Penelope and the Sprite King: The Story Weaver Chronicles, #2

By Adriana Carlson

The Isle of Scealta 1926: The isle has plunged into deeper turmoil. Now, uncertainty plagues Penelope as she travels with the captain of the Queen's Guard to the Mountain of the Sprites for support in the battle against Captain Gillitrut. The sprites are only interested in parties and games so Penelope must find a new way to defeat the God of Chaos before the Isle is swallowed whole like the ancient city of Atlantis - whose once prosperous inhabitants now terrorize the isle as a ruthless band of goblins.

 

Penelope and the Sprite King combines the ancient myths of Mesopotamia with fairy tales of Northern Europe to create a new saga illustrated with 28 beautiful photographs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adriana Carlson
• Release date: Apr 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733068338

Book preview

Part I

Chapter 1

Penelope

City of Atmøs

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Penny huddled over her mother. She spooned broth and tea between Moira’s peeling lips and wiped her brow when fever set in. She brought her bed warmers when her hands grew icy to the touch.

Her duty was to her mother, nursing her back to health so they could leave this damp, miserable city, but her thoughts were with her friends. Where could they be? Dri-fa, Benen, and Allerleirauh? What happened to them after the battle?

She missed Fox. He left shortly after King Michal’s burial, swearing to bring Captain Gillitrut to justice. That was two weeks ago, and he had not returned. She feared that he had died up North. She feared for her safety too; the longer she and her mother stayed in Atmøs without his protection the more hostile the Hobs grew.

Fox moved them to a hidden chamber towards the back of the fortress after the Hob King’s funeral. For their safety, he tucked them away from the servant’s bitter gazes and the noble’s vengeful threats. The Hobs did not like that Penny and her mother lingered in the fortress after killing their king, but Penny had no choice. Her mother proved too sick to transport.

Queen Aschenputtel made sure to leave her with plenty of warm clothes and ointments to heal her mother. Along with the gifts came apologetic looks. The queen was too proud to say it herself, but Penny knew that Queen Aschenputtel regretted trying to murder her in the tree house.

If only the ointments worked! If only the mountain witches could conjure an herbal potion to heal her mother, but nothing was working. Her health declined daily.

Penny headed towards the door with trepidation, whispering a silent prayer that her mother would be well when she returned. The old wooden door barely opened, warped with age and the misty climate, it scraped across the floor, leaving tiny splinters of wood in its wake.

She tiptoed in soft leather boots down to the kitchens, pulling her limp, brown hair into a ponytail to tidy herself. The kitchens of the fortress were built in a circle around a small courtyard on the ground floor. Each kitchen segment prepared different foods. The first kitchen, and the one farthest away from the stoves, was where butchers carved the meat. Boys pushing carts piled high with fresh vegetables rolled past her towards the second kitchen. Pastry chefs in the third kitchen made bread and desserts.

The final kitchen held massive iron stoves that billowed smoke into the air. She pressed a hand against a chimney and instantly felt transported to the wall outside Mrs. Kendrick’s kitchen in her old tenement. Only a few months ago she had been in Scotland avoiding Marjorie and punching Mr. Brubacher. She thought of her father, standing in the doorway, wearing his tweed jacket and looking at her with apologies in his eyes. She sighed and realized that she may never see him again.

A light breeze brought the scent of fresh baked bread from the second kitchen. Bread smelled the same on both sides of the sea at least. She crept to the window. The bakers scurried, preparing breakfast for the nobles waiting in the fortress; waiting for Fox’s return and news of who would lead Atmøs. Massive piles of dough lined the table. Baker’s apprentices kneaded and worked it while the old masters pulled hot, fresh buns from the ovens.

She saw her friend. He stood over a stone bowl and dipped a large, delicately carved spoon into the rich mixture. Dark, smooth chocolate drizzled off it. He curled a rolling drip around his finger and popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened in delight. He turned and patted a young apprentice on the back before spying her peeking through the windows at them.

She ducked down. Usually he would bring her tray to the doorway, so she could avoid the glares and whispers of the other bakers. Penny dug her nails into her palms hoping that she wouldn’t have to go in there. They hated her in there.

He came round the table - a wide, welcoming smile stretched across his face. Ah, the sad girl. He opened his arms. What is there to grieve about on such a gift as today? Come, Come… I have a tray made for you already. She looked around her, none of the other bakers seemed to notice her presence. If I can just slip in behind him, hopefully they won’t notice me at all. Offering him a nod, she stepped into the kitchens.

He strode confidently through the room, seemingly unaware of the accusing stares the other bakers shot her way. They hate me. They hate me. I don’t belong here. I should have never left my rooms. She kept her gaze on the baker’s wide back. He led her into the farthest kitchen. The savory scent of roasting meats and bubbling stews filled her mouth and nose. She realized how hungry she was.

This is for the girl who weaves the story of my life, he handed her a tray with a steaming bowl of broth for her mother, fried eggs for her, two rolls, and a pot of tea.

My mother’s the Story Weaver. Not me. She said, and balanced the tray on her hands. He has to understand. They all have to understand. I am not the weaver. Even in her mother’s sickened state, it was her mother who weakly pushed herself off the bed to cut the buzzing strings, weave new ones, or bind two together. Penny hadn’t touched the loom since the king’s death, but the baker didn’t seem to hear her. She could tell he did not understand.

Yes, yes, and for your troubles, he winked and slipped a chocolate wrapped in wax paper on her tray. She smiled in gratitude. The chocolate did not lessen her distress about his misunderstanding, but it helped ease her troubles for a moment. Every morning when she visited the window of the kitchens he would slip her a treat and say, for the weaver of my story. She nodded her thanks and carried the tray to her room.

She pushed the door open to the tower and almost dropped her tray in surprise. Her mother sat upright on the bed, combing through her hair with her thin fingers. She grimaced as she pushed herself forward.

My darling girl, she whispered and extended a hand to her daughter. Penny’s heart leapt. Her mother was well. They could leave the lonely city of the Hobs. They could join Queen Aschenputtel in her palace, find Penny’s father and bring him back to Scealta. She set the tray on a bedside table and hugged her mother in delight.

You are well. She grabbed her mother’s shoulder and squeezed. We can leave now. A grim look passed over her mother’s face, and her smile tightened. A silver thread began to vibrate on the loom. Penny bit her lip in frustration. The loom always needed tending.

Would you please do a bit of weaving for me? Her mother asked as she leaned back on the pillows. Penny shook her head no. She would not touch the loom again. Not now. Not ever. The power to bring life and death into the world? She wanted none of that.

Please, Penelope, I am too weak. I need to rest. Her mother urged her and pushed the shears into her hands. The shears felt heavy, more heavy than they should, as if their bleak duty weighed them down. They were hewn from rough iron and looked ancient. As they touched her hand their energy coursed through her. Her blood seemed to slow. Her mind grew cloudy.

She mumbled almost inaudibly. I’ll do it this once. Just so you can rest. I hate cutting the threads. I hate this loom.

She turned begrudgingly to the massive loom next to the bed. More threads buzzed with energy, each one calling out to her. As if in a trance, she honed in on the vibrating threads and opened the shears slowly, it took a hand on each handle to open them.

The threads vibrated at a frenetic energy, demanding her attention. Her body pulled her towards them. Snip, she sliced through one. Snip, snip, snip, snip, four more threads fell to the floor. The high buzzing stopped. Her body relaxed, and she dropped the shears. Several threads glowed, and she deftly wove them. Crossing one under another, manipulating the threads until they tightened smoothly together. A tug here, a swift swish upward, a tightening there, she felt like a conductor, but instead of ushering a symphony into the world she was ushering stories. The threads grew subdued, and she lowered her arms to her sides.

Contentment washed over her. She had created something; she had woven part of a story, part of a life. The threads she had cut lay limp on the floor, and her satisfaction turned to disgust. Five threads. Five lives. Five deaths. Could one be Dri-fa’s? Her life cut short by a rogue arrow? Could they be Benen or Allerleirauh, or the life of someone else who didn’t deserve to die?

No one deserved to die, and every cut of a thread ended someone on the Isle’s life. She couldn’t breathe, the trance was lifted and the realization of what happened when the threads were cut hit her in the gut with such strength that she felt nauseated.

Penelope, her mother’s voice broke through her fears. She turned towards her mother. You did well, you can do this. Penny slumped in the chair next to her mother’s bed and didn’t look at her. Instead, she traced the embroidery on the coverlet.

I don’t want to do it ever again, she said. Her mother reached towards her and ran her hand down Penny’s hair.

For one who has lived long on this earth, death is a welcomed friend. Her mother said. Penny refused to hear her.

What if one of those threads belonged to one of my friends, or… or… a baby?

Her mother laid back and closed her eyes. I’m leaving this earth Penelope. I am old, and I am so tired. She opened her eyes. They sparkled with a joy Penny had not yet seen in her mother. She resented it.

You’re dying? Her words came out harsh in her confusion. Guilt filled her for lashing out at her mother. Anger rose in her chest. I just found you. I…I wondered about you for my whole life. She couldn’t express her plea for her mother to stay. Her throat closed and swelled, and the ache of solitude settled on her like a thick blanket. Her mother’s brown eyes deepened and tears fell down her cheek.

Why are you crying? You’re a god, you can’t die, Penny spat.

My spirit is weak. My one last desire was to see my daughter again. That desire was keeping me alive. That, and my duty to the loom. Moira squeezed Penny’s hand. Now that I’ve seen what a powerful, beautiful, strong girl you are, I can finally let go and join the other gods in the Kingdom of Light.

No! Penny said, her throat raw and tight. That’s not true, I’m none of those things. I only wanted to find you, to be with you. What about Da? He’s spent my whole life trying to get back here. Don’t you want to see him? She accused her mother. A light smile lifted the corners of Moira’s lips.

I would love to see that man, but such is the nature of death. As soon as I arrive in the Kingdom of Light I will turn around and you and your father will be right behind me after living full, long lives on earth. She squeezed Penny’s hand. I had to stay until you returned to the Isle to take over my work. You are my blood-line. You have to weave the stories.

Penny’s jaw tightened. I have to weave the stories? Was this all an elaborate plot to bring me to the Isle to take over her job? That’s not fair. She wanted to yell at her mother. She wanted to run away. Her mother interrupted her thoughts.

I… I need water my darling. Please bring me a pitcher from the well.

Penny bit her lip; her eyes prickled in pain from holding back tears. She brought her mother’s fingertips to her lips and kissed them. Then turned to go before her mother could talk about dying again.

Her anger grew as she descended the steps. She clomped down the stairs, not caring at all if those stupid Hobs in the courtyard could hear her, their animosity forgotten. How could she leave me now? Doesn’t she want to know me? Doesn’t she love me?

Penny’s head pounded, and she rubbed her temples as she walked into the courtyard. It stood strangely still. The usual hustle of servants crossing it as they completed chores was gone. Suspiciously, she walked towards the kitchens to grab a pitcher. As she neared them, she heard the activity of the cooks within and breathed in relief. It would be good to see her cheery friend again. She turned the corner, but instead of happy bustle from the staff baking, a wave of tension hit her.

The cooks stood in a tight circle with their backs to her and talked in low, anxious voices. The knot in her throat tightened. She feared what she would see at the center of the group. She pushed her way through the crowd, not caring at all what they thought of her. They can be boiled in soup! They can eat rotten dog vomit! I couldn’t care less about these stupid Hobs. The chefs’ anxious voices ceased and the courtyard grew completely silent. The crowd parted and she saw what they were whispering over.

Her baker friend lay on the floor. Floured hands clutched at his heart. His still, dead eyes looked up at the ceiling in pain and fear. She rushed to her friend. No! No! No! She thought of the silver threads she cut upstairs, and fell to her knees. I did this. This was me. Something heavy crashed across her back and pushed her forward. She rolled to the side, and the broom came down again scraping her face and neck. She covered her face with her arms, and through them saw her attacker. A young, female Hob wearing a dingy brown apron. Penny jumped forward and tried to escape.

Get away from him! The cook yelled as she brought the broom down across her shoulders. Crack! The impact knocked her flat on the dirt packed floor. Crack! She scrambled to her hands and knees and crawled out the door as the woman followed her, hitting the broom across her legs and back.

You did this! She yelled. Penny reached the courtyard and clamored to her feet. She sprinted to the tower where her mother lay, but two strong hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. A heavy Hob stood behind her, squeezing her in his vise-like grip.

Why did you do it? he spat at her. He knew his heart was bad. He just wanted to live long enough to see his daughter’s wedding. He motioned back to the woman whose broom now lay broken on the cobblestone while its mistress sat sobbing next to her father. The other Hobs gathered around her grumbling and cursing.

A few held knives, and others tapped giant rolling pins against open palms. She didn’t think they would kill her, but she had faced the Hobs’ hatred before and didn’t want to see that type of wroth again.

A clamor at the courtyard gates drew their attention away from Penny. She struggled against the Hob who held her, but his grip only tightened. The noise at the gates grew louder. One large gate swung outward, and Fox rode in with all his men. He scanned the scene before him.

What is the meaning of this? He yelled. He jumped off his horse and ran towards Penny, pulling his sword from its hilt. Penny covered her head, but he stopped short before her and brandished his sword at the cooks. They scattered.

What happened, Penny? He asked.

I…I… she peered behind him; the bakers had all returned to the kitchen and were glaring at her from the windows and the doorway. I killed him. I killed my friend. Shock and grief filled her and she stared wide-eyed back at him. Fox’s face filled with understanding. He looked behind him and surveyed the scene: the dead baker, the crying woman, and the angry Hobs.

Do not blame yourself. His weak heart sent him to the Kingdom of Light, not you. He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. We must get you out of here, he barely whispered. Go to your mother, tell her we’ll be sending a convoy to Queen Aschenputtel tomorrow morning, and you two will be on it. Penny wiped at her eyes with relief and ran to the tower.

Penelope crawls away from horde of angry bakers.

Something heavy crashed across her back and pushed her forward.

Despite the scratches and the bruises forming on her back and shoulders, and the sorrow over losing her friend, she felt light. She would see Dri-fa, Persinette, Princess Snow, and even the Queen again. It was good that she was attacked in the courtyard. Fox saw that she was unwelcome in Atmøs, and her mother would see that she needed to live. Her daughter needed her.

Penny pushed the old, warped door and noticed with pleasant surprise that her mother’s bed sat empty. She must be feeling well! She ran to the other room in their suite, hoping to see her mother getting dressed or freshening up, but her mother was not there. The loom in the corner caught her eye. She scrambled over the bed and dropped onto the other side. There at the base of the loom the figure of her mother lay as still as if she was in a deep, deep sleep.

Her mother’s limp hand held the shears, and hanging from the loom a freshly cut gold thread dangled. Other threads buzzed, calling out to Penny to be cut or woven together, but she ignored their insistence and grabbed her mother’s bony shoulders. Anger and grief coursed through her veins as she gave her mother a shake.

Why? Why did you do this? she slumped over her mother and thought about the baker, his grief stricken daughter, and now her dead mother. She wanted to cry, to let out her pain, but all she felt was anger at her mother’s abandonment.

An hour later, Fox entered the room. His grin disappearing as he surveyed the scene. She preferred death to being with me, Penny mumbled. He lowered himself to the floor next to Moira’s lifeless body. His calm demeanor infuriated her.

How can you not be upset? You brought me here to save her, and she just let herself die. Penny slumped against the bed. Fox clasped and unclasped his hands as the air grew heavy between them.

Penelope, your mother’s been dying for hundreds of years.

You said my mother needed me, you brought me over so I could save her.

And you did! You saved her from the prison of the king. He looked down at his hands. She preferred him with paws, and could tell that he did too by the way he frowned at them. He ran his hand through his thick hair and peered closely at her. Come to the loom Penelope. He lifted her mother back onto the bed. Penny turned away. She didn’t like seeing the limp form of her dead mother in Fox’s arms. Her mother was a goddess. She should never be seen this way. Fox turned to the loom.

Do you see that thread? He pointed to a thread in the tapestry with a gaping hole along the width of it. That’s my life. It was once intertwined with the life thread of King Michal.

Do not blame yourself. His weak heart sent him to the Kingdom of Light, not you.

Penny blushed in embarrassment. She knew she had cut the life thread of the king before it was his time to die. The gaping hole was where his life thread should have been. When she cut the threads that morning, the threads around them bonded together - making a beautiful pattern where the cut thread had been. The Fox grabbed her hand and placed it on his life thread.

Concentrate on it, right there, he held her hand steadily. Think about both your father and mother and it will show you the last night you were all together.

She closed her eyes and pictured her father with his earnest face and kind eyes. She thought of her mother - dark brown eyes and hair. A calm smile and a look of love spreading across her mother’s face. She reached towards her. The figures of her father and mother shimmered, disappeared, and were replaced with a night scene.

A crescent moon and a million twinkling stars hung in the sky. She saw a silver fox trotting up a path. She recognized it as Fox before he turned back into a Hob. The wind picked up around him. She smelled the sea, and the damp, tubery odor