Page 23 of Arise the Queen
“Yes, but not quite in the same way as your mithril.”
“Well… it is… beautiful,” said Gwendolyn, though she nodded uncertainly. Like all the Fae, this lady spoke in riddles, and, if not in riddles, without sense. There seemed to be no credible purpose for the three of them to be here… wasting time with this pointless visit, when they were so close to the City ofLight. And yet, Gwendolyn didn’t wish to be rude. Once again, she inspected the cloak, but the more she glimpsed at it, the more common it appeared—a material akin to the tunics and cowls so commonly made by the priests at the Temple of the Dead, only theirs were pristine white, made from the very finest of sheep’s wool. In comparison, this material was drab, though Gwendolyn would not say so, even if Arachne could. The last thing she meant to do was anger the spider woman… or else.
“Go on, feel it,” the lady bade her.
Must she?Reaching out tentatively, Gwendolyn patted the cloth with two trembling fingers, uncertain what to expect. But then she smiled. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “How soft!”
“Indeed,” said Arachne, smiling so that two fangs emerged. The sight of them made Gwendolyn’s shoulders tense. “Soft as the underbelly of a sweet, human babe.”
Unnerved by the image that assaulted her, Gwendolyn turned away. How, by the gods, would she know the quality of a babe’s belly?
Any answer Gwendolyn arrived at was just too horrific, but Arachne seemed not to notice her response. She continued speaking as though she and Gwendolyn were the oldest, dearest of friends.
“As for my… form… Well… I must give the fault for this to my once-dear friend, Athena.” Her hands—all of them now—moved deftly, finishing the hem, moving to the yoke. And, for an interminable moment, the lady seemed to lose herself in reverie, tilting her head and smiling before continuing. “You see, I revealed a secret—one I should have kept to myself. I only wished to prove how important I was—that I, too, could be trusted with important matters. So, then, won’t you tell me, Gwendolyn, have you never felt so invisible, so unworthy… until… something happens… to change…everything?”
The lady’s expression was so sincere. Gwendolyn nodded because, yes, of course, she knew that feeling. She knew exactly how it felt, and it was incredible to think that two such disparate beings could feel so much the same. In Ely’s shadow, and in her mother’s presence, Gwendolyn had felt all those things and more. Sad to say, not until Locrinus arrived on the eve of her Promise Ceremony, did she ever feel the least bit special… and then, only for a short time. How wonderful that feeling, but how much trouble had she courted thereafter?
“I am not Fae,” Arachne explained, redirecting her thoughts. “Nor am I a goddess, in truth. But my Athena was the daughter of Zeus, and I, her lowly maid—one whose weaving skills were prized, no less by Zeus himself.
“One evening while I stood weaving for her father, I overheard a certain conversation with a Fae emissary—a lovely young woman who’d come seeking his aid, but not for herself…”
Gwendolyn furrowed her brow. What was it she was supposed glean from this odd tale? And, really, she didn’t wish to be rude, but they should be away!
Feeling antsy now, Gwendolyn waited for Arachne to resume her story as the spider woman pulled her cloth close, yanking at a thread, snipping it with her fangs before continuing. “Well, so… some Fae, as you know, may have no trouble with transmutation, but they’ve no agency over any but themselves.”
That wasn’t precisely true and Gwendolyn was on the verge of explaining how, after her escape from Leogria?—
Arachne smiled. “Whathedid in those western woods was not the same. That was only a glamour. He but concealed himself, and you along with him—as this cloak will do. However, transmutation is quite possible through the will of the gods.” She glanced up at the Púca and smiled, and Gwendolyn also peered up at the Púca to find him resting, eyes closed—calm as youplease. The lady laughed and lifted a brow. “Perhaps you will allow me to continue my tale?”
Gwendolyn nodded, and the lady smiled. “You see, there was a young Fae woman who, for no cause of her own, had become an enemy to her king. So I am told he gave her no peace and even when she devised a way to elude him, he found her and slew her, again and again, until she had only one life remaining…”
Gwendolyn remembered Málik jesting one day that the Fae had only eight lives—one fewer than cats. Apparently, it wasn’t a jest!
“It was for her the emissary pled,” explained Arachne. “She begged for Zeus to turn the beleaguered young princess into a mortal so they could take her and hide her where the Fae king had no authority.”
She paused for a moment, eyeing Gwendolyn meaningfully, and Gwendolyn blinked, sitting straighter, only perhaps beginning to glean something… but it was something she dared not speak aloud… not… yet.
“So then… Zeus agreed. And I heard everything, and when I spoke it all to Athena, she listened with a false heart. After hearing my tale, she made her way to the Fae Court and told the Fae king everything I’d said.
“Of course, he then came to me, demanding to be told where the emissary hid the babe…” She gave Gwendolyn a meaningful nod. “Buthehad no power to compel me, because, as I’ve said, I am not Fae. However, when I refused to reveal what I knew…”
“He turned her into aspiþra,” explained the Púca sleepily.
“Hush, dear, I am getting to the point. Allow me to finish.”
She was speaking to the Púca but gazed pointedly at Gwendolyn. “So Athena went to Zeus, pleading her case, because he’d punished her for interfering, but later, livid for my part in her father’s disfavor, she returned to me, and demanded I tellher all I knew. Once more, I refused, and it was Athena who turned me into…this.”
She glanced up at the Púca and said, “There were many who believed she did this for envy over my weaving—because her father favored my cloth.” She hitched her chin at the cloak. “But I taught Athena all I knew, and I would be the first to say her weave made me proud. Alas, it was not the Fae king who cursed me. It was she.”
The Púca shrugged, seemingly unconcerned that he had gotten her story all wrong and Arachne heaved a sigh. “To make matters worse,” she said. “Only for speaking of things I had no right to speak of, Zeus banished me here and I found my way to this lair through the goodwill of my Fae friend. It is she who hid me behind an orb weaver’s veil.” And then she smiled, and the slow unfurling of it put a hitch in Gwendolyn’s breath. “Can you guess who she was?”
Gwendolyn shook her head, having no clue, but oddly now, she considered last night’s visage in the pool, and a tingle of knowing raced down her spine. “Who was she?”
“The emissary?” said Arachne, her voice lamenting. “To my greatest regret, it was I who first suggested she speak with Zeus. And later, when she found herself so embroiled… well, she hung herself… with my thread… lest her Fae king compel her to speak the truth.” Her brows collided, and once again her gaze fell away with her reverie, only to return to Gwendolyn with a lackluster smile. “As you must by now understand, he only needed to know her true name, and he knew hers.”
“How… sad,” Gwendolyn said, and she felt inexplicably melancholy over this news when she knew these people not at all.
“Indeed. It was a foul end for a freeborn daughter of thenobleFèinne.”
