Page 54 of The Prince and the Ice King

He’d wait longer if he could. Once Reardon knew everything, he’d be ready to leave.

After that day in the tailoring room, they no longer took their audiences purely alone. Day after day, Reardon dragged Jack all over the castle using the hidden passageways—to the alchemist tower, for example, to assist Liam, Barclay, and Caitlin. The widow was no longercold to the Emerald Prince, but gentle and patient, as she taught him basic transmutation, which he took to as adeptly as he could sew.

Reardon wasn’t quick with everything, however. He really was awful with a bow when Oliver tried to teach him, but they considered it a win when he finally hit the target—albeit not the actual target but the stand holding it up.

He was better with a short sword and quickly mastered how to handle two, trained as equally by Shayla at that point as Oliver. His old short sword was left in his room, replaced with twin blades made of hard steel and gold-colored hilts, forged by Branwen’s fire.

Each day was mixed with an audience between him and Jack and adventures throughout the castle, Reardon learning much, becoming one of them, even though his time there was only temporary. Not a soul was left in the castle after the first week who thought Reardon didn’t belong. He became even more popular as he learned favored bard tales, singing them at dinner—sometimes alone, sometimes with Barclay or Wynn or both—or giving a pretty refrain to accompany Nigel’s spoken verse.

Reardon confessed to Jack, traveling through the tunnels after spending time in the music room, that what made him love bard tales so much was that his mother had loved them too.

“I never thought to ask, Majesty. What of your mother? I’ve only heard you speak of your father, the king.”

If anyone else had broached the subject—ifReardonhad on his first days—Jack would have grown angry, but there was very little ire left in him where this young prince was concerned. “A quiet, lovely woman, given to my father, not in love, who couldn’t keep her light alive after Josie was born. She’d borne too much by then, and I don’t only mean me.

“My father, the life she’d been given, it whittled her away. She died before Josie was a year. No one is meant for a life they didn’t choose for themselves.”

The gentle affection and understanding Reardon offered still caught Jack off guard, but despite Jack’s beastly form, Reardon never shied from looking him in the eyes. “I am sorry, Majesty. We have much in common, even the sadder things, the harder times, the losses, but I am glad I have come to know all we have in common that is good.”

He turned to continue moving through the tunnels, and it was just as well, because the warmth Jack felt then was so intense, he’d swear he felt a drip of water streak down his face.

There was less need to spy on Reardon after so many days, but still Jack did, if only to keep that warmth tended to like a smoldering fire. It had not yet been two weeks, but a long ten days, when Jack watched Reardon head down to the cellars at the behest of the kitchen staff to fetch a few bottles of wine to bring up for dinner.

Branwen was there, sitting at the tasting table, with several bottles already and a goblet before him.

“What are you doing?” Reardon asked. He hadn’t crossed Branwen’s path since the training yard, for the twin swords had been presented by Shayla.

“Waiting for nightfall,” Branwen grumbled, and then turned and saw who had joined him. “You.”

“Yes.” Reardon sat beside Branwen, closer than most would dare, especially after almost being burned.

Branwen sat up taller, his flames dimming to a soft orange. “You got a death wish, princeling?”

“No. But I haven’t seen you lately. I never got to thank you for my swords. They say you forged them especially for me.” Reardon wore them now and touched their hilts with reverence.

“Didn’t want you falling like an idiot again,” Branwen said, shifting uncomfortably, but it would be difficult for him to get up and leave without shifting too close to Reardon. “Those swords are perfectly balanced.”

“They’re magnificent. I didn’t realize you could forge. Did you make all the weapons in the castle?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

As usual, Reardon wasn’t deterred, but gave a gentle laugh. “I doubt the king thinks so.”

Branwen wasn’t much of a talker, and Reardon did indeed talk incessantly, but for once, he sat still and quiet, waiting for Branwen to speak again.

“If you’re going to stay, then drink with me,” Branwen barked, moving the empty goblet toward Reardon.

“But you can’t… a-all right,” Reardon stuttered, taking the open bottle and pouring some to fill it halfway, only for Branwen to huff disapproval, so he filled it to the top.

Jack had seen Reardon drink before. He could manage a glass or two, but anything more than that left him utterly sloshed.

Reardon started with a small sip.

“Pfft.” Branwen’s next huff produced a burst of flame like a dragon snorting. “If you can spew so much out of your mouth, then you can take more too.”

The flush that filled Reardon’s cheeks was not from wine, though Branwen didn’t mean it the way Zephyr might have. Regardless, Reardon tipped the goblet back to bring the wine nearly below half again.

Branwen snatched the bottle to fill the glass back to the brim. They sat close, enough to make Jack nervous, especially with Branwen plying Reardon with more wine, but Reardon wasn’t shying away, and it dawned on Jack how much Branwen needed this.

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