Page 32 of Arise the Queen
For that matter, neither did Esme appear concerned—and Gwendolyn… was still trapped in this cage. With no weapon, no plan, and no one to aid her.
Certainly not Esme or Málik—not when both were so consumed by each other… until Esme turned for a moment toface Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn saw the truth in her eyes… There was no dispassion when she looked at Gwendolyn, nor hatred, only love, and pleading… pleading for Gwendolyn to bide her time, and hold her tongue as the Fae king spoke. And once again, Gwendolyn grew confused.
“Thank you all for attending,” said the King, his voice booming across the hall. “At long last… we come together to celebrate…”
He turned to admire the fawning couple, and Esme remembered herself, seizing Málik by the hand, pulling him close. “My ward and my daughter, betrothed at last.”
A cheer resounded throughout the hall. Whether it was for Málik they cheered, or his union with Esme, they clearly approved. And now, the King turned his bright green eyes upon Gwendolyn, and she braced herself for the coming storm.
He waved a hand in Gwendolyn’s direction. “And lest we forget… the end of our mortal foe.” He then spoke five words that made Gwendolyn’s heart stutter with fear. “Death to Banríon na bhfear!”
Death to the Queen of Men!
Her heart tumbled into her belly. This was the moment she would die, and to be sure, Málik would not look her way. With a sob of desperation, Gwendolyn closed her fist, and white-hot fury replaced her worry. When she opened the fist, a tiny spark of light escaped… a tiny, unmistakable spot of Faerie fire.
Proof.
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“Bring the prisoner,” commanded the King.
Two Fae soldiers at once advanced upon Gwendolyn’s cage, unlocking it, opening it, then thrusting in a hand to grasp her rudely by the cloak, dragging her out.
Remembering the Lady’s warning, she struggled to keep her cloak. Whatever they might do to her, she knew in her heart that she must heed this warning.
With a cry of protest, she stumbled out, tumbling down upon the floor, but regained her footing immediately, and stood, shrugging free from the hands that reached for her. “I can walk without your help,” she apprised the guards with as much dignity as she could muster. Even now, they refused to speak to her, but that didn’t matter to Gwendolyn. Let them believe what they would. She knew the truth now, and she found her purpose in that moment as she made her way to the dais to stand before her nemesis, the Fae king.
At last.
This was what she had come for! And no matter that she had fallen so low, there was nothing more she could lose, except pride and hope, and she was not about to relinquish either.
There was no mistaking the look of contempt on the King’s face, nor the disdainful looks she received from his guests. In their eyes, she was lower than a slug.
“Banríon na bhfear,” the King said mockingly, his smile narrowing as Gwendolyn approached. “How gracious of you to attend my court and save me the trouble of seeking you.” He tilted her a look of feigned sympathy. “But I expect you had no thought for what might await you here?” His serpentine smile slid wider, showing a full set of porbeagle teeth—razor sharp. “Did you believe we would welcome a daughter of the treacherous sons of Míl?”
In truth, Gwendolyn had expected nothing, but hoped for much, and yet, in a single moment, her life unveiled itself with unexpected twists and turns. Narrowing her own eyes, she shouldered her way past more guards, noting that Aengus himself didn’t so much as flinch at her approach… because…
He didn’t recognize her beneath Arachne’s cloak.
Gwendolyn straightened her spine, holding her head high as she drew the cloak more firmly about her, not simply to hide her mithril, but to be sure of its power to conceal her… her face, her scent, Esme’s magic—the bond she shared with Málik. So much was revealed so easily, like that tarp that concealed their Dragon’s Lair—one moment darkness, the next, light. It was his slippery smile that had given Gwendolyn the first glimpse of recognition. But his face was a face she could never in a thousand years forget—nor could she do so if she lived a hundred thousand lives. Fearing someone might stop her, Gwendolyn didn’t pause until she stood before the dais, and he, looking far too amused, held out a hand.
At once, one of his minions came rushing forth, bearing the reason for Gwendolyn’s sojourn to this realm…Claímh Solais. The Sword of Light.
His face a mask of triumph, the Fae king took this sword from his minion then turned to face Gwendolyn, brandishing the sacred weapon in hand. And yet, exquisite though it was, no flame consumed the blade.
Like war drums, her heart pounded against her ribs as the King’s smile slid sideways. “You came for this, I know, but what made you believe I would return this relic of my people to you… a mortal… a usurper?”
Gwendolyn lifted her chin, refusing to cow to this creature who’d once stolen her life. “Ihopedyou would see reason,” she suggested, careful to keep her tone even, concealing her true feelings, but the fist gripping Arachne’s cloak grew tighter, her fingernails digging into the soft fabric. Her father had been a master at bargaining and Gwendolyn had learned much from him.
“Reason?” The king guffawed. He turned his crooked grin toward his daughter. “I thought you said she was clever?”
Esme shrugged, looking bored. “She is human,” she said, but Gwendolyn noted the muscle that ticked at Málik’s jaw. Still, he said nothing, nor did he rebuff Esme’s advance when she sought and held his hand. With a show of confidence, and a look of victory, she laced her long, graceful fingers through his then held his hand.
Already,Gwendolyn had endured so much. Come what may, she would leave this place with that sword, or she would die trying. Esme and Málik could keep each other.
“Your forebears gainedourlands by trickery,” said the King, his voice rising as he spoke, not to Gwendolyn, but to his audience, whose dancing had finally ended. “Destroying it year by year. Your lands now wither with Rot, and your mate—” He spat the word with disgust. “Is no better than you. His lands may yet to wither, only because hatred bears its own force. But eventually, even his lands will die, and in the end, you and yourilk will die, too—you, sooner than most.” His grin twisted—that beautiful, treacherous mouth that Gwendolyn remembered all-too clearly now.
In his youth, Aengus Óg,the younger, was a god of love and poetry. His own visage inspired bards, but somewhere along the journey of his life, he’d grown bitter and covetous. Blood son of the Dagda, the god of all, and Boann, goddess of the River Boyne, he was begot through deception and betrayal, and these were things that had surely spread like poison through his blood. Resentment, envy, and bitterness darkened what was left of his beauteous light when he and his brother Midir vied for the affections of a mortal woman and Midir won. Aengus never forgave him, never forgot, and his envy unfolded through guile and treachery, and when Málik dared to ask for Gwendolyn’s hand, he’d denied him, and turned his lecherous eyes upon her himself.
