Reardon
Reardon’s bed was usually comfortable, but he didn’t remember it being this comfortable.
Then again, beds were always comfiest when one least wanted to leave them, and Reardon did not want to leave this one at all. He struggled to recall why he was so loath to move, and the dull throb in his head reminded him.
Ale. Far too much ale. And eventually wine when they’d tried to take the ale away from him. Reardon would have been fine if he’d just listened when his friends tried to cut him off, but he’d been in such a good mood.
The only thing missing had been the king.
The king , who Reardon had announced he was going to see, and no amount of persuading from the others had swayed him. They’d helped him up the long staircase to the king’s chamber, tied his head with a long strip of cloth, and—
Oh no….
Reardon snapped his eyes open to see—darkness.
Reaching up blindly, he felt the silken cloth still covering his eyes, even though it had to be morning, and this was definitely not his bed. Snuggled beneath the soft sheets, Reardon tentatively felt down his body but breathed relief at discovering he was still fully clothed.
“Majesty?” he called to an eerie silence.
It must be past dawn, that’s why the king wasn’t here, but Reardon kept his eyes closed for several long pauses after removing the blindfold before he dared peek around.
The bedcurtains had not been drawn, but he had been neatly tucked in, left in the center to slumber through the night alone. There were no windows in these rooms, so he could not tell if the sun was up, but the lacking presence of the king made him certain. He took what time he’d been granted to take in the parts of the king’s chambers he hadn’t been able to see the other night .
The bedroom was as lavish as the study, leading into the bathroom through a large, open archway. Everything was silver, gray, and blue, with only faint accents in gold and everything else colored so coolly. He remembered the feel of this bed now, but seeing it for the first time brought back flashes of sensation that hadn’t included visuals before—the king’s hands, his fingers inside Reardon, his cock in Reardon’s mouth….
Reardon closed his eyes to stop the onslaught, but that only brought the memories up stronger, and his usual morning hardness pulsed between his legs for attention. That was not an option. He wouldn’t dare pleasure himself in this bed without permission.
Although an audience would be interesting now that he knew the king had watched before, even if he couldn’t meet the king’s eyes or have him in daylight.
The king must be furious with him, though Reardon immediately doubted that thought, given how gently he’d been treated.
Then he saw the note.
Scrambling for the end of the bed, Reardon snatched up the piece of parchment, precariously balanced at the edge of the mattress. The elegant penmanship matched what Reardon had seen in the verses he’d stolen.
Bathe and dress in what you wish. Your soiled clothes can be dropped down the chute. There are potions, food, and water on the table beside the bath. We will talk once you are finished.
It wasn’t signed, not that it needed to be, but Reardon’s stomach churned at that final sentence from more than just a belly full of spirits—which reminded him how desperately he needed to pee.
Lurching up from the bed, Reardon had to wonder if he was dreaming and had merely passed out in the dining hall last night. Here he was relieving himself in the king’s chambers, disrobing, and once again soaking in a hot bath already prepared for him with those same sweet-smelling oils. The dream didn’t fade, however. No matter what the king said after this, he was hardly treating Reardon like a stable boy.
The wardrobes were numerous, and Reardon couldn’t resist opening every single one. He’d already placed his old clothes down the… “chute,” which had a basket beneath it, but was otherwise a small door set into the wall that opened to a long dark drop like into a deep well. The washing room must be directly below. Everyone else left their clothes in baskets that were picked up by whoever was on duty that day.
Looking through the multitude of wardrobes for what to borrow, Reardon wondered what the king had been wearing the night they spent together, though he knew it had been a mere shirt and trousers, not any of the gorgeous doublets with glittering accessories he found.
There were many in shades of blue which, like the décor of the rooms, didn’t surprise Reardon—this had been the Sapphire Kingdom, after all—but none were embroidered with white gold or silver, which made him smile. He’d started making that secret garment in his own size since he didn’t know the measurements of the king, but seeing examples now, he knew he wouldn’t be far off.
It was easy to tell among the doublets, jackets, and cloaks what had been tailored for the king before versus after the curse; the signature look of the kingdom today was simple patterns in brilliant color. Any of the more luxurious articles would have been out of place, especially for Reardon to wear now, but there was a doublet in deep purple with maroon accents and matching embroidery that drew his eye.
He chose it without hesitation, a white shirt, and dark brown trousers.
Not wanting to languish too long, despite the king’s hospitality, Reardon fussed with the clothes and his damp hair, which was difficult without a mirror, before downing the potions left for him—first, a mild healing potion for his headache, and then his customary draught against the cold. He finished with much water, and finally, ate every crumb of food. When it was over, all that remained was to face the king.
The sound of yelling was not encouraging when Reardon neared the door to the frozen chamber beyond, but better than it being directed at him, he supposed. The voices became clearer the moment he pulled the door open, doing so slowly to not alert the figures outside.
“I didn’t pour the ale down his throat!” Branwen argued.
“You didn’t do much to stop him from pouring it down his own!” the king roared back.
“It was his first night with the secret out— second , technically. We always get the new offering drunk after that. ”
“But most aren’t left on my doorstep, blindfolded . What if my door had been locked? What if I hadn’t let him in? He might have stumbled back to the staircase and broken his neck toppling down them!”
Reardon flushed at the obvious concern in the king’s tone. Branwen must have noticed too, because he snorted from where he stood only a few feet from the large, hulking Ice King.
“Didn’t seem there was much chance of that. And look—” Branwen turned to face Reardon, making him jump and clutch the door handle at being caught. “—seems we were right.”
The king’s gaze was just as paralyzing, his maw closing and his towering body tensing with tightly clenched fists.
Branwen’s snort caused a burst of flames this time, as he pivoted to leave. “Not bad, princeling. Next time, maybe you’ll even be able to keep up.” He headed off, ignoring the king’s shout after him.
It was difficult for Reardon to keep the smile from his face as he approached the king. “I am truly sorry for my behavior, Majesty,” he said, offering a low bow. “Please don’t blame the others. I didn’t make it easy for them to tell me no.”
The king dropped to all fours, but not to pound the ground or shake the throne room as he had many times before. He merely wilted, like he wished he could make himself smaller in Reardon’s presence. “That does seem to be your specialty.” Now that they were alone, he took in Reardon’s form with a dissecting stare, eyeing the clothing he’d chosen.
“I-is this all right?” Reardon stuttered.
“It’s fine. I’ve just… never seen anyone in those clothes.”
“Except yourself.” Reardon startled after he said it, remembering that the king didn’t have mirrors in his rooms, and he almost never left them at night. He didn’t look at himself any more than he let others look at him. “I suppose you haven’t seen yourself in them either, have you? Well….” Reardon tried to keep the mood light, spinning slowly. “What do you think?”
Invited now to continue looking, the king’s gaze pierced sharper, blue eyes sparkling in the depths of all that white. They were human eyes, the one part of him that remained so, and Reardon tried to imagine, thinking of Josie too, what his real face must look like.
He couldn’t quite picture it, but he didn’t mind that this was the only face he knew .
A low clearing of the king’s throat broke the quiet. “A tad large, but they won’t require much tailoring.”
“Oh, you don’t need to let me keep—”
“You chose those pieces out of everything I have. Call them a gift.”
“A gift? After the way I acted?”
“I should banish you,” the king said more seriously. “I should end all this right now.”
Worry buzzed up Reardon’s spine, and if it hadn’t been for his potion, he would have shivered. “Then why don’t you?”
“Because if I did, you couldn’t finish your endeavor to bring your mother’s killer to justice.”
The breath stole from Reardon’s lungs. He didn’t remember everything about last night, but he did remember telling the king that. “And my endeavor to break your curse,” he added.
For once, the king didn’t refute him.
He stood upright and gestured at the base of his throne, where Reardon noticed their book, Pillars of Virtue , resting in wait. “I had Zephyr fetch it from your room. Shall we read more on the ramparts, little prince?”
It was the best outcome Reardon could have hoped for—and he also had the pleasure of getting further in that story. Sir Waite and Sir Kent were fascinating heroes, each so different and yet equally capable, proving there was no one way to accomplish anything and compromise often solved a situation best.
Reardon liked Sir Waite more than Sir Kent, if he was being honest, and he didn’t fool himself over why. Waite portrayed a grouchy disposition to cover a deeply caring heart.
For the first time, Reardon stayed beside the king long past the lunch hour, since he’d eaten breakfast late, wanting to get as much time together as he could. But, like any day, once his first real shiver set in, the king dismissed him.
After grabbing a few leftovers from the kitchen to snack on until dinner, Reardon headed to his room to drop off the book, unsure how last night had ended in a win but not willing to question it. He received several stares from passersby as he trekked the halls—friendly ones but stares nonetheless—and wondered if it was because of how much he drank last night or the outfit that obviously wasn’t his .
He’d been without his weapons belt when he woke up, vaguely remembering it being removed, so he half expected to find his dagger missing again, yet the belt and weapons remained, waiting for him neatly on his bed.
Reardon traded the book for his belt but decided not to change out of the king’s garments. He might keep them after all.
His intended destination was the alchemist tower, but as he crossed the castle along the main landing above the large entryway doors, Oliver’s wife, Amelia, came bursting inside, frantically looking for someone, anyone, it seemed, but no one was in the immediate vicinity.
Save Reardon.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, hurrying down the steps.
“Thank goodness,” she said, rushing forward to meet him and grasping his arms once they collided. “Shayla caught a pair of trespassers sneaking over the wall left of the gate. She’s trying to hold them back, but we must warn the court.”
“Zephyr!” Reardon called, causing Amelia to sag, as if in reprimand at herself for not thinking of that first.
A few beats passed, but then Zephyr appeared like always. “You know it’s rude to assume—”
“Shayla’s fending off trespassers outside. Tell the others,” Reardon interrupted, not waiting for a response before he nodded resolutely to Amelia and took off running out the main doors, grateful once more that he had his belt.
The cold air made Reardon shiver, since his protection draught had long since waned, but he hurried onward regardless, left as directed toward the wall on the Shadow Lands side of the castle.
It was just at the far edge of the ice garden that he spotted them: Shayla with her twin daggers drawn, circling a pair of men dressed simply but each armed with a sword—and clearly wearing Emerald’s colors.
“Stop!”
Shayla didn’t look over her shoulder, eyes glued to the men, but the soldiers both glanced at Reardon, immediately showing recognition.
“My prince!” one of them called. “General Lombard sent us to find you, fearing the worst when you disappeared. Get behind me,” he added with a sneer at Shayla. “We’ll take this knave. ”
“You most certainly will not!” Reardon claimed his proper place at Shayla’s side, staring the men down, stern and with authority he rarely used with any of his people. “Stand down. Now . I am not a prisoner, and you will not harm anyone in this castle.”
“But…,” the second soldier began, only to trail off just as a sound like the crack of thunder preceded the smell and taste of copper.
“Fiends!”
This time, Shayla did take her eyes from the soldiers. They all looked skyward, because that cry had come from above, and the sight would have been something out of a nightmare fairy tale if Reardon didn’t already know what the court wizard looked like.
Liam had leapt out of the alchemist tower window, flying fast enough that it looked more like plummeting, lighting shooting out all around his already crackling form, until he landed in the courtyard with an explosion of snow and frozen dirt.
The soldiers gaped, both turning their swords toward the creature.
“Wait!” Reardon tried, holding out his hands. “No one here has to be enemies—”
“They’ve bewitched him,” the first soldier said in horror, eyes wide at Liam, and then at Reardon. “The stories are true.” He lurched forward, snatching Reardon’s wrist and yanking him around behind him. “We’ll save you!”
“No, I—”
“Get away from her!” Liam roared, clearly not listening either.
“Wait,” Shayla said, starting to lower her daggers, but her good faith only caused the first soldier to lurch at her next, and not to grab her arm.
He swung with his sword, with Shayla barely managing to leap backward out of its path, though the swish nearly sliced the front of her shirt.
Liam swept forward—
“No!” Reardon raced to intercept.
—and fell upon the soldier with a wide swoop of his arms, as if to pull the man into an embrace.
A pop, not even a scream, was the only noise, as the man became but crackles left to dissipate within Liam’s grasp.
Reardon had tried to not imagine what it might look like if one of the other court members touched someone.
He had truly tried .
“Liam!” Shayla cried, snapping Reardon back to the perils at hand, because Liam was turning toward the other soldier now, who’d frozen stock still.
“Stop!” Reardon dashed in front of him and spread his arms once more. “They know not what they do! Please! Please… don’t kill him too.”
The fury on Liam’s elemental features was plain, but faced with Reardon rather than an enemy, he faltered, caught between his love and what he’d been trying to protect her from. The fury faded, the crackles lessening, but Reardon saw no sympathy on the wizard’s face.
“I will kill whoever I must,” he said, as assuredly as Jack would say, Reardon was certain.
It was the first time Reardon had looked on one of the court members, save his first impression of the king, when he thought the figure before him a monster, heartless and deadly.
“He’s only one man,” Reardon said. One because the other was dead—copper on the wind. “I will handle him. Drop your sword,” he said over his shoulder, and barely a pause followed before there was a thud on the ground.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Shayla said, just as unsympathetic, Reardon thought, with her face a calm mask. “But we’ll be watching.”
She and Liam turned almost as one to head back into the castle through the front doors.
Reardon felt like he might be sick, but he had to appear strong for the sake of the survivor.
Steeling his expression, he turned to the man—though man was relative since the soldier looked younger than Reardon upon closer inspection. The other had been the superior, clearly, leaving behind a trembling figure with eyes that seemed perpetually widened.
“My prince… we thought at worst we’d find you dead at the feet of the Ice King, and instead he’s…. What was that?”
“Not the king,” Reardon said, “but the stories are not the truth of things here. You must go home. I am safe.”
“Safe? Are they not monsters?”
“They’re….” They’re not , Reardon wanted to say, and yet… how could anyone kill so thoughtlessly?
How could Shayla, too, look on as if it didn’t matter, even if she had called for Liam to stop ?
There had been accidents, Reardon had been told. How many? How many had died here undeserving?
“It doesn’t matter,” Reardon said. “But you must go. You have supplies?” He didn’t appear to have anything on him other than the sword he’d dropped.
“We… I have a camp not far, with horses.”
“Then return to it, take your things, and go. Tell Lombard and my father that I am safe, and that I will return home when I deem it time.”
“But why—”
“ Go ,” Reardon ordered.
The soldier hesitated, pausing to lean forward and whisper, “You could come with me.”
Reardon felt a terrible twist of guilt that part of him felt like he should. Part of him wondered if those cursed here deserved to be freed, or if he should simply abandon the idea after what he had seen.
But he would not only be giving up on them if he ran, and on Jack, but on his best chance to discover his mother’s killer.
“I can’t. I’m doing something important here. Just tell them… tell them I know what I’m doing, and do not frighten them by saying how the other soldier died. Say nothing of the creature you saw. Promise me.”
“I….” The soldier’s eyes went wider still. Then his voice fell once more to a whisper. “What shall I tell his family?”
Reardon winced, unable to stop the furrowing of his brow. “Tell them it was an accident, and that I send my deepest sympathies. Now go.”
The soldier bowed, reclaimed his sword from the snow, immediately sheathing it, and Reardon watched him head out the gate, ensuring that it closed behind him.
He wasn’t surprised to find the entryway of the castle bursting with people when he returned—along with every member of the court, save Liam.
Jack stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to his chamber, looking grave. “You let him go?”
“They didn’t mean any harm,” Reardon said. “They came to rescue me.”
“He’ll tell them what he saw,” Branwen grumbled.
“He won’t. I made him swear that he wouldn’t.”
“And you believe he’ll honor that?” Jack asked .
Reardon honestly considered the question. The soldier, though young, had seemed a loyal sort, however frightened for his life. “Yes.”
For the first time in ages, Reardon feared what Jack might do. Would he disagree, storm out of the castle after the surviving soldier, and freeze him into an undeserving statue before he reached his horse?
Another twist of guilt assaulted Reardon as Jack said, “All right. Then we will consider the matter closed and hope no more soldiers darken our grounds.” With a simple bow of his head, Jack turned to lumber up the stairs.
Reardon felt so awful for doubting Jack that he could barely muster a smile as various members of the castle came to him afterward, including Josie, praising him for deescalating the event and keeping the castle safe.
As soon as Reardon had the chance, he pulled Barclay aside. “Where did Liam and Shayla go?”
“Back to the tower. I don’t think Liam’s taking this well. They never do.” The sorrow on Barclay’s face brought yet another twist of guilt.
Only minutes had passed since Reardon was initially headed for the tower. Now he headed there with Barclay, feeling an awful weight in his stomach.
When they arrived, Shayla was organizing the components rack and lining up items they must be meaning to experiment with later. Caitlin was mixing something that, as she finished stirring, turned green. Liam stood separate from them, purposely shooting his lightning into mixes already lined up on another table or drawing glowing runes on the glass.
Barclay took up a place beside Caitlin to begin mixing his own concoction. No one said anything about what had happened.
No one mentioned the man who had died.
“How goes things here?” Reardon asked.
“You mean how goes it working on your project even when you skirt your duties and show up late?” Liam sneered with a crackle of sparks leaping from his forearms.
“I am truly sorry, sir. I didn’t intend for that. Please know how grateful I am for your help.”
The wizard grumbled like a distant roll of thunder.
“I seem to recall at least one of Reardon’s refills last night coming from you ,” Shayla said .
Another grumble responded, followed by a murmured, “He makes an entertaining drunk.”
The room tittered, even with some laughter from Caitlin, and Reardon decided that this was how they dealt with tragedy. What else could they do when no one could bring back the dead?
They weren’t monsters; they’d simply had to train themselves to accept what they couldn’t change.
Reardon joined the workload. It was his job to catalog their attempts. He was also tasked with making the needed daily potions in their stead, such as elemental protection and healing draughts. Necessities couldn’t cease just because the tower was helping him.
“What are the runes for, if I may ask?” Reardon asked as he set to work.
“Magical transmutation,” Liam answered without looking up, finishing with the final vial. He returned to the start of the row of vials and tapped the first rune, which was a simple straight line. The vial frosted over, and then eventually calmed to a clear blue. “Alchemical transmutation is done differently, and therefore might have different results, so we must test both. It also tells us something about your perpetrator. Come here.”
Reardon paused in his organizing of supplies to answer the request.
“The rune I activated is for ice but also means inertia or stillness. Next is its counterpart: the sun or the will and intent to change.”
The second vial was marked with a more jagged line, almost like a simplistic lightning bolt, but it made sense to Reardon that it and the rigid line of ice were opposites.
“All one needs to do to achieve transmutation using magic is to first draw the rune and then activate it with an intending tap. Anyone with the most marginal of magic can do the same, even without training, as long as they will it. So… tap the rune and think of the heat from the sun as you do so.”
A thrill shot through Reardon at the thought of being allowed to enact any sort of magic. He held his breath and reached out to tap the jagged line as told.
Nothing happened.
“As expected. Like we discovered on your first day—you have no magic at all,” Liam said coolly. “Using runes is easier, faster, and requires fewer components to accomplish similar tasks. Meaning it would have also been easier to cover up. Therefore, if our findings lead us to believe that the poison we seek was created by alchemy with no magic whatsoever….”
“Then the one we seek might have no magic in them either,” Reardon concluded.
“You see? You’re less useless every day.” Liam shooed him from the table. “Now get to work.”
The afternoon wore on with everyone working diligently, and they eventually needed refills on supplies.
“We’re going to run out of everything at this rate,” Liam said. “Better dig into the winter stores. You’re lucky we have plenty to spare, Emerald Prince, or I’d never allow this detour.” He turned into the deeper bowels of the tower and disappeared.
It was then Reardon realized that, besides the wizard’s coupling with Shayla and his role in the castle, he knew the least about Liam compared to any of the other court members.
“Liam was an elf and already a wizard with a leaning toward weather magic when the king appointed him, that much I know,” Reardon said, slowly mixing a batch of healing potions, “but is that all? Everyone else has a story, yet I don’t know anything more about him.”
The room went so suddenly quiet, Reardon stopped his stirring to look around.
Barclay and Caitlin had turned away, so Reardon looked to Shayla, who faced him sluggishly, her usually glib demeanor more somber.
“You’ve wormed your way into a lot of cold hearts, but Liam….” She peered the direction he had gone before continuing in a low voice. “I wondered the same when I first arrived. What is the wizard’s problem? Frankly, I thought he was a prick and didn’t appreciate him ordering me around just because I had talents in foraging. So I decided to play a prank. After a month being here, so I already knew the castle’s secrets.
“My plan was to sneak into his private chambers and steal his clothes, let him go without for a few nights, see if he even raised a fuss, and then return them with little pink hearts stitched into every doublet.” Shayla smiled, only for the expression to quickly fade. “What I didn’t expect was to find a portrait of a little girl, a half elf with long dark hair.”
Reardon thought back to when he had burst into Liam’s room, and while he hadn’t been paying much attention to the décor, he did think he recalled a portrait.
“He found me standing there like an idiot, and while he was as angry as you can imagine, he did eventually tell me who she was. If you want to find out, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”
Liam returned with a flurry and fresh crackle of lightning, a metallic taste resurging on the back of Reardon’s tongue. He straightened and went back to his stirring. Luckily, he’d been nearly done anyway and hadn’t ruined the batch.
“What are you all quiet for?” Liam barked.
“Doesn’t the mood always drop when I say I’m leaving?” Shayla blew him a kiss.
“You are?” Only because Reardon had been here for many days did he recognize the shift in Liam’s tone as disappointment. “Dinner, then?”
“If I think you’ve earned it,” she said and winked before leaving—though Reardon wasn’t sure if it was for Liam or him.
“Looking good.” Liam eyed their progress as he set out the extra ingredients. It still amazed Reardon how lightning in the shape of a man could hold or touch anything without scorching it, but he knew it took intense concentration. “You two,” Liam said to Barclay and Caitlin, “we’ll need more containers before long. Grab a few boxes from the cellar. There’s hardly anything in the stores up here anymore.
“And you ,” he ordered Reardon, “finish that healing draught and get over here to help me. I assume you can assist with non-magical transmutation.”
Transmutation was one of Reardon’s favorite parts of alchemy. Fire and water were opposites, air and earth, wood and metal, but lightning was the most complicated, because its opposite was like a void, pulling everything into it if left uncontrolled.
Transmutation could also turn a poison into an antidote—and vice versa.
Reardon understood why magic had been outlawed back home and alchemy heavily regulated, because both could cause much damage if dealt with foolishly. Still, he knew that fear was not the answer, and he didn’t feel any as he followed Liam’s instructions to add just a simple few ingredients, and then applied a little heat with a candle to the bottom of each new vial to cause a reaction.
All the vials changed in some form, some even began to swirl like a pit of endless darkness with a multitude of stars, but none caused the reaction they needed to indicate an untraceable poison .
They were closer, but they didn’t yet have an answer.
“Have you ever tried transmuting yourselves?” Reardon asked as the idea struck him.
“After two hundred years? Of course. It doesn’t do anything. Protection draughts for others is as good as it gets. At least until you save us .” Liam’s tone was mocking, but like with Branwen, Reardon knew that there was more to the wily wizard.
“My apologies again,” he began carefully, keeping his back turned as he tidied, “for the other night, storming into your room the way I did. I hadn’t realized, but I do think you and Shayla suit one another.”
“So glad you approve,” Liam answered snidely.
“I wondered, though… who was the little girl in the painting on your wall? There aren’t any children in the castle.”
If not for Liam’s crackles of lightning, the room would have been dead silent, until Liam said, “Shayla’s been talking, hasn’t she?”
“I really did see—”
“Keep your meddling to the king.”
“May I at least ask who she was?” Reardon peered over his shoulder.
“You are insufferable, you know that?”
“Many have said so.”
“Who do you think she was?” Liam demanded like a floating, angry storm.
“Your daughter?”
“Who deserved better.”
“And her mother?”
“She deserved better too.” Liam looked away as Reardon turned fully to face him. “We married too young and fought constantly, even more after… Joslyn was born. My wife saw the old king’s death as a good excuse to leave the Sapphire Kingdom. I saw it as an excuse to leave her. I took the role of wizard when Jack asked and said Joslyn could visit whenever she wanted.”
“Then you still wanted to see your daughter—”
“I didn’t realize they’d gone until the curse struck and I found our home long abandoned. Don’t excuse being a bad husband with being a good father. I wasn’t good at either. ”
“I just thought—”
“You thought I was the hero. That I was the one abandoned. If that were true, I wouldn’t be this.” He let his sparks ripple across his body. “That wasn’t my first accident.”
Reardon startled at the subject being brought up so suddenly. The events outside had shaken him and filled him with undue doubts, but as he looked at the grief somehow discernable even on an electric face, he didn’t doubt the words that left him.
“You were protecting your love. Anyone else would have done the same.”
“Oh? Or are those pretty words only meant to hide that, now, you wonder why Shayla would waste her time with me?”
“No,” Reardon said without having to consider the answer. “You’ve grown. You’ve changed. You deserve the chance she’s given you, because she knows you are better than you think.” And than Reardon had thought for a fleeting moment too.
Nigel and Zephyr had been together since nearly the beginning of the curse, Shayla and Liam only the past forty-five years. That was still a lifetime for many, and yet doubt was a recurring theme among the court members and their partners.
Reardon didn’t want to be counted among their company in that way ever again.
“You don’t have to close yourself off to protect others,” Reardon continued, “especially not her.”
“Even if I’m beneath her?”
There was weight to that question, coming from a royal wizard about a condemned thief, despite that he had so recently ended a man’s life like snuffing out a candle.
“Isn’t she the one who gets to decide that?”
The silence that followed was broken by Barclay and Caitlin’s return. Reardon smiled, not saying more, and went to help his friends stack the boxes before he took his leave.
When he was finally giving his farewells, Barclay gasped at the brush of their hands.
“Another vision?”
“I’m not… sure. I think you better take some extra cold resistance draught, though, just in case.” Barclay handed Reardon a small case with three ready potions, and Reardon didn’t protest.
“I’ve been spending a little extra time in the cold, I guess. Thank you. ”
“We’ll keep on it,” Caitlin said. “Join us tomorrow?”
“Earlier this time.” Reardon looked to Liam, who stared at him silently. “I promise.”
He planned to head for the main halls but decided to take a shortcut through the hidden tunnels—and nearly slipped as soon as he stepped inside.
The entire passageway was coated in frost.
Reardon smiled to himself, fully aware of what that meant, but rather than spoil the game, he headed the opposite direction from where the frost settled.