The Winter King by C. L. Wilson

blowing past.
    Wynter turned his face into the wind, closed his eyes, and drew the crisp air deep into his lungs. Cold as it was, the air was still warmer than the frigid mass that dwelled deep inside him.
    Behind him, in a much calmer, even casual tone, Valik said, “Verdan’s note doesn’t say which one of the Seasons will be your bride.”
    Wynter’s mouth turned up at the corner. Not the smoothest of segues, but he was grateful for the change of subject all the same. Thank Wyrn, Valik wasn’t one to wallow in emotion.
    “Any one of the princesses will do,” he said. His spy had told him Verdan loved each of the Seasons madly, and that was all that mattered. The Summer King would suffer the loss of his beloved daughter, as Wynter suffered each day without his brother.
    “I’ll inform Leirik of your plans and prep my men for departure.”
    “Have Verdan’s runner inform him that we are in agreement.”
    “I will.”
    “And Valik?” Keeping his eyes on the frozen Summerlea landscape, he asked, “Did you find anything more about the little maid?”
    “She’s the last thing you should be thinking about right now.”
    “Did you?”
    Valik huffed out a breath. “No. I asked around, like you wanted, but no one seems to have heard of a maid fitting her description.”
    “That Newt woman knew her.”
    “She’s Verdan’s stooge. I thought you wanted me to be more discreet. Papa wouldn’t be too happy to know his daughter’s groom is hunting a mistress before the vows are even spoken—especially if you’re right about why he wants to ensure the marriage is consummated.”
    Wynter opened his mouth to deny that his interest in the maid was sexual, then closed it. Who was he trying to fool? He hadn’t sent his best friend and closest confidant on a fruitless search of the palace to find the maid just so Wynter and she could exchange stain-removal recipes. He wanted to find her so he could assuage the hunger that still curled in his belly and had kept his body in a state of semiarousal ever since.
    It was probably for the best that her fellow servants were hiding her from him. Had Valik found her, Wyn honestly doubted he’d have any interest in attending his bride on their wedding night, and that would have caused a number of problems.
    “Carry on.”
    Steel clanked as Valik thumped a gauntleted hand against his chest and bowed. “My king.”
    When he was gone, Wynter remained where he stood, his gaze sweeping the winding levels of the city below in slow, moody passes. He should forget her, just as Valik said, but he couldn’t. The little maid, with her storm-cloud eyes and storm-tossed hair, simply would not leave his thoughts.
    The rest of the afternoon and the following two days passed without event. While the palace below was in a flurry of activity preparing for the royal wedding and subsequent feast Verdan had insisted on hosting, Wynter spent most of his time sequestered in the bower, signing grants of office for the Wintercraig men who would be putting the country back in order after his departure, and poring over maps and the stacks of active treaties he’d ordered brought to him from Verdan’s library. Before his invasion, Summerlea had had a thriving trade with numerous kingdoms and several enviable strategic alliances. It was Wynter’s hope to reestablish both commercial and diplomatic ties once the transition of power was complete.
    As for the current royal family, after Wynter’s departure, the deposed king would be exiled to one of his smaller country estates, away from Summerlea’s political heart, and kept there under guard to dissuade him from fomenting rebellion. The two Seasons Wynter was not taking to wife would remain in the city under Leirik’s watchful eye—hostages in case Verdan did anything foolish. Active rule of the country would pass to Wynter’s appointed governor: Leirik at first, then a nonmilitary figure when the country restabilized; and once Wynter had his heir,