Of Ice and Roses

By Heather M Elliott

With each new danger, she must decide what she is willing to sacrifice for the fate of two kingdoms.

The shadow of war hangs over Forstur. In a kingdom where magic is seldom encountered, a conflict with their magic-wielding eastern neighbors would be a disastrous. Gemma finds unexpected love in Forstur's crown prince, Ebenezer, but as her fairytale starts, the rest of her world comes crashing down.

Long held secrets come to light and Gemma learns she has been at the center of the brewing war for almost half her life. A lost friend she barely remembers is the key to gaining vital intelligence that could help her new husband defend their kingdom. There's a problem - the last sighting of her friend was in the magically-formed glacial regions of their foe, the kingdom of Morforst.

Now Gemma must leave everyone she loves and journey beyond the enemy's borders to rescue her friend from the spellcasters who control the region. The journey promises to be fraught with danger - highwaymen, river monsters, spellcasters, and the elements. With each new danger, she must decide what she is willing to sacrifice for the fate of two kingdoms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather M Elliott
• Release date: Dec 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215906804

Heather M Elliott

Heather lives in Upstate New York, with an impressive number of books, almost as many story ideas, and, sadly, no pets.

Book preview

1

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The large wooden loom creaked under Gemma’s expert hands. She liked the rhythm of weaving but it was hard work day in and day out. After hours of constant motion her arms needed a rest. She twisted side to side to stretch out the kinks in her shoulders and neck.

The late spring sun cast a warm beam across the cottage floor. Gemma’s gaze drifted across the room to where her adoptive mother Romelda worked at her drop spindle, tirelessly coaxing long strands of flax into sturdy thread. Bags of prepared flax silk sat piled at one side of her chair and a little shelf of finished thread was nestled next to the window. Gemma crossed the room and grabbed a wicker basket from their pantry shelf by the table.

Romelda paused her spinning. Time for lunch already?

Almost. I’m just about to pick some watercress for you, unless you don’t want it today. Gemma held her breath for a moment, hoping the answer would be No.

Sounds lovely, dear. Not too much this time, Romelda replied, and resumed her spinning.

Gemma wrinkled her nose but said nothing and gave the older woman a peck on the cheek. Outside she was greeted with the playful warbling of forest birds. The front path to their cottage led through a small garden of flowers and herbs before stopping at the river bank where it joined a road running parallel with the river. Gemma turned right to follow the road downstream.

She eyed the tall forest that cut them off from the nearest village. It wasn’t particularly dense and certainly not dangerous but it always felt foreign and menacing. Despite her frequent walks, there was something unsettling about the forest. It was worse after dark, but, thankfully there were few things that took her through the forest at night. At a few months past twenty-three, her fear was a childish nightmare she had never outgrown.

About sixty yards down the road, the river curved away from the forest. Without the forest leering at her, Gemma relaxed and slowed her steps. Her mood brightened. It really was a perfect day. The dirt road felt cool under her bare feet. A soft breeze rustled through the trees in a sound that reminded her of rain. Birds flitted about and squirrels, chipmunks, and voles scampered through the underbrush. The blue skies were filled with white clouds. Vibrant wildflowers stood in their late spring bloom along the banks.

Shortly past the curve, a stone bridge stood over the river. It was stately but squat and older than any man-made structure in the area. Local legend said it had been built centuries ago under the reign of a great empire that once populated the region. What became of them, no one knew. Instead of crossing the ancient bridge, Gemma inched her way down a steep, narrow path that ended at the water’s edge. Sharp rocks jutted from the packed soil under her feet. She had made the mistake once of not using caution and paid the price with a badly cut foot and a dunking in the river.

She set her basket down on a little perch she had chipped out of the bank. A few summers before, Gemma had tacked linen scraps to the underside of her hem and sewn a few buttons to her apron waist at the sides. It allowed her to button her underskirt out of the water and prevented the wear and tear that cleaning mud out of her hem caused. She made quick work on the buttons and in a few moments her ankle-length dress was pinned up to just above her knees. She slid her bare feet into the cool water and wiggled her toes in the rocky silt, then dipped her hands in up to her elbows. Gemma shook away the wetness and cupped her cheeks.

Romelda wasn’t fond of her spending as much time in the water as she did, always cautioning that evil creatures lurk where they weren’t expected. If there was something in the water, she had yet to see it. There were odd moments far and few between where she felt as if she were being watched but she attributed that to her nerves from passing through the forest.

Romelda loved watercress and this was the best place to pick it. Gemma set about her chore in learned skill. Harvesting watercress was more fun than eating it, and Gemma often took her time so as to enjoy mucking about in the mud and water.

Her thoughts always drifted to the emptiness she felt as she worked at the river’s edge. Romelda was her whole world. All they had were each other, since that fateful day fifteen years ago when Romelda found her lost in the forest. Yet Gemma still felt something was missing. Of course something was. There were those unanswerable questions of where she had come from and what happened to her family. Along with nightmares of the forest, there were other strange things in her dreams that Romelda brushed aside.

Dreams are just that, sunshine, Romelda had said. They’re dreams. They don’t exist. Not in this world or in any other. Best to forget them and think on pleasant things.

Caught up in her wandering thoughts, Gemma almost didn’t hear the steady plod of a horse’s hooves on the road above her, approaching from the other side of the river. Birds flew from the trees in protest. Few travelers came this direction down the river road and those who did were often tinkers, cobblers, tailors, or caravans of travelers hawking baubles and wares. Gemma listened for the telltale sound of wheels on the road but there was none. The opposite bank was too high for her to see who approached so she picked her way back to the bank and started up the path. She wasn’t halfway up when a male voice rang out from the bridge behind her.

Good day. Do you know a place where I might quench my thirst?

It was a most pleasant voice with a rich deepness that rippled through her like the low rumblings of distant thunder. Gemma’s skin prickled. She paused in her upward climb and turned to see who had spoken. A young man, about thirty she guessed, sat easily in the saddle of a massive blue roan work horse. His cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard framed a face that was both dignified and pleasant. A small sigh slipped from her lips. Both the man and his horse were stunning.

He looked intently in her direction and after a moment Gemma found her voice. The river has good water. Fresh and cool.

The man looked dubiously at the murky surface.

Just a little dirt brought up. It will clear in a minute, Gemma insisted. We may have something in the cottage but that is further down the road. She motioned the way she had just come.

The man chuckled. Murky water isn’t the worst I’ve drank, but I haven’t got a cup.

I haven’t either, Gemma admitted. If you bring your horse around I can carry water up to you in my hands.

A smile drifted across the man’s face and this time Gemma held back her dreamy sigh. He nudged his horse across the bridge and dismounted at the head of the steep path. Gemma picked her way back down to the river. Every second her back was turned she imagined he was looking her over. Her first cupped handful of water drained half away on her climb up the bank but the man seemed appreciative of the tiny taste he received.

Good water, just as you promised, he remarked. His attention drifted from her to her basket in the rocks. Going fishing?

Watercress. Are you still thirsty? The man’s gaze returned to her and Gemma felt her ears grow hot. I’ll get you another handful of water, she stammered.

She hurried down to the water’s edge and scooped up more water. This time she focused on preventing leaks between her fingers. All was well until a few steps up the path when she ran directly into a wall of a person. Water splashed across the man’s chest and up into his face, and Gemma nearly lost her balance. His powerful arm grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close, holding her until she got her footing and then a few moments longer. She felt heat rise to her cheeks as she backed away and his arm released her.

Gemma looked in dismay at the dark splotches that covered his front. Your tunic.

It’ll dry, he said. I’m sorry. I thought you heard me follow you down. I’ve asked enough of you. There was no need to make it harder than it ought to be.

Gemma nodded mutely, rubbing her hands dry on her apron. The feeling of his body against hers lingered and she did all she could to brush it out of her mind. He gazed at her as if he expected her to say something, so she did. More water?

If you would. He smiled, looking all the more friendly.

Gemma nodded, then chided herself for bobbing her head like a simpleton. Careful so as to not lose her balance again, Gemma turned around and retreated to the water’s edge. She’d met many travelers over the years but this one was different in ways she couldn’t describe. She got the feeling he was sizing her up somehow. As she dipped her hands into the water, she cast a quick backward glance under her arm. He was watching her and Gemma was suddenly aware that her underskirt and apron were cinched to her waist and her legs were completely bare from the top of her knees down. Once more, her face grew hot. Too late to do anything about it. All she could do was carry on, hope he hadn’t noticed, and find a way to discreetly unbutton the hem. She clasped her hands, pressing her fingers together far tighter than necessary and scooped up another handful of water.

She brought him several handfuls of water until he announced his thirst satiated. He sat on a protruding rock too small for him but enough to take the weight off his feet and stretched his arms out to the side as if to brace himself. It looked as if he were settling in for a long conversation. Gemma dried her hands on her apron and positioned her hands over the hidden buttons at the sides of her waist. She had to wait for the right moment to drop her hem. Maybe she could distract him.

Have you come in for the summer gala at the duke’s stronghold? It was the only reasonable thing she could think to ask. The event of the year was two weeks away and it would not be a stretch if he were the servant to a guest arriving early.

The man’s eyebrows rose a little as if her question was not what he expected. Yes. And you?

Gemma laughed dismissively. Me? What would I do at the gala?

What would you do?

Her mirth dried up as her mind worked to form a response. I would look at everyone’s clothes and see what the newest cuts are. Gemma wanted to kick herself when the man smirked. She raised her chin. I happen to appreciate a nicely trimmed outfit with sturdy seams. You don’t see much high quality clothing in the village. I would also want to discuss the most current events.

His smirk melted into an amused smile. You follow the affairs of state?

Why not?

Surely gossip is more entertaining?

There was something almost playful in his voice, but the choice of words irritated her. Gemma leaned into a step forward and looked him dead in the eye. Gossip is idle talk about personal things that bear no weight on my life. I want news. The more current, the better. Don’t you think it’s important to know what is happening outside of your small circle of acquaintances?

The man rubbed his lower lip with the back of his hand and although his expression still held a smile, his eyes bore into her with keen interest. That I do, and I do frequently.

Then why shouldn’t I be aware of current events? She waved a dismissive hand at him. You could easily defend yourself if the borders were breached by the hordes of ruffians in Morforst. Romelda is getting on in years so I’d need a plan to get her to safety. Keeping abreast of local, regional, and kingdom-wide changes is the best way to do that. Gemma stopped for a deep breath which she used to regain her composure. She was in what Romelda called a salty mood. However, stranger or not, it was impolite to dump her frustrations as she had. She dipped her head meekly. Forgive me, sir. I’m neither flighty nor helpless, and few take my interests as seriously as I do.

You certainly have a voice of reason and I admire that. The smile on his face reached his voice.

Gemma smiled in return. Thank you.

The man’s gaze never left hers. Have you lived here long? I don’t remember there being anyone in this part of the forest outside the village.

Gemma fingered the buttons at her waist. I’ve been here fifteen years. Romelda longer. We stay to ourselves mostly, except to trade our linen for supplies and labor. Romelda prefers it that way. Above them on the river road, the man’s horse snorted and pawed a huge feathered hoof on the ground. It provided her with a moment of distraction. Is that your horse? He’s beautiful.

The man turned to look up at the massive blue roan. Gemma unbuttoned the hem of her underskirt and let it fall back to its natural length around her ankles. The skirt was splotched with wet patches from her earlier splashing.

If he were disappointed by her modesty when he turned back, he gave no indication. He is a beauty, isn’t he? the man agreed, focusing the full force of his attention on her. Used to work the fields but he hasn’t got the temperament for the plow. I traded for him.

Gemma nodded, unsure of how to respond.

The man nodded back, paused, and continued with a vague wave in a southerly direction. My family has a great deal of land. They live weeks of travel that way. I live here and manage this side of their land.

You’re a lord? Gemma snaked her arms around her in a comforting but defensive movement. And here she’d gone on a tirade thinking he was a household servant of an arriving guest.

The man lifted himself from the ledge and drew close until he towered over her. At your service, He reached down for her hand and kissed it so tenderly Gemma felt her skin prickle across her whole body. His eyes were a swirl of brown, blue, green and gold, and she found she couldn’t look away from them.

You have beautiful hands, he continued. Kind. Generous. Gentle. Benevolent. What name do you have to go along with your charm, wit, and refreshing sense of reason?

So captivated by his attention, she could barely form her own name and when she did, it came out as a near-whisper. Without breaking his gaze, he kissed her hand once more and for a moment, Gemma thought he would lean forward and kiss her.

He didn’t. Gemma, I would be greatly pleased to see you again. He let her hand slip out of his.

A giddiness welled inside her as she watched him climb the narrow path to the river road. Once there he mounted his horse and started back across the bridge in a leisurely stride.

2

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For a few minutes Gemma stared at the empty bridge. Never in her life had someone spoken to her so kindly, except for Romelda. They were treated as undesirables when they went into the village for supplies and to sell their linen thread and fabrics. Ladies with lavish gowns looked down upon her simple dress, and men snubbed her as being plain.

Last time they had gone in, a group of boys threw mud at Romelda and called her a witch. Gemma pushed one of them into a mud puddle and took special glee at the face full of mud he acquired in the fall. Romelda gave her a long talking-to about manners and whatnot. It hadn’t been the best course of action, she admitted, but it was not outside the realm of possibility to do again should anyone threaten her little family.

The memory of mud drew Gemma back to the present. She needed to finish picking watercress to have with their lunch. Certain the handsome lord was gone, she buttoned her skirts up once more and returned to the silt at the river’s edge. It took just a few minutes to fill her basket. She rinsed her feet in the water as best she could and picked her way back up to the road.

Her walk home was uneventful. Romelda put aside her spinning when she entered and took the basket. Her part of the meal preparations complete, Gemma retreated to the back room. Her hands, still cool from the river water, felt good on her flushed face. How silly to get worked up over one conversation with a stranger. Romelda would have a thing or two to say about that.

What took so long? Were the banks slippery? Romelda asked from the front room.

No. I met a traveler on the road, asking for a drink.

You should have sent them here.

Gemma sat on the end of her bed as she scrambled for what to say. I tried but he seemed very interested to talk with me.

Was this strange man good-looking?

Yes, Gemma admitted. She tried to cool her flushed face with her hands but they had warmed enough to make no difference.

You should have asked him to stay for lunch.

He was a lord, Romelda. I couldn’t do that.

Romelda clicked her tongue at Gemma from the other room. Handsome lord and you didn’t even try?

Gemma went to the door and tried to look stern and unimpressed. You do realize if I marry and move from here, you’ll be alone again?

There are worse things than being alone, sunshine. Trust me on that. Romelda turned back to the food she was preparing and nothing more was said about the stranger Gemma had encountered. How much linen is on the loom?

It’s almost ready to be cut down and the warp restrung, Gemma said, grateful for the change in conversation.

Their meal was simple but hearty. While Romelda cleared their dishes in the river and laid them to dry on the table, Gemma moved a heavy crate of thread closer to the loom. The large mechanism took up the entire height of the room and half its width. With careful snips, she brought down the completed fabric and placed it to the side. Later she would take it outside to bleach in the sun for several days.

Romelda returned to her spinning and Gemma started the tedious task of re-stringing the loom with warp threads. After every handful was tied in place at the top, she tied the bottom ends to stone weights that would help her keep the correct tension. Her thoughts turned to the passing lord. She ran through what she knew of all the lords in Bellrupe duchy and those surrounding it, to see if she could identify which lord she had talked to. When that diversion came up fruitless, she let her mind wander to pleasant memories.

She had been about eight years old when Romelda found her lost and alone in the forest and took her in as a daughter. She had few playmates because of living outside of the village. Romelda would not let her sit idle and taught her how to sow and harvest flax, and how to break the fibers down and pull them apart for spinning. Eventually Romelda showed her how to hold and spin the drop spindle and twist the fibers into sturdy threads. As the two worked side by side, Romelda would sing ancient folk tunes in her native language or tell stories of bygone days and faraway places. Sometimes Gemma would ask questions and their time would be spent in educational conversations. The thump of the wooden rods being moved against the frame used to lull her to sleep and when nightmares of ravenous forests kept her up, she would curl up on Romelda’s lap while the older women combed her hair and sung her back to sleep. By the time she was ten, Gemma was skilled at spinning and finally tall enough to work on the loom. She quickly grew to love it more than any other chore.

On this afternoon they worked in comfortable silence for some time before Gemma grew so thirsty she couldn’t focus. Their bucket of water by the door was down to the last few inches so she grabbed it by the handle and flung open the door to leave.

A soldier blocked her way, arm upraised and moments away from knocking. Startled, Gemma yelped and dropped the bucket. Water spilled over his worn leather boots and over her own bare feet. He glanced at the water pooled at his feet and then back to her. Dubiousness was written all over his face, along with a remarkable amount of unmasked curiosity.

The maiden Gemma?

Mortified, Gemma could only nod. He handed her a letter carefully folded and stamped with the seal of the Duke of Bellrupe. Only then did Gemma recognize the pin and insignia on his uniform. A courier from the fortress and a soldier of the royal guard.

The soldier motioned for her to open the letter. She pulled the seal away and unfolded it. No sooner had she gotten the paper the right way around then the courier recited the contents. "In great appreciation