He knew his moans must have made a racket but to his own broken ears, they were as muffled and distant as the lapping waters of the fjord, as muffled and distant as the Queen’s voice had been. Every day now, he seemed to be able to hear less and less distinctly—as if he were moving deeper, inescapably deeper, into his own cocoon. He knew that when the time came that he could not hear a single sound, it would be the tender music of her voice that he would mourn above all other things.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Palace, Larsson
PRINCE JARED COULDN’T HELP BUT SMILE IN AWE and delight as he and his companions arrived on horseback at the open gates. On a normal day, the palace of Larsson would have been spectacle enough in itself on account of its fine architecture and its idyllic setting right on the water; today, with the fjord completely frozen—its surface glistening like spilled diamonds in the late afternoon light—it was a scene from a fairy tale.
Closer by was a riot of color—some sort of celebration was taking place on the frozen water of the fjord, and its hubbub and delicious smells as people noisily meandered between scattered tents and food and drink stalls were enticing. Jared watched as friends exchanged jokes and warm hugs, the air heady with festivity. It made him feel suddenly sad: this place was a world away from his home. He felt both the aching chasm of distance and a sense of envy that all could be so joyful and carefree in Larsson. As light and bright as everything felt here, it only made him more conscious of the dark storm clouds clustering over his own court.
He was pulled from his ruminations by the sudden arrival of a pretty young girl. She skated gracefully toward the newcomers, a glass of brimming liquid—amazingly stable—in each of her mitten-clad hands.
“Good afternoon!” She beamed, her teeth as pure white as the ice crystals underfoot. “May I offer you gentlemen some mulled cider?”
“You most certainly may,” Hal’s voice rang out. Jared watched Hal nudge Prince Rohan’s bodyguard. “We may be farther north, but it has to be said—you get a much warmer welcome here than in your neck of the woods.”
As the girl handed over the drinks and skated off to fetch more, Jared turned to Rohan. “What on earth’s going on here?”
Rohan shrugged. “Some kind of seasonal nonsense, no doubt. Welcome, my friend, to the court of crazy Prince Séverin!”
Now a young man on skates whizzed up to them at full pelt, performing an impressive turn before coming to a dead stop right in front of the two Princes.
“On behalf of Prince Séverin and Princess Anastasia, a hearty welcome to Larsson!” He beamed toothily. “Wonderful to have you here for the annual Ice Fair! In a jiffy, we’ll get you folks sorted with valet stabling. First, there’s the tiny formality of checking your names off my list.” He lifted a vast scroll from a tube strapped to his back and unfurled it theatrically. “All righty… so, who do we have here?”
“I am Prince Rohan of Rednow. And this fine fellow is Prince Jared of Archenfield.”
The young man’s face looked fit to burst at the news that there were not one but two royal princes in the party. “As Princes, you will be on the VIP section of my list!” He began scrolling down at a rapid rate. “Here we go! Prince Rohan… hmm, I don’t think we actually received an RSVP from you, Your Majesty.” He glanced up, looking somewhat pained, to meet Rohan’s imperious gaze. “But obviously, that is not a problem!” His eyes dropped back to the scroll. “And… this is strange, but it would seem that we did not in fact issue an invitation to Prince Jared.” He glanced up sheepishly. “No offense, Your Majesty. Traditionally, only our immediate neighbor royals are invited to this event.”
Prince Rohan cleared his throat loudly. “Prince Jared is my guest. Now, put down your scroll and be so kind as to send urgent word to Prince Séverin that we wish to greet him in person, at his earliest convenience.”
The flustered lad began rolling up his scroll again but, in his flummoxed haste, it slipped out of his hands and bounced down onto the ice, unrolling itself as it went.
Jared felt for him.
Just then, quite possibly the loudest voice Jared had heard in his life boomed out from the melee: “Prince Rohan of Rednow! Can it be true, or do my ancient eyes deceive me?” A tall, generously bearded man, dripping in furs and jewels in roughly equal measure, strode toward them. “No, it really is you! Well, jump down from your horse and give a fellow a kiss!”
Jared watched in wonder as Rohan dismounted and submitted to Prince Séverin’s embrace. A volley of kisses was exchanged, until the host Prince released his guest.
“What an utter joy to see you!” Séverin exclaimed. “I was told you hadn’t even responded to our invitation, so to have you here, and in time for the big race… well, I’m flushed with euphoria and surprise in equal measure.”
“My dear fellow,” Rohan responded amiably, “you know I can be somewhat lax with the niceties, but how could you think I would miss this wondrous event? And, look here, I have brought you a very special guest—Prince Jared of Archenfield. He has traveled all the way from Archenfield just to see you.”
Jared now found himself subjected to the full beam of Prince Séverin’s attention: Séverin’s delighted face was as bright as the sunlight bouncing off the mirrorlike surface of the fjord. Jared knew he should probably jump down to greet his host, but he felt rooted to the spot. Instead, he removed his glove and extended his bare hand.
Immediately, Séverin pounced—not shaking Jared’s hand but kissing it. His host’s beard tickled and Jared couldn’t help but laugh. Fortunately, Séverin took it as mutual delight. Shaking his head, he stepped back, hands on hips. “Young Prince Jared! What a gargantuan pleasure to make your acquaintance! Welcome to our humble home! What an honor to have you here for our little fete!”
“Thank you,” Jared said, dismounting from his horse. “Your Majesty, I wonder if we could talk.”
“Yes, yes, we shall certainly talk! We shall talk and sing and drink and feast… You will, of course, stay for the dance tonight, and meet my dear wife. And my oldest daughter, the incandescent Princess Celestia!”
“That sounds wonderful,” Jared said. He saw Rohan shoot him a warning look, but he had to go on—whatever the air of celebration around him, he wasn’t here for the party; he had come to discuss a vital strategic alliance with Larsson. “But Your Majesty, I would really appreciate some time alone—”
Jared found himself silenced as Séverin clapped his hands together excitedly. “I have just had the most wonderful idea!” He stamped his feet for emphasis. “Yes, though I say it myself, it’s a complete humdinger—something to make this year’s Ice Fair one for the history books.” He paused to draw breath. “Fellow Princes, would you accord me the very great honor of each taking a sledge in the culminating race of the day?”
“I would love to,” Rohan shot back immediately, but reached for his leg. “Sadly, this old knee injury prevents me.”
Séverin’s lips turned down, but his eyes sought out Jared’s. “All our hopes now rest with you, Prince Jared,” he said. “I am confident a young athlete such as yourself has no injuries to cite.”
Jared thought of the chest wound recently inflicted by Logan Wilde. It was, in truth, causing him some discomfort with all the riding of the past days, but he could see that now was not the time to mention it. “I will gladly take part in your race,” he said.
“Hurrah!” cried Prince Séverin, punching the air with his fist.
Séverin stepped to one side, allowing Jared a clearer view of the frozen fjord. In the distance, dark shadows broke through the ice and Jared realized that these must be tiny islands. In the foreground, he saw that the near side of the fjord had been transformed into a vast racing arena.
Now, in a blur of jewel-like colors, a succession of horses and riders hurtled past. Jared heard the ominous sound of cracking ice and saw a spray of ice crystals spinning through the air.
“You look a little anxious,” Séverin said, placing his arm around
Jared’s shoulders. “You have no need. There’s plenty of solid ice below to support the runners and riders.” The ebullient Prince grinned. “And, later on, the sledges!”
A mere hour later, Jared was being helped into the harness of his sledge—one of nine competing in the all-important final race of the day. The sun had dipped low over the distant mountains and, before him, the crisp expanse of the fjord was a tempting sight—for a leisurely skate, perhaps, but not necessarily for racing around a death trap…
Jared knew he was tired and that this was compounded by the guilt he felt about wasting time taking part in a sledge race when his comrades and subjects back home were depending on his securing another vital alliance. But he reminded himself that his participation in the race was the price Séverin had exacted for talking to him later. His host had not said so in so many words, but the implications had been pretty clear.
Here goes nothing! Jared thought as he shook up the reins to get his horse moving more quickly. He didn’t want to have to use the long whip at his side unless he had to. They began moving at speed to join the others at the starting line. He was aware of the crowd all along the palace side of the fjord, shouting and cheering. Jared kept his eyes directly ahead. He knew he had no real chance of winning but if he could just bring the sledge back after the designated three laps of the fjord, without falling out, he’d at least acquit himself with some dignity.
Glancing up at the royal party in the stands, Jared lifted his hand to Séverin. He was rewarded with a whoop and a wave. Jared sensed that beneath his host’s jocular and somewhat effete exterior lurked a ruthless and possibly dangerous leader.
The starter moved into position. Jared tapped the pocket where he had stowed Asta’s sprig of rue for luck, then he turned his eyes to the front again, looking along the back of his horse to the vast expanse of white ahead. Jared felt his horse tense with the desire to break free. Any moment now…
The starting signal was given: a vast flag of many colors was brought down. Suddenly, they were off.
To his surprise, once his horse got going, Jared felt entirely comfortable. In fact, as the race got properly under way, he felt exhilarated for the first time in a long time. The farther they went, the more confident he felt as he noticed strategies being used by the other competitors, and he put those to good use—to the extent where he began taking in the positions of the other eight racers.
As they raced past the last stand of spectators, Jared was aware of the cheers falling away and only the sound of drumming hooves filled his ears. He kept his eyes trained to the front, marveling as his horse thundered across the compacted ice of the fjord, flicking ice up into his face. To his amazement, he soon found himself in the middle of a central pack of four horses and riders.
There were rocks jutting up from the surface of the ice on the far side of the fjord, and the front riders broke formation so they could get through the widest gaps between them. Rounding one such obstacle, Jared realized he had gained a lead over one of the other horses—but he was still pretty much neck and neck with two of the other competitors. Ahead of them, the front-runners looked impossible to catch. But this was only the first lap, and Jared had a taste for it now. It would no longer satisfy him simply to finish: now, he was racing to win. As soon as the thought occurred to him, he realized that he was not the only competitor to have raised his game—he was joined by another rider, and penned in by sledges on either side.
They were rapidly approaching another rock-infested patch, made more difficult by a tight turn in it. Flags marked the course. It dawned on Jared that there would be space to fit only two sledges between the rocks, not three. He flicked the reins, urging his horse on faster.
His right-hand neighbor must have had the very same realization: he was leaning forward, teeth bared.
All three were traveling at an equal pace, bearing down on the gap in the rocks before the turning but, suddenly, the rider to his left made a sudden lurch to the side. He had lost control of his sledge and had veered toward the wrong side of the rocks.
Jared saw the rider’s horse rear up just before he shot safely through the gap in the rocks. The other sledge had made it through too, and they were now racing shoulder to shoulder along the far side of the fjord.
He dared to take the tight turn at the end of the fjord at a fast pace—a dare he took almost without contemplating the consequences of it going wrong. But, as he began racing back toward the start line to cross it for the second time, he knew he had gained a crucial advantage over his rival. It brought a smile to his ice-encrusted lips and, as he raced past the spectators’ enclosures, it was as if their cheers were for him and him alone.
Approaching the end of the fjord for the second time, Jared noticed that the two sledges in front of him were moving closer and closer together. Then, as they began to turn, disaster befell one of the sledges: in order to avoid colliding, the rider had tried to change direction but at just the wrong moment. The horse had already chosen its turning circle and, confused perhaps by his rider’s instructions, lost its footing. The horse fell down hard and, moments later, rider and sledge both spun away over the ice. Jared was momentarily transfixed by the sight, but he knew he had to tear his eyes away if he wasn’t to suffer a similar fate.
Any concerns he might have had about the race being called off due to this accident were soon banished as he noticed the lead sledge thundering down the far length of the fjord. Even on this remote side of the ice, he could hear the muted cheers from the palace side. Clearly the spectators were getting ready for the grand climax.
The only horse and sledge he cared about was the one in front. And, as they raced on toward the end of the fjord and the final turn before home, he caught sight of the horse’s number: number five.
There were white trails of spit around his horse’s mouth and its mane was glistening with sweat. Still it showed no sign of tiring. If anything, his horse seemed even more determined than he was to shorten the distance between themselves and the leader.
As they approached the turn, his horse was equal with the other rider’s saddle. Number five steered in close to them. Jared thought of the collision at the other end of the fjord and knew he had to avoid enduring the same fate. Looking across at the other rider, he realized he was close enough to see the angry expression on the rider’s face, and close enough to hear the angry cry: “Move over! This is my race!”
It was a young woman’s voice.
Jared had absolutely no intention of moving over. He could hear number five cursing him, but he knew he’d gained the lead now. By holding his nerve and his line, he’d emerged from the final turn a little ahead. Against all his own expectations, he began the final half-lap of the course leading the field. But sledge number five had made a decent turn and was now hammering along, clearly intent on regaining the lead.
“Not going to happen,” Jared muttered determinedly. He could see the clear track ahead, could see the finish line was his for the taking. “Come on, boy!” he cried.
Just when they needed it, his horse dug to his deepest levels and came up with more reserves of energy and speed. Though number five was working hard to catch them on his near side, Jared could feel they were edging ahead.
Then, out of nowhere, another horse and rider appeared on his other side. Risking a quick glance, Jared then refused to divert his attention by looking. Even so, he still saw number five nudging ahead of him. “No!” he cried, cursing himself for allowing his attention to slip at that crucial moment. Like it or not, the rival sledge was edging ahead, with the finishing line coming ever closer.
“Come on!” he cried.
His horse needed no further urging. They were soon back level with number five; then, they were a nose ahead…
As they thundered across the finish line, Jared pumped his fists into the air. He’d done it! By some miracle, he’d won the sledge race! He pulled back on the reins and felt his horse slow down. They came to a standstill, some distance from the crow
ds.
For a moment, everything was quiet and Jared enjoyed the tranquility of being alone in the center of the frozen fjord. He leaned back in his sledge and laughed.
And then it hit him.
Nobody was cheering.
He heard the scrape of runners and turned to see another sledge pull up alongside him. It was no surprise to see the familiar pink and black silks of rider number five.
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you!” the young woman cried angrily, turning her reddened face toward him. “This was my race! You cut me up on that last corner!”
Jared frowned. “Actually, you tried to cut me up—just like you did to that other sledge over on the far side.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” the woman snapped. “You weren’t even supposed to be in this race!”
“I know,” Jared said, at last able to smile with pride. “Yet I won!”
“Ha!” she exclaimed, reaching up to remove her helmet. A shock of golden-blond hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She would be rather beautiful, he thought, were she not quite so red with anger.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said. “I’m the Princess Celestia.” Her pout transformed into a smile. “It’s very rare that anyone beats me at anything. Who on earth are you?”
“I’m Jared, Prince of Archenfield,” he told her.
“Archenfield!” she exclaimed. “You are a long way from home, Prince Jared.”
He nodded, smiling slowly. “You’re not wrong there.”
“Well,” said Princess Celestia, tensing her reins again. “We should go and get cleaned up. The races may be over, but we have a long night of dancing ahead of us. And, after the way you treated me out here on the ice, I intend to punish you on the dance floor.”
“I’m really not much of a dancer,” Jared began, but he found himself addressing only the chill air. Princess Celestia had whizzed away on her sledge. It seemed she was every bit as unpredictable as her father. Only a hundred times cuter.