by K. M. Shea
“This…,” Stil darkly trailed off and glared at his donkey. “How am I supposed to fix this?” he asked an unrepentant Pricker Patch, shaking his cloak in front of the animal. “It’s already falling to pieces! If it rips much more, I’m going to start losing some of the spells and charms fixed in it.”
“Can’t you buy a new one?” Gemma asked, working to undo the buckles and ties that held the tent poles and material on the donkey’s back.
“Not easily,” Stil frowned, studying the tear. “It’s blasted hard to get a tailor talented enough to make a clothing item in which I can invest a large amount of spells—like this cloak. I bought it from a Ringsted tailor when I first made apprentice—I should have bought ten of them, for I haven’t found another tailor as skilled since. Wretched creature,” Still said, narrowing his eyes at the donkey.
Gemma patted Pricker Patch’s neck.
“Don’t comfort him; he doesn’t deserve it,” Stil said, flipping his hair over his shoulder. (It was long again, today. Gemma had no idea how he did it, but Stil changed hair styles—and lengths—at least once a day. He seemed to expect her to comment on it, so naturally she did not.)
“I doubt it comforts him. I think he dislikes human touch,” Gemma dryly said, stepping back to slide the tent poles off the donkey.
“Perhaps normal humans, but he clearly likes you.”
“What? How can you tell?”
“He looks very happy,” Stil said.
Gemma stared at the donkey.
Pricker Patch looked just as cantankerous and stoic as he had since she first set eyes on him.
“I don’t see it,” Gemma said.
“He’s thrilled. He’s merely skilled at hiding it,” Stil said.
“I see,” Gemma said as she finished unpacking the tent.
Stil finished mourning his cloak and moved between Gemma and the tent. “I’ll set it up.”
Gemma mutely backed up and patted Pricker Patch as she squinted at the horizon. “I am surprised we haven’t seen the soldiers, again.”
“I have a misdirection spell active, as well as a screening charm. King Torgen’s men would be hard-pressed to find us. And given your unusual relationship with your guards, I imagine they are not strenuously searching you out.”
“Maybe,” Gemma agreed. When she turned to study Stil she noticed that his cloak—normally a stark black—seemed to…swirl. There were faint swirls of blue, purple, green, and even reds that crawled across his cloak as if it were rolling like an ocean. “I think I finally see the magic in your cloak.”
Stil looked up. “What?” he said before glancing at his cape. He breathed an oath and dropped a tent pole. “It’s leaking magic.”
“Hm?”
“That demon donkey you’re petting damaged the cloak so much it can’t retain the spells anymore, and they’re dripping out,” Stil said, redoubling his efforts to get the tent up.
“Would you picket Pricker Patch? I’ve got to see if I can repair the damage and stop the leak,” Stil said when the tent was almost set up.
“Yes,” Gemma said.
“Thank you,” Stil said before disappearing though the tent flap.
Pricker Patch gave one loud bray, as if sensing his triumph.
Gemma picketed the donkey, tying his rope to one of the tent pegs. She entered the tent and made her way through the parlor to the hallway of doors. She found the small storage room Stil had shown her on their first day of traveling, where grain, carrots, apples, and hay was stored for Pricker Patch. She struggled to carry the hay through the parlor (wincing whenever flecks of alfalfa and strands of grass dropped) and threw the hay in front of the donkey. She gave the stubborn creature a carrot, and when she returned to the parlor, all traces of hay were gone.
Gemma shrugged off her new cloak—one made in a style similar to Stil’s but in dark green—and made her way to her uncomfortably beautiful bedroom.
She pulled out the black wool cape and studied it with narrowed eyes. The cloak, to Gemma’s critical gaze, was well made. The midnight-blue silk lining was perfectly joined to the black cloak with stitching so tiny and straight, it was perfect. The embroidery—vine-work with the occasional leaf, all made with silver-colored thread—glowed on the dark backdrop, circling the shoulders in liquid lines.
The only work left on it was to finish one embroidered leaf. But even though Gemma had used every bit of skill she had on the item and could detect no imperfection, she doubted it would meet Stil’s standards.
“Perhaps it could hold him over, until he finds a new cloak,” Gemma said, threading her needle to finish the final leaf. Her stomach growled with hunger when she finally put her needle down and trimmed away the last bit of unnecessary thread. She studied the cloak and sighed. “I feel like a fool. Like a peasant offering a king a chicken,” she said before folding up the cloak and draping it over her arm.
On a hunch, she made her way to the parlor and peered inside. Stil was there, stretched out on a settee. His mouth and chin were visible, but his eyes and forehead were tucked under a pillow.
“I would say we should slay the donkey and eat him for dinner, but I suspect leather would be more palatable,” Stil said.
“The damage is that bad?” Gemma asked.
“It’s worse than I would like when I am in an already uncomfortable situation,” Stil sighed, sitting upright. He gave Gemma a tired smile, tilting his head in interest when he noticed she carried something.
Gemma nodded and furrowed her forehead. She took a moment to rally her courage before she said, “I have something for you.”
“Oh?”
Gemma wordlessly passed the cloak to the mage.
Stil took the bundle of cloth and unfurled it. His eyes traced the embroidery, and he nudged the inner lining, examining the stitching and the hemming.
“I made it,” Gemma said, for the first time in her life uncomfortable with heavy silence.
“You made this?” Stil asked, briefly pulling his eyes from the cloak.
Gemma nodded. “I apologize if it is not up to your usual standards, but perhaps it could serve as a temporary substitute.”
“Substitute?” Stil laughed. “Gemma this is—it’s incredible. It’s perfect. You really made it?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Excuse me?”
Stil shook his head. “You cannot fathom how rare it is to find something this well made, this perfect. You must have some magic in your blood.”
“I do not,” Gemma said. “Sewing is not magic.”
“Yours practically is. Any kind of craftsmanship has touches of magic—that’s why items can hold magic. But this cloak, Gemma—you must be a genius.”
“Hardly,” Gemma wryly said.
“You think I’m storying you, but I’m serious. It takes great talent and a masterful mind to create something like this, something that practically begs to have magic added to it,” Stil said. “Doesn’t it kill you to give up your creations?”
“No. I sew for other people, not myself. That is the way it has always been,” Gemma said.
“I wonder if it has to do with that blasted sense of sacrifice you have. You sew for other people—hah!” Stil said, shaking his head. “I will have to introduce you to my fellow craftmages. They will love you, and you will never have to worry again about money. You practically can spin straw into gold—that is, you can make an item normally useless into a priceless treasure,” Stil snorted.
Gemma shrugged, not quite believing his praise.
“Thank you, Gemma. You have given me something so valuable it cannot be fathomed,” Stil said, dragging his eyes from the cloak.
“Thank you for all your help…and for using your magic on my behalf,” Gemma said.
Stil’s eyes glowed as a soft, tender smile stole across his lips. He crossed the room to stand in front of her. He slid an arm around her, scooping her against her chest, and he lowered his face—his lips, more correctly—towards
her.
Gemma came to a realization. Stil quite possibly found her attractive.
The incoming kiss told Gemma he might actually find her more than attractive; he perhaps even liked her, or fancied her.
She immediately rejected the idea.
It was preposterous. Magic users never fell in love with civilians. There was the occasional heart-breaking love story, where a mage or enchanter fell in love with a princess or some such nonsense, but they were rare.
No. Magic users loved other magic users. It was the rule.
Gemma, paralyzed where she stood, waited for Stil to back off to declare it all a joke.
When he was so close, she could feel his breath on her lips, Gemma exploded backwards.
“No,” she said, shaking a finger at Stil as if he were a miscreant dog.
“What?” Stil asked, tilting his head.
“Whatever you’re doing, NO.”
Stil tilted his head in the other direction. “What do you think I’m doing?” he asked, taking a step towards Gemma.
Gemma rushed to put the settee in between them. “You,” she said, “are…I don’t know.”
“I think you do know.”
“No, I don’t,” Gemma said, shaken by the ordeal. Mages didn’t go around almost kissing people. It just wasn’t done. Wars could be started that way!
“You are a smart girl. Try to figure it out. I think you will find there is one easy conclusion.”
“Except that conclusion is impossible,” Gemma squeaked, scared out of her usual indifference when Stil stepped around the settee. Gemma circled it to keep it between herself and the mage.
“Why is it so impossible that I should love you—,”
“NO!” Gemma shouted.
“Oh, come now. You can’t really think I am doing this because I’m a flirt,” Stil chuckled before he lunged around the settee.
Frightened by the throaty noise, Gemma fled to the far side of the room, scampering behind the second settee. “Mages don’t fall in love with normal people!”
“In your defense, you are not normal,” Stil said, strolling across the parlor.
“You…are,” Gemma struggled for a moment. “Blinded by your, ah, inaccessibility to other mages. What you’re feeling isn’t real.”
“Gemma.”
Gemma was starting to get a better hold on herself and was able to bring down the octave of her voice. “I thought you were acting oddly. The fine clothes and the bedroom, accompanying me to the border instead of sending me on my way like any proper storybook magician. Clearly, you are under some sort of mental strain,” Gemma said, faking out Stil to make him circle around the settee again, leaving her to flee in the opposite direction.
When she was safe on the other side of the settee, she smoothed her dress and lifted her chin. “Love affairs between mages and seamstresses just aren’t done,” she finished primly before leaping out of the way when Stil tried to pounce on her.
“Gemma.”
“What?”
“Why else do you think I demanded your firstborn child as a payment for spinning?” Stil said, carefully enunciating the words.
Gemma blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“If I didn’t love you, why would I want your firstborn?”
“To be a house-servant? I don’t know! Magic folk are all eccentric. We did establish that I don’t want children, so it hardly matters,” Gemma said.
“It matters because my required payment means if you ever change your mind, I will be your child’s father.”
Gemma screwed up her face. “You are the most ridiculous mage—,” her words died on her lips as she recalled Stil’s odd wording. She hadn’t paid much attention—mostly because she didn’t particularly want children, and the idea of getting married was so far off and unlikely after all she went through it wasn’t like it mattered.
But the wording. He had said, “Your firstborn child will be mine.”
Gemma narrowed her eyes. “You,” she growled.
Stil’s eyebrows popped up. “So, now you’re mad?”
“Of COURSE I’m mad, you sneaky, conniving, mage!” Gemma said, whipping a pillow at the craftmage.
“I must say I pictured many reactions when I confessed my love to you. Rage was not one of them,” Stil said, ducking the pillow.
“How could you do this!?”
“Why are we shouting?”
“I DON’T KNOW!”
There was a creak, and Stil and Gemma turned to face the front door.
A woman stood in the doorway. The most beautiful woman in the world, in fact. Stil was handsome, but this woman had such great beauty it made Gemma’s soul hurt just to look at her.
The woman wore an opalescent dress that was in the process of changing from a shade of pale green to a pale blue. “I seem to have caught you at a bad time,” she said in a voice that was so lovely it was breathtaking. “I’ll just go for now.”
“Come back in an hour,” Stil said.
“Wait!” Gemma called, instantly recognizing the woman for who she must be—a magic user. Gemma rushed across the parlor. “You must be here to see Stil. I apologize for our loud discussion, but you have not interrupted anything. Please, come in. Can I get you something to drink?” Gemma asked, angling to get out of the room and as far away from Stil as possible.
To her shock, the beautiful woman stared at her for a moment before bursting into tears—still looking breathtaking and gorgeous as tears spilled down her cheeks.
Gemma helplessly looked to Stil, who hurried forward, his forehead creased with worry. He slid an arm around the beautiful woman’s back to guide her to a settee. When she was seated, he crouched in front of her. “Angelique, what’s wrong?”
Chapter 14
Gemma carefully carried a full tea tray down the hallway, pausing when she reached the parlor door. It was cracked, and she could hear the conversation taking place inside.
“I hate crying,” the beautiful woman—Stil had called her Angelique—sniffed. “It’s so useless, and it only serves to make a person damp and weary,” she said before crying again.
“I’m certain that after all you’ve gone through, and after all you’ve done, you deserve a good cry,” Stil said, his voice soft. The craftmage was silent as the beautiful woman cried harder. It wasn’t the gentle sniff she made with her beautiful tears earlier. It was the sound of a person’s heart breaking.
“I can’t find him, Stil,” Angelique cried. “I have looked everywhere and combed every country, and I haven’t found a hint of him! I even forced my way to Ringsted to see if he was carried down there. Nothing.”
“You’ll find him.”
“No, I won’t! I haven’t any place left to look! I have tracked him with magic; I have looked for him in enchanted mirrors; and I have even tried to use our bond as master and apprentice. Nothing works! He might be—,”
Dead.
Although the beautiful magic user couldn’t bring herself to say it, even Gemma could feel the word hanging in the air.
“I hate to mention this, but it must be connected to the evil and darkness that has been stirring across the continent,” Stil said. “The attacks against the countries and royalty are too well done to be coincidence. Whoever is responsible for this has been planning it for years. It is very likely they knew Enchanter Evariste needed to be removed before they could launch their first attack.”
“They seem to be doing a fine job of sabotaging themselves,” Angelique said, her voice growing stronger as her tears stopped. “Every blasted country I run into has someone cursed—a curse which can be broken by true love.”
Judging by the scornful tone of Angelique’s voice, the subject was a safe one to intrude upon, so Gemma nudged the door open wider and carried the tea tray into the parlor.
“I’m so sick of true love, the very thought makes me ill,” Angelique said. The beautiful lady was seated on a settee. Stil stood next to her, his arms folded across his chest.
&nbs
p; “I know love is the most powerful, righteous emotion possible, but this is sheer folly,” Angelique continued. “The number of curses that have popped up in the past few years with love as the counter-agent is mind-boggling.”
“It does seem rather odd that such a wide-spread campaign to spread darkness would have such a specific, repeatable weakness,” Stil said, smiling at Gemma when she set the tea tray down. “One would think they would grow aware of this detail and change their arrangement.”
Gemma ignored him and served Angelique a cup of black tea.
“Why? Even if we manage to break the curses, I still wouldn’t say we are winning,” Angelique dully said. She shook her head and remembered her manners. “Thank you,” she said to Gemma with a serene smile, taking the teacup and saucer.
“Aye. There are plenty of predicaments that have yet to be addressed,” Stil said. “The Sole Princess, the Princesses of Farset, someone must take care of Kozlovka, and so on.”
Gemma moved to slip out of the parlor, but before she could leave the tea tray behind, Stil caught her wrist and anchored her to the spot.
Gemma tried to discreetly pull, unwilling to ruin the conversation but eager to leave the delusional Stil. His grip was as malleable as iron.
“It gets worse,” Angelique sighed wearily. “Ringsted is plagued by a sea witch.”
“What?” Stil blinked, surprise and unease coloring his voice.
Angelique nodded. “The selkies are trying to take care of her, but the humans are proving to be more of a hindrance than a help,” she sighed and sipped her tea. “I ran into a selkie that was forcibly landed—some terrible man stole her pelt.”
“What?”
“She feared he would make her use her powers over water for ill and asked me to seal her voice. I didn’t want to take it forever, so I gave her the only escape contract I have learned to use.”
“True love?” Stil asked.
“As usual,” Angelique said with some bitterness to her voice. “I meant to stay and help her, but I needed to be in Sole for the Princess’s birthday, and I was forced to leave her. I meant to return to Ringsted with Blanche and Rein, but then I received word that you were in trouble,” Angelique said, offering Stil a smile. Her eyes flicked curiously to Gemma, and Stil moved.