“Are you asking if I forced myself on them?”
“I-I wouldn’t presume—”
“Rest assured, little prince, it was always mutual want.”
The tension in Reardon eased, but his mind was clearly working through the implications. “Is that what cursed you?”
“You think lying with men could curse a whole kingdom?”
“No! I don’t agree with the teachings of my kingdom that it’s wrong. I can’t , not when I—” Reardon snapped his mouth shut before the truth could escape him.
“Not when you lust for no queen either,” Jack finished.
The tension returned tenfold, Reardon’s blush draining away to leave him pallid. “Am I so obvious?”
“No, but I’ve seen enough. You’re used to hiding yourself.” Jack steeled his gaze on Reardon sharply. “You will not hide from me. If you wish to know me and for me to know you, then you will be as transparent as Zephyr. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, Majesty.” Reardon regained his composure with a stalwart breath. “I did not mean to hide my… wants. I’ve just rarely spoken of them. Barclay is the only one who knows. But you are right. I have no desire for a queen.”
“Then what do you desire?”
Epic tales could have been written with the many thoughts that played behind Reardon’s eyes, his gaze clouded as he considered his answer. “A choice.”
Jack turned back to look upon the landscape beyond them. “So did I.”
“What happened?”
“My father died, and I became king anyway.”
“You changed things then, before the curse? ”
The bitterness that had not dwindled in over two hundred years made Jack’s lips curl. “I certainly did.”
“Is that why you allow such freedoms here? Because you were the same?”
There was no such scorn in Reardon, only the innocence of a youth who’d been hiding all his life. “I allow it because who one loves or lies with shouldn’t matter.”
Reardon smiled, and if Jack had still had doubts about him, all would have been banished in that expression, catching the warmth of the sun in his ruddy cheeks. “I wonder if my father could ever understand that.”
Not if he was anything like Jack’s, but Jack couldn’t imagine this young prince turning out as he had with a cold, brutish figurehead raising him.
“Majesty,” Reardon asked with sudden hesitancy, his eyes falling to the drop-off of the wall, “when you approached other men to… be with, what did you say? How did you win their favor?”
“Besides asking if they wanted a romp in the stables?”
“Surely it wasn’t that easy?” Reardon’s cheeks burned brightly again.
“Sometimes it was. Do you know nothing of wooing, little prince?” Jack asked, knowing the answer, but it still surprised him how virginal those green eyes looked when they blinked at him.
“Isn’t that for women?”
Oh, dear boy.
Reardon was a man, and yet also only on the cusp of manhood, shielded from knowing all he might have asked of the world.
Leaning low once more to bring their faces as close as he dared without risk of unintended touch, Jack dropped his voice low too. “You tell me. Wouldn’t you like to be wooed?”
Reardon dropped his eyes to the stones at their feet. “I… suppose I would.”
“And how would one woo the Emerald Prince?” Jack asked—foolishly, because Reardon’s thoughts could never stray to him when they went distant with reverie.
“I… would want us to understand one another,” he said sweetly, sighing with the first breath of anyone young and yearning to find love, “to have similar wants and goals, similar likes. I would want to be drawn to them as I am a good friend, but with that stir of passion that is impossible to explain.”
“You speak from experience?”
Reardon glanced up fearfully, but then relaxed, as if he had to remind himself that here he could speak openly. “The first man I ever loved… was the worst candidate. Our master of arms. He’s older. Strong, dependable, handsome. But he is the very man who would have seen me to the gates upon my banishment if I were discovered. I could never be free to love him, blue eyes or not.”
“Blue eyes?” Jack repeated.
“Oh, um… it’s nothing.” Reardon’s gaze darted fearfully away again. “He was always there when I needed him, but he also helped me to be self-reliant. He taught me to fight and to stand proud during court like a proper prince. He could weave tales almost as good as a bard, to the point that I often didn’t know if what he told me actually happened or was a legend spun for my amusement.”
“You enjoy stories? I suppose your singing suggests as much.”
“I do, but really, I enjoy the ways people can connect, maybe because I had so few I connected with back home. The people were always wonderful to me, and I tried to be wonderful to them, but what I have with Barclay is unique. It’s difficult to befriend a prince who can’t be honest about who he truly is.” He fidgeted with his hands, mesmerized by the smooth skin that had so recently been burned by ice.
Something startled Reardon then, and he pulled back, looking at Jack in full and at their surroundings.
“I’ve… never told anyone all that. Not even Barclay knows about Lombard.”
Lombard . Jack disliked this “master of arms” immediately, silly as it was to care about Reardon’s infatuations. “Why tell me?”
“You asked . And I promised we would know one another. Isn’t that easier with a connecting thread? We are not so different.”
They were different in all the ways that mattered, because Jack could have been like Reardon, good and wanting to do right by others despite being barred from his heart’s desires, but he chose a selfish path. Reardon reminded him of all he might have become if he’d been better, and although that truth and their similarities might have made Jack hate him, he felt warm in the prince’s presence .
Their eyes locked, sapphire on emerald, and with the wind and the sun and Reardon’s rosy cheeks, he looked far too beautiful and breakable to be standing before a monster that yearned to touch.
Reardon shivered, sharp breath escaping his lips, and Jack reared back, too much mist and power emanating from him.
“Your potion wears thin,” Jack said, drawing up to his full height to turn and head across the ramparts away from Reardon. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”
“But… you didn’t tell me about the curse!”
“Tomorrow,” Jack said again.
Perhaps, once he had, Reardon would see the monster more clearly.
Reardon
Reardon wasn’t sure if the potion really was wearing off. It shouldn’t be. He hadn’t shivered from the cold, after all, just….
The king’s eyes could be so piercing.
So blue .
And he too had been a prince who loved in a way that others saw as wrong.
Well, maybe loved was the wrong word— fucking stable boys . Reardon blushed at the thought. Oh, to have been that bold! He wondered more than ever what the Ice King had looked like when he was human. Josie was breathtaking; surely he was too.
The king headed off along the ramparts to reenter the castle another way, making it clear that he did not wish for Reardon to follow him, so Reardon descended the stairs. When he reached the training yard, most of the crowd had gone, but Nigel and Zephyr remained, talking heatedly about something that they hushed when they saw him.
“Just remember, Spymaster,” Nigel said, loud and snappish, “I can find almost anything funny—but not that .”
Zephyr huffed, crossing milky arms as he floated before Nigel. “Like you’ve never done the same,” he said and poofed away.
Nigel bristled, visibly upset, only to pivot and smile maniacally. He was once again dressed in bright colors with conflicting patterns. “Ignore him. Preferably always. Let’s get out of the cold, shall we?” He swooped forward to take Reardon’s arm and swung him around toward the door. “I didn’t really mean for Oliver to knock your block off, you know. Which he didn’t, thankfully, though Branwen could have done worse. ”
“Thank you again for my hands,” Reardon said.
“Of course! And you can make it up to me. I hear you were unjustly torn from the princess’s side this morning. Did you know she’s rather talented with a lute? Let’s see if we can make a real bard out of you.” He tilted his head up toward Reardon’s cheek and whispered, “But upstage me too much or too often and I will have to destroy you.”
Reardon laughed, feeling rather confident despite his near-miss with Branwen. He’d beaten the fletcher— Oliver —and earned his respect, the Ice King himself had rescued him and conversed with him more than a mere exchange of barbs, and he hadn’t lost any new friends.
He did wonder what had Nigel so upset with Zephyr, though.
Inside the castle, Reardon continued to map the paths he was taken on. Today he traversed even more areas he hadn’t yet been and continued to be impressed by the palace’s size. Nigel took him to a music room packed with instruments and hand-written sheet music. Josie was there, along with several others, including Wynn at a harpsichord with a quill in hand, as if writing music that very moment.
“I see you survived,” Josie greeted with a smile, near the wall with her lute, away from the others, while some had flutes or other stringed instruments, and one had a simple drum.
“Best not tell her what happened,” Nigel mock-whispered.
“Why?” Josie asked slowly.
“So as not to spoil your lovely mood, of course. What are we playing?” Nigel pulled Reardon into the room, releasing him to take up a tambourine.
“Are you a music master too, sir inventor?” Reardon approached Wynn at the harpsichord.
“Our princess is more the master, just you wait, but building….” Wynn patted the side of the harpsichord and then tapped his parchment. “That I can do.”
“You built that? And wrote all this music?” There were shelves of bound pages all around Reardon.
“Not all of it,” Wynn said. “There are stories too from Nigel for when he wants accompaniment. What songs would you hear, Emerald Prince? We learn new ones from every offering. We might know something you’re familiar with.”
“Can all of you sing?” Reardon asked the small gathering of musicians.
“Best if I don’t,” Nigel said .
“Or me,” Josie added, “but a plucked melody I can handle just fine.” She strummed a perfectly tuned chord that lifted Reardon’s spirits further. He missed the times when he and Barclay would simply sing together or when Barclay would play on the old harpsichord in the palace that Reardon’s mother once used.
“Do you know ‘The Ride-Along Bard’ about the traveling minstrel who keeps finding faulty heroes? That one always makes me laugh.” It had been Reardon’s mother’s favorite when he was little and she’d sing by his bedside.
“A classic!” Wynn said, setting his quill aside to straighten on the bench and starting right in on the introduction without needing to change sheet music.
Josie strummed, and the flutes started up, the lone drummer pounding out a beat as Nigel held his tambourine under his arm and clapped along.
Wynn began with a beautiful tenor.
“ There once was a humble bard Setting off to tell the greatest of tales, Seeking heroes and knights in every tavern she fared. She was never short of volunteers .”
He nodded at Reardon to continue, who knew the song well.
“ The first she rode along beside Was a fabled hero of legend, A lady knight besting dragons and beasts, Then besieged by cutthroats and brigands. ”
Wynn joined on the chorus.
“ For no bard is humble, And no hero’s flawless. All that matters is the stories we tell. ”
This time, Wynn nodded for Reardon to start.
“ The next the bard chose as her muse Was a bright young hero who’d vanquished a lord, Freeing peoples and lands from the overlord’s hold, Then he conquered and ruled just the same. ”
Wynn nodded again, adding harmony as Reardon led.
“ She tried a noble king all adored, Hearing praise of peace and riches. Indeed, the king was everything claimed, But he ate his enemies whole.
“ For no bard is humble And no hero’s flawless. All that matters is the stories we tell .”
Reardon motioned for Wynn to take the final verse, and he did, high and true.
“ For years she tried to find a true song That wouldn’t end in heartache and gloom, But all the heroes were lies or had died on their feet, So she drank and lied her way too. ”
They finished strong together.
“ For no bard is humble, And no hero’s flawless. All that matters is the stories we tell.
“ When the dark falls, And swords clash in the night, Strong ale is better than a fight .”
Wynn trilled through several loud ending chords, and Nigel gave an impromptu shake of his tambourine, making everyone laugh. Reardon’s mother had often said it wasn’t a funny tale if one listened closely, but it always got a crowd roaring and made Reardon smile.
He took a seat beside Wynn at the harpsichord. “Can you teach me what you were working on when I came in? ”
They played and sang for nearly an hour more before the door to the music room burst open—to reveal Barclay, looking put out that he hadn’t been invited.
“Now, now, poor slave to our weather wizard,” Nigel exclaimed, “how did you know to escape and join us?”
“Zephyr told me.” Barclay rushed over, squeezing onto the bench with Reardon and Wynn like it was commonplace for the three of them to play together. “I begged Liam to let me leave early for lunch once I finished a few things. What are we singing?”
Reardon noticed a funny look on Nigel’s face that was quickly replaced by a smile.
“Glad you could join us,” Josie said, moving to take a spot in front of the harpsichord, where she smiled at Barclay with all her golden beauty. “Music isn’t the same without you.”
“And there would be no music worth singing without you,” he answered—only to catch himself like he’d said something he shouldn’t, darting his eyes at Reardon. “I-I mean….”
“Shall we try another?” Wynn spoke over him. “How about ‘Moonlit Lovers’?”
If the princess could blush through her golden sheen, she certainly did, and it struck Reardon as suddenly… sad. Barclay had always been a disaster with women, which Reardon said was his fault for being the worst sort of second, but it didn’t surprise him that his friend had found a better voice here.
How unfair, though, for it to be with a woman he couldn’t touch.
“Shouldn’t the bard get a turn?” Nigel blocked their view to Josie by draping his arms over the harpsichord, tossing Wynn some new sheet music to be played with spoken verse, and the merriment played on.
They stayed in the music room for what must have been hours, leading up to lunchtime. When they did finally agree that hunger meant it was time to disperse, Wynn patted Barclay’s shoulder for his lovely additions to their harmonies, and Barclay’s eyes went blank.
A vision.
“Wynn—” Barclay turned to the elf as they stood from the harpsichord. “—there’s an issue with the sewage pump, a faulty valve you need to tend to that might break in a few days. ”
“Good to know! What would we do without you?” Wynn patted his back again.
Reardon wasn’t used to Barclay being able to express his visions without having to think up some elaborate lie for why he knew what he did. Here it was just a part of life.
Josie smiled at Barclay as she floated out of the room after most of the others had gone, his eyes following her the entire way, until they reached Reardon watching him.
“What?” Barclay startled.
Reardon could have brought up the princess but decided to be kind. “It’s just wonderful seeing you so carefree about your visions. These people are remarkable.” He looked to Wynn, last to leave, waiting for them at the door.
“They are,” Barclay agreed, “but it’s not only that. My visions here are usually… smaller. In Emerald, I could encounter people from all over the kingdom, and it always felt so big. We’re like a small village in the castle. The future is filled with simpler things, like faulty sewage valves.” He chuckled. “It’s only the past sometimes that reminds me what everyone here has been through.”
“Like you,” Reardon said, gripping his friend’s arm.
“And you,” Barclay returned. They had all been shunned for things they couldn’t change. Then Barclay looked at where they were connected. “Did you want to know more—”
“ No .” Reardon let go. He never wanted Barclay to think the only reason he touched him was for a peek at the future. “I mean… did you see more?”
“Nothing new.”
“Then no. I’m finding my way here.” Reardon gestured toward Wynn so they wouldn’t keep him waiting. “I’m going to stay on this path without doubting where it leads. Starting with telling the truth.”
Jack
Jack had watched it all like the day before, following Reardon as soon as he returned indoors, from the music room to lunch afterward, where Oliver and his wife joined the friends Reardon had made.
The prince’s secret was out, not only because he’d had to be truthful with Jack, but because he chose to confess to his new companions too. As he explained what he had in common with many of the denizens of the castle, others turned to listen, and the darkness in Reardon’s eyes gradually lifted, finally free of their burden. He was acclimating quickly and being welcomed faster than few ever had.
But he was not meant to stay. If all Reardon wanted from his time here came to fruition, he would return to his own kingdom someday, not become part of Jack’s. That truth drained the warmth Jack had felt outside, reminding him of his own eternal chill.
He lost track of time watching Reardon until darkness fell, when he retreated to his rooms. He’d managed to avoid Josie, ducking away whenever he heard her coming—especially after she learned the full scope of events in the training yard.
“Jack!” She pounded on his door. He couldn’t hide any longer after the sun set. “What were you thinking? He might have been killed!”
Jack stood in his private chambers, a place no one else had been since the curse was cast, not even his sister. “All ended well. Leave me be.”
“They ended well, but they might not have,” she called more softly. “Do not tempt fate. You know how accidents haunt us.”
“Everyone I’ve frozen has earned it.”
“But the same cannot be said for all of us.”
Jack closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to put Branwen in that position, or to remind Josie of events that haunted her. He didn’t know any longer what he wished to accomplish with Reardon. He’d been consistently surprised by him. Maybe Reardon could convince his kingdom to change, go home and make a new world of the Emerald Kingdom. Jack’s own kingdom would stop growing then, and perhaps some of his people would leave, at least to visit, if not return to their old homes for good.
That would be the only happy end any of them could hope for, yet it filled Jack with an ache to imagine all he knew coming to an end. To lose any part of this home he’d built, to lose any of its people, even Reardon, who’d only been here for a few days….
“Jack,” Josie called again, very soft now, defeated on the other side of his door.
“I won’t endanger him again. He’ll only do that himself. No more tests. But the two weeks stand. I’ve been wrong before.”
“What is it about him that has you so vexed?”
If only Jack knew… .
He did know, he supposed. It was everything about Reardon, including what they had in common.
“Please, Jack, talk to me. Let me see you.” A faint thud sounded at the door, as if she’d pressed her palm there.
“Tomorrow,” Jack said, not turning or making any move toward his door.
She did not plead again, knowing he wouldn’t budge. Eventually, her silence gave way to the soft padding of retreating feet.
Jack’s mind swirled with all he’d discovered of Reardon and all he’d seen. His love of stories. His voice. Jack used to spin tales too, for the sheer joy of weaving prose.
Now he drifted toward his writing desk, covered in neatly stacked parchment that he hadn’t touched in ages. Carefully, he sat and picked up his quill, allowing the words to flow.
The noble prince went on his quest To become a greater king Than those before who’d shamed their lands And bards denied to sing.
He traveled far to learn abroad How other kings reigned just But for all he found who’d earned their crowns Men made beasts ruled thus.
He pitied one such beast To turn him from his ways In hopes that tenderness might win And pierce the heart that strayed.
Hearts made of ice aren’t made for melting But the prince did burn so bright That he reached the wayward beastly king And found him in the night.
Lips and hands and hearts did touch Knowing pleasures lost before And the prince did reach the king at last As the beast became no more.
Jack crumpled the parchment and chucked it across the room, angry at himself for writing something so… juvenile. He was no bard, and he shouldn’t be a dreamer.
There was no end to his curse, least of all through a hapless fairy tale.