Even knowing that Wynter had survived the attack, Khamsin felt her body tense. “What happened?”

“There was nothing he could do to stop the blow. All he could do was block it. So he raised Gunterfys with both hands and used it like a shield.” On his knees, Krysti demonstrated. “The giant’s sword crashed down. Any other man with any other sword would have been cleaved in two right there where he knelt, but Wynter and his sword held fast. The monster’s blade shattered. While the Frost Giant stumbled and tried to recover his balance, Wynter jumped to his feet and put all his might into a fearsome blow. The Frost Giant fell, and Prince Wynter leapt upon his chest and drove his sword straight through the monster’s heart.” With a triumphant cry, Krysti drove his imaginary blade home. His savage expression faded, and he straightened. “Wynter buried his parents there on the mountainside where they died, then he put his little brother on his back and carried him all the way back home. When they reached Gildenheim, Wynter was king, and his sword bore a new name.”

“That is a heroic tale, indeed,” Kham said. “It should be recorded in a book and passed down through the ages so none will ever forget it.”

“I imagine it will be.”

Krysti stayed with her past dinnertime until night turned the sky inky black and he could barely keep his eyes open. Bella herded him out and went with him to seek their pallets in the servants’ quarters.

As she doused the lights and settled into bed, Khamsin thought of Wynter and the day Gunterfys earned its name. Krysti’s retelling of that day had been so vivid. Her heart had gone out to Wynter and to the little prince whose next breath depended solely on his brother’s strength and courage.

For the last three years, no Summerlander had said Wynter’s name without calling a curse upon it. He was the Winter King, the demon of the north, the enemy.

But now, after hearing Wynter’s story, after seeing the admiration shining from Krysti’s eyes, and feeling it echoed in her own heart, she realized that to his own people, Wynter was a hero, as noble and determined in his own way as Roland had been in his.

He wasn’t a perfect man. Far from it. He’d made Summerlea pay a terrible price for Falcon’s trespass. But, for the first time, she considered how Wynter must have felt when he learned that the woman he loved had run off with Falcon and that his brother, the only member of his family whom he’d been able to save from the Frost Giant’s attack, had been slain trying to stop them.

Grief could drive even good people mad. Look at her father’s lifelong hatred of her. Look at the woman from Konundal who’d poisoned Kham for an offhand remark.

Wynter’s vengeance had been bloody and consuming, but after hearing the story about Wynter’s family and the Frost Giant, she was having a much harder time hating him for it. The Sun knew, her own temper was just as volatile and deadly.

If a Winterman had slain her beloved brother, would not she, too, have sought a terrible revenge?

Khamsin was up and about the next day, despite the objections of Lady Frey. “I am healed. The sun has seen to it. See?” She ran circles about the room until she was dizzy. “I was healed yesterday, too, but I stayed in bed as you wanted. Not today.”

“No horses,” the priestess compromised. “And no running. Keep to the castle.”

“Agreed!” She grabbed Krysti’s hand, bolted for the door, and that was the last anyone saw of them until they returned, covered with dirt, dust, and cobwebs, to grab a quick lunch. Then they were off again and did not return until supper. The next day, it was the same.

Khamsin reacquainted herself with all the areas of the castle Vinca had shown her, then set about discovering the rest. She and Krysti explored every inch of the Gildenheim, from the damp, pitch-black dungeons to a private tower built near the mountain’s peak, accessible only by a long, narrow, winding stairway etched into the mountainside. They discovered it when Krysti—who had no end of interesting talents—picked the lock on a strange wooden door inside one of the guard towers on the battlements.

“I’m not a professional thief,” he vowed when he produced the picks, “but you never know when being able to open a door might come in handy—even save your life if the night is cold, and you’ve nowhere warm to sleep.”

“I won’t tell,” she promised, then grinned, “so long as you teach me how to use those.”

He laughed. “Agreed.”

A few moments more, and the lock snicked open. Krysti raised the latch and opened the door. Behind it lay nothing but a dark, curving stair, and, well, what sort of adventurers could find a secret stair and not investigate where it led? They slipped through the door, climbed the stair, and found the private tower room perched far above the palace walls. Another quick lock-pick saw them inside.

Inside was a cozy, round, tower room, sparsely but richly furnished. A bed, a desk, a stone hearth with two full buckets of coal beside it, two spacious cushioned chairs facing the hearth, and a large wooden wardrobe. Apart from the one wall that faced the mountain—and into which a small bathroom closet had been built—all the walls were curved and set with high, arched windows that looked out over the castle, the valley, and the vast, seemingly endless range of snowy peaks that was the Craig.

The room was like an aerie perched high above the world. Gildenheim lay sprawled out below her, a shining jewel of snowy, ice-silvered granite. She spied a solitary cloaked figure walking through the uppermost terrace of the western garden. A bird flew down from one of the garden’s evergreen trees to alight on the figure’s outstretched arm. A few minutes later, the bird took to the air and winged away. A hunting falcon, perhaps? Or maybe a messenger bird, bringing reports from some other part of the kingdom.