Page 28 of Arise the Queen
Gwendolyn sat straighter, pulling herself up by the bars as yet another Fae creature pointed at her, venturing too close with a long-clawed finger.
It was all Gwendolyn could do not to seize it. “I. Do. Not. Bite,” she said, and then she smiled. “Lest provoked.”
And gods knew she had been provoked! How dare they treat her so poorly when she’d come in good faith to speak to the Fae king!
The youngling Fae pretended not to hear her. “How ill-favored these mortals are, Papa. Poor little thing.”
“Do not pity her, Eilir. She brought this upon herself—came to steal what is ours.”
Gwendolyn opened her mouth to deny it, but then closed it again, realizing the futility of her denial.She didn’t come here to threaten their king, or to steal. She came to barter with him. And she would have preferred not to come at all, but their king hadn’t left her any choice after refusing to return her sword.
It was her sword, and she needed it!
Why didn’t he simply kill her, instead of displaying her so rudely in this cage?
But then… Gwendolyn blinked… realizing something.
Of the four talismans that were said to exist, one was Dagda’s cauldron…
Her gaze found the dais at the edge of the hall, whereupon sat a hefty cauldron. As many bowls as arrived to be filled, it never appeared to diminish its contents, and the server kept turning the ladle.
The second was the Lúin of Celtchar, a long, flaming lance, made of darkened bronze, which was tapered into a sharpened point, and fastened to a rowan haft by thirty rivets of gold. Her gaze lifted to the dais, to the wall behind the throne, where a lance was prominently displayed.
The third was Lia Fáil, that stone upon which the Kings of Ériu were now crowned.
And the last wasClaímh Solais… the fiery Sword of Light said to render its bearer invincible when wielded. That sword was gifted by Málik’s father to the sons of Míl, and its loss was perhaps the reason he’d forfeited his crown…
That sword was the relic the Púca had spoken of, and suddenly, she knew this beyond any doubt…
He who held the sword had the irrefutable right to rule. It was the same in both realms, andthatwas why the Fae king refused to relinquish the sword to her, despite that it no longer burned for any Fae… unlesswillinglyreturned.
That’swhat the Fae king desired. He wanted Gwendolyn to willingly return this relic of his people, and that she had not yet conceded it to him was the only thing keeping her alive. The instant she gave the sword up, he would kill her. And thereafter, when he wielded that sword before his tribesmen, there would be no one to question his rule. But there was one problem: Gwendolyn wouldneverrelinquish her right to that sword.
But then she frowned.
He could force her… if he knew her name…
Didn’t everyone know her name? She was Gwendolyn of Cornwall, daughter to the slain King, and spurned bride of the Usurper.
Only considering every story recounted over these past few days… what if “Gwendolyn” wasn’t her true name?
What if she had another name she could not remember?
What ifthiswas what Málik wished for her to recall?
In her mind’s eye, she tried to envision every dance recital she’d ever witnessed… every ancient tale painstakingly choreographed by the Awenydds and Gwyddons. Gwendolyn had rarely missed a rehearsal—in part, for Ely, but in part because she had so desperately imagined herself wearing thoselovely robes, dancing… making her mother proud. A note of excitement bubbled up into Gwendolyn’s breast, but just as quickly, she forgot what to be excited about…
Intruding upon her reverie, the Fae troubadours switched songs, only this time they played one song altogether, and this song, played upon harps strung with strands of moonlight and flutes carved from ancient crystals, conspired against her. She found herself mesmerized as the Fae dancers came together.
Two fair folk who had been gawking at her ambled away, lured by the music, and Gwendolyn sat back, tugging Arachne’s cloak up about her shoulders, all her thoughts evaporating against the swell of the music. She needed to think, but her belly now grumbled, despite that she still wasn’t hungry, only teased by the scent of the Fae stew. It reminded her of the Stone Soup served in the Druid’s Hall, equally tantalizing but so elusive. One moment, she scented pilchards from Chysauster, another good Cornish mead, and another Lulyn crabs from Mount's Bay.
Lulyn crabs were her mother’s favorite, and perhaps Gwendolyn craved them because she was thinking about Queen Eseld?
Was she thinking of Queen Eseld?
Not precisely. There was something more.
Once again drawing Arachne’s cloak, Gwendolyn dared to take comfort in the weight of it upon her shoulders—surprisingly hefty, despite the fine weave, and her thoughts drifted again to Chysauster, as sad as the remembrance might be. She thought about Jenefer, Borlewen and Briallen… how joyful they’d been, so full of laughter. And then her uncle and Lowenna… What she wouldn’t give to return to their table, only to listen to their easy banter. Alas, the memory of them, though vivid as yestereve, was growing distant as the thought of her freedom.
