Page 15 of Arise the Queen
“However, you do not lie?”
“Correct.”
“But you may refuse to speak?”
He said nothing, and Gwendolyn made it a point to explain what Bryn had so pointedly reminded her. “You know… simply because you do not say a thing does not mean you are not declaring an untruth solely by the omission of truth.”
He answered with silence, and then he said, “Stupid Girl.”
Without warning, he transformed himself into the cat-sidhe,and with all the haughtiness of a true feline, lifted his furry bottom, flicked his tail at her, then bounded away—clearly annoyed, but not enough to leave her.
Gwendolyn lifted her brow, trying her best not to smile.
That was one certain way to end a conversation.
7
Gwendolyn didn’t have the mental endurance to think through conversations that rambled so endlessly—like these passages, veering up, down and around, wending through intersecting chambers, with little to distinguish one burrow from another. Often narrow and winding, she was betimes forced to duck or squeeze through tight spots. In other areas, the tunnels widened into larger chambers, with ceilings that disappeared into the shadows above.
Every length of stride brought an ache to her injured knee, and much to Gwendolyn’s dismay, the deeper they ventured, the colder it grew, till her teeth chattered, and her curiosity needled her as ruthlessly as the cold.
Who was this lady they must see?
The question hung in the air like the cool, damp mist, working its way beneath her flesh and sinking to the marrow of her bones.
Lamentably, she no longer had her father’s cloak, having left it in the Druid village—but of course, she’d not have imagined Málik would force her to begin this journey so unprepared. And, yes, it was true; she had dressed for her eventual departure withEsme, but Gwendolyn had had every intention of returning to her bower one last time, if only to retrieve her father’s cloak. She’d left it only for fear of drawing suspicion whilst roaming the village in search of Esme.
She frowned now, because in her mind’s eye, she saw Málik again as he’d stood leaning against that tree, a knowing gleam in his pale-blue eyes as he’d inquired as where she was going. For the first time in Gwendolyn’s life, she’d lied—or come as close to lying as she’d ever dared. She had claimed to be gathering victuals for their journey—to share with him, implied—and Málik’s eyes had pierced her as surely as would his sword. He had known, and this was his judgment?
Or had he intended to lead her to that portal all along?
Never intending to follow?
This never-ending journey wore on her—the endless grey, the fickle piskies always venturing away, the mental acrobatics she was forced to perform only to make sense of this quest…
Cursing softly beneath her breath, she rubbed her arms against the cold, casting a glance at the moody Púca, who, as the cat-sidhe, was now leaping from boulder to boulder, ledge to ledge, every once in a while stopping to wait for Gwendolyn. It had been long hours now since she had last rankled him with her barrage of questions, but still she had more.
Shivering again, she wished all her senses were as dormant as her hunger. Inexplicably, it was as though she were famished for only the sensation of food, not so much to satisfy a growling belly. And nevertheless, she was tempted to pluck out a bite of Hob cake, if only to see if it would provide her the illusion of a warm bowl of stew so she could temper the cold in her breast.
“How much longer?” she asked, growing weary.
Considering his mood, Gwendolyn didn’t expect an answer, but he said reassuringly, “Not far.”
“How far is not far?” she pressed, trying not to sound as though she were complaining because she wasn’t, in truth. It was simply that this journey grew interminable, and the cold was biting.
Looking amused at her expense, the Púca cast her a twinkle-eyed glance over his shoulder, and said, “Only a bit farther than rain must fall… not so far as apiskieflies.”
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, having no inkling of either.Thiswas precisely the sort of conversation they’d had earlier that prompted her to ask too many questions. And if he didn’t wish for Gwendolyn to press, he shouldn’t answer in riddles.
Alas, she was swiftly coming to realize that extricating information from any Fae creature when he did not wish to convey it was entirely futile.
Even so, she pored over how far rain must fall, and when that produced no conclusive answers, she cast a glance ahead to the swarm ofpiskies—even now, expending extraordinary energy, only waiting for them to catch up. She suspected they could fly a long way, and yet, the Púca had not worded his answer in a manner that could be easily construed. She tried, but found it pointless.
For example, the destination of a raindrop could not be substantiated when no place on the earth was at the same elevation.
Every word these creatures uttered was meant to confuse. Gwendolyn was certain of it, and she feared that, as little prepared as she was to cross swords with the Fae king, she was even less prepared to bandy words with one of his ilk. She was about to ask again how far they must go, but as the Fates would have it, even the Púca needed rest. They had traveled a little farther, when the Púca led Gwendolyn to a spot atop a ledge, away from the footpath, and directly below a bright stain of moss. By now, she knew the routine. He would take his respitewithout explanation, dismissing her whilst he made his bed. Howbeit, Gwendolyn couldn’t be more pleased with the spot he’d chosen. Here, the velvety growth cast a muted light over the entire ledge, and despite that by now her eyes were adjusting to the darkness, this new light was welcome. Without delay, she made herself a pallet.
“Thank you,” she said to the cat-sidhe.
