The Prince and the Ice King by Amanda Meuwissen

Chapter 4

THAT NIGHT,Reardon slept with straying dreams of blue eyes, handsome smirks, and broad muscled shoulders of no man in particular—but oh, his phantom figure could touch and kiss and hold him too tightly like he’d always wanted. He found himself half-awake as the sun rose, hard and leaking fresh sin onto his sheets. He would have let a straying hand drift between his legs again like last night, but not when he had somewhere to be.

He mixed a black shirt and black trousers with his scarlet doublet, and today he affixed his sword belt before taking his daily draught to face the king.

His treks with Shayla through the castle had taught him a few new routes, so he took a shortcut to make his way to the kitchen, swiped meat and a chunk of bread that one of the workers he’d befriended in the tailoring room allowed with more of a smile than yesterday, and then took another new route toward the king’s staircase.

On this path, he passed a row of paintings, some of landscapes and animals, but others of well-dressed nobles. Former royalty, he supposed. He came to a glaringly empty spot on the wall before reaching the last—an elegant brunette woman with sharp blue eyes. It took him a moment of staring at her remarkable beauty to realize that, while the hues had changed, the face remained.

It was Princess Josephine.

“I hated sitting for that portrait.”

Reardon spun around, surprised yet again by a court member, always so good at sneaking, given that their feet didn’t touch the ground. “Princess.” He bowed his head. “You are as lovely now as you were then.”

“Josie,” she reminded him, floating closer, but not too close. She was truly ravishing in monochrome gold, but the painting added depth that she clearly missed as she gazed upon her portrait. “And you’re sweet. It’s a wonder this ever got painted. I get restless sitting still. Jack too. Even when he lounges like a contented cat, he’s always shifting or fidgeting his hands.”

That drew Reardon’s eyes to the empty space where another painting might have hung. “Are there no portraits of the king?”

“None that survived.” She turned to him, offering a melancholy smile. “He won’t look at himself anymore, who he used to be. To him, he’s only the monster.” She gestured down the corridor for them to walk. “You’re getting to him, though. I can tell.”

“It didn’t seem that way yesterday.” Reardon barely had the king’s ear for half an hour.

“Give him time.”

There were other members of the castle up and about, but not many, giving them solitude to speak, yet there was only one thing on Reardon’s mind as the puzzle remained unfinished. “Josie… would you tell me about the curse?”

“You’ll have to get the story from Jack if you want to win him over. Some things will reveal themselves in time. What I’m sure I don’t need to tell you is that he blames himself, but we all deserved what became of us.”

Ice and gold, the royals of this cursed kingdom were both made of seemingly unfeeling things, yet they lived as vibrantly as anyone, and neither was truly cold, not even King Jack for all his attempts to act that way.

They were sad more than anything, and for that, Reardon wished he could reach out and place a comforting hand on Josie’s arm.

“He told me he earned the curse,” Reardon said as they began winding up the staircase he’d climbed many times now. “Says he’s a villain.”

“The king before, our father, was the real villain. He was a true tyrant, and his reach was vast. Our kingdom is only this castle now but growing again, almost more than we can contain within these walls, and we’re happy here with what we have.

“We’re not heroes, Reardon, but I like to think we’re not villains either.”

“And before?”

A sigh passed her golden lips, accompanied by a faintly derisive chuckle. “We might as well have been a gallery of rogues.”

While each member of the court was unconventional in their role compared to what Reardon was used to for a kingdom, he didn’t think any of them roguish.

But then, just as they reached the door to the Ice King’s chamber, Zephyr appeared to block their path, causing Reardon to lurch backward and wonder if at least one member was a rogue.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Zephyr grinned, though he kept a safe distance. “The king would like to take today’s audience in the back courtyard.”

“You mean the training yard,” Josie said with a frown.

“Same thing.”

“What is Jack plotting?”

“I couldn’t begin to imagine. But he did say he’d prefer that I show the young prince the way.”

The Ice King was getting rid of his sister, the only member of the court who’d been truly kind to Reardon. Liam had seemed tolerant yesterday but not exactly friendly, and the rest… well.

Reardon didn’t trust the look on the Spymaster’s face.

“If he gets hurt, whoever does the maiming will answer to me,” Josie said, her golden sheen practically glowing as she projected the same aura of authority that her brother commanded so well—not that it softened use of the word “maim.”

“Don’t worry, Reardon.” She shifted seamlessly back to a benevolent princess. “He simply hopes to test you and push you into a corner. You push him right back.”

That was Reardon’s whole intention of taking audiences with the king—to push him and learn everything he could so that they’d come to an understanding and end this division between kingdoms. If he could take knowledge back home that could help sway the hearts of his brethren to be more accepting of the things they feared, all the better.

Still, he was glad he’d worn his sword belt this morning.

“Perhaps I’ll see you in the tailoring room.” Reardon smiled at Josie with another bow. “I’d love to discuss uses of gold thread.”

“An eye for fashion and pleasant to look at.” She smiled back at him. “Don’t you let any of the castle’s brutes best you. Be a rose, like me—soft and lovely, with sharp edges to sting anyone who wrongs you.”

Reardon could sting better than most, but her words helped lift his head higher as he followed Zephyr along a different path, back on ground level to a door leading behind the castle.

More people bustled about, but with Reardon trailing behind Zephyr, they all seemed to be laughing at him.

“Should I be worried?” he asked.

“Always.” Zephyr peered over his shoulder with another ominous grin. “It’s just a shame that if they scratch that pretty face, I can’t patch you up personally.”

Reardon stuttered to a halt, though he could see the door they were headed toward. The Ice King was the only member of the court with human eyes to know their true color. The rest all matched their element, so Zephyr’s were a milky gray.

A cold sweat overtook Reardon as he wondered if they’d once been blue.

“Not used to being an object of desire, pretty prince?” Zephyr floated back to him, so close that Reardon would have known his true eye color if they were more than mist. He was drawn to broader men, and Zephyr was slight like Barclay, but he was handsome in his own way, slender and impish.

“Wh-whose desire?’ Reardon stuttered.

“Daft, are you? Or only interested in ripping bodices?”

“No,” Reardon blurted, but then years of training to not admit such things made him fumble to correct himself. “I-I mean, I… have desires, but I’d rather not rip anything.”

“That’s no fun.” Zephyr winked.

If Reardon had a banister before him, he would have plowed into it again. He felt faint, like the floor had dropped beneath him. How did someone become so free that they could express their desires that openly?

“I-I-I….” He had no idea how to follow suit.

“You are a mess. We’ll have to work on opening you up.” Zephyr grinned again, and Reardon felt his cheeks catch on fire, completely mute when the imp blessedly turned forward.

Willing his cheeks and heart rate to calm, Reardon had the distinct impression that he was walking into a trap. He itched to grip the handle of his sword but didn’t want to appear combative.

His tune changed quickly once he got outside.

Combat was clearly what they had in mind, because all the large, imposing members of the castle were in attendance, the soldiers and mercenaries for hire who’d been sent there—including the fletcher, the first sacrifice.

He might have been noble once, but he was a solid pillar of muscle now.

Zephyr couldn’t be Reardon’s love, but the fletcher’s figure stirred his passions easily.

Andhe had blue eyes.

He also had a woman, Reardon reminded himself, spotting her pretty bespectacled face behind the figure of the blond and bearded fletcher. Reardon needed to focus on more pressing concerns—like the sword in the fletcher’s hand.

“I hear you can sew and wash and mix potions,” the crackle of a gruff voice spoke, drawing Reardon’s eyes to the sidelines where Branwen stood beside the king with a flaming sword. “I also hear you fended off a dire wolf. A future king must be skilled in many things, including how to fight.”

“I can fight.” Reardon stood proudly, allowing his hand to touch his hilt now. He had barely moved away from the door, but space had been cleared for him and the fletcher. Dummies and weapon stands spread about the perimeter of the yard with the watchers forming a circle, the cursed in their own fantastical line that Zephyr joined.

“Then show us,” the Ice King said.

Reardon had a short sword, the fletcher a long sword—no, great sword—that he clearly could have wielded in one hand but slowly gripped in two. Reardon didn’t feel the chill from the frost-covered ground or crisp winter air, but despite the fletcher being without his shirt, showing a swath of impressive scars, he gave no sign that he felt the cold either, and Reardon had a feeling it was without any potion.

Cautiously, he moved forward and drew his short sword to a smattering of laughter when they saw its size.

“You’re welcome to select a more suitable weapon,” the fletcher said with his thin, appraising smile, squaring his stance.

“I haven’t mastered wielding anything heavier.” Whenever Reardon tried, it unbalanced him, his strength refusing to grow beyond its peak.

“I can teach you how to handle a larger sword!” Zephyr called, and laughter roared once more.

Fighting a return of flushed cheeks with so many eyes on him, the king’s most heavily, Reardon scanned for friendly faces in the crowd. He saw no one he’d gotten to know yesterday, not even Shayla, but then his eyes found Nigel.

“Knock his block off, fletcher!” Nigel cried.

So much for finding a friend.

There was a chaotic energy about Nigel, certainly, though his uncharacteristic snarl seemed to be directed at Zephyr for some reason, with furtive glances passed between them.

“May I at least know your given name, good fletcher?” Reardon asked the man before him, circling closer and imagining how painful the first clang of blades would feel. “Or is it merely Emerald Arrow?”

The fletcher’s smile barely twitched. “It is until you prove yourself.”

He rushed Reardon without warning, and instead of bracing his sword upward to deflect the coming blow, Reardon spun out of the way and waited for his opponent to stumble.

He didn’t.

Far swifter than anyone with a great sword had any right to be, the fletcher pivoted and rammed his hilt into Reardon’s side. Reardon gasped, breath lost, and nearly lost the grip on his short sword.

“Don’t assume your opponent’s abilities without proper assessment,” the fletcher said like a scolding tutor. He reminded Reardon of Lombard—blond, beautiful, and severe. Lombard had taught Reardon to fight, but he’d clearly gone easy on him. Reardon couldn’t approach this battle thinking the rules would be the same.

The fletcher let him catch his breath, and then squared his stance again.

REARDON HADindeed never been to any brothels or known the comfort of another. If he had, he would have risked being discovered as a deviant and been banished from his own kingdom. There was no denying it now, though initially that had not been the purpose of this sparring match.

The way his eyes raked bashfully over Oliver’s rippling bare chest proved to Jack the truth, as much as the young prince’s blushing cheeks and utterances the night before of finding an unknown “him.” He wasn’t the first to prefer like company who had darkened Jack’s door. It shouldn’t have mattered, and yet the knowledge made Jack’s eyes narrow that much more closely on Reardon’s movements.

He was… capable with a sword. Few were as skilled as Oliver or Branwen with any weapon, but then, they each had a couple centuries of experience to call upon, and Reardon was a mere boy of twenty-one.

Still, each time Oliver sidestepped Reardon and threw him to the ground, or simply overpowered him with a clash of metal, his great sword dwarfing Reardon’s smaller blade, the prince got back up, took a breath, and tried again. To his credit, it took Oliver longer to best him each time, with Reardon’s eyes trained on his movements and learning, waiting, calculating openings and how he could use his speed to his advantage against a stronger, more skilled opponent.

When it seemed to all those jeering for Oliver to finish him that Reardon was sure to call for a reprieve, that was when the prince struck.

Oliver weaved and swung, and Reardon ducked out of the way, but when before Oliver would surprise him with a sharp jab of his hilt, fist, or sweep of his leg, this time, Reardon saw every countermove coming and responded in kind. He weaved, twisted on the hard, frozen ground, swung up with his blade like he might slice Oliver cleanly, and then, at the last moment, rammed his hilt into Oliver’s shoulder and kicked the side of his knee to send him sprawling.

A surprised silence fell over the crowd, for few had ever brought Oliver to his knees save those he’d trained himself. But after Oliver let his great sword hit the ground, he left it there, lifted his head to look at Reardon, and accepted the hand offered down to him.

“Oliver,” he said as he was hoisted to his feet. “Not bad. For a noble born.”

“You too,” Reardon said, squeezing his hand fiercely in reply.

“And how are you with a bow?” Oliver nodded at the targets and archery sets nearby.

“Awful, to be honest.”

“That won’t do here.” Oliver sized Reardon up like he did all those he intended to teach. “You need to master the skills you have, and what you have is speed. You’ve seen Shayla fight with her daggers? You could dual-wield just as well with two short swords and be a menace against any opponent, but you let your eagerness get the best of you.”

“You aren’t the first to tell me that.” Reardon smiled with a distant fondness in his gaze like he was thinking of someone specific.

Jack squelched the wave of jealousy that struck him.

“Who says besting the fletcher proves his mettle?” Branwen boomed beside Jack, bringing him back to himself and reminding him that they were not alone in the training yard.

Branwen stomped forward, causing anyone too close in the crowd to back away as all members of the kingdom had been taught, and for Reardon’s eyes to widen into emerald saucers when he was left standing alone as Oliver backed away too.

Grinning in a way that seemed too wide while he was made of fire, Branwen squared his stance as Oliver had, his much larger great sword, crackling and aflame, looking insurmountable and reflecting in Reardon’s eyes to turn them amber.

“Come at me now and see how you fare,” Branwen goaded.

“I… but….” Reardon stammered.

“Blade to blade won’t set you on fire, boy. Now, how do you face a real challenge?” Branwen puffed out his chest, sending a burst of flames to explode outward like a stove stuffed with too much kindling, losing his definition before he became once more a brimstone fortress of a man.

Jack’s instincts were to cry “No, enough!” but he’d been the one to ask for this to see what Reardon was made of. He just didn’t want the depths of the prince to be revealed only to be turned to ash.

“If I was elsewhere and presented with an opponent like you,” Reardon said, raising his short sword with shaky arms, “I would desperately seek a parley.”

“Not all opponents are swayed by words,” Branwen spat.

“Maybe not beasts or monsters, but men can always be reasoned with.”

Branwen howled, and Jack felt the heartache in his cry like few could, for only the cursed knew how they had bartered and bargained and been denied.

Reardon spun away as he had with Oliver, barely missing having a chunk of his shoulder sawed at by a flaming edge. Branwen wasn’t thinking, seeing an enemy where Jack had merely wanted him to see a pretender—when he still thought Reardon was pretending.

Branwen spun in kind, swiping out in a wide flaming circle that might have taken Reardon’s head off if he hadn’t ducked. All those watching backed up in equal measure like one great mass. But Reardon didn’t understand. He’d avoided clashing with Oliver too much blade to blade, knowing he’d be overpowered, so he tried the same with Branwen, but there was nothing of Branwen he could cut or touch!

Darting forward, he sliced at Branwen’s leg, only to have the blade pass through him as if he’d swung at a bonfire. He teetered from the force of the momentum and started to fall—into Branwen, something Branwen couldn’t see because he was midturn, swinging toward Reardon, where they would clearly collide with more than blades.

“Stop!” Jack bellowed, and with his cry, he struck out, like throwing an ax across a battlefield.

A cascade of ice shot over the ground from him to the dualists, not capable of freezing Reardon but still deadly if it sliced through him. Instead, it sliced between, snuffing out Branwen’s closest flames and toppling Reardon into a wall of ice that made him hiss at the freezing temperature, shaking frostbitten palms when he reared back.

The crowd went silent again, Oliver standing tall and vigilant, ready to race to Reardon’s aid if Jack decreed it, as Branwen realized what had happened. They all got caught up in their vices sometimes, but it had been years since any of them had… an accident.

Jack waved his hand, and the wall of ice crumbled, melting into the frozen ground. He would have told Oliver to go forth and help Reardon, crouched and holding his stinging hands, but Nigel ran to him first.

Zephyr lurched forward then too, but held back, remembering his own deadly touch and that he could do little more than watch. He and Jack watched together as Nigel took Reardon’s hands and placed his palms over them.

“Now you see it,” Nigel said playfully, a glow forming where their skin touched, “now you don’t.”

The strain in Reardon’s brow lessened, and when Nigel pulled his hands away, Reardon looked entirely at ease, staring at unmarred skin. “You’re a healer?”

“Just an elvish parlor trick. It only works on minor wounds.”

“Thank you,” Reardon said, and then turned his eyes to Jack, as if to pass those same words to him.

Branwen said nothing, brooding and bitter that he’d nearly lost control when this had been his idea. Jack nodded at him to let it go, before returning his eyes to Reardon.

“Be more vigilant, little prince. A future king can’t be a klutz. Now come. We’ll finish today’s audience in private. Oliver can teach you the bow another day.” Jack turned to head for the staircase behind the castle entrance, winding upward to the ramparts. He heard the crowd murmur and disperse, followed by Reardon’s dutiful feet.

The prince said nothing as they ascended to the top of the wall. From there, all the lands could be seen, including a better view of the Mystic Valley.

“Majesty,” Reardon said when Jack merely gazed outward, “I must say that I am truly grateful—”

“I do not need any undue deaths on my conscience. If you die here, you’ll earn it.”

Reardon quieted, only to sigh and stand taller. “I’d rather earn your trust. You care deeply, allowing everyone here the greatest of freedoms. You even protected me when you still see me as an enemy. That is the mark of a good king.”

Such naivete again, but Jack was beyond believing there was any act to it. He gazed down at Reardon, the wind from being up so high further tousling his hair, sweat on his brow from his fights and resolution in his expression.

Jack was resolute too.

“Making up for past mistakes does not absolve them.”

“Perhaps not, but if you were a bad king, you wouldn’t care to make up for anything.” Reardon shifted closer, too close, only a foot from certain death, despite how close he’d come to it down below. “Please, Majesty, tell me of the curse. Have I not proven myself enough?”

Not enough for everything, but there were layers to this tale.

“Do you know whom you will marry?” Jack asked, watching the expected reaction of Reardon’s cheeks flushing and his eyes going wide.

“I… no. My father has not yet chosen anyone or introduced me to candidates. I expect it will be soon, though.”

“When my father introduced me to mine, I told him to marry them himself, for I’d sooner see his decaying corpse on the throne than ever rule.”

“You did not wish to be king?”

“I did not wish to be beholden to anyone but myself. As prince, I had everything I wanted. Money, power, prestige. I could do whatever I chose, and no one questioned me. But if I was king, I would have responsibilities.

“My father was a traditionalist, like the worst of those from your kingdom. He didn’t scoff at magic, as long as he controlled those who wielded it, but he believed elves should only lie with elves, men only with women, and the lands must always be ruled by a firstborn son of our line—married and with at least one heir on the way before they took the throne.

“I wanted none of it. Least of all a queen.”

“What did you do?” Reardon asked with rapt attention.

Jack leaned his massive head down to him. “I fucked all the stable boys.”

“R-really?” Reardon sputtered, face flushing as scarlet as his doublet.

“Not only the stable boys,” Jack amended. “More so as many men as I could. Out of desire, certainly, but also to spite my father.”

“And—” Reardon reached for the stone wall as if to steady his footing. “—did they want to be taken by their prince?”

“Are you asking if I forced myself on them?”

“I-I wouldn’t presume—”

“Rest assured, little prince, it was always mutual want.”

The tension in Reardon eased, but his mind was clearly working through the implications. “Is that what cursed you?”

“You think lying with men could curse a whole kingdom?”

“No! I don’t agree with the teachings of my kingdom that it’s wrong. I can’t, not when I—” Reardon snapped his mouth shut before the truth could escape him.

“Not when you lust for no queen either,” Jack finished.

The tension returned tenfold, Reardon’s blush draining away to leave him pallid. “Am I so obvious?”

“No, but I’ve seen enough. You’re used to hiding yourself.” Jack steeled his gaze on Reardon sharply. “You will not hide from me. If you wish to know me and for me to know you, then you will be as transparent as Zephyr. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, Majesty.” Reardon regained his composure with a stalwart breath. “I did not mean to hide my… wants. I’ve just rarely spoken of them. Barclay is the only one who knows. But you are right. I have no desire for a queen.”

“Then what do you desire?”

Epic tales could have been written with the many thoughts that played behind Reardon’s eyes, his gaze clouded as he considered his answer. “A choice.”

Jack turned back to look upon the landscape beyond them. “So did I.”

“What happened?”

“My father died, and I became king anyway.”

“You changed things then, before the curse?”

The bitterness that had not dwindled in over two hundred years made Jack’s lips curl. “I certainly did.”

“Is that why you allow such freedoms here? Because you were the same?”

There was no such scorn in Reardon, only the innocence of a youth who’d been hiding all his life. “I allow it because who one loves or lies with shouldn’t matter.”

Reardon smiled, and if Jack had still had doubts about him, all would have been banished in that expression, catching the warmth of the sun in his ruddy cheeks. “I wonder if my father could ever understand that.”

Not if he was anything like Jack’s, but Jack couldn’t imagine this young prince turning out as he had with a cold, brutish figurehead raising him.

“Majesty,” Reardon asked with sudden hesitancy, his eyes falling to the drop-off of the wall, “when you approached other men to… be with, what did you say? How did you win their favor?”

“Besides asking if they wanted a romp in the stables?”

“Surely it wasn’t that easy?” Reardon’s cheeks burned brightly again.

“Sometimes it was. Do you know nothing of wooing, little prince?” Jack asked, knowing the answer, but it still surprised him how virginal those green eyes looked when they blinked at him.

“Isn’t that for women?”

Oh, dear boy.

Reardon was a man, and yet also only on the cusp of manhood, shielded from knowing all he might have asked of the world.

Leaning low once more to bring their faces as close as he dared without risk of unintended touch, Jack dropped his voice low too. “You tell me. Wouldn’t you like to be wooed?”

Reardon dropped his eyes to the stones at their feet. “I… suppose I would.”

“And how would one woo the Emerald Prince?” Jack asked—foolishly, because Reardon’s thoughts could never stray to him when they went distant with reverie.

“I… would want us to understand one another,” he said sweetly, sighing with the first breath of anyone young and yearning to find love, “to have similar wants and goals, similar likes. I would want to be drawn to them as I am a good friend, but with that stir of passion that is impossible to explain.”

“You speak from experience?”

Reardon glanced up fearfully, but then relaxed, as if he had to remind himself that here he could speak openly. “The first man I ever loved… was the worst candidate. Our master of arms. He’s older. Strong, dependable, handsome. But he is the very man who would have seen me to the gates upon my banishment if I were discovered. I could never be free to love him, blue eyes or not.”

“Blue eyes?” Jack repeated.

“Oh, um… it’s nothing.” Reardon’s gaze darted fearfully away again. “He was always there when I needed him, but he also helped me to be self-reliant. He taught me to fight and to stand proud during court like a proper prince. He could weave tales almost as good as a bard, to the point that I often didn’t know if what he told me actually happened or was a legend spun for my amusement.”

“You enjoy stories? I suppose your singing suggests as much.”

“I do, but really, I enjoy the ways people can connect, maybe because I had so few I connected with back home. The people were always wonderful to me, and I tried to be wonderful to them, but what I have with Barclay is unique. It’s difficult to befriend a prince who can’t be honest about who he truly is.” He fidgeted with his hands, mesmerized by the smooth skin that had so recently been burned by ice.

Something startled Reardon then, and he pulled back, looking at Jack in full and at their surroundings.

“I’ve… never told anyone all that. Not even Barclay knows about Lombard.”

Lombard. Jack disliked this “master of arms” immediately, silly as it was to care about Reardon’s infatuations. “Why tell me?”

“You asked. And I promised we would know one another. Isn’t that easier with a connecting thread? We are not so different.”

They were different in all the ways that mattered, because Jack could have been like Reardon, good and wanting to do right by others despite being barred from his heart’s desires, but he chose a selfish path. Reardon reminded him of all he might have become if he’d been better, and although that truth and their similarities might have made Jack hate him, he felt warm in the prince’s presence.

Their eyes locked, sapphire on emerald, and with the wind and the sun and Reardon’s rosy cheeks, he looked far too beautiful and breakable to be standing before a monster that yearned to touch.

Reardon shivered, sharp breath escaping his lips, and Jack reared back, too much mist and power emanating from him.

“Your potion wears thin,” Jack said, drawing up to his full height to turn and head across the ramparts away from Reardon. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“But… you didn’t tell me about the curse!”

“Tomorrow,” Jack said again.

Perhaps, once he had, Reardon would see the monster more clearly.

REARDON WASN’Tsure if the potion really was wearing off. It shouldn’t be. He hadn’t shivered from the cold, after all, just….

The king’s eyes could be so piercing.

So blue.

And he too had been a prince who loved in a way that others saw as wrong.

Well, maybe loved was the wrong word—fucking stable boys. Reardon blushed at the thought. Oh, to have been that bold! He wondered more than ever what the Ice King had looked like when he was human. Josie was breathtaking; surely he was too.

The king headed off along the ramparts to reenter the castle another way, making it clear that he did not wish for Reardon to follow him, so Reardon descended the stairs. When he reached the training yard, most of the crowd had gone, but Nigel and Zephyr remained, talking heatedly about something that they hushed when they saw him.

“Just remember, Spymaster,” Nigel said, loud and snappish, “I can find almost anything funny—but not that.”

Zephyr huffed, crossing milky arms as he floated before Nigel. “Like you’ve never done the same,” he said and poofed away.

Nigel bristled, visibly upset, only to pivot and smile maniacally. He was once again dressed in bright colors with conflicting patterns. “Ignore him. Preferably always. Let’s get out of the cold, shall we?” He swooped forward to take Reardon’s arm and swung him around toward the door. “I didn’t really mean for Oliver to knock your block off, you know. Which he didn’t, thankfully, though Branwen could have done worse.”

“Thank you again for my hands,” Reardon said.

“Of course! And you can make it up to me. I hear you were unjustly torn from the princess’s side this morning. Did you know she’s rather talented with a lute? Let’s see if we can make a real bard out of you.” He tilted his head up toward Reardon’s cheek and whispered, “But upstage me too much or too often and I will have to destroy you.”

Reardon laughed, feeling rather confident despite his near-miss with Branwen. He’d beaten the fletcher—Oliver—and earned his respect, the Ice King himself had rescued him and conversed with him more than a mere exchange of barbs, and he hadn’t lost any new friends.

He did wonder what had Nigel so upset with Zephyr, though.

Inside the castle, Reardon continued to map the paths he was taken on. Today he traversed even more areas he hadn’t yet been and continued to be impressed by the palace’s size. Nigel took him to a music room packed with instruments and hand-written sheet music. Josie was there, along with several others, including Wynn at a harpsichord with a quill in hand, as if writing music that very moment.

“I see you survived,” Josie greeted with a smile, near the wall with her lute, away from the others, while some had flutes or other stringed instruments, and one had a simple drum.

“Best not tell her what happened,” Nigel mock-whispered.

“Why?” Josie asked slowly.

“So as not to spoil your lovely mood, of course. What are we playing?” Nigel pulled Reardon into the room, releasing him to take up a tambourine.

“Are you a music master too, sir inventor?” Reardon approached Wynn at the harpsichord.

“Our princess is more the master, just you wait, but building….” Wynn patted the side of the harpsichord and then tapped his parchment. “That I can do.”

“You built that? And wrote all this music?” There were shelves of bound pages all around Reardon.

“Not all of it,” Wynn said. “There are stories too from Nigel for when he wants accompaniment. What songs would you hear, Emerald Prince? We learn new ones from every offering. We might know something you’re familiar with.”

“Can all of you sing?” Reardon asked the small gathering of musicians.

“Best if I don’t,” Nigel said.

“Or me,” Josie added, “but a plucked melody I can handle just fine.” She strummed a perfectly tuned chord that lifted Reardon’s spirits further. He missed the times when he and Barclay would simply sing together or when Barclay would play on the old harpsichord in the palace that Reardon’s mother once used.

“Do you know ‘The Ride-Along Bard’ about the traveling minstrel who keeps finding faulty heroes? That one always makes me laugh.” It had been Reardon’s mother’s favorite when he was little and she’d sing by his bedside.

“A classic!” Wynn said, setting his quill aside to straighten on the bench and starting right in on the introduction without needing to change sheet music.

Josie strummed, and the flutes started up, the lone drummer pounding out a beat as Nigel held his tambourine under his arm and clapped along.

Wynn began with a beautiful tenor.

“There once was a humble bard

Setting off to tell the greatest of tales,

Seeking heroes and knights in every tavern she fared.

She was never short of volunteers.”

He nodded at Reardon to continue, who knew the song well.

“The first she rode along beside

Was a fabled hero of legend,

A lady knight besting dragons and beasts,

Then besieged by cutthroats and brigands.”

Wynn joined on the chorus.

“For no bard is humble,

And no hero’s flawless.

All that matters is the stories we tell.”

This time, Wynn nodded for Reardon to start.

“The next the bard chose as her muse

Was a bright young hero who’d vanquished a lord,

Freeing peoples and lands from the overlord’s hold,

Then he conquered and ruled just the same.”

Wynn nodded again, adding harmony as Reardon led.

“She tried a noble king all adored,

Hearing praise of peace and riches.

Indeed, the king was everything claimed,

But he ate his enemies whole.

“For no bard is humble

And no hero’s flawless.

All that matters is the stories we tell.”

Reardon motioned for Wynn to take the final verse, and he did, high and true.

“For years she tried to find a true song

That wouldn’t end in heartache and gloom,

But all the heroes were lies or had died on their feet,

So she drank and lied her way too.”

They finished strong together.

“For no bard is humble,

And no hero’s flawless.

All that matters is the stories we tell.

“When the dark falls,

And swords clash in the night,

Strong ale is better than a fight.”

Wynn trilled through several loud ending chords, and Nigel gave an impromptu shake of his tambourine, making everyone laugh. Reardon’s mother had often said it wasn’t a funny tale if one listened closely, but it always got a crowd roaring and made Reardon smile.

He took a seat beside Wynn at the harpsichord. “Can you teach me what you were working on when I came in?”

They played and sang for nearly an hour more before the door to the music room burst open—to reveal Barclay, looking put out that he hadn’t been invited.

“Now, now, poor slave to our weather wizard,” Nigel exclaimed, “how did you know to escape and join us?”

“Zephyr told me.” Barclay rushed over, squeezing onto the bench with Reardon and Wynn like it was commonplace for the three of them to play together. “I begged Liam to let me leave early for lunch once I finished a few things. What are we singing?”

Reardon noticed a funny look on Nigel’s face that was quickly replaced by a smile.

“Glad you could join us,” Josie said, moving to take a spot in front of the harpsichord, where she smiled at Barclay with all her golden beauty. “Music isn’t the same without you.”

“And there would be no music worth singing without you,” he answered—only to catch himself like he’d said something he shouldn’t, darting his eyes at Reardon. “I-I mean….”

“Shall we try another?” Wynn spoke over him. “How about ‘Moonlit Lovers’?”

If the princess could blush through her golden sheen, she certainly did, and it struck Reardon as suddenly… sad. Barclay had always been a disaster with women, which Reardon said was his fault for being the worst sort of second, but it didn’t surprise him that his friend had found a better voice here.

How unfair, though, for it to be with a woman he couldn’t touch.

“Shouldn’t the bard get a turn?” Nigel blocked their view to Josie by draping his arms over the harpsichord, tossing Wynn some new sheet music to be played with spoken verse, and the merriment played on.

They stayed in the music room for what must have been hours, leading up to lunchtime. When they did finally agree that hunger meant it was time to disperse, Wynn patted Barclay’s shoulder for his lovely additions to their harmonies, and Barclay’s eyes went blank.

A vision.

“Wynn—” Barclay turned to the elf as they stood from the harpsichord. “—there’s an issue with the sewage pump, a faulty valve you need to tend to that might break in a few days.”

“Good to know! What would we do without you?” Wynn patted his back again.

Reardon wasn’t used to Barclay being able to express his visions without having to think up some elaborate lie for why he knew what he did. Here it was just a part of life.

Josie smiled at Barclay as she floated out of the room after most of the others had gone, his eyes following her the entire way, until they reached Reardon watching him.

“What?” Barclay startled.

Reardon could have brought up the princess but decided to be kind. “It’s just wonderful seeing you so carefree about your visions. These people are remarkable.” He looked to Wynn, last to leave, waiting for them at the door.

“They are,” Barclay agreed, “but it’s not only that. My visions here are usually… smaller. In Emerald, I could encounter people from all over the kingdom, and it always felt so big. We’re like a small village in the castle. The future is filled with simpler things, like faulty sewage valves.” He chuckled. “It’s only the past sometimes that reminds me what everyone here has been through.”

“Like you,” Reardon said, gripping his friend’s arm.

“And you,” Barclay returned. They had all been shunned for things they couldn’t change. Then Barclay looked at where they were connected. “Did you want to know more—”

“No.” Reardon let go. He never wanted Barclay to think the only reason he touched him was for a peek at the future. “I mean… did you see more?”

“Nothing new.”

“Then no. I’m finding my way here.” Reardon gestured toward Wynn so they wouldn’t keep him waiting. “I’m going to stay on this path without doubting where it leads. Starting with telling the truth.”

JACK HADwatched it all like the day before, following Reardon as soon as he returned indoors, from the music room to lunch afterward, where Oliver and his wife joined the friends Reardon had made.

The prince’s secret was out, not only because he’d had to be truthful with Jack, but because he chose to confess to his new companions too. As he explained what he had in common with many of the denizens of the castle, others turned to listen, and the darkness in Reardon’s eyes gradually lifted, finally free of their burden. He was acclimating quickly and being welcomed faster than few ever had.

But he was not meant to stay. If all Reardon wanted from his time here came to fruition, he would return to his own kingdom someday, not become part of Jack’s. That truth drained the warmth Jack had felt outside, reminding him of his own eternal chill.

He lost track of time watching Reardon until darkness fell, when he retreated to his rooms. He’d managed to avoid Josie, ducking away whenever he heard her coming—especially after she learned the full scope of events in the training yard.

“Jack!” She pounded on his door. He couldn’t hide any longer after the sun set. “What were you thinking? He might have been killed!”

Jack stood in his private chambers, a place no one else had been since the curse was cast, not even his sister. “All ended well. Leave me be.”

“They ended well, but they might not have,” she called more softly. “Do not tempt fate. You know how accidents haunt us.”

“Everyone I’ve frozen has earned it.”

“But the same cannot be said for all of us.”

Jack closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to put Branwen in that position, or to remind Josie of events that haunted her. He didn’t know any longer what he wished to accomplish with Reardon. He’d been consistently surprised by him. Maybe Reardon could convince his kingdom to change, go home and make a new world of the Emerald Kingdom. Jack’s own kingdom would stop growing then, and perhaps some of his people would leave, at least to visit, if not return to their old homes for good.

That would be the only happy end any of them could hope for, yet it filled Jack with an ache to imagine all he knew coming to an end. To lose any part of this home he’d built, to lose any of its people, even Reardon, who’d only been here for a few days….

“Jack,” Josie called again, very soft now, defeated on the other side of his door.

“I won’t endanger him again. He’ll only do that himself. No more tests. But the two weeks stand. I’ve been wrong before.”

“What is it about him that has you so vexed?”

If only Jack knew….

He did know, he supposed. It was everything about Reardon, including what they had in common.

“Please, Jack, talk to me. Let me see you.” A faint thud sounded at the door, as if she’d pressed her palm there.

“Tomorrow,” Jack said, not turning or making any move toward his door.

She did not plead again, knowing he wouldn’t budge. Eventually, her silence gave way to the soft padding of retreating feet.

Jack’s mind swirled with all he’d discovered of Reardon and all he’d seen. His love of stories. His voice. Jack used to spin tales too, for the sheer joy of weaving prose.

Now he drifted toward his writing desk, covered in neatly stacked parchment that he hadn’t touched in ages. Carefully, he sat and picked up his quill, allowing the words to flow.

The noble prince went on his quest

To become a greater king

Than those before who’d shamed their lands

And bards denied to sing.

He traveled far to learn abroad

How other kings reigned just

But for all he found who’d earned their crowns

Men made beasts ruled thus.

He pitied one such beast

To turn him from his ways

In hopes that tenderness might win

And pierce the heart that strayed.

Hearts made of ice aren’t made for melting

But the prince did burn so bright

That he reached the wayward beastly king

And found him in the night.

Lips and hands and hearts did touch

Knowing pleasures lost before

And the prince did reach the king at last

As the beast became no more.

Jack crumpled the parchment and chucked it across the room, angry at himself for writing something so… juvenile. He was no bard, and he shouldn’t be a dreamer.

There was no end to his curse, least of all through a hapless fairy tale.