Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) (15 page)

Gemma watched the craftmage go with a scowl before she returned her attention to the room. The walls were a pale blue, like snow in the evening light. The floor was wood stained the color of a rich, dark honey, but there was a beautiful, elaborately woven rug spread on the ground. The furniture—the bed frame, vanity, armoire, and nightstand—were all a beautiful, medium shade of wood decorated with dark colored, carved swirls. The air was fragrant with the smell of pine, and the slightest hint of mint. Gemma didn’t know if it was from the furniture or a hidden nosegay, but the scent was welcoming.

Gemma had seen Lady Linnea’s bedroom before. This room easily rivaled it.

“No,” Gemma said, moving down the hallway. She tried turning door knobs, but none of them budged. Gemma rummaged in her silk bag before pulling out the needles Grandmother Guri had sent. She tried using the dullest needle to pick a lock, but the door shook and boomed like thunder, discouraging Gemma from trying again.

After five minutes of wandering, Gemma was forced to admit defeat. She returned to the bedroom and unpacked her things, setting them out on the beautiful vanity table.

She dragged her feet as she wandered back to the parlor.

Something wasn’t sitting right with her. It was the environment, and the way Stil was acting—like she was a dear companion he wanted to comfortably house instead of a vagrant on which he was taking pity.

Magic users do not befriend civilians. They aid us, yes, but only to address whatever our common problem is before they set us on our way. They do not invite civilians into their homes, dress them, and give them such a room. Perhaps they would do something like that for royalty, or heroes on a quest, but for a poor seamstress?

Gemma paused outside the parlor door.
Why is Stil doing all of this? Why is his kindness going so far
?

“I hope you found the room to your satisfaction?” Stil said when Gemma entered the parlor.

Gemma glared at Stil.

“I thought it would suit your tastes—stop giving me that look. I have tea and food,” Stil said, patting the spot next to him on the settee.

Gemma inspected the food piled on the platters before she took a plate and loaded it with sausages, salted pork, fresh bread, and apple slices, avoiding most of the delicious-smelling but foreign-looking meat pies and pastries.

Gemma sat on the empty settee across from Stil, making the craftmage shake his head in amusement.

“So my plan is for us to spend the day and night here—we won’t be found by any soldiers King Torgen sends after us as long as we are inside. No normal civilian could break through my security measures. Tomorrow we will start our journey, moving south towards the Loire border. Is that acceptable?” Stil asked.

“Yes,” Gemma said, eating her food with relish.

“As we will be walking, I assume it will take us some time to get to the border, but I do not think it is necessary to rush. The bigger trick will be remaining unseen as we travel,” Stil said, serving Gemma a cup of tea.

“Thank you. That light you were using last night, what was it?” Gemma asked.

“The starfire?” Stil said, slipping a glass prism out of his pocket.

Gemma nodded.

“The name is a little fancy considering how easy it is to make these. It’s one of the first skills you learn as a craftmage. It’s a bit of magic light trapped in a prism. It will shine brighter or dimmer based on your orders. Their only real purpose is to shed light.”

“It seems to be very useful,” Gemma said, eyeing the prism.

“It can be, but they aren’t very practical for everyday use. Even mages still need fire to truly light a room. Starfires are best used for temporary cases, or in cases of bad weather, as they can’t be put out. Most often, we make them for children who are frightened of the dark,” Stil said. He was silent for a moment. “Would you like one?”

“How expensive are they?” Gemma asked.

Stil chuckled. “I fear I have made you wary of any gifts from me forever. There is no charge. Making a starfire can be done in a matter of minutes. As I’m giving you a finished product and not performing magic for you, no trade is necessary.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. I have a wooden crate of them in my shop leftover from my apprentice days. I will take you back there, and you can have as many as you can carry,” Stil promised.

Gemma ate an apple slice and mulled over Stil’s offer.
It seems to me that he didn’t need to perform specific magic for the thimble either, and he still requested a payment for that.

“Thank you,” Gemma said, deciding to take the risk and accept his offer. She was silent until she finished her meal, in which she excused herself to her room.

After casting a critical eye on her surroundings and then turning the same critical eye on the black, wool cape, Gemma set her unease aside and embroidered the cloak for the remainder of the day, until she fell asleep early that night.

It took every ounce of Lady Linnea’s will to remain seated at the table as her mother droned on over breakfast.

“—will sadly have to find a new seamstress to replace Gemma, although it will be difficult to find anyone as talented as she was.”

“Is,” Linnea said.

“Pardon, darling? What did you say?” Lady Lovland said.

“Gemma
is
talented. She is still alive,” Lady Linnea said, her usual mask of indifference pasted on her face.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Lady Lovland hesitantly agreed. “In any case, I have asked your father to send word to our Loire friends and associates. A Loire seamstress would do quite well with you, I am certain.”

“May I be excused?” Lady Linnea said.

“But, darling, you’ve hardly eaten any breakfast at all,” Lady Lovland said.

“I feel ill,” Lady Linnea lied. Nothing could be farther from the truth. She couldn’t eat because she could barely contain her joy!

“I see, poor dear. Yes, you may return to your rooms. I will send a maid with tea to you in a bit to see if you can eat something then,” Lady Lovland said.

Lady Linnea curtseyed to her mother and swept out of the room, the skirts of her elegant dress—designed and sewn by Gemma—sweeping the floor.

When the door closed behind her, Lady Linnea burst forth in an impatient march. A scullery maid—Sissel—bobbed a curtsey before she handed a shawl to her and whispered, “Out the eastern side door, My Lady.”

“Thank you,” Lady Linnea said. She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders before hurrying to the eastern side door.

The back gardens were empty—except for snow-covered hedges—so Lady Linnea tucked the shawl over her head and trotted in the direction of the stables.

A young stable boy—wearing a coat made by Gemma—stood in the stable entrance, kicking up his heels.

“He’s back by Captain’s stall, My Lady,” the stable boy said, naming one of the farm horses.

Learning from Gemma, Lady Linnea tossed the boy a pastry she smuggled out of breakfast. “Good lad,” she said before slipping in the stables, leaving the boy to keep watch.

Lady Linnea ran down the aisle, frightening horses in her wake. “She escaped?” she asked, throwing herself over the top of Captain’s stall.

The large draft horse didn’t react at all and kept chewing his hay, but Prince Toril popped out from behind him.

“She escaped,” he confirmed, exiting the stall. “Like a ghost in the night. She talked my father into removing her guard. He stubbornly watched for the first few hours, but sometime in the early morning, she gave him the slip. She still managed to spin a great deal of the flax, too.”

“Toril, this is marvelous!” Lady Linnea said, throwing herself at the prince to hug him tightly. “Thank you, thank you,
thank you
!”

“I-I didn’t do anything,” the prince stammered around the same time that Lady Linnea realized she was hugging a boy and not Gemma, a horse, or her parents. The prince’s body was much
stronger
and, oddly enough, was as comforting as hugging a large dog.

Still, it felt foreign and…different.

Lady Linnea hastily backed off and brushed her dress off, trying to restore some of her equilibrium. “But you did help us,” she argued, inspecting her shoes for a moment so she wouldn’t have to meet Prince Toril’s eyes. “You have helped us since the start of this nightmare. I cannot thank you enough,” she said.

“It’s not over yet,” Prince Toril grimly said.

Lady Linnea almost bit her tongue when she hastily brought her chin up. “What do you mean?”

“Your maid—”

“She is my seamstress.”

“Yes, well, she won’t be safe until she’s across the Verglas border. My father is sending out a small army of soldiers after her,” Prince Toril said.

“She will make it,” Lady Linnea said. “Unless something happens, and she feels she has no choice but to give herself up, Gemma will wriggle out of Verglas.”

“You sound so certain,” Prince Toril said.

“Someone is helping her—someone who cares for her
very
much. I don’t think they will allow her to be captured. Which reminds me…are any male servants, guards, or soldiers missing from the palace?” Lady Linnea asked.

Prince Toril blinked. “Missing? No. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Lady Linnea said before smiling again. “I’m so happy I could scream,” she said. When she threw her hands in the air, a carriage horse across the aisle spooked.

“So, you think this mission is over?” Prince Toril asked, scuffing the toe of his boot on the dirt floor.

“Yes,” Lady Linnea said, her smile mixed with joy and sadness. She would miss Gemma like she would miss her right hand or favorite sword, and although the past few weeks were dangerous, they were also thrilling compared to her normal, boring life. And if she was being completely honest, she would miss the secretive meetings with the prince.

Prince Toril lifted his gaze so he looked above Lady Linnea’s head. “Although it is over…would you care to continue our acquaintance?”

Lady Linnea adjusted her grip on her shawl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…could we still arrange to meet?” the prince asked, his words going up an octave, as if he was afraid of her answer.

Lady Linnea studied the bashful prince before nodding. “I would enjoy that,” she said.

Prince Toril relaxed, dropping his hunched shoulders. “I’m glad,” he said with a painfully genuine/puppy smile that made Lady Linnea want to throw something at him in embarrassment.

“Yes,” Lady Linnea said, pressing her lips together.

The pair stood in the stable for several awkward moments before the stable boy interrupted them. “My Lady? It looks like your father is coming to see his horse.”

“I should leave,” Lady Linnea awkwardly said.

Prince Toril nodded. “Of course.  I will see you…tomorrow?”

“Yes. Until tomorrow,” Lady Linnea agreed, wrapping her shawl around her head again. She scurried out a door on one side of the stable while Prince Toril scurried out of the door directly opposite. Both of them managed to miss Lady Linnea’s father as he greeted the stable boy at the entrance.

“How are the horses?” Lord Lovland asked.

“Quite well, sir. Aerie is back on her grain,” the stable boy said, luring Lord Lovland into the stable.

When the two of them had left the entryway, Lady Linnea hurried past the gardens, heading for the house. When someone released a sharp, piercing whistle, Lady Linnea turned around. Prince Toril stood at the border of their lands. He waved, and didn’t slip into the street until Lady Linnea returned the gesture.

Lady Linnea smiled as she returned to the house.
Yes, I will miss Gemma terribly. But maybe this won’t be so bad.

Chapter 13

Traveling with Stil was an interesting experience, less because he was a mage and more because of his relationship with his donkey, Pricker Patch.

Pricker Patch was a stoic animal. He did not like to move more than necessary, but when he was finally coaxed to walk, Gemma had to trot to keep up. Pricker Patch set the pace for the day, and when Pricker Patch stopped, Gemma and Stil stopped, for the donkey could not be pushed, urged, coaxed, or bribed into taking another step. Usually the animal was willing to go for most of the day, so on the third day of their travels, when Pricker Patch stopped mid-morning at the edge of the forest—just as they were about to leave the protection of the trees—and would continue no farther, Gemma thought it was odd.

“Does he normally do this?” Gemma asked, studying the displeased donkey.

“Sometimes, but not usually without a purpose,” Stil said. He ran his hands down the donkey’s legs and inspected his hooves.

“Hmm,” Gemma said, leaning against a tree to look out at the ambling, open field. The field was at least a mile long before it plunged back into a small copse of trees. “…Stil,” Gemma said, shielding her eyes from the bright sun and squinting.

“What?” Stil asked, rubbing one of Pricker Patch’s ears.

“Do you see that?” Gemma asked, pointing at the shapes moving at the perimeter of the field.

Stil looked where Gemma was pointing before slipping a tube from his belt and flicking it open into a beautiful and ornate spyglass. “Soldiers,” he said, passing the spyglass to Gemma so she could see as well.

When Gemma held it to her right eye, it brought the shapes into focus, revealing uniforms and weapons.

Stil scratched his head in aggravation. “I didn’t think they would come this way. I assumed they would think we would follow a river south. That will teach me to skimp on charms and spells,” he said before pulling on Pricker Patch’s halter and changing directions.

“What do we do?” Gemma asked.

“We change directions and head farther east. I have no idea how they got farther south of us, but we should be able to circle around them. Tomorrow, I’ll set some spells and charms up before we travel,” Stil said, leading the way.

Pricker Patch surprisingly accepted the change and started walking again.

Gemma glanced back at the soldiers before she hurried to carry the spyglass to Stil as they continued their journey, safely screened by the trees.

Several days later—this time late in the afternoon—Pricker Patch decided they had traveled far enough. As there was still an hour or two of sunlight left, Stil tried to persuade the donkey to continue, but in a fit of anger Pricker Patch (moving with a surprising amount of swiftness), grabbed an edge of Stil’s cloak, and yanked it, badly ripping the fabric.

“This…,” Stil darkly trailed off and glared at his donkey. “How am I supposed to fix this?” he asked an unrepentant Pricker Patch, shaking his cloak in front of the animal. “It’s already falling to pieces! If it rips much more, I’m going to start losing some of the spells and charms fixed in it.”

“Can’t you buy a new one?” Gemma asked, working to undo the buckles and ties that held the tent poles and material on the donkey’s back.

“Not easily,” Stil frowned, studying the tear. “It’s blasted hard to get a tailor talented enough to make a clothing item in which I can invest a large amount of spells—like this cloak. I bought it from a Ringsted tailor when I first made apprentice—I should have bought
ten
of them, for I haven’t found another tailor as skilled since. Wretched creature,” Still said, narrowing his eyes at the donkey.

Gemma patted Pricker Patch’s neck.

“Don’t comfort him; he doesn’t deserve it,” Stil said, flipping his hair over his shoulder. (It was long again, today. Gemma had no idea how he did it, but Stil changed hair styles—and lengths—at least once a day. He seemed to expect her to comment on it, so naturally she did not.)

“I doubt it comforts him. I think he dislikes human touch,” Gemma dryly said, stepping back to slide the tent poles off the donkey.

“Perhaps normal humans, but he clearly likes you.”

“What? How can you tell?”

“He looks very happy,” Stil said.

Gemma stared at the donkey.

Pricker Patch looked just as cantankerous and stoic as he had since she first set eyes on him.

“I don’t see it,” Gemma said.

“He’s thrilled. He’s merely skilled at hiding it,” Stil said.

“I see,” Gemma said as she finished unpacking the tent.

Stil finished mourning his cloak and moved between Gemma and the tent. “I’ll set it up.”

Gemma mutely backed up and patted Pricker Patch as she squinted at the horizon. “I am surprised we haven’t seen the soldiers, again.”

“I have a misdirection spell active, as well as a screening charm. King Torgen’s men would be hard-pressed to find us. And given your unusual relationship with your guards, I imagine they are not strenuously searching you out.”

“Maybe,” Gemma agreed. When she turned to study Stil she noticed that his cloak—normally a stark black—seemed to…
swirl
. There were faint swirls of blue, purple, green, and even reds that crawled across his cloak as if it were rolling like an ocean. “I think I finally see the magic in your cloak.”

Stil looked up. “What?” he said before glancing at his cape. He breathed an oath and dropped a tent pole. “It’s leaking magic.”

“Hm?”

“That demon donkey you’re petting damaged the cloak so much it can’t retain the spells anymore, and they’re dripping out,” Stil said, redoubling his efforts to get the tent up.

“Would you picket Pricker Patch? I’ve got to see if I can repair the damage and stop the leak,” Stil said when the tent was almost set up.

“Yes,” Gemma said.

“Thank you,” Stil said before disappearing though the tent flap.

Pricker Patch gave one loud bray, as if sensing his triumph.

Gemma picketed the donkey, tying his rope to one of the tent pegs. She entered the tent and made her way through the parlor to the hallway of doors. She found the small storage room Stil had shown her on their first day of traveling, where grain, carrots, apples, and hay was stored for Pricker Patch. She struggled to carry the hay through the parlor (wincing whenever flecks of alfalfa and strands of grass dropped) and threw the hay in front of the donkey. She gave the stubborn creature a carrot, and when she returned to the parlor, all traces of hay were gone.

Gemma shrugged off her new cloak—one made in a style similar to Stil’s but in dark green—and made her way to her uncomfortably beautiful bedroom.

She pulled out the black wool cape and studied it with narrowed eyes. The cloak, to Gemma’s critical gaze, was well made. The midnight-blue silk lining was perfectly joined to the black cloak with stitching so tiny and straight, it was perfect. The embroidery—vine-work with the occasional leaf, all made with silver-colored thread—glowed on the dark backdrop, circling the shoulders in liquid lines.

The only work left on it was to finish one embroidered leaf. But even though Gemma had used every bit of skill she had on the item and could detect no imperfection, she doubted it would meet Stil’s standards.

“Perhaps it could hold him over, until he finds a new cloak,” Gemma said, threading her needle to finish the final leaf. Her stomach growled with hunger when she finally put her needle down and trimmed away the last bit of unnecessary thread. She studied the cloak and sighed. “I feel like a fool. Like a peasant offering a king a chicken,” she said before folding up the cloak and draping it over her arm.

On a hunch, she made her way to the parlor and peered inside. Stil was there, stretched out on a settee. His mouth and chin were visible, but his eyes and forehead were tucked under a pillow.

“I would say we should slay the donkey and eat him for dinner, but I suspect leather would be more palatable,” Stil said.

“The damage is that bad?” Gemma asked.

“It’s worse than I would like when I am in an already uncomfortable situation,” Stil sighed, sitting upright. He gave Gemma a tired smile, tilting his head in interest when he noticed she carried something.

Gemma nodded and furrowed her forehead. She took a moment to rally her courage before she said, “I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

Gemma wordlessly passed the cloak to the mage.

Stil took the bundle of cloth and unfurled it. His eyes traced the embroidery, and he nudged the inner lining, examining the stitching and the hemming.

“I made it,” Gemma said, for the first time in her life uncomfortable with heavy silence.

“You
made
this?” Stil asked, briefly pulling his eyes from the cloak.

Gemma nodded. “I apologize if it is not up to your usual standards, but perhaps it could serve as a temporary substitute.”

“Substitute?” Stil laughed. “Gemma this is—it’s incredible. It’s
perfect
. You really made it?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“
Excuse me
?”

Stil shook his head. “You cannot fathom how
rare
it is to find something this well made, this
perfect
. You must have some magic in your blood.”

“I do not,” Gemma said. “Sewing is not magic.”

“Yours practically is. Any kind of craftsmanship has touches of magic—that’s why items can hold magic. But this cloak, Gemma—you must be a genius.”

“Hardly,” Gemma wryly said.

“You think I’m storying you, but I’m serious. It takes great talent and a masterful mind to create something like this, something that practically
begs
to have magic added to it,” Stil said. “Doesn’t it kill you to give up your creations?”

“No. I sew for other people, not myself. That is the way it has always been,” Gemma said.

“I wonder if it has to do with that blasted sense of sacrifice you have. You sew for other people—
hah
!” Stil said, shaking his head. “I will have to introduce you to my fellow craftmages. They will love you, and you will never have to worry again about money. You practically
can
spin straw into gold—that is, you can make an item normally useless into a priceless treasure,” Stil snorted.

Gemma shrugged, not quite believing his praise.

“Thank you, Gemma. You have given me something so valuable it cannot be fathomed,” Stil said, dragging his eyes from the cloak.

“Thank you for all your help…and for using your magic on my behalf,” Gemma said.

Stil’s eyes glowed as a soft, tender smile stole across his lips. He crossed the room to stand in front of her. He slid an arm around her, scooping her against her chest, and he lowered his face—his lips, more correctly—towards her.

Gemma came to a realization. Stil quite possibly found her attractive.

The incoming kiss told Gemma he might actually find her more than attractive; he perhaps even liked her, or fancied her.

She immediately rejected the idea.

It was preposterous. Magic users never fell in love with civilians. There was the occasional heart-breaking love story, where a mage or enchanter fell in love with a princess or some such nonsense, but they were
rare
.

No. Magic users loved other magic users. It was the rule.

Gemma, paralyzed where she stood, waited for Stil to back off to declare it all a joke.

When he was so close, she could feel his breath on her lips, Gemma exploded backwards.

“No,” she said, shaking a finger at Stil as if he were a miscreant dog.

“What?” Stil asked, tilting his head.

“Whatever you’re doing, NO.”

Stil tilted his head in the other direction. “What do you think I’m doing?” he asked, taking a step towards Gemma.

Gemma rushed to put the settee in between them. “You,” she said, “are…I don’t know.”

“I think you do know.”

“No, I don’t,” Gemma said, shaken by the ordeal. Mages didn’t go around almost kissing people. It just wasn’t done.
Wars
could be started that way!