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FROSTVALE

That night, Wyot woke groggily and picked up his lyre. His thoughts remained vague, like distant memories just out of reach, but he could feel the presence of a woman who smelled like mist.

He played for hours, songs to make a man weep and beat at his chest and sigh and settle, and when morning found him sprawled on his desk, the lyre’s silk strings had snapped in half, curled up over the neck of his instrument. He couldn’t explain why. He couldn’t even remember getting out of his bed, and only the ashes in his hearth could recall the beautiful songs, if they could sing. He wasn’t worried he would never utter them again, for he didn’t even know he’d sung them in the first place.

Prince Rontu of Sunfalls found himself wandering to the kitchens, his mind unsure, the smell of yeasty grain ripening under the summer sun all he could think about. Was that magic? Was she magic? Was he in love?

King Culm of Skyfold Pass tossed under his russet furs, his layers of oiled leathers and swan-bellied feathered robes brought from home tucked too snugly, too surely. He moaned and sweated and wasn’t it supposed to be frozen in this godsforsaken kingdom? But sweat beaded his forehead, and he couldn’t quite wake from his fever dream, although he desperately felt like he should.

King Zacan of Coalcrest sat up, disturbing his bodyman, a local courtier plucked from the mines and elevated beyond his wildest dreams. “I love you,” he said, and his man responded, “I know,” and that was that. They had one night. Nothing could be done, nothing could be promised, nothing could be given. Only miracles could save them, and they didn’t traffic in miracles in the mountains. There were flowers under their windowsill, and still, they didn’t remember them in the morning. They weren’t even curious why.

That was that.

The prince of the Violent Tides stared at himself in a silver mirror, turning to glimpse his reflection and remember every crease, every line, every inch of perfection. He wondered if he would ever love anyone as truly as he loved himself, and the thought made him sad for himself. To be so unfortunate as to fall in love with another! What a horrible night!

During the night of love, every dried petal of every flower in every sachet brought by Jarth de la Silverwood returned to vibrant flowers, just for the night, before withering again in their sachets by dawn. In the morning, the son of Silverwood would be gone. He would leave only a note. Short and concise. “I’m sorry. I must go.”

But everyone would let their servants whisper and everyone would pretend not to be curious, and everyone would know that he came to his senses during the night of love, and he could no longer pretend. He wanted to be home among the marigold-colored cheeses and wood-foraged strawberries where warmth was taken for granted, and everyone would know that he wanted to be with the peasant girl with blue eyes that had captured his heart before he could even begin to understand that hearts had a greater function than sustaining life. That alive wasn’t really a word to be used when the heart was merely pumping blood. Alive had to be captured with both hands as one would hold anything dear. To be truly alive was to be magic.

The fur seller and the wine merchant met outside the tavern, their eyes wide and wondering. They had no preconceived notion of what they were doing, no answer if anyone asked. They only dreamed of flowers, and when they awoke suddenly, they felt only one urge: to meet. So they did and where they sat, the wood of the walnut bench returned to its roots, and small saplings grew from their shared dream.

Lorcan said, “But didn’t you dream of flowers?” and Duskborne could only reply wonderingly, “A field of them.” And yet in the middle of the re-rooted bench was a single sprig of lavender, which they would have seen if they had stopped to look, although of course they didn’t. They were sleep-fumbled, love-fumbled, strewn about.

Across the kingdom of Frostvale, whispers of love echoed in bedchambers and thatched homes and down quiet corridors and through frozen fields and under thick layers of iced streams that used to run wild and free.

Where there was true love, there was magic. Perhaps love was the only true magic, after all. The grand magic, the gods of spring and the gods of summer, the queens who never married, the magic of old, the magic of a time when magic flowed like warmed sap, those were the stories.

And why did some remember the night of love and some did not? Was that not some sort of magic, too? Or was that something else, something closer to self-preservation?