Chapter 11

11

B etrayed.

Again!

Málik had warned Gwendolyn that the Fae king would sense her presence in his realm and stop at nothing until he found her, but the swiftness with which he'd accomplished that task was only slightly less alarming than the haste with which she was abandoned by Arachne and the Púca—both were long gone before the King's guards arrived to seize her.

Because they knew…

Had the Púca intended all along to lead her into this trap?

The piskies , too?

All this time, Arachne had spoken to her so sweetly, offering gifts and making Gwendolyn believe that she, too, once suffered the pain of betrayal.

And yet, all the while, Gwendolyn had sat there, empathizing, feeling as though she'd found herself a kindred spirit, and all that time Arachne had been biding her time, plotting against her, only waiting for the King's guards.

Dinner calls? Humph!

A militia of Fae soldiers poured into Arachne's lair, all dressed in black leathers, with shining black boots—all silver haired, with pointy ears. But Gwendolyn never had a single glimpse of their teeth for the tight press of their lips.

"Stop!" Gwendolyn insisted. "Please! Stop! Nay! Wait! You misunderstand me! I've come in peace to see the King! I am not your enemy! I am Gwendolyn of Cornwall—please! Stop! Listen!"

There was no chance for discussion.

They did not consider Gwendolyn their equal—because she was a woman, or because she was human? They treated her like a rabid dog that had been hunted and captured. The looks they cast down their noses rivaled even the judgment she'd suffered at Locrinus' hand. Struggling against her would-be captors, Gwendolyn shouted, enraged, as they dragged her out from Arachne's lair.

Once outside, they thrust her into a company of more than thirty Fae soldiers, but not before seizing her weapons. Stripping her bare of her defenses, they took Kingslayer, and the dirk she'd kept at her boot.

Remembering Arachne's warning not to part with the cloak, she beseeched them more ardently to allow her to keep it, and in the end, still peering down their noses, the guards relented. Now, as they marched along, she held the cloak about her shoulders as she said through clenched teeth, "There was no need for such violence. I came willingly to speak with your king!"

Not a one replied, and for all Gwendolyn knew, no one even heard her—certainly, none of the Fae soldiers even looked in her direction, as though they'd judged her and found her unworthy of lending even their voices to the effort.

Taut jawed, furious, Gwendolyn endeavored to tamp down her rage, realizing that in her present situation, fury would gain her little.

Her head was still spinning with everything she had learned—so much revealed that her weary brain could not yet work it all out.

So Esme and Málik were, indeed, lovers, unwilling though he may have been. And Gwendolyn was the child Esme and his mother hid in the mortal realm. And yet, despite this, Gwendolyn was a mortal, delivered of mortal parents.

She remembered every moment of her life—her rearing by Demelza, her father's doting, her mother's disaffection…

She was Gwendolyn of Cornwall, who'd skinned her knees till they bled—and, oh, yes, she'd bled, and her blood was as red as any. And she knew without a doubt that if a blade should find her breast, she would perish the same as any.

At least they didn't bind her hands, nor did they try—so certain were they that escape was futile, and perhaps it was. Gwendolyn was far outnumbered. As she marched her way through the strange woodlands that she'd once found so beautiful, she was surrounded by glaring, judging faces. A terror of curious trolls met her gaze as she passed, peering up from beneath a procession of wooden bridges.

The city itself was a spectacular achievement nestled so deep beneath the earth, unperceived by the mortal world. Crafted from precious metals and gleaming with silver and gold, like everything else she had encountered here, its radiance emitted a supernatural glow. But this gold was not ordinary gold. It appeared to be imbued with some ancient Fae magic, allowing it to emit a warm, soft luminescence that bathed the landscape with a perpetual light.

The buildings themselves were architectural marvels, with intricate designs that mimicked the natural world. Towers twisted like vines, spires bloomed like flora, and the walls were all adorned with delicate filigree patterns that also shimmered with light.

The pathways were paved with gold-veined crystal, which enhanced the light and created a sparkling mosaic underfoot.

Winding through lush gardens that grew incredibly beautiful without the aid of sunlight and flowered with plants that only added to the city's brilliance. Unique to the underlands , these plants bore leaves and petals that were imbued with a natural bioluminescence, blooming in radiant hues of blue, purple, and pink, and casting a gentle light that complemented the golden glow of the city's surroundings.

Copper butterflies with wings that shimmered like molten metal flitted through the air along with her piskies .

Living like celebrated guests, deer with antlers of pure light wandered throughout the parkland, adding to the mystical ambiance. And the closer they came to the palace itself, the brighter the light…

Rivers of liquid light flowed throughout the city, their silvery currents providing a sense of serene beauty. And all those waterways were spanned by elegant bridges made of gossamer threads, strong but delicate in appearance. Adding to this light source were the Fairy flames Málik had so oft produced. They wafted about, illuminating where they pleased and creating a wonderful display of light and shadow. And finally, the palace at the heart of the city was an awe-inspiring structure with sweeping arches, domed ceilings, and untold windows.

Runes and symbols—the same as she'd spied in Arachne's lair—were etched into the structure, warding the place from the outside world.

Gwendolyn felt like a blemish on this land, and the looks she received only reinforced this feeling. Hundreds upon hundreds of Fae stood watching as the guards marched her through their city—a few with arms crossed, some openly hostile and others shaking their heads over the wonders of human arrogance.

And truly, what had Gwendolyn expected?

Why should she ever have believed this would go the way she wished?

Why had she, for even one moment, trusted Esme or Málik?

Most ill-considered, why had she trusted that Púca and those piskies —simply because the piskies had once bothered to warn her about spriggans ?

For all Gwendolyn knew, they'd been tasked to keep her alive so she could arrive here and face her doom at the hands of their king.

Confused, bereaved, Gwendolyn pondered her situation until one of the Fae soldiers crept up behind her, shoving her more rudely than even Málik had done when pushing her through the portal. Apparently, Gwendolyn wasn't walking fast enough to her doom. By the Ancients, it was all she could do not to round upon the soldier and remind him who she was! She was not some lump of offal to be abused. Even Locrinus, for all his disrespect, had never ignored her. And meanwhile, these creatures seemed unwilling to acknowledge her presence, but Gwendolyn had every inkling that they were very much aware of her every breath, and if she only dared to think of escaping, they would seize her faster than she could blink.

Without a word, they marched her through the gates, straight into the King's court. And once there, instead of parading her before the King himself, they tossed her into a gilded cage, then slammed and locked the door.

That was where she stayed, like a bird in a cage.