The Prince and the Ice King by Amanda Meuwissen

Chapter 3

THE EMERALDKingdom was to the south, the Mystic Valley farther north down the opposite side of the Ice King’s hill, but Reardon followed Shayla to the east toward a clearing and the edge of a thick wood that he knew would eventually join with the Dark Forest to the Shadow Lands.

He hoped the true sacrifice had made it there safely and that he hadn’t doomed them instead. The Shadow Lands were just as much a mystery as the Ice King’s castle.

Reardon wasn’t sure what he and Shayla could find for alchemy components while the ground was frozen with patches of snow. That’s what she was mostly foraging for, she’d said—components. Reardon’s knowledge of alchemy was focused more on the mixing and application after ingredients were gathered. Barclay would know better what could be found in wintertime.

“You realize this is an enchanted castle, right? That includes the surrounding grounds,” Shayla said, smirking as she looked at Reardon’s furrowed brow.

“Are you saying the plants here can withstand winter?”

“Some, and several things grow here that normally wouldn’t be found together. But a few useful items—rosemary, thyme, mint—they always thrive in winter.” She knelt a few yards from the line of trees, and indeed, several varieties of plants were clustered around their feet, green and lush and overlapping out of the snow. She began picking them with adept precision, taking string from her bag and bundling like plants together before filling the bag with her spoils.

After watching her a few moments, Reardon mimicked her efforts, and she smirked once more, inspecting his work with an approving nod.

“A prince who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. Who knew?”

She worked twice as fast as Reardon, however, and occasionally she’d toss a plant aside that didn’t look quite right to her eyes or tell Reardon to lighten or fatten a bundle before completing it. She’d obviously done this many times before.

“Violets.” Reardon pointed behind her, closer to the trees. “They’re good for sore throats, aren’t they? Would Liam want those too?”

“Knowledgeable, are you? They’re on the list. Though not for sore throats. They can be manipulated for other purposes. You won’t see anyone from the castle getting ill, but we can be injured or killed.”

Enchanted indeed, Reardon thought, though he mostly cared that he was continuing to learn about the castle, its curse, and its people.

They were essentially immortal as long as they didn’t get hurt, and Reardon would be too while he stayed here.

“Barclay said you knew alchemy, but I didn’t realize how much,” Shayla said. “That’s rare around here. Most of the occupants are magic users. I have basic knowledge. Otherwise, it’s mostly Caitlin as our healer, and Liam with his enhancements and experiments. He’s a good wizard, but he’s blown up his lab a time or two as if a storm blew through it—pun intended.” She smiled fondly, like she knew him well.

“A true education involves rough hands and calculated risk,” Reardon said with a smile of his own, looking at his dirt-smeared hands, wet from the snow. “My mother used to tell me that.” The memory of it brought a soft warmth to his chest. He’d grown beyond feeling a constant ache at the loss of her, but he still missed her every day.

“I remember when the Emerald King announced her birth,” Shayla said absently, causing him to snap his attention to her, because he kept forgetting how much older everyone in the castle was compared to him. “So that’s where all that red came from.” She reached out to muss his auburn hair, her hands wet and dirty too, yet the touch felt more playful than razzing.

“She must have grown up well, considering you’re not so bad a bastard,” she continued, returning to her work. “It was her father, you know, who decided three strikes as a thief was enough to call for one’s hands. Only a plea to be sacrifice could stay the butcher’s blade. I took my chances.”

The thief who almost lost her hands because she was starving, Reardon recalled the Ice King saying. He hadn’t known his grandfather. That king died before he was born.

“I’m sorry,” Reardon said solemnly. “That’s awful. They don’t do that anymore. But then, thieves might still be chosen as sacrifice if they get enough voices raised against them. My mother did away with many barbaric practices, but she never dared change the larger laws.

“I will when I am king. I have to. Especially after meeting all of you.”

“That’s rather noble.” Shayla slowed the pace of her foraging. “I’d think you were all fluff, but you don’t seem the type to be made for lying. Maybe you really aren’t so bad.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“I’m not. Ending up here was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Barclay had said the same, and while immortality, food, shelter, and a caring monarch were reason enough to warrant such a response, Reardon had the feeling that there was something more.

Soon they had gathered everything they could from around their feet, and Reardon went to the edge of the wood to pick the violets, while Shayla headed farther down the clearing to shave off bark from a specific patch of trees with one of her blades.

He hadn’t noticed initially, but she was armed with twin daggers almost as long as short swords, as well as a hunting knife at her ankle. Reardon felt the loss of his own dagger then, and the sword he might have brought along if this outing had been planned, but he’d left his weapons belt in his room, knowing he’d be seeing the king.

It was in that moment, wondering about his promise to Nigel to steal his dagger back and glancing at Shayla using her hunting knife to chip away bark, that he heard the first growl.

Reardon tensed, because that was no mere wild dog, judging by the resonance, although that would have been bad enough. Turning his head to look deeper into the wood, lush and dark despite the early morning sun, he saw a pair of eyes glowing and the measured steps forward of something larger with a snarling maw.

“Shadow beast….”

“Wolf,” Shayla corrected, her voice coming steadily from his right. “If shadow beasts exist, they stick to the Dark Kingdom. Now, back away slowly and don’t lose eye contact. Whatever you do, don’t turn your back on him.”

Reardon knew that, but his instincts still told him to do the opposite and run.

Steeling himself with even breaths, he stood upright and began a slow shift backward into the clearing, keeping his eyes on the wolf—a dire wolf, or at least it had been once, he realized as it materialized more clearly. Its size was impressive, but it looked emaciated.

It was alone. There were no signs of any other wolves, no pack it had come from, which explained its weakened state—weak enough to be ravenous and exceptionally feral.

A whistle rang out from Shayla to draw the wolf’s attention, but its eyes remained on Reardon. He didn’t dare look at her himself, but he could see her out of the corner of his eye, her hunting knife and one of her daggers in either hand.

“I’m going to throw you a weapon, but he’ll probably leap the moment your eyes are off him.”

“What?”

“Be ready. Try to defend more than harm. He’s only hungry.”

“Wait—”

“Now!” she cried, and Reardon jerked his head toward her, arm already reaching to catch the dagger his eyes found and locked on, and a moment later he had it with a twist of his wrist and swipe forward just as the wolf lunged.

Its teeth caught the blade instead of Reardon’s neck. If this had been a healthy dire wolf, he would have been helplessly bowled over, but he stood firm, pushing back on the blade until a great shove forced the wolf away from him. Reardon swung the dagger around to slice at each of its legs, just enough to wound it, and then scrambled back to keep out of reach.

The cries the wolf made were pitiful, but the narrowing of its eyes was murderous as it readied to lunge again.

Shayla darted forward as fast as if she’d appeared from nothing, slicing first with the hunting knife and then with the twin of the dagger she’d thrown to Reardon. She raised the blunt end of the dagger and rammed the hilt down into the wolf’s temple, at which it dropped like a drunk in a tavern at the end of a long bar fight.

Reardon gasped, adrenaline pumping and weapon tight in hand. He’d fought in the past, trained in multiple forms of combat, but he’d never had to fear for his life.

“You know how to handle yourself,” Shayla said through panted breath.

“And if I didn’t?”

“Then I couldn’t have helped you.” She grinned, nimble fingers effortlessly twirling her dagger and knife before sheathing them. “But I still tried.”

Reardon watched her kneel beside the fallen beast, recognizing how close he’d come to being rent in two without accomplishing anything of real note, other than coming to the Frozen Kingdom to rescue his friend. Knowing Barclay was safe did not change that Reardon was glad he’d fought to get here, but there was so much he hadn’t confessed to. So much he hadn’t done.

Shayla pulled a vial from her belt and tipped the liquid down the wolf’s throat.

“What is that?”

“A sort of healing draught. When he wakes, it’ll be as if he’s slept and eaten well for a week, his stamina entirely returned to him. What he does after that is up to him. After all, we don’t know his story or why he’s a lone wolf so far from friends.”

“Such mercy,” Reardon noted, wondering if the numbness settling into his fingers was from his own draught wearing off or the grip he had on the dagger.

“It’s easy after being shown mercy yourself.” Shayla stood and came over to take her dagger back from him. “Funny how people work that way.”

Mercy merely means you might end up the dead man instead.

Reardon liked Shayla’s lesson better, but he still had to say, “Most of the people in the castle didn’t act that way toward me.”

“Many of them are still angry, but while they may gnash their teeth, none would actually harm you. They just wanted to push you, see how you’d react. They trust their king. If he was willing to give you a chance, they will too.”

Reardon wasn’t sure yet if he had been given a chance or merely a temporary stay of execution.

“We get protective is all,” Shayla said, gesturing him up the hill, away from the wolf and the line of trees. She must have deemed their spoils enough—or it too risky to wait for the wolf to wake. “We’re family.”

Family. Josie and the Ice King certainly, but the others too in more than blood.

Just without children.

So many of the people in the castle were paired off, and while not everyone, it made the lack of children suddenly apparent, though Reardon hadn’t realized until now.

“If no one here ages… then children can’t be born either, can they?” he asked as they headed home.

“One of the downsides. For some. I find it freeing. Lots of worry-free sex.”

Reardon tripped, face red and hot in an instant.

Shayla laughed but didn’t take back her statement.

“Y-you have someone?” Reardon stuttered. “I didn’t see you and Nigel with anyone. Unless….”

“It’s not Nigel,” she said as though the idea was preposterous—and it certainly seemed to be from their lack of romantic chemistry. “Keep on as you are, Reardon. You’ll discover all the castle’s secrets eventually.” Without elaborating, she kept on up the hill, her bag full and her steps sure.

Reardon’s potion was wearing off, he decided, as he shuddered beneath his doublet, wishing for a warm fire when they returned.

Shayla noticed. “There should be a cloak with your new clothes.”

“It’s too short. Which is a shame, because it’s lovely. I can use the one I came in. Though that was taken away to be cleaned….” He stopped short, thinking of his dagger again. “I’m not getting it back, am I?”

Another warm laugh bubbled out of her. “I can take you to your cloak later. Clean it yourself and you might get to keep it. Does that mean you’re enjoying your new clothes?”

“Very much. The colors, the simple but flawless craftsmanship.” Reardon returned to her side, picking at the brilliant blue and green of today’s garments. “I honestly think this is better than any of the frilly noble wear I’ve had to endure. And the quilt! Does everyone have a quilt like that? It’s like a rainbow of patterns, and so warm.”

“Flatterer,” she said, opening the gate for them with an extra-wide smile. “I was rather proud of yours, but not everyone has a quilt yet. I started with the newbies and have been trying to backdate. Nigel was jealous you got one before he did.”

Reardon stood for several moments inside the archway before he realized what she meant. “You’re the tailor?”

“Not the only tailor, but I did make your doublet, the one you wore last night, and your quilt. Why? Do I not look like a tailor?” She planted her hands on her hips, which only accentuated the presence of her daggers.

“More like a….”

“A…?”

“A cutthroat,” Reardon said honestly, not surprised when this seemed to please her.

“Then I haven’t lost my touch,” she said, spinning about to continue toward the castle—past the guardian ice statues that didn’t falter her steps in the slightest. “Come on. I’m not abandoning you yet. Time to deliver these components to our wizard.”

The castle would still take Reardon weeks to learn in full, but he memorized as best he could the path Shayla took him on to travel from the main doors to Liam’s laboratory. She explained that he had his own wing of the castle, partially for storage and experiments, but also to accommodate living quarters separate from others, like all the cursed had, as well as space for his apprentices to work.

Caitlin was beyond a mere apprentice now, really Liam’s second, standing in where he was limited by touch. Barclay was the one learning, a rare breed, apparently, since Caitlin had been the first in a generation to hold up to Liam’s standards for alchemy.

Much of the castle had high ceilings and open space, but Liam’s lab felt immediately stifling, like an overstuffed library, closed in by shelves filled with a combination of books, equipment, and messily labeled bottles.

The smell was also… interesting, like bread and sour fruit. Once Reardon saw the setup for fermentation, he realized why.

“You make ale and wine in here?”

“Reardon!” Barclay exclaimed upon seeing him enter behind Shayla. He and Caitlin were huddled together over a cluttered worktable making a large batch of some potion or another in a cauldron, just like Reardon had seen Barclay and Master Wells do many times back home.

Liam was there too, though standing farther away, choosing ingredients that he set on the table. “Where else did you think it came from?” he grumbled, sparking jolts of lightning from his body.

Reardon hoped an errant spark wouldn’t have the same effect as his touch.

“Behave,” Shayla chided him. “I did your grunt work, and I expect compensation.” She set her bag on another table along the wall.

“You let the prince help you?” Liam sneered, eyes glowing brightly like two pinpricks of stars in a night sky. “Am I going to be picking weeds out of those bundles?”

“Only what you’ll be picking out of your ass.” She extracted a bundle to show him, which easily could have been hers or Reardon’s, since their finished work had ended the same. “Relax. He’s a good kid. Fended off a hungry dire wolf without getting so much as a scratch.”

“What?” Barclay abandoned his work to rush to Reardon’s side, causing Caitlin to scramble to pick up the slow stirring he’d been doing with a ladle, her lips pursed but silent.

“I’m fine,” Reardon said. “Just a reminder to watch my back. Outside if not in,” he added with a smile at Shayla—though Caitlin and Liam both shot him steely glares to remind him that he hadn’t won over everyone just yet.

“Did things go well with the king this morning?” Barclay asked, hurrying back to Caitlin to reclaim his ladle, which allowed her to add another ingredient to the bubbling pot.

“It didn’t go… terribly.”

Shayla snorted, and Reardon wondered if she’d been watching long before she called for Reardon to help her forage.

Looking over the ingredients more closely, Reardon recognized everything that had been added to the pot, and when the wizard started straining juniper berries, he was certain of what they were making—a regeneration potion, similar to what Shayla must have given the wolf, but for slower-acting effects that replenished a person’s energy throughout an entire day.

It was strange seeing a being made of lightning handle, well, anything. Liam could clearly still hold things, and yet it almost looked as though the carafe the berries were in, their yellowed juice ripe for use, merely floated amidst a tiny storm.

Reardon frowned at the strained juice when Liam set it on the table. “If I may say, sir, muddling juniper berries instead of infusing water with their juices allows for better sustained regeneration, even for soldiers doing long patrols.”

Liam crackled, his fierce eyes shooting to Reardon like he might fire a bolt at him.

“I mean no disrespect! But the difference in stamina is staggering. Barclay and I helped our High Alchemist test it when we were teenagers.”

“I’ve tried telling him,” Barclay muttered.

“And I’ve said no,” Liam snarled. “This is how we have always done this recipe.”

“Even with a second voice added, speaking the same logic?” Reardon tried.

“If it will shut you both up, fine,” he snapped, turning to retrieve a bundle of fresh juniper that he threw on the table beside the juice, along with a mortar and pestle. “I don’t need two of you nagging me. But if you know a thing or two, Emerald Prince, then you do the work.”

Reardon did know a thing or two and held his ground, sliding the mortar closer and placing the berries inside. He mashed them swiftly with the pestle, breaking the skins and keeping them as part of the mixture to be added to the potion. The final product went down more thickly, but it did work better.

“Barclay is a good teacher,” Reardon said as he ground the berries. “Alchemy isn’t part of just anyone’s education in Emerald, only if one chooses it, and I wanted to learn.”

“Reardon is a quick learner.” Barclay continued stirring the potion, a necessary step until everything was added. “He takes to alchemy more naturally than almost anyone else I’ve ever seen. Better than me, really. You’ll want him as my replacement before you know it.”

Reardon blushed at the compliment.

Liam regarded him more carefully then, following his movements as he finished mashing the berries and added them to the cauldron in slow chunks while Barclay stirred.

“Any magical affinity?” Liam asked.

“I don’t know.”

Another crackle of lightning rose from him, and he pointed a sparking finger at Reardon, drawing a design in the air that formed a visible rune, like an M or a gateway door, simply hovering there. Reardon didn’t know what the rune meant, but he watched in awe at the way it glowed a brilliant red, and then pulsed away from Liam right toward him.

Reardon flinched, but the rune didn’t pass through him; it paused just in front of his chest and shone its soft red light all across his body. The light felt warm, like standing in a pool of sunshine, but when it faded, the rune turned gray and fizzled like falling ashes.

“Not an ounce,” Liam said in distaste—causing Reardon’s chest to feel like that fallen rune, scattered into dust, though he’d never realized how much he might want to be magical. “Which makes you useless.”

“Like me?” Shayla said, arms tightly crossed as she stared him down from her perch beside the other table.

If a demon made from the eye of a storm could look like a child caught doing something naughty, then Liam managed it with a ripple of light across his features. “You’re not completely devoid of magic. Most people have at least some affinity. Besides, you’re skilled in other ways.”

“Not ways you’ll be experiencing any time soon.”

Liam crackled, and Reardon’s face burned hot. They must be close if she could tease him like that.

The silence was as charged with static as Liam himself. Reardon looked to Barclay, but he and Caitlin were distracted by the final steps of the potion, adding the last few ingredients, and then—poof, a cloud of purplish smoke billowed up as if a person were inside puffing on a pipe. Barclay ceased stirring, and Caitlin moved off to get several vials for them to fill.

Reardon tried to take the second ladle she returned with, but she ignored him and kept it for herself. She still hadn’t spoken to him directly since showing up with Liam in his room yesterday. Leaving more cold-resistance potions outside his door had helped her avoid him yet again.

“Did you have magic?” Reardon asked Liam for something to fill the air other than smoke and irritation. “Before the curse, I mean?”

“All elves have some magical ability,” came his reply, eyes remaining on Shayla. “I was the king’s wizard long before I became this.”

An elf. Reardon hadn’t realized, but as he looked at Liam now, he saw the lightning forming long points at the end of his ears in perfect outlines of the real thing.

“Magic simply means learning to harness the power within you so that alchemy isn’t necessary to cause the same results. I can cast a spell that has the same effect as one of these potions, but it takes a toll, has a price, energy that needs to be replenished. Understand? That is magic, though there are a few exceptions, people who have special abilities unique to them that may or may not have a similar cost. Like Barclay.”

Reardon edged around the table, moving cautiously closer to Liam. The Emerald Kingdom only taught its people to fear magic, not how it worked. “Do you have one? A unique ability?”

The bite to Liam’s gaze softened as he looked at Reardon. “In the spring, when it’s been too long without rain, let’s just say… sometimes there is a sudden storm.”

The thought of all that power made Reardon light up with excitement. Control over weather. That explained why he’d become lightning. “How wonderful.”

“See,” Shayla said. “I told you he was a good kid.”

Liam shifted, like he’d once again been caught doing something he didn’t want others to see, but his crackles dimmed, and the comradery between him and Shayla bloomed once more as easily as the awkwardness had withered it before.

These people weren’t monsters—not the king’s court or those who had been sent here. The elementals were frightening, the Ice King most of all, but whatever their curse, even the king was more than what he seemed.

Like with Liam, there was also something about Jack, something soft and entrancing within his jagged, frozen lines, that Reardon swore he would suss out.

The king’s eyes proved it.

Blue eyes in a sea of….

A jolt of anxiety shot up Reardon’s spine, as if he’d been struck by Liam’s lightning. He’d had the thought once before, but the old vision couldn’t mean the king… could it? It involved Reardon being here, clearly, but either he would only know true love through his friendship with Barclay or, if romance was in his future, then maybe with someone else within these walls.

It couldn’t be the Ice King. That was preposterous!

But it made Reardon really want to talk with Barclay.

“Barclay, do you have time to—”

“He’s working,” Liam said shortly, though perhaps a touch less menacing than before. “You did your duty, now go bother someone else. Collecting these potions is delicate work, as I’m sure you know, if you’re so knowledgeable.”

“I can meet up with you later,” Barclay said without taking his eyes off the careful ladling of potion into one of the vials. “We can have lunch. I’ll meet you in the hall at noon.”

“All right….”

“Let’s leave these wily wizards be.” Shayla moved from her vigilant post, leaving her bag on the table. “We have laundry to attend to. Or did you plan to skip that part of today’s labor?”

Reardon felt marginally better about his standing here, having gotten a little on Liam’s good side and being productive, even if Caitlin still wouldn’t meet his gaze, and he did appreciate Shayla being his unofficial guide. “I’ll help.”

“And don’t worry,” she said, patting his back, firm but affable. “Liam’s only 95 percent asshole.”

“Shayla…,” Liam called as she tugged Reardon toward the exit.

“Till next time!” she called back and kept on walking.

Reardon could ask about the vision later—the old vision, not the more recent one that Barclay was unwilling to talk about. Reardon knew there were more important things than his love life, but oh, wouldn’t it be something to finally know another man’s touch? If ever he was going to find romance, it had to be here, where love wasn’t limited by law.

“You’re safe here,”Barclay had said. There were others like him in this castle, many others, who loved without fear.

Reardon tried to pay attention to the route Shayla took him on to better map the castle, but his thoughts strayed—especially when he caught the attention of a passing elf. Most people he came upon cast him wary glances or avoided him, but this tall, lanky figure smiled like he hardly knew how not to, handsome in a pointy-featured sort of way, with dark hair and red-and-purple accents in his clothing.

As Reardon and Shayla moved past him up another set of stairs, Reardon couldn’t help staring at the elf, who scanned down Reardon’s body with a stretch to his smile and a funny little wiggle to his nose—and then winked.

Reardon slammed into the banister, whirling his head around to grab on to it and keep from flipping over the railing and dropping the very long distance down to the main floor. Shayla didn’t notice, but when Reardon glanced back, the elf was still smiling.

Wouldn’t it be something? he thought again—as long as it didn’t cause him to plummet to his death.

Looking away with his face flushing, Reardon hurried after Shayla. Although the elf’s grin had been attractive, all Reardon could think was….

He didn’t have blue eyes.

“EVEN Ifeel your chill today,” Branwen’s voice echoed off the ceiling of Jack’s chamber, drawing his attention from the spot on the wall he’d been staring at while lounging on his throne.

Branwen moved from the entrance like flames eating up dry wood in an impossible-to-stop wave, yet since his feet didn’t touch the ground, he didn’t so much as singe the floor or melt any ice. They didn’t know if they could be affected by each other’s touch, but they’d never dared test it to find out.

“What are you sulking for?” Branwen barked. “Thought the pretty princeling would be yacking your ear off.”

“I sent him away.” Jack kicked his legs over the arm of his throne.

“Already? He’s that bad of company? At least he’s a better view than this shithole.”

Ages ago—literally—when Jack first chose his court, Branwen was the only non-noble, a soldier who’d proven himself and become Jack’s friend. Jack didn’t care how the choice had been sneered at by the high-born, because he knew Branwen was the best man to lead his army and protect his castle, crass or not. Tactlessness meant he never hesitated to speak his mind, something Jack valued.

Usually.

“The view will be short-lived. He’s young and idealistic and thinks he can change the world with nerve and good intention.”

“Classic fool, then. Still pretty.” Branwen was only harping on that to annoy Jack. Branwen liked pretty things too, but not men.

“Worry about the fire in your own loins and stay out of the business of mine.”

“What business?” Branwen pulsed red-hot flames as he stood at the foot of the throne’s steps. “I don’t see any business at the moment.”

Jack clenched his fists with an icy creak, kicking his feet down again with a crunch into the frozen pedestal. They were all sexless in these forms but hardly devoid of wanting. But Jack’s anger couldn’t last, and he let his tension go. “He’s pretty. He’s not worth futile dreaming.”

“Let’s get rid of him quicker, then. He’s all set to play champion. How about I put a little scare into him? See if the princeling can fight. Get Oliver to help for some early morning yard training tomorrow.” A menacing smile flickered across Branwen’s face. “The good fletcher will jump at the chance after that song last night.”

The suggestion had Jack mirroring Branwen’s grin, fire and ice in warring parallel, though he still wondered at his friend’s motives. Regardless, if there was a way to break Prince Reardon of his foolish notions, this might be a start. “Do it. If he wants a crusade, let’s see how he battles.”

Branwen gave a mocking and mischievous bow before turning to leave, though not without adding, “And do something today, will you? You’re not a damn cat.”

Jack kicked his feet over the arm of the throne again just to spite him. Thinking was doing something. He was strategizing. Admittedly, normally this time of year, he’d be watching the new sacrifice with an eagle’s eye until there was no doubt whether they belonged.

The prince should not be an exception.

“Zephyr!” Jack called, swinging his legs around once more to get to his feet.

“Yes, Majesty?” Zephyr popped into existence at Jack’s side. He might honestly always be watching, lurking wherever he pleased, but whether he was hiding in a nearby corner or on the other side of the castle, he always heard Jack—he heard everything—and could appear in moments.

Every court needed a steward, but Jack understood that anyone who ran a castle was obviously more than a mere butler. Spymaster was more accurate even before Zephyr’s hearing and mobility became supernatural. He’d been a noble but was tossed aside when his family discovered he had no interest in carrying on the family line.

Jack had snatched him up immediately. The fact that the disrespectful brat hated the idea of bowing to anyone only made Jack like him more, especially once he discovered what an ear Zephyr had for gossip.

“Where’s the prince?” Jack asked.

“Getting his hands dirty—or should I say clean—helping with the washing.”

“He’s doing the washing?” Jack couldn’t decide if Reardon continuing to surprise him was irritating or intriguing.

“Took off his doublet even,” Zephyr said with a whistle. “Very fetching, that prince.”

“Not you too.” Jack scowled.

The translucent nature of Zephyr’s form was eerie to some, but it only reminded Jack that he had nothing solid to swat at, just the faint outline of a young man looking well-dressed and smug. “I’m just enjoying the view,” Zephyr said, floating leisurely in front of Jack. “Don’t pretend like you haven’t been stealing peeks.”

Before Jack could snark back at him, Zephyr poofed away. He could very well still be right there, but that didn’t stop Jack from turning toward his secret tunnels, even if he did hear giggles following him.

He’d ended his time with Reardon early; the least he could do was see what he was up to.

The washing room was in the cellar, with a large basin fit for half a dozen people to encircle it around a water pump. Jack knew exactly how every contraption in his castle worked, but much of the ingenious additions had come after the curse, created by the people sent here, whether through magic, engineering, or both.

The pulley system and rows upon rows of line above those doing the washing allowed each person to hang their finished garments without moving and then send them aloft. Prince Reardon was among them, a seventh to the usual six, given room by Shayla, who stood just off his shoulder. Reardon knew how to scrub and rinse and wring, but the pulley system was clearly a fascination for him, a smile adorning his face whenever he used it.

Everyone in the castle rotated as a washer throughout the week. It was the sacrifice’s job to be added to a shift their first day, but Jack had never seen anyone excited by it.

The other five in attendance were a mixed bag of older and newer offerings, including an elf, nearing almost one hundred years here now, who’d created that pulley system and improved it over time. He got enthusiastic every year on the night of the offering, eager to meet someone new, but he’d remained quiet last night upon discovering that Reardon was the Emerald Prince.

Now he looked as eager and enamored as usual.

“It’s really very simple,” he said with a shrug, seated beside Reardon.

“But at such scale!” Reardon exclaimed. “Look at how many clothes it can handle, and barely a drop on any of our heads while they dry. It’s marvelous! I’m sorry… what was your name again?”

“Wynn,” the elf replied, holding out a hand slightly wrinkled from the washing—even though it had been another Emerald Prince who discovered the glamour hiding his ears so many years ago and banished him to the Frozen Kingdom. “Discovered as an elf, ninety-two years ago. It’s nice to meet you, Reardon.”

“You too.”

Even the veterans were falling for Reardon’s charms, unable to resist the way he looked at the whole world seeing rainbows behind his eyes. But that was easy for a well-fed royal who’d never had anything to fear. Even in this castle, surrounded by people who should be his enemies, Reardon believed he was in no peril.

Naive. Ignorant. Jackkept thinking those same slights, yet he was drawn to Reardon as well and watched raptly from his hidden corridor as the prince worked just as hard as anyone else and made quick friends of everyone around him.

“Looks like that cloak of yours has a ripped seam.” Shayla nodded upward at the cloak hanging with the other drying clothes—deep purple, edged in gold embroidery and lined with thick tan fur. It was beautiful, but there was an obvious tear near the clasp at the collar. “I can fix it for you once it’s dry.”

“I can sew,” Reardon said proudly. “I don’t mind mending it myself. But maybe you can show me how you would do it. I’m sure your techniques are better, given these garments.” He indicated the shirt he wore, his doublet folded up nearby, as Zephyr had said.

With his sleeves rolled up, the emerald green shirt brought out his eyes even more, and his forearms strained with taut young muscle as he worked.

He was indeed fetching, especially with his front laces untied to reveal the line of his collarbone.

Jack saw the people around the basin sitting closest to his spying wall shiver, and he pulled back, realizing he’d gotten too close and had pressed a hand to the stones, causing them to frost over. If any of those who’d felt the cold realized what the chill meant, none paid any mind.

“My mother taught me how to sew,” Reardon continued, “and I always mend my own clothes if it’s simple enough. I’d hoped to learn weaving eventually too, and embroidery because… well, it’s fun, isn’t it? Having something new and interesting to wear, especially if you made it yourself? Barclay likes tailoring too.”

“I didn’t know that,” Shayla said in surprise. “Once Liam found out he’d been an alchemist’s apprentice, he stole him away from anyone else. I’ll have to conscript him sometime. You as well.”

Reardon flashed his lovely smile at her over his shoulder—and then hissed as he scraped a shirt down the washing board. Jack thought it was because a knuckle had missed the barrier of the fabric, but when Reardon pulled his hand from the water, there was a cut that had to have been made from something else.

“I guess the wolf got me after all.”

Wolf?

“We have supplies down here,” Wynn offered, rising from his work to head toward a row of shelving along the wall. “Let me wrap that for you.”

“I won’t be able to help then. It’s not so bad.”

“Listen to you,” Shayla huffed. “Fended off a dire wolf your first day and taking it in stride.”

Dire wolf?

The closer row of washers shivered again. Jack needed to stop leaning in.

Thank goodness Shayla had been with Reardon. Jack still wanted to see the prince’s fighting skills, but it appeared he had a way of averting the danger snapping at his heels.

“Yet you only got that small scratch after leaving it alive.” Wynn shook his head, gathering some ointment and bandages, obviously having heard the tale before Jack arrived. “Don’t fret. If you’d still like to help, you can switch to gathering up the dry garments. Everything gets folded and placed on top of these shelves, and anyone waiting on clothes pick them up themselves. Easier than remembering who wears what.”

Wynn sat with Reardon, attending to his wound as if they’d known each other for years, which was saying something for an elf who was so much older than he looked. Almost everyone here was older than they looked and set in their ways. Too often Jack felt his two hundred plus years compared to the young king he’d been when his life changed.

“Did you build anything else in the castle?” Reardon asked Wynn with an earnest scoot closer.

Excitement and new things to learn and be enchanted by were what made age irrelevant. Jack saw it in Wynn’s face as he explained the plumbing and various machines throughout the castle that he’d created. Shayla looked the same. The others did too, just from watching Reardon listen and engage with fervor.

It had been a very long time since Jack felt the age he’d lost.

Before long, more time had passed than he intended, and Reardon headed to the hall for lunch. Jack wasn’t surprised to see him meet up with Barclay, though Shayla and Wynn joined as well, along with a few others from the washing room.

Jack couldn’t tear himself away, following Reardon from one part of the castle to another. Though others went their separate ways, Reardon stayed with Shayla, taking his cloak to the tailoring room. His excitement never seemed to fade, and he entered the spacious chamber covered in fabric and various things being made or mended, and he made friends there too. He was far from being deterred by the few cold shoulders or distrustful glances he received.

“What are you doing?”

Jack flinched, a burst of icy wind pulsing from his body.

Josie stood in the corridor behind him with her delicate arms crossed and a golden eyebrow raised.

“What I always do when someone new enters the castle.”

“Lies,” she dismissed. “You watch some, yes, but not like this. You trust your people. You trust me and your court to let you know if anything is amiss. You’re supposed to be taking audiences with the prince, not prowling.”

At least she was keeping her voice low, but Jack still slid the stone from his spying spot back into place as he turned to her. “Our audiences will resume tomorrow. I wasn’t in the mood this morning.”

“He’s getting to you already? I’ll have to get to know him better, then. Maybe tonight.”

“No.” Jack stomped toward her. “You know the rules. And make sure everyone else holds to them as well. Not at night. Not yet.”

“Please, Jack. None of your people would dare betray our secrets before the designated time. Two weeks for anyone new.” She rolled her eyes, finishing with a mockery of Jack’s voice, “Only then can they prove trustworthy.”

Two weeks was bare minimum. Josie had pushed for only one once, but that first frozen statue on the lawn… she’d been in the castle six days before her betrayal.

A week wasn’t enough.

“I’m allowed vigilance,” Jack said.

“You like him.”

“I’m keeping my eyes on him.”

“Because you like him.”

“Because I’m concerned and waiting for the ax to strike!”

If possible, Josie’s golden eyes rolling at him showed even more exasperation than her original blue. “Prowl away, then. I think I’m going to go help the tailors.” She turned to head down the corridor that would exit her right outside the tailoring room’s door.

Jack bristled, but then promptly removed the stone again to watch her knock and go inside, keeping her distance as needed, but engaging Reardon far too pleasantly. She even dared to glance wickedly over at Jack with a wink.

Josie often spent time in the tailoring room, inspecting the newest creations, but she was an awful traitor. She looked as sincerely enamored with Reardon as everyone else, however, when he asked if she’d ever tried making gold thread.

Jack could only watch for so long with his sister there, goading him, but after leaving Reardon alone, he eventually wondered where he was again, and found him at dinnertime back in the hall. Nigel and Caitlin had joined the group, Caitlin the only one who remained frosty toward the prince. Those who had yet to cross his path kept their distance, but more and more people were treating him like one of their own.

Jack and the other court members didn’t go to the banquet hall outside the welcoming ceremony—not until the grace period lifted. If the offering proved to truly belong after two weeks, then they were brought into the fold, not before.

Reardon was swindling everyone after only one day!

It had to be a swindle. Only charlatans won people over this quickly.

Barclay knew him, though—a commoner, best friends with a prince. It made Jack wonder. After dinner, the pair went to Reardon’s room, merely sitting on his bed, talking about their day as any true friends would.

The sun had set, but Jack barely noticed, until he shivered as he stood watching from the same spot he had last night.

“Did you want to talk about something earlier?” Barclay asked. “Something specific?”

Reardon glanced away, a rare glimpse of him being caught off guard. “It’s nothing. I mean… it’s everything, but I think I’ll go mad if I try to figure out your visions.”

Barclay nodded, understanding whatever was left unsaid with a thin smile.

What visions did the fortune-teller have of Reardon, Jack wondered. It couldn’t all be a swindle if the boy who could see the future loved him.

“What I can tell you—” Barclay took Reardon’s hands, a gesture, such easy touch, that they enacted often. “—is that I think you’re right. This is where you’re meant to be.”

Reardon nodded in kind, making Jack even more curious about what they were talking about.

After another quick squeeze of Reardon’s hands, Barclay rose. “I’m off to bed.”

“Already?”

“I… had a long day.”

Jack huffed. He knew that wasn’t the real answer, but Reardon didn’t notice the deflection.

“What about breakfast?” Barclay offered.

“I think I’ll grab something early again. I’m not letting the king banish me so quickly tomorrow.”

Optimist.

“Good luck,” Barclay said.

While Reardon’s brightness never fully dimmed, he was noticeably sadder, sitting there alone, but that only rooted Jack more firmly to his spot. He tried to pinpoint what it was about Reardon that kept captivating him.

Reardon was all the things Jack had told Branwen earlier—young, idealistic, foolhardy in his confidence that he could set things right, whatever the cost. He was also beautiful and warm and had charmed a few dozen members of Jack’s kingdom today.

At first, Jack thought it was because Reardon so obviously didn’t belong, the curiosity of the unknown in an outsider, but he’d certainly put in effort to belong here, and every so often, Jack would see a shadow in Reardon’s eyes that said he might belong more than first guessed.

What was that shadow that had darkened the young prince’s life like the others sent here? Merely guilt? His mother’s death? Or something more?

As Jack continued to watch, Reardon inspected the work done on his cloak, half sewn by Shayla and half by him, and hung it in his wardrobe. It was early, but although Reardon looked toward his door a time a two, as if debating going out to explore or find some of his new friends, he eventually chose to go to bed.

Tonight there were lanterns and candles still lit that he didn’t snuff out before undressing. As soon as his trousers came down, Jack lowered his eyes, but it was difficult not to look through his periphery at the much clearer view of the young man’s lean, muscled form.

It was when Reardon settled but still left the bedside candle lit that Jack looked up again.

The covers weren’t pulled all the way to his chin, only enough to cover his nakedness, as he tilted his head back on his pillow and let a hand drift down his chest beneath the quilt.

Jack looked away again. He certainly couldn’t watch that.

But just as he turned to leave, he heard Reardon whimper.

“Please. Oh please… let me find him here.”

Him. What nameless, faceless figure did Reardon conjure in the private dark of night?

Jack hurried away before he could be pulled into further deviance, but distance from the prince and what he was undoubtedly doing now in the solitude of his room did nothing to dull Jack’s errant thoughts. It had been so long since Jack had touched someone, since someone had touched him, and Reardon was something special but dangerous that shook Jack to his core and made him wonder what it might be like to melt.