Page 84 of Arise the Queen
Gwendolyn nodded. “And did he teach you to wield it, too?”
The young man nodded again, and Gwendolyn moved along, knowing there was only so much she could help during these final hours.
And no matter, she would try imparting bits of wisdom wherever she could—everything she had learned throughout her life’s training.
And all the while, Caradoc observed her, taking her measure.
Yesterday’s challenge hadn’t changed him one bit. He was still loud and obnoxious, but her win against him had perhaps lifted her in his eyes. His gruff acknowledgment when she passed his tent spoke more than words. With a rueful twist of his lips, he offered her a salute, then returned to packing his belongings. Gwendolyn meant to leave him to wallow in the stew of his loss only a little while longer, so that when she lifted him again, he would know it for the honor she meant it to be. In the meantime, they had plenty to do. It would take half the morning to pack. They had gained so much since leaving Trevena—not simply the army, but the northern tribes had supplied them with weapons for everyone, and tents against the weather. All else was supplied by the Parisi. They were a veritable army now, every man brandishing a suitable weapon and, at the very least, hardened leather. It was a far cry from the measly troop of five she’d set out with from Trevena, and Gwendolyn counted it her good fortune that all five companions were still alive and well and ready to fight. Only now that they were getting so close to the ending battle, a thread of foreboding crept through her veins. But she must remain strong for her troops, so she tamped it down, revealing nothing, keeping her spirits high for the sake of the campaign.
“I smell victory,” said Málik, brushing up beside her on his way to collect his hoard. He didn’t stop, merely turned to walk backwards, his blue eyes shining with pride, and it was all Gwendolyn could do not to pounce upon him, cast herself into his arms, kiss him soundly. Her body’s response to his presence was immediate, but she placed her hands behind her back, lest she be tempted to seize him before he could pass, giving hima wink and daring the most ribald rejoinder. “Is that what you scent?” A bit of Caradoc had rubbed off on her.
Málik answered with a throaty chuckle, and his beautiful lips slid into the most wicked smirk. “You are self-assured this morn,” he said.
Though Gwendolyn was anything but, she gave him a quick lift of her chin. “Indeed,” she said. “I am the Dragon Queen, am I not?”
Again, he chuckled, winking as he said, “Well, Dragon Queen… mayhap you will spar with me later… in private?”
For that, Gwendolyn had no answer. Her thoughts at once turning to the sparring he’d liked to engage in, and even now, the thought of it left her weak in the knees…
And then he was gone, and Gwendolyn, despite the muddle he’d stuck in her head, moved along to the next group of soldiers, until she had visited every tent, taking time to hear everyone’s concerns—few that were voiced.
Of course, no one dared to mention the most obvious—the as yet uneven match between her army and Loc’s. But hope was a powerful inspiration, and Bryn must be right. Once they added the Iceni to their numbers, they would have close to Loc’s ten. It simply could not be possible that the Iceni would ever side with Locrinus, despite any rivalry they had with Caradoc or Gwendolyn’s now-dead father. If the Iceni could have found honor in the taking of Plowonida, they would have done so themselves, and that Locrinus had committed the sin of stealing someone else’s lands would not endear him to their favor.
Later that afternoon, she gave Caradoc the news, assigning him the lead, trusting him to determine the best possible route to keep their troops safe and out of sight.
With their army grown so large, it might be impossible to conceal their numbers, but Gwendolyn would like to at least try maintaining an element of surprise—and perhaps they couldwith Fae intervention. She did not fail to note how easily they had avoided travelers on the journey north, and she suspected the mist was Málik’s doing. So that evening, when they stopped to make camp on the last of the Parisi beaches, she found Málik to press this issue.
It was time she knew something of her own Fae history, and Málik, unburdened by his former ties to Aengus, proved forthcoming.
Yes, they had created theFéthon the journey north, but it had been an effort of the entire company. They did not conjure one on the journey south, because “magic,” as men were wont to call it, was simply the ability to harness the spirit of theAether. All things “magic” were merely derived through and from nature. It was this same weave of energy that flowed through Málik’s veins—the same he’d fed into Gwendolyn during their lovemaking. She blushed hotly overthatexplanation.
Despite Esme’s claim to the contrary, it was not “blood” Fae craved, nor could they replenish themselves through human blood. It was only through the exchange with other Fae—sanctioned through mates—that their own abilities could be enhanced. But this was not a bond entered lightly, because not all Fae had the same abilities, and, most crucially, the sharing of “royal” blood could introduce chaos if the blood of the Elite were shared unwisely. The different houses were all quite distinct, he explained, and the last time bloodlines were mixed—between the Fae and the sons of Míl—it begot Fomorians, many of whom suffered deformities born of the tainted blood. The politics of this age were more complicated than was necessary for the moment, but this resulted in the death of Núada at the hands of Balor. Later, once the Fae lost their link to the lands Above, they’d also lost access to a considerable part of the Source. Even as the Brothers’ Pact sought to limit any one tribe’s power and influence over the isles, the Fae also had laws to govern theiruse of magic in the mortal realm, including wards to prevent the discharge of magic from Below.
This was also why the Fae were so enraged with Málik’s father for allowing them to be exiled from the mortal world. TheFéthManannán cast thereafter held a powerful ward that disallowed any Fae from drawing upon the Source from either realm. And, Manannán, for all his ploys, and despite his own exile from the Fae realms, somehow kept for himself the one freehold that itself was a land Betwixt—the Isle of Man. From there, he could torment both realms.
He looked pointedly at Gwendolyn, and when she thought he must be asking if she remembered the Isle of Man, she quickly shook her head. Of course, she did not.
He continued to explain that, only from the Betwixt, was it possible to draw upon the Source from both realms, and the further they ventured away from those portals, the less they had to draw upon. This was also why the Fae had grown so woeful and angry over the collapse of their new city when they’d attempted to build Tír na nÓg so near to the Lake of Fire. Recreating that city repeatedly depleted them of magic. And so, Málik expounded, until he, as king, enjoined them to defend the mortal lands, only those with royal blood could enter the Betwixt—Málik, Esme, his father, a few others. And, of course, Aengus made use of this, creating the City of Light with Manannán’s help, and their gratitude to him was sealed from that moment till the Fae rebellion exposed his dealings with Manannán Mac Lir.
Once again, Málik peered at Gwendolyn expectantly, and again she shook her head, crossing her arms, uncertain why he would do so.
What couldsheknow about their Fae rebellion? All she ever knew was that Esme was a conspirator, and that Málik was a sympathizer. At this moment, Gwendolyn had far moreimportant things to consider—such as how to keep her troops safe till the ultimate confrontation with Locrinus.
“What aboutpiskies?” Gwendolyn asked, her thoughts returning to the existence of magic so far from the portals. She was curious.
“Piskiesare not Fae,” he explained. “Neither are will-o’-the-wisps, nor Faerie flames—they are but manifestations of the Source.”
“And the Púca?” she asked, missing the little creature, despite his ornery little self.
“Related to Wyrms and Grypes,” he explained.
The Púca’s were once plentiful in theunderlandsbut were native to the Lands of Eternal Winter at the foot of the Rhipaion mountains. They came following the son of the Great Wyrm—Málik’s father, a dark shifter god whose own sire was King of Hyperborea. And though Málik did not say so, Gwendolyn assumed this would mean he shared the gods’ blood as well.
As for Loc’s claim that he’d met a helmsman from Hyperborea, that was not precisely true. Rather, it happened his father’s ship, before landing on Pretania’s shores, had encountered one of Manannán’s kelpies en route from Ériu. And when the Hyperborean challenged his vessel, Brutus met the challenge, and instead of losing his ship, and every man and woman aboard, he’d won a small favor from Manannán. “The alloy he then used to create his new age of weapons?” Gwendolyn surmised, and Málik nodded.
“Locrinus was never present for the exchange,” he pointed out. “The story of the helmsman is a lie. It was Brutus’ tale to tell, not his, though Urien most certainly was there as well.”
Poor Urien. Gwendolyn had no regret for not marrying this man, but he, too, had been dealt an injustice by Loc.
