Page 22

22

AMbrOSE

Ambrose knew he had pushed the queen fairly far. She needed it, just as she needed someone who was willing to speak the truth around her in plain words. There was so much more Ambrose realized he wanted to do to her. Press her against him, feel their heat commingling, dip her backwards, and remove the queen from the woman, just for a moment.

Instead of any of that, he grunted again—he seemed to be at a great loss for words where she was concerned—and changed course. He led the way to Noll’s inn, a warm shining beacon on the frozen river.

The Dancing Snowflake’s sign had long since been scoured blank by the harsh winds of the valley, but there was a faint outline of where the name had been burned into the wood with an iron brand a long time ago. Ambrose found the metal ring in the center of the oaken door and yanked it open, swirling snow following them both inside the dimly lit tavern. Ambrose’s heart nearly melted when he saw Bessa’s fingers shaking. He knew it was impossible for her to feel cold—no, she was frightened.

Gently, he guided her to a corner table to let her get acquainted before she was spotted. Luckily, she’d already tucked her flaming red hair under her winter cloak.

The town troubadour played a flute in the corner while the twin girls who sold vials of moonlight and enchanted pebbles sang alongside him. Their voices were as sweet as syrup boiled from trees, and they danced from table to table in a swirl of ribbons and the scent of cider. Of course, no one believed they actually could bottle moonlight or encounter enchanted anything, but since they were orphans, the village always came together to throw them a hot bun and warm bowl of soup each morning and night. The dancing was something no one could stop, and perhaps their feet truly were enchanted. Hadn’t Ambrose seen stranger things?

“It’s exactly as I remembered it from the few times I’d come with Mika and Wyot,” Bessa marveled.

“I take it you weren’t a regular?”

She shook her head, still staring around the tavern at the low wooden tables, scarred from over a hundred years in existence, rows of half-filled barrels of ale, and the thick pillar candles, offering warmth and convivial feelings, magically produced by Ambrose himself to prevent arguments over said ale.

“My parents ran the bakeshop. Remember? We were just there. It requires getting up in the wee hours of the morning. Honestly, the word morning is a bit generous when many patrons of the Dancing Snowflake were still awake from the night before when we rose to start our day. And then with the war and finding out who my real parents were… it’s been quite a long time since I’ve been here.”

Ambrose enjoyed watching her face as she took it in, her eyes dilating in the low light. She giggled suddenly. “What?” he asked, unable to help himself.

“Cecil will not approve.”

“A suitor of yours?”

Her face was horrified. “Absolutely not. Cecil is one of my ministers on the Glacial Council. He hates the Dancing Snowflake, fun times, anything scheduled after four p.m., and basically free will.”

“Ah, I believe we’ve met.”

“Did you? Sounds impossible. Did I mention anything after four p.m.?”

“Yes, you did. I happened to see him at the castle when I spoke to your seneschal. Did you know that candles are a frivolous thing?”

She giggled again. “No one should be out after dark,” she said, making her voice gruff to mimic her minister.

“Too true. I nearly agree with him there except in very rare circumstances.”

“Like tonight?”

Ambrose raised a devious eyebrow as the tavern’s proprietor arrived, a huge smile stretching from ear to ear, which was only a little alarming coming from the sheer size of Noll whose family was once rumored to be related to giants of bygone eras.

“Come for a foamy draught, your majesty?” Noll asked, removing his cap to run a hand through his hair. Ambrose saw his hand was nearly shaking as badly as Bessa’s had been. His friend was actually nervous to serve Bessa! It was quite something to see the way the people reacted to her presence, as if they hadn’t seen her every day of their lives at the bakeshop.

“Yes, Noll. Whatever you recommend.”

“Right away, your majesty.”

“Noll,” Bessa said, capturing his large, hairy arm with a hand. “No rush. Honestly, no special treatment. It’s making me feel like an outsider!”

He laughed nervously. “You could never be an outsider. Like I was telling Ambrose here, you’re ours through and through.”

Bessa shot Ambrose a glance, as Noll hurried away to grab a metal tankard and dip it into the barrel of beer up front. “Talking about me, were you?”

“It’s hardly like all that. In fact, I find it hard to escape your name. It’s on everyone’s lips all of the time. You’ve certainly won the ground game, at least in Honeywood Haven.”

Her eyes glowed. “Oh? Mostly good talk then?”

“You need better spies at your disposal if you want to know what’s being said about you. I assure you, I would make a poor spy. No stomach for it,” he patted his belly as if to illustrate some point and inwardly winced. No stomach for it? What a daft thing to say. He’d literally been held prisoner for years. He had the stomach.

Noll brought out a steaming tray with three bowls. Before Ambrose could even ask who the third bowl was for, he plunked next to him and began to eat.

Of course.

It was the usual Frostvalen fare, lentils packed and stored and brought in from other kingdoms, swimming in a watery fish broth. The metal tankard’s thick handle was heavy, most likely crafted from before the freezing. The bread was soft and savory, Bessa’s father’s specialty, seeded rye bread with cumin and fennel seeds crusted on the top. Only during good harvest years could he barter for the extra seeds to use instead of saving all of them to sow. Despite it all, this had been a good harvest year, something Bessa and her sister had been sure to trumpet throughout the land. Cunning, that queen.

“Noll, are the rooms of the inn close to inhabitable?” Bessa asked suddenly.

Noll tilted his head, thinking. “I’m sure they could be with a little work. As you know, we’ve had no need for an inn in decades. I haven’t been inside myself in years.”

“I’m hoping that will change,” Bessa confided. “Do you think they could be inhabitable… rather soon?”

Noll rubbed his chin, turning it this way and that. “Depends on how soon, I guess.”

“If it would help,” Ambrose said, “I can offer free labor. What needs to be done?”

“It will need a good cleaning, no doubt,” Noll replied. “Dust is probably knee-high to a dwarf.”

“Thank you both. I will keep you updated, and a village-wide announcement will be coming soon.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

She tilted her head, watching the girls dance to the lute as if mesmerized. “Oh why not. Let’s just announce it now.”

“Bessa?”

She stood up, her palms steadying her against the table. “People of Frostvale! I have an urgent announcement!”

Ambrose watched in amusement as no one listened. She noticed him trying not to laugh, and her mouth went in a straight line, her eyes so very serious it was nearly comical enough to make him truly burst out laughing.

“Everyone!” she shouted, a bit more desperate sounding. When that still warranted only a few sideways glances, Ambrose lumbered to his feet. Sticking his fingers in his mouth, he whistled loud enough to shake a few icicles hanging outside on the inn’s eaves and send them crashing to the ground. Inside, a few diners winced at the noise, but Ambrose merely smiled blandly back.

Bessa turned to him and gave a curt nod. “People of Frostvale,” she began again, her voice at normal volume. “We are going to have a ball. For my coronation. All of the villages are invited, but I wanted to hold a special place of honor for Honeywood Haven. My home.”

“Here, here,” someone shouted, slamming a mug on the table, frothy beer pouring over the lip. More choruses joined, and soon there was singing—they didn’t need, nor want to know the specifics. They simply trusted her.

“Your confidence in me and your bravery should not be overlooked, and I vow to be worthy of it as long as I have breath in my body. I am Honeywood Haven and Honeywood Haven is me.”

This was the Bessa the village needed to see and believe in. Not some distant queen who won a war. Not someone pretending platitudes of grace to appeal to the people and keep her head. They wanted a Bessa who showed real, genuine care for her people, because she was the people.

The cheers were a low rumble at first, a few clinked tankards that soon swelled like an avalanche, picking up speed and sound. Noll had to offer free tastings of ale to get it to die down. Finally, he came back to their table, still looking impressed. At the response, at the ball, at Bessa, or all three, Ambrose couldn’t be sure. He bet all three.

The town minstrel began playing in the corner, striking up a song he thought of on the spot about Bessa the good queen, the fairy queen. The bells on his legs made merry noise as he stomped in time to his music, urging the crowd to join in. For a moment, Ambrose paused. He shouldn’t, but he wanted to. For her, he told himself. Not for him. He wanted her to be seen as the beautiful, benevolent queen that she was. He held out his hand, begging her with his eyes to take it.

Spinning her around, her dress ballooned left and then right, the cheers louder, the song faster, her body closer. Even Ambrose felt dizzy and lightheaded, enjoying the dance too much. He continued to turn her, watching in desire as she laughed so hard her breasts threatened to escape her bodice. Ambrose was so deliriously aroused. He could imagine secreting her away, kissing her soft and slow, devouring every first moment of newness with her. He wanted to run his fingers across her bare skin and watch her shiver in reaction, pull her in closer to kiss the silkiness of the delicate skin behind her ear, and he was nearly breathless at the smell of her—gods, it was so strong. It was beautifully ancient, divinely inspired.

Little flowers unfurled through cracks in the floor, purple and small, and no one noticed. No one, except Ambrose. Quickly, he stomped on them. No one could notice.

Fortunately, they withered the moment he let go of the queen. The moment his fingers unthreaded from the thick of her wild, untamed hair—and how did they get there in the first place?—the flowers shrunk back to their seed coats, their chance at life extinguished.

He twirled Bessa away and bowed deeply. It was a cowardly move, one to ensure he did not see her face. A move designed to pierce his heart and shackle his wrists more securely than ever before.

“We don’t seem to need much practice for a coronation ball,” he said lamely, looking to Noll instead.

“No, it seems we do not,” Bessa replied, and although he couldn’t see her face, he felt her confusion and tension in his sudden disregard and distance. “A ball will be grand.”

“Aye, a ball will be grand, your majesty,” Noll said, “But, excusing my ignorance, what does that have to do with my rooms?”

“Oh, that.” Bessa smiled. “How do you feel about some visiting dignitaries staying in your fine establishment? I don’t think the suitors and their immediate valets will stay here—they’ll insist on the castle—but the rather larger entourages would do best to mingle. We are simply failing at housing them at the castle, and I need to face facts. The rooms aren’t anywhere near ready at the castle and more dignitaries arrive daily. You could charge them, Noll. Put any upfront expenses on me. We’ll figure it out. Buy what you need from Lorcan for furs and extra wine from Duskborne. Outfit the Dancing Snowflake as befitting a queen’s ball.”

Noll bowed his head. “Aye, that will be grand, my queen.”

Ambrose watched as Bessa set up court at the scarred wooden table in the only tavern in town, accepting a curtsy, a bow, a small tidbit of murmured goodwill and good tidings from anyone who approached. Soon, there were more in line to say hello to the queen than there were to get food or drinks, and she stayed until everyone had their turn. He heard murmurings about how good she was, how beautiful, how perfect. He even heard a whispered conversation about the possibility that she truly was of the prophecy and even Frostine reborn, awoken after a century of slumber and waiting for her summer-born prince.

The villagers that were sure she was Frostine reborn were firmly on the warm climate kings and princes. Culm, Jarth, even Rontu although he was more temperate. Then, there were also the murmurings of what might happen if she chose the wrong suitor, how it might be the ruin of Frostvale. Bessa was walking a very fine line.

Ambrose knew an entire kingdom was at stake and still, he wanted to confide in her, unburden himself. Tell her the truth, make their world about them. He wanted to give her the whole truth and let her decide what to do about it. But that was selfish and she was the queen. She had the power to ruin him. Or worse, hate him. And now that he was sure their touch ignited their magic, he knew they had the power to burn it all down.