Chapter 12

12

E very facet of the Fae court appeared to create the illusion of nature, with a careful balance of light and darkness, and every element artfully choreographed to mimic a world the Fae had been denied.

The walls were adorned with intricate scenes of sprawling forests and majestic mountains, complete with flowers and cascading waterfalls. The air itself carried the faintest hint of blooming flowers and the freshness of a summer rain.

The ceiling was a mural of white, fluffy clouds with endless blue skies, and, much like Arachne's lair, the cycle of night and day could be witnessed Above through a distant aperture so high over their heads that it was impossible to actually see it, although night and day were captured by intricate patterns of gold and silver inlaid throughout—as though the sky itself were brought Below and, as night fell, the hall sparkled by starlight.

Even Gwendolyn's cage was unspeakably lovely, although if anyone cared to look within, they would see the fire of vengeance burning in her eyes.

Huddled within her beautiful cage, she pressed her cheeks against the bars, her nose protruding without, like one of those poor, sad prisoners her father used to parade through the streets by tumbril. And, indeed, as once they had, Gwendolyn longed to shake her bars in a show of temper and protest. But, alas, she knew that would gain her nought. There was little she could accomplish here unless she swallowed her pride. Despite Arachne's warning that she could not sway the Fae king, she still hoped she might.

At the far end of the hall sat a massive throne, wrought from silver and gold and encrusted with precious stones, its opulence beyond human imagination. Even empty as it remained, it held an unmistakable aura of authority.

The hall was quickly filling with curiosity seekers, who'd come perhaps to witness a spectacle—a mortal queen who'd dared to overestimate her worth.

Sadly, Gwendolyn's situation had never appeared more hopeless.

Feeling confused and defeated despite her growing fury, her head swam with all the stories she'd been told—too many to untangle.

If only there were not some tiny thread of truth she recognized intuitively.

Slowly, but surely, she remembered—though not quickly enough, because here she sat, imprisoned, and in absolutely no position to barter with the Fae king.

So then, where to go from here—what to do?

By now, there was no telling how many soldiers Locrinus had already amassed, and in the meantime, Gwendolyn had regressed.

She was a grand total of one.

One.

Against many.

Despite that, there must be something she could do—something she could say to convince the Fae king to ally with her?

Lifting her head from the bars, she let it fall once more, gently smacking her forehead upon the gilded bars. Thinking…

Only thinking…

Very well… so she was that child hidden by the Fae emissary—this much Arachne had revealed all-too easily. And it rang true. Gwendolyn had always felt different, and in retrospect, that visage in the pond last night explained so much. For one, it perhaps shed light on the reason some folks looked at her and saw a girl, and others looked and saw something other .

It was also perhaps the reason she'd so readily accepted the Fae, feeling a genuine affection for them. And despite this, she was not Fae.

That fact couldn't be more apparent at this moment.

Gwendolyn had no magic or mastery over anything. Any skill she had was hard won, earned through blood, sweat, and tears—most often her own.

And yet, there must be something she did not understand…

What else did she know?

You have been my weakness for a hundred thousand years…

So Málik was her lover—not only now, but then, too.

No wonder she'd been so drawn to him—no wonder she'd fallen so quickly into his arms. Even now, under the direst of circumstances, Gwendolyn could summon no regret for loving him, even despite that he'd left her to face this trial alone.

But there must be a reason he and Esme had done so— there must! In Gwendolyn's heart of hearts, she could not imagine either of them as her enemy.

What more?

Esme bespelled Málik to love her, and Málik discovered her ruse—no wonder he didn't trust her!

It was hardly a secret that Esme loved him, but there was no mistaking that look in Málik's eyes when he'd first gazed upon her in the Druid village—such loathing! Gwendolyn could never forget the way his jaw had clenched when first he'd heard her voice in the Máistir's hall…

Think, Gwendolyn, think!

She was missing something—something she knew intuitively.

This was not how the end should come—not for her, nor for Pretania.

One by one, she pored over every story she'd been told…

Unfortunately, the Fae never spoke plainly. Every tale came with a lesson untold. And yet… somehow, all those stories must be connected… every word.

Indeed, Gwendolyn had never known a Fae to waste words, even when they spoke too much and said too little…

Think, Gwendolyn demanded of herself. Think.

And still she could not. The growing cacophony made her head hurt. Blood and bones . If she'd thought the Púca's three heads capable of a frightful noise, the dueling troubadours in this hall, each singing from a different corner—inconceivably more than four—sounded like a thousand Devil Whales.

And meanwhile, the attendants of what appeared to be a burgeoning celebration were each more intent upon ignoring Gwendolyn than were the soldiers who'd seized her from Arachne's lair.

"Look, Papa. Does it bite?" asked a young female of her elder escort as they passed Gwendolyn's cage—but at least someone noticed!

Gwendolyn sat straighter, pulling herself up by the bars as yet another Fae creature pointed at her, venturing too close with a long-clawed finger.

It was all Gwendolyn could do not to seize it. "I. Do. Not. Bite," she said, and then she smiled. "Lest provoked."

And gods knew she had been provoked! How dare they treat her so poorly when she'd come in good faith to speak to the Fae king!

The youngling Fae pretended not to hear her. "How ill-favored these mortals are, Papa. Poor little thing."

"Do not pity her, Eilir. She brought this upon herself—came to steal what is ours."

Gwendolyn opened her mouth to deny it, but then closed it again, realizing the futility of her denial. She didn't come here to threaten their king, or to steal. She came to barter with him. And she would have preferred not to come at all, but their king hadn't left her any choice after refusing to return her sword.

It was her sword, and she needed it!

Why didn't he simply kill her, instead of displaying her so rudely in this cage?

But then… Gwendolyn blinked… realizing something.

Of the four talismans that were said to exist, one was Dagda's cauldron…

Her gaze found the dais at the edge of the hall, whereupon sat a hefty cauldron. As many bowls as arrived to be filled, it never appeared to diminish its contents, and the server kept turning the ladle.

The second was the Lúin of Celtchar, a long, flaming lance, made of darkened bronze, which was tapered into a sharpened point, and fastened to a rowan haft by thirty rivets of gold. Her gaze lifted to the dais, to the wall behind the throne, where a lance was prominently displayed.

The third was Lia Fáil, that stone upon which the Kings of ériu were now crowned.

And the last was Claímh Solais … the fiery Sword of Light said to render its bearer invincible when wielded. That sword was gifted by Málik's father to the sons of Míl, and its loss was perhaps the reason he'd forfeited his crown…

That sword was the relic the Púca had spoken of, and suddenly, she knew this beyond any doubt…

He who held the sword had the irrefutable right to rule. It was the same in both realms, and that was why the Fae king refused to relinquish the sword to her, despite that it no longer burned for any Fae… unless willingly returned.

That's what the Fae king desired. He wanted Gwendolyn to willingly return this relic of his people, and that she had not yet conceded it to him was the only thing keeping her alive. The instant she gave the sword up, he would kill her. And thereafter, when he wielded that sword before his tribesmen, there would be no one to question his rule. But there was one problem: Gwendolyn would never relinquish her right to that sword.

But then she frowned.

He could force her… if he knew her name…

Didn't everyone know her name? She was Gwendolyn of Cornwall, daughter to the slain King, and spurned bride of the Usurper.

Only considering every story recounted over these past few days… what if "Gwendolyn" wasn't her true name?

What if she had another name she could not remember?

What if this was what Málik wished for her to recall?

In her mind's eye, she tried to envision every dance recital she'd ever witnessed… every ancient tale painstakingly choreographed by the Awenydds and Gwyddons. Gwendolyn had rarely missed a rehearsal—in part, for Ely, but in part because she had so desperately imagined herself wearing those lovely robes, dancing… making her mother proud. A note of excitement bubbled up into Gwendolyn's breast, but just as quickly, she forgot what to be excited about…

Intruding upon her reverie, the Fae troubadours switched songs, only this time they played one song altogether, and this song, played upon harps strung with strands of moonlight and flutes carved from ancient crystals, conspired against her. She found herself mesmerized as the Fae dancers came together.

Two fair folk who had been gawking at her ambled away, lured by the music, and Gwendolyn sat back, tugging Arachne's cloak up about her shoulders, all her thoughts evaporating against the swell of the music. She needed to think, but her belly now grumbled, despite that she still wasn't hungry, only teased by the scent of the Fae stew. It reminded her of the Stone Soup served in the Druid's Hall, equally tantalizing but so elusive. One moment, she scented pilchards from Chysauster, another good Cornish mead, and another Lulyn crabs from Mount's Bay.

Lulyn crabs were her mother's favorite, and perhaps Gwendolyn craved them because she was thinking about Queen Eseld?

Was she thinking of Queen Eseld?

Not precisely. There was something more.

Once again drawing Arachne's cloak, Gwendolyn dared to take comfort in the weight of it upon her shoulders—surprisingly hefty, despite the fine weave, and her thoughts drifted again to Chysauster, as sad as the remembrance might be. She thought about Jenefer, Borlewen and Briallen… how joyful they'd been, so full of laughter. And then her uncle and Lowenna… What she wouldn't give to return to their table, only to listen to their easy banter. Alas, the memory of them, though vivid as yestereve, was growing distant as the thought of her freedom.

Was this how she was meant to spend her remaining days?

Caged? Her kingdom falling to ruin?

Gwendolyn watched bitterly as the creatures all cavorted—so many, and far more diverse than she'd found them to be in the Druid village. There were Fae with horns, Fae with antlers, Fae with dragon scales, Fae with wings, short Fae, tall Fae, beautiful Fae, hideous Fae, dark Fae, pale Fae—all with pointy ears and porbeagle teeth.

Some Fae danced.

Others flirted.

Many laughed—at Gwendolyn's expense?

With their beautiful but strange attire, and their graceful dance, the hall was transformed into a living, breathing work of art—a celebration of magic and beauty… Even so a menacing shadow danced along with them, even as they whirled and twirled… their feet scarcely touching the ground as they glided across the floor—a mosaic floor of translucent crystals laid out in strange patterns. Every step they took caused the floor to shimmer with a faint, but pulsating light that changed in time with the music.

Faerie fires drifted lazily through the air, their cold, blue flames casting a soft glow over the hall. Chandeliers strung high, like Gwendolyn's cage, appeared attached to nothing, their lights flickered like constellations, shifting and changing. And all the while, beneath this marvel, couples spun and twirled in perfect harmony.

Some wore garments that reminded Gwendolyn of one of her mother's dance recitals… Once each year, the tribes gathered to be regaled by what their daughters had accomplished. On so many of these occasions, the finery was unparalleled. More than a few merchants had returned to their city only to attend the festival and marvel over the gowns fashioned from their beauteous fabrics. Watching the dancers, listening to the music, Gwendolyn allowed her mind to wander and, after a while, forgot to think about anything at all. She stared, unblinking, at the Fae dancers… enraptured…

As varied and fantastical as their magic, the attendees were all begowned in attire that defied description, every outfit a unique expression of the wearer's magic and personality. One woman spun and spun, her gown releasing a flurry of glowing petals that floated delicately to the floor, creating a carpet of light in her wake. Her partner summoned a breeze that lifted all those petals into the air, compelling them to swirl about them like a maelstrom.

Some Fae were adorned in outfits made from living materials—dresses woven from the petals of flowers that opened and closed in response to the music, or robes made from leaves that rustled and changed hues with every step.

Others sported attire crafted from delicate crystals and strands of pure light. Dresses and tunics sparkled with gems that pulsed, with capes and sleeves that trailed behind, glowing tendrils that seem to bear a life of their own.

Some dancers also incorporated elements like water and fire into their garb—one with a cloak of cascading water that never touched the ground, and another with a crown of flickering flames that cast a warm glow about his head, somehow never consuming his hair.

Chewing at a thumbnail, Gwendolyn spied another Fae woman, who wore a diaphanous blood-red gown so sheer she could almost spy her bits, unveiled. Made of a gossamer silk that shimmered like liquid gold, her skirts twirled like billows of mist. Shifting colors with each movement, it created a hypnotic display of light and shadow, lifting above her hips with every twirl.

Forsooth, Gwendolyn's cheeks might have warmed if only there were something to see. Somehow, as it was with the Druid village, despite the diaphanous material, the lady's bits were never distinguishable—veiled by a fog of the same sort that now permeated Gwendolyn's mind.

As the Fae danced, trails of sparkling dust followed in their wake, and with every spin and dip, bursts of light and color emanated throughout.

Animals made of sunlight pranced between them.

Yet another dancer wore what Gwendolyn perceived to be a living beast—something like a Púca, which applied itself to her ample form, and changed every few beats according to her mood. One moment, it appeared to be a white-plumed, birdlike creature, another, a sleek, iridescent, form-fitting gown with scales that reminded Gwendolyn of a rainbow trout.

This way, the revelry continued.

On and on and on…

And all the while, a simple name hovered at the back of Gwendolyn's thoughts…

Curling beneath her cloak, she drew up her knees, trying not to weep. Where was Málik? Where was Esme? Where, after all, was her mettle?

And where, oh where, was the damnable Fae king?