“Silence, boy,” Wynter snapped. “You stand in the presence of the queen.”

“Sod the farking queen, and sod you, too, you plague-ridden pus bag. Buggering, rat-farking sod! Put me down! Thorgyll freeze off your maggoty balls if you don’t!”

“Well, that’s charming,” Wynter muttered. He grasped the boy by the ankles and dunked him headfirst into a nearby pile of snow. “That’s to cool your head, boy,” he said when he lifted the boy’s snow-covered face back out of the drift. “Now hush.”

“Fark you, dung-breath!” The child shook his head, spraying snow and curses in a wide arc.

Wynter clenched his jaw and dunked him again.

“Slime-crapping puke bag!”

Dunk.

“Miserable rat-fark!”

Dunk.

“Dung-eating butt fly!”

Dunk. Dunk.

“Finished?” Wynter asked. The child blinked snow-spangled lashes and glared, but held his silence. “Good.” Wynter flipped the boy over, set him back on his feet and settled a firm grip around his thin neck. “Now, what’s going on here?”

The merchant, a large, heavyset man bundled in thick but simple woolens and furs, pointed a finger at the child. “He is a thief! That’s what’s going on. He stole a slingbow from me. Snatched it right off my table, bold as brass!”

“That true, boy?”

The child hawked and spat and remained silent.

Wynter’s jaw went hard as stone. “Don’t try me, boy. You won’t like what it gets you. Empty your pockets. Now,” he barked when the child didn’t instantly obey.

With a mutinous look, the boy reached into his ragged clothes, pulled out the pilfered slingbow, and flung it on the ground at the merchant’s feet. “There! Take your stinking slingbow! Now let me go!”

“What else have you got in those pockets?” the merchant demanded. “What else have you stolen that I didn’t see you take?”

“I didn’t take nothing else!”

“I told you to empty your pockets, and I meant it,” Wynter ordered. He gave the lad a warning shake.

Scowling, the boy began tossing down a veritable hoard of small treasures and trinkets: a handful of copper coins, a ball of twine, several smooth rocks, a collapsible knife, a pair of flint stones, a rabbit’s foot, and a silver wristband set with small gemstones.

The merchant pounced on the wristband. “Didn’t steal anything else, eh? Then where would the likes of you get this? Or are we supposed to believe it was a gift of the Valkyr?”

The boy lunged forward, almost breaking free from Wynter’s grip. “That belonged to my mother, you great boar’s ass! Give it back!”

“Your mother?” The merchant laughed. “Right, and I’m the King Under the Mountain. I’ll just show this to the other merchants and see if any of them are missing this pretty trinket.”

The boy gave a howl of fury and began kicking and flailing wildly. One foot caught Khamsin in the stomach with enough force to knock her down and drive the air from her lungs. She lay on the hard ground, gasping for air and shuddering as clammy waves of nausea washed over her from head to toe.

“Take him,” Wynter muttered, shoving the boy—now shocked into fearful submission—towards Valik. He knelt by Khamsin’s side and helped her to sit up. “Wife, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she muttered. She rose to her feet, then wished she’d stayed on the ground. Her knees were shaking, and her vision was starting to swim.

“Wife?” The boy was staring at Wyn and Khamsin with wide eyes. “But if she’s the queen, that would make you the . . .”

“King,” Wynter confirmed.

“Of Wintercraig,” Valik added. “Whom you just called a—what was the exact phrase—ah, yes, a plague-ridden pus bag.” He gave the child a stern shake.

The boy’s golden skin took on a greenish cast. His gaze darted from Wynter to Khamsin and back again. “I-I—”

Khamsin took pity on him. “There’s no need to look so frightened. I’m fine.” Liar! Her stomach, where the child had kicked her, was beginning to cramp. “And I’m sure the king has been called worse.” That earned her an arch look from her spouse, which she ignored. “There’s no harm done.”

“Not that that excuses you from any other crimes you may have committed,” Wynter said. “I want the truth of what’s going on here. You can start by telling me your name.”

For a moment, Khamsin thought the child might remain defiant, but apparently kicking his new queen in the belly and calling his king a pus bag had exhausted the boy’s hunger for rebelliousness. At least temporarily. “Kr-Krysti. My name is Krysti.”

“Wise decision, Krysti,” Wynter praised. “Now, you say this bracelet belonged to your mother. I suggest you take us to her so she can confirm what you say.”

“Does she know you’re stealing from honest merchants?” the merchant standing nearby piped up.

Krysti cast a sullen glare at the man. “She’s dead. She and my father both died three years ago.”

“Your mother’s dead?” Khamsin repeated. “And that bracelet was hers?”

The child nodded.

“Give it back to him,” Khamsin ordered the merchant.

“But Your Grace—” the man protested. He turned to Wynter. “Sire!”