Page 13 of Arise the Queen
“You will see,” said the Púca, his voice lilting, as Yestin’s used to do whenever he’d teased her over some tasty recipe he’d meant to serve at the evening’s meal. But, of course, it was never Gwendolyn who’d wished to know, and she was certain Yestin knew she’d asked on Ely’s behalf. As a member of thedawnsio,poor, sweetEly was always so famished. And usually, by the time the dancers could sup, the best of the dishes were already gone, and it was so curious to Gwendolyn that so much as her mother had valued her dancers, and so much as they were esteemed by all, those girls had had to content themselves with the same repast as was served to the kitchen help. Gwendolyn wondered if this was her mother’s way of keeping the dancers lean and fit, though she couldn’t say that was so, because Queen Eseld never confided in Gwendolyn about anything.
Every now and again, the senior-most students of thedawnsiowere paired with visiting emissaries, and expected to dine alongside them, but even then, they were instructed to eat sparingly, and to serve their guests before themselves.
Blood and bones.
Had so little time passed since Ely was asked to dine with that flat-nosed ambassador? It seemed only yesterday, and somehow, a thousand years past.
Gwendolyn desperately missed her old life—missed her innocence most of all.
She must wonder if Yestin was still in hisgaolcell, or if he’d nettled Caradoc well enough to earn himself a noose.
The old steward was not the same as he was before the coup. Gwendolyn only wished he had trusted her enough to tell her what Bryn’s father was planning. So much bloodshed could have been avoided, and if Gwendolyn could have arranged it, she would have given his lover sanctuary.
And now what of Caradoc? Had he ensconced himself so inextricably amongst her people that even Ely would side with him against her? When came the time, the decision would test her, because Gwendolyn knew, without having to be told, how difficult it would be to have to choose between the father of her child—Caradoc’s son—and her old life, long done.
Uncertainty reared itself, like a viper striking from the grass.
As it was with everything, nothing was simple—certainly not the prospect of winning back her sword from the Fae king.
How was she, a mere mortal under his eye, supposed to convince him that her kingdom was worthy of saving, or that, she, a descendant of the men who’d tricked his people into exile, was deserving of a holy relic forged by his tribesmen?
As Málik once saw fit to remind her,Claímh Solaishad belonged to his tribe first. Whether it burned for Gwendolyn would have little bearing on whether the Fae king would return it to her.
But he must be reasonable, mustn’t he?
How could anyone reign so long if he had no sense of justice?
Then again, Málik loathed him, and, kin or nay, Esme could not support him. Against her own father, she had joined a growing rebellion. So then, perhaps there was nothing that Gwendolyn could do or say to persuade him, and her mission here was a fool’s quest?
Realizing how much her thoughts had drifted again, Gwendolyn returned her attention to the Púca, rejoining his conversation. Incredibly, he was still expounding upon the many reasons he could not reveal the lady’s identity—but this was his greatest skill, his ability to expound so thoroughly upon the most inconsequential of details.
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if I arrived prepared?”
“Hersis notmystory to tell.”
“But you are?—”
“Never mind,” said the Púca, and Gwendolyn shook her head. How could he possibly know what she was about to say?
“So, you would lead me to this lady, but you’ll not tell mewhoshe is?”
“Shhh,” said the Púca. “We must never speak her name!”
Gwendolyn’s brow furrowed. “I assure you, I am hardly in such danger when I do not know her name.”
He answered with silence.
“Nor do I know yours,” she persisted. “But shouldn’t I?”
“A Púca has many names.”
“And what isyours?”
“I am who I am,” the Púca relented. “And sadly, we are few.”
Gwendolyn shook her head at the futility of arguing with him. “At least tell me this… why musthername not be spoken?”
“We are bound,” the Púca said.
