Reardon
Reardon shivered with a bone-deep chill. Despite hugging the thick furs of his winter cloak around him, he thought he might never be warm again.
Ice clung to the castle walls both outside and in, spreading from the corners of the interior chamber like mold. The deeper Reardon went, the less tolerable the cold became, like being dropped to the bottom of a frozen lake with no hope of surfacing.
Here the walls were not merely dusted with ice, they were coated, covered, practically made of it, and so were the ceiling and floor. The décor looked as though it might have been beautiful once, elegant and exquisitely made, but it was all distorted now, the tapestries faded, their original colors impossible to determine.
As Reardon continued, he stopped and shivered for a different reason.
There were frozen remains against the wall.
No, not remains like a pile of bones, but a full, undecayed corpse, with its mouth wide open in a preserved scream.
“That was the last outsider who found his way to my door,” a low, resonant voice rumbled through the chamber, making Reardon shiver harder. “He tried to break into my castle, to steal from me, before stumbling across the same threshold where you stand now.”
A powerful arm struck out and smashed the body into broken chunks—all clear, like ice, not red and bloody as Reardon had feared. But still, he believed that had been a man once, shattered now.
Dead.
He dared not move to face where the brief glimpse of a bestial hand had come from, but it had to be behind him. He could feel breath like an icy wind on his neck that made his skin prickle.
“And what did you come here for? Hmm? To slay me?”
“If I have to,” Reardon answered, because that had indeed been his intention when he made his way to the Frozen Kingdom—to end this once and for all .
“Try it, then,” the voice said, “but be warned, if your skin touches me, you will end up just like he did.”
Reardon spun, reaching for his sword, but while the monster he expected did indeed tower over him—a great, jagged creature made of ice, with angular features, clawed hands and feet that crunched into the floor, fangs as clear as ice themselves, and its head lengthening upward into what appeared to be an icy crown—the eyes made him pause.
Because those eyes, crystal clear and sparkling blue, held intelligence and curiosity that something otherwise out of a nightmare had no right to—entirely human.
Blue eyes in a sea of white.
Just like Barclay’s prophecy.
“Blue eyes in a sea of white? You mean old . My true love is aged and wrinkled with white hair?” Reardon exclaimed. He had nothing against those lucky enough to live to see old age, but he couldn’t bear the thought of waiting another fifty or more years to finally be happy.
“I didn’t say old,” Barclay countered. “I didn’t not say old. You know my visions aren’t always clear!”
They sat huddled at the table in the back room of the alchemist’s shop where Barclay was apprenticed. They had met right there, years ago, on Reardon’s first solo outing from the castle. Or he’d assumed he was solo at the time, though he’d learned later that General Lombard had accompanied him unseen, like a silent bodyguard.
Reardon had always found alchemy fascinating, so the shop had been his first destination that day. Not many practiced the art, but those who did were often great healers, able to create potions that could make someone stronger, faster, more resilient, think clearer, sleep better. The effects only lasted a short time, but it was as close to magic as anyone in the Emerald Kingdom could ever get.
Reardon found magic fascinating too, even more so than alchemy since it was forbidden, but he dared not tell his father or anyone other than Barclay, who was secretly gifted with mystic blood himself and saw visions when he touched people.
Usually it was flashes of the past or present, which could be useful when Reardon forgot where he put his cloak pin or if someone had just nicked something from the shop, but the brief glimpses into the future were what Reardon truly coveted.
“You said ‘Love, death, and blue eyes in a sea of white.’ How else am I supposed to interpret that? I’m not going to find love until I’m old and dying!”
Barclay snorted. The teakettle whistled on the hearth, prompting him to rise from the table to remove it. “You know I can’t always tell what the visions mean. It could be saying that you’ll find love during wartime or… um… after stepping on a bug!”
“And what about the sea of white?” Reardon pressed, sitting back in his chair to watch his friend.
Barclay was slight, compact of stature but bursting with energy that made his brown cheeks glow. His long dark hair was tied up messily to keep out of his face while he worked—which he still would be if Master Wells, the High Alchemist who’d chosen Barclay as his apprentice, hadn’t stepped out for the afternoon after Reardon came for a visit.
It wasn’t because Barclay was a commoner that he was the one making the tea. Reardon never wanted special treatment for being the prince. They alternated. Today was simply Barclay’s day.
“Sea of white could be… a shroud. I mean cloak !” Barclay corrected.
Reardon groaned. He would be old and creaking before he found true love. He’d lusted before, many times, what little good that did him, but he’d never found anyone who captivated him the way tales of love described it. Not how his father had loved Reardon’s mother, Queen Reagan, before she died. Not anyone Reardon could have , anyway.
There had been whispers that magic might have saved Reagan where alchemy had failed, while others insisted that hidden magic within the castle was what made her ill. Neither theory changed that she was gone.
“Don’t fret so much,” Barclay said, pouring the steaming water into their mugs for ginger tea. “It’ll be all right.”
“How? I’m twenty. Father will have me married by twenty-two to some noblewoman or princess I’ve never met, and I’ll only ever know true love in secret.”
“And what do you think will change if you find love before your twenty-second year? That you’ll run away with whatever man steals your heart?”
“Maybe…. ”
Barclay reclaimed his seat, setting the mugs between them, and reached for Reardon’s hand. There was only friendship there. Barclay fancied women, and Reardon didn’t see his friend that way, but the love they shared was strong because they knew each other’s deepest secrets, secrets that would strip Reardon of his crown and risk Barclay being imprisoned or chosen for that year’s sacrifice.
Don’t steal, don’t cheat, don’t injure or kill. Most laws were just and sensible. But to love someone of one’s own gender was corruption—and so was magic.
Barclay hadn’t chosen to see visions. It was something that started happening when he hit adulthood, and if anyone else in his family experienced them, no one talked about it. He had no control over what he saw, just as Reardon had no control over what he desired.
“You’ll find love someday.” Barclay smiled warmly. His magic required touch, so Reardon felt comforted by the gentle squeeze Barclay offered, since Barclay would be able to see if that wasn’t true. “Whatever else my vision means, I’m sure of that.”
He squeezed once more and then pulled away to add a dab of honey to his tea.
Reardon added two dabs—more like three—and took a long, calming sip. It may have only been the ginger’s natural properties that comforted him, but he imagined there was some soothing potion added. Whether that was true or not, it made him think, however fleetingly, that maybe Barclay was right.
He would find love, even if all he got to know of romance were stolen moments in the night with a man he had yet to meet.
Barclay’s vision couldn’t mean this , but it was all Reardon could think about as his hand slackened on his sword.
“Is that cowardice? Or fear?” the Ice King boomed, moving fast and powerful like a hulking behemoth that shook the chamber with each stomp forward.
Reardon stumbled, still trapped by the Ice King’s eyes—his blue human eyes—and slipped on the icy floor to land hard on his back and the edge of his sheath. He hissed but had precious little time to react before the Ice King was upon him, falling to all fours to claw closer, mere inches from touching Reardon as he’d threatened .
“Perhaps both,” the Ice King growled, hovering over Reardon like an avalanche about to crash down upon the side of a mountain. “Not much of a hero if you can’t even slay the beast… little prince. ”
“H-how…?” Reardon quivered, teeth chattering from the proximity of the Ice King’s frigid form.
“As if your finery wasn’t enough? Only the House of Thom that rules the Emerald Kingdom has eyes as green as yours.”
He knew . He knew exactly who Reardon was. “My mother….”
“So a queen sits on the throne now?”
“She died. My father is King Regent until I marry.”
“Is that what this is about?”
Reardon gaped.
“You’re looking for a boon or trophy to gift your betrothed?”
And then he exhaled, feeling very foolish, yet grateful that the cold kept his cheeks from flushing. “I have no betrothed. I came here for my friend.”
“You can’t be serious! It’s Barclay!”
“You know what happens if we do not give the Ice King his tithe.”
“No, I don’t. And neither do you! What does everyone even fear? An army on our doorstep? A plague?”
“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, King Regent , 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, with brown 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 could be 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.
“Alchemy is science,” Henry affirmed .
Reardon had never understood why such seemingly simple differences should matter. “Not even you, Master Wells, will vouch for Barclay, after all these years training him to succeed you?”
Wells looked away, but his expression wasn’t resentment, or even only fear, but guilt.
“Corroboration including by you, Father said. You turned him in, didn’t you? His own family shuns him, yet I thought you, of all people….” Reardon trailed off, too angry to finish the thought. “Of course you turned him in, because you’re a coward like everyone else, afraid you’ll be counted a witch with him if you don’t throw him to the wolves.”
“Reardon—” Henry tried, but Reardon whirled on him too.
“You’ll never listen. Tradition, old ways, old laws. You’ll uphold them even over me.” Reardon had never told his father the truth of his heart’s desires. How could he?
“When you are king, the decisions will be yours.”
“By then it will be too late.” Barclay would be gone, and besides, Reardon knew his father was right; that was why he’d never looked forward to his coronation.
He couldn’t marry to become king, and then turn around and admit the marriage a sham, changing everything the kingdom believed in. It would cause a revolt. The people already believed that those who yearned for their same gender were corrupt, poisoned by magic somehow too, against science and nature and all that made sense to them. Reardon was helpless and about to lose the one person who understood him.
“When I am king, maybe there will be so little left of me, I won’t care if they revolt…,” he muttered and turned on his heel to leave before his father could call him back.
Reardon was denied an audience with Barclay until the day came for him to be taken to the Ice King’s gate. Reardon had never seen someone bid a heartfelt farewell to those taken away. He tried not to attend the departure of the offerings either, tried not to watch, to will it all away, but with Barclay, he couldn’t be so blind and apathetic, not like Master Wells and Barclay’s own family.
Reardon went right up to the prison cart that was attended to by Lombard and two of his soldiers. He reached for Barclay’s hand through the bars before the cart could be covered and start down the main road, ignoring the confused murmurs from the watching townsfolk.
“I tried, Barclay. I swear I tried. ”
“I know. It’s okay. They were bound to find out eventually.”
“Don’t be scared. Whatever the stories say, we don’t know what happens.”
Barclay put on a brave smile. “At least I’ll make an attractive ice sculpture. I will, right? And don’t only say it because you’re my friend.”
Reardon laughed despite his tears. “Barclay….”
“I love you, Reardon. Don’t do anything stupid, okay? Whatever befalls me, I don’t want it to befall you too. Be a good king and wait for your love. You’ll find him.”
The clop of Lombard’s horse coming closer was all the warning Reardon received before the cart lurched forward, tearing their hands apart. Reardon stood in the dirt and watched after his friend until he was nothing but a distant haze on the horizon.
He tried for weeks, months to follow Barclay’s wishes, wondering if his friend was even still alive. He did not want to believe the stories, but those sent to the Ice King never returned.
Reardon had so few friends who were real, though it wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own. Both nobles and commoners alike were welcoming wherever Reardon went, appreciative that he was never boastful about his station. Reardon enjoyed their company too, but he felt like a fraud, like a half-formed shadow of himself, except around Barclay, because no one else knew his secret.
It was lonely, and lonelier still with fresh whispers about Reardon’s overly kind heart.
“He must have been bewitched,” he’d hear someone say, sympathetic, just out of earshot, “to mourn so for one of the corrupt.”
“Ever our sweet prince,” another would mutter, “too soft, like his mother.”
On Barclay’s birthday, Reardon got so drunk at the tavern, he couldn’t walk straight along the cobbled streets when he tried to go out back for a piss in the troughs. Several of the patrons inside, including the barkeep, had offered to assist him out the door, but he had been too stubborn to accept. He made his aim, thankfully. It was a modest sewer system, but still kept the filth from running into the streets.
Just as Reardon was about to finish doing up his trousers, rough hands seized his shoulders and the world spun.
“If it isn’t His Highness,” someone said—a tall someone.
And broad. And reeking of ale .
Unless that was Reardon’s own stench.
“S’Reardon,” he corrected, slurring slightly. “And I don’ wanna be prince no more.”
“Aw, such a sorry sap,” another voice said.
There were two—or was it four?—figures around Reardon. He couldn’t be sure if he was simply seeing double. It was dark as pitch, and his eyes refused to focus.
“Lemme go,” he said, realizing the larger man still had hold of him. “I’m goin’ home.”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be prince no more,” the second man said. He was tall too but stringy, with long, scraggly hair. “Everyone knows what you want, pretty thing, they just love you too much to admit it. When you get pissed, you think your eyes don’t wander? Is that why you really miss that last offering, hmm? He bewitch your trousers too?”
Reardon heaved backward, soberer in an instant at what was being implied, but the big man’s grip was like a vise. “I’m not bewitched. He was my friend .”
“Good friend, I bet,” the larger man chortled. “You wanna be our friend, pretty prince?” His breath smelled rancid up close, and it mixed unpleasantly with the odor of the piss in the nearby trough, even as they backed him away from it into a tinier alley that had no exit.
“You’re talking treason a-and… depravity!” Reardon fought, but he couldn’t fight the spinning night.
What did it matter if he was depraved too? He didn’t want these men.
“Who you gonna tell, boy?” the stringy one said, a bony hand grasping Reardon’s chin while the larger man still had his arm. Meatier fingers started pawing at his trousers. “Gonna cry to the king? You won’t even remember what we look like.”
Reardon wouldn’t. He couldn’t tell what they looked like now, in the dark, with their bodies pressing tight and those meaty fingers reaching . “Stop—”
The air was cut with a thunderous swish, and the larger man gurgled and fell, his thick fingers leaving with him.
Another swish , and the stringy man followed, two thuds on the street.
Reardon squinted through the dark, and when his eyes finally revealed to him the shadow moving closer, it wasn’t some bandit, but Lombard .
Ruthlessly, he drove his sword into both bodies, leaving any further gurgling silenced. Then he wiped his blade on the back of the downed men and held his hand out to Reardon.
Reardon took it, pulled powerfully into the embrace of the general, who kept him close to prevent him from wobbling.
“You remember now why I have repeatedly asked you to not go out of the castle alone at night?”
“They were awful ,” Reardon said in reply. “Most people aren’t awful.”
“You haven’t met most people, my prince. Do you think I should have shown mercy?”
“I….”
“Mercy merely means you might end up the dead man instead. Come.” He pulled Reardon along, sheathing his sword and choosing side streets and alleys with as few evening strollers as possible.
Reardon was grateful but also surprised. He’d been terrible to Lombard ever since Barclay was taken away.
Sudden fear wrapped around his heart as he realized that Lombard must have been watching him all along. “D-did you… hear…?”
“Their blasphemy? It was obvious in their actions, which was why I cut them down. You need not worry.”
That wasn’t what Reardon had meant, but if Lombard had heard what they accused him of, he must not deem it worthy of comment.
Everyone knew , they’d said.
Did they really? Did others suspect that Reardon was corrupt?
But no. Reardon wasn’t the corrupt one. He never would have done what those men tried to do, and Barclay had only ever used his visions to help people and keep himself safe. The real corruption was rarely what people thought.
“Do you really think it was magic that killed my mother?” Reardon asked in the dead of the quiet streets, thinking more clearly by the step, with the castle courtyard coming into view.
“I don’t know, my prince,” Lombard answered. “No one does. But it could have been.”
“If it was… if it was ,” Reardon said, like punching the past with his words, “it wouldn’t change my mind. Barclay didn’t deserve to be taken. ”
“Your father can only answer the people’s call. There were other criminals who might have been chosen, but your friend was fresher in their minds and something far more frightening, so they cried for him instead.”
Reardon knew, of course, and there weren’t many criminals in the Emerald Kingdom—not who dared get caught, because if they weren’t cut down where they stood, as those deviants in the alley had been, they’d be imprisoned until the next offering. Only if they were passed by as sacrifice could they be considered for release.
But not magic-touched. Not what they’d call “deviants” like Reardon. They stayed in prison indefinitely or were exiled.
“I’ll stop it,” Reardon swore. “I’ll never let them do it again.”
“You can try, my prince. And when you are king, maybe you will succeed.”
Reardon didn’t remember much more about the walk to his room. He awoke in the clothes he’d worn the night before but tucked neatly under his covers. He told no one of what had happened, least of all his father, trusting that Lombard wouldn’t either, not when the matter had been resolved. But as he washed and changed and looked himself in the mirror that morning, he became more determined than ever.
The sacrifices had to stop.
“Your friend?” the Ice King asked, curious again.
“Barclay, House of Numara. He was last year’s offering.”
“A rescue mission?”
“And to see for myself if you are like the stories.”
Even with a cracked face in shades of white, blue, and gray, the Ice King’s expression betrayed his amusement. “And what are your findings so far, little prince?”
Reardon trembled beneath him, but only from the cold.
He wasn’t scared. A single touch might turn him to ice like the thief who’d been shattered—and the form of the Ice King, naked but sexless, pure ice from head to toe, was close enough that a touch would be easy—but he felt none of the same helplessness that those men in the alley had instilled in him.
“The truth may be worse,” Reardon said. “They call you Ice King, but I didn’t think it meant this. If your whole castle is like this chamber, then I fear my friend no longer lives. But then I also have to wonder: Why speak with me at all? Why not kill me outright?”
The Ice King studied him with his penetrating gaze. “Perhaps you’d make a fine ransom, an added bonus to the sacrifices your kingdom sends.”
“No, I don’t think you’re the monster you appear to be. Your eyes give you away, Your Majesty, whatever else you might be.”
The pregnant pause that filled the chamber made Reardon fear he’d guessed wrong, especially when the Ice King leaned closer, mist rolling off him, cold enough to frost the ends of Reardon’s hair.
“Jack!” a melodic voice cut the quiet, making the Ice King grimace. “The sacrifice didn’t come through the gate! The cart left! What—what on earth are you doing?! Who is that?”
As the Ice King lifted off him, all Reardon could focus on was how she’d called him Jack , which further proved his point.
The Ice King couldn’t always have been like this.
Frost still clung to Reardon, but he was able to take a deep breath and shake some of it from his hair as he sat up and looked past the Ice King, past the window he’d climbed through using a grappling hook and staunch patience, to the formal entrance of the chamber, where the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon stood.
She was also monstrous in her own way. Her gown and jewelry were all made of gold, with a delicate crown atop her head, but her hair and eyes and skin were all gold too. The fabric moved like silk as she came closer, and her golden hair, curled in waves down her back near to her waist, shifted around her shoulders like silk, but she was clearly not painted, but made of gold down to every fiber, just like the king was made of ice.
“The Emerald Prince thought to kill me,” the Ice King said.
“Only if you’d proven to be a villain!” Reardon protested, confident enough now to stand, though he was careful with his footing on the slick surface of the floor.
“Are you certain I’m not?” The king’s fangs glinted in the sun coming in through the windows.
“Prince? Why would they send their prince?” The woman approached more swiftly, practically floating over the floor and bypassing the king without concern. She was even more beautiful up close but still unsettling to look at. “Did you do something vile? ”
“ No . I replaced the real sacrifice and sent him toward the Shadow Lands to make his escape. No one knows I’m here. The soldiers didn’t see me make the switch. Are you the Ice King’s queen?”
She laughed, and the Ice King snorted.
“His sister, dear. Princess Josephine. Call me Josie.”
“Reardon of House Thom, prince and future king of Emerald.” He reached instinctively to take her hand, but she drew back.
“Best not do that. My skin is as deadly as my brother’s. All I touch turns to gold.”
Reardon looked on her in further awe, but still, he wasn’t afraid. “You’re magical, clearly, but you couldn’t have been born like this.”
Again, the Ice King snorted, standing to his full height, which made him twice the size of his sister, like some massive ogre. “Our mother would have been quite the sight if we had been.”
“Don’t be rude, Jack. This castle is cursed, sweet prince,” Josie said. “Don’t you know that?”
“They know nothing,” the king spat, falling back to all fours with a slam and shudder of the room. “Their stories became half-truths and then lies since the curse took us.”
“I believe you,” Reardon professed. “I suspected as much for years, that whatever you truly are must have been lost to time.”
“Careful,” the Ice King warned, for Reardon had made to appeal as close to them as possible with a frantic dash forward, yet he understood the need for distance. “I’m still debating whether to add you to my garden of statues.”
“You try to frighten me, Majesty, but it’s clear you won’t risk harming me.”
“No? I will not hesitate to kill an enemy.”
“And I am not one.” Reardon took another step forward, and while there was plenty of space to protect Reardon, they both leaned away, confirming his beliefs. “I only wish to see my friend and know that he is safe.
“Or… has he become cursed too?” Suddenly Reardon wondered if he was also susceptible and already becoming something deadly at his touch.
“The sacrifices do not join in our sorrows,” Josie assuaged him. “Only those of us who were here in the beginning are cursed. But there is one boon the offerings receive. ”
“Josie—”
“No one ages within these walls.”
“You mean, the sacrifices from almost two hundred years are all still here and as young as the day they arrived?”
“See what you’ve done.” The Ice King stomped around Reardon. “He’ll want to stay now.”
“And why shouldn’t he? He’s this year’s offering, isn’t he?”
“He isn’t—”
“Come, see for yourself.” She motioned Reardon toward the doors to venture ahead of her. “They’re all eager to meet the new blood.”
“ Josie .”
“Hush, Jack. I’ll bring him back to you once he sees his friend is safe.”
Trusting that the Ice King would not freeze him from behind, Reardon moved as indicated, ginger in his steps, though the closer he got to the doors, the less ice there was to disrupt his footing.
Josie had left the doors open, giant things, three times the height of a man, with the ceiling even higher in this master chamber of the castle. Reardon had chosen wisely, assuming the Ice King would reside where the most ice gathered along the walls outside. Now he found himself assaulted by a surprising but comforting warmth as soon as he crossed the threshold to leave.