Chapter 13

13

W ith the same maddening quality of all things Fae, time passed slowly, even painfully, and yet somehow frenetically. The Fae court was akin to a rackety fair, where nothing was sensible, and all was mayhem.

Wiling away the hours, Gwendolyn replayed every moment of her living memory—all her life passing her by like a parade of regrets.

Every mistake.

Every sorrow.

Every word never uttered.

As a child, she had once attended a fair in Trevena, where a merchant claimed to be harboring a two-headed goat. He sold glimpses into his wagon to anybody willing to pay a copper. Her mother had warned her to stay away from that charlatan, but Gwendolyn only wished to see if he spoke true. Disguising herself in Bryn's uniform—to the misdirection of none—she'd purchased entry, and, sadly, it was true. Right there in the bed of his wagon lay a two-headed goat, bleating sadly. The sight of the poor beast had made Gwendolyn's tummy hurt, and she'd run quickly to speak to her father on the goat's behalf. Much to her regret, her father misunderstood. Instead of saving the goat, he'd sent men to seize it and put it to death, calling it cursed. Foremost, this had been a dreadful lesson for Gwendolyn on the fate of any poor soul who did not conform—and if she had ever once even considered the possibility that she might be a changeling, she'd put those notions to rest.

At the moment, she felt like that wretched goat—rudely placed on display, only waiting for a blade to her throat. Tears pricked at her eyes.

It was impossible not to consider how oft her mother had questioned her humanity. How little time they'd spent together. All her favor awarded to Ely—and not unrequited because no matter how much Ely had loved Gwendolyn, she had also thrived under the Queen's tutelage.

And really, though Ely had never wished to join the dawnsio , she'd adored the Queen's attention, as well as the gowns and jewels.

Ely would find herself giddy attending this gala, Gwendolyn realized bitterly. All- too easily, she could imagine her good friend dancing alongside these guests, pointing at this Fae, or that, marveling over this and that.

But this was not where Gwendolyn thrived.

She had spent nearly every day of her waking life practicing at some manner of defense, and still she'd not mastered her skills—not compared to Ely, who danced divinely without even trying.

This contrast made Gwendolyn's heart hurt.

How long could these Fae dance?

Forever , she feared.

Forever and ever and ever and ever…

After all, they had forever to do so, she thought angrily, and her life, in comparison, would pass within a handful of breaths.

Gwendolyn blew a sigh, remembering the night of her Promise Ceremony.

In so many ways, that was the beginning of the end…

Gwendolyn was a silly fool for trusting Locrinus—a "Stupid Girl," indeed, longing for the attention of a man she ought to have reviled.

Hadn't she also committed the same sin as was perpetrated against her—judging a man by his face, instead of by the dictates of his actions?

No doubt, Gwendolyn had been blinded by Loc's too glamorous smile. But in the end, Brutus' son was only a greedy, murderous fiend—a man with so little concern for his own family that he would slay his own father.

In retrospect, even that merchant with the goat wasn't so mean.

What of Loc's son? Given the chance, what would you do with the child? Gwendolyn still didn't know. But she knew this: She felt awful for Habren, not only for having Locrinus as a father, but to have a mother such as Estrildis. And despite this, Gwendolyn couldn't allow either the father or the son to sit upon her throne.

And this brought her full circle to Ely, who was, even now, safe at home, wedded to a man she loved. Would Gwendolyn return only to find her heavy with child, and Caradoc refusing entry to her city?

Was Gwendolyn no better than Estrildis, with so much envy in her heart that she could dare harm an innocent child?

That she would resent Ely's joy?

Right now—gods forgive her—she did.

Everything was too easy for Ely.

Why was it so difficult for Gwendolyn?

All those months she'd spent locked away in Locrinus' palace… unbearable. But even that was better than this. These dancers—every one—gazed beyond her, ignoring her as no one had ever done.

"Halloo! Pardon," she said desperately, losing her mind. She waved a hand outside her cage at a horned Fae who passed. "Halloo! I only wonder if you will take a message to your King?" Right now, she would promise him anything to be free of this cage, including the Sword of Light!

How long could she endure here without victuals or personal care? The question filled her with panic because, considering that she hadn't eaten in so long and she still wasn't hungry, and the Druids in the village had lived seven hundred years!

Another couple waltzed by, their gowns aswirl—his more voluminous than hers!—and Gwendolyn nearly screamed. "Hallooo! Hallooo! Hallooo!"

But as swiftly as they'd appeared, they, too, were gone, whirling and twirling away before she could finish her request.

Blood and bloody bones! This was the most horrible of revelries because no one ever stopped to rest, no one ever went home. The dancing went on so long that if Gwendolyn had been a man, she would have grown a beard!

Slumping back against her gilded cage, she pinched her cloak together, wondering what these people saw when they peered within.

Considering her visage in the pond, she lifted a finger to trace the outline of her teeth—human teeth. Now that she better understood this gift of reflection, it seemed a very Esme sort of gift—a dubious bestowal intended for what purpose?

To warn others of Gwendolyn's affliction?

Two gifts and a lie…

What was Arachne trying to say?

What did Málik wish for her to remember?

What was it everyone was keeping from her?

Lifting a hand to her aching head, she sank her nails into her scalp, tugging at her hair. What was it she was supposed to recall? Why had Esme deceived her? Why had Málik sent her to this place alone? Why did the Púca abandon her?

Why, why, why?

One after another, questions spun through her head like so many dancers, whirling, twirling endlessly… on and on and on.…

And then, suddenly, her heart lunged into her throat because she spied a familiar face… and that was all it took to spur her memory.

Gwendolyn swallowed convulsively as the Fae king entered the hall.

Taller than anyone else in his Fae court, he, too, wore gilded robes, with sleeves that dipped to the floor. And regardless, it was the beauty of his face that was most remarkable. For a moment, Gwendolyn felt as she had on the day of her Promise Ceremony, gaping with unsuppressed admiration. The Fae king was the most flawless male she had ever encountered… his face the face of perfection… his aura shining like a brilliant sun, and his smile, though certainly porbeagle, was radiant and beguiling. And… Gwendolyn knew him.

As surely as she was here, breathing… she knew him.

But most importantly, she knew his name.

Aengus óg.

The Poet King.

But he didn't arrive alone. Esme and Málik joined him. Hand in hand, those two strolled into the hall behind Aengus, neither bothering to look in Gwendolyn's direction with Esme leading Málik to the King's dais. And there they stood, together, looking very much the happiest of couples, and Gwendolyn watched with growing horror as Málik lifted a hand to Esme's cheek, caressing it ever-so-sweetly before bending to present her with a kiss upon the cheek.

No. It couldn't be.

Gwendolyn refused to believe it.

Dressed in the most alluring of emerald gowns—a beaded, silken creation that matched the startling depth of her eyes—Esme appeared every bit the princess she'd claimed to be. And, to be sure, seated upon her brow, she wore, of all things, Gwendolyn's crown—the very crown she'd fashioned from Gwendolyn's locks. It shone upon her brow, and Málik appeared to be entranced by it, his eyes meant only for the Fae king's daughter—as though the crown had bewitched him. Esme was doing it again—poisoning his mind! With a smile, he reached out to straighten Esme's crown, and Gwendolyn's heart squeezed painfully.

No.

No.

No.

No.

Dressed in ceremonial leathers—not unlike the garment he usually wore, this one bore symbols embossed into the design, with silver and gold in place of grey and black thread.

How?

And why?

Every damnable excuse Gwendolyn ever gave herself to explain their abandonment now scattered in their presence—because…

Málik was here . And if he was here, it meant he couldn't be too much concerned over the possibility that his Fae king would command him to execute Gwendolyn.

For that matter, neither did Esme appear concerned—and Gwendolyn… was still trapped in this cage. With no weapon, no plan, and no one to aid her.

Certainly not Esme or Málik—not when both were so consumed by each other… until Esme turned for a moment to face Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn saw the truth in her eyes… There was no dispassion when she looked at Gwendolyn, nor hatred, only love, and pleading… pleading for Gwendolyn to bide her time, and hold her tongue as the Fae king spoke. And once again, Gwendolyn grew confused.

"Thank you all for attending," said the King, his voice booming across the hall. "At long last… we come together to celebrate…"

He turned to admire the fawning couple, and Esme remembered herself, seizing Málik by the hand, pulling him close. "My ward and my daughter, betrothed at last."

A cheer resounded throughout the hall. Whether it was for Málik they cheered, or his union with Esme, they clearly approved. And now, the King turned his bright green eyes upon Gwendolyn, and she braced herself for the coming storm.

He waved a hand in Gwendolyn's direction. "And lest we forget… the end of our mortal foe." He then spoke five words that made Gwendolyn's heart stutter with fear. "Death to Banríon na bhfear!"

Death to the Queen of Men!

Her heart tumbled into her belly. This was the moment she would die, and to be sure, Málik would not look her way. With a sob of desperation, Gwendolyn closed her fist, and white-hot fury replaced her worry. When she opened the fist, a tiny spark of light escaped… a tiny, unmistakable spot of Faerie fire.

Proof.