond to silver to snowy white. Finally, the introductions ended, and she and Wynter walked up the wide, stone stairs into the palace halls.