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16

AMbrOSE

Ambrose didn’t have time to think about his actions, his clear treason, or even worry about his neck. He simply acted. It was the opposite of how he lived his life, his careful tending of the knot gardens, the winding pathways of herbs, the conical wicker hives of bees, all things that required a complete practice of patience, just like the way he slowly infused his candles with his magical calm. But this time, he struck on instinct, no time to consider or think.

Bessa would not be held back by some quill and ink penned long ago. If she were to make Frostvale successful, it would be on her own, not by the grace, nor interference, of some prophecy.

“What if Philip comes back?” Wyot demanded, his hand still hovering over his sword, his knuckles white at the effort to not draw it. Ambrose noticed that not one of the three siblings actually moved to save the prophecy from the flames. Deep down, they were probably relieved.

“That’s what you think might happen? Her twin suddenly reappears after fleeing a battlefield in disgrace? What will he do? Demand the crown? Who would support him?”

The uncomfortable silence suggested that was exactly what they thought. Ambrose rolled his eyes. “No one is going to choose Philip over you. Not even with this ridiculous prophecy,” he said, gesturing to the ashes that hadn’t magically reformed.

“You have no idea what the people would do,” Wyot growled, his hand now resting on the sword. “You’re not even from Frostvale?—”

A knock interrupted their low back and forth. Councilor Rune stood in the hallway, watching. How long had he been there? The thought made Ambrose uneasy and even Wyot looked a little queasy.

“Your majesty,” Rune said, performing a deep bow. “If I may have a word?”

Bessa looked surreptitiously at the fire, the evidence in ashes. She nodded once. “Of course, Councilor. Please, come in.”

Rune remained ostensibly silent, and Bessa quickly added, “Ambrose is the town chandler. He was just finishing up the coronation order. Thank you, Ambrose. The crown is most pleased to include your handcrafted candles for our coronation, free of charge. We look forward to lighting up a new era with your candles.”

Ambrose opened and promptly closed his mouth, noting the use of the royal we . “Of course, your majesty. It is my honor,” he said, barely able to keep it together as he watched the corners of her mouth curve up in a secret smile at winning one over on him, a slightly taunting smile that was as infuriating as it was sexy. She inclined her head at her victory and turned back to her councilor.

“What is it you wanted to discuss?”

Rune clasped his hands behind his back, rolling once on the balls of his feet. “Magic, your majesty. Not the existence of it, which as we all know has been gone from the Ilex Isles for near on a century.”

“Then what, Rune?”

“The existence of the rumors of magic.”

Bessa fluttered a hand as if to swat the rumors away. She played it very well. “I wouldn’t put much stock in them, Rune, but if certain suitors were to hear of them… well. What do you think?”

“About the rumors of dancing pixies or the peculiar shape of the snow trampled down near the river’s edge? You know they’re saying it was where a giant clearly sat for a moment in deep thought.”

“Is that what they say? How droll,” Bessa said.

To Ambrose’s ear, she truly sounded amused, and not wary as if she were keeping a secret of magic bottled up inside of her and Eska. Ambrose was impressed.

He left, subtly watching Rune as the young councilor considered her rather closely, and the stray thought occurred to him that Rune was half-in love with the queen, and the thought stirred a fire in his belly. He tried brushing it off. Why shouldn’t everyone be more than half-in love? Bessa was the brightest flame in this frozen world, sweeping in and promising hope. Of course others were intoxicated, and not just those drinking and talking at the taverns, but those working closely with her who could actually see the flame that was the queen. That was all it took for Ambrose. One glimpse of the queen with her guard down, one glimpse at the real her, and he knew he was doomed.

“Well, your majesty,” Rune said, his voice getting fainter as Ambrose hurried his speed, unable to bear the sound of them innocently discussing world affairs together. “I can’t imagine being the only kingdom with even a modicum of magic would be a bad bargaining piece. If we could perhaps show it and prove it…”

“Excuse me, sir!”

Ambrose bumped head on into a girl holding a stack of linens. Her white bonnet flew off her head, caught only by the strings around her neck, while the linens crashed in every direction.

Ambrose knelt to help her refold. He had to get his head on straight; the entire castle was filled with life again, and the buzzing of the people was as important as the buzzing of his bees. In a few short weeks, the castle had come alive. It hardly needed anything more than body heat and braziers these days to keep the chill at bay. Even a few months ago, that would have been impossible.

Ambrose paused in the middle of the organized chaos for a moment, considering. It was very possible Bessa had something to do with that as well. Or, her fire fox familiar, Eska. She seemed to be completely human, merely a chosen conduit for the magic sparking in Eska’s veins. Good Gelid, if she knew. If she only knew… how she would loathe him for his secrets. Eventually she would understand, he believed, clinging to that hope. Although what it mattered when she was destined to choose a royal prince was altogether another question.

Duskborne and Lorcan jovially displayed their wines and wares to the suitors who were still shivering, nearly unidentifiable under their layers of furs, as if the marrow in their bones were beginning to freeze and they would never feel warm again.

Lorcan gave a wave as Ambrose approached. He wasn’t sure how to say it delicately, but Lorcan seemed… hairier than usual. His usual scruffy brown and gray beard now went all the way up his cheekbones and down into his shirt. He was grinning ear to ear, however.

“Good Gelid! How are you, Ambrose?”

“It feels less like winter’s death grip and more like spring festivities in here. Is Gelid the best god to invoke?” Ambrose teased. “Perhaps we need to resurrect the old gods of spring and celebration. Why, there’s even a jester in the corner!”

There was, indeed, a man who had come with the retinue of Skyfold Pass ahead of their prince’s arrival. The entire retinue was bundled up, but Ambrose could see the traditional blue and yellow silks everyone wore over them, representing the blue sky and yellow sun of the silk and spice laden land.

The man in charge of the retinue had an odd familiarity to Ambrose and the tiniest frog that sat on his shoulder, only its head peering out of the oilskin traveling cloak. The frog’s eyes were glazed over and surely spoke to his homeland’s warmth more than anything else the retinue had brought, which included many warm things, indeed.

Every warm kingdom was determined to show off their relative wealth. There were dried flowers, specially pressed for the trip. Several maids swooned at the sachets of dried rosemary with grains of ambergris and nutmeg bound with beeswax and grains of musk, made to tie around their wrists and smell whenever they liked from Silverwood. The kingdom of Skyfold Pass showcased their lands and warmth, said to be nearly desert-like, and with direct access through various territories for overland shipping with spices and silks. It was surely a very intriguing prospect indeed to Bessa and her councilors, even if the king of Skyfold Pass was an old man who was rumored to be looking for more women to add to his harem. Exotic, icy women. He might not even be here for Bessa at all.

The scents in the Great Hall alone made guilt claw at Ambrose’s heart from the secrets he kept in his grove but also relief. He couldn’t deny that. He could show the queen more than a dried husk of a flower. He could give her the living thing. Surely she wouldn’t swoon like a scullion over some prince’s paltry pressed flowers.

“The word jester might upset the man,” Lorcan confided, pulling Ambrose back. “Duskborne and I have been here for most of the day, and he’s been the most ill-mannered soul I’ve had the mispleasure of doing business with since the former king!”

“Or rather, the mispleasure of not doing business,” Duskborne chimed in, coming up behind us. He was tall, and his skinny stature more apparent than usual with a few layers of clothes removed in the warmth of the castle. His clean-shaven, pale skin provided a sharp contrast to the hairy, stout man next to him. It was always comical to see the two men simply standing near one another. “Anything would upset that man.”

Ambrose glanced over again at the jester, his eyebrow raised. Something was unsettlingly familiar about him. He just couldn’t put his finger on what. The overall quality of him screamed for caution. He didn’t like the idea of the man so near the queen when he was so far. “That is who Skyfold Pass sent?”

“King Culm will be here this week,” confided Lorcan in the glow of gossip, his very favorite pastime. “I believe he doesn’t cherish the idea of the cold and ordered his court magician to arrange things ahead of time.”

“Court magician?” Ambrose was shocked that the kingdom of Skyfold Pass used such a word.

“That’s what they call him, although the position is merely ceremonial after all these years. He performs simple magic tricks for the many harem women and their pups,” Lorcan said. “Keeps them occupied when the king isn’t there. Sleight of hand, card tricks, a coin from the air.”

“Has anyone addressed the fact that our queen will have nothing to do with a harem?” Ambrose asked, barely able to keep his tone civil. The thought of some foreign prince pushing his suit had already begun to be grit under his skin, like an oyster tumbling in shallow surf. But a foreign prince that merely wanted to add her to his collection, like a shining pearl among dull rubies? No, it was unimaginable.

“I don’t think he’s suggested that,” Lorcan continued. “If Queen Bessa were to marry King Culm, the harem would be dismantled for political purposes.”

Ambrose grumped. “Hmph. How very political of him. That means he’ll keep it intact for pleasure purposes. Our good queen Bess deserves much better than the likes of that.”

“Impressive.” Lorcan stared at him with mouth slightly open. “I didn’t know you had such strong feelings for our queen.”

“I forgot for a second you’re not even from Frostvale,” Duskborne admitted. “As much as I don’t care for gossip, I agree with all the points listed. King Culm might have the best to offer the kingdom, but he’s bottom of the list for me. I wish she could find some better alternative. Someone who understands us and all we’ve been through. No one can deny that Frostvale was hit the hardest with the loss of magic, but none of these other kingdoms fully understand what that meant.”

Lorcan dramatically sighed at this point. “To go from glorious green valleys and a swiftly flowing river… ah. Well, that’s what they say, isn’t it? We were as lush and fecund as a… beautiful woman.”

“Well put,” Duskborne agreed. “One of the most beautiful green kingdoms in all of the Ilex Isles, an emerald of a country. No one else was burdened with endless winter as well as their loss of magic. They got to keep their seasons!”

“With regret, I must go,” Ambrose said, attempting to back away slowly. “I was here on business myself, and with that concluded, I must begin my task.”

“Ah, candles for our coronation?” Lorcan asked.

Ambrose noted how the villagers had already begun to lay claim to Bessa and her coronation as their own, a very good thing. He also noticed which of the suitors perked up at the mention of a crowning ceremony. Prince Gillian, certainly, of the Violent Tides. And Rontu of Sunfalls. He was the prince that came early. Jarth de la Silverwood looked mildly interested, but not nearly as much as the magician of Skyfold Pass.

King Culm of Skyfold Pass had not arrived himself, so it was hard to say if his interest was on behalf of King Culm or just overall, general interest.

The last suitor who had sent acceptance of the coronation but still hadn’t arrived was Zacan of Coalcrest where coal was rich and plentiful. An intriguing suitor, unfortunately, except for his rather advanced age. At forty-five, Zacan was by far the oldest of the suitors, and rumor had it he only wanted for one thing: a male heir. If Bessa focused only on duty, she could do worse than politically marry an older man and give him a child who would inherit both kingdoms. In fact, that might be her best option and the thought made Ambrose so sick to his stomach, he nearly retched on Lorcan’s boots.

“What did you ask?” he said to the furry man.

“Candles. You took her order for coronation candles, right?” Lorcan asked, raising his eyebrow at Duskborne.

“Yes,” he said. “Candles for the coronation.” Then, quieter, he leaned in between the two men. “Keep an eye on the Skyfold Pass court magician if you will. I don’t like the look of him, if I may be so bold.”

“Of course. I never did, either,” Lorcan said conspiratorially, his long fingers to the side of his nose. “We’ll keep watch.”

“Why a frog, do you think?” Duskborne muttered back. “That’s odd, right?”

“Extremely. Seeing as they are cold-blooded. I’m surprised it’s not in a complete stupor in Frostvale. Or nearly frozen solid itself.”

Ambrose took one last furtive look at the tiny frog sitting on the man’s shoulder. “An odd power move, to be sure. Subtle. As if to show off their exotic repertoire in Skyfold Pass, whereas we have none here in our frozen world.”

“That makes him more dangerous, in my opinion.”

“Agreed,” said Ambrose, clapping both men on the shoulder. “I will see you soon. For now, I have candles to craft. The cold does not claim us.”

“The cold does not claim us,” they both repeated back.

Ambrose went straight to his shop, letting the small bell jingle over the top as he entered, but immediately flipped the large lock. He would craft coronation candles, free of charge, just as she wanted. But he would infuse them with the magic that he wanted, that she needed, whether she knew it or not. Just as he had deftly switched out the roll of parchment he knew stood holding in his hands.

The prophecy.

A simple hearth fire would not have destroyed it, but Ambrose had quickly thrown some short poem in its place with his own sleight of hand. He stood staring at the damning vellum roll now.

Since taking over the dusty shop of the previous chandler, Ambrose had completely transformed it. He’d felt as if there were not enough hours in the day, trudging between the grove and the village, making himself known and available and, thus, non-threatening. Slowly growing his flowers, enticing the bees to follow their queen to the depths of the earth and back, cleaning and gathering his tools. Now, he was rewarded each time he walked into his workshop with rows of organized shelves holding jars of dried botanicals and cases of beeswax, all ready to be transformed and given purpose.

Sage and rosemary had been especially hard to grow in this frozen world, but they were best for what he needed now. What Bessa needed now.

Protection.

And a candle powerful enough to destroy her twin brother’s prophecy and let her forge her own future.

Ambrose took four fat candles and placed them in the four cardinal directions, touching his finger to the wicks to activate them, and whispering as he touched each one. Primus. Secundus. Tertius. Quartus. Lux. On his last command, they lit as one, enveloping Ambrose and his work in a shimmering veil of warded protection.

And then he began. And he didn’t stop until it truly was ash.