If she’d expected Wynter’s palace to be cold and austere, nothing could have been further from the truth. The walls were pure granite, but what should have seemed heavy and overpowering had instead been carved with astonishing delicacy. Graceful, curving archways and fluted columns soared high towards a vaulted ceiling. A massive crystal chandelier hung high overhead. All around, adorned with shimmering falls of cut crystal and gleaming patterned streams of silver and gold metals in varying shades, the walls seemed to glow with prismatic hues. Scattered clusters of furniture, upholstered in sumptuous velvets and brocades, added a rich, approachable welcome, and twin silver-gilt stairways, curving like slides of ice, spiraled up to numerous balconied levels overhead.

Khamsin caught herself gaping and had to consciously press her lips together to keep her jaw from falling slack again.

Servants in pale taupe and frosted forest green stood waiting at the base of the curved stairways. An older woman with a white apron pinned to the front of her forest green gown and her white hair caught up in a plait that wound around the top of her head like a crown stood at the head of the assemblage.

“This is Vinca, Gildenheim’s Mistress of Servants,” Wynter said. “She’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Welcome to Wintercraig, Your Grace,” Vinca murmured as she offered a brief, respectful curtsy. “This way, please.” She turned, indicating the curving staircase to her left.

Khamsin glanced uncertainly at Wynter, but he was already striding away towards a waiting cluster of noblemen. She wanted to call out, to ask him where he was going and when she would see him again.

She opened her mouth to call to him, then realized almost Wynter’s entire court was watching her, their eyes cool and sly. No doubt they were waiting with bated amusement to see what the little Summerlander witch would do now that her husband had brought her to his palace and abandoned her practically on the doorstep. The hand that had started to reach out for Wynter dropped back to her side and clutched the folds of her gown in a tight grip. Without a word, she turned and followed Mistress Vinca up the stairs.

Being ignored and shuttled off out of view is nothing new to you, Khamsin, she reminded herself sternly. You’ve had a lifetime of it. Why is this any different?

It wasn’t. And yet . . . it was.

Since waking in the tent after that horrific storm, she’d hardly left Wynter’s side—and he, hers. They’d slept together, ridden together, taken their meals together, woken up in each other’s arms.

Oh, Kham, no. You haven’t gone and gotten feelings for him? He’s the enemy!

No, no, not that. Not . . . feelings. She knew what he was, and what he would do to her if she didn’t bear him the heir he sought. She hadn’t forgotten. It was just that . . . well . . . they’d established a sort of rapport between them. They’d become almost friends, in a way.

Friends?

All right. Not friends, exactly.

Not friends of any kind. He is the enemy king who just crushed your country beneath his heel, and you are his war prize. Your only value to him is your womb. You can’t afford to forget that. Fail to bear him an heir, and he’ll slay you as thoughtlessly as he slew all those thousands of your countrymen.

She knew that. She hadn’t forgotten it. How could she?

You’re living on borrowed time, and if you let yourself get stupid and sentimental, you’ll never survive this. So stop thinking like a girl and start thinking like a man. No, start thinking like a warrior-king. You’re all alone in the heart of enemy territory. There’s no way to get back home. What should you do? What would Roland do?

Good question. What would Roland do if he were trapped alone in enemy territory with no way back home and a lethal deadline hanging over his head? Khamsin’s spine straightened. Her chin rose a notch higher. Roland would settle in, establish a home base, familiarize himself with the terrain and its inhabitants. He would befriend every enemy and absorb every bit of knowledge that would help him—if not to conquer, at least to survive.

They’d reached the top of the long staircase and turned left down the balustraded walk that overlooked the entry hall. The people downstairs had started to drift away, but a number of the Winterfolk still remained, and Khamsin was conscious of their watchful eyes upon her.

Let them look. She was Khamsin Coruscate Atrialan, Summerlea princess, and the Winter King’s wife. But she was also Khamsin, Bringer of Storms. She was not some helpless victim. She was a daughter of the Rose, Heir to the Summer Throne. Just as Roland had met the enemy and triumphed, so too would she.

Her first order of business would be learning her way around the palace. At Vera Sola, she’d known every nook and cranny of the palace, every hidden and forbidden inch. And that had given her a certain sense of power, of freedom, even sequestered as she was from the rest of the world. The floundering sense of alienness assailing her now couldn’t be borne. She would learn the passageways of Gildenheim until she could walk them with her eyes closed. She would discover the palace’s secrets and make them her own.

She made careful note of each turn Vinca made as they walked through the palace halls. At the end of the walkway, they turned right through an archway and followed that short, wide hall to a round, open gathering area that linked five corridors. The first corridor on the left led to a long wing that doubled back towards the front of the palace and split into two angled hallways, each terminated by a spacious, skylit vestibule surrounded by several pairs of gilded doors. Vinca took the right fork and approached the large center doors, which were painted silver-blue and chased with platinum bands. Two footmen stood guard outside those doors, and as Khamsin and Vinca drew near, the footmen reached for the crystal doorknobs and swung the doors inward in a smooth silence.