“I’m a craftmage, not a weather mage. They care more about how things look, and they’re much showier. Thank you,” Stil said, taking the roll.
“I appreciate the trouble you are putting yourself through.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Stil said, leaning against the wall as he ate. “Although there is one last bit to the spell.”
“Yes?”
“When you call my name, you have to use my mage name.”
Gemma tilted her head. “Your mage name?”
Stil nodded. “Because I’m a craftmage, my power lies close with creation and naming, so I took up a mage name to give my spells an extra boost of power.”
“What is it?”
“You’re going to laugh.”
“So?”
Stil chuckled. “At least you’re honest. It’s Rumpelstiltskin.”
“It’s what?”
“Rumpelstiltskin.”
“Oh,” Gemma said, keeping her expression bland.
Stil’s lips quirked. “I can tell you are laughing on the inside, Gemma.”
“That’s not better than laughing openly?”
“Perhaps it is,” Stil said. “Your eyes glitter extra, which is enchanting.”
Surprised, Gemma opened and closed her mouth before furrowing her forehead as she tried to decipher what that meant. Stil finished his roll and watched her. The set of his lips said he was highly amused as Gemma tried to puzzle through it.
“I will need something to trade for the thimble,” he said after some moments when Gemma still hadn’t worked out an acceptable reply.
“Truly?” Gemma blinked.
“It’s a less valuable charm, so I don’t need much. You could give me a bit of whatever you’re making,” Stil said, nodding to the cape—which was coming along quite nicely—Gemma had folded and placed on the blankets.
Gemma pressed her lips together and wondered how she could refuse.
“Or a lock of your hair will do just as well,” Stil said.
Gemma frowned. “A lock of hair? That’s incredibly useless—although I suppose it isn’t as terrible as trading gold for more gold.”
Stil said nothing but wore a small smile.
“Very well. I will have to trade with a lock of hair—for I haven’t anything else. Unless you want another roll?”
“Your hair will be fine. It won’t take much,” Stil said, beckoning her closer with a finger.
Gemma approached the mage and stood very still when he flicked a hunting knife out of his cloak. He spun Gemma around and gently pulled a lock of her wild hair. “There,” he said when Gemma felt him release her hair.
The craftmage held up the lock—it was little more than the crazy, upward curl her hair ended with—for Gemma’s inspection. “Also, I will lend you this while I’m gone,” he said, passing over the ruby heat charm.
“I can’t. You just took that back yesterday,” Gemma argued.
“And you will need it even more while I am gone. It’s only going to get colder, and you sleep with an open grate in your ceiling,” Stil said.
“I don’t have anything I could trade for it.”
“You don’t have to. I will lend it to you,” Stil said, taking Gemma’s hand and placing the charm on her palm.
Instantly warmth started to flood Gemma, who looked doubtfully down at the charm. “I don’t think—,”
“Gemma, it’s fine,” Stil said, once again leaning back against the wall.
Gemma shrugged and changed the subject. “Where will you be going?” she asked, moving to place the charm on top of the cape.
“I have a bit of investigating to do.”
Gemma tilted her head. “Is the Veneno Conclave planning something?”
“No. That’s the problem,” Stil sighed.
“What?”
Stil brushed his hands off before moving to stand in front of her. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. You will be safe while I’m gone,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders.
Gemma frowned. She did not like the brush off, but Stil was a mage. A mage who had saved her life twice, now. She allowed him to change the subject.
“And you will not hesitate to call for me,” Stil said, tapping a finger on her shoulder to get her attention.
“No,” Gemma agreed.
Still smiled. “Good,” he said, brushing a finger beneath her chin. “I will head out immediately, then. Enjoy your lunch,” the mage said.
Gemma turned to glance at the tray of food. “Yes, did you want—,” she cut herself off when she realized the mage was no longer in the cell with her.
Gemma shrugged. “Mages. They’re worse than cats.”
The following day, early in the morning, Gemma walked outside on the shores of Lake Sno with Foss and Rudd. There was no wind, but the temperatures were cold, and the previous night brought a hard frost, so everything from fence posts to tree leaves were white with the lacework of frost.
They had wandered close enough to Ostfold to hear the morning bustle as villagers went about their lives.
“Winter is nearly here,” Foss announced. “Have you got enough hay for your animals, Rudd?”
“We hope to sell one of the goats. If we don’t, it will be tight,” Rudd said.
Gemma turned her gaze from Ostfold to her guards. “You have animals?” She asked.
