Prince George could not remember seeing his father without the crown on his head, except perhaps in bed, and even then the imprint on his temples was clear enough. But the crown could have been melted down or stolen away and it would not have mattered to King Davit’s kingship. George could see it in every movement his father made.

When the King spoke to Cook Elin, he always complimented her on her choices, how well suited her cheese was to her tart, how her salad reflected the colors of the autumn mountains in the distance. George had no idea if his father liked the flavor of the salad, of the texture of the tart. He did not know if his father knew, either. Only that the King approved.

When King Davit spoke to the scarred and muscular Lord General of the mounted army, he nodded and agreed with the choice of which mare to match with which stallion, and talked wisely of the best way to deal with the men who had been made cripples or deaf-mutes by the effects of the war at last over. George had no sense of what the war had been like for his father, whether he had been afraid of the sound of the enemy’s war cry, as had the guardsman at the gate. Or if he had vomited at the stench of the dead, as had the woman who had served some time as a waterbearer. The war was the kingdom’s war, and so it had been fought.

Even when George was alone with his father, it seemed there was no difference. The King told George the story of the baker who had made too many loaves, but at the end of the day would give none of them to the poor, and then found that in the morning, they had been eaten by mice instead.

The King also told George the story of the innkeeper who talked so much that he used up his throat and was ever afterwards trying to make signs with his hands to be understood. He told of the seamstress who left an unfinished seam in a fancy ball gown, thinking that surely it would never be noticed, who went to the ball herself to watch the gown gradually spin away from the wearer until she stood in nothing but her undergarments, and her wrath for her betrayal.

In the stories, there was always a message that was important for George to remember. For the Prince of Kendel, from the King. Never a story for fun, with magic and wildness, with adventures and threatenings and the promise of more to come. Never a story that made George want to cry, or to laugh, or to dance. Only a story to make him think.

And though George had seen the King’s servants take off their serving uniforms and play like children in the castle baths, or outside, past the moat, in throwing or wrestling games, he never saw his father play. His father smiled when it was right for the King to smile. He frowned to show the King’s disapproval. He was always right and good, but he never felt a father.

“I think that I admire him most of all for his fairness to all. He does not make summary judgments as his father did. At the beginning of his reign some saw him as weak, but he has never been that.” Her voice was fierce. “He is so deep to himself that I sometimes wonder if I will ever come to the end of him.”

But George did not like to hear about how much his mother loved his father. He wanted her only to love him. And perhaps horses and other animals, as he did, but no more than that.

George wondered if there was some way for the bear to stop the dreams. He went back to the forest now and again in search of the bear, half fearing he would actually find it. But he never did. And the bear, in its dreams, did not seem to think of George at all, or even remember him as the little boy whom he had begged for—something.

But the dreams went on.

And they were not only of the bear’s current life. There were also dreams of a man’s world. A wealthy, old man who regretted his own youth and the way he had spent. A man who missed running in bare feet through grass, and laughing out loud at his own foolish attempt to juggle.

More than once, George saw bits and pieces of the legend of what seemed to be King Richon and the Wild Man, as well. But they were not quite as he had heard them. Was that because the legend was wrong? Or because even the bear could no longer remember what was real and what was not?

For one thing, the picture of the wild man was not as it was told in the stories. He was not disheveled or red-eyed. Rather, he worse comfortable farmer’s clothes, thick breeches and a short, loose tunic that could be rolled up for any necessity. His hair was golden-colored, and his cheeks were tanned, but not burnt. His face looked kindly. Such a man could not be kindly, not if he had done what he had. Surely not.

George wondered if there was some way for the bear to stop the dreams. He went back to the woods now and again, half fearing he would actually find the creature. But he never did. And the bear, in its dreams, did not seem to think of George at all, or even remember him as the little boy whom he had begged for—something.

In time, the dreams changed. Or became something else altogether. It was all so confusing to George. He had only had dreams of the bear before, but then there were bits and pieces of a man’s world mixed in with them. A wealthy man, well-dressed, who rode the best horses.

Sometimes George thought the horse rides were hunts, but he never caught a glimpse of any creature that was being hunted, or the end of the hunt, either. The man mixed in with the bear was a man who loved the feel of his bare feet on wet grass, a man who had tried and tried again to learn to juggle and never learned how.

At seventeen years old, Prince George had grown to his full height. He looked more like his dark-eyed, delicate featured mother than his father, yet he was known to lack the love of animals that had defined her. It was said he was kind to all who came his way, but no one seemed to know much of him at all, from what color he preferred to his favorite dinner, to a book or a dance he would leave all company to pursue.

When King Helm of Sarrey offered a betrothal to his daughter Beatrice, there seemed to be no question that George would do his duty.

At seventeen years old, Prince George was still not as tall as his father. In fact, he looked more like his dark-eyed, delicate-featured mother than his father in almost every way, yet he was known to lack the love of animals that had defined her. He rode a horse passably well, but not with his mother’s passion. He was known to refuse point-blank the gift of any pet, from the grand offer of a green-collared rolluff brought all the way from the southern province of Jolla to the black tom-kitten handed him by a grubby peasant girl at the Autumn Moon Festival.

He was also known to exit a chamber directly when a traveling singer began any tale. He claimed it was because he had no taste for music, and those who had heard him play the lute when he was younger would not dispute it. They said it was a terrible sound, akin to the howlings of a wolf in the forest for a fallen mate. And they were very grateful the King had given him permission at last to give up the lute and learn drawing instead. Drawing was quiet, at least. And the Prince had a talent for it. He would not draw any of the ladies who asked him, nor scenes of the palace, but focused his attention on still-lifes and natural scenes sometimes painted solitarily from the window of his own bedchamber.

Those who served the Prince had never a bad word for him. They spoke easily of his kindness and generosity. And yet they did not think of him as a friend. They knew him, and yet if asked, not one of them would have been able to say what color tunic the Prince preferred of all of those in his wardrobe, or what his favorite feast food was.

Since the King had become ill more than a year before, George had begun to do much to keep the kingdom running smoothly. He worked well with his father’s council. That seemed obvious when it came to Sir Stephen, who had returned to his post as the King’s right-hand man, now that George was finished with his years needing a tutor.

However, George could also manage a well-mannered conversation with the Lord General, though the man made no attempt to keep back his disdain for a prince who could not hold his seat on a horse as well as a cavalryman. No one who heard the two speaking together would have any reason to believe that the Prince returned the Lord General’s dislike, no matter how often it came up in conversation.

That was the duty of the Prince. And the Prince always did his duty.

So when King Helm of Sarrey offered a betrothal to his daughter Beatrice, there was no question what George’s answer would be. For nearly all of his seventeen years, there had been an uneasy truce between the two kingdoms following the great war, and now was the chance to resolve that. How could he refuse?