Page 8 of Arise the Queen
She didn’t like him as the cat-sidhe. In that form, he was grumpy and officious, speaking only to issue commands—this way, not that, step lightly, don’t chew so loudly—the last given after Gwendolyn dared to steal a bite of Hob cake, only because she didn’t wish to grow so famished that she might be tempted to stuff her gob. She couldn’t help it if every sound was amplified in these caverns.
Alas, the flavor of the Hob cake was bittersweet—like the taste of Málik’s lips, which Gwendolyn would evermore associate with the tang of betrayal.
In the end, she preferred to suffer a grumbling belly, and thus, even after the Púca altered his form into the little blue fellow—the form she liked best—she didn’t bother to snatch another bite. Instead, she listened intently, tucking aside the more pertinent information for later.
As the weebodach, the Púca was very much like a six-year-old child given too many tarts—full of sugar and chatty as the baker’s wife. However, at least in this form, he was a willing font of information, and it was information she craved. Gwendolynhung on his every word, and he told her far more than she ever knew to ask. Slowly, but surely, Gwendolyn began putting the tales she’d heard all together in context, and some things now made sense…
Near Mount Slemish was where they’d entered this Fae domain, and, evidently, this was near Málik’s home. According to Esme, the alloy found beneath that mountain was the same that had forged Kingslayer. This Adamantine could strengthenallalloys, even those in the mortal realm. Esme claimed this was the source of Brutus’ Loegrian Steel—but how? How had Brutus come upon this alloy?
The Púca had yet to address that question, but there was little he held back. As the wee blue man, he had so much to say abouteverything, including the tale of Manannán’s exile.
Evidently, after the Fae’s exile from the Realms of Men, the Sea God, Manannán, was banished for treason. Sent to an isle in the Minch, his subjects were the Blue Men—the storm kelpies he imbued with the power to create storms. Manannán taught them to swim with torsos lifted above the sea, so men might confuse them with porpoises. Anytime unwary vessels approached their domain, those kelpies shouted lines of poetry to the helmsman, challenging him to complete their verse. If the helmsman failed, the kelpies swarmed his vessel, capsizing it so that Manannán could seize all they owned. Gwendolyn supposed this resulted from his anger after his banishment. To mortals, he must appear to be some avenging god. But, according to Esme, he was an “old windbag,” “an imbecile,” a “selfish, old wanker.” And even so, there must be some cause for Esme to have made it such a point to regale her with tales of Manannán…
It also seemed too much a coincidence that those trolls had mentioned him as well, especially after hearing how insistent they were upon seizing Gwendolyn and dragging her before Manannán.
So, then, what was she supposed to glean from the Púca’s tale? What part had the Sea God to play in the mystery unfolding?
Something swam at the edge of Gwendolyn’s consciousness—something on the verge of being forever lost, but no matter how hard she tried to retrieve it, she could not. Meanwhile, the Púca made it a point to explain how, after Manannán escorted theAos Sidheinto their exile to seal the bargain with the sons of Míl, the Fae king banished him, barring him from returning to the Fae Realm.
“But they did not banish his kin,” said the Púca. “Nor could they when half the King’s Court shares the Sea God’s blood.”
“Málik, too?”
ThePúca frowned at her, but Gwendolyn believed it was a perfectly logical question. And truly, were Málik kin to Manannán, it would be no surprise.According to every tale she had ever been told, those Fae were all somehow related—one part Fomorian, one-part Danaan, and mayhap all kin to the Sons of Míl.
She, too, was said to be part Fomorian, but she was indubitably a descendent of the Sons of Míl.
In the beginning, Gwendolyn had been so confused how Málik could be Esme’s brother and also her betrothed. Now, she better understood: Málik was the King’s foster son, and he and Esme were siblings in name only, simply because they’d been raised in the same house. And from everything Gwendolyn had been told, the Tuatha’an houses were all connected.
As for Málik… until he’d revealed it to her, she had never once guessed at his royal lineage. Was that why Esme’s father craved a union for them? To see his blood preserve the throne? Although if that were the case—if his right to rule was not absolute—why couldn’t Málik simply challenge him to take his rightful place?Because the Fae king knew his true name.
The answer came to her simply.
Of course, to know a Fae’s true name was to hold him enthralled. Had he compelled Málik to serve him? Certes, if he could compel him to assassinate Gwendolyn, he could command anything.
Why then had he not compelled Málik to wed his daughter?
Because Esme had refused—this was the most obvious answer.
Gwendolyn knew Esme was her father’s heir, and as such, stood to gain the entirety of her father’s kingdom. However, for some reason, she did not support him—why?
Gwendolyn tried to remember what more Esme had revealed that night in the Druid village… Only that her father had seized his crown without right, and that his reign had been troublesome. She had openly confessed to being at cross purposes with him, and claimed to be harboring a secret.
What secret?
He will suspect the very thing I’ve kept from him all these years.
Your rebellion?
Something else.
Something I dare not speak aloud…
Well, whatever that secret, Esme clearly feared its revelation far more than she feared her father discovering her part in a growing rebellion—a rebellion that was perhaps meant to end in a coup?
One thing was certain: Whatever Esme’s secret, it was not something Gwendolyn would learn from this Púca—not directly. To be certain, she asked, but for this, he answered with silence. So for now, she would allow him to speak freely, taking what she could from his unvarnished gossip, and she was quite certain there was more to be gleaned from this random conversation—something Gwendolyn could not presently ascertain, but something…
“Art listening?” the Púca snapped.
