Page 38 of The Prince and the Ice King

Branwen stomped forward, causing anyone too close in the crowd to back away as all members of the kingdom had been taught, and forReardon’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—intoBranwen, 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.

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