Stil didn’t even hear what she was admitting to. “He can’t keep me forever. The Conclave would come for me. You’re running out of time. Run!” Stil said, trying to push Gemma away from him.
Gemma slipped away and folded Stil on to his knees before she placed her handful of starfires in his hand. “Thank you, for everything.”
“Gemma Kielland, we are armed and have you in our sights. Turn yourself in, and you will come to no harm,” the soldier shouted. In the moonlight, Gemma could see rows of soldiers carrying bows glittering on the snow.
“Don’t even think of it!” Stil hissed. “Blast your sacrifices and practicality! RUN!”
Gemma shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “You don’t understand, Stil,” she said, her heart breaking.
“Don’t do this, Gemma,” Stil pleaded. He scattered the starfires as he dropped them to reach for her hands.
Gemma smiled and leaned forward, kissing Stil on the forehead. “Take care, Stil,” she said.
“Gemma!”
Gemma turned to the soldiers and walked to them, her heart twisting with each step she took away from Stil. She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. If she did, she would lose all the strength she had.
“GEMMA!” Stil shouted.
Four soldiers met Gemma halfway to the army. They searched her for weapons—tossing the few remaining starfires she had on her—and restrained her hands in iron shackles.
“Gemma Kielland has been found. We return to Ostfold immediately. Ready the horses!” a soldier shouted.
Within moments, a chestnut horse was brought forward. A soldier mounted it, and Gemma was passed up to him.
“GEMMA!” Stil shouted again.
The soldiers ignored him and trekked back up the hill, aiming north…for Ostfold.
Gemma squirmed in the soldier’s grip to get one last look of Stil.
He was a dab of black among the snow that was falling in large, beautiful flakes. Gemma’s starfires were littered around him like tiny flames. He had managed to partially stand, but as the soldier spurred his horse into a trot, Stil fell to his knees, calling out for Gemma.
Far back, in the shadows of the field, Gemma saw the white lupine.
They started down the hill, and the snowy field veered from sight. “Goodbye, Stil,” Gemma whispered before she lost sight of him.
“Press on to Ostfold. The King wants her,” the soldier leading the hunt told Gemma’s captor, joining them on a bay-colored horse.
“Yessir,” Gemma’s captor said.
“I apologize, Miss Kielland. I wish we could release you, but we haven’t a choice,” the leading soldier said.
“I understand,” Gemma said.
“Send a messenger ahead. I’m sure the King will want to know his future queen is on the way home. Let’s move out!” the soldier said, heeling his horse into a canter.
Above the thunder of pounding hooves, Gemma heard the howl of a wolf.
Chapter 16
Considering how long it took Gemma and Stil to walk to the Loire border with Pricker Patch, traveling back to Ostfold took a painfully short time. The soldiers stopped every few hours for fresh horses, which allowed them to keep their grueling pace, and they stopped to rest only whenever Gemma was in danger of falling off due to exhaustion.
In far too short a time, Gemma stood before King Torgen, saddle sore, bruised, with her arm injured from the hellhound and her hand burnt from the rider’s black blood.
King Torgen received her in a palace courtyard, where the wind blew and snow stung all who were stationed outside.
“Gemma Kielland, you have returned to me,” King Torgen said. He approached her with his arms spread wide, as if to hug her. When he drew close, he back-handed her and encircled her neck with his hands. “Although you will be punished for fleeing.”
Gemma gagged but kicked out, kneeing King Torgen in the stomach.
The King staggered backwards with an “oomph.”
“Restrain her,” King Torgen snarled, clutching his gut.
Two soldiers placed their hands on Gemma’s shoulders, their faces wiped of emotion.
When King Torgen came at Gemma again, Gemma didn’t wait. She swung her shackled arms through the air, snapping the chains in the king’s face.
“I said restrain her!” King Torgen howled, his hands covering his face.
The soldiers lowered their grasp to her elbows, holding Gemma still.
King Torgen cursed and roared in pain as Gemma lifted her chin and raised an eyebrow up in the most arrogant expression she could muster.
Gemma was done behaving. She would rather be dead than let Torgen touch her. It was over.
“You think you are safe because you are to become my queen?” King Torgen said, finally lowering his hands.
“No. I think I did not keep my part of the bargain and failed to spin all the flax into gold,” Gemma said, recalling the vast spread of flax. “Thus, I am subject to death.”
King Torgen’s ugly glower faded from his face, and instead his features were pinched as hysterical laughter poured from his mouth. “You think I will let you go? You think I will let you escape into death?”