Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) (14 page)

Gemma was quiet for a time. “You are serious.”

“Deathly so.”

“I never knew—I don’t think anyone in Verglas knows.”

“It’s excusable. All of Verglas has been occupied dancing to the tune of your mad, crazed king.”

Gemma shook her head.

“And it’s not all bad,” Stil continued. “A prince of Loire was cursed for three or so years. He broke it not quite two years ago, which is fortuitous because Loire has been instrumental in cracking down on any sort of darkness. Erlauf is about to crown a new queen, and she’s brilliant. With her at the head of the country and her husband in the army, they will squash the goblin uprisings.”

“What you aren’t saying is that the world is in great upheaval, and you are forced to go at this alone as a result,” Gemma said.

Stil shrugged. “The rider is strongest at night. It wouldn’t be untrue to say light is his weakness—he won’t move in it, anyway, and he and his animals fear it. He can’t get into Verglas, but somehow he’s still tracking me. I have tried moving from one end of Verglas to the other, and he waits for me on the border. I know it may sound like traveling with me will be more dangerous than if you were to move alone, but as long as we are in Verglas, it will be fine.”

“Sir Mage,” Gemma said, her voice tight with pain. “The point is I will have to
leave
Verglas.”

“I can get you to a border and hide you better and in more comfort. One of my companions should arrive soon to aid us. I’ve received word that she has recently resurfaced in the southern kingdoms.”

She
? Gemma raised her eyebrows at the pronoun and the soft smile Stil wore.
The last thing I need is to get involved in a mage’s love affair
.

“So, we will flee together,” Stil concluded.

“Who is this rider who chases you?” Gemma asked.

“I don’t think ‘who’ is the right word. He’s not human. The rider is…” the mage was quiet for a moment, his expression tight. “The rider is darkness wrapped around death. He hasn’t a soul—he’s too evil for that. There is nothing human-like about him except for the shape of his body. He’s the worst nightmare you can imagine, and his darkness is the kind that tempts people to do evil things. He is hatred, and he hungers for bloodshed and the agony of others.”

Gemma’s throat closed at the description.

Stil wasn’t being chased by a lightweight, evil sorcerer. He had a creature of darkness on his trail.

A few minutes passed before Gemma was able to summon a safer subject to discuss.

“Do you intend to go hooded the whole time? We’ll be in trouble if you take it off—I’ll never be able to find you again,” she dryly said.

Stil tilted his head.

“Being that I have no idea what you look like,” Gemma said.

“Oh,” Stil said. “I apologize; I had forgotten. I’ve been going hooded to avoid King Torgen’s attention.”

“Are you famous?” Gemma asked.

Stil hesitated. “Yes, I suppose,” he said, before flipping off his hood.

Gemma worked hard to keep her mask of indifference in place. Stil was a handsome as stories told round the campfire made royal princes out to be. His nose—matching his fine lips and chin—was long and slender, setting off his high cheekbones and flawless skin. His eyes were a dynamic spattering of blue—the same color as the sky with circles of royal blue slicing through to the center.

His hair was blue-black—like a night sky. The front was feathered but the back was long and silky, pulled into a low ponytail that disappeared into his cloak.

To be frank, Stil was the most handsome man Gemma had seen—and she had caught a glimpse of the famed Arcainian princes! She knew magic users were supposed to better looking than the general population, but this was ridiculous!

“Hm,” Gemma said.

“Hm? That is all you have to say,” Stil frowned.

“Were you expecting a scream of horror?”

“No,” Stil said. “It’s only—well, I know I’m nothing compared to an enchanter, but most find me attractive.”

“Tsk,” Gemma said, turning her back to the craftmage. “When do we leave?”

Stil sighed and muttered under his breath.

“You do not want to travel in the dead of night, but the closer we get to dawn, the easier it will be for King Torgen to find us,” Gemma said, peering out of a glass window.

“We need to wait until after midnight. Even if King Torgen does not have guards posted, I imagine he will personally watch the tower for some time,” Stil said.

“You think he will have missed your arrival?” Gemma asked.

Stil smiled, and Gemma could see that his eyes gleamed and crinkled with the gesture. “After the way I arrived the first time you had to complete this impossible task, do you really think I can’t move without being seen?”

“True,” Gemma shrugged. She looked past Stil to eye the spinning machine. “But if we are going to run, why do you spin?”

“Distraction. When King Torgen sees how much gold is present, he will forget about you for a while—I imagine,” Stil said, adding more fibers to the distaff.

“You cannot possibly spin it all.”

“No, and I won’t. But I can get enough done to be a proper distraction,” Stil said. “Although I will still need a payment.”

Gemma glanced at the wool cape she had worked on since the second night Stil saved her. It wasn’t finished yet. She couldn’t give it to him. “I don’t have any gold. I have a few dull weapons—hand axes and the like.”

“Hmm,” Stil said, rubbing his chin as he thought.

His scrutiny was a little more uncomfortable to bear now that Gemma could see his uncommonly handsome face fixed on her.

“Perhaps…” Stil said, strolling to her side.

“Yes?” Gemma said, turning away from the window.

Stil smiled widely. “How about your firstborn child?” he said, speaking slowly, like a cat rubbing against furniture.

Gemma stopped thinking altogether. ‘What?” she asked, slumping against the tower wall.

Stil planted a hand on either side of her head, boxing her in. “Your firstborn child will be mine,” Stil said, the words coming more confidently this time.

Gemma raised an eyebrow. “That is quite a hefty raise in price.”

“Supply and demand,” Stil winked.

Gemma shrugged. “Deal.”

Stil dropped his hands and blinked in surprise. “You agree so easily?”

“I don’t plan to have children.”

“I see.”

“Does that cancel out the negotiation?”

“No. It will be my own fault if I never collect my payment,” Stil said, flipping his ponytail over his shoulder. “Just see that you remember it as well,” he warned, his cloak swirling around him as he returned to the spinning wheel.

“Of course.”

“You’ll need to remove the…items you carry under your clothes,” Still called over his shoulder. “We will be moving swiftly, and I’m not certain how well you can sprint with a hand axe secured somewhere in your skirt.”

“I suppose so,” Gemma said.

“If you need something to stow your goods in, I have a bag I can lend you. That cloak won’t do either, but we’ll have to wait until we reach my camp to give you a different one. I haven’t any on me at the moment.”

“I’m fine,” Gemma said.

Stil snorted. “You are as fine as a winter pony heading to the desert. You need to be better equipped.”

“Your prices are too high for me to accept anything,” Gemma said. “I will not give you a second- and third-born child for a cape and a bag.”

“Don’t be silly,” Stil said. “The first one is the only one I should need to make you promise for.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, giving you things—like bags and capes—doesn’t involve my magic, so there is no need to trade,” Stil said, tossing Gemma a silk, drawstring bag roughly the size of her hand.

“I’m going to need a bigger bag,” she said.

“That one should fit all of your things. It’s charmed—like my tent.”

“You are speaking in riddles tonight.”

“Try putting things inside it, and you’ll see what I mean,” Stil said, grabbing a length of flax and adding it to the spinning wheel’s distaff.

Gemma rolled up the sleeve of her brown Lovland uniform—which had seen better days after weeks of living in a dungeon—and slid out the dull butter-knife that was hooked on her cuff.

She dropped the knife into the silk bag, and was surprised when the knife—which was taller than the bag was long—disappeared inside.

“See? Charmed. So where are you hiding the axe?” Stil asked with a sly smirk. He tilted his head and swept his eyes up and down Gemma’s body with interest.

Gemma ignored the question and circled behind a flax pile to finish disarming herself without being gawked at.

In addition to the useful items Lady Linnea had passed off to Gemma, Gemma was able to fit her thread, needles, and the wool cape inside the silk bag, which remained the size of a handbag.

“Our plan is this,” Stil said when Gemma finished exploring the depths of her borrowed bag. “Tonight, we will try to make for my camp. I’ve been hanging around Ostfold, but my camp is a four- or five-hour journey south. Ideally, we should reach it shortly after dawn.”

“What do we do when the soldiers come for us?” Gemma asked.

“Oh, they won’t be able to break inside,” Stil grinned. “Every scrap of my camp is charmed. They won’t see our quarters. They’ll just see a cloth tent and move on. It works a little like the silk bag.”

“So that’s what you meant when you said you could hide me in comfort.”

“Exactly. The trip there will be difficult in the darkness and falling snow, but once we reach camp, we consider can ourselves fortified and slowly make our way south. Any questions?”

“No.”

“Objections?”

“Are you sure you want to do this with me?” Gemma asked.

“I’m certain,” Stil said, giving Gemma a soft smile. “We have a few hours before we should leave. I suggest you get some rest. I’ll see to the spinning.”

Gemma shifted, uncomfortable with leaving the mage to do just about everything.

“If you aren’t feeling sleepy, we could always play the question game,” Stil teasingly added.

“I will sleep,” Gemma said, walking off. She paused midstride to turn around and add, “Thank you, Stil.”

Stil inclined his head in acknowledgment.

Gemma took the silk bag and her cape and chose a flax pile far away from the spinning wheel to nestle into. She didn’t think she could sleep even if she wanted to, but as she watched Stil wet more flax, her eyes slowly shut, and she drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 12

“Gemma,” Stil said, gently nudging her.

“Hm,” Gemma said, rubbing her crusty eyes.

“It’s time.”

Gemma woke up quickly, her eyes wide as she tried to place where she was. “We can leave?”

Stil nodded. “Yes. Do you still have the heat charm?”

“Yes,” Gemma said, struggling out of the flax pile in which she was nestled.

Stil had done a heroic job of spinning the flax. Gemma’s flax pile was one of only two full stacks left—although there had been packets of fibers spread throughout the room.

“Keep it—slip it in your mittens,” Stil said, tossing Gemma the mittens Lady Linnea had given her.

Gemma untangled the threaded charm from her neck and slipped it in her mitten—along with the thimble she had yet to use. She finished fastening her cloak, picked up her silk bag, and met Stil by the door.

She took one last glance of the sorrowful tower, taking in the impressive spindle of gold thread.

“Ready?” Stil asked. In his hand, he held some sort of glowing prism.

“Yes,” Gemma said. She was sorry she couldn’t send word to Lady Linnea and Grandmother Guri, but they would understand.

“Here we go,” Stil said, flipping his shabby hood up.

Gemma didn’t see what Stil did to open the door—he blocked her view with his body—but the door clanked, and the wind sucked it open, nearly tearing it off its hinges.

The snow had stopped playing around and was pelting the ground, covering it in a layer of white as tall as the length of Gemma’s hand.

“So you really love this
beautiful
country, huh?” Stil shouted over the howling gusts. He struggled against the wind to close the door when Gemma followed him out.

“You’ll see in the morning,” Gemma shouted, snowflakes stinging her cheeks. She had to pull her cape against her to keep it from streaming straight behind her.

The wind howled like a ravenous wolf as Stil led Gemma east—away from Lake Sno and behind the royal palace. They moved at a staggering walk, which was an uncomfortably slow pace for a person fleeing for her life. Gemma tried to walk quickly, but the wind pulled on her clothes and tossed her like she was a corn husk.

“At least we need not worry about our tracks,” Stil said, turning to look behind them. By the light of the prism, Gemma could see that any footprints they made were almost instantly erased by the whirling wind and snow.

Gemma squinted up at Stil and didn’t reply, fighting to keep her balance.

“It will get better when we leave Ostfold behind,” Stil said, gesturing to the sleeping city. “The woods are more sheltered.”

They passed the palace and walked south, through empty farm fields, moving parallel to the capital.

It wasn’t until they staggered through the farmland surrounding Ostfold that they were able to slip into a dark forest.

Stil was right: the wind was partially blocked by the great trees, but the same trees cast sinister shadows and groaned ominously as Stil and Gemma walked past—moving briskly.

“Did you hear that?” Gemma asked, looking behind. Her heart beat faster ever since they left the tower, but at the sound of a howl, it stopped all together.

“It’s the trees. No one at the palace has discovered your disappearance. They won’t be up for a few hours. Come on,” Stil said, tugging Gemma forward by the hand and holding his prism light out.

They walked through the dark forest and the occasional blustery meadow for what felt like hours.

Gemma’s face was numb, and her feet were blocks of ice—in spite of the heat charm—when they stumbled out of the dark forest and into a field.

The sun was up. Dawn hadn’t reached them in the forest, but in the field, the pink horizon made the snow smoothed across the ground glow and sparkle like fine fabric.

The howling wind was gone, replaced by a playful breeze that kicked up bits of snow and made the flakes glitter. Fir trees, pines, and bare oaks shielded the meadow, bringing in spots of green and brown. Birds sang and perched on a sorry-looking tent and a sleepy donkey.

“This is it,” Stil said. “My camp.”

“I see,” Gemma said, her voice monotone.

The tent—which was tattered and looked like it was on the verge of collapsing—was tucked behind a bare campfire that had no wood to stock it.

Gemma hoped the tent was, as Stil had promised, like her silk bag and had hidden depths, or she would march off alone—danger or not.

The donkey was picketed to the ground. His fuzzy coat was puffed, making him resemble a yak more than an equine. He was big for a donkey—the size of a small horse—and when he caught sight of Gemma and Stil, he brayed and stamped his hooves.

“That’s Pricker Patch,” Stil said. “Be careful with him. He nearly bit my arm off once when I told him he looked ridiculous.”

Gemma tilted her head to study the donkey as they drew closer. “He looks sensible.”

Stil snorted, sweeping snow away from the tent with his cloak. “Sensibly ferocious. I keep him to guard the camp and carry things, not for company. This way. Let’s get out of the cold,” Stil said, lifting the tent flap. The inside was the same as the outside—ratty and worn. Stil frowned and let the tent flap fall back into place.

“Is the inside of the tent magically heated?” Gemma asked as Stil opened the tent again—revealing the same thread-bare innards.

“What? No. A normal fire does the job,” Stil said, closing the tent flap. He cleared his throat. “I’m home, you finicky thing. Stop playing games and open up,” he said before smacking a side of the tent.

Gemma winced, fearing it would collapse under the abuse, but when Stil lifted the tent flap, it opened up into a large parlor. It contained a marble fireplace with a cheerfully crackling fire, two padded settees, two arm chairs, piles of cushions, and a short table not more than two feet high that held a silver tea set.

“Sorry, someone must have been creeping around here—it was guarding itself. We can check Pricker Patch’s teeth later to find out if he ate the intruder,” Stil said, stepping aside so Gemma could enter first.

Gemma hesitantly crawled through the narrow opening, into the elegant room. She winced when she set her snow covered feet on the immense, red, patterned rug that covered the ground.

Stil’s tastes were perfectly expressed by the room.

The wood on the settees and the armchairs, as well as the legs of the table, were ornately carved and stained such a deep, rich brown-red color they glowed. The walls were some sort of plaster, but there were moldings where it met the plaster ceiling and the wooden floor.

Gold candlesticks, welded to resemble unfurling vines and flowers, were bolted to wall. They held bee’s wax candles that scented the air with sweet honey.

Gold-leafed instruments, a tapestry, and paintings hung from the wall. Even the frames were of the highest quality.

As Gemma looked around the room with big eyes, she realized Stil hadn’t been thoughtlessly bemoaning the loss of great craftsmanship. And he was obviously an extremely talented, well-paid craftmage.

“Home at last,” Stil said, thoughtlessly trekking snow across his costly carpet and dumping his cloak and belongings on one of the fine settees. “What’s wrong?” he asked Gemma as he kicked off his boots.

Gemma gripped her borrowed silk bag that held the wool cape she was making for the craftmage. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

Stil smiled as he combed his silky black hair with his fingers. “Thank you. With my vocation, you think I would be sick of looking at crafted goods and merchandise, but I’ve learned it’s important to stock my place with the best. It feeds my soul,” he said, groaning when he stretched his arms above his head. “You must be an ice block. Come. You’ll want to use the bath, I assume,” Stil said, leading the way through a great door.

“The what?” Gemma asked, carefully shedding her footwear and cloak at the door before trailing after Stil. She stopped at the threshold of the room the craftmage had entered.

The bathroom was just as beautiful and over-the-top as the parlor.

The bathtub was immense. Gemma suspected Pricker Patch—if he could be goaded into going down on his knees—could comfortably bathe in it. There were gold, brocade curtains that could be pulled around the tub for privacy, a
chandelier
, several gold-framed mirrors, a well-padded arm chair, and two white vanities accented with gold.

An iron grid was built above a fire. The grid was laden with rocks, which the flickering flames licked, heating the rocks.

“Spend as long as you want,” Stil said, pulling a rope. To Gemma’s astonishment, part of the ceiling pulled down, and water rushed from it, filling the tub. “I have business I must attend to in the rest of the house. When you’re finished, go back to the parlor—there will be tea and refreshments waiting for you,” Stil said, releasing the rope—cutting off the water—and using a pair of tongs to remove stones from the fire. He dropped them into the tub—making steam hiss whenever a rock hit the water.

“I’ll find something for you to wear—you must be sick of your uniform by now—and leave it by the door, but here is a robe and towels. Explore. Use anything you want here. I don’t know what I have, sorry,” Stil said.

“Thank you,” Gemma said.

Stil smiled and pushed Gemma’s hair-band—which had fallen low over her eyebrows—up with two fingers. “Of course. I will leave you to it. You look dead on your feet. Enjoy,” he said, leaving the room with a flourish.

Gemma hesitatingly made use of the bathroom. She felt far too self-conscious to do more than cast a wondering eye at the various bottles, bath salts, perfumes, creams, and scrubs lined up on one of the vanities.

The bathwater was warm and restored feeling to Gemma’s numb fingers and toes. It was a delight to wash off the bits of dungeon grime she had been wearing for the past few weeks, but she moved quickly, feeling like an intruder in a lady’s private powder room.

Gemma cautiously poked her head into the parlor to find Stil had kept his promise. Waiting for her was a pair of black buckle shoes, black stockings, and a dress that was beautiful enough to pass off as Verglas wedding clothes for a civilian like Gemma.

The skirt was black wool with a high waist and a ribbon for a belt. The edge of the skirt and the ribbon belt had pink and green floral designs. The ribbon belt covered the hem between the dress, and a black vest that had similar embroidery on it. Black string looped around gold buttons and criss-crossed the front of the vest. A white, linen shirt that had the same embroidery on the cuffs and collar was set out to go under the vest, completing the look.

Gemma searched the bathroom for a much less expensive gown to wear—something more appropriate of her station. Finding no alternative, she reluctantly put on the dress and crept into the parlor.

Stil was there, taking inventory of a number of jeweled items spread out on the low table. His hair was damp—signaling he too had taken a bath of some sort—and was much, much
shorter
. It was slicked back out of his face, with the exception of a few tendrils that hung over his forehead, and was closely cropped to his head in an almost military style.

His clothing style was—once again—unlike anything Gemma had ever seen before. He had knee-high brown boots that had elaborate, royal blue embroidery on the heel and toe. He wore black breeches—but the inner caves and leg were colored royal blue, and a dove-gray jacket that cut off at the knees was strapped into place by a giant leather belt that encircled his torso. The jacket was decorated with blue embroidery on the cuffs and lapels that matched the embroidery on his boots.

“There you are,” Stil said, smiling when his blue eyes landed on Gemma. “I was wondering if I picked the wrong size clothes for you. But you look just as beautiful in it as I thought you would. What would you like to do first: see your room or enjoy some refreshments?”

Gemma briefly considered saying something about his hair as she stared at it before she brushed the thought away. “I think I would like to see my room,” Gemma said, holding up her silk bag.

“Of course. This way,” Stil said, going through a different door. He led Gemma down a hallway that was dotted with doors. When they reached the end, he opened a room.

Gemma peeked inside before she backed up. “No.”

“No, what?” Stil asked.

“I can’t stay here,” Gemma said, gesturing to the room.

“Why not? Is it not fine enough?”

“It’s
too
fine.”

Stil gave Gemma an amused smirk. “I don’t think I have ever heard a lady complain that something is too fine.”

“You still have yet to, for I am not a titled lady,” Gemma reminded him. “Do you have a less decorous room?”

“It does not matter if I do. This is my camp, and it is for me to decide where you will stay.”

Gemma ventured another peek in the room. “You cannot be serious.”

“It’s your room. I will carve your name into the door if you do not believe me,” Stil said.

Gemma mulishly tucked her head.

“You will not win this one, Gemma Kielland. This is your room. Return to the parlor when you have finished putting your things away,” Stil said, sauntering back down the hallway.