Page 115 of The Prince and the Ice King

“I’ll bring the whole army this time, so that when I—pure of heart, as they’ll believe—breach the castle, and all its inhabitants fall dead at my feet, I’ll be lauded a hero.”

“P-please… have mercy,” Reardon tried.

Lombard bent over him, never before having seemed so looming. “My prince, do you not remember what I taught you? Mercy merely means you might end up the dead man instead—and I never intend to be the dead man.”

One of Reardon’s tears stubbornly streaked down his cheek. “I… would show you mercy.”

“I know. That’s why I won. I will honor you, though, I swear. After this, the laws can finally be changed.” Lombard crowded in closer, so that Reardon knew long before his lips descended what cruelty he meant to inflict.

He kissed Reardon, and Reardon fought through the pain to turn his head away.

“Don’t… touch me.”

“So unkind?” Lombard breathed upon his cheek. “I’m going to let you say goodbye to your father. You should be grateful.” He hooked one arm around Reardon’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees to lift him. The jostling filled Reardon with so much pain, he gasped, especially when Lombard draped his cloak across the dagger to hide it. “You know, I only made them hate magic. Their hatred foryou, simply because you long for another man’s touch, that they learned on their own.

“I never could have predicted you’d fall in love with one of those cursed creatures. Or is it merely one of the sacrifices?”

Reardon didn’t answer.

“No matter. They’ll all be dead soon.”

Every step Lombard took to leave the tower filled Reardon with more shooting pains throughout his chest and limbs andeverywhere. It was becoming too much to bear, and he was so tired. He could feel his head swimming with the urge to sleep, his vision dimming.

“Now, as far as anyone knows, I am carrying you to bed, and I will tell them that you’d like to stay in your father’s room and not be disturbed by anyone, no matter how many days pass. Don’t fight, Reardon. I’ve already won.”

Reardon could barely move, let alone call to any guards. Darkness was taking him swiftly, and he almost longed for it, if only to be free for a few brief moments from the pain—in his body and his heart.

Reardon used to think that all men could be reasoned with. No longer. He had doomed everyone in the Frozen Kingdom, thinking he could somehow be their salvation, and his own kingdom was doomed now too, for he was going to be caged with his father, the both of them left to die by the hand of a friend.

Jack

Jack had returned to his chambers before sunrise, but now he left for his throne room like any other morning, surprised to find that he was not alone.

“Barclay,” he rumbled at the diminutive man who stood ringing his hands in front of the throne. “What do you seek of me at such an early hour?”

“I’m sorry, Majesty.” Barclay bowed. He looked haggard, like he hadn’t slept. “Terrible dreams kept me awake, concerning my last vision.”

“Oliver said the Emerald Prince left with his soldiers to prevent it, your vision of a war.”

“Of worse than war—our destruction. Reardon thought he could fix things by leaving, but he’d be home by now, safe in the Emerald Kingdom to see his father, and my vision hasn’t changed.”

Jack didn’t truly believe Reardon would return at the head of his own armies, leading a war himself, but he had to wonder—who else might they have to fear from that kingdom?

“Tell me what you’ve seen.” Jack took his throne with a creak of the ice that made up his long limbs. “Tell me exactly.”

Reardon

Reardon roused, wishing it all had been a dream, but when he tried to move, the searing pain through his chest proved how real the torture was. He’d fallen asleep, overtired and aching, but that didn’t change the truth.

Lombard was a traitor. He’d killed Reardon’s mother, Caitlin’s husband, and was trying to kill Henry, and Reardon was helpless to standagainst him. His old mentor was readying Emerald’s armies that very moment to leave for Jack’s kingdom.

As Reardon painstakingly moved his head to take in his surroundings, he saw that Lombard had laid him on the lounging sofa in his father’s room. He could see him upon the bed, frowning within what looked to be a fitful sleep. At least Lombard hadn’t lied about that much; he had brought Reardon to say goodbye.

But Reardon couldn’t accept this literally lying down. He couldn’t say goodbye from so far away. No matter how much it pained him, he had to make it as far as the bed.

“Ah!” Trying to sit up resulted in him immediately falling back onto the cushions. Lombard hadn’t lied about that either, that moving would be excruciating, as if, from the point of entry of the dagger’s blade, Reardon’s own blood had turned against him and seared him from the inside out.

It wouldn’t kill him, though, and if pain was all he had to fear, he had to face it.

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