The Winter
King
C.L.
Wilson
Genre:
Fantasy Romance
Publisher:
Avon Romance
ISBN
13: 9780062018977
Book
Description:
Wynter
Atrialan, the Winter King, once lived in peace with his southern,
Summerlander neighbors, but when Falcon, the prince of Summerlea,
stole Wynter’s bride and murdered his young brother, Wynter vows
vengeance. Calling upon a dangerous Wintercraig magic called the Ice
Heart, he gathers his armies and marches against Summerlea, crushing
their armies and spreading icy winter in his wake.
After
three long, bitter years of battle, Summerlea is defeated and Wynter
comes to the heart of the kingdom to issue his terms for their
surrender. The prince of Summerlea stole Wynter’s bride and slew
Wynter’s Heir. He wants the loss replaced. The Ice Heart is
consuming him. Wynter hopes holding his own child in his arms will
rekindle the warmth of love and melt the Ice Heart before he becomes
the monster of Wintercraig legend, the Ice King.
The
Summer King has three very precious daughters whom he loves dearly.
Wynter will take one of them to wife. She will have one year to
provide him with an Heir. If she fails, he will turn her out in the
ice and snow of the mountains and claim another princess for his
wife. And so it will continue until Wynter has his Heir or the Summer
King is out of daughters. All the while, Wynter will enjoy the
vengeance of knowing the Summer King will suffer each day without his
beloved daughter(s), as Wynter suffers each day without his own
beloved brother.
The
plan is perfect—except for one small detail. The Summer King has a
fourth daughter. One of which he is not so fond.
Blamed
as a child for the death of her beloved mother, Khamsin Coruscate,
the forgotten princess of Summerlea, has spent her life hidden from
the world like an embarrassing secret. Dressed in cast-off gowns and
left to her own devices, with only the determination of her loyal
nursemaid to ensure she receives the education befitting an Heir to
the Summer Throne, Khamsin haunts the abandoned towers and gardens of
Summerlea’s royal palace, close to her beloved late mother’s
treasures, and waits for the day her father will recognize her as a
Princess of the Rose. But though she dreams of the valor and
sacrifices of ancient Summerlea heroes and pines for paternal love
that will never come, Khamsin is no sweet, gentle, helpless
princess-in-a-tower. She is a fiercely passionate creature with a
volatile, rebellious temper that is often as reckless and destructive
as the dangerous forces of her weathergift, the power of storms.
Together
will their stormy personalities be able to meld or will their powers
destroy not only their love but the whole world?
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Excerpt
Prologue
~ Scarlet on Snow
King’s
Keep
Vera
Sola, Summerlea
“Do
you have to go?” Seventeen year old Khamsin Coruscate clung to her
beloved brother’s hand as if by her grip alone she could anchor him
fast and keep him from leaving.
“You know I do.
Our treaties with the Winter King are very important.”
“But
you’ll be home soon?” Whenever he was gone, the ancient walls of
the royal palace of Summerlea that had been her home and her prison
since birth seemed somehow more confining, more restrictive.
“Not
this time, little sister.” Falcon shook his head. A strand of
black hair that had pulled free of the queue at the back of his neck
brushed against the soft, dark skin of his cheek. “It will take
weeks to negotiate the treaties.”
Khamsin
scowled, and the wind began to gust, sending Kham’s habitually
untamed hair whipping into her mouth and eyes. “Why does he have
to send you? Why can’t his ambassador negotiate the treaty? He’s
sending you away because of me, isn’t he? Because he doesn’t
want you spending so much time with me.” Her hands clenched into
fists. The wind sent her skirts flying and a dark cloud rolled
across the sun.
Their
father, King Verdan IV of Summerlea, didn’t love her. She knew
that. He kept her isolated in a remote part of the palace, hidden
away from his court and his kingdom, on the pretext that her
weathergifts were too volatile and dangerous and she couldn’t
control them. That was all true. Kham’s gifts were dangerous, and
she couldn’t control them any better than she could control her own
temper. Until now, however, he’d never stooped to sending his
other children away to keep them from visiting her.
“Here
now. Be calm.” Falcon smoothed her wayward curls back, tucking
them behind her ears. Compassion and pity shone softly in his eyes.
“I wish I didn’t have to leave you. But Father believes I’ll
have the best chance of getting what we want from Wintercraig, and I
agree with him.” Summerlea, once a rich, thriving kingdom renowned
for its fertile fields and abundant orchards, had been in a slow
decline for years. Although the nobles and king maintained a
prosperous façade for political and economic purposes, beneath the
gilded domes and bright splendor of Summerlea’s palaces and grand
estates, the rough tatters of neglect were beginning to show.
“Besides, you won’t be alone while I’m gone. You have Tildy
and the Seasons.”
“It
isn’t the same. They aren’t you.” He was the handsome Prince
of Summerlea, charming, witty, heroic. He’d lived a life of
adventure, most of which he shared with her, entertaining her with
the tales of his exploits…the places he’d seen, the people he’d
met. His hunts, his adventures, his triumphs. No matter how much
her nursemaid, Tildavera Greenleaf, doted on Khamsin, or how often
the three other princesses, Autumn, Spring, and Summer, snuck away
from their palace duties to spend time with their ostracized youngest
sister, Falcon was the one whose visits she couldn’t live without.
“Now
there’s a pretty compliment. Careful, my lady. You’ll turn my
head.” He smiled, and warmth poured into her. It was no wonder
the ladies of their father’s court swooned at the slightest
attention from him. Falcon had a magical way about him. He could he
literally charm the birds from the trees with his
name-gift—controlling any feathered creature on a whim--and the
weathergift inherent in his royal Summerlander blood was stronger
than it had been in any crown prince in generations. It was as if
the Sun itself had taken up residence in his soul, and its warmth
spilled from him each time he smiled.
Kham
took a deep breath. The sharp edge of her temper abated, and in the
skies, the gathering storm began to calm. Perhaps King Verdan truly
had chosen to send his only son as envoy to Wintercraig for political
reasons. Long, long ago, as a small child crying herself to sleep,
she’d decided Falcon was the reincarnation of Roland Triumphant,
the Hero of Summerlea, the brave King who had defeated an
overwhelming invasion force with his wit, his weathergifts, and a
legendary sword reputed to be a gift from the Sun God himself. If
anyone could charm the cold, savage folk of the north into
concessions most favorable to Summerlea, Falcon could.
“Will
you at least write to me?” she asked.
“I’ll
send you a bird every week.” He tapped her nose and gave her a
charming, roguish grin. “Cheer up. Just think of all the
swordfights you’ll win when you’re fighting invisible opponents
instead of me.”
Kham
rolled her eyes. He’d been teaching her sword-fighting for years,
but she had yet to best him in a match.
“You
know,” she said as they walked towards the doorway leading back
into the palace, “it might actually be a good thing that you’ll
be spending months in Wintercraig.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.
You can use that time to find out what happened to Roland’s
sword.”
Falcon
tripped on an uneven flagstone and grabbed the trunk of a nearby tree
to steady himself. “I’m sure I’ll be much too busy to chase
fairy tales, Storm.”
She
frowned in surprise. “But you’ve always believed the stories
were true.” Blazing, the legendary sword of Roland Soldeus, had
disappeared shortly after the heroic king’s death. Legend claimed
it was the Winter King, the father of Roland’s betrothed, who had
spirited the sword away so Roland’s brother Donal couldn’t claim
it. Every royal Summerlea Heir for the last two millennia had
dreamed of finding the legendary blade and bringing it back home
where it belonged. Falcon had spent years chasing lead after lead,
determined that he would be the one to find Blazing and restore
Summerlea to its former glory.
“What
about those letters?” she added. “The really old ones you found
tucked in that monastery? You said they proved the stories were
true.”
“That
was six years ago. I was seventeen. I wanted the stories to be
true.” He gave her a quick hug and a brotherly kiss on the
forehead. “I’ve got to run. I’m meeting with Father and his
advisors to go over our list of demands and concessions one last time
before I leave. I’ll see you in a few months.”
“I’ll
miss you every day.” She trailed after him, feeling bereft and
forlorn when Falcon turned the corner and disappeared from view. But
this time, she also felt confused. She’d never known Falcon to give
up on something he felt passionately about. And he’d been
passionate about finding Roland’s sword. He’d been certain he
was on the right trail. He’d shared his discoveries with her
because he knew she was just as hungry as he to find the legendary
sword.
So
why would he deny it now?
*
* *
Gildenheim,
Wintercraig
“She's
not good for you."
Wynter
Atrialan, King of Wintercraig, cast a sideways glance at his younger
brother. "Don't say that, Garrick. I know you've never liked
Elka, but in six months time, she will be my bride and your queen."
Garrick
shook his long, snow-silver hair. Eyes as bright and blue as the
glacier caves in Wintercraig's ice-bound Skoerr Mountains shone with
solemn intensity that made the boy look far older than his sixteen
years.
"You
love too deeply, Wyn. From the moment you decided to take her to
wife, you’ve blinded yourself to her true nature."
Wynter
sighed. "I should not have shared my worries with you when I
first met her." Wyn was an intensely private man, but he'd
never kept secrets from Garrick. Not one. Wyn had raised his
brother since their parents' death ten years ago. And in those
years, he'd never tried to sweeten the ugly world of politics, never
tried to gloss over his fears or concerns—even when it came to the
more personal but still political matter of selecting a queen. If
something happened to him, Garrick would be king, and Wyn didn’t
want his brother thrown into such a position without preparation.
Unfortunately,
the years of openness and plain, unfettered talk had paid
unanticipated returns. Because of his unflinching honesty with
Garrick, no one in Wintercraig--no one in all the world, for that
matter--knew him better than his young brother. Not even Wyn's
lifelong friend and second-in-command, Valik. Such deep familiarity
could be as troublesome as it was comforting.
"She
is cold," Garrick insisted. "She does not love you as she
should. She wants to be queen more than she wants to be your wife."
"Elka
is a woman of the Craig. She is as reserved with her feelings as I."
"Is
she? So that is why she laughs and smiles so warmly when the
Summerlander is near?"
Wynter
frowned a warning at his brother. "Careful, Garrick. Elka
Villani will be my wife and queen. Insult to her is insult to me.”
“I
offered no insult. I merely asked a question. And based on my
observations, it’s a perfectly legitimate one.”
“You
are misreading what you see. Elka knows it’s vital the Summer
Prince feels welcome here if we are to come to an amicable
agreement." The lush, fertile fields of Summerlea provided much
needed sustenance to the folk of Wintercraig during the harsh, cold
months of a northern winter. Their grains, fruits and vegetables,
which Wintercraig bought with furs, whale oil and forest products,
could mean the difference between life and death for his people
during years when their own harvests were poor. That had,
unfortunately, been quite often of late, since the summers had grown
shorter and food from Summerlea had been growing steadily more dear
after Wynter had taken the throne. Falcon Coruscate, son of the
weathermage king who ruled Summerlea, had come three months ago at
Wynter’s invitation to negotiate terms of a new treaty that would
ensure longer summers in the north and more affordable trade in
foodstuffs for the winters.
“She
makes him feel welcome to more than the court,” Garrick corrected.
“She flirts.”
Wyn
arched a brow. “And if she does, where’s the harm in it? A
pretty face and a sweet smile can persuade a man better than cold
figures and dry treaties—especially self-indulgent peacocks like
the Summer Prince.” He smiled when Garrick rolled his eyes. “You
don’t remember our mother, but she could charm a Frost Giant into
the fire. Father used to call her his secret weapon. Elka merely
uses her gifts to aid the realm, as any good queen would.”
Garrick
gave a snort. "How fortunate that she takes to the task so
well. All right, all right.” He held up his hands in surrender when
his brother’s glance sharpened. He paused a moment, using hammer
and chisel to chip unwanted ice from the frozen sculpture he was
working on, then added, “But even if you trust her, you’d best
keep an eye on the Summerlander. He’s up to something.”
“Foreign
dignitaries are always up to something. That’s called politics.”
“He’s
been asking too many questions about the Book of Riddles."
Wyn’s
hand stilled momentarily in its work on his own sculpture. “Has
he?” He tried to pull of nonchalance, but shouldn’t have
bothered. Garrick knew him too well.
“That’s
what he’s really here for. To get the book and find Roland’s
sword.”
Roland’s
sword was a fabled Summerlea weapon of inconceivable power. It had
disappeared three thousand years ago, not long after the Summer King
who first wielded it sacrificed his life to save his kingdom from
invasion. Many myths and legends swirled around its disappearance.
One of those legends suggested that the Winter King of that time,
fearing the sword’s power would be misused by Roland’s
successors, had smuggled the sword out of Summerlea and hidden it in
a place it would never be found. The Winter King had also left
behind a book of obscure clues and riddles that supposedly led to the
sword’s secret hiding place, in case his own descendants one day
had need of the legendary weapon’s vast power.
“Well,
good luck to him with that,” Wynter said. “The sword is a myth.
It’s long gone by now, if it ever existed at all. And he won’t
find whatever treasure the Book actually does protect, either,
because he will never find the Book. It’s kept in a place no man
can go.”
“But
Elka can.”
He
scowled. “Garrick, stop. She is my betrothed. She will be my
queen. She would never betray me.”
Garrick
heaved a sigh. “Fine. She is your true and worthy love. I’ll
never suggest otherwise again.”
“Good.”
Wyn pressed his lips together and focused on the small block of ice
sitting on the pedestal before him. Patient as time itself, he
carved away the excess ice until he revealed the hidden beauty
inside. Fragile, shimmering, a bouquet of lilies emerged, petals
curved with incredible delicacy, each flower distinct and perfect,
rising up from slender stems of ice. “What do you think?” he
asked when it was done.
"That's
beautiful, Wyn. One of your best yet."
Wyn
smiled. When it came to ice sculptures, Garrick hoarded his
compliments like a miser. Only perfection earned his highest praise.
"Do
you think she will like it, then? Frost lilies are her favorite."
Garrick
stepped abruptly away from his own sculpture--a complex scene
depicting a family of deer welcoming their newest, spindly-legged
member into the herd--and brushed the dusting of ice crystals from
his furs. "Any woman who truly loves you would love it, Wyn.
It's obvious how much care you put into it."
"Then
she will love it. You'll see."
“I’m
sure she will,” Garrick said, but his eyes held no conviction.
“Coruscate!”
Wynter’s roar shook the great crystal chandelier that hung in the
entry hall of his palace, Gildenheim. He stormed up the winding
stairs to the wing where royal guests were housed and burst into the
suite that had been occupied for the last two months by the Prince of
Summerlea. The rooms were empty, and judging by the state of the
open drawers and the clothes flung haphazardly about, the inhabitants
had vacated the place in a hurry.
“He’s
gone, Wyn.” Valik, Wynter’s oldest friend and second in command
stepped into the room. “Laci checked the temple. The book’s
gone, too.”
Wynter
swore under his breath. Barely two weeks ago, Garrick had warned him
to keep an eye on the Summerlea Prince, and Wyn had dismissed his
concerns with such blind, confidence! “When did they leave?”
“About
an hour after we left for Hileje. Elka and his guard went with him.
Bron didn’t think anything of it. The Summerlander kept blathering
about not letting some fire ten miles away ruin a good day’s hunt.”
“We’d
better start tracking them, then.”
“There’s
more, Wyn.” Valik hesitated, then said, “I think Garrick went
after them. He and his friends rode out not long after the
Summerlander. Bron heard them talking about something the
Summerlander took that Garrick meant to get back.”
Wyn’s
jaw turned to granite. With Valik close on his heels, he ran back
down to the courtyard.
Still
saddled and ready to ride, Wynter’s stallion was waiting in the
hands of a stableboy, and beside him, a dozen of Wynter’s elite
White Guard held Prince Falcon’s valet at swordpoint. The valet
looked nothing like the sleek, meticulously turned-out peacock
Wynter’s courtiers had mocked amongst themselves. He’d traded
his velvet brocade livery for rough-spun woolens, a furred vest, and
a heavy cloak. His knuckles were scraped, and his face sported a
bruised jaw and an eye that was swollen shut and rapidly purpling.
“We
found him in the village trying to bribe a merchant to smuggle him
out in a trade cart, Your Grace.”
“Where
is he?” Wyn grabbed the valet by his vest, yanking him up so fast
the man’s feet left the ground. Wynter was tall, even for a man of
the Craig, and holding the Summerlander at eye level left almost two
feet between the man’s dangling toes and the icy stone of the
courtyard. “Where is that Coruscate bastard you serve?”
“I
don’t know!” Clearly terrified, the man started babbling. “I
swear to you, Your Majesty! I didn’t even know he was leaving
until one of the maids delivered his note. And that only advised me
to leave Wintercraig as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“In
other words, the coward abandoned you while saving his own skin.”
Wyn threw the man aside. “Lock him up. If we don’t find his
master, he can face the mercy of the mountains in his prince’s
stead. The rest of you, mount up. Time to hunt.”
Minutes
later, Wynter, Valik, and two dozen White Guard were galloping down
the winding mountain road that led from Gildenheim to the valley
below. Wynter howled a call to the wolves as they went, sending a
summons to the packs that were spirit-kin to his family’s clan.
Wolves were faster in the dense woods, and they tracked by scent
rather than sight. The Summerlanders’ smell was alien to this part
of the world, so the wolves should have no trouble picking up their
trail.
He
wasn’t sure if the prince would try heading south, towards
Summerlea, or west to the Llaskroner fjord. The fjord was closer,
and the port there was a busy one, full of strangers from distant
lands. For thieves looking to get out of country quickly, that was
the better destination. When the wolf call came from the west, Wyn
knew he’d guessed right. He whispered to the winds, calling to the
old Winterman in the north to blow his icy horn, then summoning the
Vestras, the freezing maritime winds of the western seas to send
their bone-chilling fog.
As
he and his men rode west, following the call of the wolves, the
temperatures began to drop. If the Summer Prince fought back with
his own weathergifts, that would pinpoint his location. If he
didn’t, the rapidly worsening weather would slow his escape.
Either way, Wynter would track him down, and make him pay for what
he’d done to the people of Hileje.
The
prince had hours on him. That was the purpose of the fire in
Hileje—a distraction to get Wynter and his men out of the palace so
Falcon Coruscate could steal what he came for and make his escape.
But the distraction had been much more than a mere fire. The
Summerlanders had raped and murdered dozens of villagers, then locked
the rest in the meeting hall and burned them alive.
Eighty-six
lives wiped out in one senseless act of violence. Eighty-six
innocent Winterfolk who had depended on their king to protect them.
And he had failed.
The
tone of the wolves’ howls suddenly changed, the howls becoming
longer, mournful, announcing a loss to the pack. Wynter sent out his
thoughts, connect to the pack mind and seeing through the wolves’
eyes as he searched for the source of that cry. He caught a glimpse
of scarlet splashed across the snow, bodies that were clothed not
furred.
“No!”
He knew instantly why the wolves howled and for whom. “No!
Garrick!” He spurred Hodri faster, galloping at a reckless pace.
The wind whistled past his ears. Snow flew from Hodri’s hooves.
It
didn’t take long to reach the clearing where the wolves had
gathered. The smell of death filled the air—a dark odor Wynter had
smelled before. It was a scent few men ever forgot.
He
reined Hodri in hard, leaping from saddle to ground before the horse
fully stopped. The first two bodies were boys Wyn recognized.
Garrick’s friends. Sixteen years old, the same age as Garrick.
Arrow-pierced through their hearts. They’d been dead within
minutes of being struck.
A
moaning cough brought Wyn scrambling to his feet. He half-ran,
half-stumbled across the snow towards the source of the sound, but
when he got there, he felt as if his heart had stopped beating. He
fell to his knees.
The
coughing boy was Garrick’s best friend, Junnar. He’d been
gut-shot, and the dark, matter-filled blood oozing from the wound
told Wynter the boy was a dead man even though his body still clung
weakly to the last threads of his life.
Junnar
lay atop the prone, lifeless figure of Wynter’s brother. An
arrow--its shaft painted with the Prince of Summerlea’s personal
colors --protruded from Garrick’s throat.
“Garrick?”
After moving Junnar to one side and packing his wound with snow to
numb the pain, Wyn reached for his brother with trembling hands. His
fingers brushed the boy’s face, and he flinched at the coldness of
his brother’s flesh. Garrick had been dead for hours. Probably
since before Wyn had left Gildenheim in pursuit. How could Wyn have
lost the only family he had left in the world and not known it the
instant it happened?
Horses
approached from Wynter’s back. Then Valik was there, laying a
sympathetic hand on Wynter’s shoulder.
“I’m
sorry, my friend. I’m so sorry.”
Wyn
nodded numbly. The ache was consuming him. The pain so deep, so
indescribable, it was beyond feeling. His whole body felt frozen,
like the ice statues he and Garrick carved together.
“Help
Junnar.” How he spoke, he didn’t know. His voice came out a
choked, gravelly rasp. “Make him as comfortable as you can.”
“Of
course.”
He
waited for Valik to lift Junnar and settle him off a short distance
before gathering Garrick’s body into his arms. He held his brother
for a long time, held him until Junnar breathed his last and the
White Guard packed the bodies up for transport back to Gildenheim.
Their hunt for Prince Falcon of Summerlea had ended the moment Wynter
found his brother’s corpse. But there was no doubt in any of their
minds that this was far from over.
Wynter
carried Garrick in front of him on Hodri’s back, cradling his body
as he had so many times over the years after their parents had died
and it had fallen to him to raise his brother. He carried him all
the way to Gildenheim, releasing him only to the weeping servants who
would prepare Garrick and the others for the funeral pyre.
Wynter
stood vigil by his brother’s side throughout the night. He
murmured words of sympathy to the parents of the other lost boys, but
shed no tears of his own though his eyes burned. At dusk the
following night, he stood, tall and dry-eyed beside the pyres as the
flames were lit and remained standing, motionless and without
speaking, throughout the night and into the next morning. He stood
until the pyre was naught but flickering coals. And when it was done
and there was nothing left of his brother but ash, Wynter mounted
Hodri and took the long, winding road to the Temple of Wyrn, which
was carved into the side of the next mountain.
Galacia
Frey, the imposing and statuesque High Priestess of Wyrn, was waiting
for him inside the temple. She had come the night before to bless
his brother and the others and to light their pyres, before returning
to the temple to await his visit.
“You
know why I have come.”
Her
eyes were steady. “I know. But Wyn, my friend, you know I must
ask you to reconsider. You know the price.”
“I
know and accept it.”
“There’s
no guarantee the goddess will find you worthy,” she warned. “Many
men have tried and died.”
“You
think that frightens me? If I die, I will be with my brother. If I
survive, I will have the power to avenge him.”
She
closed her eyes briefly and inclined her head. “Then take the path
to the left of the altar, Wynter Atrialan, King of the Craig. Leave
your armor, clothes and weapons in the trunk by the door. You must
enter the test as you entered the world. And may the goddess have
mercy on your soul.”
About
the Author:
C.
L. WILSON grew up camping and waterskiing across America, from Cherry
Creek reservoir in Denver, CO, to Lake Gaston on the border of
Virginia and North Carolina, to Georgia’s Lake Lanier and Lake
Allatoona. When she wasn’t waterskiing and camping on family
vacations, you could usually find her with a book in one hand and a
sketch pad in the other—either reading, writing stories, or
drawing. Sometime around the ninth grade, she decided she was better
at drawing her pictures with words than paints and charcoals, and she
set aside her sketchpad to focus entirely on writing.
Wilson
is active in Tampa Area Romance Authors (TARA), her local chapter of
Romance Writers of America. When not engaged in writerly pursuits,
she enjoys golfing, swimming, reading, playing video games with her
children, and spending time with her friends and family. She is also
an avid collector (her husband says pack rat!), and she’s the proud
owner of an extensive collection of Dept. 56 Dickens and North Pole
villages, unicorns, Lladro figurines, and mint condition comic books.
Wilson
currently resides with her husband, their three wonderful children,
and their little black cat, Oreo, in a secluded ranch community less
than thirty miles away from the crystalline waters and sugar-sand
beaches of Anna Maria Island and Siesta Key on Florida’s gulf
coast.
Tour
Giveaway:
A
copy of THE WINTER KING, complete with a gorgeous white
rose snow globe pendant
reminiscent of the book!
Open to US Shipping a Rafflecopter giveaway
Roses are my favorite flower. The pendant is gorgeous.
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