A Frozen Heart Page 3

  She’s as out of place here as I am, he thought. She might as well be wallpaper the way Caleb is ignoring her.

  Well, at least Father is kind to her, Hans acknowledged, some of his sympathy fading. The woman was carrying the king’s future grandchild and would be treated accordingly.

  Just then, his father looked up from his conversation. His eyes landed on Hans, betraying no emotion. “Nice of you to join us,” he said. In the silence that followed, Hans could feel twelve pairs of eyes on him as his brothers finally took notice of him. “Did you not think your mother’s birthday worthy of your presence?”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Hans said. Silently he added, But I don’t seem to be missing much of a “celebration.” From what he could see, no one was even talking to his mother. This party was just for the sake of keeping up appearances. Politics. It was always politics with his father.

  “It is not me you should be apologizing to,” the king said. “You should apologize to your mother. She is, after all, the only one who would have even noticed you were missing.”

  Hans’s face flushed red as the truth of the words hit home. He could hear a few of his brothers chuckle under their breath. Mumbling another apology, Hans quickly turned and made his way to a table at the back of the room. On his dais, the king turned his attention from Hans back to Caleb.

  How quickly I’m forgotten, Hans thought, watching the animated way his father talked to the eldest son. Hans wondered if Caleb even appreciated their father’s attention. He was probably so used to it that he couldn’t even imagine what Hans’s life was like. Hans, on the other hand, constantly imagined what it would be like to be Caleb.…

  The daydream never changed. He was his father’s only son. His father adored him, and the two spent hours together. They would go hunting, Hans astride a giant chestnut stallion given to him on his fifteenth birthday. Beside him, his father would call out constant encouragement, and when they slew a wild boar, the king would boast at the feast to follow that only a son as grand and strong as Hans could have taken down such a powerful foe.

  When they weren’t hunting, Hans would sit at his father’s side as the king discussed political turmoil or made plans to invade enemy territory. “Hans,” his father would say, “what would you do about the situation? I value your opinion above all.” And Hans would answer him eloquently and with forethought, his words booming across the room and encouraging all those who listened. “You are so wise, Hans,” his father would say. “What a lucky king I am to have such a perfect heir to the throne.”

  His daydream would usually end with his father bequeathing the kingdom to him. “It is time, my son,” the king would say. “While you are still just a young man, I know you are ready to take my place as rightful king of the Southern Isles. I am so proud of you, my boy. So very, very proud…”

  It was always at that moment that Hans would shake his head and the daydream would fade. He knew he was only fooling himself. No matter how many nights he spent watching the sun set over the Southern Isles, the kingdom would never be his. After all, he was the thirteenth son of thirteen sons. He was worthless. A spare. He wasn’t even a spare at this point. He was a throwaway. There was no scenario, no chance, no moment that would ever result in his being needed.

  As if on cue, he felt a sharp pang as something hit him square on the back of his head. Whipping around, he saw the twins—Rudi and Runo—standing behind him, laughing. Twins only in the sense they had shared the womb and had the same evil sensibilities, they were as physically different as night and day. Rudi was of average height, with reddish hair similar to Hans’s. Runo was freakishly tall, with freakishly blond hair that stuck straight up. His pale eyes and paler eyebrows made him look perpetually shocked.

  “What’s the matter, little brother?” Rudi asked, his tone cruel and just loud enough for their father to hear. Up on the dais, the king turned and looked over at his sons.

  “Did you get a boo-boo?” Runo teased cruelly. “Do you need to run to Mommy and have her kiss it and make it all better?”

  Hans clenched his fists, the temptation to retort strong. But after a lifetime of being the butt of endless taunting and teasing, he knew it was useless to fight—with words or fists. “I’m fine,” he said softly.

  “What’s that?” Rudi asked, holding up a hand to his ear. “We can’t hear you. You really should learn how to speak up. Father abhors mice, don’t you, Father?” He looked up at the king for approval.

  “The Westergaards are lions, not mice,” the king said, nodding. “Hans, you should listen to your brothers. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from them if you stopped acting like you were better than them.”

  Like sharks smelling blood in the water, a few more of Hans’s brothers began to join in the teasing. After each well-placed jab, they would look to their father, eager to gain his approval even at the expense of their youngest brother.

  Hans sat silently, his eyes on the table. He noticed the way the wood was worn away in places, smooth to the touch, while in others it was jagged, as though the tree had just been pulled from the ground. He ran his finger over the splinters, grimacing as they caught on his skin but finding the pain oddly pleasant. Physical pain he could handle.

  Suddenly, Hans pushed himself to his feet and began to walk toward the door. He didn’t care if his father would be mad later. It wasn’t worth the torment to sit through any more of this assault. As he passed his twin brothers, he nodded politely but said nothing. Behind him, the twins muttered a few more insults but didn’t bother to follow him.

  Stepping into the hall, he let out a deep breath. That could have gone a lot worse, he thought. At least they had thrown bread, not glassware, this time. Turning, he made his way out of the castle and toward the sea. The dock was one of the farthest points from the Westergaard castle, which was part of its appeal for Hans. His brothers usually couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way down there just to tease him, so it gave him the chance for the peace and quiet he craved. It also gave him time to think—something most of his brothers frankly couldn’t care less about. All they cared about was their own reflections in the myriad of mirrors that lined the castle walls. It was well known that the Westergaard princes were—minus Runo—a rather handsome bunch. At least in that way, Hans was like his brothers. He was tall, with golden-red hair and big inquisitive eyes. When he had turned seventeen a few months before, he had begun to fill out. His shoulders were now broad and his arms strong from hours of practice with the sword—a prerequisite for a prince, even one who would most likely never see combat.

  Over the past few months, it had been growing more and more clear to Hans that despite his intelligence, despite his good looks, and despite his appreciation for the finer things in life, he had become of no consequence to his father. Caleb had married a few years before, and his wife had given birth to their first son soon after, which took a great deal of pressure off the remaining sons to produce heirs. It hadn’t stopped some of them, of course. All of Hans’s brothers, except the twins, were now married with children. Even the twins were courting, though Hans could not fathom who could possibly like either of those brutish thugs. And while he had heard the royal affairs coordinator discussing potential suitors for his brothers, Hans had not heard a peep about a possible wife for him.

  Hans shook his head, trying to rid himself of the negative thoughts that were invading his mind. He knew he was being maudlin for the sake of being maudlin. It wasn’t as though he had woken up that morning to find out he was the youngest of thirteen sons, with a distant and careless father. That had been his life—always. And that would be his life—forever. Nothing was going to change that, and the sooner he came to grips with it, the better.

  THE KING AND QUEEN of Arendelle had been gone for nearly a week, and despite Anna’s hopes, their absence had done nothing to make Elsa more social. If anything, her sister had grown even more reclusive. Elsa had all her meals delivered to her room and took her lessons with Kai priva
tely. If Anna saw her at all, it was as a glimpse of a thin shadow slipping behind a door.

  Luckily, Anna’s mother had tasked Gerda with reorganizing the palace library while she was gone. Anna immediately volunteered to help—such a big project would help the days move by much more quickly. “I’m not so sure about Anna helping to organize something,” the queen had told Gerda, winking at Anna. “You have seen her room, haven’t you?”

  Still, Anna reminded herself now as she made her way along the royal gallery, I have three weeks to go. “A lot can happen in three weeks, don’t you think?” she asked, looking up at the portrait of her great-great-great-grandfather. He gazed back down at her, his expression stern. Anna smiled and nodded as though the portrait were speaking. “What’s that? You lost all your hair in only three weeks?” She took a step back and peered up at the man. His bald head gleamed in the candlelight. “I think it makes you look very dignified, Great-Great-Great-Grandpappy.”

  Laughing to herself, Anna continued down the hall. The portraits on either side varied in size. Some were small, barely the size of the book Anna carried under her arm. Others were massive, at least twice her size in length and width. Pausing under one of her favorites, Anna looked to her left and then her right. Sure that no one was around, she unceremoniously and rather ungracefully plopped down on the floor. Spreading the skirt of her dress out so that it appeared she was floating in the middle of a pond of blue chiffon, she looked up at the large portrait in front of her.

  On the canvas, a handsome man stood beside a beautiful woman. A delicate crown of flowers rested on the woman’s head, and her arm was raised so that her fingertips ever so gently brushed the bright petals. Her other hand rested on the arm of the man, who she stared at with unabashed love. The man’s expression was harder to read, but he had put his own hand on the woman’s shoulder possessively. “You love each other very much, don’t you?” Anna said out loud. She had spent hours in this very spot, dreaming up the story behind the painting. Most of the portraits in the royal gallery had known stories. Kai had told Anna all about them.

  “It is part of your job as a princess of Arendelle to know your people’s history,” Kai had told her as he explained what each of the portraits showed. But Kai had never told her about this particular portrait. When Anna had asked him about it, the man’s chin rose into the air and the corners of his mouth dropped toward the ground. Taking a well-worn handkerchief out of his finely pressed jacket lapel, he had wiped his hands as if even mentioning the painting made him feel dirty. “All we know of this painting is that the girl is not of royal birth,” he had finally said, his tone dripping with judgment. “You don’t need to know about them. Just know that the royal artist of Arendelle at that time, Jorgan Bierkman, felt the need to paint them.”

  Anna, of course, immediately wanted to know everything about them. Kai was so used to seeing the world in shades of black and white that he wouldn’t notice the color of a great love story if it jumped in front of him. She imagined the story to be sad but also hopelessly romantic. Who had they been? How had they met? Had it been love at first sight? Had they been forced apart by society? If the girl was not of royal birth, had they stood a chance? No matter how many times Anna stared up at the portrait, she never grew tired of imagining their story. She had given the man and woman names—Sigfrid and Lilli—and made up a variety of stories for them. In some they were star-crossed lovers, torn apart by Sigfrid’s mean and heartless parents. Other times it was a marriage of convenience that ended in a great love. In Anna’s favorite version, the girl had been a traveler from a faraway kingdom who had adventured over land and sea and finally found herself in Arendelle. There all who met her had fallen under her spell, entranced by her stories of adventure and her tales of danger and excitement. Even the young prince had fallen under her spell, but when he had declared his love for her and asked her to stay in Arendelle with him forever, the girl had told him no. Her great love, she told him, was, and always would be, life. She wouldn’t stay stifled behind gates while adventure awaited beyond.

  In that particular story, the girl had left the prince behind. But she eventually returned and—together—they left Arendelle to travel the world. That was why, Anna figured, no one dared talk about them. Because that was not how things were done. Or at least that was what Kai would have said.

  Turning her head slightly, Anna looked over at her other favorite painting. This one wasn’t a portrait but a landscape. In it, the castle gates were thrown open. In the distance, the mountains rose up majestically, the tips covered in snow. In the foreground, a market had been set up in the middle of the village center. Dozens of brightly colored stalls were filled with goods of all kinds. Anna liked to imagine what it would be like to walk through the market, breathing in the scents of spices and freshly baked bread, listening to the old women gossiping and the old men grumbling about the weather.

  In one corner, two young girls stood giggling and holding on to each other. Looking at the two girls now, Anna felt a familiar pang of bittersweet sadness wash over her. She and Elsa had been like that once. They had probably even been to a market just like that one…back when they could leave the castle. Back when the gates were always open…

  Usually the painting made Anna happy. She could almost hear the little girls laughing and singing together and would imagine them wandering off to the next adventure, arm in arm. But not today. Today the painting just made her sad. Sighing, Anna lowered her eyes and opened her book. Maybe escaping into the words on the pages would make her forget the way her sister had ignored her again that morning.…

  Suddenly, she heard someone clear his throat. Looking over, she saw that Kai had come into the gallery, his footsteps nearly silent.

  “Kai!” Anna said, startled. “Do you need…?” Her voice trailed off as she took in the expression on his face. All thoughts of her sister and the paintings vanished from her mind. Something wasn’t right.

  “Princess Anna,” Kai said, his voice filled with sadness. “There’s been news.”

  “Yes, Kai?”

  “Your parents, Princess…they’re gone.”

  WHILE IT WAS TRUE most of his brothers were rather awful, Hans did have one ally in the baker’s dozen known as the Westergaard princes. His brother Lars had always been nicer to him than the rest. There had been a stretch of time when it was thought Lars, the third oldest of the princes, would remain the youngest. The queen had been unable to conceive for another five years after Lars had been born. For all intents and purposes, it looked like Lars was going to be the youngest. Although Lars had far from received the same treatment as Hans, perhaps he still recalled the bullying that came with that position, and felt pity for Hans. Or maybe he was just a generally nicer person than the other brothers. Either way, Lars was the one person Hans could talk to.

  Searching the castle, Hans found Lars right where he expected to find him—in the library. Lars was an avid historian. He knew everything about the Southern Isles and could name the kings all the way back to the beginning of the kingdom. His knowledge went beyond his own home, too. Lars was the one who kept the rest of the family apprised of information about neighboring kingdoms and the various wars and alliances that had been waged and won over the generations. Often Lars would start talking about a particular moment in the history of the Southern Isles and lose all track of time and place. More than once, Hans had just up and left when Lars was on one of his rants, sure that his brother wouldn’t even notice his absence. Lars’s passion for history annoyed almost everyone else, but Hans found it rather endearing—as long as he didn’t have to listen to it for too long!

  Walking into the library, Hans noticed that Lars had laid out several maps and was peering at them intently. “Hello, Brother,” Hans called out, trying not to startle the focused Lars. “Plotting an escape, are you?”

  Lars looked up, his eyes taking a moment to focus. When he saw that his visitor was Hans, he smiled. “Not quite,” Lars said, his tone warm. “
I’m just comparing our surveyor’s most recent map to one drawn fifty years ago. I’m curious to see if our borders remain in the same place after that most recent ‘incident’ with Riverland. I swear, sometimes I wonder who is really in charge, the way Father just lets Caleb run amok.”

  Hans laughed. The king had been giving his eldest son more and more responsibility of late. But instead of taking it seriously, Caleb acted as though he were playing war with his brothers in the stable yard. “Well, at least Father will never ask me for help. Saves me from making errors in judgment that might end in maps being rendered faulty,” Hans said with a smile, but there was a hint of sadness to his voice.

  Lars didn’t miss it. “Were you down at the dock again, little brother?” he asked. “You know that always makes you moody.”

  “I know,” Hans said, nodding in agreement. “I just wanted some peace after yesterday’s debacle.”

  Hans shook his head. He had done enough moping for one day. He needed to focus on the present—no matter how disappointing it might be. “So,” he said to Lars, ready to change the subject, “any news on when I might become an uncle again? I am hoping your child might like me at least.”

  Lars laughed. “If Helga has anything to do with it, the only person that child will like is her.” Lars’s wife had never really forgiven her own family for shipping her to the Southern Isles. While known to be warm and rich, the isles were distant, and Helga was convinced she would never see her family again.

  “Well, I’m sure once Helga has her child, she will feel more a part of the family,” Hans said hopefully. Not that being part of the family has helped me much, he added silently.

  “There is that possibility,” Lars agreed. “But how are you, Brother? I heard more rumblings about you and the twins having a ball to introduce you to all those eligible maidens.”