Chapter 2
This King Was Fond of Money
At dawn, Rumplestiltskin returned to King Wilhelm's castle for the second day in a row. This time he wore his russet cloak of unnoticeability. When someone chanced to look at him, their gaze would slide off to the side. Whomever he approached would make way without speaking. Actually bumping into someone would bring, at most, a muttered beg-your-pardon.
Today the king would announce the allotments of livestock that would placate the ogres for another winter. Already the throng in front of the castle was so huge that it pushed back across the bridge that spanned the surrounding chasm. The talk that Rumplestiltskin heard as he glided through the crowd was disagreeable. Merchants, artisans, laborers—citizens from all walks of life—were complaining about ogre appeasement. As with any remedy that worked, people were wondering why they needed it.
Simpletons. Does each generation need fresh carnage before they acknowledge the necessity of the Dark One's deals? Even after two hundred years, the horror of the Frontlands Massacres was still vivid in his mind—ogres crushing his neighbors in their hands, their heads popping off, their flesh oozing out like sausage meat.
And the only thing he'd asked for his troubles this year was a gold-leafed box that played a nursery song.
The closer Rumplestiltskin moved to the front, the more packed the assembly became. Yet people still wordlessly edged aside to let him pass. When no one stood between him and the royal dais except a row of archers, he stopped. The usual contingent of footmen, counselors, and minions had arranged themselves around the throne of Wensumlea. Princes four and five, Falfrey and Henry, sat in gilded chairs at its foot. Toward the back, he noticed a young woman bundled up in a midnight blue cloak. He required no second glance to recognize Cora's graceful figure. She appeared to be standing between two guards. As he stared, she abruptly pushed back her hood, releasing her deep brown hair to tumble over her shoulders.
Rumplestiltskin's mouth went dry.
Three horn-blowers clad in the emerald and ruby of King Wilhelm's house blew a fanfare. The king strutted onto the dais at a pace slow and stately enough to befit his high station. A pair of pageboys trailed him, lifting the hem of his heavy brocade robe. Everyone on the stage not of the royal family bowed or curtsied. Cora dipped particularly low, but she didn't drop her head.
In the square facing the stage, King Wilhelm's subjects fell to their knees. Rumplestiltskin did not. Without his cloak, he'd have had to answer to the monarch's guardsmen for his impudence—or make them answer to him—but his magic rendered him unobtrusive.
Except to Cora. With a shock, Rumplestiltskin realized she was gazing straight at him. Amidst the general populace, his cherished lack of bother depended on being overlooked. Yet somehow, she'd pierced his inconspicuousness. Did that mean his cloak no longer worked? Uneasily, he glanced around, assuring himself that for the masses, he might as well not exist. When he glanced back at Cora, her eyes widened in response. Did her ability to divine his presence mean she possessed a knack for magic?
Rumplestiltskin threw back his shoulders and lifted his chin.
King Wilhelm circled to the front of the dais and began ascending the steps to his throne. Rumplestiltskin's eyes remained locked on Cora's. Her despairing sobs of the night before echoed in his mind. Not meaning to, he lifted one hand. A twist of his wrist, and the king stumbled. When Wilhelm tried to catch himself, he stepped on his robes and toppled backwards. He landed on his rear end.
Everyone, both those on the stage and those packing the square, seemed to be struck dumb with surprise—except for Rumplestiltskin. He snickered uncontrollably. After all, the only person in the whole assembly who could hear him was Cora.
Then Rumplestiltskin saw her clamp her lips together. He stopped tittering, realizing he'd made a dreadful mistake. If any breath of amusement escaped Cora's mouth, she wouldn't just be locked in a room to spin. She'd be flogged.
Rumplestiltskin raised his hand again, directing his power at her mouth and throat, stifling all the subtle movements involved in laughter. For a moment, she looked disconcerted. He counted off the seconds until his spell lapsed. From her smile, he could see her urge to laugh had passed. He propped one hand on his hip and flourished the other. Pressing his heels together, he bent his knees. For Cora, he would bow.
Rumplestiltskin glanced at the servants attempting to prop up the fallen king. With each arm hugging a footman, Wilhelm managed to stand. But as soon as one of them stepped away, his ankle bent under him and down he went—again. Rumplestiltskin pressed a hand over his mouth to prevent another giggle fit. This is going to take a while.
At last, Rumplestiltskin thought. King Wilhelm turned over the morning's proclamations to his princely sons and allowed his retainers to trundle him off the stage. Striding to the front, fourth son Falfrey crooked a finger to allow the kneeling crowd to rise. Using the amplification horn Rumplestiltskin had conjured up for the last monarch of the previous house, Falfrey read out the allotments.
Every last one of them was a lie.
In each livestock category—cows, pigs, goats, sheep—numbers were exaggerated. The geese were doubled and the chickens tripled. "And," Falfrey concluded, "two hundred barrels of yogurt and seventy-five bushels of bilberries. Such are the provisions the Dark One commands us to give the ogres."
All around him, Rumplestiltskin heard complaints, gripes, and grumbles directed at the Dark One. Not only were people unhappy at the sacrifices asked of them—they speculated that talk of ogres was a dodge, that the livestock and so on were really being collected to appease him.
This is truly too much. He threw back his hood.
The people closest to him noticed him immediately. They cowered back, trembling. When a woman a few yards away screamed, Rumplestiltskin saw fear at his presence spread quickly. Scores of people backed into those behind them until a space had formed around him. Those with nowhere to go clapped their hands over their eyes as if not seeing him hid them as well.
At the foot of the dais, the royal archers raised their bows. From the way they were aiming, it seemed they didn't care whether some of their arrows hit King Wilhelm's loyal subjects so long as some also hit him. Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. Didn't they know he was invincible while Wensumlea's citizens were not? When the bowmen let loose, so did he—shooting balls of fire at the barrage that turned the arrows into ash. The people under them screamed.
Yes, I just saved you from being skewered by your own defenders. You're welcome.
Before the archers could nock their next arrows, Rumplestiltskin mock-lunged at them, darting and stomping with his taloned fingers outstretched like an eagle ready to strike. At first, they quavered. Then he tossed back his head for a maniacal cackle, baring his decaying predatory teeth. They scattered. The field now his, he strutted forward and, in one great bound, leapt onto the stage.
As soon as Rumplestiltskin reached Falfrey, he could tell the prince had wet himself. The tall, well-built young man was using his father's copy of the lengthy ogre truce to hide the stain on his satin breeches.
Rumplestiltskin snorted a laugh. "The agreement, dearie." Without waiting for a response, he whisked the scroll from Falfrey's hand to his own. The prince looked down at the front of his white pants, clutched his scarlet cape around himself, and fled to his gilded seat.
Out the corner of his eye, Rumplestiltskin caught sight of Cora—hands clasped, lips parted, eyes sparkling. She's enjoying my show.
Cora's regard of him filled Rumplestiltskin with pride. He swaggered back and forth across the stage, holding the parchment at arm's length, inspecting the inflated numbers crudely added by King Wilhelm. With a puff of air, he blew the non-magical ink away. Snapping his fingers, he sailed the restored truce into Henry's hands, saying, "Your turn. Read it properly."
The prince, a young man not more than twenty, looked the Dark One full in the face. Unlike his slightly older brother, fifth son Henry was not afraid of him. Aha! Rumplestilstkin thought. He remembers me. When the prince had been a lad, they'd done a deal—a spell to keep Henry in his saddle during his first hunt in exchange for a magnifying glass. Rumplestiltskin still had it. As with Cora, he'd been attracted to the business opportunity by the sound of sobbing—a seven-year-old's desperation to be sure but desperation nonetheless.
Pointing ominously at the tousle-haired prince, Rumplestiltskin intoned, "Proclaim the correct allotments and attribute them to the ogres who requested them. I'll be watching." With that, he pulled up his hood and vanished, materializing again—inconspicuously—atop a nearby flagpole.
Rumplestiltskin listened to Henry recite his requests. "And," the prince said, "ninety barrels of yogurt and thirty bushels of bilberries. This is the fair deal the Dark One has struck for us with the ogres."
Rumplestiltskin applauded. "Hear, hear."
But Henry wasn't finished. "The royal family will cover the entire allotment of sheep. Behold!" He gestured behind him, and Cora and her two guards walked to the front of the stage. Each of her guards carried a bag. Without preamble, they dumped out golden thread between Cora and Henry. The precious heap gleamed in the morning sun.
Across the square, citizens applauded and cheered. Looking back to the stage, Rumplestiltskin observed both Henry and Cora smiling.
The royal family's generosity is all very fine and good, he thought, but they're contributing less than half of the treasure I spun for them.
Rumplestiltskin saw Cora scan the crowd, then lift her chin as she scanned the walls. When her gaze reached his flagpole, she fastened her eyes on his and winked. Her acknowledgement pierced him with a shimmering light. In that instant, he felt as if she knew him down to the depths of his dark, rotting, misbegotten soul.
Rumplestiltskin waved away the purple fog that had accompanied his materialization in the main hall of his mountain fortress. To his surprise, two people stood by the massive granite fireplace waiting for him. Though he'd only met them a couple of months before, they were his closest—well, his only—friends in a century. As usual, the handsome young wizard Jeffery was wearing his over-sized, portal-creating top hat. His pretty wife, Gwynneth the Seer, was dressed in high-waisted green robes that flared in the front.
Clasping his hands in delight, Rumplestiltskin scampered over to them. He clapped Jeffery's forearms for a greeting, then pointed to Gwynneth's growing belly. "May I?"
She smiled and touched the front of her dress in invitation. "He's awake. Traveling through a vortex makes him do somersaults."
Rumplestiltskin patted Gwynneth's abdomen and found a protuberance like a foot. He rested his fingers there until he felt a kick. "Ah!" He giggled. "A baby on the way. That's the most joyous magic imaginable."
But when Rumplestiltskin looked up, he saw the smile slowly fade from his friend's face. Feeling a catch in his throat, he backed up a step. "What's wrong? You know I'd never harm your baby."
Gwynneth blinked as if coming out of a trance. "Oh, Sweetie. Of course, you wouldn't." She bit her lip. "Still... I had an inkling... perhaps... perhaps someone connected to you..."
"Nobody's connected to me. I'm utterly and completely alone. That means nobody will harm your baby."
Gwynneth swept a hand across her forehead. "Maybe it's not a premonition. Maybe it's just... baby fog."
Jeffery laughed and hugged an arm around his wife. "Last night Gwynnie poured rosewater in the stew and pepper sauce in the bath." With his other arm, he held out a basket swathed in white linen. "I kept a close watch while she made our lunch. It's mouth-watering."
Gwynneth blushed. "I thought because it's ogre negotiating season, you might be missing meals."
"You're too kind." Rumplestiltskin didn't let on that his first tickle of hunger could call a lavish tray of food to his side. What he couldn't summon with magic was company nor Gwynneth's homemade pecan tarts.
Rumplestiltskin looked from the fan of cards in his hand to the faces of his friends. This was turning out to be an entertaining day. Not only had Gwynneth and Jeffery stopped by for lunch, they'd stayed to play bridge as well. His friends were partnered with each other. He was partnered with a dog-faced puppet. Since he was the one who'd animated it and embedded its card-playing skills, he had no need to guess how Dogface would play a hand.
"I'm amazed at the spotlessness of this room," Gwynneth said, leading with the king of clubs. "And to think you have no servants."
Rumplestiltskin let his eyes drift over the sumptuous tapestries and cushions that furnished his north turret parlor. He laid down the nine card. "Nobody ever comes here to make it dirty. And if required, I can clean it by snapping my fingers. What would the servants do?" Except maybe snoop out my secrets and betray me.
Jeffery took the trick with the ace. "Have you had time to think about what I asked?"
Rumplestiltskin arched an eyebrow. "You mean since the grapes and brie?" Why his friend was so anxious for his response to the Wizards Council's invitation, he didn't know. Had they made Jeffery their envoy? They'd done it before.
"They want to groom you for the highest circle. It's an honor."
"And make me sign a pledge—without first telling me everything I'd be pledging to." Rumplestiltskin dumped his five of hearts. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's never make a deal you don't understand." His partner took the trick. Good work, Dogface.
Jeffery let his hand droop. Rumplestiltskin could see the puppet's goggling eyes peeking at his cards. His friend didn't appear to notice—so intent was he on arguing on behalf of the Wizards Council. "But the tenets of that pledge—I thought you agreed with them."
"Many of them, yes. And if I agree, why would I require an oath to follow them? I already would never try to take over the Enchanted Forest—not even the smallest kingdom in it. Much too much bother." Rumplestiltskin demonstrated his abhorrence of such ambition by shuddering. "I probably could, but I wouldn't."
He saw his friends exchange a wide-eyed glance. Then Jeffery played a completely wrong card and lost another trick to Dogface.
Gwynneth extended the queen of hearts, and Rumplestiltskin smiled. He laid down the ace. "Their tenets for handling threats are admirable: use the least harmful magic possible and avoid causing harm that cannot be undone." With regret, he recalled the cart-man he'd turned into a snail so many years before. If he hadn't proceeded to step on him—right in front of Bae—maybe his son wouldn't have gone looking for an alternative world, one without magic, one that would strip his father of his powers and leave him unexceptional once more.
Their game over, Gwynneth calculated the points for the tricks, the odd tricks, and the slams. "You win again—you and Dogface." She reached for the purse of coins hanging around her neck.
Rumplestiltskin lifted his eyebrows. "So we do." I hope you're not just letting me. At his insistence, they always played for copper pennies. He added his current winnings to his overflowing earthenware jar. "It's the tenets requiring consultation, permission, and consensus that I don't like. Honoring those terms would be tedious." No more tripping up obnoxious rulers if I commit to the Wizards Council deal. "The tenet I absolutely can't accept is the last one. How can I agree to abide by all and sundry precepts and dictates that shall be established hereinafter ad infinitum?" When one was immortal the phrase ad infinitum actually meant something.
Jeffery sighed. "Well, Sarastro asked me to mention their invitation to you, and I have."
Rumplestiltskin was surprised at how bleak Jeffery looked about the whole discussion. Clearly, Sarastro, self-proclaimed sorcerer of the sun, had asked him to do more than mention it. "It's not your fault, Jeffery. I'm just not a joiner. But aren't you the same? You haven't chosen to be inducted into the Wizards Council either." He caught his friends trading amused, affectionate glances. "What? What did I say?"
Smiling, Gwynneth leaned forward. "Oh, sweetie. You don't understand. The Wizards Council wants to groom you for their circle because, well, you are what you are—awesomely powerful. They've never even asked Jeffery to join—"
"—and they never will," her husband completed her sentence. "It's because the only magic I do is link to portals with my hat. Your powers, for all you know, are limitless. I, on the other hand, am a one-trick wizard. Always have been, always will be."
Rumplestiltskin raised his eyebrows. "But what a trick it is! Travelling to any magical universe you choose! I can't do anything like that. Portal-hopping is my limit." In fact, portal-hopping was such an in-demand service, his friend still hadn't found an opening to take him on his first trip. How else was he ever going to find his Baelfire and bring him back home if he couldn't even leave the Enchanted Forest?
Jeffery looked at him quizzically. "Thanks."
"And," Rumplestiltskin went on, "the thought that the Wizards Council would exclude someone I admire, well, it makes me less interested in joining. Ungracious snobs—that's what they sound like to me."
Rumplestiltskin didn't mention what disturbed him most about the Wizards Council pledge: the provision compelling him to share the secrets of his magic with his newly designated brothers. They would be required to do the same, of course, but he suspected their secrets would not be half so momentous. Did any of them owe their powers to a mystical dagger? Were any of them invulnerable to all peril except said dagger? Could any of them rip out a person's beating heart without killing them and use the heart to control that person's words and deeds? Had any of them acquired and locked away the instructions for creating the darkest of all possible dark curses—one that could shatter their civilization and reconstruct it, twisted and malformed, in another land?
Rumplestiltskin shrugged. I rather doubt it.
Alone that evening, Rumplestiltskin stood in front of his mirror donning clothes from his many wardrobes. He paused to examine himself in his gray sea serpent pants and jacket. The outfit was his first choice for dueling: absolutely form-fitting. But for tonight? Too drab. He snapped his fingers for another selection.
Usually, with realms as insignificant as Wensumlea, Rumplestiltskin needed less than a week to negotiate with the ogres, present to the local authority, and report back to the tribe. After discovering King Wilhelm's perfidy in inflating the ogre allotments and blaming the burden on the Dark One, he wasn't ready to dispense with this little monarchy so easily. From the morning's events, Rumplestiltskin understood one thing: The king's greedy—too greedy for Cora's troubles to be over. I should have seen that all along.
Again Rumplestiltskin peered at his reflection. The black stymphalian feathers on his current combination made him look authoritative yet non-threatening. But then, the coat was too bulky for work. And tonight he'd definitely be spinning. He snapped his fingers.
Like all tyrants, the king hadn't bothered to make a deal—he'd merely issued a threat. All this must be spun into gold before morning, as you love your life! Without mutually agreed upon terms, Wilhelm's demand for Cora's supposed magical services would be endless. More than likely, he'd lock her up with an even bigger haystack tonight.
What King Wilhelm didn't know was that Cora had made herself a powerful friend who wouldn't stand by and see her young life blighted that way. "Me," he said aloud.
With another snap of his fingers, Rumplestiltskin found himself in the bronze silk shirt and laced wyvern vest he'd worn the night before. Same clothing twice in a row would never do. He was about to signal for next, when he remembered to retrieve the music box from the sleeve. He gazed at it a moment, then wound it and opened the lid.
As he heard the familiar melody, he recalled Bae singing the words:
Froggie went a-courtin' and he did ride
His sword and scabbard by his side
He went down to Miss Mousie's door
Where he had often been before.
He said, "Missy Mouse, are you within?"
"Yes, kind sir, I sit and spin."
Rumplestiltskin snapped his fingers then regarded himself in his coppery dragon-hide jacket with the gold-studded cuffs. Yes. With matching boots, soft griffin-skin pants, and ruffled gold shirt, he'd be both stylish and at ease for another night of spinning straw into gold.
For those familiar with OUaT: Jeffery the hatter wizard is Jefferson's father.
For those not familiar, Jeffery looks like his son (seen here in Rumplestiltskin's library, pictures 3-6, replace DOT with punctuation, tinyurlDOTcom/ak43h36), except he's not mad.
To-die-for, isn't he? But not as fascinating as Rumple.