Reardon
T hat night, Reardon slept with straying dreams of blue eyes, handsome smirks, and broad muscled shoulders of no man in particular—but oh, his phantom figure could touch and kiss and hold him too tightly like he’d always wanted. He found himself half-awake as the sun rose, hard and leaking fresh sin onto his sheets. He would have let a straying hand drift between his legs again like last night, but not when he had somewhere to be.
He mixed a black shirt and black trousers with his scarlet doublet, and today he affixed his sword belt before taking his daily draught to face the king.
His treks with Shayla through the castle had taught him a few new routes, so he took a shortcut to make his way to the kitchen, swiped meat and a chunk of bread that one of the workers he’d befriended in the tailoring room allowed with more of a smile than yesterday, and then took another new route toward the king’s staircase.
On this path, he passed a row of paintings, some of landscapes and animals, but others of well-dressed nobles. Former royalty, he supposed. He came to a glaringly empty spot on the wall before reaching the last—an elegant brunette woman with sharp blue eyes. It took him a moment of staring at her remarkable beauty to realize that, while the hues had changed, the face remained.
It was Princess Josephine.
“I hated sitting for that portrait.”
Reardon spun around, surprised yet again by a court member, always so good at sneaking, given that their feet didn’t touch the ground. “Princess.” He bowed his head. “You are as lovely now as you were then.”
“ Josie ,” she reminded him, floating closer, but not too close. She was truly ravishing in monochrome gold, but the painting added depth that she clearly missed as she gazed upon her portrait. “And you’re sweet. It’s a wonder this ever got painted. I get restless sitting still. Jack too. Even when he lounges like a contented cat, he’s always shifting or fidgeting his hands. ”
That drew Reardon’s eyes to the empty space where another painting might have hung. “Are there no portraits of the king?”
“None that survived.” She turned to him, offering a melancholy smile. “He won’t look at himself anymore, who he used to be. To him, he’s only the monster.” She gestured down the corridor for them to walk. “You’re getting to him, though. I can tell.”
“It didn’t seem that way yesterday.” Reardon barely had the king’s ear for half an hour.
“Give him time.”
There were other members of the castle up and about, but not many, giving them solitude to speak, yet there was only one thing on Reardon’s mind as the puzzle remained unfinished. “Josie… would you tell me about the curse?”
“You’ll have to get the story from Jack if you want to win him over. Some things will reveal themselves in time. What I’m sure I don’t need to tell you is that he blames himself, but we all deserved what became of us.”
Ice and gold, the royals of this cursed kingdom were both made of seemingly unfeeling things, yet they lived as vibrantly as anyone, and neither was truly cold, not even King Jack for all his attempts to act that way.
They were sad more than anything, and for that, Reardon wished he could reach out and place a comforting hand on Josie’s arm.
“He told me he earned the curse,” Reardon said as they began winding up the staircase he’d climbed many times now. “Says he’s a villain.”
“The king before, our father, was the real villain. He was a true tyrant, and his reach was vast. Our kingdom is only this castle now but growing again, almost more than we can contain within these walls, and we’re happy here with what we have.
“We’re not heroes, Reardon, but I like to think we’re not villains either.”
“And before?”
A sigh passed her golden lips, accompanied by a faintly derisive chuckle. “We might as well have been a gallery of rogues.”
While each member of the court was unconventional in their role compared to what Reardon was used to for a kingdom, he didn’t think any of them roguish .
But then, just as they reached the door to the Ice King’s chamber, Zephyr appeared to block their path, causing Reardon to lurch backward and wonder if at least one member was a rogue.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Zephyr grinned, though he kept a safe distance. “The king would like to take today’s audience in the back courtyard.”
“You mean the training yard,” Josie said with a frown.
“Same thing.”
“What is Jack plotting?”
“I couldn’t begin to imagine. But he did say he’d prefer that I show the young prince the way.”
The Ice King was getting rid of his sister, the only member of the court who’d been truly kind to Reardon. Liam had seemed tolerant yesterday but not exactly friendly, and the rest… well.
Reardon didn’t trust the look on the Spymaster’s face.
“If he gets hurt, whoever does the maiming will answer to me,” Josie said, her golden sheen practically glowing as she projected the same aura of authority that her brother commanded so well—not that it softened use of the word “maim.”
“Don’t worry, Reardon.” She shifted seamlessly back to a benevolent princess. “He simply hopes to test you and push you into a corner. You push him right back.”
That was Reardon’s whole intention of taking audiences with the king—to push him and learn everything he could so that they’d come to an understanding and end this division between kingdoms. If he could take knowledge back home that could help sway the hearts of his brethren to be more accepting of the things they feared, all the better.
Still, he was glad he’d worn his sword belt this morning.
“Perhaps I’ll see you in the tailoring room.” Reardon smiled at Josie with another bow. “I’d love to discuss uses of gold thread.”
“An eye for fashion and pleasant to look at.” She smiled back at him. “Don’t you let any of the castle’s brutes best you. Be a rose, like me—soft and lovely, with sharp edges to sting anyone who wrongs you.”
Reardon could sting better than most, but her words helped lift his head higher as he followed Zephyr along a different path, back on ground level to a door leading behind the castle.
More people bustled about, but with Reardon trailing behind Zephyr, they all seemed to be laughing at him.
“Should I be worried?” he asked .
“Always.” Zephyr peered over his shoulder with another ominous grin. “It’s just a shame that if they scratch that pretty face, I can’t patch you up personally.”
Reardon stuttered to a halt, though he could see the door they were headed toward. The Ice King was the only member of the court with human eyes to know their true color. The rest all matched their element, so Zephyr’s were a milky gray.
A cold sweat overtook Reardon as he wondered if they’d once been blue.
“Not used to being an object of desire, pretty prince?” Zephyr floated back to him, so close that Reardon would have known his true eye color if they were more than mist. He was drawn to broader men, and Zephyr was slight like Barclay, but he was handsome in his own way, slender and impish.
“Wh-whose desire?’ Reardon stuttered.
“Daft, are you? Or only interested in ripping bodices?”
“ No ,” Reardon blurted, but then years of training to not admit such things made him fumble to correct himself. “I-I mean, I… have desires, but I’d rather not rip anything.”
“That’s no fun.” Zephyr winked.
If Reardon had a banister before him, he would have plowed into it again. He felt faint, like the floor had dropped beneath him. How did someone become so free that they could express their desires that openly?
“I-I-I….” He had no idea how to follow suit.
“You are a mess. We’ll have to work on opening you up.” Zephyr grinned again, and Reardon felt his cheeks catch on fire, completely mute when the imp blessedly turned forward.
Willing his cheeks and heart rate to calm, Reardon had the distinct impression that he was walking into a trap. He itched to grip the handle of his sword but didn’t want to appear combative.
His tune changed quickly once he got outside.
Combat was clearly what they had in mind, because all the large, imposing members of the castle were in attendance, the soldiers and mercenaries for hire who’d been sent there—including the fletcher, the first sacrifice.
He might have been noble once, but he was a solid pillar of muscle now .
Zephyr couldn’t be Reardon’s love, but the fletcher’s figure stirred his passions easily.
And he had blue eyes.
He also had a woman, Reardon reminded himself, spotting her pretty bespectacled face behind the figure of the blond and bearded fletcher. Reardon needed to focus on more pressing concerns—like the sword in the fletcher’s hand.
“I hear you can sew and wash and mix potions,” the crackle of a gruff voice spoke, drawing Reardon’s eyes to the sidelines where Branwen stood beside the king with a flaming sword. “I also hear you fended off a dire wolf. A future king must be skilled in many things, including how to fight.”
“I can fight.” Reardon stood proudly, allowing his hand to touch his hilt now. He had barely moved away from the door, but space had been cleared for him and the fletcher. Dummies and weapon stands spread about the perimeter of the yard with the watchers forming a circle, the cursed in their own fantastical line that Zephyr joined.
“Then show us,” the Ice King said.
Reardon had a short sword, the fletcher a long sword—no, great sword —that he clearly could have wielded in one hand but slowly gripped in two. Reardon didn’t feel the chill from the frost-covered ground or crisp winter air, but despite the fletcher being without his shirt, showing a swath of impressive scars, he gave no sign that he felt the cold either, and Reardon had a feeling it was without any potion.
Cautiously, he moved forward and drew his short sword to a smattering of laughter when they saw its size.
“You’re welcome to select a more suitable weapon,” the fletcher said with his thin, appraising smile, squaring his stance.
“I haven’t mastered wielding anything heavier.” Whenever Reardon tried, it unbalanced him, his strength refusing to grow beyond its peak.
“I can teach you how to handle a larger sword!” Zephyr called, and laughter roared once more.
Fighting a return of flushed cheeks with so many eyes on him, the king’s most heavily, Reardon scanned for friendly faces in the crowd. He saw no one he’d gotten to know yesterday, not even Shayla, but then his eyes found Nigel.
“Knock his block off, fletcher!” Nigel cried.
So much for finding a friend .
There was a chaotic energy about Nigel, certainly, though his uncharacteristic snarl seemed to be directed at Zephyr for some reason, with furtive glances passed between them.
“May I at least know your given name, good fletcher?” Reardon asked the man before him, circling closer and imagining how painful the first clang of blades would feel. “Or is it merely Emerald Arrow ?”
The fletcher’s smile barely twitched. “It is until you prove yourself.”
He rushed Reardon without warning, and instead of bracing his sword upward to deflect the coming blow, Reardon spun out of the way and waited for his opponent to stumble.
He didn’t.
Far swifter than anyone with a great sword had any right to be, the fletcher pivoted and rammed his hilt into Reardon’s side. Reardon gasped, breath lost, and nearly lost the grip on his short sword.
“Don’t assume your opponent’s abilities without proper assessment,” the fletcher said like a scolding tutor. He reminded Reardon of Lombard—blond, beautiful, and severe. Lombard had taught Reardon to fight, but he’d clearly gone easy on him. Reardon couldn’t approach this battle thinking the rules would be the same.
The fletcher let him catch his breath, and then squared his stance again.
Jack
Reardon had indeed never been to any brothels or known the comfort of another. If he had, he would have risked being discovered as a deviant and been banished from his own kingdom. There was no denying it now, though initially that had not been the purpose of this sparring match.
The way his eyes raked bashfully over Oliver’s rippling bare chest proved to Jack the truth, as much as the young prince’s blushing cheeks and utterances the night before of finding an unknown “him.” He wasn’t the first to prefer like company who had darkened Jack’s door. It shouldn’t have mattered, and yet the knowledge made Jack’s eyes narrow that much more closely on Reardon’s movements.
He was… capable with a sword. Few were as skilled as Oliver or Branwen with any weapon, but then, they each had a couple centuries of experience to call upon, and Reardon was a mere boy of twenty-one.
Still, each time Oliver sidestepped Reardon and threw him to the ground, or simply overpowered him with a clash of metal, his great sword dwarfing Reardon’s smaller blade, the prince got back up, took a breath, and tried again. To his credit, it took Oliver longer to best him each time, with Reardon’s eyes trained on his movements and learning, waiting, calculating openings and how he could use his speed to his advantage against a stronger, more skilled opponent.
When it seemed to all those jeering for Oliver to finish him that Reardon was sure to call for a reprieve, that was when the prince struck.
Oliver weaved and swung, and Reardon ducked out of the way, but when before Oliver would surprise him with a sharp jab of his hilt, fist, or sweep of his leg, this time, Reardon saw every countermove coming and responded in kind. He weaved, twisted on the hard, frozen ground, swung up with his blade like he might slice Oliver cleanly, and then, at the last moment, rammed his hilt into Oliver’s shoulder and kicked the side of his knee to send him sprawling.
A surprised silence fell over the crowd, for few had ever brought Oliver to his knees save those he’d trained himself. But after Oliver let his great sword hit the ground, he left it there, lifted his head to look at Reardon, and accepted the hand offered down to him.
“Oliver,” he said as he was hoisted to his feet. “Not bad. For a noble born.”
“You too,” Reardon said, squeezing his hand fiercely in reply.
“And how are you with a bow?” Oliver nodded at the targets and archery sets nearby.
“Awful, to be honest.”
“That won’t do here.” Oliver sized Reardon up like he did all those he intended to teach. “You need to master the skills you have, and what you have is speed. You’ve seen Shayla fight with her daggers? You could dual-wield just as well with two short swords and be a menace against any opponent, but you let your eagerness get the best of you.”
“You aren’t the first to tell me that.” Reardon smiled with a distant fondness in his gaze like he was thinking of someone specific.
Jack squelched the wave of jealousy that struck him.
“Who says besting the fletcher proves his mettle?” Branwen boomed beside Jack, bringing him back to himself and reminding him that they were not alone in the training yard.
Branwen stomped forward, causing anyone too close in the crowd to back away as all members of the kingdom had been taught, and for Reardon’s eyes to widen into emerald saucers when he was left standing alone as Oliver backed away too.
Grinning in a way that seemed too wide while he was made of fire, Branwen squared his stance as Oliver had, his much larger great sword, crackling and aflame, looking insurmountable and reflecting in Reardon’s eyes to turn them amber.
“Come at me now and see how you fare,” Branwen goaded.
“I… but….” Reardon stammered.
“Blade to blade won’t set you on fire, boy. Now, how do you face a real challenge?” Branwen puffed out his chest, sending a burst of flames to explode outward like a stove stuffed with too much kindling, losing his definition before he became once more a brimstone fortress of a man.
Jack’s instincts were to cry “No, enough!” but he’d been the one to ask for this to see what Reardon was made of. He just didn’t want the depths of the prince to be revealed only to be turned to ash.
“If I was elsewhere and presented with an opponent like you,” Reardon said, raising his short sword with shaky arms, “I would desperately seek a parley.”
“Not all opponents are swayed by words,” Branwen spat.
“Maybe not beasts or monsters, but men can always be reasoned with.”
Branwen howled, and Jack felt the heartache in his cry like few could, for only the cursed knew how they had bartered and bargained and been denied.
Reardon spun away as he had with Oliver, barely missing having a chunk of his shoulder sawed at by a flaming edge. Branwen wasn’t thinking, seeing an enemy where Jack had merely wanted him to see a pretender—when he still thought Reardon was pretending.
Branwen spun in kind, swiping out in a wide flaming circle that might have taken Reardon’s head off if he hadn’t ducked. All those watching backed up in equal measure like one great mass. But Reardon didn’t understand. He’d avoided clashing with Oliver too much blade to blade, knowing he’d be overpowered, so he tried the same with Branwen, but there was nothing of Branwen he could cut or touch!
Darting forward, he sliced at Branwen’s leg, only to have the blade pass through him as if he’d swung at a bonfire. He teetered from the force of the momentum and started to fall— into Branwen, something Branwen couldn’t see because he was midturn, swinging toward Reardon, where they would clearly collide with more than blades .
“Stop!” Jack bellowed, and with his cry, he struck out, like throwing an ax across a battlefield.
A cascade of ice shot over the ground from him to the dualists, not capable of freezing Reardon but still deadly if it sliced through him. Instead, it sliced between, snuffing out Branwen’s closest flames and toppling Reardon into a wall of ice that made him hiss at the freezing temperature, shaking frostbitten palms when he reared back.
The crowd went silent again, Oliver standing tall and vigilant, ready to race to Reardon’s aid if Jack decreed it, as Branwen realized what had happened. They all got caught up in their vices sometimes, but it had been years since any of them had… an accident.
Jack waved his hand, and the wall of ice crumbled, melting into the frozen ground. He would have told Oliver to go forth and help Reardon, crouched and holding his stinging hands, but Nigel ran to him first.
Zephyr lurched forward then too, but held back, remembering his own deadly touch and that he could do little more than watch. He and Jack watched together as Nigel took Reardon’s hands and placed his palms over them.
“Now you see it,” Nigel said playfully, a glow forming where their skin touched, “now you don’t.”
The strain in Reardon’s brow lessened, and when Nigel pulled his hands away, Reardon looked entirely at ease, staring at unmarred skin. “You’re a healer?”
“Just an elvish parlor trick. It only works on minor wounds.”
“Thank you,” Reardon said, and then turned his eyes to Jack, as if to pass those same words to him.
Branwen said nothing, brooding and bitter that he’d nearly lost control when this had been his idea. Jack nodded at him to let it go, before returning his eyes to Reardon.
“Be more vigilant, little prince. A future king can’t be a klutz. Now come. We’ll finish today’s audience in private. Oliver can teach you the bow another day.” Jack turned to head for the staircase behind the castle entrance, winding upward to the ramparts. He heard the crowd murmur and disperse, followed by Reardon’s dutiful feet.
The prince said nothing as they ascended to the top of the wall. From there, all the lands could be seen, including a better view of the Mystic Valley .
“Majesty,” Reardon said when Jack merely gazed outward, “I must say that I am truly grateful—”
“I do not need any undue deaths on my conscience. If you die here, you’ll earn it.”
Reardon quieted, only to sigh and stand taller. “I’d rather earn your trust. You care deeply, allowing everyone here the greatest of freedoms. You even protected me when you still see me as an enemy. That is the mark of a good king.”
Such naivete again, but Jack was beyond believing there was any act to it. He gazed down at Reardon, the wind from being up so high further tousling his hair, sweat on his brow from his fights and resolution in his expression.
Jack was resolute too.
“Making up for past mistakes does not absolve them.”
“Perhaps not, but if you were a bad king, you wouldn’t care to make up for anything.” Reardon shifted closer, too close, only a foot from certain death, despite how close he’d come to it down below. “Please, Majesty, tell me of the curse. Have I not proven myself enough?”
Not enough for everything , but there were layers to this tale.
“Do you know whom you will marry?” Jack asked, watching the expected reaction of Reardon’s cheeks flushing and his eyes going wide.
“I… no. My father has not yet chosen anyone or introduced me to candidates. I expect it will be soon, though.”
“When my father introduced me to mine, I told him to marry them himself, for I’d sooner see his decaying corpse on the throne than ever rule.”
“You did not wish to be king?”
“I did not wish to be beholden to anyone but myself. As prince, I had everything I wanted. Money, power, prestige. I could do whatever I chose, and no one questioned me. But if I was king, I would have responsibilities.
“My father was a traditionalist, like the worst of those from your kingdom. He didn’t scoff at magic, as long as he controlled those who wielded it, but he believed elves should only lie with elves, men only with women, and the lands must always be ruled by a firstborn son of our line—married and with at least one heir on the way before they took the throne.
“I wanted none of it. Least of all a queen. ”
“What did you do?” Reardon asked with rapt attention.
Jack leaned his massive head down to him. “I fucked all the stable boys.”
“R-really?” Reardon sputtered, face flushing as scarlet as his doublet.
“Not only the stable boys,” Jack amended. “More so as many men as I could. Out of desire, certainly, but also to spite my father.”
“And—” Reardon reached for the stone wall as if to steady his footing. “—did they want to be taken by their prince?”