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Once upon a time, in the land of Birkenshire, there lived a prince named Mickey. Out of all of King Terrance’s children, Mickey was the most vicious. He yelled the loudest. He kicked the hardest. He terrified the servants in the castle.
On the morning of Prince Mickey’s twenty-first birthday, he dined in the grand hall with his father. King Terrance called to him over a decadent spread of cinnamon cakes and citrus fruits. “The kingdom is impatient for your announcement. Tell me who you’ve chosen as your bride.”
Mickey was an arrogant son and had a sharp tongue. “I’ve chosen to marry Felix.”
“Your mother’s cat?”
“We’ll be very happy together lapping milk in the courtyard.”
This would not do. King Terrance desired most of all for the next generation to be as blackhearted as he was. If anyone were to carry on the royal reign of terror, it would be a child with Mickey’s blood.
The king called for his advisors. “Salem! Apex! Winston! My son refuses to choose a bride. What can be done?”
The advisors checked their sacred scrolls, the ones written generations ago and to whom all kings must answer. Salem, the tallest advisor, adjusted her glasses. “The prince must leave the castle. He shall spend six months in the village and will find a suitable spouse there. They will return together. She’ll wear a crown of roses to signify that she has been chosen, and they will be wed.”
King Terrance agreed. “You will leave tonight. Return as soon as you have chosen.”
Prince Mickey glowered, but he knew that the scrolls were the law of the land.
And so, on the evening of his birthday, the prince mounted a black horse. He rode across the moat. He ventured toward the village of Birkenshire to mingle with commoners for the first time in his life.
Prince Mickey didn’t like the village.
He didn’t like the drab colors the commoners wore. He didn’t like the flavor of the salted beef at the market. He didn’t like the uneven mattress at the inn.
Even worse, none of the maidens sparked his fancy. Not the weavers who raked flax and adorned him with linens. Not the cobbler’s daughters. Not even the painted ladies who called to him from the shadows of the village square.
After weeks of searching, he knew he’d never find a bride. He vowed to return to the castle so he could refuse his father. There was not a single person Mickey wanted to marry. He would rule just as well without the distraction of a queen.
With his mind made up, Prince Mickey gathered his belongings and mounted his horse. On the road back to the castle, he smelled pumpernickel bread more fragrant than anything he’d experienced in the village so far. He followed the smell to a baker’s shop on the edge of the town.
“I must have a loaf of this bread before I go.” The prince tied up his steed and pushed through the door.
Inside the shop, flour billowed through the air. Children with fiery red hair played a pan flute and danced. A teenager tossed seeds to grackles. The shiny birds perched on their shoulders as if this were a regular occurrence.
Every single person laughed.
Prince Mickey had never seen such a mess. “What is the meaning of this?” He’d never seen people so joyfully working at mundane tasks.
A tall man around Mickey’s age pounded dough with powerful fists. “What can we get you? One of my sister’s rhubarb pies? Some cinnamon cookies my brother made this morning?” His hair was reddest of all, and freckles dotted his cheeks and collarbone.
“You’re siblings?”
“Our father owns the shop, but he’s never here.” The man dusted his hands off on his apron.
The family carried on their cooking and kneading and playing and singing as if Mickey were a commoner. No submissive bows. No offers of free food. The joy and mirth in the shop mesmerized the prince.
Mickey bought a warm pumpernickel loaf. He left the hut, dazed, still picturing the light flour on the baker’s son’s arm hairs.
The prince grabbed the reins of his horse and walked. At the crossroads, he turned left toward town. He wouldn’t return to the castle that night.
Prince Mickey visited the bakery every day. He learned the names of all the baker’s children, from Fiona the oldest down to Liam who liked to dip his pinky into each pot of batter.
But his favorite of all the family was Ian.
Ian wore loose-fitting tunics that showed off a spray of chest hair. Ian taught him to play rummy with a deck of well-worn cards. Never once did Ian acknowledge that Mickey was a prince, because the baker’s son treated everyone like royalty.
Mickey often walked with Ian through the village. They’d dance playfully. They’d sip mead from a leather flask.
Late at night, in Mickey’s uneven bed at the inn, Ian showed him things he thought men could only do with ladies.
Mickey quickly realized that he loved Ian, and he never wanted to go a day without him. Mickey hadn’t wanted to kick a single person since he met Ian. The knots of anger disappeared from his gut. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to care for another person’s well-being above his own. He hadn’t been taught this love in the castle.
The prince propped up his elbow as the two of them lay on the inn terrace and watched the stars. “I shall have you as my spouse,” he said. “Come home with me. I’ll present you wearing the crown of roses as a symbol that you are mine.”
Ian accepted with an excited nod and a searing kiss.
The prince brought Ian to the castle. The baker’s son wore the crown of roses and his finest leather boots. They walked over the drawbridge arm in arm. Prince Mickey had never felt more proud or more at ease.
King Terrance met them at the gate. His face soured when he saw the crown, the piece meant to be worn by his son’s betrothed. He ripped the crown off Ian's head and threw it to the ground. “Who is this?” he bellowed.
Prince Mickey smiled widely. “This is Ian Gallagher of Birkenshire, and I shall have him as my husband.”
The king’s eyes grew black as coal. His teeth clenched hard enough to crack chestnuts. He screamed for his royal advisors.
“Salem! Apex! Winston! Tell my son that the person he marries must be a woman. That no prince of mine can have a boy for a bride.” For the king needed vicious heirs, and a man could not birth those.
The advisors murmured. They opened the archival scrolls. They peered through their delicate lenses. The shortest advisor, Apex, cleared her throat. “It appears, my lord, that there is no provision stating that the bride must be a … well, a bride.”
The king’s face reddened. He smashed a ceramic vase. He pummeled the courtyard pillar so hard the trellises shook.
Apex tightened her scroll. “As long as Master Ian passes the Ternary Trials, he is clear to marry the prince.”
A grin crept across the king’s face.
“Of course.” He smoothed his robes. “Son, who am I to stand in the way of … ahem … true love. Meet me at the parapet at daybreak tomorrow. I’ll present the first of Ian’s three trials, as is tradition.”
That night, Prince Mickey walked Ian to the guest chambers in the south wing of the castle.
Ian was prepared to face whatever challenges were thrown his way. “Three trials? What will I have to do?”
“It’s nothing. A breeze. When my brother Igor got married, his bride had to sew a button on a vest. Cook a rice pudding. They’re mere symbols, trifling tasks to satisfy the accords.”
But Prince Mickey had seen the hatred in his father’s eyes. He’d seen the equal amount of delight once his father had made up his mind.
Mickey sensed that the trials might not be trifling after all.
Daybreak arrived, and the villagers gathered inside the castle’s main courtyard.
King Terrance stood at the parapet, facing them wearing his heavy mink coat. Once the bugles and applause died down, he waved his hands. “We are honored to announce that Prince Mickey has chosen a betrothed. While we begin preparations for the royal wedding, we shall issue the first of three challenges that his fiancé must face.”
The king waved his hand toward the castle’s reflecting pool, which had been covered by a giant tapestry. “Ian of Birkenshire, son of Francis the Baker, are you ready to face your task?”
Four suited horsemen carried the tapestry away, revealing the rectangular shape of the reflecting pool beneath. Only, the pool had been drained and was filled with shimmering white stones. Villagers in the crowd oohed with delight.
“A lone diamond sits among this sea of quartz. By the time the clock strikes six this evening, you shall find the diamond among the stones. Present the diamond to me, and the first challenge will be complete.”
Mickey fumed. “This is absurd. Joseph’s wife only had to light a candle with flint and steel.”
“The accords state that there must be three challenges. There are no restrictions on what those challenges can be. The king gets to set the challenges, and this is my choice.”
Ian scratched his chin. He was determined to find a solution. His marriage to Prince Mickey depended on it.
By the afternoon, Ian had pored over engineering books and mechanical journals. He’d consulted well-builders about buoyancy and alchemists about the density of stone.
He was no closer to the answer. It would take weeks to comb through all of that quartz one piece at a time.
Ian ventured into the village. He knocked on the door of the hut at the end of darkest lane in Birkenshire.
Delwyn the witch opened the door and looked down her crooked nose. “Tell me what you want, baker boy, and be quick.”
“I need your help to win a challenge. So I can marry my true love.”
“You know I am an enchantress. I can’t make potions. I can’t summon things out of thin air. I can only cast spells on existing objects.”
Ian knew this and had come prepared. "If I give you my father’s sieve, will you enchant it? Instead of sifting flour, I want it to sift quartz. Make it so that no diamond can pass through its holes.”
Delwyn was a spiteful sort and enjoyed tormenting anyone who came to call. “Every spell has a price.”
Ian knew she didn’t mean money. “If you can make the sieve as wide as an eagle’s wings, I’m prepared to pay.”
The witch gnashed her teeth with glee. She consulted her spell book. “The price for such a sieve is steep. I must have … your first born child.”
Ian very nearly smiled but kept his composure. He knew he would never have a child. His marriage to the prince would be a barren one. “You have a deal.”
He stepped into her private chamber and signed her parchment in blood.
The witch cast her ingredients into the fire, the sticky spines of a carnivorous plant and the delicate strands of fairy wings. She made a thick smoke that swirled inside her hut.
She waved the sieve through the smoke, chanting and writhing. The sieve grew and grew until it was two meters wide and its holes were the size of marbles. The edges glowed with violet sparks.
She exhaled deeply and handed the sieve to Ian. “It will only work for a matter of hours, so be swift.”
Ian rode to the castle with his giant sieve strapped to his back.
He fled to the reflecting pool. He scooped into the sea of shining rock. He muscled through the pile of stones with a grunt. After an hour of sifting, only one tiny stone remained, unable to pass through the holes.
Ian grabbed the diamond and held it above his head.
The advisor Apex proclaimed, “Master Ian has passed the first trial.”
The king sulked.
Mickey smiled.
The prince bedded Ian of Birkenshire that night with the joy of triumph on both their lips.
On the second day, the King stood at the parapet in his velvet gown. He pulled a scroll from the folds of the fabric. “Today, Ian the baker’s son must perform a task to prove his musical prowess. As you all know, the queen has been bedridden with distemper for seven months. Your task, Ian, is to create music that will make her dance.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “By the time the clock strikes six, my wife must be out of bed, on her feet, and dancing.”
The villagers gasped. The queen had been visited by all the wisest healers in the land, and none could make her stand.
Prince Mickey stormed close to his father. “You ask the impossible.”
But Ian merely nodded. He’d gotten help from the witch at hardly any cost, and he could do so again. He didn’t let the king see his smile as he fled the palace grounds.
When Ian arrived at the witch’s hut, she was more surly than she had been the day before. “You tricked me. You’re marrying the prince. You promised a child that you knew would never come. I will take no pity on you now.”
“Please. I need another spell. I brought this pan flute. Can you enchant it to move the near-dead? To puppet a person like a marionette with its notes?”
The witch’s straw hair billowed with her anger. “I can. But can you pay the price?” She consulted her guidebook. “The price for this enchantment is your sense of smell.”
“My smell?”
“You’ll no longer smell your father’s fresh-baked bread. You won’t smell your house if it burns. You won’t be able to tell how badly you reek after a hard day’s work.”
Ian scoffed. “The most useless of the senses. A small price to pay.” He stepped into her chamber and signed a new document in blood.
So the witch snatched the pan flute from his hand. She mixed spores of cordyceps fungus with droplets of ginkgo extract. She coated the flute and placed it into a burlap sack. “Wait one hour for full potency. Aim the end of the flute toward the person you want to control. Each note controls a different part of their body. I will get my payment this time.”
Ian waited an hour. He ran straight to the queen’s bedchambers. He made sure King Terrance was there, that Prince Mickey was there, that the advisors were there.
He aimed the flute at the sleeping queen and played a lively jig. As he played low notes, her arms began to stir. With the middle notes, her toes began to tap. As he hit the highest notes, her head snapped up. With eyes closed and mouth open, she slid from the bed. Her body lumbered along with the beat. She spun. She kicked. She swayed.
The queen’s movements were an inelegant farce, but her body indeed danced.
The king shouted. “Enough. This is an abomination. Surely this can’t count as a dance.”
The advisors murmured. Salem raised an eyebrow. “Ian of Birkenshire created music, and the queen indeed danced. Trial two is a success.”
Ian enjoyed his victory, but he felt a tickle inside his nose, like sands falling from an hourglass.
When Ian bedded the prince that night, he couldn’t smell the sweet nectar of Mickey’s skin. He couldn’t taste the saltiness of his sweat. When they kissed, Mickey’s tongue wasn’t ripe with wine.
The prince saw his lover’s sadness. “Who has done this to you? Why can’t you smell?”
“The witch Delwyn. It’s the price I had to pay. You’re worth it. We’re worth it.” For Ian was a stubborn man who put other people’s needs before his own.
The prince did not like this at all. He refused to let Ian suffer, and he vowed to protect him. “You’ve given too much. That woman will take nothing else from you.”
The day of the third trial came. King Terrance stood at the balcony in his full formal regalia — purple robes and his golden crown. “Ian the baker’s son has proven to be very capable indeed. He has found the diamond among the quartz. He has made the queen dance. Today he will face his most difficult challenge.”
The king pointed west. “You know of the island in the middle of Linwood Lake. A single persimmon tree blooms on that island, and the fruit is now at its peak. Master Ian must stand at the shore of the lake and shoot a lone arrow. This arrow must travel to the tree and pierce a persimmon.”
Prince Mickey once again protested. “That lake is a kilometer across. The head of the royal army couldn’t make that shot.”
The king shrugged and walked away, filled with delicious pride at his scheme.
Mickey turned to his betrothed. “My father is punishing us. Point the royal bow toward him and pierce his heart instead.”
Ian stayed calm. “We’ll find a way.”
“You can’t go to the witch again. What will she ask this time? One of your legs? You’ve given too much.”
Ian went to the witch anyway.
Delwyn stood in her doorway with a satisfied smirk. “Do you smell it? The cold in the air? The jasmine flowers blossoming down in the valley? Ah, but of course you don’t. Your smell has faded, and mine is twice as sweet.”
Ian couldn’t be dissuaded by her taunts. “I need one more spell.”
“Have you not had enough? You’ve lost an entire sense, yet you come back for more?”
A black bird perched on his shoulder. “I need you to enchant this grackle. Let it be charmed to do my bidding, only for today.”
“Enchantment of animals carries my steepest price.”
Mickey kicked the door open wider. “He won’t pay it. But I will.”
The witch was delighted at the sight of the prince. She could finally extract the essence of royalty. She wasted no time. She took Mickey to her private chamber and made him sign with his blood.
As the witch brewed her delicate blend of ginseng and mustard seed, Ian paced. His positive attitude turned to dread. “What have you promised, Mickey? What will she take from you?”
“You’ve sacrificed for me, and now it’s my turn to do the same. Trust that whatever the price, I’m happy to pay.”
Delwyn offered the bird to Ian, its feathers shimmering like a slick of oil. “She will do one task and one task only.” Then, to Mickey. “I’ll see you again soon.”
Ian traveled to the edge of Linwood Lake. The afternoon sun shone brightly through the trees on the opposite bank. The royal court lined the shore, anxious to see if he could perform this final task.
King Terrance could not hide his smugness. “My squire has boated to the island and waits by the persimmon tree. If you succeed, he will sound the trumpet.”
Ian aimed the bow. The grackle sat on his shoulder.
He let the arrow fly.
Ian breathed out a prayer that the aim would be true. That the witch’s magic would stay strong. That Mickey’s price would not be too steep.
The arrow arced across the sky. As it turned downward, the grackle swooped in and took the projectile in its mouth. The bird carried the wooden shaft far over the water and out of Ian’s view.
After a tortuous silence, the sound of the trumpet blasted out.
Ian had pierced the fruit. They’d conquered all of the king’s trials. Mickey could be his forever.
The humblest advisor, Winston, cleared her throat. “Ian of the pierced persimmon, of the animated queen, of the sifted quartz. You have conquered the Ternary Trials, and you shall wed the prince.”
Ian turned to his beloved. “You still have both legs. That’s a good sign.” But his heart sank as he realized that Mickey wasn’t celebrating.
The prince wore a small frown. He talked quietly. “Ian … I’ve promised Delwyn the air from my lungs.”
“You absolute dolt. Let her take mine instead. I’m not royalty. You’re too important to the kingdom.”
But the prince shook his head. “You healed me of my bitterness. You’ve shown me more days of happiness than I could ever imagine. I would pay anything to prove to my father that you can truly be mine, even if only for a moment.”
Mickey sank to his knees, awaiting his destiny.
A swirl of leaves and branches rose beside them, and the witch appeared. A single tear fell on her cheek. “You love this baker so much that you are willing to die on this day. You would give your soul so that he could succeed. Yours is not a fleeting love. It is not a love I see every day nor every decade.”
She raised her crooked finger and hovered it near Mickey’s chest. “I said I’d take your breath.” She pulled her hand away. “I didn’t say when.”
The witch disappeared into a cloud of dust.
And Prince Mickey continued to breathe.
On the eve of King Ian’s one hundredth birthday, he lay in a feather bed by a crackling fireplace.
He was not alone in the tower. He was surrounded by his adopted children and his grandchildren. Outside the window, the village held watch, grateful for the era of peace their two kings had offered all these years.
King Mickey knelt by the bed, holding his beloved’s hand. The gray hairs on Ian’s arm reminded him of the dusting of flour from the day they met. Mickey loved his husband as much on this day as he had in the beginning.
Ian looked around the room, and with a gentle sigh, he passed away.
The children and grandchildren cried, but Mickey didn’t succumb to sadness.
He walked to the tower window. He whispered to the wind, “It is time.”
Delwyn the witch materialized in the room. She looked as young as ever, for she had made many a deal with a demon and would live several lifetimes.
She nodded at King Mickey. He nodded in return.
The witch pressed a hand to Mickey’s chest. He felt a tightness, as if his breath was being held. But this air inside his lungs would be his last.
Prince Mickey stumbled to the bed. He curled next to Ian.
He released his final breath with his love by his side.