Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4)

by K. M. Shea

  “I cannot take your jewelry, My Lady,” Gemma said.

  “Pft, this old thing? I received it at party in Loire. Means nothing to me—it’s too small for my fingers anyway. Take it, I’ll never wear it,” Lady Linnea said, wriggling her fingers to wave the ring in Gemma’s face.

  Gemma stared at Lady Linnea for a few moments before reluctantly taking the ring. “Thank you, My Lady,” she said before Lady Linnea pulled her hand back through the bars.

  “You’re welcome. Oh! One more thing. An old lady told me to give you this,” Lady Linnea said, stuffing a small pouch through the bars.

  “An old woman?” Gemma asked after the pouch nearly fell on her face. She caught the pouch and opened it. Inside was a number of sewing needles carefully jabbed into a piece of fleece.

  “She approached me when I was walking in our garden with Mama and called me a blood thirsty barbarian! Thankfully, Mama was talking with Jentine and didn’t hear.”

  “Ah, it was Grandmother Guri,” Gemma said, brushing the needles with her forefinger.

  “Grandmother Guri? The woman who taught you to sew?”

  “Yes.”

  Lady Linnea made a tisking noise. “It’s a shame she didn’t tell me as much. I would love to converse with such an interesting woman.”

  “She is unusual in that way,” Gemma said, studying the needles.

  “So why did she give you…sewing needles?” Lady Linnea asked, pressing her face against the ceiling-window grate so she could have a better look.

  “I don’t know. Did she say anything?”

  “No. Perhaps she meant for you to use them as lock picks?”

  Gemma slid the needles back in the pouch. “I don’t think they’re they right shape, My Lady.”

  “You can always try. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Mama is getting suspicious. She tried forcing me to take lessons again today, but Papa said I didn’t have to. He feels bad about leaving you—as he should,” Lady Linnea snorted like an antsy horse.

  “Thank you for the hatchet and ring, and for delivering the needles,” Gemma said.

  “Of course. I will see you soon. Be well!” Lady Linnea said before she darted from Gemma’s sight.

  Gemma sat in the bit of late afternoon sunlight that peeked into her cell and studied her newly acquired items.

  She ran a finger over the dulled hatchet edge and walked the perimeter of her cell. “It’s all stone, so unless I could chop through the iron bars—which I can’t—I can’t burrow out. And even if I did, the soldiers would be blamed for my escape. I will have to escape when I’m supposed to be spinning. Perhaps I can convince King Torgen I must be unguarded,” Gemma murmured.

  She sighed and lifted the hatchet up again to study it. “Where on earth am I going to hide this?”

  Minutes stretched into hours as Gemma experimented with various locations of securing the hatchet in her clothes so it would neither fall out nor cut her.

  It wasn’t until the sky was purple-blue with the beginning of night that Gemma realized no one had stopped by. Not that she was expecting anyone besides Lady Linnea, but the guards hadn’t dropped off lunch or appeared to take her breakfast tray.

  I don’t blame them. They must be leery of me, Gemma thought as she rested her back against a grungy wall and closed her eyes.

  “You lie and say you can spin flax into gold, and you return to the dungeons after a successful escape attempt. I am beginning to think you might have a death wish.”

  Gemma lurched forward in surprise at the familiar, melodious male voice.

  It was the mage.

  Gemma stood, careful not to disrupt the various escape items she had strapped to her body, and hopped on the stool to look out the ceiling-window.

  The mage sat on the edge of the grille with enough ease to make Lady Linnea jealous. He still wore his unusual, black cloak, but today he had on tan, cotton pants that puffed a little at the knee but were tucked into his boots, a blue sash with incredible beadwork as a belt, and black cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A blue dragon was embroidered on his shirt, and if Gemma looked at it out of the corner of her eye it seemed almost like the dragon moved.

  Why does he dress so oddly? He must be ancient and is dressing in styles from the distant past, Gemma decided, taking in the mage’s clothes.

  He lounged on the cold ground as if he were seated on pillows with his elbows propped on the grate and his legs carelessly crossed. His face was covered by his cloak, but his fine chin and lips were pointed down at Gemma.

  “I very much wish to live,” Gemma firmly said.

  “Truly? You need to be more convincing, in that case,” the mage said.

  “If I did not lie about my abilities, King Torgen would have killed my father in addition to me. Although I cannot abide the man, my mother feels something for him, and it would be cruel to leave her alone in this world.”

  “And your escape this afternoon?”

  “The guards in charge of me would have been slaughtered.”

  “You would sacrifice yourself for the men holding you captive?”

  “I would sacrifice myself to spare the men who have shown me kindness in spite of the danger they face. They have families, children, and wives who would miss them. I am but one person,” Gemma said, getting a crick in her neck from looking straight up. “It is not that I wish for death or think I am worth less as much as it is that I choose to not see them die for my sake.”

  “You are noble.”

  “If you say so,” Gemma said, hopping off the stool.

  “No, I don’t think you understand me, Gemma Kielland. You are noble,” the mage said.

  Gemma leaned against a gritty, damp wall. “I fear you have been deceived. I am not noble. I have often been told I am a jaded, cynical being who speaks with the intent to maim.”

  The mage chuckled. “You mistake aristocracy for nobility. By noble, I mean you have an excellent moral character.”

  Gemma felt like she had no response to such a compliment.

  “It is a rare quality,” the mage added, his voice wistful.

  Gemma pushed off the wall and raised her icy gray-blue eyes to look at the mage. “Rare? I should think you often rub elbows with people of excellent moral character,” she said.

  “Why would you say that?” the mage asked, his fine lips curling with the question.

  “You are a magic user—,”

  “Craftmage.”

  “Sure. Magic users—and mages—are some of the most outstanding figures in the world,” Gemma said.

  “Maybe we once were,” the mage said, sighing with elegance. “But now we have so many rules and regulations we must follow.”

  “Aren’t they noble rules? You said you had an obligation to help those in need.”

  “I did, and I do,” the mage agreed. He tilted his head to look up at the sky, treating Gemma to a quick few of his rather fine nose. “But it’s not because of any regulation. When I made the rank of craftmage, a very dear friend spoke to me about the responsibility of using magic. She insisted that whenever possible, it was my duty to help the weak. I swore I would do so.”

  Gemma pinched her lips together.

  The mage exhaled. “And I’ve upset you. What is it?”

  “I take exception to being labeled weak.”

  The mage laughed outright. “As you should,” he said. “If I have learned anything about your character, it is that you are a strong woman.”

  “Hm,” Gemma said.

  “Which brings us back to you. Why did you so nobly return? Why did you lie in the first place?” the mage asked, tucking one knee to his chest.

  Gemma shrugged. “What could I gain by thinking only of myself?”

  “Your life?” the mage said.

  Gemma pinched her lips together.

  “And now I’ve offended you again.”

  “No. I merely no longer wish to dwell on my actions. Good evening, Sir Mage,” Gemma said, walking towards a corner of her
cell.

  “Ah, wait, you hasty thing,” the mage called.

  “Yes?”

  “Tomorrow, you will be summoned by King Torgen to another room to spin flax into gold.”

  “I suppose so.”

  The mage nodded. “I will help you complete the task.”

  “Why?” Gemma asked.

  “My obligation to aid those in need…but also because you deserve a little magic.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better—easier even—to free me from my cell?”

  “Perhaps, but I am hopeful we can find a way for you to return to your normal life. Breaking you out would shatter that chance,” the mage said. “Do you understand?”

  Gemma shrugged. “It seems I am a bother.”

  “I don’t mind. I will be stranded in Verglas for a time anyway,” the mage said, looking away again.

  Gemma and the mage were silent for a few minutes before the mage spoke. “You don’t talk a lot, do you?”

  “Why should I speak if I have nothing of worth to say?”

  “Noble, strong, and practical. If we keep this up, in several nights, I will be able to fully report on your character,” the mage said.

  “Hm,” Gemma said, conveying disinterest as she returned to leaning against the cell wall.

  The mage rustled around on the grate for a moment before sliding his hand through an opening. “Here,” he said, holding out a chunk of cheese and an apple.

  Gemma looked from the offered snack up to the mage. “I have plenty to eat myself,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Gemma said. She was careful not to touch his hand when she took the food—not out of fear as much as respect.

  “Now that you’ve been fed and reassured, are you in the mood for a game?”

  “The question game?”

  “Yes.”

  Gemma held back a sigh. “Is it a mouse?”

  “That is not how the game works.”

  “Yes, Sir Mage.”

  “Since you are so against guessing, I will take a turn. Do you have something in your mind?”

  “I suppose so,” Gemma reluctantly said.

  “Excellent, is it a material?”

  “No.”

  “Is it a food item, then?”

  “No.”

  The stupid game went on for at least an hour. As little as Gemma liked the game, she had to admit it kept her mind off her pitiful circumstances, and by the time the mage crowned her as the champion of the night, Gemma’s heart was lighter, and the dungeon was not so terribly bleak.

  Chapter 7

  At sunset the following day, Gemma stood in front of her cell door, her arms folded across her chest, her feet firmly planted. Her stomach growled so loudly it was painful. She hadn’t had anything to eat besides the apple and cheese from the mage almost a full day before.

  Gemma stood as still as a statue and was not disappointed. Within minutes, the door to her cell clanked and swung open.

  The captain from the previous day, the guard called Foss, and four other guards stood on the other side, braced as if Gemma were a wild animal about to attack.

  Gemma raised an eyebrow at their stance and wordlessly joined them in the aisle. The soldiers crowded around her, making it difficult to move. Gemma was surprised they didn’t put shackles on her or tie her arms behind her back.

  The escort to the room she was to spin in was silent, awkward, and uncomfortable. The guards startled whenever she moved—Foss almost yelled when she raised a hand to adjust her hair-band.

  After climbing two different sets of stairs and winding down several hallways, Gemma and her escort popped out in a narrow corridor where King Torgen, Prince Toril, and a band of guards were waiting for them.

  “Gemma Kielland, your time has come,” King Torgen said, indicating to the doorway in front of him. “The conditions are the same as before. Spin all the flax into gold by dawn, or I will have you beheaded.”

  Gemma glanced through the open doorway and, with disappointment, noted that it was not the same room as the previous time. Even worse, there was a great deal more flax. There was so much, in fact, that it covered the room like a fibrous carpet.

  “Very well, but I have a new condition as well, My Lord,” Gemma said.

  “What?” King Torgen said, his face going from feverishly happy to angry.

  Behind him, Prince Toril made a gesture to stop.

  “I will spin this flax, but it will make more noise than my previous time. I cannot have any guards on duty—for if they hear my work, the flax will fail to turn into gold,” Gemma said.

  The guards surrounding Gemma did not turn to gape at her—as Gemma was sure they longed to—but one of them shifted, and two of the guards who were holding spears tightened their grips so the wooden poles of their weapons creaked.

  They knew what she was doing—or trying to do.

  “I think not, Gemma Kielland,” King Torgen said, his bloodshot eyes narrowed.

  “Then you won’t see a speck of gold,” Gemma said, her voice flat as she stared the King down.

  Nobody spoke.

  King Torgen and Gemma stared at each other. Gemma held his feverish glare. She knew if she looked away, he would tear into her.

  “Father, you should give her a fair chance,” Prince Toril said. “If she, er, cannot complete the task it will hardly be her fault.”

  King Torgen sneered. “Fine. The guards will stay on duty, but they will be stationed two hallways away.”

  With this pronouncement, King Torgen walked away, four guards trailing behind him.

  Prince Toril shuddered. When his father drew out of sight, he whispered, “That was dangerous. I can see why Lady Linnea thinks so highly of you.”

  “Forgive me, My Lord,” Gemma said.

  “No, I know what you were trying to do. It was an honorable idea, but he’s not desperate enough to give you whatever you demand. Yet,” the prince said as he looked at Gemma with a pinched expression.

  “Thank you, My Lord,” Gemma said when she realized he expected some sort of reply.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. I’m working to keep flax fibers out of Ostfold for now. I hope that is useful. Will you be alright tonight?”

  Thinking back to her time spent with the mage, Gemma cocked her head. “I think so.”

  Prince Toril’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Great—I’ll tell Lady Linnea. Until tomorrow morning, then. I wish you all the luck in the world,” Prince Toril said before stepping away.

  Gemma was herded into her new spinning room—which was considerably larger than the previous room.

  “Sorry, miss,” a guard said before he swung the door shut. It clanked when it was locked, and thudded when the bar was slid into place.

  “There goes that idea,” Gemma sighed. She glanced at a small, round table that was loaded with food. There was pickled fish, boiled potatoes, baked apples, cheese, fat slices of sour dough bread that was so fresh it was still warm, and a small block of butter.

  Gemma’s stomach growled at the wonderful smells, but she forced herself to walk the perimeter of the room. The walls were wooden, but when she knocked, it seemed that there was some kind of stone behind the panels.

  The window, Gemma eagerly saw, was again barred with wooden boards, but this room was located on the top floor. Unless she could fashion a very long ladder, Gemma would die climbing out.

  “It doesn’t help anyway. I can’t leave, or the soldiers will be killed,” Gemma said. Not knowing what else to do, she wandered over to the table and started to eat.

  After she finished her third potato, she turned to the mound of frayed blankets piled next to the table. As Gemma chewed on a chunk of baked apple, she unfolded a blanket, inspecting it with a critical eye.

  “Might help,” she said.

  An hour later, when the mage opened and shut the door with a deafening clank—that Gemma didn’t understand how the soldiers could miss—Gemma greeted him.

  “Hello, Sir Mage,” she said
before stuffing a piece of buttered sourdough bread in her mouth.

  “Working on your next escape plan?” the mage asked in his throaty voice.

  “Yep,” Gemma said around the bread as she continued braiding the strips of old blankets she had shredded.

  “Rethinking your sacrifice?” the mage asked, walking over to the spinning wheel.

  “Nope,” Gemma said. She tossed the sturdy rope/braid and blanket pieces aside and began gathering up flax fibers. “I’m just preparing.”

  “I see,” the mage said, wetting his fingers and pulling flax fibers away from the already prepared distaff, maneuvering them so they circled the spindle.

  “Will you have enough time tonight to spin all of this?” Gemma asked, dropping an armload of the fibers by the spinning machine.

  “Yes. The machine will merely have to spin faster. If it appears that I am running out of time, I can always set up my spinning wheel,” the mage said.

  “You have a spinning wheel?” Gemma asked, looking at his cloak with new appreciation.

  “Yes. I carry a number of tool kits, spinning wheels, saws, everything,” the mage said. “I need them to work my craft-magic.”

  “So you make magical items?” Gemma asked.

  The mage shrugged. “Yes. But it takes quite a bit of time to make things from scratch. My more valuable skills lie in the ability to bestow magic upon regular items after they have already been made. It’s not often I get to make something truly magical, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “In order to work my magic, the item must be high quality.”

  “I would think that would mean it would be quite easy if you visited a King or Queen,” Gemma said, dropping another bundle of fibers by the spinning wheel.

  “No, I don’t mean expensive. The high quality has nothing to do with the base materials,” the mage said as he added fibers to the distaff when the spinning wheel starting whirling on its own as his magic activated. “The item needs to be well made by a true craftsmen. These days, people are more concerned with getting the newest styles as quickly as possible—which means the items appear to be beautiful but often the crafters have taken shortcuts to churn them out,” the mage said.

  “So you can only make something magic if it’s well made?”