Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) (12 page)

“Why?”

“So you can inspect the goods!”

Gemma almost choked on shock. “He’s a magic user. The man must be fifty if he’s a day!” she declared.

“Ah, but he is a mage, not an enchanter. Mages are done with their schooling sooner and don’t live as long. There’s a chance he’s young and handsome!” Grandmother Guri cackled.

“Grandmother.”

“It’s best to keep your options open.”

“Mages fancy mages. They leave us normal folk out of it—thank the heavens. Such courtships must be utterly
bizarre
.”

“And you make this judgment based on…?” Grandmother Guri asked, removing a mitten to unhook a small sack of nuts tied to her belt.

“My interactions with Stil. He follows the most strange and complicated rules of magic that I have ever heard of,” Gemma said. “He will spin enough gold to purchase a manor, and do it in exchange for one gold ring. He lends me an expensive charmed ruby but asks for a trade for a
thimble
.”

“He is a bit unstable,” Grandmother Guri said. “So what will you do?”

“About?”

“About the King and this spinning. I assume this mage cannot be at your beck and call forever. Eventually you will have to leave, or King Torgen will discover the truth.”

“I have hopes that eventually I will talk the King into allowing me to spin without guards posted, and I can escape then.”

“You cannot talk the King into anything, my girl,” Grandmother Guri said, looking in the direction of the palace.

“Yes, but if he wants the gold badly enough, he will do what I ask,” Gemma said.

“Bartering with the crazed is like baiting a rabid bear,” Grandmother Guri warned.

“What else can I do?” Gemma asked.

“There aren’t many alternatives,” Grandmother Guri admitted. “But if you flee, you cannot stay in Ostfold.”

“No,” Gemma agreed.

“Nor can you stay in Verglas.”

“No,” Gemma repeated.

“Does that bother you?” Grandmother Guri asked.

“A little. I love Verglas. While I would enjoy seeing other countries, I cannot fathom a time when I would not think of Verglas as my home.”

“It is a wild, magical country. But you can carry it in your heart, and Verglas will always you welcome back—whether you stay here forever or you are gone for fifty years. Leave if you must, my girl,” Grandmother Guri said.

“If I flee, I will leave everyone I love.”

Grandmother Guri was silent for a long time. Gemma knew better than to disturb the woman while she thought, and she waited patiently for the reply.

“Escape,” Grandmother Guri finally said. “It’s your best chance. You’re a smart girl; I’m sure you’ll make friends wherever you go. And you might not be alone.”

“You think Lady Linnea would go with me?” Gemma asked.

Before Grandmother Guri could reply, Jo-Jo wandered up to the pair. She sneezed on them both before shaking her hand, smacking Gemma with her ears.

“You darned goat!” Grandmother Guri shouted.

Jo-Jo pranced away, evading Grandmother Guri’s cane.

Gemma almost fell over in an effort to also avoid Grandmother Guri’s flailing.

“Miss Kielland?”

“Yes?” Gemma said, as she looked up at Foss.

“We should probably return to the palace.”

“Yes. Thank you, Foss,” Gemma said before she stood up and dusted herself off.

“Help an old lady up,” Grandmother Guri said as she started to haul herself to her feet.

Gemma rushed to help her. When Grandmother Guri was safe and adjusting her clothes, Gemma folded the blanket, stowed it in the saddle bags, and retrieved the mischievous Jo-Jo.

“Thank you,” Grandmother Guri said, taking the goat’s lead when Gemma brought her back.

Gemma nodded and stooped over to hug the older woman. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

“And I have missed you. Take care, my girl. Send word when you can,” she said, kissing Gemma’s cheek before releasing her.

Gemma nodded. “Of course. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, child.”

Gemma thought she was getting used to a life of imprisonment and a murky lifespan. But her heart clenched tight in her chest as she forced herself to walk away, leaving Grandmother Guri behind as a bright spot on the lakeshore.

Chapter 10

Stil adjusted the fall of his worn cape on his shoulders as he cautiously poked through the forest. The border Verglas shared with Kozlovka was just ahead, but there was no sign of the hellhound, nightmare, or the rider.

Stil looked back at the setting sun. “I should further investigate tomorrow in daylight,” he said, taking another step forward. “But I don’t think a quick look will hurt.”

It was risky to spy out the enemy’s movement at sunset when the rider moved only at night. Some might even say it was stupid, but the threat couldn’t be too imminent. It was unlikely the rider was still around.

Stil chuckled as he pictured what Gemma would do if she knew the risk he was taking.

She wouldn’t say anything, just give him that look that said she questioned his intelligence and arch her expressive eyebrows at him.

“Ahh, yes. Gemma,” Stil said.
I have no idea what I’m going to do about her
.

Stil had decided to help her when he first heard that someone had brought news to the king about her father’s drunken utterances. Stil had a feeling it was the weasel-like thug he silenced at the tavern fight. Feeling partially responsible, and with Angelique’s lecture about responsibility beating in his head, Stil knew he had to help her.

He just hadn’t expected her to be so…
self-sacrificing
and
vibrant
.

Most would say Gemma wasn’t an expressive girl. She generally kept her mouth shut and usually spoke words that were as prickly as a thistle.

Stil disagreed.

She’s expressive alright. But it’s in her eyes—the way they shift from ice when she’s upset to sapphires when she’s happy
, he thought.

And that didn’t even touch on her noble character. Who would escape certain death only to turn around and go back because they realized they would cause the death of those who served as their wardens?

No one.

No one, except Gemma.

Feeling the need to speak it out loud, as though making it final, Stil said, “Leaving her is no longer an option.”

It was then Stil realized he had left Verglas while musing over the seamstress. He whirled around, taking in the bare trees and the lack of the Verglas pines and firs.

Uttering an oath under his breath, he ran back in the direction from which he had come, cursing his stupidity.

There was a snarl, and the hellhound leapt in front of Stil, cutting him off.

“Fire,” Stil said, throwing a red feather in the beast’s face. The feather exploded into an inferno of fire, forcing the hellhound backwards.

The beast whipped its head and howled as Stil ran north.

The nightmare answered the hellhound with a snort, bursting out of murky darkness with its flaming eyes.

Stil slipped his hunting knife out from under his cloak as he ran parallel to the nightmare and its rider. “Sorry,” Stil said to a tree, his hand scraping the rough bark. “Cleave,” he said before slicing the knife straight through trunks of several trees.

The nightmare shrieked angrily and lunged to get out of the way.

Stil took the opportunity to start running east, back into Verglas.

The hellhound was back, snarling and panting on Stil’s heels. “Of course you always find me in the wild. Not in the city where I could use the very ground against you,” he said, flicking a ribbon from under his cloak. “Bind,” he said, throwing the ribbon at the animal. The ribbon wrapped around the beast’s snout, muzzling it as though it were made of iron. The hellhound scratched at it and tried to flex its mouth, but the ribbon held. Stil reached under his cloak and popped out the only real weapon he had—a metal bar roughly the length and thickness of his forearm. “
Cudere
!” he shouted, throwing it into the air. Stil jumped aside to dodge the nightmare and was almost shot by the rider, who loaded another bolt into his crossbow.

Still muzzled, the hellhound leapt for Stil—claws extended—just as Stil’s weapon came slicing downwards, glowing as metal grew and extended, forming a double tipped spear taller than Stil. One tip had metal wings at the base of the spearhead. The other end had a curved blade that was sharp on only one edge; the other edge was covered by decorative metal work and gems.

Stil caught it, bringing it up just in time to guard against the black claws, although he was driven back by the force.

“Blaze!” Stil said. The spear erupted in light, temporarily blinding the mongrel. Stil whirled the spear over his head and shoved the curved end out behind him. He countered another arrow—which made the weapon flash like lightning when it was struck.

The hellhound and the nightmare shrieked, and Stil ran.

Where is it
?
I couldn’t have walked too far into Kozlovka
! Stil thought as he ran, ducking just in time to avoid an arrow.

Stil almost drooped in relief when he spotted a pine tree. He had to be getting close! He planted his feet and, using his momentum, spun. He slid his spear across his left arm and braced it with his right. He landed a direct blow to the hellhound’s head, knocking the creature to the ground but failing to draw any blood.

Stil cursed and ran again. Being a craftmage, he hadn’t trained much for fights. That failing was painfully obvious to him as the cold air stung his lungs while he sprinted.

Stil grabbed a leaf while on the run and used his magic to shape it into a snowflake. “Home,” he said. The snowflake glowed, and forty feet away, an opalescent line shot through the ground. He was almost there.

The nightmare screamed somewhere behind him. He swung, releasing his spear, which sliced through the air with glittering edges.

The nightmare swung so the rider could block it with his short sword, but the loss of the weapon lightened Stil and let him sprint unhindered.

He closed the distance between himself and the Verglas border as the rider spurred his mount on, catching up.

Still almost took an arrow to the shoulder, but he darted to the side just in time.

He was so close!

The nightmare jumped, closing the gap.

“Go bother a war mage!” Stil shouted as he threw himself across the border.

The nightmare skid to a stop, shrieking as the Snow Queen’s power exploded into an icy wall of sharp, glittering ice shards.

Stil panted and peeled himself off the ground, rubbing the sore shoulder he landed on.

On the other side of the frosted wall, the nightmare screamed and the hellhound howled.

Stil groaned and shook his head to clear his sight and mind. “That was fair stupid of me,” he admitted, taking inventory of his body as he stood.

He was going to be stiff the following day, but there were no injuries.

The nightmare snorted, having traveled a few feet down the border to peer around the ice shield.

The rider shot his loaded crossbow, but the arrow was blocked by ice that shot out of the ground and snapped around the weapon with frigid jaws.

“
Cudere
,” Stil called, forcing his arm up. His double-ended spear trembled for a moment before it whirled through the air, as if thrown. It easily broke through the ice wall, sending a cascade of ice shards everywhere. Stil caught the weapon and twirled it once to rid it of ice flecks before he brandished it at the rider.

He toed the border line and took a swipe at the nightmare with the curved tip. The beast barely avoided it and screamed in anger as it backed up.

Stil waggled the weapon at the rider. “Well?” he said.

The nightmare snorted as the rider lowered the crossbow. The rider turned the animal and road off into the inky darkness, the hellhound following them.

Stil backed farther into Verglas and shook his head. “I have no idea what any of this is about,” he sighed.

Lady Linnea grunted as she swung her leg over the palace wall, dropping into the small area above Gemma’s cell. “Gemma, I have got news for you. Sissel just about took down Malfrid when Malfrid…Gemma?” Lady Linnea said, kneeling down to press her face against the window grate and peer inside.

Gemma was not in her cell.

“Is she out walking?” Lady Linnea wondered, fixing the shawl she had tied over her blonde hair. “No, her cape is here, and the mittens I brought her. They can’t have moved her, or she would have taken her things…” Lady Linnea trailed off, her heart crawling into her throat.

Where was Gemma?

Had King Torgen called for her? Had he figured out how she got the gold thread and beheaded her?

“Gemma,” Lady Linnea hissed into the empty cell.

There was no response.

Her heart pounding, Lady Linnea scrambled to stand up.

What happened to Gemma? Where was she? How could she find out?

Lady Linnea franticly climbed the wall and flew into palace, looking for the one person who could help her. She needed to find Toril.

“What is it?” Prince Toril said, skidding into the palace gardens. He was half undressed, wearing only black knee-length trousers, a linen shirt, knee-high socks, and buckled shoes in the cold, biting air. Clearly he was in the middle of something when he received Lady Linnea’s panicked message via a servant.

“Gemma is gone!” Lady Linnea said.

“What?”

“Your father must have done something. She isn’t in her cell!”

“The guards occasionally take her for walks; she’s probably out on one right now,” Prince Toril said, the wind ruffling his hair.

“NO!” Lady Linnea said. “Her cape and that black, wool thing she’s been working on are still in her cell. If she were outside or set free, she wouldn’t have left them behind. She’s gone!”

Toril exhaled and set his shoulders before looked decisively to Lady Linnea. “Come,” he said, offering his hand.

Lady Linnea took it and the pair ran indoors, a pleasant change from the raging winds. Prince Toril led Lady Linnea through the hallways at a quick, ground-covering walk.

Several times, the pair ran into servants who watched with wide eyes but said nothing as their future monarch and the beautiful Lady Linnea—almost all the palace servants recognized her on sight now as the girl Prince Toril occasionally snuck out to see—marched through the palace.

They reached the dungeon stairs and clattered down them, leaving the light, airy architecture of the palace and swapping it for the oppressive dungeons.

When they were almost to the base of the stairs, Lady Linnea cut in front of Prince Toril to take the lead. She jumped down the last two steps, her heart beating frantically, when she recognized the sound of…Gemma’s laughter.

Lady Linnea and Prince Toril poked their heads around the corner.

In the middle of the dungeon aisle, lounging on cushions and crowded around a table that was barely a foot off the ground, were Gemma and three guards.

“Considering you were the one who wanted to teach her how to play, Captain, you’re doing terrible,” one of the guards said.

“It’s four cards for each person, right?” Gemma asked, dealing cards.

“Yes,” the guard captain, recognizable by his uniform, sighed. “If you and Skoglund win another trick, that will put you in the majority, and you’ve won the game. I hope it’s not boring you?”