Page 33 of Rumpelstilzchen

Too many times when a child—often one trying to prove their mettle to a group of friends—has spoken a geist’s true name and called them forth. This act of defiance renders the child an unwilling owner of a geist. Many are able to maintain their wits and repeat the geist’s name before harm can come to them. But not every geist waits for an invitation to be emancipated and they take matters into their own hands by murdering their way out of the predicament.

On one rare occasion, one such child was also in possession of an artefact. The magickal amplifier made it so that, even after the instance of the child’s death, the geist lingered close by and couldn’t leave. Trapped, as it were, in some invisible cage. The effects of such amplifiers upon the strength and abilities of geists is something hunters kingdom wide are endeavouring to learn more about.

Rumple flipped the page. This was the most useful information that he’d found, but the rest of the entry was missing. He rapidly scanned the other loose leaves, desperate to know more, but the topic abruptly changed to a different classification of geist and Rumple was left wanting.

He threw the book at the wooden cupboard and with a resounding sigh, thumped the back of his head against the tree. Just another fruitless tome to add to his collection. Queen Schön would never say his name, neither could he murder his way out of his predicament.

Rumple stiffened. The text had said that the amplifying effect of the artefact held even after the geist had murdered the human in possession of it. Of course, the passage hadn’t detailed whether the artefact was a part of the human or not. Likely not. Regardless, his shadows had made their stance quite clear, but Boy was vulnerable, and the Queen had threatened his head. If he needed his Heart alive to claim it, then Rumple had to protect him indefinitely, but if he didn’t…

If he didn’t, then why did the thought of Boy’s death make it hard to breathe?

nineteen

Rumple

Rumple couldn’t stand it. Despite his weakened state, he felt too big for his skin. Too restless. He couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to learn how to claim his Heart—his very living, human Heart. While Her Majesty imagined him to be busy searching for her son, Rumple had the perfect opportunity to do just that. He rose with a renewed purpose and sense of urgency. There was only one destination in Rumple’s mind for where he might learn more about the Boy who held his Heart. A flour mill in the far east of Falchovari, where the family who owned it still believed in the Law of Names, and the children told folktales around the campfire at night.

With determined steps, Rumple crossed the short distance back to the polished-stone basin and topped up the water from the copper kettle. He paused, gloved hand still on the handle. If Boy’s family believed in the Law of Names, they would also know that a looking glass could be a portal to the shadow realm, and likely would not keep one in their home. He released his grip on the kettle and let out a frustrated sigh.

Travelling through the looking glass was Rumple’s preferred option. Not only would it help conserve his magickal energy—something he was in drastically short supply of—but it would enable him to return to Boy quickly should an emergency occur. He was torn, literally and metaphorically. There was no assurance that a trip to Boy’s flour mill would yield the knowledge he sought, but idling away in the Tower guaranteed him nothing at all, and time was running out.

He might never get this chance again. The Queen could walk into the throne room at any moment, and even if she didn’t, then by daybreak Boy would likely find himself conscripted into the Collection and Rumple’s existence would become dominated by hypervigilance and a weakened state of being. He dragged a hand over his face. There was no other option.

Rumple shed his human skin, dematerialising there on the spot. He slipped through the crevice into the antechamber and bled through the portal back into the human realm, where a new and most fortunate exit presented itself. Instead of utilising the heavy wooden doorway, Rumple swooped upwards through the partially subsided roof of his cupola.

The moon was lucent in the dark night sky. It bathed the sleeping Royal City in argent and glinted from the iron armour of the Royal Guards who patrolled the parapet that defended its furthest edges. But the panorama was far from peaceful. To the north, the low and heavy edge of an ominous storm front gusted closer. Tempestuous charcoal clouds obscured the stars and Rumple switched his gaze to the east, across the dense and boundless forest that stretched between the palace and his destination.

Unperturbed, Rumple’s shadows melded seamlessly with the inky veil, and without so much as a backwards glance, he sped through the blustery tops of the birch and fir trees. He easily outpaced the leading edge of the thunderstorm, and despite his need to conserve energy, the canopy blurred beneath him. Rumple wasn’t sure how far east Boy’s family’s mill was, but he knew roughly the area where beliefs in the old ways remained devout.

Only when he felt that telltale shimmer of magick pass through his noncorporeal form did he slow. It was a tickling sensation that trilled through his very essence and alerted him to the nearby presence of other geists and creatures of legend. He assessed the different magickal signatures, not because he was afraid of crossing their path—even in his sundered state he was older and stronger—but because he was working to a deadline and wanted information. Carelessness now could cost him dearly; an errant encounter with a Fae or a Godling, whilst not deadly, could easily tie him up for a full turn of the moon.

Relieved that nothing nearby was of any concern, Rumple pushed on further east until the forest parsed out. When the silver birch gave way to orchards, and the fir trees to arable land, he knew he was getting close.

The fields that flanked the tree line here effused a cloying and putrid aroma. Black and rotten stalks that protruded from the ground like wizened fingers confirmed the presence of a korndaemon, a creature Rumple had no time for. Besides, he knew that Boy’s flour mill was set over a weir, and this space was void of the sound of running water. Silently, he continued on, and away from the infected countryside.

Rumple passed by three more homesteads, each with a resident feld geist, before he found what he was looking for. Boy’s home was smaller than he had expected, given the size of his family. The long and low building was part stone, part timber, with a thatched roof that had seen better days. Despite being two storeys tall, the upper floor had clearly been converted from the existing structure’s loft space and was likely where Boy’s siblings currently slept soundly. Most notable of all, however, was the ring of protective magick that encompassed it. Boy’s home was blessed.

Rumple hovered with uncertainty as question after question raced through his mind. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cross the threshold—the magick was strong but wasn’t woven to withstand his prowess—but the moment he did so, it would alert whatever had spelled it to his presence. If they weren’t already aware. More to the point, however, was the burning desire to understand why so many magickal signatures were in this exact location.

He scanned the alder trees that dotted the riverbank, the darkened silhouette of the family’s mill in the distance, and the few ramshackle outhouses with various tools leaned up beside them, but there was nothing to be learned. Rumple either took his chance with whatever had claimed this territory, or he abandoned his quest.

An owl hooted from somewhere nearby, and someone cleared their throat. Rumple couldn’t remember the last time anyone had successfully snuck up on him. He blamed it on his weakened state and spread his shadows out wider as he searched for the source.

“Guten Tag,” came a small and high-pitched greeting.

To his right, perched on a rock, was an earth geist as tall as one of Boy’s calloused fingers was long.

Disproportionately large ears tilted and twitched at every nocturnal sound, and they reminded Rumple of the long-eared bats that inhabited the caves at the foothills of the Oberland Mountain Range. Unruly dark hair dominated the space between them, and a pair of wide-set eyes shone up at him from under straggly tips. The tiny earth geist shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coveralls and rocked backwards and forwards on oversized bare feet.

Had Rumple the energy spare to risk a transformation into his human skin, he would have raised his eyebrow in silent question. Earth spirits seldom showed themselves, and never alone. They dwelled in the vacated mouse holes of houses, and what the diminutive spirits lacked in stature they made up for in number—but no other could be seen.

Rumple couldn’t help but wonder what had emboldened this one to approach. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it.

“If you’ve come for the artefact, you’re too late,” he announced, then promptly dropped into a seated position in a manner so reminiscent of Boy that Rumple did a double take.

The little earth geist swung his large feet back and forth, allowing them to bounce off the rock freely, but never once took his gaze from the centre of Rumple’s shadowed mass.

Not for the first time since he’d stumbled across his Heart in the palace cells, Rumple found himself on uncertain ground. Shadow geists didn’t converse with strangers—or one another—but earth geists were notorious for it. Still, the tiny spirit really shouldn’t have approached Rumple to offer information, especially about the existence of a nearby artefact, and Rumple definitely shouldn’t entertain the idea of asking questions of his own.