Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) Page 6

  The tension faded from Gemma as she watched the display.

  “What?” the mage said, leaning so he could see outside. He looked for barely a moment before he slid back against the wall.

  “It’s the Snow Queen’s magic,” Gemma said.

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Every citizen of Verglas knows her magic like we know the faces of our mothers,” Gemma said, tilting her head as she watched the light reflect off the ice.

  “You’re thinking something,” the mage said.

  Gemma hesitated. “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Why would the Snow Queen’s magic activate?”

  “I would assume it means an evil magic wielder is trying to force his way past the Verglas borders,” the mage said. “That is what activates her residual magic, after all.”

  “Of course—but why?” Gemma repeated. “The world knows about the Snow Queen. What dark magician could possibly be desperate enough to try regardless?”

  The mage was silent.

  Gemma was quiet as well as she watched the snow fall. The sprouted ice disintegrated, falling from view.

  “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” the mage said, pushing away from the wall. He retreated to the spinning wheel to check on the gold thread and the flax fibers. “It’s almost a joke,” he added.

  “What?” Gemma asked as she adjusted the fold of blue cloth tied around her forehead.

  “The Snow Queen’s magic is still strong enough to keep magic users with evil intensions out of her country, but it is the offspring of her family that rules with horror,” the mage said.

  Gemma knew of no safe reply to the mage’s dangerous statement, so she tucked her chin and kept sawing.

  After the midnight hour, Gemma gave up sawing and sank to the ground.

  “Tired?” the mage asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “You could sleep.”

  “Exhaustion does not necessarily equate with sleepiness, Sir Mage,” Gemma said, running a hand through her wavy hair.

  The mage tipped his head like a dog. “What do you mean?”

  “It means I don’t think I could sleep if I wanted to. Death threats and King Torgen have that sort of effect on us normal citizens,” Gemma dryly said.

  The mage smiled widely. “I see. I hadn’t thought about it like that. You mentioned before that you haven’t much hope King Torgen will release you.”

  “Even if he does, he knows my name. He will remember the result forever. I will have to leave Ostfold immediately,” Gemma said pulling her legs to her chest to conserve heat.

  “Is that so bad?”

  “I would leave behind the only friendships I’ve ever made,” Gemma said, thinking of Grandmother Guri and Lady Linnea as she traced a hem of her brown and white uniform with her finger. “And I don’t think my survivability rate is favorable. I could perhaps find employment somewhere in Verglas, but King Torgen would surely hire the assassin’s guild to track me down. Outside of Verglas, I am more likely to survive, but who would want a seamstress from Verglas? We are the backwoods of the fashion world,” Gemma said.

  “I don’t think you have ever strung so many words together before,” the mage said.

  Gemma cracked a wry smile.

  The mage sat down, resembling a tent with his swirling cloak. “I recall hearing you made dresses. You work for a lady, I believe?”

  “Lady Linnea, daughter of Lord and Lady Lovland.”

  “And they are nice?”

  Gemma shifted so her head was able to rest against the back wall as she remembered watching Lord Lovland slink to the back of the throne room while King Torgen sentenced her. “Lady Linnea is a good person.”

  The mage whistled. “High praise coming from a girl as reluctant as you.”

  Gemma’s lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile. “Lady Linnea deserves it. She is unusual, but lovely.”

  “I’m sure, to win over your loyalty. It’s probably easier to move a castle than you,” the mage said.

  “I am practical, not stone-hearted,” Gemma said.

  “No. You’re guarded,” the mage corrected.

  Gemma shrugged.

  “Right. Well if you’re going to stay awake, we may as well play a word game.”

  “A word game?”

  “Yes. I choose an object that is visible in this room. You ask me ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions. Based on my response, you make guesses about what the object is. I will pick an item first, and once you correctly guess it, it will be your turn to pick an item. Do you understand?”

  Gemma glanced at the spinning wheel. “Is it gold?”

  “You don’t start by directly guessing the item; you ask questions about it! And no, it’s not gold.”

  “Hm. Is it the spinning wheel?”

  “Why do I suspect you are being deliberately obtuse?”

  “Fine, Sir Mage. Is it brown?”

  “No.”

  Prince Toril pounded on his father’s door the moment the sun peeked over the horizon. The mountains that stood guard at the castle’s back cast purple shadows across the land as Prince Toril hollered, “Father, I know you are awake.”

  “What do you want? I thought you were off sighing over your lost princess?” King Torgen said, throwing open the door to his room.

  Prince Toril was disappointed to see his father already wore a mad smile in spite of the early hour. Occasionally, if he caught him while he was still half asleep, King Torgen was more amiable.

  Or perhaps he’s just less bitter, Prince Toril thought. As little as he liked to admit it, his father was growing crueler as the seasons passed. While he never had to fear for his own life, he knew the people were uneasy—even before Elsa—no—Elise was almost burned at the stake.

  “You have a peasant girl imprisoned,” Prince Toril said.

  King Torgen rolled his eyes and sighed in disgust. “Fell for another pretty face, did you? I should have beaten your gullibility from you as a child,” he said.

  “I haven’t fallen for anyone,” Prince Toril said. “But you have to let this girl go.”

  “Why?” King Torgen demanded. He started walking down the hallway. Prince Toril followed him, keeping pace.

  “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “She wasted my time—which is more valuable than the blood that pumps in her veins.”

  “Her father wasted your time,” Prince Toril said.

  King Torgen stopped to stare at Prince Toril. “You are well informed of the matter.”

  “I am,” Prince Toril said.

  King Torgen looked down the hallway.

  “It isn’t because I’m in love with the girl,” Prince Toril was quick to say.

  “So you still love the mute swan girl, then? It’s a pity you’re so stupidly loyal.”

  Prince Toril winced. “You must let the girl go, Father.”

  Prince Toril ducked just in time to avoid King Torgen backhanding him.

  “Listen closely, son,” King Torgen spat. “I must do nothing. I am King, and it isn’t until I die that you will rule. As long as I breathe, I reign. You would do well to remember that.”

  Prince Toril was frozen by the mad, frenzied look in his father’s eyes. It wasn’t until King Torgen had walked twenty paces before Prince Toril was able to break out of his paralysis and follow.

  “You are right. You are the King, Father,” Prince Toril said. “But it is your position only because you were granted it. You have an oath to uphold; we are to protect the weak, not behead them,” Prince Toril said, passing a line of guards.

  King Torgen narrowed his eyes at Prince Toril. “You seem set on this girl.”

  “I am set on freeing her, yes.”

  King Torgen stopped outside a barred door. “Fine,” he said, sticking the key in the lock and twisting it.

  “She will be free to go—even without spinning the flax into gold?” Prince Toril eagerly asked as guards removed the bar from the door.<
br />
  “The peasant girl can—,” King Torgen went silent when the door opened.

  “She can?” Prince Toril prompted. When his father did not respond, Prince Toril peered over his shoulder.

  A rather normal-looking girl with brown hair and large eyes was standing in the middle of a barren room. Next to her was a spinning wheel, upon which there was a spindle of thread that glittered and twinkled like gold.

  In that moment, Prince Toril knew the girl was doomed. He would never be able to save her from his Father’s clutches now.

  Chapter 5

  Gemma had dosed off for a few minutes when the horizon was pink with the promise of the sun. While she was sleeping, the mage must have slipped out. When she opened her eyes he was gone, although the gold thread was still there, wound around a spindle.

  Gemma’s body creaked and ached as she pushed herself off the ground—a most uncomfortable sleeping position—and approached the spinning wheel.

  She held her breath, releasing it only when she reached out to touch the metallic thread. It was real, and it was most assuredly gold—or at least close enough that no one would know the difference.

  “Not a hallucination then,” Gemma said, turning to the window to greet the sun with a tame smile. Her future was still dark, but she would survive the day, which was more than she hoped for. With extra time, she could gather better escape tools.

  Gemma was crouched in front of the spinning wheel, eyeing it with escape plans in mind, when she heard voices in the hallway. The door thudded and clanked as it was unlocked and unbarred. Gemma had just enough time to hide her bent fork and dull knife in her skirts before the door opened.

  King Torgen stood in the doorway. His bloodshot eyes were immediately drawn to the gold thread.

  “She can?” someone said out in the hallway. A handsome young man Gemma recognized as Prince Toril peered over his father’s shoulder. The prince was…horrified. He looked from the gold to his father, dismay twisting his face.

  “Gemma Kielland. Well done,” King Torgen said, a delighted smile crawling across his face as he stormed into the room.

  Gemma nervously backed up until she hit the wall before she stooped in a curtsey.

  “You have indeed managed to spin flax into gold,” King Torgen said, caressing the costly thread. “Just as I asked.”

  Gemma curtsied again rather than risk speaking.

  “You will do it again.”

  “What, My Lord?” Gemma said. She wasn’t surprised but fear and disappointment still shot through her like an arrow.

  “Guards, take her back to the dungeons. We will begin preparations for her next task,” King Torgen said, smiling cruelly at Gemma.

  “Yes, My Lord,” the guards standing outside the room murmured. They organized themselves around Gemma and escorted her out of the room and down the hallway.

  She was surprised when the guard captain fell in step with her.

  “I won’t ask how you did it,” he said, staring straight ahead. “But I pray, miss, that you can do it again.”

  “We shall see,” Gemma grimly said. “Prince Toril looked…displeased,” she said as they turned a corner and headed down the wretched spiral staircase that would take them to the dungeons.

  “Yah. He managed to nearly talk King Torgen into releasing you.”

  Gemma stopped walking. “He what?”

  “Prince Toril was pushing for your release. He almost had it, too, until King Torgen saw the gold.”

  Gemma pinched her eyes shut. She would have been free? If the mage hadn’t done this impossible task, she would be free to go.

  “…Miss?” the captain said.

  Or would she? The King was stubborn. It was likely he would come after her again as soon as Prince Toril’s back was turned.

  I can still survive this. The mage really did save me, Gemma decided.

  “You can’t do it a second time, can you?” the captain said.

  Gemma squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “No,” she said. “But we’ll see who’s crowned the victor.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It is nothing, sir,” Gemma said, walking again. She was quiet until they reached the dungeons.

  “We can move you to a more comfortable cell. The first one has a straw pallet. Take her there,” the captain told his men.

  Realizing Lady Linnea would have a harder time finding her if she moved cells, Gemma was quick to say, “Please, I would prefer to return to my original cell. If you don’t mind, sir,” she said.

  “Are you certain? You would be more comfortable,” the captain said.

  “I’m positive, but thank you.”

  The captain shrugged and nodded to his men, who escorted Gemma farther down the cell block.

  “Why did you let the…stranger into my room last night?” Gemma asked when they stopped outside her cell.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you allow a visitor inside?” Gemma asked.

  “Miss, if you go missing, my life and the lives of my men are forfeit. I pity you, but neither I nor my men would allow someone in your room while you were spinning. Did something happen?”

  “No, I apologize. It must have been a dream,” Gemma said.

  “Of course,” the captain said. He opened the dungeon door and bowed his head when Gemma slipped inside. “Someone will bring you breakfast shortly,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  The captain nodded and closed the dungeon door with a clank.

  Gemma shivered at the scratch marks and blood splattering the back of the dungeon door. She picked up her stool and put it under the window before climbing it. She stood on her tip-toes to peer outside.

  Lady Linnea was not waiting—which didn’t surprise Gemma. It was still early; Lady Linnea had most likely just finished her secret morning sword practice.

  Gemma sat down on the stool and picked up the outer layer of her gown—which was a plain brown color—and ripped off a small piece of her linen kirtle. She tied the little strip in a bow around one of the bars in case Lady Linnea could not remember which cell she was in.

  Gemma strained to get closer to the window to breath in the fresh air, her stomach rolling from the prevalent, coppery smell of blood that coated the dungeons. She glanced at the blanket and the soldier’s cloak left on the ground from the previous day before she hopped off the stool.

  I should rest. Even if I don’t want to.

  She tucked the blanket around herself after she sat down in a corner. She closed her eyes, trying to come up with an escape plan.

  Lady Linnea paced back and forth. She had heard—thanks to a fist full of copper coins presented to a servant—that Gemma survived the night with no threat of beheading. The servant insisted it was because Gemma successfully spun flax into gold, but that was impossible.

  “Gemma is not the goose that laid a gold egg. She’s an excellent seamstress, but she hasn’t any magic!” Lady Linnea said, addressing Lake Sno. “Prince Toril must have gotten through to his father. That is the only reasonable explanation.”

  Lady Linnea rounded the bend so she could peek past the trees and peer at the Verglas palace. No one was in sight.

  “Will he take all day to arrive?” Lady Linnea groaned. Her message to Prince Toril asked him to meet her at the shores of Lake Sno immediately. Evidently the dim-wit did not share Lady Linnea’s sense of urgency.

  “The lovesick fool is probably off sighing over flowers and a reflecting pool,” Lady Linnea sourly said, her expression pinched. “Perhaps I should see if I can speak to Gemma in the dungeons…”

  “Lady Linnea!”

  Prince Toril, riding a beautiful stallion, broke through the line of trees at the border of the forest.

  “Prince Toril,” Lady Linnea said, treating the prince to a delicate and elegant curtsy before she smiled at him. “Isn’t it great news? I must give you a million thanks,” she asked. The smile fell from her lips when Prince Toril rode closer and Lady Linnea was able to read h
is stormy expression. “What is it?”

  “Your maid—,”

  “She’s my seamstress.”

  “Fine. Your seamstress has not been released, nor was she spared because of my efforts.”

  “Then how?”

  Prince Toril sighed, his bangs falling over his eyes like a horse’s unruly forelock. “She spun flax into gold.”

  “Impossible,” Lady Linnea said.

  “Impossible or not, she did it. I saw it with my own eyes. All the flax fibers were gone, and instead, there was a spindle of gold thread,” Prince Toril said, dismounting.

  “Then it was a trick of some sort.”

  “It was not. Father had the goldsmiths inspect the thread immediately. It’s real gold.”

  “But how? Gemma doesn’t have any magic. I know she doesn’t! If she had an ability like that, she would have used it before now to make her dresses even more exquisite! She has too much pride as a seamstress not to.”

  “Does she have a patron? Someone who could hire a man to climb the castle walls and deliver gold thread to her?”

  “It is a clever idea, but no. She is employed solely by my family. She has parents, but they are penniless. Perhaps Papa and Mama did it. How much thread was there?” Lady Linnea asked, offering her hand—palm up—to Toril’s stallion.

  “A good amount on a spool this big,” Toril said, gesturing with his hands.

  Lady Linnea bit her lip. “Then it was not my parents. They like Gemma well enough, but Papa wouldn’t give up that much gold for a seamstress.”

  “And you didn’t do it?” Prince Toril pointedly asked.

  Lady Linnea frowned at Prince Toril. “If I thought up that smart of a plan, I wouldn’t have bothered to ask you for help in the first place. It’s a shame I didn’t think of it.”

  Prince Toril also frowned at the casual, verbal backhand. “It was not a smart plan. I nearly talked my father into letting her go. And then he saw the gold.”

  “He won’t release her?”

  “Not now. Even though it is obvious someone besides Gemma made the gold, he’s not going to give her up. He is too greedy.”