Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) (20 page)

“Then we will have to play the waiting game. When you become queen, I will be able to more easily pay social calls to you,” Lady Linnea said. She finished bandaging Gemma’s hand and slipped the tail end of the bandage under one of the wrapped layers.

“Your parents will lock you in your room if you do,” Gemma said.

Lady Linnea gave Gemma a playful grin. “They can try. I will merely have to expand my list of recruits to help me slip out. Sissel has become my newest ally. She is a great help. I am starting to see why you gave your handiwork to those you did. They have come out of the shadows one by one to help me.”

“I am glad,” Gemma smiled.

Lady Linnea picked up her basket of smelly concoctions. “Unfortunately, I need to go.”

“I understand.”

Lady Linnea stared into Gemma’s grey eyes. She placed her free hand on Gemma’s shoulder and pulled her close for a hug. “Be strong, and have courage. I will not abandon you. You can survive this.”

“Thank you,” Gemma said.

“Of course. Take care, until next time,” Lady Linnea winked before adjusting her ill-fitting robe and imperiously knocking on the door.

The door opened, and Lady Linnea slipped out, leaving Gemma alone with her thoughts.

Lady Linnea will move too late. Even if she does attempt to kill King Torgen, he will crush me before she gets the chance to finish him off. King Torgen will ruin me before Lady Linnea can rescue me.

“Lady Linnea is so very valiant…but I don’t think she understands King Torgen’s darkness,” Gemma said, her voice breaking the silence. The thought brought her no comfort, but it stiffened her resolve.

“It’s just as well. I won’t let him break me,” she vowed, straightening a bit of her bandage.

A memory of Stil holding her hands to his face swam through her mind.

“No,” Gemma decided, pushing the thought away.
I refuse to become a silly girl who sighs and grows despondent over matters of the heart
.

“Although I do love him, I think,” Gemma admitted, ever practical.
What was it Grandmother Guri said? To be open to love? Well, I wasn’t. And it still got me in the end—unreasonable heart!

Gemma scowled at the thought. “Well, it’s done,” she said. “There’s no use ruminating over it. I may as well focus on something productive: making King Torgen angry.”

The following morning, the guards opened the door for two lady’s maids, who shrieked when they entered the bedroom.

The wedding dress—which followed royal styles as opposed to civilian styles and was a giant white, puffball of a dress—was ruined. Over night, Gemma had industriously ripped the eyesore to shreds, so no piece bigger than the size of her palm remained.

The pieces were scattered around the room, making it look like a snowstorm had swept through over the course of the night.

Gemma was in the middle of a yawn and was sitting on a padded window seat as opposed to sleeping. “Good morning,” she said with a pleased smile. The lady’s maids said nothing but flounced out of the room in a huff, their skirts billowing behind them.

Gemma smirked at their retreat and turned to look outside, which looked just as dreary as she felt. Today was the day she was to marry King Torgen.

“It’s a shame I haven’t any Starfires,” Gemma muttered as she thought of the oddly changed hellhound. “I imagine a prism shoved down his throat would greatly alter King Torgen as well.”

Chapter 17

All too soon, the lady’s maids returned, armed with another ill-fitting, terribly styled dress. Gemma argued with the lady’s maids that she could be married in what she was wearing, but judging by their tight motions and squeaky voices, they would face consequences if Gemma did not put on the white monstrosity.

Gemma eventually complied, and, as Lady Linnea had said, by noon she found herself in the Ostfold Cathedral.

The church was breathtaking—the entire thing was made with sanded, unstained wood. It was almost triangular in shape, but tiered like a cake. It followed the Verglas tradition of elaborate woodcarvings of reindeer and snowflakes, and the center tower had windows to let in sunlight. The only spot of color—besides the beautiful reds and browns of the wood—was an intricate, circular stained-glass window set above the altar. It was high up the wall so, should the sun happen to shine, it would cast colored light on the church congregation.

The church was packed with nobles and villagers alike. Gemma was certain it was mandatory for all of Ostfold to attend, as those who couldn’t fit in the church were waiting in the streets outside. The citizens were as exuberant for their King’s marriage as they were for a funeral.

Gemma tried to appreciate the beauty of the building, but her stomach heaved when she saw King Torgen staring her down from the far end of the church. She would have turned around and stormed back out of the church, but a team of three guards were escorting her down the church aisle, and Gemma doubted they would let her flee.

King Torgen sneered, his face twisted in its usual ugly and half-mad expression. Prince Toril stood behind him, looking sorry. He glanced at a pew in the middle of the church and, following his gaze, Gemma discovered he was looking to the Lovland family, specifically Lady Linnea.

Lady Linnea wore her public expression of refinement and disdain, but Gemma could see the noble lady was unhappy by the way she clenched her jaw.

Gemma grabbed the heat charm and the magic thimble from where they hung from a white ribbon looped her neck. (It had taken Gemma half an hour to talk the lady’s maids into letting her keep them, but they had insisted Gemma take the charm and thimble off the silver thread and hang them from the ribbon instead.)

The farther they got down the aisle, the more Gemma’s spirits sunk, and the slower she walked. When she was a few lengths from King Torgen, the soldiers had to nudge her to keep her moving.

When Gemma climbed the dais to join King Torgen and the priest, Gemma said, “I don’t want to marry this man,” to the priest.

The priest—an elderly man who was obviously under just as much threat as Gemma—sucked his neck into his shoulders and looked like he wished himself a hundred leagues away.

“Silence, Gemma Kielland,” King Torgen ordered

“Or what, you will kill me? I would much prefer that,” Gemma said.

Guessing by the gasp in the first few pews, her voice was audible to at least some of the attendees.

King Torgen grabbed Gemma’s chin. Unlike Stil’s tender touch, King Torgen gripped Gemma like a snake hinged on prey. He roughly shook her head.

“I can make you plenty wretched without killing you,” King Torgen hissed.

Gemma kicked King Torgen in the shins. He shouted and pushed Gemma backwards. She would have fallen off the dais if the guards hadn’t caught her.

“Restrain her,” King Torgen growled to the guards, who set Gemma on her feet before holding her in place. “Don’t just stand there, begin!” King Torgen said to the poor priest.

The priest cast an anxious look between King Torgen and Gemma. He shook his head.

“You refuse me?” King Torgen said. Gemma couldn’t see his face as he loomed over the priest, but she could hear the promise of death in his voice.

Gemma sighed. “Go ahead,” she said.

The priest, who had shrunk a foot, looked to her.

“I know you cannot help it. Go ahead,” she repeated.

The priest squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “We are gathered here today for a…glorious event and occasion. The wedding of our monarch and this…lovely girl.”

The priest warbled on, but Gemma ignored his words—if she took them in, she would start panicking. She turned around so she didn’t even face the priest and King Torgen—who didn’t seem to care—and peered past her guard escort to get a glimpse of the crowd.

She saw two of the merchants she frequently bought fabric and thread from, Otto—the barkeeper of Sno Hauk—and Mrs. Hagen and her neighbor, Mrs. Nystrom. Besides the Lovlands, there were several other noble families, but no matter how carefully she looked over the crowd, she didn’t find the two faces she was looking for: her parents.

Gemma raised an eyebrow.
That shouldn’t be a surprise
.
They have never bothered themselves with me before. Why should they start now?

But what was surprising was the absence of Grandmother Guri, although Gemma suspected it may be because the old woman did not want to see Gemma wed a crazed tyrant.

“—Do you, Gemma Kielland,” the priest started.

“No,” Gemma said.

The priest hesitated, but continued with his speech when King Torgen glared at him. 

Gemma only half listened when he did. Her heart twisted in her chest as she pictured her dark future. Almost against her will, she reached up and clasped the heat charm and thimble. “Stil,” she whispered, the name seeped with longing.

She really was cursed. She managed to save him—hopefully—but in the end she was still going to end up with an unhappy ending.

It is just as well I rebuffed him. It will make this ever-after easier to accept.

Gemma lifted her chin as the priest started his ending remarks.

“On behalf of this country—civilians and nobility,” the priest said.

This is it.

“It is with…resignation—,”

Unless King Torgen chokes on a fishbone, I am stuck with him—and whatever torture he decrees to try to force me to spin flax into gold.

“That I announce the marriage of our King Torgen—”

Gemma shut her eyes, wishing she could shut up her grieving heart just as easily. Regret knifed through her. Stil’s love—phase or not—was a precious gift. Gemma understood that as she rubbed her magic thimble.

“And pronounce you husband—,”

No
!

“RUMPELSTILTSKIN!” Gemma screamed, the words ripped from her throat and heart without the agreement of her mind. The thimble heated up and chimed like the smallest of goat bells, but the noise was blocked out by the smashing of glass. The gorgeous stained-glass window cracked and broke, raining glass shards like rain.

A figure in a black wool cloak with intricate silver embroidery fell with the glass, landing on the dais with a thump.

The figure stood and tilted its head. “Is your fashion sense sliding, Gemma?” the figure said with a smile. “That dress is hideous.”

Gemma was glued to the ground. “…Stil?”

“You called for me?” Stil asked. His hood was still up, but his easy smile was in place as he bridged the distance between them to kiss Gemma on her cheek.

“You wretch—arrest him!” King Torgen shouted, red with rage.

“Come with me,” Stil said, taking Gemma’s hand. He mowed over the guards who—truth be told—were slow to reach for their weapons, even if they were surprised.

Stil and Gemma ran down the aisle, hurrying for the back door.

As if she could silence herself no longer, Lady Linnea leapt to her feet. “RUN, Gemma!” she shouted.

“Open the doors,” Jentine—Lady Lovland’s lady’s maid—called.

“Run, lass,” Otto echoed, his voice booming in the cathedral. Soon, a number of people stood and shouted encouragement.

King Torgen roared and rampaged down the aisle after Gemma and Stil.

Gemma tripped and almost fell when she glanced over her shoulder and saw her
mother
—using the cane Grandmother Guri usually carried—whack King Torgen on the head so hard, the wood cracked.

“Never. Again!” her mother shouted, still hitting King Torgen. “You won’t get my daughter! This time I’ll stop you!”

Gemma gaped as Stil helped her stand while other villages moved to help Gemma’s mother.

“Don’t stand there like a stork, my girl. Get moving!” Grandmother Guri shouted from inside a pew.

Gemma regained her balance and raced the remaining distance, gripping Stil’s hand.

“Stil, what on earth are we doing?” Gemma said as the doors opened. They had to slow down to pick their way across the icy steps.

“I have a hunch,” Stil said as they cleared the steps and ran across the courtyard. The wind howled and pulled on Gemma’s terrible dress.

“A hunch,” Gemma repeated.

“Yes,” Stil said when they reached the far end of the courtyard. Instead of running into the village to lose the guards, Stil turned around and stood his ground.

“And what hunch would that be?” Gemma asked, her voice was calm with a ring of ire to it.

“That the Snow Queen will care for her own,” Stil said, rummaging through his cloak. “SHINE!” He shouted. At the top of the church tower, a cluster of starfire prisms burst into brilliance, casting as much light as the noon sun.

Up on the lone tower of the castle, another bundle of starfires ignited, glowing like a comet.

At the gate of Ostfold, another bunch of prisms exploded in light. The city glowed like a radiant jewel, lit from the three different points.

As Gemma—and the townsfolk who waiting in the courtyard—gazed slack-jawed at the light, Stil threw a fistful of snowflakes into air. “Spread,” he ordered.

Obeying his order, a gust of wind carried the paper snowflakes into the air. When they disappeared, it started to snow. A snow cloud formed above the city, and a twin cloud formed at the base of the mountains behind the palace—specifically Fresler’s Helm.

The snow started to fall in thick flakes and at a greater pace when King Torgen finally struggled out of the crowd in the cathedral.

“Guards, ARREST THEM! Kill the man!” King Torgen ordered, pointing a finger at Stil and Gemma.

The guards behind King Torgen were motionless.

King Torgen twisted around. “MOVE!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “Or I shall have your families slaughtered for your insolence!”

More guards entered the courtyard, streaming from the palace until they lined the sides of the courtyard.

“Seize them!” King Torgen shouted to the newcomers.

None of the guards moved.

“You refuse? You are traitors! You will all suffer!” King Torgen shouted.

“Guards of Ostfold and Verglas, stand down,” Prince Toril ordered, emerging from the cathedral.

In a well-practiced movement, the guards sheathed their swords or reversed their hold on their spears and jabbed the tips into the ground.

King Torgen whipped around. “You rebel against me, son?” he sneered. “You wouldn’t. You haven’t the strength or the power.”

Prince Toril clenched his jaw and tucked his head.

“You are wrong, My Lord,” Lady Linnea said, joining the prince at the doorway. Her voice was elegant and frosty. “Prince Toril has plenty of power; he has merely exercised
restraint
out of his love for you.”

“You, you have been whispering into his ear,
snake
,” King Torgen said, glaring at Lady Linnea. “I will remember your face!”

“You have gone too far, King Torgen,” Stil said, removing his hood.

Folk gasped and murmured amongst each other, standing on their tip toes to peer past the soldiers and get a glimpse of Stil’s oddly-colored eyes.

“And what claim do
you
have to know this,” King Torgen glared.

“As a craftmage rank Grandmaster, I claim the heritage of the Snow Queen, as all magic users can,” Stil said. “I have seen your land, and I have walked its borders. While the Snow Queen’s magic guards your country, the people have languished under your rule. You kill without restraint and persecute any who displease you or stand against you. But no more.”

“And what can you do to stop me?” King Torgen roared with mad laughter. “You cannot kill me, or you will be hunted like a dog by your fellow mages!” he said in delight.

“I will not have to dirty my hands with your blood,” Stil said, his musical voice ringing across the courtyard. “The Snow Queen will do it for me.”

King Torgen stopped laughing. “What?”

“Did you
really
think she wouldn’t consider that the next threat to Verglas might not come from outside its borders, but from the blood of her own family?” Stil said, a harsh half smile crossing his lips.

“What do you mean?” King Torgen demanded.

“You should have learned from your Snow Queen, King Torgen. You should have known better than to touch the beloved of a
mage
,” Stil said.

“You can do nothing,” King Torgen said. All traces of amusement and laughter were gone, and he glowered like the hellhound or Hunter had, with evil and bitterness.