Page 33 of Arise the Queen
He was no one to be trusted.
“I would bow and beg, if I thought it would serve me,” she allowed. “But I can tell by your demeanor I shouldn’t bother. You will view me as nought but a mortal beneath you, and I sense it will be a waste of time.”
“How astute,” he said, his eyes slitting. “Perhaps you are a bit more clever than you appear,” he said, then chortled.
Gwendolyn clenched the fist at her side, pinching the cloak more tightly about her person—so tight now that she was in danger of choking her breath for the tension she produced about her throat.
“Let me tell you about this talisman you would so haughtily demand,” he said, as though they were old acquaintances and this were a conversation over cake and mead. Still, his tone was one of disdain. “This sword is the sword of your betters, forged,notwithin the fires of Mount Slemish, but within thebolcánsof Hyperborea.”
Gwendolyn said nothing, because there was nothing she could say that would serve her in this moment. Despite her disdain for the creature standing upon the dais, she still hadn’t any plan to win that sword, and yet, she must have faith something would present itself—soon. And perhaps this was the reason Arachne had given her the cloak—so she could deal with Aengus as the daughter of Corineus without his preconceptions.
“Any hand that wields the sword will command unconquerable armies,” he continued, and his next words emerged as a growl from his throat. “No Queen of Dying Lands is worthy to speak its name, much less wield the blade!”
Her temper flaring, Gwendolyn straightened her spine, lifting her chin, her constraint eroding. “It matters not where that sword was forged, nor what magic it bears. It was gifted tomypeople by the one true heir. You yourself are nought but a usurper and the gods will denyyouits flame!”
She spat the word “you” as though it were an epithet, relishing the thought that even as he had once threatened her and the ones she’d most held dear, she would win in the end… even if it meant she would die and he’d never rightfully wield that sword.
“And you believe it will burn for you?” he asked contemptuously.
“Oh, yes!” Gwendolyn said with certainty, despite wondering whether it could be true. Because, really, she didn’t know. Málik took the sword from her father’s vault before she could ever try it. And, knowing what she knew now, it might well not burn for her either. Yet she felt certain it would, because whatever else she was, she was also the blood daughter of King Corineus. Even now, she felt her father’s presence in the marrow of her bones, inexorably and truly. If King Corineus could wield that sword—and he could, she’d witnessed this with her own two eyes—then so, too, could she.
Aengus lifted the sword in question, grinning wildly as he inspected it. He ran two fingers along the length of the blade, fingering several runes. And then he turned it, lifted it, and with a roar that resonated like thunder, he plunged it down into a boulder to one side, embedding the ancient steel so deeply into the slab of granite that Gwendolyn gasped over the sound of metal grating against stone. He laughed then, a delighted sound born of her response—her look of horror. “If I cannot wield it, you will never wield it,” he said easily. “Here it remains!”
Gwendolyn’s breath stilled, her heart sinking into her belly. Her hand began to sweat, and she blinked at the sword embedded in the stone, and even as she gaped at it, Aengus commanded three of his burly guards to march forward, directing them to pull the sword from the stone.
No one could.
Many tried.
One after another, his guards came, and then more came from the audience, with the King beckoning them all to rise to the dais, offering untold riches to anyone who could unsheathe the blade. All the while, Gwendolyn pinched her cloak together, her hands shaking with fury. Indeed, for the longest time, she daren’t look anywhere but at the lost sword, lest she betray herself.
“You see,” said the King. “Its maker cast an enchantment on the sword on the day it was forged. Crafty old bastard—selfish windbag. Only one of his blood may retrieve it. So he claims this was his intent to safeguard the sword against any who might think to use it unwisely. Even I, a Fae king, cannot unsheathe it… so here it will remain of little use to either realm.”
But still a trophy in his hall, Gwendolyn bitterly mused.
“If art so certain,” she taunted. “Allow me to try?”
“You?” He grinned, the full display of his porbeagle teeth even more terrifying than Esme’s smile. He crooked two fingersat Gwendolyn, his eyes gleaming wildly, and she took a tentative step forward, eager to put her hands on that hilt.
Aengus stopped her with a hand. “Only know this, Banríon na bhfear. If you fail—and fail you will—I’ll take your head, and curse your eyes with eternal sight, so you must watch evermore as your enemies triumph.” He laughed then, straight from the belly, his hand going to his middle. “I shall place your head on my throne, so you will sit by my side, and see what your arrogance has wrought!”
He crooked his two fingers again, this time in Málik’s direction and the sound of another blade unsheathing echoed throughout the hall, giving Gwendolyn a terrible shiver… for it was not Aengus who drew steel.
Behind him, Málik had drawn his bastard blade from the sheath upon his back and the King lifted his chin with unreserved approval, beckoning him forth. A cry of protest caught in Gwendolyn’s throat. Tears pricked at her eyes.
“You remember my executioner?” he asked, and his entire face seemed to smirk. “Go on, try,” he begged. “Try the sword.” But then Gwendolyn found her feet rooted to the spot, her heart skittering wildly.
Málik would not do this, would he?
Esme’s warning abruptly returned to taunt her.
Our true names compel us.
He is compelled.
Indeed, Esme had been prepared to give Gwendolyn Málik’s true name, and if she had known his name, it was certain Aengus knew it, as well. Gwendolyn regretted now not having accepted Esme’s offer.
She was a fool then…
