Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) (21 page)

“We shall see,” Stil said, his cloak billowing in the raging wind of the snowstorm. He raised a hand into the air and shouted over the wind.

“I, mage Rumpelstiltskin—Grandmaster craftmage—speak a vow to protect Gemma Kielland, civilian of Ostfold, whose very
life
is in danger through the actions of King Torgen,” Stil shouted. “Gemma Kielland is the love of my life and the light in my soul. And I will put forth every bit of my magic to shield and protect her, whether the cost be my life or limbs, until my heart beats its last!” Stil shouted.

As he spoke, a mountain—Fresler’s Helm—started to rumble. In the palace, the windows of the throne room started to frost over, and the second, beautiful throne started to glow.

“My vow begins
now
, as she has been abused, threatened, and blackmailed, in her own homeland—the place that should be a safe haven!” Stil said, his voice like a trumpet in the rage of the storm.

The snow shifted from soft and fluffy to stinging bits of ice as the wind howled and swirled.

“I will have you
killed
!” King Torgen yelled.

Stil shook his head, his blue eyes hypnotic. “No, you won’t,” he said.

The ground of the courtyard frosted over, and ice formed on King Torgen’s boots.

“Wha-what?” King Torgen said, tottering several steps to shake the ice off. “What villainy are you doing? Black magic is not tolerated in Verglas! This will be your end! You will die for attacking a monarch!”

“I am doing nothing, Oh King,” Stil said, his expression hard.

King Torgen looked down and shouted in fright when he realized his boots were iced over. He tried to move, but he was frozen to the ground. He twisted, his feverish eyes searching. “Toril, help me, son! Save me!”

“You have wrought your future. It is time you faced the consequences, Father,” Toril said, his voice pained. “I am sorry, if I had stopped you sooner…”

“YOU WRETCH!” King Torgen shouted as the ice crawled up his legs. “You ungrateful fiend! I should have cast you out—no, I should have culled you when I knew what a sop you were! Help me, I order it!”

Some folk shielded their eyes; others clamped their hands over their ears as the protective ice magic left behind by the Snow Queen spread on King Torgen, freezing him and clamping him into place.

“You cannot do this. I AM KING!” King Torgen shouted.

“Not anymore,” Stil said.

“NO!” King Torgen shouted, before the ice encased his face, and he was frozen solid, a statue of ice.

Gemma stared at the ice husk of King Torgen. Sheer stubbornness kept her from collapsing on her knees, as many civilians, nobles, and even guards, did.

Instead, Gemma looked to Stil, her icy eyes wide.

“It had to be done, Gemma,” Stil said, moving to slide his arms around her.

“Did it?” Gemma asked.

Stil tipped his head until their foreheads touched. “As much as it pains me to ever see a life taken, yes. Most people are good. But there are some so twisted and dark that they will never see the light again.”

“Like King Torgen,” Gemma said.

“Like King Torgen,” Stil agreed. “Eventually, he would have destroyed Verglas.”

“I know,” Gemma whispered. “And I hated him. But…he loved his wife.”

“You can be happy, and relieved, and still pity him,” Stil said, brushing Gemma’s cheek with warm fingers. “It’s one of the things I love about you. You will dislike a person, but your heart still breaks for them. I treasure that.”

“Thank you for coming back for me,” Gemma said.

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry for all the…unfeeling things I said.”

“You were trying to protect yourself. Besides, I know you are worth fighting for,” Stil said, sliding his cheek against hers so the exhale of his rich chuckle tickled Gemma’s ear.

“Stil, I…”

“Yes?”

Gemma swallowed. She had to tell Stil. She
owed
it to him! “I—,”

“I knew it!”

Gemma blinked and turned her head, disengaging from Stil’s touch. “What?” she said to Lady Linnea, the interrupter.

Stil groaned and dropped his head into Gemma’s shoulder where he growled for a moment.

“I
knew
your lover was helping you!” Lady Linnea said with a smug smile.

“But he is a mage,” Gemma said.

“He is still your lover!” Lady Linnea said, folding her arms across her chest and squinting at Stil, who still had his head buried in the puffy fabric on Gemma’s shoulder. “I guess he’ll do.”

“You
guess
? After what he just did?” Gemma asked, surprised by Lady Linnea’s begrudging appraisal.

“Yes, he does make a good presentation. But he seems like a whiner,” Lady Linnea said.

Stil finally pulled his head from Gemma’s shoulder and tilted his head to touch Gemma’s as he addressed Lady Linnea. “Do you have any idea how I have fought for her?”

“Do you really think I
happened
to interrupt?” Lady Linnea asked.

“I’ve never been fond of nobility,” Stil said.

“And I’ve never liked mages,” Lady Linnea said.

“Stop it. Both of you,” Gemma said. “My Lady, I don’t understand the sudden dislike. You were rooting for my supposed lover since the first night of spinning.”

“That was before I knew he was a mage,” Lady Linnea said.

“But I told you!” Gemma said at the same time Stil said, “So?”

“As a
mage
, he is sure to hustle you away and rip you from Verglas—and from me,” Lady Linnea said, turning her sad, blue eyes to Gemma.

Gemma stepped out of Stil’s arms so she could embrace Lady Linnea. “No matter our futures, My Lady, you will be a companion of my heart,” she said, her voice fierce. “I will
always
care for you.”

Lady Linnea sniffed. “And I will always care for you.”

Stil politely looked away as the two girls cried and smiled together.

“I suppose you won’t go away forever. You love this frozen wasteland too much,” Lady Linnea wryly smiled as she wiped a tear away.

“I do,” Gemma admitted. She lifted her gaze to look to Prince Toril, who was standing in front of the ice statue that was his father. His expression was filled with regret and sadness. “I wonder what will happen next.”

“He will need help,” Lady Linnea said.

“What he needs is an army of scholars to fill that empty mind of his,” Stil said.

“You are sinking even further in my esteem, craftmage,” Lady Linnea tightly said.

Gemma placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Can’t you aid him?”

“I want to see the world, Gemma.”

“But if he asked, would you sacrifice it all?” Gemma asked.

Lady Linnea looked back to the crestfallen prince. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said. She squared her shoulders and crossed the courtyard. “Long live King Toril,” Linnea called. Her voice was strong in a sea of whispers and uncertainty.

Toril twisted around, his eyes wide in surprise.

“Long live King Toril,” Linnea repeated.

“Long Live King Toril!” some of the civilians shouted with her.

People began to clap; guards banged their spears on the ground in a solid beat, and the nobles gave sweeping bows and curtseys to their new monarch.

“She is
quite
smitten with him,” Stil observed.

“Painfully so,” Gemma agreed, barely audible above the cheers and shouts of the crowd as Verglas welcomed its new King.

Chapter 18

By the time night fell, both much and little had changed.

Dispatch riders were sent out to inform all of Verglas; Gemma was able to change into one of her dresses—courtesy of Grandmother Guri who delivered the dark blue dress to her at the palace—and everyone had acknowledged, in as few words as possible, that they were overjoyed with King Torgen’s passing.

The unexpected problem was who would rule.

“It’s out of the question,” Gemma said, fussing with her cloak. (Servants caught her trying to sneak out after changing and hauled her back into the palace.)

“It is not,” Prince Toril said. “My Father meant to marry you, and he very nearly did. It is within your rights to be the ruler of Verglas. I will step aside for you.”

Gemma pushed her reclaimed snow-blue hair-band up her forehead. “My Lord—My Lords,” she said, adjusting her stance so she addressed Prince Toril and the various lords and statesmen rallied around him. “It is an inappropriate idea,” she said, catching sight of Stil at the very back of the throne room. “I never actually married King Torgen, nor did I want to. I am not royal, and I am not learned. I am a seamstress, not a monarch.”

“But you—,” Prince Toril started.

“I have on good authority that Prince Toril is capable as a leader, and I hold him in the highest esteem,” Gemma said. “As heir to the throne, it is Prince Toril who should rule Verglas.”

Prince Toril’s expression was pinched. “My father wronged you, Miss Kielland. I wish to correct it.”

“I do
not
need a kingdom to make up for a few uncomfortable weeks,” Gemma wryly said. “It would only make it worse.”

“I could marry you,” Prince Toril said.

“
What
?” Stil said in the back of the room, which promptly dropped several degrees.

Annoyed by the prince’s thickheaded actions, Gemma flattened her eyebrows, disgruntled.
He’s trying, I suppose, in his own, bumbling way. Linnea better teach him better, or he is going to be swindled by every country surrounding us
.

“My Lord,” Gemma firmly said. “
Nothing
about that arrangement would please either of us.”

“Is there anything I can give you?” Prince Toril argued. “If not a crown, perhaps gold? We have quite a bit now…since…you…spun it,” Prince Toril said, crestfallen as he made the connection.

Gemma’s lips quirked in an amused curve. “Gold is a silly thing, My Lord. It is easily spent or lost and can bring forth the darkness in people. It is a person’s actions that have real value. If you wish to make amends for your father’s reign, I ask that you would reinstate the market in the Ostfold village square and allow the ambassadors to return to their foreign posts.”

Prince Toril looked relieved. “I shall do that,” he agreed.

Gemma almost felt bad about the request—the prince probably didn’t know or realize Lady Linnea was the daughter of the ambassador to Loire—but she owed it to Linnea to open the door for her.

“Thank you, My Lord. If that is all?” Gemma said, curtsying.

“It is. Thank you, Miss Kielland.”

Gemma curtseyed again before she fled.

Still followed her out of the throne room and was quiet as Gemma soaked in the sanctuary of the poorly-lit hallway.

“What will you do next?” Stil asked.

“I don’t know,” Gemma said, struggling to stay upright in a world swiftly changing. The idea of returning to Lovland manor was not pleasing after her exit from it, though she knew Lady Linnea and Lady Lovland would welcome her back.

She would
not
return to her parents’ mill, even though her mother had helped her earlier, it wouldn’t be wise. Her heart was softened enough to mend her relationship with her mother, but living with her would undo all her newfound good will. Perhaps she could stay with Grandmother Guri?

“If you like, you could stay with Angelique and me in my camp, for tonight at least,” Stil said, edging up behind Gemma.

Gemma smiled at the craftmage. “That would be nice,” she admitted, before frowning. “Angelique? She’s here?”

“Yes. I managed to call her back. She is why we were able to arrive in time,” Stil admitted, extending his hand.

“Pegasus?” Gemma said, hesitating before she took Stil’s hand and allowed him to lead her.

“Yes. I owe her for more than that, though. She summoned up the snow storm—I could never have done it without her. I wanted to get the Snow Queen’s magic riled, and the fastest way I know of is to add to the ice and snow in this country.”

“Were the starfires a signal to her?”

“Yes. I had her stationed at the base of Fresler’s Helm. Communicating with her would not be easy with all I needed to do.”

“Who started the starfires at the palace and city gate?”

“They said their names were Rudd and Børres,” Stil said as they strolled down the corridors of the palace.

Servants wove around them, carrying letters, documents, books, or food. Gemma had a feeling they weren’t supposed to let random citizens wander the halls, but after the public spectacle Stil put on with King Torgen, it was unlikely anyone in Ostfold didn’t recognize Gemma—even without the hideous dress.

“Ah, yes,” Gemma said, a fond smile flickering on her face. “My dungeon guards.”

“It seems your sense of sacrifice has earned you a few friends,” Stil said, leading the way outside.

When the brisk wind hit her, Gemma shivered and let go of Stil’s hand to pull her cloak closer.

“This way,” Stil called, trudging through the snow, moving towards Lake Sno.

“How is your shoulder?” Gemma asked.

“It’s fine. It aches a little, but it will pass. Angelique used some of her healing magic on me before we left for Ostfold,” Stil said. “Although that does remind me,” he said, pointing to the forest.

Standing at the edge of the forest was the white lupine with black paws and black facial markings. When the canine saw Gemma, its curled tail wagged.

“It followed you?” Gemma asked.

“No, it followed you. It was already here, sniffing outside the palace walls when we arrived this morning,” Stil confirmed.

“But it is a hellhound, and it crossed the border?” Gemma said, observing the creature.

“Whatever it is, it’s not a hellhound anymore,” Stil said. “It glows like a firefly in the middle of the night.”

“Do you think it was the starfire it swallowed?” Gemma asked. “And when it passes through its system, it will go back to being a hellhound?”

“No. Whatever you did was permanent. I haven’t seen a creature like it—and neither has Angelique. Hellhounds are exclusively used by practitioners of dark magic. By claiming it with light, you have forged a new kind of canine,” Stil said as they hiked past the creature.

Gemma hesitated before she wriggled her fingers at the dog.

The white furred animal happily yipped and broke away from the trees, its tail twirling wildly as it followed Gemma and Stil.

Stil and Gemma walked the shores of Lake Snow—the unusual dog following them. When they rounded a bend of the lake, Gemma saw the familiar tent and donkey waiting.

Angelique was outside, leading a bare-backed Pegasus, who gleamed like the patches of night sky that could be seen through breaks in the clouds.

“Gemma,” Angelique said, a smile blooming on her lovely face. “I am so glad you are safe.”

“As am I. Thank you for all you have done to help me.”

Angelique laughed. “It was no trouble at all. It was a pleasure, actually. It is relieving to deliver happiness in a time like this,” she said, patting her mount.

“Pricker Patch? When did he get here?” Stil asked, rubbing the donkey’s face.

“Not over an hour ago. He was quite unhappy and put out. I don’t think he appreciated being left behind,” Angelique said.

“He couldn’t have possibly kept up with Pegasus, and we left him with a farmer who promised to feed him. One would have thought it was the ideal situation for such a disagreeable animal,” Stil said as the donkey—to Gemma’s shock—tilted his head forward the tiniest degree to lean into Stil’s hand.

“Perhaps,” Angelique said. She glanced between Stil and Gemma before adding, “If you will excuse me, I need to set Pegasus loose for the night. He needs to stretch.”

“Certainly,” Gemma said, slightly confused by Angelique’s language. “Enjoy?”

The enchantress raised her hand in acknowledgment and walked off, leading Pegasus away from the camp.

“Let’s get out of this wind,” Stil said, giving Pricker Patch a final scratch before motioning to the tent. Gemma followed him in, nearly tripping when the white lupine dove in front of her to wriggle its way inside.

“You…,” Gemma said to the dog.

The white canine gave Gemma a doggy smile and scampered behind a settee. He poked his head out from behind it, his triangular ears pricked.

“Leave him. He’ll be fine,” Stil said, taking off his cape. His hair was short, and his clothes were unusually plain—black boots with tan cotton pants and a loose, royal blue shirt.

“Are you sure? He is a wild animal. He—,”

“Gemma.”

Gemma slowly raised her eyes to meet Stil’s gaze.

“We need to talk,” the craftmage said.

“Yes,” Gemma agreed, shedding her cape.

“Why didn’t you run?”

“Why?” Gemma repeated.

“Yes.”

Gemma pursed her lips. “I tried to run. Servants tracked me down and dragged me back. I think Lady Linnea underestimates Prince—excuse me—King Toril’s backbone—,”

“That’s not what I meant,” Stil said, his voice patient as he spoke over her. “I was referring to the rider, and to when the soldiers found us. I told you to run.”

Gemma sat in a settee and felt awkward.
Why do I feel awkward? I know he loves me. I should tell him that I lov—no, maybe not
.

“Gemma,” Stil said, crouching down in front of her.

The look in Stil’s uniquely beautiful eyes tore the words from Gemma’s mouth. “Because I love you,” she hiccupped.

Stil and Gemma stared at each other, both a little shocked.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” Gemma said, sliding down the settee and moving across the room.

“You didn’t mean to say it, or you didn’t mean it?” Stil asked, gliding after Gemma with an infuriating amount of elegance.

“Let’s make matters simple and pretend I didn’t say it,” Gemma said.

“No,” Stil said.

Gemma sighed. “I didn’t run from the rider because I couldn’t leave you like that. When I finally got my head on straight, I realized that we were so busy
countering
him that we weren’t bothering to take advantage of his greatest weakness,” Gemma said. “Although, I did not know the light would have such an effect on the hellhound,” she added, glancing at the white lupine sniffing her shoes.

“I can understand that. You thought to use something I see as only a trinket as an ultimate weapon. Well done,” Stil said. “So, about love.”

“As for the soldiers, it made the most sense. Obviously,” Gemma stiffly said.

“So, about love,” Stil repeated.

Gemma strode back to the settee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I find it amusing that a hellhound, a mad king, and the threat of death won’t make you bat an eye, but mentioning love makes you lose your eternal serenity.”

Gemma narrowed icy eyes at Stil. “I am perfectly fine—STOP IT,” she barked when Stil reached out to touch her cheek.

Stil’s lips quirked in the slightest smile. “Gemma,” he said, his voice gentle. “You can trust me. I’m not going to let you go. That is not to say that I will not disappoint you in the future or make you glare at me frequently, but I will never stop loving you.”

“You can’t know that,” Gemma said.

“Do you ever wonder if your Lady Linnea will stop your friendship?” Stil asked.

“No.”

“How am I any different from her?”

“Would you like me to list the differences alphabetically or numerically?”

“No, I mean—what is different about her that would have you readily believe her love?”

“I can’t think of anything,” Gemma admitted.

“Then why won’t you believe me?”

“It just doesn’t seem possible…or plausible.”

“Why? You are an incredible woman.”

“You’re a mage, wealthy, and handsome, and I—,”

Stil held up a hand. “Wait, you think I’m handsome?”

Gemma paused. “I…”

“So you
did
notice my stylish hair and charming good looks. I was starting to grow worried,” Stil preened.

“Stylish is a broad term.”

“Why are you even fighting this?”

“Because you already have the ego of a peacock.”

“No, no, not my stunning looks—”

“I never said stunning.”