Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) Page 21

  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.

  “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.