Page 36 of The Prince and the Ice King

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…havedesires, 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.

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