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AMbrOSE

Ambrose unconsciously rubbed the ring around his thumb, turning it over and over. He wasn’t one for castles or queens, but if he was to stay in Frostvale, he needed to know what sort of castle and what sort of queen he served. Mainly, after her little display on the ice, he needed to know if she had managed to light the candle.

He felt zero guilt for giving the queen a candle that would only light if her intentions were pure. All of his candles were crafted with that caveat. Of course, he felt a little guilty that he had neglected to mention that particular caveat, but only a little. She had nearly defrosted the entire frost fair with her fire fox, just by walking around. Either, she had no idea how to control it, or she was trying to get caught with magic? Was that her grand plan?

She hadn’t come stalking down to his shop with the full force of her Frostguard demanding to know why his candle wouldn’t light, but she also hadn’t arrived full of glee with nothing but the burnt remains of a wick to throw in his face. Had she even lit it yet? Had she failed and was too embarrassed to admit it? He rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin. What had happened with that damnable candle?

“You there. Stop.” A wispy tuft of an old man stood, his white beard and hair belying the vigor in his voice. “In the name of Gelid, from where do you hail? Servants of the suitors aren’t given free reign. It may not look like much, but this is the castle of a queen after all.”

Suitors? The queen already had suitors? Something cold and hard twisted in Ambrose’s gut. She certainly hadn’t wasted any time looking for her perfect king-in-shining-armor. It felt out of sync with what he knew of her. Although his knowledge of the queen was, admittedly, little. Mainly, he knew that she didn’t need to rely on any man to help her win a throne or to harass small shopkeepers for their (secret) magical wares. Furthermore, it had felt as if she not only didn’t need a king, but didn’t especially want one.

“Greetings. I am Ambrose, your lordship.” He inclined his head. “I am not a suitor, nor a servant, but a simple chandler. I’ve come to check on the queen’s supply of ceremonial candles to be used in her coronation,” he continued, thinking quickly, trying to peer around the small but ferocious man. From the sounds of the town gossip at the Dancing Snowflake, the queen had made the castle into a welcome place for all citizens, but he wasn’t feeling that open spirit right this second.

“Pah. Candles do nothing for Frostvale but waste precious resources. We have coal fires to heat our hearths and whatever light they provide is enough. No one should be working past twilight as it stands. The dark is for sleep.”

Hmm. He seemed charming. “Shall I make a meeting with the seneschal and be on my way?” He began to inch backward, wondering if there were other, not so obvious, entrances he could safely approach.

The man crinkled his eyes at Ambrose, apparently realizing that if he was not familiar and not a suitor, then he was a mystery and nothing good came from mysteries. “Who did you say you were? Ambrose the chandler? I don’t know that name, and I don’t know that face. Why are you in Frostvale?” he barked. “Better a frozen truth than a warm lie, son.”

“I bought the candle shop in Honeywood Haven,” Ambrose said patiently.

“Why!” The question was so forceful it was more of a barked comment than a true inquiry.

“For gainful employment,” Ambrose replied. “Not everyone shares your view of the dark. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll find the seneschal and be on my way. With the arrival of these suitors, I assume I will be quite busy preparing enough candles to impress her majesty. She, and Frostvale, will want to put her best foot forward, aye?”

The man eyed him suspiciously. “Aye,” he agreed. “Help enters at the back.”

“Help to the back?” Ambrose couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“That’s where help belongs, and all this faffle about equality is quite rich coming from—ah, just go around back, Chandler. Although I warn you that any expenses to be paid for the coronation will have to go through the council first, and we’re unlikely to be frivolous. Do not expect a large order. Feed the ice your pride, we don’t have time for it here in Frostvale.”

“Absolutely no frivolity. I understand, minister,” Ambrose said, dipping his head. Not a lordship, then, but a minister on her Glacial Council. It was his poor luck to bump into a horribly grumpy minister right at the castle entrance.

He made his way to the back where a grove of trees sat dormant under a thick layer of ice. Judging by the half-fallen walls, naked nymph statues, and labyrinth layout, this used to be the royal pleasure gardens.

He examined the crumbled plaster of the low garden walls, bending closer to touch the withered ivy encased in ice. He could still make out individual root hairs clinging to the mortar as if merely in hibernation and waiting patiently for spring to unlock them.

“Why, if it isn’t the magically grumpy chandler!”

Ambrose shot up, locking eyes with a woman completely covered in furs from head to toe, standing at the back portal.

The woman's eyes danced with mirth. “How goes the candle business these days?”

A lump of annoyance flitted in Ambrose’s breast. Had the queen told the whole castle about her ‘magic’ candle? To what end? Perhaps she thought it would reinforce her fragile legitimacy to the throne by acting as if she possessed magical objects. Ambrose was suddenly desperate to find her and the candle.

“How did you know who I was?” he asked.

“My, she spoke the truth. You are quite the grump.” The woman wore nicer clothing than a scullery maid, but didn’t seem old enough to be on the Glacial Council. “She didn’t say you were handsome.”

Ambrose kept his face frozen in neutrality. “I believe she wouldn’t want to lie.”

“It would be no lie!” the woman grinned. She stuck out her gloved hand. “I’m Mika, sister to the queen and sometimes royal advisor. I know everyone in the nearest village, but I don’t know you. And since you don’t have an entourage, you’re not a suitor. Cecil recently restricted their movements as is, although he really can’t enforce it. Thus, you must be the chandler.”

Ambrose kept his face neutral, he hoped, but that certainly explained a few things. He shook her hand, although his fingers were bare. “I was considering talking to your seneschal about candles for the coronation.”

Mika raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Why else?”

“You want to know if she lit the candle of courage. Don’t you? I told her she didn’t need it, but she seemed determined.”

“I need to see the seneschal,” Ambrose tried again, pretending not to be desperate to know this very thing. “I thought this was a castle for all, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh, it is. All Frostvalens, that is. Which, I don’t believe you technically are.” She gave him a piercing look, and for a moment, Ambrose felt as if he were on trial. “On second thought, perhaps I was a bit too hasty. Bessa does, after all, want this castle to be a positive thing. And not even ambivalent, like I suggested she shoot for.”

Ambrose blinked. That sounded like a longstanding argument, but Mika was still talking.

“I’m sure there’s someone around here that might answer to the name seneschal, although official jobs aren’t exactly sorted yet.”

She spun and swept back into the castle, which turned out to be the entrance to the royal kitchens. When the gardens were bursting with fragrant flowers and birdsong, this was probably the very best place in the whole land. She glanced over her shoulder once as she walked. “I was on my way to the library. It survived everything you know. I mean, sort of. Most of the books were burned long ago for fuel, but a few were kept under lock and key and managed to escape the conflagration. I’ve been pouring over them.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ambrose asked. Despite there not being any ‘official’ roles yet, he saw plenty of activity. In fact, it almost felt like one of his beehives. For a second, he even thought he saw Duskborne helping sand down a table and Lorcan heaving an armful of tawny furs over a chair. Was the whole village chipping in to help?

“I’m making conversation,” she replied airily. “There is a whole book of old prophecies they kept hidden. Did you know that? It’s quite remarkable. From the looks of it, unicorns and giants and pixies and the like used to be everywhere when Frostvale was named Rosevale. Can you imagine? This supposed prophecy that her twin brother from birth?—”

“Philip. The one who disappeared before the battle,” Ambrose said.

Mika scowled, actually stopping in the middle of the corridor with her hands on her hips. “We don’t like to speak his name around here.” She paused. “Well, I don’t. Anyway, yes, that one. Philip isn’t mentioned by name. Who’s to know what that prophecy-spouting unicorn was trying to say?” She shrugged her shoulders in indifference, dismissing the whole affair, and continued her walk.

“I know what you’re doing,” Ambrose called.

Mika didn’t slow down. “Am I doing something?”

“You really love her, don’t you?” Ambrose said louder, since the woman was still moving fast. “But can I recommend something?”

That got her to pause. “Go on.”

“I’m not one to disseminate gossip. You’re better off telling someone else about the prophecy. Or lack thereof.”

Mika broke into a real smile. “Thanks for letting me know, Chandler. Have fun on your tour of the castle. If you want to see what remains of the candle, the council chambers are in the east wing. If you want to see what remains of any resistance to my sister’s rule, the coronation is in two weeks.”

Ambrose stared, mouth slightly agape, as the unofficial royal advisor flounced back down the corridor, her job complete. Was it true? Had Bessa lit the candle of courage and stood up to her advisors? What, exactly, was she standing against? She’d won the war!

Ambrose skulked like a dark mage’s minion in the shadows, berating himself for needing to know so badly. It shouldn’t matter to him. The queen had left him alone after getting what she wanted. If it worked, if it didn’t work—it didn’t matter to him. It shouldn’t matter. His job was done.

But it did. He couldn’t help it; he wanted to know if her intentions were pure.

Blindly, he wandered, one half finished room looking like the next. At this rate, he was never going to find it, and he was going to get kicked out of the castle. Eventually, he closed his eyes and let his senses guide him. When he stopped, he stood in front of a large room with cold braziers hanging from the ceiling by metal chains. A man-sized hearth stood at the back of the room, and Ambrose could still feel some ambient heat radiating from the stone.

But the thing that produced the most heat?

The candle of courage, burned to the wick. A thin wisp of smoke still spiraled up to the ceiling from the remains, even though the wax had melted and was completely… gone.