The idea that Falcon might truly be the long-awaited Heir of Roland who would return the legendary sword, Blazing, to Summerlea seemed such a fantasy, she didn’t spare it a thought. But the other . . . how Verdan would howl to see Khamsin’s child on the throne of Summerlea. How he would rage and storm about. That thought alone was almost enough to convince her.

Even without that satisfaction, she had to admit that Tildy was right. If Khamsin didn’t get out now, her father would find some other way to rid himself of her. The gods and her own good fortune had kept her alive until now, but she couldn’t count on such graces forever.

She clutched the silk robe closer about her neck and winced as the fabric pulled the tender wounds on her back. “Very well,” she agreed. “I’ll wed the Winter King, but not by proxy. Veil me as heavily as you must to hide my identity, but either I stand to speak my vows, or they will not be spoken.”

“You’re too weak, and you’re in too much pain,” Tildy protested. “I can see it on your face. You can’t possibly make it through the ceremony and the wedding feast.”

Khamsin smiled grimly. “I wasn’t asking for your permission, Nurse Greenleaf. I was explaining the conditions of my cooperation. The only thing I require from you is your herbalist skills to mix up a fresh ointment for my back. You will find a way to block the worst of the pain, and I’ll find a way to make it through this farce.”

CHAPTER 5

A Draught of Wanton Appetence

Wynter stood at the chapel altar, his temper increasing by the moment. The wedding should have begun thirty minutes ago, but the bride had yet to make her appearance.

“Think she’s got cold feet?” Valik murmured under his breath.

“She’s about to get a lot more than that,” he muttered back. The temperature in the chapel had begun to drop, proof of his blossoming ire. The Winter King would not kindly suffer humiliation at Summerlea hands.

But just as Wynter prepared to summon his power and send this city plunging into ice, a commotion arose at the far end of the chapel.

Garbed in deep sapphire velvet, the same stunning shade of blue as the waters of Lake Ibree in the heart of the Craig, Wynter’s bride had arrived. Verdan stood before her, looking like he’d swallowed something vile, while she stood in the chapel doorway, Spring and Summer at each elbow. Autumn, then, was to be his queen.

If not for the simple process of elimination and his own memorable sense of smell, he would not have known it. She was so heavily veiled that even when she stepped up to take her place beside him, he couldn’t make out the shadow of her features behind the layers of concealing silk. But her scent was familiar . . . perhaps even a little overpowering. She’d not applied her perfume quite so liberally the day she and her sisters had joined him for a meal.

Suspicious, he frowned and drew her scent deeper into his lungs, examining. No, she smelled of Autumn, even beneath the perfume, but there was something else mixed in. He couldn’t make it out. It was masked by the strong smell of herbs: wintergreen, poppy, a few others he didn’t recognize. Was she so unwilling that she’d had to drink a cup of strong courage before entering the chapel?

He reached for her outer veil, and Verdan all but leapt between them.

“Remember your promise, sir!” he hissed. “Do not shame her before the court!”

Ten minutes before the wedding had been scheduled to start, Verdan had come to the groom’s dressing room to speak with Wynter. The princess had been weeping over the prospect of leaving her home and family, he said, and she didn’t want to shame herself by letting the court see her blotchy and red-eyed from tears. Wynter had agreed to leave her veil intact.

Now, he shriveled his bride’s father with an icy glance. When Verdan stepped back, Wynter bent close to her ear, and whispered, “Willingly or not, Autumn, you have consented to be my wife. I will have what I want from you, but this marriage doesn’t have to be a battle, unless you make it so. Remember that.” He ran a finger down the side of the silken veils, finding her jaw and caressing it gently.

She trembled. The little puffs of her breath made the silken veils flutter, and the tiny beads on her gown winked and shimmered as her body shook with fine tremors. “I understand,” she answered in a voice so low it was practically inaudible.

“Good.” He turned to face the priest and nodded.

The wedding ceremony began.

Khamsin stood trembling as the seconds crawled by with excruciating slowness.

For a moment there, at the beginning of the ceremony, she’d thought the Winter King would unmask her, but he had not. Thanks, she supposed, to Tildy.

“Wear Autumn’s dress and perfume,” she had advised. She’d tapped the edge of her nose. “The Snow Wolf clan sees with more than just their eyes.”

Khamsin had passed the two first hurdles of the night: fooling the Winter King and keeping her veils intact. Now she turned all her focused energies on making it through the ceremony without collapsing.

Her lower back burned like fire, each bruised and torn muscle protesting even so simple an activity as standing. Perspiration gathered at her neck and along her spine, trickling down her back beneath the hot velvets, stinging the salved and bandaged wounds. Despite doubling the strength of her salve, Tildavera had not been able to block the pain entirely, and in a fit of spite intended to wound Tildy as she was wounded, Khamsin had declared her refusal to drink any draught mixed by a traitor’s hand.