The Prince and the Ice King by Amanda Meuwissen

Chapter 5

REARDON WASsore at the end of another long day, especially after his adventures in the training yard. Now he sluggishly wandered up to bed, Barclay having already retired, as well as Shayla and Nigel, though Reardon had stayed in the banquet hall nursing a cup of mead with Wynn while getting to know Oliver and his wife, Amelia, who he liked too much to be jealous of for having snagged the heart of the handsome fletcher.

Wynn was the castle’s main engineer, but she was a close second, and Reardon was enthralled to hear about everything the pair had invented to make life better here.

The hour was drawing late, however, and he needed rest to be up early for his next audience with the king. Reardon’s wing of the castle was quieter than others, less full, he supposed, with many of the rooms still empty.

As he neared his corridor, he saw Widow Caitlin leaving it, briskly moving in the opposite direction. He still hadn’t spoken to her and wondered where she was off to so late and at such a persistent pace.

He knew little about her and hadn’t thought it right to ask Barclay, like some meddling gossip. He hadn’t even known that her room was down their same hall, though it made sense, with quarters handed out as new offerings came to the castle, and she only having been there ten years.

Surely, more drastic measures were allowed with someone determined to avoid him. He was meant to discover the castle’s secrets, after all, and wanted to befriend and understand everyone he could.

Slowing his steps and glancing behind to be sure no one else was nearby, Reardon flattened himself to the wall before continuing. When he peered to see how far she had gone, he saw her disappearing down another hallway. Hurrying after her, quiet but swift, he peered around the next corner—but saw no sign of her.

“Spying, Prince Reardon?”

Reardon jumped a clean foot off the ground and spun to find her behind him.

How?

“Well?” Caitlin crossed her arms, clothed simply like everyone in the castle but with deep hues to her dark blue kirtle over a silvery-gray smock. She wore her long brunette hair down, with only the front few strands pinned back. She was a lovely woman but painted over with a sheen of severity.

“No.” Reardon straightened. “I was just hoping to talk to you, since you seem so set on not talking to me.”

“Do we have something to talk about?” Her words dripped scorn that would have deflated Reardon if he hadn’t accomplished so much today.

“You must hate me greatly, but I was only a boy when you were sent here. Let me understand—”

“Your father was not a boy. He was king, and he made a choice to follow the will of the people, despite my pleading.” The ice in her expression was indeed as piercing as the king’s, even with brown eyes, but she seemed to calm herself as she finished, “He was grieving, I understand, but so was I.”

“You were grieving?” Reardon looked through her veiled expression, realizing that the bitter cold was to shield a broken heart. “Of course. That you’re a widow precedes you.”

Her arms dropped, and she huffed a dejected sigh. “You lost your mother, and that same night, I lost my husband.”

“The same night?”

“That fact only condemned me further. General Lombard stormed my home, found my potions and teachings unsanctioned by alchemy, and called me a witch. They assumed I killed my husband and your mother, but they had no evidence other than magic in me.”

Reardon hadn’t understood how the offerings worked back then, but he remembered whispers of a witch—of many witches, then and in all the years since. “They’ve condemned others for my mother’s death, never sure, just speculation. I’m sorry that while you suffered your own loss, you had to suffer being blamed for it too.” It did not even occur to Reardon that either accusation could be true. “May I ask… who was your husband?”

She hesitated, keeping her distance from him. “Stephen, a guard in the castle. I called him Stevie.”

“Stevie?” Reardon exclaimed. “I remember him! I knew he was married but not to who. I didn’t learn he died for months. They sent so many soldiers away after my mother’s death. He was a serious soldier, but when no one was looking, he would smile or wink at me or even crouch to play.”

The barest twitch of a smile touched Caitlin’s lips. “He always had kind words for your parents and fondness for you too. When I confessed my fears about starting a family, knowing our child could inherit my magic, he used you as a reason that it would be all right, saying the kingdom was in good hands.

“Maybe I was wrong to cling stubbornly to thinking otherwise…,” she said quietly, only for her expression to harden again. “But you haven’t changed Emerald yet, and actions speak louder than empty promises.”

“My promises are not empty,” Reardon swore.

She stared at him for some time, and then nodded.

He would have accepted that as a truce and let her pass, but the knowledge of Stevie’s death plagued him. Caitlin was young—or had been when she was sent here. Stevie had been the same, midtwenties, he remembered, not much older than Reardon now.

“Stevie dying the same night as my mother can’t be a coincidence. Do you know how he died?”

“He died as your mother did, the very same way.”

“What?” Reardon’s stomach roiled. “You know how my mother died? Was it magic as everyone feared? Please, I—”

“No.” Her hard eyes turned sympathetic, but she held out a hand to halt him. “There were components missing from my home. The High Alchemist reported some missing from his shop too. Science killed your mother, with elements taken from various sources to cover the killer’s tracks.

“Stevie must have seen them or caught them in the act, and they forced him to drink or be doused in whatever substance they used. I tried telling all this to Lombard, to your father when he questioned me, to anyone who would listen, but I was just a witch in their eyes, easy to condemn and dismiss.”

“But what exactly was it?” Reardon pressed. “What potion did the killer make? What did they steal to do it?”

“Wormwood and rose petals were missing from the High Alchemist. Wormwood can be a poison, but Lombard would have detected it on its own. He said the bodies had no trace of anything, that only magic could be blamed, but I know it is more complicated than that.”

“What did they take from you?”

“Dried spider’s eye and wraith’s teeth.”

“Wraith’s teeth?”

“A fancy name for ice, key in many potions, and by raiding my home, they discovered my secret.” She turned her hand palm up, and tiny shards of ice began to form before Reardon’s eyes. “I make the ice myself.”

Elemental manifestations were some of the most common forms of magic found in the people sent as offerings. Those who could conjure water—and therefore ice—were considered the most dangerous, because everyone associated that magic with the Ice King.

“I don’t know exactly what killed Stevie and your mother, but it was science, not magic, and whoever used it was no one in this castle.” The ice retreated into her palm as if it had melted away. “They never told you any of this? Your father? General Lombard?”

“No.” Lombard never shared anything with Reardon about that night, and whenever he pressed his father, Henry looked so sad, voice catching as he tried to speak, that Reardon would backtrack and tell him it didn’t matter.

He’d always hoped it hadn’t been magic, but to learn so much more of the truth didn’t assuage him.

“Thank you for telling me now,” Reardon said. “Perhaps, one day, I can change the hearts of our people and get justice for all our loved ones.”

Like before, Caitlin stared at him for a long time, her subtle smile peeking through more broadly. “That really is all you want, isn’t it?”

“What else would I want?” He tilted his head at her, only in the crease of her brow recognizing that she had expected different of him, some other version of a prince, and looked—at least he hoped—pleasantly surprised.

“Keep on as you are, Emerald Prince. You’re faring well so far.” She nodded once more and moved to slip past him, heading back down the hall she’d initially begun to trek.

It had been a productive day, no matter how wary it made Reardon to finally know that whoever caused his mother’s death had gotten away with it, and he still had no idea how or why.

He also realized that he hadn’t discovered where Caitlin was headed, but he knew better than to try following again.

JACK DIDN’Tneed sleep. The curse saw to that, though occasionally he and the others still chose to, if only for a quieting of the mind.

Last night he hadn’t rested at all. He’d been too agitated, leaving his crumpled bit of poetry in the corner of his room for hours before he finally retrieved it, smoothed its edges, and left it back on his desk. He should tear it into pieces or freeze it to dust, but he couldn’t bear to part with it just yet.

Today he graced his throne minutes before Reardon’s arrival. He would not be beaten again.

“Follow me, little prince.” Jack got down as soon as the young man drew near, turning toward his secret tunnels. Where he wanted to have their audience today was somewhere he could only reach through the hidden passageways or risk icing far too many halls.

He saw the awe on Reardon’s face as they entered the initial corridor. Jack kept looking back as he led Reardon, since the space was tight. His own hunch and slow gait ensured Reardon also had to walk slowly or risk running into him.

Eventually they came to the room Jack intended, and he moved the hidden door aside.

“Do these tunnels lead everywhere in the castle?” Reardon asked.

“For the most part.” Jack backed away, leaving Reardon plenty of room to exit. “Go on. I have a feeling you haven’t seen this room yet.” He couldn’t come right out and say that he knew Reardon hadn’t because he’d been spying on him since he arrived.

Cautiously, Reardon ventured forth. Though the tunnels were slick and icy, his potion guaranteed steady footing, and he gave no sign of shivering, though a gasp did leave him once he’d cleared the exit and saw what lay on the other side.

The library was a masterwork, boasting the highest ceilings in the castle and bursting with tomes. The last two hundred years had only seen its shelves added to by works of the people here, which wasn’t many, but the original collection itself was vast. There were no windows, sparing the books from the power of the sun dimming their covers, but the great hall with its many rows was lit up brilliantly, one of the brightest rooms in the castle, because Branwen always spared a part of his power to keep it lit, just as he kept the castle warm.

Branwen came off as harsh, but Jack knew him to be an avid reader, as well as a contributor to their bard tales, though for prose only, not singing, and not publicly.

“You may leave the path,” Jack said. “It was made for me, since this is one of few rooms I was not willing to give up, even if I do leave an unfortunate wake.”

Only then did Reardon look down to see that he stood in a hollowed-out groove in the floor like a forest path, leading many different directions throughout the library. It kept Jack’s ice and subsequent melting from getting near the books.

Reardon turned to look at him with a boyish smile. “How clever. But how do you read if you can’t touch the books?”

Jack gestured ahead, and Reardon stepped gingerly out of the path to walk along the main floor. A few rows down was a pedestal with an open book, surrounded by one of Wynn’s clever contraptions. It connected to a pair of pedals on the floor, and with a simple step on one of them, the connecting mechanism gripped a page and turned it.

He showed Reardon by turning to the next page, and then stepped on the opposing pedal to turn it back. “I need assistance when the time comes for a new book, but this serves its purpose.”

“What is this one?” Reardon stepped up to the pedestal to investigate. “The River Princess? That’s a romance!”

“A king can’t enjoy some sordid fun? I thought we discussed that already. Admittedly, I prefer to reimagine most damsels as—”

“Stable boys?” Reardon teased. “Though I suppose in this case it would be a prince.” What he’d said seemed to catch up to him, and his sweet smile dropped. “I-I mean… uhhh….”

“I never had a prince,” Jack said. The words slipped free as easily as any confession to Reardon so far, because the bashful way he lowered his head and fluttered his emerald eyes, only to flick them back up and center on Jack, seemed to say his wants focused there too.

Not on Jack. It couldn’t possibly be that. But on a prince of his own.

Jack sat in an extra groove built like a bench, and Reardon pulled a chair over to sit close at the edge of the path. There was barely the length of a man separating them, and yet, in his trough to protect the world from his frozen form, Jack felt leagues away from Reardon beside that pedestal.

“How might a prince have changed things?” Reardon asked.

“Maybe not at all,” Jack said. He needed Reardon to understand that there was no changing anything—not here. “I wasn’t prepared for my father’s death. I thought I could put off the inevitable forever. I was young, like you, and felt invincible, constantly thwarting my father’s plans for me.

“When he died, I had a wicked and terrible idea. Thrust into my role as monarch and expected to marry, I vowed instead to change everything, to make a mockery of what my father thought a kingdom should be and create a land free for everyone to live as they pleased.”

“Wasn’t that a good thing?”

“Have you ever heard what the road to damnation is built with, little prince?”

Reardon’s twitch of a smile said he had.

“My intentions weren’t good. I was really only thinking of myself and the freedoms I wanted. I dismissed my father’s advisors, even the most well-respected ones, and chose my friends as my court. We did whatever we wanted, telling our subjects to do the same.

“Not to say my court isn’t each capable in their position, but back then, we had no plan or sense of gravity to all that fell under our rule. And let me assure you, there is nothing quite as dangerous as giving people exactly what they think they want.

“What happened wasn’t on them, however. They soon saw the folly of it all, that yes, everyone should be able to love and exist and pursue their heart’s desires—or at least most did—but there must be order and responsibility too. A kingdom should not rule every part of a subject’s lives, but freedom shouldn’t be a guise for apathy. There must be a balance between control and personal liberty or everything crumbles.”

“I understand,” Reardon said. “I wish to change the laws of the Emerald Kingdom, to not condemn anyone without a true crime against them, but not to abolish all law and tradition entirely.”

“Then you are far better than I was. A tyrant in power isn’t the answer, but giving everyone everything eventually collapses. Bandits arose, unrest, famine, and the people looked to me to fix it. But all I cared about was… my stable boys,” Jack finished wryly. “A system is only as good as its worst person in power, no matter how well-intentioned.

“More and more people left for other kingdoms, where crops were plentiful and soldiers dependable. Freedom didn’t matter when it came from a king who didn’t care—or certainly didn’t seem to. Eventually, my Sapphire Kingdom caught the eye of the Mystic Valley. The Fairy Queen had grown concerned about so many flocking to her lands, so she came to investigate.”

“The Fairy Queen?” Reardon’s eyes shot wide.

She wasn’t really a fairy. Fairies were myths or whispers of the Shadow Lands, but the Fairy Queen was such a powerful ruler of the elves that she had myths of her own. Elves of the Mystic Valley were said to be un-aging because of her magic.

Jack could see in Reardon’s eyes when he realized he should have guessed where the curse came from, since the castle’s inhabitants were un-aging too.

“She came with a small contingent of her people, and we threw a banquet in her honor.”

“That is the proper response for a visiting ruler.”

“Naturally, but at the time, my lands were half-abandoned, and the castle was a mess. We may as well have been drunken revelers, feasting from our stores, while the few remaining outside were starving.

“The Fairy Queen sat in silence through it all, as we made fools of ourselves. I even attempted to bed a human in her company who turned out to be her Prince Consort.”

“You didn’t.” Reardon paled.

“I did. It was clear that my kingdom would implode in months if not weeks, so, before the night was through, she stood from where we dined, and with a flourish of her hands, all the candles lighting the room snuffed out, and only she glowed, radiant in the center.”

Jack could still remember it so clearly, though he’d been well on his way to inebriated by that point. As he recited to Reardon what she said, he heard it in his mind in her powerful voice.

“You are not a king or a kingdom. You are a menace, even to your own people. Now I see why they come to me or run off to distant lands. I could let you continue wasting your resources and losing your subjects over time, but that would be cruel to everyone.

“Instead, I will give your people a choice—to stay or be welcomed into my lands instead, while you and those who rule beside you are taught a lesson.”

Her voice had resonated with even more power as she cast her spell.

“Your kingdom’s folly ends tonight

and you will live until it’s right

for you are cold and full of wanting

like molten gold

that burns without warmth

and stinging power made for haunting

the invisible that you forgot.

“Be what you are and have neglected

until you find your way.

See what you should be in your mourning

before you rule again someday.”

“I felt it then,” Jack said, “though I couldn’t describe it as anything more than a chill and tingle down my spine. She turned to my friends, as she sent her own people away, and said, ‘If you protect him and believe in him, you will see this curse through. When his heart melts and he is a true king, then the spell will be broken.’

“She warned me that a return to my father’s ways was not the answer. All power or no power is never the answer.”

“Balance.” Reardon nodded thoughtfully.

“There are things to be learned from all ways and all people. There is no single answer to how to rule well. I don’t claim that how this castle runs now is best, but it is ours.

“When the Fairy Queen left that night, Josie, the others, and I soon found ourselves alone, but we didn’t believe anything would come of her words—until dawn, when we began to change.”

“And all the people she asked to seek refuge?”

“Every last one of them accepted her offer and left.”

“Then came the story of the fletcher?”

“Yes, though we had some years alone first. I suppose you could say that Oliver gave us a project, and we decided to stop wallowing in our solitude.”

With the story at its end, a reaction Jack had not anticipated burst onto Reardon’s face.

He smiled.

“This is such wonderful news.”

“What?”

“The curse,” Reardon said, serious but full of energy. “It’s only meant to be temporary. It has stipulations. It can be broken!”

“Don’t you understand? I allowed my subjects to starve and die while I rejoiced in my wealth and position.”

“I do understand. You and Oliver were very much the same. Do you hold it against him, the rich man’s son he once was?”

Jack wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“The only thing I don’t understand is why the curse still stands. Clearly, you have lived up to your end of what the Fairy Queen requested.”

“You aren’t listening,” Jack bit out sharply.

“I am. I have. She cursed you to find your way to becoming a better king, and that is exactly what you did.”

“If that were true, if that were all it took, then I would no longer be this.” Jack lifted one of his clawed hands, large enough that he could have gripped Reardon’s head with ease and crushed it. “Yet here I am. There is no cure. There is no end.”

Reardon’s need to rail back—to defend—rose within him, but then he exhaled with a slump in his chair. “Perhaps we simply need to find the right answer.”

He was foolhardy indeed, but not because he was wily and selfish. He was kind and wanted everyone to have what he sought.

“Maybe that’s for another day,” he said before Jack could answer, not pushing, merely leaning forward on his knees, as close to Jack as he could without being in the trench with him. “Tell me more.”

“More?”

“About your favorite tales, maybe? What tomes have been your favorite?” Reardon looked curiously around them, leaving talk of the curse behind as if it changed nothing of his opinion of Jack or his court. “What types of stories warm the mighty Ice King? Always romance?”

Jack couldn’t express, didn’t dare, that the only thing that had warmed him in over two centuries was sitting right in front of him. “Have you never ventured into those depths, little prince?”

“I have. In books anyway.” Reardon blushed.

Jack didn’t want to inspire pity, but the truth was it was always romantic tales he pursued, because after years of dallying with no substance, now he could have neither, and substance was what he craved.

Though dallying still held its appeal.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken this freely. Not to Branwen. Not even to Josie. But with Reardon, it came so easy. “My favorite was a rare tale, because it wasn’t traditional romance, but the love story was clear between two knights who appeared to be best friends. The author must have been trying to tell the real story in secret. The truth was in the underbelly, waiting for anyone clever enough to see it.

“The knights, both men, never once kissed or intimately embraced, yet their passion and loyalty to one another was stronger than most obvious romances I’ve ever read.” Jack smiled to remember it, how the knights were the perfect examples of stalwartness, especially when protecting each other, and he’d often close the book while reading it to imagine unwritten scenes where they ravaged one another.

“What was it called?” Reardon asked, looking around again with an eager eye.

“I can’t remember. You’ll have to see if you can find it.”

“Seriously?” Reardon balked. “That could take years without knowing the title!”

The amusement Jack had been feeling, and the soft, wonderful warmth Reardon instilled in him went suddenly cold as he recalled that years wasn’t part of the bargain. “When do you plan to leave?”

Reardon startled, as the truth must have only then washed over him too. “You’ll… let me leave?”

Somehow, Jack had forgotten that he’d initially promised not to. “I require that you stay two weeks to prove you aren’t an enemy in disguise. After that, the choice is yours.”

Because after two weeks, Reardon would know the final secrets of the castle.

They spent hours trading stories, Reardon perusing the shelves and occasionally finding a tome that he loved and placing it on Jack’s pedestal for them to read his favorite passages. Jack could almost have forgotten that he was a monster in a ditch, unable to touch the young prince who stood just out of reach.

They might have stayed hours more if Reardon’s stomach hadn’t grumbled.

“Is it lunchtime already? Let me put your book back for you.” Reardon traded out the book he’d been reading from, careful to return to the exact page the original book had been on. “If it’s any good, Majesty, perhaps you’ll loan it to me. I can imagine a princess is someone else too.” He flushed, ever so quick, to slips of phrase that he didn’t seem to intend.

Jack stood to head back into the tunnels, while Reardon started for the door, but then the prince stopped with a glance over his shoulder.

“Oh, um… you could come with me, Majesty. I know you don’t eat but—”

“I have very specific places I tread, little prince, or it leads to messy cleanup. And we don’t have quite that much potion to spare for everyone.”

Reardon hadn’t shivered once during today’s audience, and he didn’t now, though his potion had to have worn off. “What company do you keep,” he asked, smiling as he finished, “when bothersome princes aren’t around? Oliver, I suppose? The other soldiers with Branwen?”

Reardon guessed that because they were the only people he’d seen Jack with, but the truth was… Jack was usually alone. “Not often.”

“Then…?”

Jack couldn’t answer, but Reardon didn’t leave him at a quiet stalemate for long.

“Then I look forward to tomorrow.” He bowed, and only after Jack nodded did he turn to take his leave.

Jack had almost made it to the entrance into the secret passages when he looked back and, realizing he was indeed—again—alone, decided he would stay and read, and maybe the title of that long-forgotten book would come to him.

REARDON WAShungry but also distracted as he left the library and contemplated all he’d learned. One phrase from the story of the Fairy Queen stuck with him, though he hadn’t dared mention it aloud.

When his heart melts….

The curse could be broken. The Ice King didn’t believe it, but Reardon knew it could be. He just had to figure out how to melt the beast the king believed he’d become.

He may have gotten a little too distracted and excited, because he didn’t know this part of the castle, and he was definitely lost now, with no one else anywhere around. Looking behind him, he wasn’t sure he knew how to get back to the library either.

“Left unattended, pretty prince?”

Reardon jumped at the appearance of Zephyr, fading into existence at the end of the hall. “I don’t like that name,” he said, harsher than intended as adrenaline tore through him.

“Oh? Which part?” Zephyr’s grin gave its usual teasing twitch.

Either, Reardon thought, but then he’d started to think that he did want to be prince if he could make his time as one count and become a good king.

“Strange you wouldn’t want to be called pretty,” Zephyr went on when Reardon didn’t answer. “Do I sense a story there?”

Reardon’s cheeks flushed with shame, and his instincts were to deny it and keep that memory to himself, but Zephyr’s transparency reminded him of what he’d promised.

Relaxing, he walked toward the invisible steward. “After Barclay was sent here, when his next birthday passed, I drowned my sorrows at the tavern. A couple of men tried to take advantage when I was alone on the street.”

Zephyr’s expression slackened.

“Our master of arms came to my rescue before anything happened, but they called me ‘pretty prince.’ Now it just makes my skin crawl.” He shuddered to think of it and wrapped his arms around his middle as he came to a stop before Zephyr.

“For me it was ‘darling,’” he said, causing Reardon’s eyes to bulge, “though we were still indoors. I was drowning my sorrows over my parents kicking me out of our home. The brutes who had me wouldn’t let me out of the corner. Had me boxed in at the least visible part of the tavern, blocking any view to freedom or a savior.

“Then our master of arms saved me, long before he was made of flames. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Funny?”

“How different people in different lands at different times can still have the same story.” Zephyr smiled. He always smiled, but there was sadness to the expression now and the slightest sweetness that Reardon realized was the real Spymaster beneath his sharp-tongued guise. “So…. Reardon it is, then, even if you are still pretty. Come, I’ll show you to the dining hall.”

As Reardon followed, he realized he hadn’t seen Zephyr since yesterday—since the argument he’d witnessed between Zephyr and Nigel. “Did I… say or do something yesterday morning that I shouldn’t have?”

“Meaning?”

“You and Nigel seemed upset. Was it something I did? Or maybe something I can help with?”

Zephyr paused. “You didn’t do anything, and you can’t do anything to fix what’s wrong. I’m… maybe not the most tactful person in the room most days.”

“You hurt Nigel’s feelings?”

“When you’ve pushed people away all your life—” Zephyr glanced over his shoulder. “—it isn’t easy keeping them close, even after years of practice. Who we were in the beginning….” He trailed off, lifting the palm of his hand to stare at it. “Haunts us.”

“And who were you?”

Zephyr smiled, and while he was still an imp, the comradery that had been missing before shone brightly in his clear eyes. “An ass, couldn’t you tell? Hurry up now. I can hear that lovely lean stomach of yours growling. Nigel’s headed to the dining hall too, wondering if one of us ate you.”

Reardon chuckled as he continued to follow. He forgot sometimes that the Spymaster could hear all that went on in the castle. Smoothing a thumb over one of his own palms, he thought back to yesterday again, which brought his eyes down to his sword belt.

The smaller sheath for his dagger glared emptily back at him.

“I was so grateful to Nigel for healing my hands, I forgot all about reclaiming my dagger. I promised to steal it back. I don’t know how stealthy I can be, though. I tried to be with Widow Caitlin, and she caught me straight off.”

“I know.” Zephyr glanced back again. “I saw.”

“In my defense, I was stealthy enough to swap places with the sacrifice!”

“Were you? Or was it because the guards were terrible? Caitlin is good. Nigel is better. If you want to steal that dagger back, you’ll need to catch him unawares.”

“Best I learn the castle without getting lost, then.”

“There are other ways. Do you know how I sneak around so easily?”

“You’re an invisible wind?”

An airy chuckle responded. “Also….” Zephyr stopped before they crested another corner to tap a place on the wall that opened into the secret passageways.

“Of course.” Reardon peered inside. “The king showed me. Is it okay to use these?”

“As long as you’re invited. Left to start. I’ll direct you so you can learn.”

Reardon nodded gratefully and ducked inside. As they went, he noticed elemental markings on the floor and walls that he hadn’t noticed with the king. There were ice trails, but also scorch marks and occasional swaths of gold.

“Right next,” Zephyr said. “These are important skills to learn, you know. Stealth. Subterfuge. Misdirection.”

“Are you teaching me to be a thief?”

“Isn’t that what you asked? And if you want to avoid being targeted by a real one again, you should know how they operate. You can’t tiptoe after someone and think you’re invisible. Left.”

The direction came so seamlessly, Reardon almost missed it, but turned left at the next fork.

“Balance is important to better distribute your weight. Even your breathing too. Most people breathe louder when they’re trying to be quiet. Find your shadows, the person’s blind spot, and consider ways to distract them toward the opposite direction of your approach.”

Reardon attempted to do all those things as Zephyr mentioned them, even as he was still safely in the passageways.

“And finally—stop. Listen for the right cues, almost like meditation, to drown out everything but what you want to hear—without closing your eyes.”

Reardon had been about to close them but resisted, keeping as still as he could with even breaths. He could hear Nigel! And Barclay! They were just ahead, almost directly beyond another secret door.

Whenever they opened, they did so silently, so Reardon took the risk and pressed his palm against it. Not a sound came as the door slid open, and Nigel and Barclay’s voices grew louder. They were discussing Reardon and where he might be, since no one had seen him since morning.

Pausing before stepping out, Reardon considered the way their voices carried. Barclay clearly faced toward him, but Nigel must be faced away, which was when Reardon noticed the alcove across from him. For once, Barclay not being able to school his expressions might help.

Reardon stepped into the corridor, waving to get Barclay’s attention. He looked immediately startled, prompting Reardon to dart quickly to the opposite side of the hall.

“What?” Nigel asked, turning as Reardon had expected.

“I, uh….”

“Is someone in the passage?” Nigel approached it, left open with no sign of Zephyr, bringing him perfectly into view of Reardon with all his attention elsewhere.

Reardon swept forward, reaching for his dagger—

—only for Nigel to spin, grab his wrists, and twist. The next thing Reardon knew, he was on his back, staring up at his friend’s face.

“Sneak!” Nigel cried joyously. “You almost had me! Who showed you the tunnels?” He helped Reardon up with a firm hoist of his forearms, and the way he and Barclay laughed made it impossible for Reardon to feel like a failure.

“The king did first.” Zephyr appeared, just suddenly there like always.

Nigel’s smile dropped.

“He needs to learn, doesn’t he?” Zephyr continued. “As it turns out… Reardon isn’t completely useless.”

“He isn’t?” Nigel prompted.

“Not entirely. But don’t you have lunch to get to?” Zephyr blinked away again, as quickly as he’d come.

Reardon wasn’t sure he understood what had just transpired, but at least the expression on Nigel’s face now was a pleased one. “Just you wait,” Reardon promised. “I’ll get that dagger back yet.”

JACK WASso engrossed in his book, calmer than he remembered feeling in a long time, that it was almost sundown before he realized the day was over. He retired, finding himself thinking of the young prince again. He didn’t need to spy, but he still felt the urge to, if only to see Reardon for as long as he could.

Which he didn’t think would include sharing their audiences with others.

“There are certain places in the castle I don’t go,” Jack said when Reardon requested he accompany him to the tailoring room the next morning.

“I know, but I also know that you have ways to get anywhere in the castle, so that is not an excuse. As long as we take the tunnels, the cleanup won’t be too bad. Don’t you miss spending time with your subjects?”

Jack sensed a trick, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. “We don’t have enough potion—”

“What do you think this is for?” Reardon hefted the rucksack he’d brought to Jack’s chamber, which clattered with an obvious collection of potion bottles. “Caitlin helped. We’ll choose one room a day. She said she can keep up with that demand. Today we’re going to the tailoring room. Go on.” He motioned Jack toward the entrance into the tunnels. “I’m sure you know the way.”

Jack stomped his foot in irritation, being told where to go in his own castle, but no gust of bitter wind or show of strength affected the prince—not anymore. Jack had no other recourse but to obey.

No opening of the tunnels went directly into the tailoring room, but it took only a few steps from an exit to reach the tailoring room door. Reardon went ahead of Jack then and knocked before entering, warning all inside that they had a guest, before Jack slowly ducked in after him.

The small group of people inside bowed as Reardon went around, handing out potions. None of those gathered seemed surprised to see Jack. Reardon must have told them ahead of time, and Josie, in the corner, looked so smug, turning spools of thread into glittering gold.

“You realize I can’t touch anything,” Jack grumbled at Reardon.

“I know. But I believe you have a keen eye.” He returned to set his now empty rucksack aside. “Shayla and Josie are helping me with two doublet designs, and I’d love your thoughts, Majesty.”

Shayla was indeed there, one of Jack’s most capable hunters, foragers, and artisans, and one of the first who’d become taken by Reardon. She brought over two swaths of fabric, one a beautiful emerald and one a deep sapphire blue. She also held a square of practice cloth with various embroidery samples.

“I taught our Emerald Prince this one.” She showed Jack a square embroidery stitch like the links of a chain. “And he taught me the other.” Then she showed one in a diamond pattern.

“Josie can do two types of gold thread,” Reardon said, snatching up a couple finished spools. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

One was her usual yellow gold, but the other was silvery white. The way they glittered was quite enchanting, and Josie glowed with pride in a way Jack hadn’t seen in years.

“Very beautiful,” he admitted.

“I was thinking yellow gold for the green, and silver for the blue,” Reardon said, “but which style for which? I’d like to practice both.”

“I don’t have the skills—”

“It’s not skill I’m after. It’s your opinion, which I value very much.”

That rare warmth filled Jack’s chest. He considered the fabrics, the thread, the embroidery styles. “Squares in gold. Diamonds in silver.”

“I thought so too.” Reardon beamed. “Do you want to see how each is done?”

Jack sat in the corner of the room, slowly frosting the stones beneath him, but those with him didn’t seem to mind. While Reardon sat close to show Jack his embroidery, Shayla chatted with him as well, as did others, bringing their creations over for Jack’s commentary.

A bitter part of him wanted to say that his opinion didn’t matter since no one had seen him in clothes in two hundred years, but he held his tongue because they all looked genuinely pleased to have him there and appreciative of his responses.

After Josie turned a small pile of thread into dazzling additions to their trimmings, she whispered, “Still waiting two weeks?”

“Yes,” Jack said without falter.

He’d wait longer if he could. Once Reardon knew everything, he’d be ready to leave.

AFTER THATday in the tailoring room, they no longer took their audiences purely alone. Day after day, Reardon dragged Jack all over the castle using the hidden passageways—to the alchemist tower, for example, to assist Liam, Barclay, and Caitlin. The widow was no longer cold to the Emerald Prince, but gentle and patient, as she taught him basic transmutation, which he took to as adeptly as he could sew.

Reardon wasn’t quick with everything, however. He really was awful with a bow when Oliver tried to teach him, but they considered it a win when he finally hit the target—albeit not the actual target but the stand holding it up.

He was better with a short sword and quickly mastered how to handle two, trained as equally by Shayla at that point as Oliver. His old short sword was left in his room, replaced with twin blades made of hard steel and gold-colored hilts, forged by Branwen’s fire.

Each day was mixed with an audience between him and Jack and adventures throughout the castle, Reardon learning much, becoming one of them, even though his time there was only temporary. Not a soul was left in the castle after the first week who thought Reardon didn’t belong. He became even more popular as he learned favored bard tales, singing them at dinner—sometimes alone, sometimes with Barclay or Wynn or both—or giving a pretty refrain to accompany Nigel’s spoken verse.

Reardon confessed to Jack, traveling through the tunnels after spending time in the music room, that what made him love bard tales so much was that his mother had loved them too.

“I never thought to ask, Majesty. What of your mother? I’ve only heard you speak of your father, the king.”

If anyone else had broached the subject—if Reardon had on his first days—Jack would have grown angry, but there was very little ire left in him where this young prince was concerned. “A quiet, lovely woman, given to my father, not in love, who couldn’t keep her light alive after Josie was born. She’d borne too much by then, and I don’t only mean me.

“My father, the life she’d been given, it whittled her away. She died before Josie was a year. No one is meant for a life they didn’t choose for themselves.”

The gentle affection and understanding Reardon offered still caught Jack off guard, but despite Jack’s beastly form, Reardon never shied from looking him in the eyes. “I am sorry, Majesty. We have much in common, even the sadder things, the harder times, the losses, but I am glad I have come to know all we have in common that is good.”

He turned to continue moving through the tunnels, and it was just as well, because the warmth Jack felt then was so intense, he’d swear he felt a drip of water streak down his face.

There was less need to spy on Reardon after so many days, but still Jack did, if only to keep that warmth tended to like a smoldering fire. It had not yet been two weeks, but a long ten days, when Jack watched Reardon head down to the cellars at the behest of the kitchen staff to fetch a few bottles of wine to bring up for dinner.

Branwen was there, sitting at the tasting table, with several bottles already and a goblet before him.

“What are you doing?” Reardon asked. He hadn’t crossed Branwen’s path since the training yard, for the twin swords had been presented by Shayla.

“Waiting for nightfall,” Branwen grumbled, and then turned and saw who had joined him. “You.”

“Yes.” Reardon sat beside Branwen, closer than most would dare, especially after almost being burned.

Branwen sat up taller, his flames dimming to a soft orange. “You got a death wish, princeling?”

“No. But I haven’t seen you lately. I never got to thank you for my swords. They say you forged them especially for me.” Reardon wore them now and touched their hilts with reverence.

“Didn’t want you falling like an idiot again,” Branwen said, shifting uncomfortably, but it would be difficult for him to get up and leave without shifting too close to Reardon. “Those swords are perfectly balanced.”

“They’re magnificent. I didn’t realize you could forge. Did you make all the weapons in the castle?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

As usual, Reardon wasn’t deterred, but gave a gentle laugh. “I doubt the king thinks so.”

Branwen wasn’t much of a talker, and Reardon did indeed talk incessantly, but for once, he sat still and quiet, waiting for Branwen to speak again.

“If you’re going to stay, then drink with me,” Branwen barked, moving the empty goblet toward Reardon.

“But you can’t… a-all right,” Reardon stuttered, taking the open bottle and pouring some to fill it halfway, only for Branwen to huff disapproval, so he filled it to the top.

Jack had seen Reardon drink before. He could manage a glass or two, but anything more than that left him utterly sloshed.

Reardon started with a small sip.

“Pfft.” Branwen’s next huff produced a burst of flame like a dragon snorting. “If you can spew so much out of your mouth, then you can take more too.”

The flush that filled Reardon’s cheeks was not from wine, though Branwen didn’t mean it the way Zephyr might have. Regardless, Reardon tipped the goblet back to bring the wine nearly below half again.

Branwen snatched the bottle to fill the glass back to the brim. They sat close, enough to make Jack nervous, especially with Branwen plying Reardon with more wine, but Reardon wasn’t shying away, and it dawned on Jack how much Branwen needed this.

Jack hadn’t seen Branwen much either in the past week. He should have been the one to check on his friend, instead of neglecting him. He’d spoken to Branwen, but he never knew what was right to say when accidents—actual or merely close calls—always felt like they were his fault, since none of this would have happened without him.

Yet there Reardon went, being everything Branwen needed just by being himself, undaunted and friendly, like a pillar of virtue.

That was it! That was the title of Jack’s book, the one he hadn’t been able to remember, resounding suddenly in his head—Pillars of Virtue. The knights in that story had displayed all the chivalrous pillars—courage, mercy, hope—and the sexual tension between them had fueled many of Jack’s adolescent fantasies.

He watched Reardon now, much like those knights, not pushing Branwen to talk about what had happened, but simply being with him to show that he wasn’t afraid or resentful.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Reardon said, even as he tipped back his next few gulps.

“That’s coz you’re a twig. Keep training with the fletcher and Shayla. You’ll toughen up.”

“And with you?”

“Suppose so. If you take good care of those swords. And learn to hold your liquor.” Branwen pounded the table, flames bouncing across the wood but never causing it to catch fire.

Reardon took another gulp. “My only wish is that you could be drinking with me. Perhaps someday.”

“Oh?” Branwen straightened again.

“No curse lasts forever,” Reardon said.

Naive and ignorant.But oh, how his hopefulness was infectious, because it made Branwen laugh. “Says the twenty-year-old.”

“Twenty-one,” Reardon corrected.

“Nothing left to learn, then?”

“I have everything to learn. And I’d like to. Everything I can. Including about you, Sir Branwen, if you’ll tell me.”

“I’m no bard,” Branwen said with a wrinkle of his nose.

Lies. Though maybe not spoken.

“If every story was the same or told the same way, they’d be very boring indeed,” Reardon said.

He drank, not saying more, until eventually Branwen began to talk. He didn’t look at Reardon, and he didn’t tell stories of the castle, as Jack would have expected. He spoke of a quiet boy with a hard father and a too-soft mother—very relatable for Jack—but who’d always been seen as too brutish to think for himself.

None of it was likened to a life Reardon could relate to, but that didn’t seem to matter to the young prince. He listened and he drank until Branwen ran out of things to say.

Reardon was on what must have been his fourth glass of wine, slurring as he said, “M’sorry, Bran… if my stumbling scared you.”

The silence stretched, but finally, Branwen said, “Me too.”

When next the quiet broke, it was with a hum, followed by the tentative flow of song.

“A raging fire must first be lit

By sparks we plan or cannot see.

Tended slow to not burn out

But watched to calm when it burns free.

“Hark! The fire in all,

The fire in you,

The fire in me.

“Oh gentle hearth that crackles warm,

Others’ care is who you’ll be.

Consuming pyre or saving grace,

The choices made save you and me.

“Hark! The fire in all,

The fire in you,

The fire in me,

“The fire in all who long to be.”

Reardon chuckled and took another gulp from his goblet.

“You just made that up?” Branwen gawked. “Right now?”

“I did. Drinking must agree with me,” Reardon said with the start of a hiccup.

“Reardon!” Barclay exclaimed, rushing down the stairs with Josie close behind. “Where have you been? They suddenly remembered in the kitchen that they sent you down for wine, and you never came up.”

“Bran!” Josie scolded, seeing the state of Reardon when he turned to his friends with a wide, rosy grin. “What did you do to him?”

“He’s the one who wanted to drink with me,” Branwen protested.

“I made a new song!” Reardon said too loud at Barclay’s ear, when he hurried over to heave him up from the table. “It’s about, um… fire! I think…. Yes, definitely fire!” He burst into giggles, and Branwen chuckled with him.

“You’re not so bad, Emerald Prince.”

“You too, Sir Bran! A true de-light.” He giggled again, all semblance of sobriety gone.

Barclay looked exasperated but mostly amused, and Josie smiled too, sharing the warm expression with Branwen.

“Come on.” Barclay hefted Reardon toward the stairs. “It’s almost nightfall. Josie, can you get someone to grab a couple bottles for the kitchen?”

“I’ll do it!” Reardon broke away, bolting for the back-cellar door.

“No!” Josie cried.

Reardon almost had it open before Barclay, the only one who could stop him without turning him into another accident, slammed the door shut again. Only the barest hint of gold had been seen, but Reardon didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Not where we keep the wine,” Barclay said. “Someone else can do it.”

Josie and Branwen shared soberer looks, but a true spiral from the current merriment had been averted, and while Barclay brought Reardon upstairs to feed him water and bread and whatever else he could get into him, Jack decided not to follow.

Instead, he headed for the library. There was a mere twenty minutes before sunset, but although he still didn’t know where to find his favorite book, now he knew its name.

And he was determined to find it.

“Zephyr!”

SOBERED ANDnot at all sick or miserable-feeling thanks to water, nourishment, and some combined healing from Nigel and Caitlin, Reardon slogged upstairs to bed. Everyone had adamantly made sure he was okay before taking their leave of him, but he’d assured them he was fine.

Branwen was one of the few remaining in the castle who he hadn’t spoken to at length before that evening, and while Reardon didn’t fully remember everything about their hours together, he was confident he’d made headway.

He was tired when he got to his room, so tired that he almost didn’t notice the book lying on his bed until after he’d removed his sword belt and doublet. It was beautifully bound, with red-and-gold lettering to state the title and two jousting knights carved into the leather.

Pillars of Virtue.

It had to be the king’s book, his favorite, he’d said, about two knights who might have been written as in love if the author had been bolder or lived in a different time. Reardon had never read it, but to find it like a gift waiting for him felt like the most intimate thing anyone had ever given him. Surely it was only to borrow, but still. The king must have had Zephyr set it there, for there was not a single mar of ice upon it.

If it wasn’t nighttime, Reardon would have gone to the king right then to express his thanks and ask if they could read the first chapter together. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t allowed anywhere near the court’s private chambers after dark.

He needed to tell someone, though. Reardon had accomplished so much in his week and a half being here. If he was right that “melting” the king could break the curse, surely a gift like this meant he was close.

Close to melting him back to Jack—because they were friends.

Reardon clutched the book to his chest. He didn’t even know what Jack’s real face or body looked like, only his eyes, and yet he couldn’t help wondering….

Couldn’t help wanting….

He had to see Barclay.

Still clutching the book, barefoot in his trousers and untucked shirt, Reardon rushed next door and knocked.

No answer.

“Barclay! I’m sorry if I’m waking you, but I need to talk.” Reardon knocked again.

Still nothing.

He knew Barclay was a light sleeper, and Barclay had definitely said earlier that he was going to bed.

“Barclay?” Reardon tried one more time, but when once again, no answer came, he opened the door.

Barclay wasn’t there, but several candles were lit—and one of the secret passageways was open, leading right into his bedroom!

Reardon clutched the book tighter. Barclay wasn’t the type to go snooping around, but then, where had he gone?

Edging closer to the tunnel, Reardon peered inside. There were torches lit along a path leading to the right, like a beacon telling Reardon where Barclay must have trod. He followed, and the farther he went, the more he noticed swaths of gold on the walls like he’d seen elsewhere, but here there was only gold, no sign of ice or scorch marks.

The path eventually stopped at another open tunnel entrance. Reardon was cautious, but his curiosity had been piqued too much to not go in. The room on the other side was opulent, with plush pillows, a beautiful vanity, elegant dresses in wardrobes, and a wall covered in jewelry hanging for selection.

There was also a dress, a pair of trousers, a shirt, and various other clothing in a pile on the floor.

And a bed with bodies moving on it and the distinct utterance of a familiar voice that moaned.

“Barclay?”

Covers tumbled from the shoulders of the most visible occupant on the bed, revealing Barclay’s brown skin and the pale limbs of someone tangled with him. He yelped when his eyes met Reardon’s and scrambled to cover himself.

“Reardon! How did you… when did you… why are you here?”

Reardon was too mortified to look away, staring openmouthed at having caught his friend in the throes of passion with what he soon saw was a very beautiful brunette. “Sorry! I-I saw the tunnel, a-and I didn’t realize, I….” Still staring at the woman’s face—grateful as he was that he could only see her face—it suddenly struck him that he had seen that face before.

In a portrait.

“Josie?”