Reardon
Reardon was a prisoner of the Ice King until he earned his freedom. He might die here, or his fate could be worse, but the people of this place and its curse might finally give him the answers that could change the hearts and minds of the Emerald Kingdom forever.
His father would know he was missing by now but not where he had gone—it could take weeks or even months before they realized the truth. That was all the time Reardon needed. He was on a desperate mission that could doom or save countless lives now and into the future. As prince and future king of Emerald, it was his duty to see this through—even if it was the last duty he ever performed.
Despite all that, his current preoccupation was staring at his reflection in the glass above the water basin in his room, fretting over his appearance for a welcome feast.
His hair was still well-coifed, his new clothes an attractive color combination, though he never thought he’d look so good in red, so used to wearing green. But how was he supposed to face all those people downstairs?
“I don’t need a feast. I’m hungry, but… this feels wrong. I’m not really one of them. I’m not the sacrifice.”
“But you are one of us,” Barclay insisted. “You don’t have to hide any part of you here. Magic is used freely. People love freely. You could stay forever here and be happy.”
“Is that what you saw when you touched me?”
“I….”
Reardon turned to look at his friend, sitting on the edge of his bed. Barclay had brought him several more articles of clothing, traded out for the others now that they knew his size, but he’d decided to stick with the dark red and marigold doublet for now.
“Please don’t make me say it,” Barclay said, staring down at his knees. “I saw you, I’ll admit that much, and you were smiling, but I… I don’t know. ”
“It can’t be all bad if I was smiling.” Reardon joined him on the bed, creaking the plush mattress as he sat. “You don’t have to say more. We’ll find out together, like we always do. I know that being here is the right thing, no matter what happens to me. I don’t suppose you could simply tell me about this place—the king, his people, the curse?”
“I don’t know everything, but I can’t say much. We’re not supposed to let certain things slip to the sacrifice the first few nights.”
“Why not?”
“In case you were a criminal. There have been some sent here, in the past, who deserved to be condemned.”
“We’re in trouble, then, since I’m such a heinous brigand.” Reardon chuckled.
Barclay chuckled too, but his posture was slouched and his shoulders tight with tension.
“Can you really not answer anything? Because I don’t understand how Branwen is master of arms but didn’t turn my sword belt to flames.”
Barclay had returned Reardon’s belt and the sword it had sheathed, which were both warm to the touch but not singed or marred.
His dagger was still missing, though….
“They can control their touch if it’s on something not living,” Barclay explained. “They still give off, well, heat for Bran, that tingly feeling around Liam, and so on, but they can choose to not alter objects. It’s things that are alive that are the problem.”
“Even plants? Birds?”
“Anything….” Barclay looked away, a shadow crossing his face.
“You’ve seen them? Kill things?”
“ No ,” he said fervently, as if desperate to defend them. “But it can be useful with pests. You’ll never find any rodents or insects here, aside from the ones we want, like bees for honey. And, well, there was a thief a few months back….”
“I saw him.”
Barclay’s eyes widened.
“He made a fitting lesson from the king.”
That caused Barclay to shiver as if the Ice King was in their presence now, and Reardon got the impression that the king didn’t walk among his people the way the others did. The lack of ice trails everywhere but in his chamber proved that.
“That’s it, then? Pests and people who threaten this place? ”
“And….” Barclay trailed off once more, twiddling his thumbs in his lap. “ Very rarely, but… sometimes there are accidents.”
Reardon felt a stir of nausea, imagining statues made of ice or gold, piles of ash from fire and lightning, and the nothing left behind from those who went poof . “What do they do with—”
“Are you going to keep everyone waiting?” Zephyr appeared like a ghost, just suddenly there inside Reardon’s room. He must be able to pass right through the door. “Hurry along now, pretty prince,” he said, and vanished again just as quickly.
“Does he often do that?” Reardon rose from the bed with a scowl.
“Basically always.” Barclay followed suit. “You get used to it.”
“Should I…?” Reardon gestured back at his sword belt hanging from a handle on the wardrobe. “I mean, I usually have it for banquets. It’s part of proper dress.”
“Reardon, you’re not in Emerald anymore,” Barclay said with a slight smirk. “This is a nice banquet. I had mine last year, after all. But it isn’t proper . Come on.” He grasped Reardon’s hand to drag him to the door. “I’ll introduce you to my friends. You don’t have a specific place to sit. You can sit by me.”
Thank goodness. Reardon had worried he might be put on display.
That feeling reignited, however, once they reached the grand ballroom opposite the main entrance that had been turned into a banquet hall with tables to fit everyone in the castle. There didn’t seem to be any hierarchy to it, other than the lone table at the very back on a sort of stage with an intricate chair in the center and several smaller but elegant chairs framing it.
The king and his elementals were not yet there, but everyone else was, and all two hundred some pairs of eyes turned to look at Reardon as he and Barclay entered. Barclay hadn’t let go of his hand the entire way, and for that, Reardon was grateful, clinging tight as his friend led him to one of the center tables and they took two empty seats.
On Reardon’s other side was the dark-skinned woman who’d asked if he’d “buggered any boys,” and across from them was the half-elf with curiously bright and mismatched clothing.
“Aren’t we lucky you know our little fortune-teller,” the woman said, as everyone else murmured and continued to gawk at Reardon. “Shayla. Thieving. Forty-five years.” She held out a hand, sporting fingerless gloves and black-painted nails .
Reardon tried to accept the hand as he would a noble lady, to which she laughed and put her hand in his with a shake. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “But… thieving? Forty-five years?”
“It’s customary to introduce yourself with the crime that sent you here and how long you’ve been in the castle,” Barclay said.
“Oh.”
Forty-five? Shayla didn’t look any older than Reardon or Barclay, yet she’d been here for decades.
Widow Caitlin was there as well, beside the half-elf, giving Reardon a calculating stare.
“Nigel.” The half-elf waved. “Charlatanry. One hundred and seventy… oh who knows anymore. Two maybe? You’re a fun addition.” He laughed when Reardon held out a hand to him as well, and he stood to accept it—which showed the jeweled dagger on his belt.
“That’s mine.” Reardon reached for it, but Nigel pulled away to reclaim his seat.
“Ridiculous. I’ve had this dagger for ages.”
“You most certainly have not—”
A bell chimed, and the din of the room instantly quieted. An unseen door opened behind the head table, permitting the elementals in order—Liam, Zephyr, Branwen, Josie, and finally, the Ice King himself, who brought with him a wave of cool air that made everyone shudder.
Jack .
The names, so human, did not fit such mystical creatures.
The Ice King took his seat, frosting it ever so slightly, as if the control the others had with nonliving things was less possible with him. His sister and Branwen each sat next to him, with Liam and Zephyr in the chairs farther down. They were a sight all together, like something out of a storybook or fantastic dream.
That’s when Reardon realized that all the tables were laden with food—game, vegetables, cheeses, and bread. He was ravenous, but he’d been so distracted by the eyes on him, he hadn’t let his attention wander or his mouth salivate.
But unlike the feast before him, the head table had nothing.
“They can’t eat,” Barclay whispered. “Not like that.”
“Then how do they…?” Reardon started to ask but thought better of it. Everyone was waiting for the king to speak .
Once the room was still, the Ice King stood, large and looming above everyone. “Another year, another sacrifice,” he bellowed. “But as you know, we were robbed of that sacrifice today, for the prince of the Emerald Kingdom deemed us unworthy and released the offering to escape into the wilds.”
Reardon hadn’t deemed—
“Make no mistake,” the king continued before Reardon could protest, “he is not a replacement. He is not a guest. He is here by my grace alone, and it will not be lasting. He wishes to change your fates, and so I ask you now, so he can have part of his answer early.
“Would you return to the Emerald Kingdom if given the chance?”
“Never!”
“No, my king!”
“We serve you, always!”
A resounding chorus rose up, and Reardon shrank in on himself as the voices grew and more and more of them cried out to say the same.
The Ice King looked so smug, his eyes piercing as he hushed the crowd. “There you have it, little prince. But I suppose you think yourself a hero anyway, hoping to prevent persecution of the corrupt . He claims he wants to know me,” he returned to his people, “know us and our ways, our curse, to bring an end to the Emerald Kingdom’s follies. Maybe he is honest. Maybe he hopes to overthrow me.”
“Wait—” Reardon tried.
“He is the future king of our neighbor, after all!” the king cried louder. “I wonder what to do with him….”
“Kill him!” someone shouted.
“Stop the Emerald Prince!”
“Freeze him now, Majesty!”
“No!” Barclay burst up from his seat, drawing the angry eyes of his fellows. His friends had not erupted with such words, but many others had. “Please. He means well. Truly. I know he means to help. He’s not like the others. Reardon has been my friend for years with no hope of gain for himself.”
“No?” Widow Caitlin said, cool and expressionless. “He did not know of your visions or benefit from them?”
“He… did, but… but I offered my visions, he never asked—”
“Sounds like a charlatan to me!” Nigel cackled .
Shayla laughed, and many nearby laughed with them, leaving Reardon certain that his death was imminent, but the Ice King quieted the crowd once more, as Barclay sat with a distressed frown.
“Let the prince speak,” the king said. “Go on, tell us. What makes you not like the others of your land?”
With all eyes on him, as pointed as the tips of pitchforks, Reardon hesitantly stood. The seats Barclay had chosen for them were almost perfectly in the center of the room, making him feel surrounded and very aware of the peril he was in if they called for his death.
“I don’t believe in corruption,” Reardon said, causing an uproar of fresh murmurs. “I don’t! Not like they say. Not for loving someone or having magic inside you. I only wish to understand to be able to better convince my father.”
“He’s not one of us!”
“Kill him anyway!”
“How can we trust him?”
The voices of dissent returned, and Barclay looked to Reardon pleadingly to say more, to say the truth—that he was like those who the Emerald Kingdom would call corrupt if they knew his secret. But Reardon had held that in for so long, he didn’t think he could admit it here, like this, in the middle of a crowded room.
The voices rose higher, and Barclay’s stare grew more insistent. Reardon had to speak to save himself, and as much as it shook him, he readied himself to do just that, when the Ice King hushed the crowd like before.
“I hear you, good people, but I also hear disagreement, and not everyone has spoken. Let us take it upon ourselves to make the Emerald Prince prove himself. We will have our feast, but as the days and weeks pass, I will look to all of you to help me decide what to do with him.
“Make sure the prince pulls his weight and that he is worthy of whatever fate he earns.”
There were stomps of feet and a clatter of dishes as people pounded the tables with their fists like some tribal ritual, a promise between them that cast even more menacing stares Reardon’s way. The king had painted a target on him, ensuring Reardon’s time here would not be easy.
“To the feast!” The Ice King clapped, and the resonance of his large clawlike hands cast an extra chill through the room that spurred his people to attack the hot food before them .
Everyone started filling their plates, but as famished as Reardon was, his stomach churned at what had transpired. He was in enemy hands and had no idea how to gain their trust.
“Relax. No one will dare touch you now.” Shayla smacked his back so hard, his chin nearly collided with his empty plate. “They’ll leave that to the king.” She snickered, smacking him again before reaching for a large leg of juicy game meat.
“At least it’ll be quick.” Nigel snickered in kind.
“ Stop ,” Barclay pleaded. “They’re only joking.” He filled his own plate and then started to fill Reardon’s, nudging him to eat.
Maybe Shayla and Nigel were only joking, but Reardon could feel eyes on him from all sides, and Widow Caitlin kept passing him her frosty stare. She might as well have had the same powers as the Ice King for how chilly she appeared.
“Eat.” Shayla nudged him as Barclay had. “You’re no good to anyone sulking. Make friends! Get the people on your side and the king will have no choice but to spare you.”
“How do I do that?” Reardon muttered. “Everyone hates me.”
“Prove you’re useful.” Nigel shrugged, tearing into his own leg of meat. “That’s what we did.”
“More wine!” someone shouted. “And how about a tale from the good bard?”
An echo of like requests resounded, and when Reardon looked around to see who they meant, he realized everyone’s attention was on Nigel.
He winked at Reardon and hopped up onto the tabletop, sliding platters and pitchers out of his way with his feet. “Are the masses demanding a tale?”
“A legend!” another voice called.
“Tell us about our fletcher, Nigel!”
“The first sacrifice!”
Since there was no hierarchy to who sat where, there was no way for Reardon to tell at first who the fletcher might be, but he saw a few heads turn toward a table behind him at a man with a blond beard and hard eyes, holding a very pretty young woman at his side who wore tiny round spectacles.
Though Reardon supposed neither of them was truly young . The man was over two hundred if he’d been the first sacrifice.
“There’s nothing I like better than a proper redemption story!” Nigel cried. “And I can say that; I met him when he was still insufferable! ”
The crowd laughed.
“Someone pass me that wine!”
A full goblet was handed up to Nigel, and he took a healthy swig before beginning, “ There came the night !”
Everyone cheered, and then quieted after what must have been a familiar opening.
“ There came the night! ” He stomped his feet, keeping time with spoken verses.
“ When a rich man’s son who dallied owed more than he could rally to the tavern in the square.
“ And hence it was he was indebted for all the women bedded, and his father kicked him out to earn his fare.
“ But oh alas! He had no skills but the thrills that he had wasted and liquor he had tasted— ”
“Still true!” someone shouted, and another round of laughter filled the air.
“ —and liquor he had tasted to get by ,” Nigel ended, balancing ginger steps on down the table with nimble leaps and flourishes to the crowd’s delight.
“ The rich man’s son did wade and wallow and become so very sallow like a man cast adrift on a lonely, empty isle,
“ But soon he turned his eyes to thieving, blind from all his stealing, and picked the temping pocket of the wrong kind of smile.
“ There came the night! ” he called once more, starting a clap with his stomps that got the crowd clapping with him .
“ When he stole from worse than merchant, who wondered how far he bent, and lured him in with cloak and soak to keep the chill away.
“ Alas again! He tried to run, but the seedy slaver won, by giving chase into the night for fight was yet a plight to be made right!
"And was he caught ?”
“No!” the crowd cheered.
“ He ran and ran, with cloak in hand and emerald crest on emerald seaming, lovely bright and gleaming to the north!
“ But lo, the land was quiet, yet he would surely riot before he stopped, lest he drop, as he reached the gates at hand.
"And was he caught? ”
“No!”
“ Bright magic lit the dawn as he dashed across the lawn like a shot fired taut as an arrow to our king.
“ Those others green, left unseen, learned to fear, while he did cheer, and swore to Emerald no longer —a frozen arrow’s stronger— the fletcher ever after and bow master !”
He stretched his arms wide with a final stomp, but then pulled one hand close to his mouth and whispered, “ Just a pity it took a hundred years instead of any faster .”
The crowd cheered again with a smattering of laughter and applause.
“We all know whose bed that cloak’s on the end of now!” someone called, and the fletcher pulled his woman closer against his side.
Only when the laughter died, with Nigel bowing low to accept his accolades, did the fletcher speak.
“ Five years. It took five years before I surpassed the king’s master of arms with a bow.”
“It’s true!” Branwen called from the head table.
“And only twenty more to lose his good humor!” Nigel shouted back.
“Whose fault was that?” the fletcher responded.
“But!” Nigel cried to keep everyone’s attention on him as they laughed louder. “But. I say to you all now… here comes the night !” he cried, and then bent to speak directly to Reardon. “And on this night, sweet prince, how would you tell that tale?”
Reardon’s cheeks burned hot and his heart jumped into his throat. “I, um….”
“Go on. I’m curious what the Emerald stories say.”
“I-I thought… bards were supposed to sing.”
“It’s better this one doesn’t,” Shayla murmured.
“Free verse is allowed.” Nigel scowled as more snickers arose. “You want a song, give us one. How would you sing the tale of the Emerald Arrow first fired into the heart of this place?”
Reardon felt more on display than ever, with every table watching him, including that of the Ice King and his court. “I know a different version.”
“I’ll bet you do.” Nigel hopped down to the floor but remained standing. “Maybe a dozen or so? And what’s your favorite?”
“The story is similar but paints the slaver as a noble. ”
“He was one,” the fletcher chimed in, eyes hard again and smile thin. “He was both, but history is sung by the victors.”
There was a tense silence where Reardon wasn’t sure how to proceed, but then a clear, melodic voice rose up beside him.
“ Beware the lure of passion’s ploy to take what’s not your own .”
Reardon turned to Barclay. They were both sitting, facing each other, and Reardon smiled as he jumped in to join him on the verse.
“ By king and country, you’ll be caught and exiled from your home. As once a thief in dark of night did rob a noble’s horse And run when he was chased off road beyond a noble course.
“ And the thief ran on ,” Reardon sang powerfully on the chorus, with Barclay falling to harmony as they had done many times before.
“ Swallowed up by greed, Toward a hungry maw On the hill.
“ Those in pursuit were sieged by death and magic in the air ,” Reardon led, and Barclay came in later to add harmony they had not used the first time.
“ Held back by frozen gates ahead and all they’d known to fear. The thief escaped beyond the wall, assured that he was free But down the Ice King came to feed and warned the rest to flee.
“ And the thief cried on, Swallowed up by greed, But the hungry maw Had enough.
“So, beware the vice that will feed the story’s end ,” they sang in unison, “ for the next year comes again too soon .”
Barclay nodded for Reardon to give the final line, and he did, softer now but loud enough to fill the room, “ And the Ice King sings the final tune. ”
The ceiling was high, so that Reardon’s voice echoed long after he’d finished, and while he continued to smile at his friend, the silence that reigned in the absence of their song drew his eyes to the head table, where all other eyes had turned too, because the Ice King was staring stoically back at him.
Those eyes nearly glowed, cutting across the expanse between them, but Reardon knew it was not magic. His eyes were simply that blue.
“Well now,” Nigel cut the silence as sharply as the king’s gaze, “the story might have been shit, but your singing’s not half bad. Our young fortune teller too. We’ll have to teach them something more fitting for next time, eh?” he called, and another rumble of laughter filtered through the hall.
Reardon blushed at the shouted compliments and applause, thinking that a few of the eyes on him were a little less unfriendly now, even if the king said nothing.
Nigel sat, and with his departure from the stage, the din of separate conversations took over the hall once more, allowing some of the blood to leave Reardon’s cheeks. He watched Nigel add food to his plate, reaching over the woman next to him to grab an especially large piece of cheese. She shoved him back into his seat with impressive strength, and as he laughed, unruffled, the jeweled dagger smacked the tabletop and unhooked from his belt with a clatter.
Reardon nabbed it, but then grandly handed it back to Nigel. “Let’s say I get that back on my own someday. Without you noticing. Then can it be mine again?”
“Good luck with that,” Shayla snorted, as Nigel held the dagger delicately between his fingers.
“I’m the talented one around here at making things… disappear .” Nigel waved his hands around the dagger, covering it from Reardon’s sight, and when his hands parted, the dagger was gone.
“Magic….” Reardon gasped .
The woman next to Nigel sneered, “Nobles. Can’t tell the difference between magic and basic sleight of hand.” She was beautiful but had a lethality to her that told Reardon she had likely been a soldier or an assassin, especially given the defined muscles bulging through her shirt sleeves.
“It’s an illusion,” Nigel said, lifting the dagger from his lap. “Not real magic. But this beauty is still mine.” He grinned as he hooked it back onto his belt, eyeing Reardon in challenge.
“Until I earn it back,” Reardon promised, to which those around them snickered. It wasn’t some grand family heirloom, but it was precious to Reardon—a gift from General Lombard on his eighteenth birthday. He’d learn everything he could from these people and gain both the dagger back and their trust.
Reardon began to eat more normally then, chatting with Barclay, Nigel, and Shayla, with occasional additions by Caitlin, though she never addressed Reardon directly. As the feast waned, he realized that the room had grown darker and more torches were lit to fill the hall with light. But while the evening shadows had indeed crept upon them, the room also felt warmer, and he soon saw why.