by K. M. Shea
“That’s only natural,” King Toril said. “I believe Princess Rakel used the library as the first meeting place for mages before a school was built.”
“Yes, so goes the legend,” Stil said.
King Toril clasped his hands behind his back and looked around the library. “No. It’s fact.”
“Indeed,” Gemma agreed.
Stil popped out from behind the bookshelf again. “How do you know?”
King Toril blinked and tipped his head. “Because King Steinar’s journal recorded it.”
Stil placed a hand against the impressive bookshelf to steady himself. “King Steinar—the little brother of the Snow Queen Rakel, the first enchantress—that King Steinar?”
“Yes.” King Toril said.
“You possess copies of his journal?”
“We have some copies, but I was referring to the original document,” King Toril said.
Stil sank to his knees. “You have historical documents from the Snow Queen’s time, and you did not send them to the Veneno Conclave?”
King Toril frowned. “It is our right. She was a Verglas Princess before she was the first enchantress.”
“But the historical impact! To hear first-hand of her actions—it would be a boon to the magical community.”
“The Snow Queen belongs to Verglas first,” Gemma said.
King Toril exchanged nods with her. “Hear, hear. Besides, when the school for mages was moved from Verglas centuries ago, we allowed many of our academic resources to leave with it, but it would be foolish to expect us to send everything.”
Stil mashed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I forgot how protective you people are of her. May I see this journal?”
“Certainly. A copy of it is on the shelf you were just browsing.” King Toril joined Stil at the shelf and plucked a thick volume that was discolored from the sunlight. “It was required reading for me as a child.”
Stil swiped the book from Toril’s hands and began to flip through it, his eyes skimming the pages.
Toril and Gemma watched in silence for at least half an hour before the king excused himself and left. Gemma was about to follow him—she had a new cloak she was working on for Stil—when Stil gasped.
“No!”
Gemma blinked. “What?”
Stil pulled his stunning eyes from the book. “Do you remember that wretched tower you were dumped in for the last night King Torgen ordered you to spin flax into gold?”
Gemma stifled a shiver. “Yes.”
“We must go to it—immediately!” Stil ran from the room, holding his book above his head.
Gemma folded her arms across her chest and waited.
Stil zipped back into the room. “Why didn’t you follow?”
“Because I want to know what is going on.”
“It has to deal with the Snow Queen. Please come, Gemma?” Stil asked. He moved in until he was so close, his breath stirred tendrils of her hair.
“Very well,” Gemma reluctantly agreed.
Stil gave her a smile that made her toes curl, kissed her on the lips, and slipped his hand around hers.
Gemma tied a kerchief around her hair as the spring winds tried to toss it everywhere. She followed Stil as they walked north of the castle, edged past a line of trees, and stopped outside the giant, crumbling stone tower. It stretched high above the trees, and most of the glass pane windows had been broken and were poorly boarded up.
Gemma knew personally that standing in the tower was oppressive. It was soaked with desperation and sadness—standing next to it was hardly any better. She disliked it, and it raised cruel memories of King Torgen.
“Why are we here?” Gemma asked.
As if sensing her thoughts, Stil snaked a comforting arm around her and pulled her into his side. “Because this tower was built for Princess Rakel.”
Gemma paused. “What?”
“After her powers were revealed when she was three, King Ingolfr had this tower built for her. She was imprisoned in it until she was exiled to Ensom Peak at age ten.”
“But why?” Gemma stared at the tower with horror. It was a dark, ugly place, and the Snow Queen—the savior of Verglas—had been forced to spend her childhood in it?
Stil tenderly brushed her shoulder. “Because of her powerful ice and snow magic.”
“Who could do that to a child? Just because she had magic?”
“It was a different world then, Gemma. Magic users were hated and feared, but she changed it. It’s why we mages revere her today. But I thought it was known that the Snow Queen was exiled before the Allegiance of the Chosen invaded?”
“It is, but I didn’t know she was treated that poorly! I was taught that she was ignored—not abused.”
“I imagine that was a white lie, told to keep folk from feeling guilty and terrible,” Stil said as he thumbed through the copy of King Steinar’s journal. “When someone saves a nation as she did, no one wants to admit how poorly they treated their hero beforehand. And if the Snow Queen was even half as gentle as King Steinar professes her to be, I don’t think she would want others to feel sorry for her.”
Gemma shook her head. “We love her so much, but centuries later, her prison still stands?”
“It seems King Steinar wanted to keep the tower standing—So it might always remind me that blind hatred and fear lead only to sorrow,” he quoted. “It sounds like King Torgen should have read this journal a couple times, eh?”
Stil’s attempt at humor didn’t prod Gemma from her disappointed shock. “We’ve always boasted about her with such pride…but we did horrible things to her, didn’t we?”
“No, you didn’t. Perhaps your ancestors might have, but you can’t take on this century-old sin.” Stil pulled her into an embrace. “She saved Verglas and its people—not because she had to, but because she chose to. Take pride in that, Gemma. The Snow Queen loved this country so much, she fought for it and changed the continent as a result.”
“I wish we had something better to remember her by than this horrible tower,” Gemma said.
“You do. The journal claims Lake Sno was created by her when she melted a great iceberg.”
“It’s a sign of her power, not of our esteem in her,” Gemma said.
Stil’s face took on a contemplative look. “Esteem—oh! Then I know where we should go next. Come—we must return to the palace.” He strode off, towing Gemma in his wake.
“Why?” she asked.
“Wait and see!”
Gemma let Stil tow her through the Verglas Royal Palace. He clutched the copy of King Steinar’s journal and wore a look of scholarly delight.
“You shouldn’t be steeped in guilt about the Snow Queen, Gemma,” Stil said as they marched along. “Not only would she not want you to, but she knew how much Verglas grew to love her.”
“But how can we know that?” Gemma asked.
Stil threw open the doors to the Verglas throne room.
The throne room was a beautiful masterpiece that overlooked Lake Sno—the snow-fed lake located at the west side of the palace. There were two thrones: a central one for the current monarch, which was made of wood and blue velvet and placed on top of a marble dais, and a second one made of glass and crafted to resemble ice. The ice throne was positioned in the far back of the room, and was tilted to give it a view of the lake as well as the room.
King Toril was seated in the throne. Two well-dressed men—merchants, if Gemma had to guess—stood at the base of the dais. Toril blinked at Gemma and Stil’s abrupt arrival. “Hello?”
Stil ignored him and flung his arms wide. “This, this is a symbol of how the people and King Steinar esteemed and revered Princess Rakel.”
“I know King Steinar had the ice throne built for the Snow Queen,” Gemma said. She wasn’t much buoyed by the thought as it was a long-held tradition.
“Yes, but do you know why the palace and practically every home, shop, and stable in Verglas has carvings of snowflakes and reindeer?” Stil asked. He
gestured to the marble floor, which was covered with blue rugs accented with snowflakes and reindeer. The room sparkled when sunlight hit the gilded silver and glasswork that edged the room, making it look like the walls were made of dazzling snowflakes.
“Because the Snow Queen liked reindeer and snow,” Gemma said, as if her intended was stupid.
“Did you two need something?” King Toril asked.
“Exactly!” Stil rocked back on his heels and shook his copy of King Steinar’s journal. “King Steinar recognized the reindeer as the kingdom’s official emblem, but it wasn’t his idea, it was the commoners’. When the peasants began to fight back and resist the magical invaders the Snow Queen faced, they rallied under banners of reindeer and snowflakes. And all these centuries later, her legacy still stands. You still have records about her, and you remember her.”
“But that doesn’t make up for what we did,” Gemma argued.
“Are you still talking about the Snow Queen?” King Toril asked.
“I don’t think you understand, Gemma, just how rare Verglas’ deep loyalty is,” Stil said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Other countries have heroes, as well. Loire has the Girl and the Glass Coffin. Sole has the Queen of Hearts. Erlauf has the Trieux princess who forged their incredible army…each country has its heroes. But they are little more than legends. Most folk don’t even know their names. The Snow Queen, though…you have kept her close to your heart. You told me yourself: you did not rebel against Torgen because he is of King Steinar’s line—the line of Princess Rakel’s brother—and you have absolute loyalty to her, even centuries after her death.” Stil cut off his impassioned speech. He marched up to Gemma and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“The real test of love and loyalty is time, Gemma. At the beginning of her life, the Snow Queen was mistreated, yes, but she is the only individual in the whole continent—alive or dead—who has inspired loyalty and love for generations. And although we mages and magic users revere her, I think she would be more moved by Verglas and your fierce love.”
Gemma’s lower lip trembled with emotion, and Stil embraced her, wrapping her in a hug that warmed every part of her body.
“Ahem.” King Toril said.
Embarrassed, Gemma pulled back from Stil. She pressed her lips together and fought a blush. Stil, however, was unbothered. “King Toril,” he smiled. “How can I help you?”
King Toril’s usual expression of good cheer looked forced for a moment. “You are discussing the Snow Queen,” he said.
“Yes,” Stil said.
“Then I have something to show you.” King Toril motioned for them to follow. He left the throne room and strolled down several twisting hallways that were spotted with guards. Gemma recognized the area as being the private quarters of the royal family—Linnea had hauled her inside it several times since her engagement.
“Here we go.” King Toril entered his personal study. He walked to one of his bookshelves that was pressed against the wall and flicked some kind of switch that made it swing back, revealing what looked like a shallow closet. “They used to be on public display, but my great-grandfather—or was it my great-great-grandfather?—hid them during his reign. He was a bit paranoid and feared someone would steal them.” Toril’s upper body disappeared into the closet, and he sneezed in the dust he raised. “Theft isn’t a legitimate concern anymore, so I’ve been thinking I should bring them back out, but I haven’t found the right occasion. Watching you two, though, made me realize something.”
Gemma glanced at Stil, but he was busy trying to peer over Toril’s shoulder to see into the hidden space. “What did you realize?” she asked.
Toril straightened. “That we need to remember the complete picture of the Snow Queen’s life—from her exile to her position of honor. You fear she didn’t know how much all of Verglas loved her, don’t you, Gemma?”
“Yes,” Gemma whispered.
Toril smiled. “I can tell you with great assurance: she knew. She and her husband, Farrin Graydim, both enjoyed the long lives Enchanters and Enchantresses frequently have. At the end of their lives, they publically left their two most precious treasures to the royal family. Though, at that point, it was her great-nephew and great-niece who ruled.”
From the darkened space of the closet, Toril pulled out a two-handed broadsword. It was an older, cruder model than most of the swords used by modern armies, but it had not a fleck of rust on it.
“The sword of Farrin Graydim,” Stil breathed. He reached out to touch it, smiling with delight when Toril offered it to him, hilt first.
Toril reached into the space again and this time brought out a crown crafted to resemble a ring of silver snowflakes: the crown of the Snow Queen.
Gemma blinked, fighting tears.
“Over her life, Princess Rakel was given precious jewels and treasures, rare artifacts, priceless books, and costly clothes,” Toril said, his voice kind and soft. “And over all of that, she most treasured the crown that marked her as a princess of Verglas. She knew, Gemma. It’s why she faced the dark magic users and embedded her power into the land.” He offered her the crown, and Gemma took it with shaking hands.
She smiled. The Snow Queen, Princess Rakel of Verglas, had used everything she had to protect Verglas.
I may not have magic, and I’m only a seamstress, but I will protect our country. I’ll fight whatever darkness we face now, and I will see this through!
Standing there, holding the Snow Queen’s crown, Gemma’s heart sang. The Snow Queen…she knew.
The End
The Robber Maiden
This story is told from Phile’s perspective, and takes place shortly before she meets Rakel.
Phile—Robber Maiden of Baris and daughter of Leonia, the famed leader of the Dishonorable Knaves—was splayed across a rafter like it was a feather-stuffed mattress. She tossed Foedus—her ugly dagger—in the air and caught it by hilt. She lazily spun it around a finger, then used it to scratch her side.
She yawned and flipped over onto her stomach so she could watch Chosen officers swarm beneath her like little ants. Nothing has changed. I first heard the rumors of a royal ice magic user in the south and tracked the whispers north. But since then…nothing.
She had been, for the most part, following the trail left behind by the First Regiment—the most well-trained and well-disciplined regiment of the Chosen army. The majority of the regiment’s forces were stationed in Ostfold—where she was kicking up her heels for the moment as she waited for a whisper, for a breath of information about the famed exiled Verglas Princess.
But there was nothing.
Maybe she doesn’t exist after all. Perhaps they were only fanciful rumors, and she was killed as a child. The thought made her grimace. Phile never understood what about magic made so many people act toady and stupid.
Phile blinked when a bright light flickered on the wall. Frowning, she followed the light to a garbed officer—Colonel Kavon. She recognized him as he had arrived in Ostfold the day before with a supply train and several of his squads. They were due to leave in a few hours and head south again.
What is he holding that is casting a reflective light? Jewels? I bet at the very least, it is something expensive.
Her interest piqued, Phile peeled herself off her beam and ghosted across the rafters—watching warily that she did not catch any attention.
No one looked up, so she followed the perimeter of the room, cursing under her breath when Colonel Kavon—a handsome man who wore an unfortunately dark-looking smirk that considerably dampened his charm—left the hall.
“King’s toes,” she muttered. She abandoned the rafters and was forced to climb up the wall—built with unfortunately slick rock bricks that were difficult to get a toe or finger-hold on. She heaved herself into a ventilation slit that opened into the outside and huffed at the disagreeably cold temperature. “Verglas winters—why does anyone live here? A body is not meant to survive th
ese extreme conditions!” She picked her way across the slippery roof and jumped from one building to the next, pausing long enough to cast a glance at some of the palace ruins.
The Chosen Army had not been kind when it took the Verglas palace. Parts of it had been burned down, and some of the outer walls were ripped to shreds.
Phile tracked her quarry across the palace. Sometimes, she had to shimmy down the walls and press her face against glass windows to see where he was going, and she almost lost him when he took the long route around the library.
She was surprised when he left the palace and entered a snowed-over flower garden. She crouched on the edge of the roof like a gargoyle—her teeth chattering—as she watched him study whatever was in his hands.
When the colonel turned to look north, Phile picked her way down the wall and drew as close to him as she dared, crouching behind a shrub. She glared at him as she pulled her jacket tighter, trying to keep warm in the frigid wind.
Colonel Kavon—oblivious to her presence—studied the impassable mountain range that cradled northern Verglas. “Where are you?” he murmured. His smirk turned into a grimacing smile as Phile stared at him in awe.
What sort of idiot comes outside in this weather to talk to himself?
Irritated, she popped out from behind her snow-covered bush and slithered into an evergreen tree, sweating with the effort it took to avoid shaking the tree as she crawled between its branches.
The new position gave her a better view, allowing her to see that Colonel Kavon held what looked like a shard of a mirror in his hands. As he caressed the surface, Phile could almost feel something evil radiating from it.
She shivered.
It wasn’t the first mirror shard she had seen. Tenebris Malus—leader of the Chosen—and another one of his colonels possessed mirror shards as well. But why?
Colonel Kavon slipped the shard in a pocket and sauntered back to the palace. He brushed against Phile’s tree and, without thinking, she picked his pocket. Her swift fingers eased into his pocket as the needle-like branches brushed his side.