Page 11 of Arise the Queen
And once again, Gwendolyn wondered how Brutus had ended with that alloy instead of her father. Hadn’t Corineus presided over Pretania long enough to prove his worth? Why hadn’t the gods provided him the means to fashion Loegrian steel? Why had this Outlander received the gods’ favor?
She tried to remember what Locrinus had told her about Ériu during their ill-fated Promise Ceremony—only that he’d met theOstmen on his journey home from Ériu on a ship captained by a helmsman from Hyperborea. And that was the first time she’d ever heard the name Hyperborea—she’d thought him so worldly.But he’d never actually explained where this place was, nor that it belonged to the Tuatha Dé Danann.
Gwendolyn would have remembered that.
It was Lir who’d explained that the realm the Fae now occupied was not the land of their origins, that their motherland was this land called Hyperborea. It was, he’d said, a land of great riches, where death, disease and sorrow could not exist. But if that was so, why then did they set their sights on Ériu? Only to mine this alloy?
But then, why would they not return to their beloved homeland after losing the Last Battle instead of accepting this dark, oppressive realm as their fate?
“What can you tell me about Hyperborea?”
“Nothing,” said the Púca, sounding annoyed. He lifted two fingers as though to pinch his thin, black lips together. “I’ve said too much already.”
And despite this, he immediately carried on at great length, illuminating Gwendolyn next about how the Fae built their new home in a new city called Tír na nÓg—the City of Light Lir had spoken of. According to Lir, that city was a marvel to behold, and the Púca confirmed this. Apparently, no mortal city compared.
The stronghold at its center, unlike Trevena, was truly an impenetrable bastion. It was one thing, said the Púca, to enter that city, but the court itself was warded, so only the reigning king and his royal household could enter without permission. It was there that Dagda’s cauldron was kept, along with several other treasures that remained on display for the city’s elite—a reminder of the power this new king wielded. According to the Púca, even Locrinus’ army, ten thousand strong, couldn’t breachthis city, and thus, Gwendolyn’s tiny retinue had no hope. Her only chance lay in the King’s invitation—if she could wrest one.
So much for stealth or force.
“What illuminates the city?” Gwendolyn asked, wondering how any light could penetrate this eternal gloom. But she frowned when the Púca gave her a response not unlike the one Málik gave her when she’d asked about Hob cake.
“Awodgeof hope, a pinch of slag, and a cauldron-full of scoria.”
Gwendolyn scrunched her nose, trying to imagine this strange concoction, and once again, she furrowed her brow because she’d once asked Málik what awodgewas, to no avail.More than a wedge,he’d said.Less than a podge.
“Sometimes more, never less,” the Púca continued, as though he’d read Gwendolyn’s thoughts, and again, she was left with more questions than answers.
What was slag? How did one gather hope to dole in portions?
More than anything, she would like to know the answer to these questions—especially if awodgeof hope could be her people’s salvation.
How much hope was enough to turn the people's hearts?
“Of late, the city’sbrilliance has faded,” revealed the Púca, this declaration worming its way into the cheesecloth of Gwendolyn’s brain. “The Darkening has roused unrest and there are those who wish to see the Rightful Heir reclaim the throne.”
Gwendolyn’s attention now perked. “Málik?”
The Púca turned, pressing a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
Gwendolyn frowned over his response. “And you?” she persisted, undaunted, knowing that soon enough he would morph back into his cat form, and she would hear no more about anything until it pleased him. “I only wonder, do you sympathize with the?—”
“Shhh!” said the Púca again, this time much more forcefully, and he turned with a finger to his lips and a sharp glimmer in his obsidian eyes. “Never,everspeakthatword!”
Gwendolyn’s frown deepened. “Whatword?”
Unexpectedly, the creature bared his teeth—teeth that were not so much porbeagle, but still quite sharp. And then he hissed at her.
Rebels,she had been about to say, but how could he have known this?
And no matter, heeding the warning she’d spied in his eyes, Gwendolyn allowed the word to drift away, like a wind-blown leaf seeking purchase and finding none.
Later, she wondered if the dimming ofTír na nÓgwas like her Rot, fueled by despair. Esme had once claimed there were lands where theysbryd y bydwas not affected by Pretania’s trials, but it went without saying—and Gwendolyn had proof of this besides—that there were also many places that must be similarly affected by their own trials. And perhaps the Fae and mortal worlds were also connected by some means Gwendolyn had yet to determine.
If so, could this be why Esme had come to Gwendolyn’s aid?
Could Gwendolyn help the Fae? Was that the secret Esme was keeping from her father? Was Gwendolyn the key to saving both Fae and mortal kind?
Or perhaps their discontent was more simply related to the lack of adamantine and their lack of proximity to this Lake of Fire?
