Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) Read online

  But most of all, she missed Stil.

  She wished she could talk to him about fine craftsmanship and show him her work on Lady Linnea’s wedding dress. She missed his handsome smiles and even his stupid, wretched, question game.

  “We are gathered here today for a beautiful event and occasion: the wedding of our monarch, King Toril, to the honorable Lady Linnea Lovland,” the priest said when the cathedral had quieted enough that his squeaky voice could be heard.

  His declaration brought about more cheers, and he was unable to continue as the civilians whistled and rejoiced.

  The priest bore it well, smiling and folding his hands as he waited.

  Before this winter, we have had precious little to celebrate, Gemma thought as she, too, clapped. But it is different now.

  “Verglas is coming back, my girl,” Grandmother Guri said, her voice just above a whisper.

  “Why do you say that?” Gemma asked.

  “You can feel it in the air. It’s crisp and clean—finally. People smile more—which is a scary sight in some cases. No one fears to stick out anymore, and there’s laughter. Yep, everything is right again. And your lady up there will make sure bumpkin keeps it that way,” Grandmother Guri nodded.

  If anyone deserved to call Toril bumpkin, it was Grandmother Guri. When the young king called on Gemma to ask for advice about Lady Linnea, Grandmother Guri had smacked the monarch upside the head a number of times when he was particularly slow to understand a point about the battle-crazed lady.

  “So, that means you can finally leave with that mage of yours,” Grandmother Guri added.

  Gemma gaped at the elderly woman. The fact that they were witnessing the marriage of their monarch and Gemma’s close companion was forgotten. “What are you talking about?” Gemma hissed.

  “You’re sighing all the time and looking off into space like Jo-Jo when she’s about to urp up her cud. You miss your mage, and that’s fine. Now things have settled here; you’ve got your barbaric lady taken care of, and there’s nothing left for you to do. You can go,” Grandmother Guri whispered.

  “How did you…?”

  “My girl, all of Ostfold was treated to a public performance of your love with that man. You can’t think I didn’t know—that everyone in town doesn’t know.”

  Gemma adjusted her posture in her chair and fixed her gaze on Lady Linnea and King Toril, ignoring the astute observations of Grandmother Guri.

  Within a few minutes, the ceremony was over.

  “On behalf of this country—civilians and nobility—it is with great joy that I announce the marriage of our King Toril to Lady Linnea!” the priest said. Even he could not contain his enthusiasm as he raised his hands in the air.

  Church bells clanged, and everyone in the cathedral roared so much the floor vibrated. The citizens who could not cram their way into the church with the nobles cheered outside. When the doors opened up, Gemma could see that they threw rice and flower petals.

  King Toril and Lady Linnea—soon to be Queen Linnea once the royal couple arrived at the palace for her crowning—swept down the aisle. Their faces were bright with happiness, and they laughed and clasped hands as they emerged from the cathedral and into the street.

  Verglas had good, valiant monarchs once again.

  “Thank you so much for making my dress, Gemma,” Queen Linnea said, embracing Gemma when she caught her sneaking towards a table of drinks.

  “It was my pleasure, My Lady,” Gemma smiled.

  Queen Linnea beamed and glanced over her shoulder at King Toril, who was seated at their table, laughing with one of his advisors.

  The wedding feast was barely halfway over, and everyone was still exuberant and filled with joy and laughter. Well-wishers were lined up out the door, hoping to congratulate their king and new queen.

  “I know I asked you right after I agreed to marry him, but, what do you think of Toril?” Queen Linnea asked, shyly looking at Gemma from under her eyelashes.

  “I think he’s a gallant gentleman who loves you very much, and I know the two of you will be wonderful rulers,” Gemma said.

  “Do you really think so?” Queen Linnea asked.

  Gemma raised an eyebrow. “Have I lied to you before, My Lady?”

  “I know, I’m just so happy. I can’t believe it!” Queen Linnea laughed, squeezing Gemma in another embrace that was so tight Gemma’s spine cracked.

  “You deserve this happiness.”

  “Thank you, Gemma. No, I mean it,” Queen Linnea said when Gemma started to curtsey. “None of this would have happened—none of this would have been possible without you.” The new queen hesitated, her hand lingering on her dagger. “I know I asked you to stay with me before this all began.”

  Gemma nodded in acknowledgment.

  “I realize now that’s not possible,” Queen Linnea continued as she shifted her gaze to her husband. “I don’t have the right to stand between you and that mage,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain as she mentioned Stil. “And I will miss you terribly, terribly much. When he comes to take you away, you must promise to write!”

  “My Lady, Stil is busy aiding Prince Severin and his allies. In all likelihood, you will see him before I do when you answer Prince Severin’s summons,” Gemma soothed.

  Queen Linnea shook her head. “Gemma, the man faced down a monarch and a country for you. The truth is, as soon as he thinks Verglas will not mind your absence as much, he’s going to come for you,” she said, speaking the secret desires of Gemma’s heart.

  Gemma smiled. “Perhaps,” she said. “But it is your wedding feast—a time to rejoice.”

  “I know, I know,” Queen Linnea sighed, looking down to adjust the skirt of her dress. When she looked up, her eyes landed on King Toril, and she smiled again. She turned to look at Gemma, her smile still in place. “All I wanted to say is that…I understand. I understand why you will leave, and whenever you come back, I will put aside everything—even the army—to welcome you home.”

  “Thank you, My Lady,” Gemma said, deeply touched by her friend’s words.

  “Linnea,” Toril called.

  “Right. I should return to the rest of the guests. Enjoy the food—take some back for the furball!” Queen Linnea called over her shoulder as she headed for her husband, her magnificent dress dragging behind her.

  Gemma shook her head at her friend’s retreat and turned herself in the direction of her table. Grandmother Guri was holding court with a number of villager ladies. They were eagerly swapping gossip and stories as they crowded around the table that was specially prepared for Gemma, munching on dried fruit and krumkake—thin cake rolls filled with whipped cream. A passing villager bowed to Gemma as he would to royalty, and a servant bearing a platter mimicked the motion when she noticed Gemma.

  The heat of the hall beat on Gemma’s shoulders like a giant, and all the laughter and shouts of celebration made her head throb. She cautiously inspected her surroundings to make sure she was not being watched before she slipped through a servant door.

  Her head eased the instant she closed the door behind her, but Gemma walked on, navigating her way through the palace—which she now knew quite well. She found her way to the courtyard and gardens that overlooked Lake Sno and breathed in the cool, spring air.

  The tranquility of the lake and the silence of the gardens soothed Gemma.

  When a cold, wet nose bumped her hand, Gemma did not scream in surprise, but smiled. “Sorry, Hvit. I didn’t bring you anything,” she said, kneeling down to run her hands through the luxurious fur of her hellhound-turned-guardian.

  The wolfish creature panted happily, his tongue hanging out as he twirled his curled tail. Somehow, the canine always knew where Gemma was and found her—even if she locked him in Grandmother Guri’s cottage. (Thank goodness Jo-Jo was even less impressed with Hvit than she was with Grandmother Guri!)

  “It’s finally settled,” Gemma said, resting her head on her companion’s shoulder. She was sure to get
white hair all over her clothes, but she didn’t care. With King Toril properly crowned and Lady Linnea married, there was little else Gemma had left to see to in Verglas. She was free. Free to travel and, hopefully, find Stil.

  She missed him so much, even though they hadn’t been together long. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the way his blue eyes gleamed when he teased her. Winter in Verglas was beautiful as usual, but Gemma was surprised by how deeply she felt Stil’s absence. It was like a piece of her left with him.

  Hvit went completely still for a moment—going so far as to collect his tongue into his mouth. Then his nose twitched, and he returned to his happy pants, smearing his cold nose in Gemma’s ears.

  “Gemma.”

  Perhaps Gemma missed Stil too much. She could have sworn she heard his rich, melodic voice.

  “Gemma.”

  Gemma peered over Hvit.

  Stil was standing just in reach of the torchlight, the silver embroidery on his cape gleaming. His hood was pushed down, and his unusual eyes were ringed by dark circles, but he was whole, and healthy, and he was here.

  Gemma couldn’t say a word. She scrambled to her feet and threw herself at the craftmage, clinging to him as the tears fell. Stil chuckled and slid his arms around Gemma. “I know I’m early, but I believe the deal was you would not leave until you saw Linnea happy?” he said teasingly, resting his head on Gemma’s.

  “You’re here,” Gemma whispered, her heart singing with joy.

  “Of course,” Stil said.

  When Gemma finally looked up at him, Stil slid a hand under her jaw and kissed her long and passionately. After a minute, he pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. “Although I must admit, a season was too long to be away from you. Let’s not do this again.”

  “Agreed,” Gemma said, sagging in Stil’s arms. It was like coming home.

  He smelled of metal and forges, but also of pine trees and the outdoors. He really was here!

  “I have come to take you away,” Stil whispered in Gemma’s ear. “This time…will you come?”

  Gemma smiled—not a small one or soft one, but a rare smile. A wide smile that lit up her face and threatened to steal all of her good sense. “Yes,” she said.

  “Finally,” Stil said, kissing her again.

  The couple staggered when Hvit playfully bit on and pulled Stil’s cloak. The craftmage released Gemma long enough to pet the mischievous lupine before picking Gemma up and twirling her around for the fun of it.

  “Marry me,” Stil demanded, holding Gemma propped up.

  “Yes. Will you marry me?” Gemma asked.

  “Yes. We’re going to have a charmed life,” Stil decreed, setting Gemma down.

  “You’re fair pleased with yourself for marrying a seamstress, aren’t you?” Gemma wryly asked.

  “Only because you’re a genius,” Stil said. “One genius deserves another.”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “You’ll see. We can play the question game whenever we travel—and wherever we travel.”

  “Oh, joy,” Gemma said, her voice dead.

  “I will have a house built for you wherever you want.”

  “Verglas?”

  “Depend upon it.”

  “Then I will make so many cloaks and capes, you may have a different one for each occasion,” Gemma said.

  “What I would really like is a rug,” Stil said.

  “It may take me time to learn how to weave.”

  “I can wait. In the meantime, I will have to hide you away. I told some of the other craftmages at Prince Severin’s summit about you, and now they all want to get their paws on you,” Stil said.

  Gemma smiled at Stil, and Stil smiled at Gemma. They embraced and kissed again, breaking apart and laughing when Hvit circled them, snapping at Stil’s cloak.

  On an upper balcony, Queen Linnea seethed as she watched the spectacle below. “I knew that rat wouldn’t take long to show up and spirit her away.”

  “Darling?” King Toril tried.

  “He’s even craftier than I am. What a snake,” Queen Linnea said.

  “Linnea,” King Toril said, placing a hand on Queen Linnea’s shoulder.

  “Hm?”

  “She’s happy. Leave her. She has sacrificed plenty; it is her turn now,” the young king said.

  Queen Linnea studied her new husband. “Your understanding of love is rapidly improving,” she said.

  King Toril allowed himself a smile. “A wise lady once said to me that it takes work to build a lasting relationship. You both have done the work. Your relationship will be a lasting one. She will not forget you, Linnea, anymore than you could forget her.”

  Linnea’s anger withdrew, and she smiled. “You are right. I love Gemma—no matter where she wanders in this land. I love you, and I am so happy…and so blessed.”

  King Toril offered his arm. Queen Linnea took it, and the royal couple left the balcony and returned to the celebration while the Craftmage and Seamstress remained in the courtyard, talking, laughing, and loving.

  Epilogue

  Peder the miller was known to be a generally useless man. Even after his daughter became the savior of Verglas, was the best friend to the queen, married a craftmage, and was renown across the continent for her skill with a needle and her ability to make clothes that could take and hold spells and enchantments for ages, Peder still had a reputation as the town drunkard. The only thing that changed was he now occasionally had useful bits of information on the much-esteemed Gemma.

  On any given night, one could still find him in the Sno Hauk tavern, in his usual seat at the dilapidated bar. Tonight was no different.

  Peder marched into the Sno Hauk, bearing a pocket of money and, unusually so, a framed portrait that he carried with rare care.

  “Alf Skeie, you lying sunk,” Peder declared, setting the portrait on the counter.

  “What,” Alf said, his weasel face scrunching up with displeasure.

  “You’ve been spreading rumors about my Gemma and her mage,” Peder said. As he hadn’t yet drunken anything, he could shake a finger at Alf without falling over.

  “Have not,” Alf said.

  “Best not lie, Alf Skeie,” Otto the barkeep said. “Not two nights ago, I heard you telling an out-of-town guest that craftmage Stil was not quite three feet tall and as ugly as a warped cabbage.”

  “See? That!” Peder said.

  “I said nothin’ like that,” Alf squirmed.

  “The missus said you were telling tales at Sissel’s wedding. You said craftmage Stil lost a bet to the deceased King Torgen—God rest his soul,” Big Tim said, chewing on the stem of his pipe.

  “No, I didn’t,” Alf said. “All I said is people look up to Gemma and her ‘mage’ husband too much. That’s all. People still sing and chirp praises for them more than our own dear king and queen. It’s a crime,” Alf protested.

  “I also heard you called Gemma a stupid twit for not telling King Torgen she couldn’t spin flax to gold before the whole thing escalated,” Small Tim said.

  At the back of the room, chairs scraped as four palace guards stood. Two of the guards twirled spears, and one unsheathed a sword. The only one that didn’t immediately reach for a weapon strolled up to Alf.

  “What did you say about Gemma Kielland?” the guard asked, looming above Alf.

  “N-nothing. I didn’t say nothing,” Alf squeaked.

  “Alf Skeie,” the guard said, making Alf shrink. “I will remember your weasel face. If I hear you talking badly of our Gemma Kielland again, there will be a reckoning,” he said.

  Alf swallowed sharply.

  “You want some help, Foss?” the sword-wielding guard asked.

  “Nah, this one isn’t worth it,” the unarmed guard said, scowling darkly at Alf before returning to his table.

  “Well, how do you like that?” Peder happily said, plopping down on his stool and popping a coin onto the counter. “Otto, a pint, if you will!”
/>   Otto poured a drink for Peder as Big Tim and Small Tim joined the miller.

  “Whatcha got there?” Small Tim asked, squinting at the painted portrait.

  “My son-in-law sent it to me. It’s him and Gemma,” Peder proudly said after taking a swig of his beer. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  Small Tim studied the painting with eagerness—planning to carry the details of it in his mind to relay to his wife.

  The portrait was of Gemma and her husband—the famous craftmage Stil—or Rumpelstiltskin. Stil was reclining on mound of pillows, his blue eyes lit with adoration and affection as he looked across the painting at Gemma.

  Gemma was seated on a cushioned settee, a soft smile on her lips, and her hand raised as she appeared to pull a needle through an exquisitely embroidered piece of fabric. She wore a Loire-style dress, which was soft blue in color, didn’t cover either of her shoulders, and had wide sleeves and a tight bodice.

  Gemma’s hair was elaborately braided, although wavy strands had come loose and framed her face. She had gold bracelets and necklaces, and gold barrettes secured her hair.

  Curled up at her feet was a giant, white, wolf-ish creature. It had a woven collar that was the same color as Gemma’s dress, although it looked out of the portrait with blazing blue eyes.

  Long ago, before King Torgen died, Small Tim would have been hard-pressed to call Gemma beautiful. But seeing the portrait—the way happiness softened her face and made her glow, and seeing her relaxed, almost liquid posture—Small Tim couldn’t think of a prettier girl in Ostfold.

  “She is,” Small Tim finally said.

  “That Gemma Kielland,” Big Tim said, peering over Small Tim’s shoulder. “She’s done well.”

  “Gemma Kielland has done more than well,” one of the guards said. “She has done great things, and she continues to do so as she aids other countries in their battle against dark magic.”