Page 3 of The Prince and the Ice King

“Magic’s corruption could cause any number of calamities.”

“That is ludicrous! Barclay has lived here all his life!”

Reardon stood, fists clenched, in King Henry’s personal chambers, just off the side of the throne room. Well, KingRegent, since it was Reardon who would succeed his mother. He wouldn’t normally berate his father so openly in the presence of others, least of all General Lombard or Master Wells, but this matter could not wait for a private audience.

Soldiers had just taken Barclay away in chains.

“You can’t do this,” Reardon lamented, shifting to appeal rather than anger.

His father was a reasonable man, had been long before he became king and had so many more responsibilities heaped on his shoulders. He couldn’t let Reardon’s worst fear be realized just because too many people had pointed their fingers and cried witch.

Henry sighed, sympathy creasing the corners of his dark eyes. He was a striking man, taller than Reardon and broad-shouldered, withbrown hair and a healthy beard speckled with gray. He rarely wore his crown, only during official summons and proclamations. Like Reardon, he would often go into town with as few adornments as possible, just as he appeared now in a modest doublet. He hadn’t been a prince when he married Queen Reagan, only a noble, but while he’d had a high station, he’d never acted like more than a commoner.

Reardon had often been told he was just like his father but that he looked more like his mother, lithe and willowy, with a fair face, auburn hair that could appear almost red in the sun, and the emerald eyes of the House of Thom. Never once had the bloodline’s crown king or queen been without them.

“May I speak, Majesty?” Lombard submitted from where he stood vigil at the door.

“Of course, Lombard. What say you?” Henry gestured him forward, and Lombard’s armor and the sword at his belt clattered as he approached.

He was near Henry’s age, though without any hint of it in his flaxen hair. Unlike most soldiers, he kept his face clean-shaven. He was a handsome but imposing man, who always left Reardon feeling small. Not because he was unkind, but because he’d been the first target of Reardon’s lustful fantasies when the stirrings of manhood began.

Even now, a long stare from his piercing blue eyes made Reardon’s chest feel hot.

“The Ice King is a magical being, my prince, far more powerful than the elves who abandoned the Mystic Valley and just as un-aging, possibly immortal. He could corrupt this kingdom in so many ways, with plague or war or worse, but he stays on his hill so long as he receives his yearly offering.”

“I know the story, Bardy,” Reardon addressed him informally, “but every legend about the source, the reason, is different. What if none of them are true? Have you ever even sent an emissary to the Frozen Kingdom?” he returned to his father.

“Your mother’s father’s father did,” Henry reminded him. “You know that tale as well.”

“That the emissary’s head came back as a broken-off chunk of ice, but it too couldbe a myth. An exaggeration.”

“You would risk that when you will be king in less than two years’ time? What if you’re wrong? You ask me to destroy your mother’s legacy, as an outsider of the bloodline.”

“Mother hated this tradition too!” Reardon bellowed.

“Yet she upheld it.” Henry came closer, and Reardon wanted to back away like a petulant child, but he allowed his father to take his hands. “I have ruled these past ten years in her stead only to hold the line for you. If you wish to bring down all the traditions of your ancestors when you take the crown, so be it, but beware the consequences when you go against the will of the people. We send an offering of corruption at the start of every Winter Solstice, and we are safe from the Frozen Kingdom for another year.”

“Barclay isn’t corrupt,” Reardon choked out, the heat in his chest spreading to his eyes and making him blink away wetness.

“He admitted to the visions,” Wells said, a man a good decade older than Henry or Lombard, in robes and a skullcap, with a graying ginger beard much longer than Henry’s and what Reardon had once thought were kind amber eyes.

“They’re just images in his head, not—”

“It’s magic,” Henry stated firmly. “Can you really deny it is?”

Reardon wanted to say, “Why does magic have to be bad?” but he knew where that conversation led, especially with Lombard watching, who rooted out those claimed to have magic and imprisoned them just like Barclay. “Choose somebody else,” Reardon pleaded.

“Your friend cannot be exempt from the law. I know it hurts you, my son, but there were too many corroborations, including by Master Wells, and he confessed. He is touched by magic. He could bring disaster down on all of us.”

“You condemn my friend for superstition!” Reardon wrenched his hands away.

“Magic brings curses in its wake—”

“You only say that because you believe magic killed Mother!”

Henry went cold, but he did not raise his voice, merely looked sorrowful and empty. “What else could it have been? To find her without breath, with no other explanation….”

“Yet alchemy is never a problem.” Reardon clung stubbornly to his bitterness, not hiding the sneer he passed toward Wells.

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