Chapter 10

10

" I 've been expecting you," said the lady, as she pointed to the length of cloth she'd brought. "A gift for you. Now, please… Sit. You must be weary."

It was a command as nicely as a command could be given, but Gwendolyn heard the steely note of her voice as she gestured to the stool and Gwendolyn did as she was bade, if warily. However, she perched herself on the end of the stool, ready to flee at a moment's notice.

This was not what she'd ever envisioned when the Púca said they must seek the lady. Nor could she have expected such a meeting, even knowing what creatures had crept into the mortal realm in the dead of night.

Acutely aware of the blade sheathed at her back, Gwendolyn only belatedly considered checking to see if the sword might be glowing. Unfortunately, it was too late to do so now. She was afraid it would give the lady undue offense, and that was the last thing Gwendolyn wished to do.

Up on the shelf, the Púca shook his head, as though he'd read Gwendolyn's mind, and her brows knit as the lady extended a human hand.

"I am Arachne," she said. And then, grinning, she pointed at Gwendolyn's breast. "I made that."

A bit uncertainly, Gwendolyn lifted her hand to her breast, peering down. She splayed her hand across the tunic, feeling the cool rings of her mail. "My mithril??" And then, she remembered. "Oh, yes! Esme?—"

The spider lady waved a hand dismissively. "Dear, sweet Esme is a treasure, but too oft she speaks out of turn—impossible to manage, but who would dare?"

Esme?

Sweet?

Gwendolyn coughed nervously because this much was true. No one could tell that recalcitrant Faerie what to do, and, indeed, who would dare?

"She spoke to me only good things about you," Gwendolyn reassured, remembering Esme's tales of her friend, the weaver.

"No doubt," Arachne replied. But then, just as Gwendolyn somehow forgot about her horrid spider legs, she employed them all, scrambling over to seize the length of cloth and her needle and thread, then returning to squat before Gwendolyn, folding six of those hairy legs beneath her large, black form, so their heads rested about at the same height. And then, without further ado, she began to sew. "This will be a cloak," she explained. "In case you were wondering." She cast Gwendolyn a glance from the corner of one eye.

"Oh," Gwendolyn said. "A cloak?"

Blood and bones. She didn't know what else to say. This entire experience was… unreal. She was seated atop a stool in the richest of quarries, making idle chatter with, of all things, a spider lady, who was even now sewing.

"For you," said the Lady.

"Well… I thank you," said Gwendolyn, and the lady tilted her head as she worked, untucking two of her woolly legs to assist. She handed the needle to one spindly spider leg, and then a corner of the cloak to another, before offering Gwendolyn a knowing smile.

"You must be wondering why this form," she said, sweeping one human hand before her as though to indicate her person. "As I've said, I was not always this way, and I shall weave you a tale as I finish your cloak, though be advised, Gwendolyn of Cornwall, I will not counsel you of your own truth. This is something you must do for yourself."

"My… truth?"

The lady snapped out the garment, drawing it out, revealing its entire length. It was, Gwendolyn noted, a modest, dark-brown cloth, nothing special to call attention to, and yet well made, with a weave so tight and fine it could have easily been mistaken for rough-hewn silk. "There is no other of its kind," Arachne said proudly.

"I… am… honored," said Gwendolyn. "It is… lovely." And then she found herself at a loss for more to say. Nothing in her life could have prepared her for this moment—certainly none of Demelza's stories.

Arachne lifted a perfectly arched brow. "You need not dissemble, dear. It is not meant to be lovely," she explained. "This cloth was fashioned from the silk of an orb weaver, a sister of mine who weaves the largest, drabbest, densest webs in all the lands. However, her silk is impenetrable."

"Impenetrable?" Gwendolyn repeated, peering up longingly at the napping Púca.

"Yes, but not quite in the same way as your mithril."

"Well… it is… beautiful," said Gwendolyn, though she nodded uncertainly. Like all the Fae, this lady spoke in riddles, and, if not in riddles, without sense. There seemed to be no credible purpose for the three of them to be here… wasting time with this pointless visit, when they were so close to the City of Light. And yet, Gwendolyn didn't wish to be rude. Once again, she inspected the cloak, but the more she glimpsed at it, the more common it appeared—a material akin to the tunics and cowls so commonly made by the priests at the Temple of the Dead, only theirs were pristine white, made from the very finest of sheep's wool. In comparison, this material was drab, though Gwendolyn would not say so, even if Arachne could. The last thing she meant to do was anger the spider woman… or else.

"Go on, feel it," the lady bade her.

Must she? Reaching out tentatively, Gwendolyn patted the cloth with two trembling fingers, uncertain what to expect. But then she smiled. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "How soft!"

"Indeed," said Arachne, smiling so that two fangs emerged. The sight of them made Gwendolyn's shoulders tense. "Soft as the underbelly of a sweet, human babe."

Unnerved by the image that assaulted her, Gwendolyn turned away. How, by the gods, would she know the quality of a babe's belly?

Any answer Gwendolyn arrived at was just too horrific, but Arachne seemed not to notice her response. She continued speaking as though she and Gwendolyn were the oldest, dearest of friends.

"As for my… form… Well… I must give the fault for this to my once-dear friend, Athena." Her hands—all of them now—moved deftly, finishing the hem, moving to the yoke. And, for an interminable moment, the lady seemed to lose herself in reverie, tilting her head and smiling before continuing. "You see, I revealed a secret—one I should have kept to myself. I only wished to prove how important I was—that I, too, could be trusted with important matters. So, then, won't you tell me, Gwendolyn, have you never felt so invisible, so unworthy… until… something happens… to change… everything ?"

The lady's expression was so sincere. Gwendolyn nodded because, yes, of course, she knew that feeling. She knew exactly how it felt, and it was incredible to think that two such disparate beings could feel so much the same. In Ely's shadow, and in her mother's presence, Gwendolyn had felt all those things and more. Sad to say, not until Locrinus arrived on the eve of her Promise Ceremony, did she ever feel the least bit special… and then, only for a short time. How wonderful that feeling, but how much trouble had she courted thereafter?

"I am not Fae," Arachne explained, redirecting her thoughts. "Nor am I a goddess, in truth. But my Athena was the daughter of Zeus, and I, her lowly maid—one whose weaving skills were prized, no less by Zeus himself.

"One evening while I stood weaving for her father, I overheard a certain conversation with a Fae emissary—a lovely young woman who'd come seeking his aid, but not for herself…"

Gwendolyn furrowed her brow. What was it she was supposed glean from this odd tale? And, really, she didn't wish to be rude, but they should be away!

Feeling antsy now, Gwendolyn waited for Arachne to resume her story as the spider woman pulled her cloth close, yanking at a thread, snipping it with her fangs before continuing. "Well, so… some Fae, as you know, may have no trouble with transmutation, but they've no agency over any but themselves."

That wasn't precisely true and Gwendolyn was on the verge of explaining how, after her escape from Leogria?—

Arachne smiled. "What he did in those western woods was not the same. That was only a glamour. He but concealed himself, and you along with him—as this cloak will do. However, transmutation is quite possible through the will of the gods." She glanced up at the Púca and smiled, and Gwendolyn also peered up at the Púca to find him resting, eyes closed—calm as you please. The lady laughed and lifted a brow. "Perhaps you will allow me to continue my tale?"

Gwendolyn nodded, and the lady smiled. "You see, there was a young Fae woman who, for no cause of her own, had become an enemy to her king. So I am told he gave her no peace and even when she devised a way to elude him, he found her and slew her, again and again, until she had only one life remaining…"

Gwendolyn remembered Málik jesting one day that the Fae had only eight lives—one fewer than cats. Apparently, it wasn't a jest!

"It was for her the emissary pled," explained Arachne. "She begged for Zeus to turn the beleaguered young princess into a mortal so they could take her and hide her where the Fae king had no authority."

She paused for a moment, eyeing Gwendolyn meaningfully, and Gwendolyn blinked, sitting straighter, only perhaps beginning to glean something… but it was something she dared not speak aloud… not… yet.

"So then… Zeus agreed. And I heard everything, and when I spoke it all to Athena, she listened with a false heart. After hearing my tale, she made her way to the Fae Court and told the Fae king everything I'd said.

"Of course, he then came to me, demanding to be told where the emissary hid the babe…" She gave Gwendolyn a meaningful nod. "But he had no power to compel me, because, as I've said, I am not Fae. However, when I refused to reveal what I knew…"

"He turned her into a spītra ," explained the Púca sleepily.

"Hush, dear, I am getting to the point. Allow me to finish."

She was speaking to the Púca but gazed pointedly at Gwendolyn. "So Athena went to Zeus, pleading her case, because he'd punished her for interfering, but later, livid for my part in her father's disfavor, she returned to me, and demanded I tell her all I knew. Once more, I refused, and it was Athena who turned me into… this ."

She glanced up at the Púca and said, "There were many who believed she did this for envy over my weaving—because her father favored my cloth." She hitched her chin at the cloak. "But I taught Athena all I knew, and I would be the first to say her weave made me proud. Alas, it was not the Fae king who cursed me. It was she."

The Púca shrugged, seemingly unconcerned that he had gotten her story all wrong and Arachne heaved a sigh. "To make matters worse," she said. "Only for speaking of things I had no right to speak of, Zeus banished me here and I found my way to this lair through the goodwill of my Fae friend. It is she who hid me behind an orb weaver's veil." And then she smiled, and the slow unfurling of it put a hitch in Gwendolyn's breath. "Can you guess who she was?"

Gwendolyn shook her head, having no clue, but oddly now, she considered last night's visage in the pool, and a tingle of knowing raced down her spine. "Who was she?"

"The emissary?" said Arachne, her voice lamenting. "To my greatest regret, it was I who first suggested she speak with Zeus. And later, when she found herself so embroiled… well, she hung herself… with my thread… lest her Fae king compel her to speak the truth." Her brows collided, and once again her gaze fell away with her reverie, only to return to Gwendolyn with a lackluster smile. "As you must by now understand, he only needed to know her true name, and he knew hers."

"How… sad," Gwendolyn said, and she felt inexplicably melancholy over this news when she knew these people not at all.

"Indeed. It was a foul end for a freeborn daughter of the noble Fèinne ."

Gwendolyn blinked. "Fèinne?"

Where had she heard that name before? And then she recalled Málik had said his mother was a daughter of the Fèinne .

"More than that, I should not say. Her story is not mine to tell, but I will tell you this, Gwendolyn of Cornwall… she did not come to her end for any reason but to save the babe… and for the sake of her son… and… for someone… else… someone who accompanied her that evening to the mortal realm…"

Once again, she peered at Gwendolyn meaningfully and said, her voice softer. "Someone… whose gifts the child bears."

Gwendolyn blinked again.

Look with your heart, Málik had demanded.

The Púca had said so as well.

Well, Gwendolyn was looking now, and she was seeing… Was she that child they'd hidden away in the mortal realm?

Her visage last night— could it be?

Arachne nodded. "Someone whose magic would betray her if the child ever came to be in the Fae king's presence," she suggested, and then she smiled wistfully. "Oh, what a tangled web we weave… eh?"

"Esme," Gwendolyn guessed.

Arachne nodded again. "Esme, indeed. Together, she and her mentor had hidden the princess so deeply in a mortal child's heart that even the princess herself did not know her true self when she was reborn."

Do you remember what I told you that night on the ramparts—everything? Málik had asked before casting her into the portal.

Mayhap you are a changeling, Esme had taunted that day in the woods.

And later, in the Druid village: I must wonder… do you even know what a changeling is, Gwendolyn?

"The babe," Gwendolyn said, swallowing. Despite that, knowing the answer to her question before she dared ask, she whispered, "I am that child."

Arachne once more. "Indeed, you are," she said. "But you are something more, Gwendolyn, and until you remember this truth, you cannot know how to defeat the Fae king—and defeat him, you must. And you must put aside any notion of winning his favor, because it will gain you nought but a garroted throat."

Gwendolyn winced, her hand lifting to her neck. With the lady's help, perhaps she could do it. But she needed to know more. For the first time in so long, she had reason to hope. "What else can you tell me?"

"Sadly, the rest is for you to construe. And meanwhile, so you have not come in vain, I have woven this cloak. My gift to you." Her expression turned sober now. "Whatever you do, do not relinquish this in the Fae king's presence." And then she rose, and without ceremony, swung the cloak about Gwendolyn's shoulders, and even as it settled, Gwendolyn felt it darken her soul, like a flame gone cold.

The spider woman turned to leave suddenly, but Gwendolyn said, "Wait!"

"Yes?"

She must know why the Fae king wanted her dead!

And more—what part did Málik play in her mystery?

"One more thing if you will?—"

The spider lady tilted her head. "Yes?"

"Is there another besides the Fae king who may seek the babe?"

Arachne smiled shrewdly. "As in… perhaps… a lover ?"

Gwendolyn nodded, and the spider spun to face her, studying Gwendolyn's face a long moment before speaking again. And then she sighed. "Evidently, I do not learn my lessons well enough, so I will reveal one last thing…"

"Please," Gwendolyn begged, scooting to the very edge of her seat.

"The Dark Prince's heart was shattered by his love's departure. To soothe him, his own sister offered him a love potion to turn his heart. And, for a time, this worked; brother and sister were lovers. But when the potion wore thin, as all potions must do, and he saw her for what she was, and knew her for the siren, he cursed her."

Esme and Málik?

Arachne hadn't spoken their names, but Gwendolyn knew.

"To this day, those two remain at odds, but with one true purpose to unite them. But, alas, this must be the end of my tale. To say more may doom us all, and perhaps I've already said too much."

"Oh, please!" Gwendolyn begged. "Please! Don't go!"

"You've more than enough to think upon, Queen of Dying Lands. But know this: we've all two souls. Some, like Locrinus', are equally vile. Some, like mine… neither good nor bad. We do what we must for the good of all."

She turned then, to pluck at a strand of her web, smiling coolly as she added, "In any moment we can be both, or neither, but always, always, it is the soul we feed that thrives. Dinner calls," she announced, and with that, turned to go. " Do not relinquish the cloak!" she commanded as she climbed her web and scrambled away so swiftly that Gwendolyn saw her departure only as a blur.

Stunned by everything she'd learned, Gwendolyn peered up to discover that she had been so engrossed in Arachne's tale that she never realized… the Púca was gone as well. Within another heartbeat, she heard the unmistakable march of booted feet.