Page 18

No, my arm aches too much for that.
Perhaps she had cracked with grief, and the man was a figment of her imagination.
Gemma slid her eyes sideways and poked at the stranger’s cloak with a finger. The cloak, to her surprise, was made of soft, slippery cloth the likes of which Gemma had never seen.
No, he has too much presence to be a hallucination.
Then the last option—the option which Gemma privately thought made the least sense—was that the stranger was some sort of do-good-er magician or enchanter.
“I apologize for my thoughtless words, sir,” Gemma said. “In my defense, I did not know your station.”
“My station?”
“You are an enchanter.”
“Skies and clouds, NO.”
“Then you are a mage.”
The man tilted his head to the left and then to the right, his lips similarly slanted as he thought. “Yes,” he said.
Gemma bowed her head in reverence. An enchanter was the highest rank a human gifted with magic could achieve. They were to be treated with as much reverence as a foreign dignitary. Mages were ranked well below enchanters, but they were still to be treated with respect and honor. “Why are you doing this, sir?”
“Let’s just say I have an obligation to help those in need,” the mage said.
“Thank you,” Gemma said.
“There is something I need in return, though,” the mage said.
Gemma took a step backwards. “Oh?”
The mage’s fine lips twisted in a scowl. “It’s not what you think. This part is always so awkward…” he sighed and tried again. “My magic is about trade. I need something as a payment. It does not have to be equal in worth; I just need something even remotely valuable. Like your gold necklace,” the mage said.
Gemma touched the necklace. It was a string of gold so thin, fishing wire had more width to it. But the necklace was a gift from Grandmother Guri on Gemma’s fifteenth birthday, and it was the only thing of worth Gemma owned.
Gemma glanced at the mage. The innocent set of his mouth said he didn’t know what he was asking for, and, Gemma supposed, a gold necklace was a small price to pay for her life—should King Torgen actually set her free, as unlikely as Gemma thought that to be.
“You are a mage who can spin flax into gold, and you want a gold necklace?” Gemma asked, unclasping the necklace from her neck.
The mage’s smile was sheepish. “I apologize. I know it must seem odd to you, but it’s the price of my magic,” he said.
Gemma raised her eyebrows but said nothing. It wouldn’t be wise to pose impertinent questions to a mage who was in the process of saving her. So, she handed the necklace over, placing it in the mage’s warm palm.
“Thank you,” the mage said.
“No, sir. It is I who should be thanking you,” Gemma said.
“You aren’t quite what I pictured,” the mage said, pushing his hand into the depths of his cloak to stow Gemma’s necklace.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I thought, based on your parents, that perhaps you would be less confident. To be perfectly honest, I expected you would be a sobbing mess by the time I arrived.”
Gemma gave the mage a look of displeasure. “I see.”
“Ahh, and now you are offended. Why?”
“If I compared you to a street-corner charlatan magician, how would you feel?”
The mage laughed, and Gemma doubted her earlier judgment. Perhaps she really was hallucinating after all. Gemma had never before met a mage, but she was under the impression that they were stuffy and didn’t laugh often.
“You are such fun. I’m glad I heard about you,” the mage said.
“Do you often run around, saving damsels in distress?” Gemma asked, turning to face the scratched up board.
“You find that unlikely?”
“I thought it was a knight’s job to rescue fair maidens,” Gemma said, sawing at the board again.
“Maybe, but we mages can’t let them hog all the glory,” the mage said with a handsome smile.
Gemma’s fingers and arms twisted with pain as she stubbornly sawed away.
“You don’t have to keep at it. The King will let you go after he sees this,” the mage said, walking across the room to add flax fibers to the distaff.
Gemma glanced over her shoulder. “Perhaps,” she said.
“Only perhaps?”
“King Torgen is not the type to let someone off so easily.”
“Spinning flax into gold is easy?”
“You’re not from Verglas,” Gemma said.
“What makes you say that?” the mage asked, joining Gemma at the window. He watched, leaning against the wall as Gemma sawed.
“You underestimate King Torgen’s cruelty,” Gemma said, bracing against the board so she could press down harder.
“Do I?”
“Last fall, he nearly killed Princess Elise of Arcainia. She did nothing wrong—she was hiding in Verglas while performing a difficult task to rescue her cursed foster-brothers. He would have burned her at the stake if the curse hadn’t broken while he had her set on fire.”