Page 47 of The Prince and the Ice King

“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

Jack didn’t need 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, butthe 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!”

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