Chapter 3: The Price Of Peace

in a plain gray servant's frock, with her distinctive hair hidden beneath a linen kerchief, Khamsin climbed the stairs to the tower floor that housed the Queen's Bower. The sight that greeted her actually stopped her in her tracks.

The melancholy but peaceful silence that had pervaded the King's Keep all her life was gone, ripped away by the mad rush of hundreds of servants sweeping, polishing, waxing, and dusting. Half a dozen carpenters snatched from their workshops worked at a frantic pace to replace rotting floorboards, while drapers tore down moth-eaten window hangings and hung new tasseled velvets in their stead. A small army of footmen carted new furniture up from the lower levels of the palace. Maude Newt, the Mistress of Servants, stood at one end of the room, overseeing the cleanup with steely gray eyes and snapping orders left and right.

Someone bumped Khamsin hard from behind, making her stagger forward.

"Out of the way, girl," a man growled in an irritated voice. He and another man, both sweating from exertion, hauled a large, upholstered divan past and set it down along with a host of other furniture cluttered against one wall on a stretch of mended, waxed, and polished floor.

"You there!"

Khamsin turned to find Maude Newt's iron glare pinned on her.

"Quit gawking like a daft looby and get about your business. We've barely two hours remaining to get these rooms restored and spotless."

An angry retort leapt to Kham's tongue but, remembering her disguise, she bit it back. "Yes, ma'am," she said instead, with galling subservience. The birthmark on her wrist blazed with heat, and the urge to send a little lightning bolt up Newt's skirt was almost more than she could bear. She suppressed the urge with effort, bobbed a brittle curtsy, and sped off towards the door leading to her mother's bedchamber.

I'm here for my mother's things, she reminded herself silently. I'm not here to teach Maude Newt a lesson even if the wizened old lemon deserves it!

Controlling her temper had never been easy for Khamsin. Since infancy—since the first sentient days of life in her mother's womb—hot, wild, rebellious emotion had always lain just below the surface, simmering, waiting for the smallest spark to set her off. There were times Tildy despaired of ever teaching her control. There were times Kham despaired of ever being more than the hot, destructive wind for which she was named.

As she crossed the bower to the bedchamber, she felt Newt's hard glare boring into her back, gaining reprieve only when she ducked out of sight through the sleeping-chamber door. Well, at least her disguise seemed to be working. If Maude Newt had recognized her, she'd have run straight away to tell King Verdan that Summerlea's disgrace of a fourth princess was dressed like a servant and skulking in an area of the palace she'd been forbidden to enter.

Khamsin entered the sleeping chamber and froze in her tracks once more. This had apparently been the first room tackled by the crew of frantic servants because its transformation was already complete. Kham could only stand in the doorway and gape.

Her mother's bed was gone. A new, larger bed rested in its place, piled with several thick, fresh ticks that two young maids were industriously covering with scented sheets. The wood floor, scattered with plush woven rugs, gleamed like polished copper. Every last cobweb and mote of dust had been banished from sight. Sumptuous velvet hangings and tapestries robbed the chill from the cold stone outer wall, and a fire blazed in the wide hearth that opened through a shared inner stone wall to the bathing room beyond. A pot of fragrant herbs simmered over the flames to fill both the sleeping and bathing chambers with a fresh, warm scent to chase away the musty odor of neglect.

Others might find the room's transformation a pleasant surprise. Khamsin did not. Anger knotted in her belly. She didn't like change. She didn't like these hundreds of servants invading her mother's space—her space—and turning the forlorn but comforting familiarity of her childhood sanctuary into a perfect, spotless foreign world where she no longer belonged.

She turned towards the place where her mother's dresser had stood earlier today, and an invisible fist closed around her heart. The dresser was gone.

She spun around, scanning the room in rapid, frantic sweeps. The irreplaceable treasures she'd come to collect had vanished as well. Where were her mother's golden, gem-studded hairbrush, comb and mirror? Where was the small painted miniature of her mother's likeness? Most of all, where were the two slim, bound books—the gardener's journal and the private diary—written in Queen Rosalind's own hand?

"You two!" she snapped at the young girls making the bed. "What happened to my—to the queen's belongings?"

One of the two girls pursed her lips. "And who is it askin'?" she sneered, scanning Khamsin's modest dress with a dismissive gaze.

Kham's fingers curled in a fist. I am in disguise. I am a servant, she reminded herself. Servants do not rudely order other servants around—unless you're Maude Newt.

"I'm a new girl, just come to the palace to serve Princess Summer," she improvised. "She sent me to collect a few of her mother's things before the White King takes up residence."

That wiped the sneer off the girl's face. The warm, kind-hearted Summer was beloved by the palace servants. Few would begrudge her the slightest request. In a more accommodating voice, the girl said, "Anything fit for the trash heap has already been taken away. Everything else was carted off to the old solar. If there's anything of the queen's worth keeping, it's most likely there."

"Thank you." Khamsin drew a breath and plunged back into the frenetic rush of the Queen's Bower, weaving through the crowd of carpenters, maids, and other workers. The solar was an adjoining antechamber accessible through a connecting door on the southern wall. Kham reached the door and turned the knob.

Locked. She ground her back teeth together in frustration. The door was locked, and Kham knew who was the most likely person to have the solar key in her possession.

She glanced over her shoulder in Maude Newt's direction. The Mistress of Servants was talking to a tall guardsman wearing the king's livery. Khamsin couldn't hear what they were saying, but when Newt jabbed a bony, emphatic finger towards the queen's bedchamber, it was obvious the woman must have seen through her disguise.

Time to go. She'd come back later after getting a spare key from Tildy. Right now, she'd best make a quick escape before the Newt caught her. The steely-eyed Mistress of Servants would love nothing better than to catch Khamsin in some sort of mischief and report her to the king.

Khamsin ducked through the bower door and shoved past the stream of workers crowding the hall and stairway. Behind her, she heard a man's voice call out, "Princess!" but she ignored him and plunged down the stairs.

She raced two flights down and kept running until she reached her room. She'd barely changed out of the plain frock into one of her sister Autumn's cast-off gowns of spruce green worsted wool when a knock sounded on the door. Kham stuffed the servant's gown and linen kerchief under her bed and ran both hands through her disheveled curls to smooth them before opening the door.

A liveried guardsman—different from the man in the tower—stood outside her door. "Your Highness." He bowed shortly, his face a blank slate. "The king requests your presence."

"What in the name of the Sun were you thinking?"

Khamsin stood stiff and silent, eyes focused blindly straight ahead. Her father, King Verdan, still clad in the formal court dress he'd donned to greet Wynter Atrialan, paced the floor of his private office. Heat radiated off him in waves. He was furious. With her. Not because of the tower, but because of the storm before that.

"Did you think I wouldn't know it was you? Are you that great a fool that you would openly attack the Winter King before the terms of peace are even settled? With half his army waiting in our streets, ready to slaughter us all at the slightest provocation?"

Her gaze snapped up, guilt and worry suddenly swamping her. She hadn't meant it that way. She'd only meant it as a warning . . . something to let the White King know not all denizens of Summerlea were cowed by his presence. She hadn't stopped to consider that he might interpret her storm as an act of war.

"Father, I—"

"Silence!" His hand swept out, cracking against her cheek in a fierce, explosive blow.

Her head snapped back. Tears of pain filled her eyes. Inside her mouth, blood welled up where the edge of her teeth had cut the soft inner lining of her cheek.

"Papa," Autumn protested, half rising from the couch where she and her other two sisters sat, having been summoned as always to witness their youngest sister's disgrace. "You know she didn't mean it. You know how Storm gets when she feels threatened." Storm was Khamsin's giftname, but only her siblings ever called her by it. Her father never called her anything but "girl."

"Sit down, Autumn, and be silent."

"But Papa—"

"I said sit!"

Autumn sat. She cast Khamsin an apologetic glance. Kham shook her head slightly. This was not Autumn's fight, nor was it her place to intervene. Khamsin had long ago outgrown the need for her siblings to protect her from their father's wrath even if they still insisted on trying whenever he was particularly furious.

Her father's full, dark green velvet robes swung as he spun back around towards Khamsin. "Since you obviously cannot be trusted to control yourself, you will remain in your room until the Winter King departs."

She nodded, not daring to speak.

"If you make one more misstep," he warned, "if you so much as ruffle a breeze through the White King's hair or even breathe in defiance of my will, I will cast you out. I will banish you from this kingdom on pain of death. Do you hear me, girl?"

"Papa!" This time the protest came from all three sisters.

Khamsin couldn't gather her thoughts enough to warn them off. Her father's threat was stunning, vicious, and wholly unexpected. She'd known for a long, long time that he didn't love her, but she'd never realized how deep and truly bitter his feelings were. How he must despise her to ever make such a threat.

"Stop it, Papa," Spring ordered. Cool and sensible as always—capable of almost as fierce a temper as Khamsin, but far more able to control it—she crossed to Khamsin's side and laid a protective hand on her arm. "Pain of death? She is an heir to the Summer Throne. There's not a person in this kingdom who would curse their family house by spilling her blood, and you know it."

"It's not Storm's fault the Winter King is here," Autumn added. She stood, straightened her deep purple gown with a snap of her wrist, and went to join Spring at Khamsin's side. Her copper curls bounced at she cocked her head to one side and thrust out a delicate, imperious chin. "Everyone in this room knows exactly where that blame lies."

When King Verdan bristled, Summer rose and wrapped her arms around her father's waist. Of all his children, she was his favorite. She was everyone's favorite, blessed with a sunny nature and a ready smile.

"Enough, Papa. I'm sure Storm's sorry for what she did, and I'm sure she didn't mean to endanger the peace. Let her stay in her room, as you suggested, and avoid any further confrontations with the Winter King. The rest of us will do our best to show him how gracious and hospitable Summerlanders can be." She smiled, her deep blue eyes full of forced cheer. "Maybe that will help soften his terms of surrender."

The Summer King regarded his three oldest daughters for a long moment. The heat issuing from his body began to dissipate, and the room grew noticeably cooler. But when he turned back to Khamsin, the loathing in his gaze made her flinch.

"Get to your room, girl. Don't dare step one foot outside your door until I send word that you may. Tildavera will bring you your meals. If I find out you've disobeyed me, I won't kill you or banish you, but believe me, I'll make you wish I had."

Khamsin curtsied and turned for the door. She didn't speak. Tears gripped her throat in a chokehold, and if she tried to say a word, they would burst forth in a humiliating gush. She hadn't cried in front of her father in years—not since the day he'd told her she was responsible for her mother's death.

With half his men deployed at strategic points throughout the city, and the other half taking up positions in and around the palace, Wynter returned to seek the room, bath, and refreshment he'd demanded.

King Verdan himself escorted Wynter through the warm, colorful halls of the main palace building and up several flights of stairs into the old, stone keep that crowned the city. Valik and a prune-faced harridan who'd introduced herself as Maude Newt, Mistress of Servants, trailed behind, along with half a dozen Wintercraig guards. The air grew a little colder as they entered the keep, the surroundings a bit more lonely and somber, but Wynter actually liked that better than the crowded frills and luxuries of the palace. Cold stone and privacy suited his nature. He was a man who lived in a harsh, uncompromising land of solitude, danger, and stark beauty.

The small party climbed two flights of stone steps in the tower before reaching the floor that housed the newly renovated Queen's Bower. A knot of young, gray-clad serving girls stood at attention just inside the wide, arching doorway that led into the bower. They bobbed erratic, nervous curtsies as he passed.

Wynter walked through a set of wide double doors into the long-abandoned room his spies had told him was a rotting ruin. However deteriorated it might have been before, nothing now could be further from the truth. The room sparkled and gleamed from corner to corner, and the air was rich with the scents of flowers, herbs, fresh sawdust, and a strong sprinkling of bleach. The furnishings were exceptional, both in quality and beauty. Wynter's gaze roved over the room, searching for subtle points of complaint. He found none. Verdan, it seemed, had outdone himself.

"This will do." He glanced at the servant girls. "Prepare my bath."

They squeaked and bobbed and nearly tumbled over each other like a litter of clumsy wolf pups in their rush to do his bidding.

"I will expect refreshments and your daughter's company within the hour," he reminded the Summer King with a cool look.

"Of course." Verdan bowed his head slightly. "Newt here will see to any other needs you may have. Just use the bellpull to summon her." He pointed to a long, tasseled pull near the double doors. "I had thought we would discuss terms in the map room downstairs. Will two hours from now give you sufficient time to prepare?"

"Two hours is fine." He didn't want to leave Verdan stewing for too long, lest worry blossom into something unwise.

"I'll send my steward Gravid to guide the way." Verdan spun on his heel and departed.

The Mistress of Servants lingered behind long enough to drop a quick, deep curtsy and reiterate the offer of her services. "If you need anything, Your Majesty, anything at all, just call on Newt. I'll see you get whatever you desire."

"Very good." There was an obsequiousness to her tone and slyness to her darting gaze that he did not care for. "For now, Newt, privacy is what I desire most. And Newt? Wintercraig kings are addressed as 'Your Grace,' not 'Your Majesty.' "

"I understand, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace. Just send the girls out when they're done." She bowed and backed out of the Queen's Bower. The doors, now guarded by Wynter's own men stationed outside in the hall, closed behind her.

Silence fell over the bower, broken only by the sound of splashing water coming from the bathing chamber. Wynter and Valik stood still and wordless, watching each other and waiting in patience silence. A moment later, the four trembling young maids emerged from the bedchamber like wary does mincing into an open glade.

"Your bath is ready, sir," one of them whispered.

"Good." Wynter jerked his head toward the double doors. "Out."

The maids bolted.

Valik waited until they heard the sound of the maids' shoes clattering down the stone steps before speaking. "Well, he managed it."

Wynter nodded. "Surprisingly well, too." He stripped off his gauntlets and tossed them on a nearby table, then walked to the two large, glassed windows cut into the stone wall and threw up the sash on each of them. Cold brisk air swirled in, carrying with it a light flurry of snow. He breathed deep and left the windows open so the draft could clear away the sweet, heavy aroma hanging in the room. "It seems Verdan is sincere in his efforts to be accommodating. Perhaps he'll acquiesce to my terms after all, and I can take what I've come for through peaceful means rather than violence."

Valik grunted, plucked a round green grape from a bowl of fruit, and popped it into his mouth. He bit down, then grimaced and spit the crushed grape into his hand. "Sour. You didn't allow warmth enough for their crops to ripen this year."

"That was the plan."

"I suppose. Just didn't think I'd have to suffer the results." He sighed. "I hope there's something decent to eat around here."

"Stay and share my meal with me."

Valik gave a grunting laugh. "Don't think so, tempting though it is. That Autumn is a fine piece of Summerland bounty. They all are. Lucky you."

"Lucky me," Wynter agreed with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

His friend started to say something—no doubt a continuance of the argument they'd been having since leaving the encampment this morning—but he caught himself, and said instead, "Water's hot. Go bathe. She'll warm to you a bit better if you don't stink of horse and travel."

Wynter arched a cool brow. "I've already told you, she could be cold as a block of ice, and it won't change my mind."

Valik sighed and shook his head. "An occasional chill in the bedroom keeps things fresh, Wyn, I'll grant you that. But cozy your bare ass up to a glacier night after night, and eventually your extremities will freeze and fall off. Including the important ones." He raised both brows suggestively.

Wynter snorted. "No Summer witch has it in her to be that cold." He waved a hand at the door. "Go. Get cleaned up, find some decent food, and meet me in the map room in two hours."

"I've said my piece. Won't say it again." Valik saluted by tugging one of the silvery white braids dangling from his temple, then ruined the image of stoic acceptance by adding, "Will say 'told you so' when the time comes, though." He laughed at Wynter's glare and headed for the door. "Map room. Two hours. I'll be there, my king. Enjoy your meal . . . and your princess."

"Frost brain." The velvet pillow Wynter threw at him bounced harmlessly off the closing door and slid across the floor.

Thanks to Valik's irritating prod, Wynter had half a mind to meet the princess not only stinking of horse but fully armored as well. The scented mist wafting in from the bathing chamber changed his mind. He was tired. He'd been in the saddle, waging war, bereft of female companionship and most of life's gentler pleasures for three years. But the war was over now, and the Summerlea princesses were beautiful. He couldn't deny that a part of him longed to bring a little warmth back into his life.

He walked into the bedchamber, threw open the two windows there, and began to strip in the brisk, fresh air. With deft fingers, he loosened the numerous buckles holding his armor in place and shed the heavy silver plates of protective gear, setting each of them against the wall. His boiled leather inner armor joined the plate, as did the padded gambeson beneath that, and finally the innermost garment, quilted silk that covered him from neck to wrist and ankle.

Naked, he padded into the bathing chamber and stepped into the huge copper tub. A slow smile spread over his face as he slipped into the steaming water. Winter's Frost, that felt good. Tight muscles began to relax. He leaned his head back against the broad, curved lip of the tub and stared up at the ceiling from half-closed eyes.

In the Craig, after a particularly cold day, he'd often enjoyed a dip in the hot volcanic springs of Mount Freika or a relaxing steam bath in the caverns beside the springs, but leading this war had kept him from home for the better part of three years. In all that time, he'd not allowed himself indulgences beyond those available to his troops. He'd shared the same hard ground, tepid baths, and plain camp fare as his soldiers. The only amenity he hadn't partaken of with them was women. Elka had stripped him of all warmer passions when she left; the colder ones he'd poured entirely into his bitter, consuming three-year battle for vengeance.

And now, at last, victory was at hand. Summerlea had robbed him of both his queen and his heir. He planned to return the favor.

After his bath, Wynter emptied his saddlebags and donned a flowing, buttonless cream silk shirt and matching woolen breeches. The loosely tied closures bared a casual vee of muscled chest and the cream silk complemented the golden hue of his skin. The breeches and a pair of butter-soft golden leather boots hugged his calves, outlining the muscular legs and hindquarters gained from years of combing the rocky highlands of the Craig.

A knock sounded on the bower door. He walked to the bedroom door, toweling his hair, and despite his own men standing guard, he picked up his sword before calling "Enter!" through the doorway.

The sound of an unlatching lock and the rattle of trays told him his dinner had arrived. He cast a glance through the open doors, counting two—three—maids, and two of his own men watching as they laid out his meal.

He returned to the bathing chamber and left the new arrivals to set up the brief repast, but he kept his sword within easy reach—just in case. The habits of war were hard to break. He was, after all, still a conquering king standing in the heart of the enemy territory.

Wynter tossed the towel on the edge of the bath and ran a brush through his long, pale hair. It was still damp and curled slightly at the ends in the moist warm air of the bathing chamber. He fastened it back with a gilded silver tie and hooked a shining silver ear cuff in the shape of a snow wolf—sign of his family clan—around his left ear. Three silver chains dangled from the ear cuff, each attached to a small silver bell bearing one of three Wintercraig runes symbolizing ice, fire, and the Great Hunt. On his right index finger, he wore his ring of office: an intricately carved platinum signet bearing the royal crest of the Snow Wolf clan. On the little finger of his left hand, he wore another platinum band, this one set with an enormous, breathtaking, blue-white diamond called the Wintercraig Star. Last, he pulled on a short, sleeveless vest of sky blue velvet embroidered in silver threads.

A glance in the beveled mirror hung on the wall reflected back an image of cool, understated elegance. That would do.

He slipped out of the bedroom and halted at the sight of not one but three darkly beautiful Summerlea princesses sitting at the glossy mahogany table.

Spring, Summer, and Autumn had come to share his meal.

In retrospect, Wynter realized, it was a boon to have such surfeit of royal companionship for his repast. He'd thought to observe the Autumn, to determine if she would suit, but enjoying the three of them together gave him a greater understanding of each. He'd taunted them a bit, with their own changed status, treating them more like servants than princesses, just to see if they would be as accommodating as their sire.

They did not disappoint. He'd seen the flash of defiance in Spring's eyes just before she lifted her own wine cup to his lips as he'd commanded, the resentment in Summer's when he'd ordered her to sing while he ate, and the way Autumn's fingers had curled around the knife when he'd told her to cut an apple and feed him the pieces from her own hand after she had taken a bite from each. But he'd also seen each princess shiver when he ran a finger across her soft, pampered skin or leaned a little too close for comfort, and he'd watched each stifle her own flare of temper and bend herself to his will.

They were proud and haughty, like their father, but they were also wise enough to fear the Winter King. And that fear made them swallow their urge for defiance.

When the meal ended, he sent them away, pleased. He'd been right. Any of them would do. That would make things simpler.

Still wearing his cream silk trousers and shirt, with Gunterfys strapped to his hip and Valik striding beside him, Wynter entered the palace's large map room. King Verdan, still in his ceremonial best, greeted Wynter with cool reserve.

"Verdan." He nodded to the older man. Four other men stood beside the king, including the general of the last surviving Summerland army and three lords of the king's council. "You four," he commanded with brisk disregard, "get out."

Outrage flashed across all four men's faces, and across Verdan's as well.

"What? How dare you, sir!" the general exclaimed.

"These men are my confidants and advisors, leaders of Summerlea," King Verdan protested, casting a warning look at the leader of his last remaining army. "They have a right to be present at any peace negotiations."

"Negotiations?" Wynter lifted a brow. "I have come to explain the terms of your surrender. They are nonnegotiable. You can accept them, or you and every living creature in Summerlea can die."

"You're bluffing," one of the other three said. "If you wanted us dead, we'd already be so."

"I do not bluff. I came here to end the war, but only on my terms. Since the day I took the throne, you Summerlanders set yourself against me, thinking my youth made me an easy mark, mistaking my restraint and efforts at diplomacy as signs of weakness. In your arrogance, you thought I could be easily dispatched, and Wintercraig would be yours for the taking. You thought wrong." His eyes narrowed, his expression deadly cold, he leaned forward on the table. Frost whitened the polished surface. "You Summerlanders started this war, but I am here to finish it. You can either accept defeat—and the terms that go with it—or you can die. Either way makes no difference to me. I will take what I came for." The general flushed a ruddy color and cast an outraged glance at his king. "Sire! There's no need to accept this disgrace and humiliation. Say the word, and we will stand and fight. We'll die to a man, like Roland and his army when they triumphed over Ranulf the Black."

"You wish to die?" Wynter narrowed his gaze on the general. Cold fire came to his call, gathering, burning, at the backs of his eyes. "Very well, then. Die."

The general went stiff, his mouth freezing open in a stifled cry.

"Stop." Verdan wasn't stupid enough to step in the path of the Ice Gaze, but he couldn't stop himself from the quick, instinctive lurch towards the general.

"The wound you dealt me to start this war was personal," Wynter said, holding his Gaze. "The price of peace is personal as well. It does not concern your armies or these men, and their presence is neither necessary nor desired." The general's lips had turned blue, and his skin had gone pasty white.

The Summer King capitulated. "Release him, and I'll send them away."

Wynter blinked and shuttered the power of his Gaze. "Better."

He waited for the three openly terrified lords to depart. The general, shaking uncontrollably, had to be helped out the room by a trio of servants. "Give him a hot bath and wrap him in thick blankets," he told the servants. "He won't feel warm again for several days."

When they were gone, he nodded to Valik, who slipped out the other door, leaving Wynter and Verdan alone.

Wynter crossed his arms and regarded his enemy in silence. The Summer King and his lords were pampered fools. Arrogant and treacherous, yes, but ultimately weak. They had never known true hardship until the hand of Wynter had fallen hard upon them. They roamed the hills and vales of Summerlea, preening and prideful, believing themselves lords of the earth, when in reality they—like the people they governed—were only sheep, fatted and dull-witted by decades of self-indulgence, easily herded to the slaughter.

It had not always been so. Once, long ago, the kings of Summerlea had been lions of men, true heroes, like Roland Soldeus, who had sacrificed everything so Summerlea could live free. But somewhere along the way, that shining spirit, that noble, defiant bravery, had died out. Generations of kings who'd held the fire of the Sun in their hearts had given way to weaker, less noble men, willful, nihilistic parasites who gorged themselves on Summerland bounty and cloaked themselves in the shreds of their ancestors' glory.

And their people, those sheep they kept glutted on a never-ending flow of wealth from the country's fertile fields, vineyards, orchards, and herberies, never noticed the difference.

Oh, they'd rallied a few worthy defenses when Wynter had first marched upon their lands, but he'd known their will would not last. He'd continued to press them, relentless and without mercy, stripping their armies of the few brave souls still among them until only the sheep remained. And then, he'd simply spread winter across their lands and waited. Hardship sapped what tiny flickers of defiance still remained, and the last two battles had been easily won.

"Well?" Verdan prompted when the silence dragged on. "What are your terms? What is the price of peace between us?"

Wyn had intended peace to come only when every Summerlander lay frozen and lifeless beneath a blanket of ice and snow. But the helpful informant who'd snuck into his camps several months ago had convinced him there was another, more satisfying victory to be had.

"Your son, Prince Falcon, stole the woman who was to have been my queen and one of the irreplaceable treasures of my house." Wynter pushed off the map table and began to pace. "He ran off with them both while I was fighting the brigands he sent to destroy one of my people's villages. But that was not enough for him. During his escape, your son put an arrow through my brother Garrick's throat. My brother was just a boy, not yet sixteen, but your son left him to die in the snow and fled like the thieving coward he is."

Wynter turned, his face a frozen mask, his eyes burning ice. "Your son robbed me of my queen, one of my kingdom's greatest treasures, and my heir. You will return to me that which I have lost."

Verdan went pale, and his jaw dropped open in a stunned gape. "I? I'm no miracle worker. I can't return your brother from the dead, and I'm sure your spies have already told you no one knows where Falcon is. Not even I. If Falcon did take your queen and your treasure, as you have claimed, only he would know where to find them."

"A queen, a treasure, and an heir. That's what you will provide me. You have proclaimed many times that the greatest treasures of your kingdom are your lovely daughters. So I will take one of your daughters to wife. She will have a year to fill her womb with an heir to claim both the Winter and the Summer Thrones. If she fails, she will be turned out to face the mercy of the mountains, and I'll be back the following spring to claim another daughter. And so it will continue until I have my heir or you are out of daughters. That, Verdan, is the price of peace."