Page 14 of Ice Bound

“Children’s stories,” someone said, and a ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. Aldric grinned.

The storyteller passed behind him, close enough for his sleeve to brush Aldric’s back, sending a chill along his spine.

“All stories have some bit of truth to them,” the storyteller replied evenly.

“So what, then? Going to tell us the wind is this king’s breath and the snow the flakes from his hair?”

Now the storyteller laughed, continuing along his path, entering Aldric’s periphery vision. “No,” he said. “No, though I may well find a way to work that into the tale in the next tavern. This is a story that was old when the world was still young, but I like to think it was based on something that happened, somewhere, very long ago.

“The Winter Kingdom was nestled on the far side of the northernmost mountains, in a place so cold that they say the snowflakes themselves have trouble falling. They hang in the air and sparkle like diamonds, frozen in place. The King of Winter held court in his palace on the highest peak, looking out over the glittering white reaches of his kingdom, where mortal men dared not tread.”

The storyteller came around the far end of the table and leapt atop it. Plates and cutlery rattled and ale splashed. More folk laughed as the storyteller lightly walked back toward his seat, nimbly stepping around everything laid atop the table.

“Many long years he watched that barren landscape, that vast nothingness, and wondered what it was he truly ruled. When he turned to his court to find an answer, to find meaning, he discovered his courtiers whispering and scheming, plotting against one another. Some against the king himself. There was no warmth in his land; it was a place that would betray those who let their guard down, a place that would crush the weak without mercy. And he knew that his people were the same.”

Aldric watched the storyteller raptly. Was it the power of the man’s words or the fury of the storm that laced the air with a chill despite the roaring fire and tightly-packed bodies? Part of Aldric wondered if it was result of the Winter King’s displeasure for the story being told.

“So the king hardened his heart, allowing the icy grasp of his kingdom to claim it. He built a new palace, far from his court, and there he locked himself away. He allowed only his most trusted advisor entry, and spent his days at his scrying pool, using magic to look out into a world he could never enter. The king watched the lands to the south, where the earth was fertile and yielded great bounties, where life flourished and joy was a reality. And, seeing those things, more ice crept over his heart, until there was nothing left.

“But one day, the king stepped out of his scrying chamber. He walked through the deserted halls of his palace to a vast window that looked upon the frozen steppes far below.” The storyteller came to the end of the table, just in front of the woman. “And he saw a woman out in the snow, golden against the blinding white, pulsing with light and life. The king went to her immediately, furious that someone should be bold enough to mock him with such vibrancy in his land of cold and death.

“He found her huddled on the ground, snow accumulating upon her shivering body like dirt filling in a grave, and he kneeled beside her.” The storyteller knelt atop the table, eyes falling on the curly-haired woman. “Before his eyes, her color was fading, but her beauty was still clear. She was unlike anything he’d ever seen. So out of place in the landof eternal winter. The king gathered her in his arms,” the woman accepted the storyteller’s extended hand and climbed atop the table beside him, “and brought her to his palace.

“He watched her as she slept, tentatively touching her strangely warm skin.” Guiding the woman over the clutter on the table, the storyteller moved behind her and wrapped an arm about her waist, pulling her back against his chest. His free hand trailed over her skin, from wrist to shoulder and back down again. Her cheeks flushed. The storyteller smiled and moved his fingertips to her cheek. “The king was awed by her, and he knew what she was. No less than a Princess of the Summer Court.

“She awoke, in a strange, cold place, under the gaze of a king with icy eyes, and was frightened. She demanded to be returned to the Summerlands, but the king would not listen. He had spent countless years longing to experience the warmth of the sun, longing to feel the heated breeze on his skin, and he would not relinquish his only chance at it. He locked her away in his palace.” The storyteller caged the woman with both arms, leaning his head down so his mouth was near her ear.

“The princess struggled to adapt to her situation, but the king was cold-hearted and unsympathetic. She was so far from her home, from her people, and the palace was empty. Where was the joy and life she was used to? So she swallowed her pride and begged him to send her back. The king scowled and left her alone in her chamber. In her prison.”

Releasing his hold on the woman, the storyteller stalked to the center of the table, an exaggerated scowl on his face. “He’d grown so cold that not even her radiance could thaw his heart—” The storyteller’s piercing gaze roamed the crowd. Aldric shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the storyteller’s eyes lingered on him. Sweat had gathered beneath Aldric’s clothing, but a chill flitted over his exposed skin. “—or so he thought.

“The princess, desperate and defiant, fled the palace and flew into the snow-locked tundra.”

The woman turned and leapt from the table, holding her skirts in one hand. “But the king could not let her go.”

With startling speed, the storyteller closed the distance between them and caught her by the arm before she’d managed even a few steps. “Something in him had begun to soften toward her, and he chased her into the cold, afraid that her warmth would be forever extinguished. When he caught her, she was nearly dead from exposure.”

He lifted the woman back up onto the table and she fell against him, supported only by the storyteller’s arms. “The king brought her back to his palace again, but this time hedid not lock her away. Though the heat was uncomfortable to him, he found wood for a fire and lit it. He gathered blankets and cloaks and tapestries to keep her warm, and, slowly, she regained her health.”

The woman turned in the storyteller’s arms, and they looked into one another’s eyes like there was no one else present. “When she woke again, she gazed at him differently than she had before. They spoke at length, filling the empty palace with the warmth of their conversation and her laughter, and the king felt the ice around his heart cracking.”

Aldric absently pressed his hand to his chest. His imagination didn’t conjure an ethereal Princess of Summer. It granted him a startlingly clear image of Rhoslyn, with her blond hair pulled back out of her face and her blue eyes shining. The way she looked at him had warmed his heart and filled him with fear and longing.

Smoothing back the curls from the woman’s face, the storyteller hung his head. “But still the princess yearned for her home. The king could not bear to send her back, but he led her to his scrying chamber, that she might use the pool to see the lands and people she missed.

“The princess could scarce contain her excitement as she used the scrying pool to gaze across the countless miles to her home, but what she saw was not what she expected. She had been promised to another man in the Summer Court before the Winter King found her, and through the waters of the pool she watched her betrothed conspiring with her own sister and learned that he was the one who’d betrayed her.”

Aldric turned his head away, staring into his now cold ale. His hand tightened into a fist as he recalled the hurt and anger of his own wife’s betrayal. How she’d laughed in his face when he discovered her infidelity. He felt like he’d lost everything…but Rhoslyn was there, consoling him, supporting him, sometimes bringing him meals when he’d forget to eat. A constant presence in his otherwise shattered life. Taking a deep breath, Aldric lifted his gaze back to the storyteller.

“She returned to her room with sadness in her heart and lay upon the bed, listening to the icy winds howling outside.” The storm seemed to intensify in response. The building creaked and groaned, battered by a strengthened gale. “Despite her pain, her heart remained intact, for she had given it to the king. She’d seen past his cold exterior to the man within, a man who longed for warmth and kindness. For love.”

Like Rhoslyn saw into me.

The storyteller and the woman came closer together, their lips near enough to kiss.The room was silent save for the muted wailing of the storm; even though the storyteller whispered, his voice carried clearly. “The king knew the truth of it in his own heart, though he did not know what to do with it. Despite all his years, he’d never experienced such emotion, and it consumed him with its purity.

“But the king’s advisor had learned of her presence, and he told the king that to keep the princess would mean war between winter and summer. Still, the king knew he could not return her. He could not endure the solitude that would claim him in her absence, and she was not safe in the Summerlands.”

Taking the woman’s hand, the storyteller walked alongside her, back toward the table’s center. “The Summer King sent his emissaries to retrieve the princess and demand apology from the Winter King for her abduction. Her betrothed was among them. The wind roared around the palace, strengthened by the Winter King’s fury. The princess herself refused to return with the emissaries. To their shock, she declared her betrothal to the Winter King.

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