by K. M. Shea
“It’s for your image,” Phile said. She was mounted on the Chosen horse she had stolen during the war.
“It seems unfair to make Frigid work so hard in the summer temperatures,” Rakel said.
“It is not hot,” Phile groused. “Hot is when the sun is so strong, you can fry an egg on a stone block outside. This here is comfortable and pleasant. We’re not even sweating!”
A cool breeze ruffled Rakel’s snow-white hair. “He has a warm coat.”
Phile snorted. “He’s also fat because you slip him so many treats. Worry not, Little Wolf. Frigid has the necessary strength to haul your royal posterior to the refugees.”
Rakel looked to Farrin for support. “Don’t you think it’s unfair?”
He shrugged. “I love you, but your reindeer is obese.”
Rakel scowled at him and was about to launch into a defense of Frigid’s weight, when Oskar turned his horse in a circle.
“Vatn and the camp are around this bend. Into formation, quickly,” Oskar urged.
The soldiers and magic users rearranged themselves so Rakel now led the expedition, instead of riding at the heart of it.
Oskar cast a critical eye over their ranks. “It will do,” he said. He swung his horse around so he could smile at her. “When you are ready, Princess.”
Rakel swallowed, her nerves building slightly, and nudged Frigid down the path.
Slowly, Vatn, a small village of no more than a hundred or two, and the camp—ragged and tattered—crawled into view as Rakel and her retinue followed the bend in the road.
She clenched her jaw and tried to reel her nerves back in when she realized that her magic—which instead of residing in her, was loose and coated the country like a layer of paint—was responding to her nerves, and coating the dusty road and the grass that edged it in hoarfrost.
As if stirred by the silvery frost, Vatn became a swirl of bodies, murmurs, and laughter.
“It’s the Snow Queen!”
“The Snow Queen came!”
“Snow Queen!”
“She’s here! The Snow Queen is here!”
Rakel smiled at the villagers as she rode past them, but her gaze lingered on the refugee camp.
The “camp” was little more than a few fires with people huddled around them. There were no tents, no animals, and very few packs. Compared to the pleasantly plump and pink Vatn villagers, the refugees were rail-thin, wore ragged clothing, and shrank close to the ground like animals that had been hunted to exhaustion.
When they saw Rakel’s party, they froze as if she had covered them with ice, and stared.
Knut—one of Rakel’s longtime guards who had achieved the title of captain—shouted, “Company, halt!” when they reached the gap between Vatn and the pitiful camp.
Farrin was at her side in a second, assisting her dismount from Frigid. (Her year spent unconscious had done nothing to help her equestrian skills, so she was still a fairly poor rider.)
Rakel nervously tugged at the full skirt of her dress—silvery blue with white embroidery that resembled snow-covered trees. Her crown—a silvery creation fashioned to look like a ring of snowflakes—squeezed her head, a gentle reminder that her brother was counting on her to represent him.
Phile leaped off her horse and joined Rakel to peer at the refugees. “I bet they’re escapees from Sarthe,” she muttered.
Rakel glanced up at Farrin.
A muscle twitched in his cheek as his eyes scanned the oncoming refugees. “I disagree. They aren’t gladiators. None of them are trained enough in combat.”
“Princess!” a Vatn villager—a plump man who bore a stark white scar on his arm and wore cotton trousers and a short-sleeved tunic—called. He had a big smile, and he clapped his hands and bowed several times. “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you. I was a resistance fighter. Though I never met you, I was honored to witness your final battle against Tenebris! A smashing show—though I am sorry you were unconscious for so long. Terribly sorry!” He said, stumbling when he realized how it might sound.
Rakel renewed her smile. “Thank you for your welcome….”
“Carl,” he supplied.
“Thank you, Carl. What can you tell me about the refugees?” Rakel asked.
A soldier scurried past and collected Frigid and Phile’s horse. Knut organized some of his men to care for the mounts, while the rest gathered around Rakel in an orderly, but protective, formation.
Carl rubbed his chin. “They arrived not quite two weeks ago—staggering through the forest like lost men. They seem harmless, but after the War of Ice and Snow…” Carl shook his head. “We trust our magic users, and if you accept ‘em, we’ll trust the refugees, too, but I’ll not risk Vatn with those you haven’t approved.”
“I imagine you aren’t alone in your sentiments,” Rakel mused. “Have you learned any of their names?”
“Ah.” Carl hunched his shoulders and flushed slightly. “We haven’t been too friendly, but I have had a few meetings with their leader—a woman who goes by the name Twink.”
“I see. Thank you, Carl.” Rakel said.
Knut cleared his throat, prompting her.
“Is it alright if my men set up a camp in the village boundaries? We would prefer to spend the night and move out in the morning, should all go well.” Rakel asked.
Carl resumed bowing. “Of course, Princess. This way, please, sirs.” He waddled off, showing the soldiers in charge of the mounts where they could picket them.
Rakel straightened her posture and tried to calm her nerves. “Are we ready?” she asked.
Farrin adjusted the position of his two-handed broadsword’s scabbard and exchanged nods with Knut. “Lead on,” he said.
Rakel slowly approached the refugee camp, belatedly twitching the temperature which had started to drop with her nerves.
None of the dozen or so refugees had moved from their crouches, and they stared at Rakel with a mixture of awe and fright.
She cleared her throat and tried to smile through her nerves. “Welcome to Verglas. I am Princess Rakel—sister of King Steinar. I have journeyed here to meet you on his behalf, as well as on behalf of this country. Is your leader, Twink, present?”
“Here, milady.” A stick of a woman stood. Though Rakel guessed she was probably the same age as Inga—the mother of one of Rakel’s ardent admirers, a little girl named Gerta—Twink’s face was lined with grief; her hands were thick with calluses, and everything from her hair to her bones seemed limp and underfed. She tottered for a moment, then folded in a clumsy bow. “Thank you for meeting us,” she said. She had a slight accent that Rakel couldn’t place.
“Torrens,” Phile whispered in her ear.
That’s on the other side of the continent!
Rakel forced her lips into a deeper smile—Phile was forever telling her that smiling made her less severe and a lot more likeable. “Of course. If you will forgive my brisk question, who are you, and what brings you to Verglas?”
Internally, Rakel scowled. Obviously they are fleeing here. Everyone knows that. But Oskar and Steinar insisted she ask the question anyway.
Twink clamped her arms to her side and looked at Rakel with eyes that were old with pain. “We are magic users from Torrens—though not all of us were born there. We heard of Verglas and its King, who is said to be a magic sympathizer. I thought—we thought—we might receive better treatment here.”
Rakel studied the refugees as she listened to Twink speak. Her eyes settled on a little boy who was probably Gerta and Kai’s age. She smiled at him. The little boy paled and hid behind a bony man.
She blinked and worked to keep a frown off her face. It has been some time since I last saw fear directed at me…
“I apologize,” Twink said. “Though we asked for you to come here…we journeyed here without expecting to see you. Whispers said you had fallen into a deep sleep, and no one thought you would ever wake. It was a surprise to learn, when we entered Verglas, that you are a
wake.”
Rakel relaxed. “Your ignorance is not shocking. I woke only a few months ago.” She hesitated, wondering how to delicately phrase the next question.
Luckily, Phile had no such scruples and willfully plunged into the conversation. “See here, Twink, you haven’t told us anything detailed. Torrens isn’t as bad as Sarthe—they don’t have the gladiator battles—but it does have slaves. That’s what you are, isn’t it? Runaway slaves?”
Twink looked back and forth between Rakel and Phile with some panic.
Rakel frowned at her friend. “Please allow me to belatedly introduce my companion, Phile Silver-Step, the Robber Maiden.”
Behind Rakel, Farrin moved. “Is she right?” he asked.
Twink flinched and took a step backwards. “I-we…” She looked back and forth like a cornered creature. Behind her, the refugees clustered together in fright.
Rakel’s heart twisted for them. “If you are, fear not. Verglas is already home to a number of magic users from the Chosen army who were in a similar situation.” Her voice was gentle and kind as she turned her gaze to Farrin.
Farrin did not relax, but when he met her gaze, he let his eyes soften and leaned closer to her.
Rakel kissed his cheek. Farrin, surprised by the public sign of affection, smiled briefly.
Twink watched the exchange, and tears filled her eyes. “It is true, then? That you have welcomed the troops of those who once attacked you?”
“It is.”
Twink fell to her knees, and the rest of the refugees followed suit. “Then we beg for your help, Snow Queen. We are indeed runaway slaves. We have nothing to our names, but if you let us stay, we will swear loyalty to you for the rest of our lives, and we will fight and die for you.”
Rakel paused for a moment, surprised by the action. Then she knelt in front of Twink and smiled. “That is a circumstance I would like to avoid if at all possible, but I will treasure your loyalty. Welcome to Verglas. May it be a home and a haven.”
Several of the refugees started weeping. Twink’s eyes glazed with tears, and her shoulders shook. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
That night, the Vatn villagers and Rakel’s guards chatted and laughed, swapping war stories and news while serving the refugees food.
The refugees watched with bugged eyes as Frodi—a fire magic user—casually kindled an open fire and spoke with Carl. Knut tried luring the two refugee children out of their shyness with maple snaps (maple-flavored candy), and Phile moved through the party, spreading ease and laughter wherever she went.
Rakel stood in the shadows and watched with an aching heart. The Torrens refugees look terrible. Was it because the journey was difficult, or are things that bad in other countries? She pushed the thought away and let herself dwell upon what had plagued her since receiving the refugees’ vow of loyalty. And why does it seem that every magic user believes their powers can only be used for battles?
Farrin left the fireside to come stand with her. “There is something troubling you.”
She smiled wanly. “A little.”
He was silent and waited for her to continue.
“It bothers me that all who come to Verglas expect to use their powers to fight and kill.”
Farrin tilted his head. “You think they are dangerous?”
“No. I think it’s a sad thing when it doesn’t occur to us that magic could be used for so many other things.”
“Like what?”
Rakel pressed her lips together as she thought. “Like entertainment, like improving our lives. I know some think it is silly whenever I let Phile boss me into making ice sculptures for her stories, but it’s fun. It makes the children laugh.” She hesitated. “That is what I want for Verglas magic users—that their first thought would be how to help others, not that they must defend and destroy.”
“You could teach them,” Farrin said.
“We could teach them.”
Farrin snaked an arm around her waist and tugged her closer. “It won’t be an easy thing to relearn.”
She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “That’s what I feared. I was thinking I might need to open a school sooner than I thought. I was hoping for years—or at least a few seasons. I don’t think I have that kind of time.”
Farrin nodded. “More and more refugees will come as word spreads of the way magic users are treated in Verglas.”
Rakel frowned. “Magic users—that’s a phrase I want to get rid of.”
“Why?”
“Because it carries all the connotations of the past. People used to spit it out like it was a curse. I don’t want that memory.”
Farrin glided his fingertips up her back. “Then what would you have us called?”
Rakel shut her eyes and leaned into the heat Farrin radiated. “What do you think of mage?”
“Wonderful,” Farrin said.
Rakel groaned in aggravation and leaned back so she could give him an accusatory look. “You’re just saying that because I suggested it.”
“Perhaps,” Farrin said. “I often think most of your ideas—provided they do not include risking your neck—are wonderful.”
Rakel groaned in aggravation, and Farrin kissed her on the lips.
“Hey, lovebirds.” Phile popped up next to the two of them and unabashedly stared.
Farrin rumbled in his throat as Rakel chuckled and pulled back from him. “Yes, Phile?”
“I was thinking that if refugee arrivals become common—and I expect they will—you ought to think about leaving a few of your craftiest and most perceptive magic users by the border. They could question everyone before sending them north to you.”
Farrin frowned thoughtfully. “She is right. You cannot come south whenever there is a swell of refugees, Rakel. It’s not efficient.”
“I suppose so.” Rakel winced. “I hope Steinar is in a good mood when we get back. I’ll be asking him for a lot—magic users to stay at the borders, space to begin training refugees, learning materials.”
“Hey, I got you a bunch of books for your birthday,” Phile complained.
“Yes, and half of them are in dialects that are no longer spoken,” Rakel said.
“Maybe, but they must be very powerful or very helpful. The guard they were under is usually a pretty good indication of what level of value an item has, and the defense measures placed on those books? I didn’t know musty ol’ books could be that valuable,” Phile said.
Farrin ignored the Robber Maiden’s questionable observation. “Steinar will give you whatever you want—surely you know this.”
“Yes, but I still don’t like asking him for things.”
“He’s a king, and you won his country for him,” Phile said ruthlessly. “The least he can do is pony-up for your magic school.”
“Feeling a little jaded against the king, are we?” Farrin asked.
Phile scowled. “Oskar has him making oaths by thieves, like winter is as cold as a thief’s wallet, and air is just as weighty as a thief’s word.”
“I’ve always admired Oskar’s sense of humor,” Rakel said.
“Little Wolf! You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Farrin chuckled, and Rakel laughed, drawing attention from camp. Sensing the lack of sympathy from Rakel and Farrin, Phile pounced on her next victim—Captain Knut.
“Captain! You should linger by the Sarthe border a few days. The Sarthe king has a pretty bauble I’ve decided I want.”
Knut sputtered. “General Halvor ordered us to return north as soon as possible.” The rest of his protests were swallowed by the happy murmur of the camp.
“We should join them,” Rakel said.
Farrin offered her his arm. “Wherever you go, I will follow, Princess.”
Rakel took his arm. “Thank you, sir mage.”
The End
A Tour of Ostfold
The following short story is written from the point of view of Gemma—the heroine of my Timeless Fairy Tale adaptatio
n of Rumpelstiltskin. Gemma’s story is set in Verglas, centuries after the events of “Heart of Ice,” but some of the landmarks seen in her story have their origins in Rakel’s tale.
“Do you have enough weapons for the trip? I should give you more weapons,” Lady—now Queen—Linnea said. Her forehead furrowed as she studied her close friend.
Gemma patted Linnea’s hand. “I have no need of more weapons, My Lady.”
“Are you certain? Your husband is not the most competent in the art of fighting.”
Stil poked out from behind a bookshelf. “I resent that implication.”
“I’ll have Hvit,” Gemma said, referring to her large, white dog.
“Yes,” Queen Linnea acknowledged. “But perhaps I should travel with you, just to be safe.”
King Toril kissed her cheek. “You cannot leave yet, Linnea. You haven’t even begun your army inspections, and the summit doesn’t meet for weeks.”
“But—” Queen Linnea fell silent when a bell rang. “That’s the noon bell—I need to check in with some of the army officers. This conversation isn’t finished, Gemma,” Linnea called over her shoulder as she strode from the room.
Gemma waved farewell.
King Toril sighed and rubbed his head, mussing his hair. “You might have to leave when she’s making an inspection.”
“If My Lord thinks it is best,” Gemma said.
“Did you mean it when you said I could borrow some books?” Stil asked.
“I did—but I thought you said the royal library wouldn’t have anything the Loire Royal Library didn’t have,” King Toril said.
“Yes, but you have some surprisingly old tomes about magic,” Stil said.
Gemma and Stil were due to return to Loire in several days, but while Stil had traveled to Verglas to pick her up, the famed Prince Severin of Loire had requested that he would attempt to search for any useful information Verglas might possess. King Toril, in response, had brought him to the Verglas Royal Library.
