“It would have been easier on the king to simply cast winter across the entire continent,” Bron explained, “but that would have brought suffering to his own people. So instead, he drew entirely on the power of the Ice Heart to create an island of winter across Summerlea while leaving Wintercraig’s weather patterns relatively untouched. Our growing seasons have been cooler and much shorter, but we’ve had them.”

“The Ice Heart?” Khamsin repeated.

“The power he embraced when he declared war on Summerlea.”

“You mean the power he used to conquer Summerlea was not his own?”

Valik cleared his throat loudly, and Bron fell silent. “The king’s powers and where they come from are none of your concern,” Valik declared.

“The king is my husband. That makes everything about him my concern. However, since the subject obviously disturbs you, let us choose a different one.” She kept her own expression cool and calm. Her initial question had been simple curiosity, but Valik’s reaction piqued her interest. The abrupt end of the conversation could only mean there was something about the Ice Heart Valik did not want Summerlanders to know. Her mind seized the thread of the interrupted conversation and followed it down the only logical path. If the Ice Heart was not a power Wynter had been born with, it had come from somewhere.

That last thought led to an even more disturbing contemplation. Could the power be taken from him? Could someone—like herself, for instance—strip Wynter of his devastating power and return the Summer Throne to its rightful heirs?

They passed the remaining time in the inn without incident. The servingwoman delivered their food, Bron and Khamsin were careful to keep their conversations limited to neutral topics, and Valik remained his typical scowling self.

Unfortunately, the meal, though delicious, didn’t sit well on Khamsin’s stomach. Half an hour after leaving the tavern, her belly churned as discomfortingly as her troubled thoughts. Subterfuge and intrigue did not suit her. Like Roland, she would rather stand in the face of overwhelming odds and shout her defiance than skulk in the shadows and steal victory through ignoble means.

She’d agreed to the terms of peace. She’d wed Wynter of her own free will. She’d pledged her loyalty and the fruits of her life to him. And even if he did plan to turn her out to face the mercy of the mountains if she did not bear him a child in a year, did that nullify her own oaths? Could she continue to take Wynter into her arms and into her body while plotting to betray him? The very idea made her stomach hurt.

Unaware of her increasing distress, Bron escorted her around town and acquainted her with the various shops and shopkeepers. A few greeted her with a frigidness that bordered on hostility, but most seemed more approachable than the nobles in the palace. Kham gave a silent snort. Not that that was difficult.

In a field at the far end of town, some sort of gathering was under way. Dozens of tents had been erected, and workmen were unloading dozens more from arriving caravans. Piles of snow cleared from the tent plots formed an odd, impromptu maze of walls and walkways. Khamsin watched three strapping young men wrestle a set of tent poles into place on a freshly cleared plot. The men laughed and joked as they worked, long, fair hair swinging in belled plaits, teeth flashing white and dazzling in golden-skinned faces.

“What is all this?” Khamsin asked, as Bron guided her down a path between two lines of erected tents. Several merchants had already begun to set out their wares: furs and leathers, delicate, multicolored glassware, colorful ribbons, buttons and beads enough to make frippery-loving Summer giddy with happiness.

“The villagers are preparing for a samdar-hald,” he replied. “A celebration gathering. For at least the next month, Winterfolk from all corners of the kingdom will gather here. There will be hunting and trading and music and dancing, and each week a gildi, a great feast, that you and Wynter will attend.”

“What are they celebrating? The end of the war?”

“That, too,” Bron said, “but this samdar’s main purpose is to celebrate your marriage.”

Her stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant lurch. She pressed her hand against her belly. “My marriage?” she repeated weakly.

“It’s not every day the king takes a wife,” a familiar voice drawled from behind.

Khamsin spun around in surprise. “Wynter?” He was standing on the snowy street behind her, clad in a simple huntsman’s garb of worn leathers and a white snowbear vest. “What are you doing here?”

“They told me you’d gone riding. Rather than sit in my office envying you, I decided to join you. I trust you have no objections?”

Before she could answer, a shout from a merchant several tents down drew their attention. Wynter snatched her up and thrust her behind him, holding her there with one broad hand, while Valik and the guards spun into action, surrounding them with a wall of steel armor and razor-sharp swords.

“Stop! Thief!”

A small, filthy little figure wrapped in shreds of mangy fur and moth-eaten cloth barreled toward them, only to draw up with in alarm at the sight of the soldiers and their swords. Khamsin had a brief glimpse of wide silvery blue eyes in a grimy face.

A boy. No more than nine or ten. The hand pressing Kham against Wynter’s back relaxed.

“Thief! Thief!”

The boy opened his mouth and muttered a curse so foul it singed her ears, then darted towards a snowbanked corridor between the tents.

Wynter caught him in midlunge by the collar of his moldy clothes and hoisted him into the air. The boy dangled there, limbs swinging wildly, his little teeth bared in a fierce snarl while even fouler curses poured out of his mouth in a defiant flood.