Page 37 of The Prince and the Ice King

“You’re welcome to select a more suitable weapon,” the fletcher said with his thin, appraising smile, squaring his stance.

“I haven’t mastered wielding anything heavier.” Whenever Reardon tried, it unbalanced him, his strength refusing to grow beyond its peak.

“I can teach you how to handle alargersword!” Zephyr called, and laughter roared once more.

Fighting a return of flushed cheeks with so many eyes on him, the king’s most heavily, Reardon scanned for friendly faces in the crowd. He saw no one he’d gotten to know yesterday, not even Shayla, but then his eyes found Nigel.

“Knock his block off, fletcher!” Nigel cried.

So much for finding afriend.

There was a chaotic energy about Nigel, certainly, though his uncharacteristic snarl seemed to be directed at Zephyr for some reason, with furtive glances passed between them.

“May I at least know your given name, good fletcher?” Reardon asked the man before him, circling closer and imagining how painful the first clang of blades would feel. “Or is it merelyEmerald Arrow?”

The fletcher’s smile barely twitched. “It is until you prove yourself.”

He rushed Reardon without warning, and instead of bracing his sword upward to deflect the coming blow, Reardon spun out of the way and waited for his opponent to stumble.

He didn’t.

Far swifter than anyone with a great sword had any right to be, the fletcher pivoted and rammed his hilt into Reardon’s side. Reardon gasped, breath lost, and nearly lost the grip on his short sword.

“Don’t assume your opponent’s abilities without proper assessment,” the fletcher said like a scolding tutor. He reminded Reardon of Lombard—blond, beautiful, and severe. Lombard had taught Reardon to fight, but he’d clearly gone easy on him. Reardon couldn’t approach this battle thinking the rules would be the same.

The fletcher let him catch his breath, and then squared his stance again.

Jack

Reardon had indeed never been to any brothels or known the comfort of another. If he had, he would have risked being discovered as a deviant and been banished from his own kingdom. There was no denying it now, though initially that had not been the purpose of this sparring match.

The way his eyes raked bashfully over Oliver’s rippling bare chest proved to Jack the truth, as much as the young prince’s blushing cheeks and utterances the night before of finding an unknown “him.” He wasn’t the first to prefer like company who had darkened Jack’s door. It shouldn’t have mattered, and yet the knowledge made Jack’s eyes narrow that much more closely on Reardon’s movements.

He was… capable with a sword. Few were as skilled as Oliver or Branwen with any weapon, but then, they each had a couple centuries of experience to call upon, and Reardon was a mere boy of twenty-one.

Still, each time Oliver sidestepped Reardon and threw him to the ground, or simply overpowered him with a clash of metal, his great sworddwarfing Reardon’s smaller blade, the prince got back up, took a breath, and tried again. To his credit, it took Oliver longer to best him each time, with Reardon’s eyes trained on his movements and learning, waiting, calculating openings and how he could use his speed to his advantage against a stronger, more skilled opponent.

When it seemed to all those jeering for Oliver to finish him that Reardon was sure to call for a reprieve, that was when the prince struck.

Oliver weaved and swung, and Reardon ducked out of the way, but when before Oliver would surprise him with a sharp jab of his hilt, fist, or sweep of his leg, this time, Reardon saw every countermove coming and responded in kind. He weaved, twisted on the hard, frozen ground, swung up with his blade like he might slice Oliver cleanly, and then, at the last moment, rammed his hilt into Oliver’s shoulder and kicked the side of his knee to send him sprawling.

A surprised silence fell over the crowd, for few had ever brought Oliver to his knees save those he’d trained himself. But after Oliver let his great sword hit the ground, he left it there, lifted his head to look at Reardon, and accepted the hand offered down to him.

“Oliver,” he said as he was hoisted to his feet. “Not bad. For a noble born.”

“You too,” Reardon said, squeezing his hand fiercely in reply.

“And how are you with a bow?” Oliver nodded at the targets and archery sets nearby.

“Awful, to be honest.”

“That won’t do here.” Oliver sized Reardon up like he did all those he intended to teach. “You need to master the skills you have, and what you have is speed. You’ve seen Shayla fight with her daggers? You could dual-wield just as well with two short swords and be a menace against any opponent, but you let your eagerness get the best of you.”

“You aren’t the first to tell me that.” Reardon smiled with a distant fondness in his gaze like he was thinking of someone specific.

Jack squelched the wave of jealousy that struck him.

“Who says besting the fletcher proves his mettle?” Branwen boomed beside Jack, bringing him back to himself and reminding him that they were not alone in the training yard.

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