Page 88 of The Prince and the Ice King

They didn’t always connect as deeply when they were together, especially not if Reardon was sore, but there were so many other wondrous pleasures the king could show him. The touch of his hand or mouth on Reardon’s skin, on his sex, was enough to drive Reardon to rapture time and time again.

Soon, the last few days of his two weeks had come and gone, no fanfare needed since he’d already discovered the castle’s secrets, and he was nearly concluding a third week before he realized it. The king had yet to allow Reardon to spend the night in his bed again. He hoped his song might finally sway him.

Everyone knew about his nightly visits to the king. Once, the fletcher even sat beside Reardon at lunchtime and asked him straight out in a hushed voice, “Have you seen the king yet?”

Reardon forgot sometimes that only the court knew the king’s true face. Even Oliver, who had been here since the beginning, hadn’t been present before the curse.

“Not yet.”

“And it doesn’t bother you, being with someone you’ve never seen?”

“If you had no sight to see your wife, would you love her any less?”

Oliver reared back, but then gave a small smile. “Not even a little.”

Reardon could be patient, but the problem now was that his song was finished, and he still had no idea how to woo the king with it.

“You should ask Branwen,” Nigel said, close to completion with his own epic.

“I don’t know if I’ve read any of his books, since he doesn’t use his own name. Are they really that good?”

“Like a veritable god of romance giving advice.”

If Reardon hadn’t seen Branwen working on a book with Caitlin, he never would have believed the fiery master of arms could write verses of passionate love stories. Even so, he found him later that day like kismet, standing in the hall outside the library doors.

“Don’t you want to go in?” Reardon asked.

The brightly burning behemoth turned toward him like a giant floating flame. “And risk a neglectful touch turning the whole place to cinders? Don’t be a fool.”

Reardon went to him, leaving the customary few feet of space, and peered inside the library. The grandness of it still took his breath away even when he remained in the hall. “Basking in its presence then for inspiration?”

Branwen grunted, and it came out like the snort of an angry bull. “It’s better when you newcomers never learn that.”

“Don’t be bashful. Being a poet or a bard is a great calling. I don’t have much skill for writing myself, only song and performance. But youtell the tales. That’s real power. I was hoping the kind of power that you might be willing to share?”

“Meaning?”

“Do you have any advice as a great writer of love about how someone might woo their love with a song?”

Bright flaming eyes danced like flickering candles. “You want the words?”

“I have the words from another clever poet, and the tune now as well. I know I want to sing it in private, when it’s just the two of us, but I’m not sure… how.”

Branwen’s expression shifted, showing telling signs of a smirk within his flames. “For Jack.”

“Yes. The intimacy of his touch he allows, but when I speak words of love, he rebuffs me.”

“And he will keep rebuffing you. What you need is to put the two together.”

Reardon looked at him with a furrowed brow.

“If Jack responds to the carnal over the romantic, then give him both. Look for a book called…Heatwave—” Branwen nodded inside thelibrary. “—with a dark red spine. Second row on the right, four shelves in, about eye level. Somewhere around… page 120, you’ll find the example you’re looking for.”

“One of your books?”

“I never said that.”

“If it is one of yours, Caitlin’s the one who scribed it, yes? Perhaps it’s time you used some of your own romantic advice.” Reardon didn’t wait for Branwen to refute that but turned to enter the library and followed the path he’d been set upon.

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