Chapter 14

14

" B ring the prisoner," commanded the King.

Two Fae soldiers at once advanced upon Gwendolyn's cage, unlocking it, opening it, then thrusting in a hand to grasp her rudely by the cloak, dragging her out.

Remembering the Lady's warning, she struggled to keep her cloak. Whatever they might do to her, she knew in her heart that she must heed this warning.

With a cry of protest, she stumbled out, tumbling down upon the floor, but regained her footing immediately, and stood, shrugging free from the hands that reached for her. "I can walk without your help," she apprised the guards with as much dignity as she could muster. Even now, they refused to speak to her, but that didn't matter to Gwendolyn. Let them believe what they would. She knew the truth now, and she found her purpose in that moment as she made her way to the dais to stand before her nemesis, the Fae king.

At last.

This was what she had come for! And no matter that she had fallen so low, there was nothing more she could lose, except pride and hope, and she was not about to relinquish either.

There was no mistaking the look of contempt on the King's face, nor the disdainful looks she received from his guests. In their eyes, she was lower than a slug.

" Banríon na bhfear ," the King said mockingly, his smile narrowing as Gwendolyn approached. "How gracious of you to attend my court and save me the trouble of seeking you." He tilted her a look of feigned sympathy. "But I expect you had no thought for what might await you here?" His serpentine smile slid wider, showing a full set of porbeagle teeth—razor sharp. "Did you believe we would welcome a daughter of the treacherous sons of Míl?"

In truth, Gwendolyn had expected nothing, but hoped for much, and yet, in a single moment, her life unveiled itself with unexpected twists and turns. Narrowing her own eyes, she shouldered her way past more guards, noting that Aengus himself didn't so much as flinch at her approach… because…

He didn't recognize her beneath Arachne's cloak.

Gwendolyn straightened her spine, holding her head high as she drew the cloak more firmly about her, not simply to hide her mithril, but to be sure of its power to conceal her… her face, her scent, Esme's magic—the bond she shared with Málik. So much was revealed so easily, like that tarp that concealed their Dragon's Lair—one moment darkness, the next, light. It was his slippery smile that had given Gwendolyn the first glimpse of recognition. But his face was a face she could never in a thousand years forget—nor could she do so if she lived a hundred thousand lives. Fearing someone might stop her, Gwendolyn didn't pause until she stood before the dais, and he, looking far too amused, held out a hand.

At once, one of his minions came rushing forth, bearing the reason for Gwendolyn's sojourn to this realm… Claímh Solais . The Sword of Light.

His face a mask of triumph, the Fae king took this sword from his minion then turned to face Gwendolyn, brandishing the sacred weapon in hand. And yet, exquisite though it was, no flame consumed the blade.

Like war drums, her heart pounded against her ribs as the King's smile slid sideways. "You came for this, I know, but what made you believe I would return this relic of my people to you… a mortal… a usurper?"

Gwendolyn lifted her chin, refusing to cow to this creature who'd once stolen her life. "I hoped you would see reason," she suggested, careful to keep her tone even, concealing her true feelings, but the fist gripping Arachne's cloak grew tighter, her fingernails digging into the soft fabric. Her father had been a master at bargaining and Gwendolyn had learned much from him.

"Reason?" The king guffawed. He turned his crooked grin toward his daughter. "I thought you said she was clever?"

Esme shrugged, looking bored. "She is human," she said, but Gwendolyn noted the muscle that ticked at Málik's jaw. Still, he said nothing, nor did he rebuff Esme's advance when she sought and held his hand. With a show of confidence, and a look of victory, she laced her long, graceful fingers through his then held his hand.

Already, Gwendolyn had endured so much. Come what may, she would leave this place with that sword, or she would die trying. Esme and Málik could keep each other.

"Your forebears gained our lands by trickery," said the King, his voice rising as he spoke, not to Gwendolyn, but to his audience, whose dancing had finally ended. "Destroying it year by year. Your lands now wither with Rot, and your mate—" He spat the word with disgust. "Is no better than you. His lands may yet to wither, only because hatred bears its own force. But eventually, even his lands will die, and in the end, you and your ilk will die, too—you, sooner than most." His grin twisted—that beautiful, treacherous mouth that Gwendolyn remembered all-too clearly now.

In his youth, Aengus óg, the younger , was a god of love and poetry. His own visage inspired bards, but somewhere along the journey of his life, he'd grown bitter and covetous. Blood son of the Dagda, the god of all, and Boann, goddess of the River Boyne, he was begot through deception and betrayal, and these were things that had surely spread like poison through his blood. Resentment, envy, and bitterness darkened what was left of his beauteous light when he and his brother Midir vied for the affections of a mortal woman and Midir won. Aengus never forgave him, never forgot, and his envy unfolded through guile and treachery, and when Málik dared to ask for Gwendolyn's hand, he'd denied him, and turned his lecherous eyes upon her himself.

He was no one to be trusted.

"I would bow and beg, if I thought it would serve me," she allowed. "But I can tell by your demeanor I shouldn't bother. You will view me as nought but a mortal beneath you, and I sense it will be a waste of time."

"How astute," he said, his eyes slitting. "Perhaps you are a bit more clever than you appear," he said, then chortled.

Gwendolyn clenched the fist at her side, pinching the cloak more tightly about her person—so tight now that she was in danger of choking her breath for the tension she produced about her throat.

"Let me tell you about this talisman you would so haughtily demand," he said, as though they were old acquaintances and this were a conversation over cake and mead. Still, his tone was one of disdain. "This sword is the sword of your betters, forged, not within the fires of Mount Slemish, but within the bolcáns of Hyperborea."

Gwendolyn said nothing, because there was nothing she could say that would serve her in this moment. Despite her disdain for the creature standing upon the dais, she still hadn't any plan to win that sword, and yet, she must have faith something would present itself—soon. And perhaps this was the reason Arachne had given her the cloak—so she could deal with Aengus as the daughter of Corineus without his preconceptions.

"Any hand that wields the sword will command unconquerable armies," he continued, and his next words emerged as a growl from his throat. "No Queen of Dying Lands is worthy to speak its name, much less wield the blade!"

Her temper flaring, Gwendolyn straightened her spine, lifting her chin, her constraint eroding. "It matters not where that sword was forged, nor what magic it bears. It was gifted to my people by the one true heir. You yourself are nought but a usurper and the gods will deny you its flame!"

She spat the word "you" as though it were an epithet, relishing the thought that even as he had once threatened her and the ones she'd most held dear, she would win in the end… even if it meant she would die and he'd never rightfully wield that sword.

"And you believe it will burn for you?" he asked contemptuously.

"Oh, yes!" Gwendolyn said with certainty, despite wondering whether it could be true. Because, really, she didn't know. Málik took the sword from her father's vault before she could ever try it. And, knowing what she knew now, it might well not burn for her either. Yet she felt certain it would, because whatever else she was, she was also the blood daughter of King Corineus. Even now, she felt her father's presence in the marrow of her bones, inexorably and truly. If King Corineus could wield that sword—and he could, she'd witnessed this with her own two eyes—then so, too, could she.

Aengus lifted the sword in question, grinning wildly as he inspected it. He ran two fingers along the length of the blade, fingering several runes. And then he turned it, lifted it, and with a roar that resonated like thunder, he plunged it down into a boulder to one side, embedding the ancient steel so deeply into the slab of granite that Gwendolyn gasped over the sound of metal grating against stone. He laughed then, a delighted sound born of her response—her look of horror. "If I cannot wield it, you will never wield it," he said easily. "Here it remains!"

Gwendolyn's breath stilled, her heart sinking into her belly. Her hand began to sweat, and she blinked at the sword embedded in the stone, and even as she gaped at it, Aengus commanded three of his burly guards to march forward, directing them to pull the sword from the stone.

No one could.

Many tried.

One after another, his guards came, and then more came from the audience, with the King beckoning them all to rise to the dais, offering untold riches to anyone who could unsheathe the blade. All the while, Gwendolyn pinched her cloak together, her hands shaking with fury. Indeed, for the longest time, she daren't look anywhere but at the lost sword, lest she betray herself.

"You see," said the King. "Its maker cast an enchantment on the sword on the day it was forged. Crafty old bastard—selfish windbag. Only one of his blood may retrieve it. So he claims this was his intent to safeguard the sword against any who might think to use it unwisely. Even I, a Fae king, cannot unsheathe it… so here it will remain of little use to either realm."

But still a trophy in his hall, Gwendolyn bitterly mused.

"If art so certain," she taunted. "Allow me to try?"

"You?" He grinned, the full display of his porbeagle teeth even more terrifying than Esme's smile. He crooked two fingers at Gwendolyn, his eyes gleaming wildly, and she took a tentative step forward, eager to put her hands on that hilt.

Aengus stopped her with a hand. "Only know this, Banríon na bhfear. If you fail—and fail you will—I'll take your head, and curse your eyes with eternal sight, so you must watch evermore as your enemies triumph." He laughed then, straight from the belly, his hand going to his middle. "I shall place your head on my throne, so you will sit by my side, and see what your arrogance has wrought!"

He crooked his two fingers again, this time in Málik's direction and the sound of another blade unsheathing echoed throughout the hall, giving Gwendolyn a terrible shiver… for it was not Aengus who drew steel.

Behind him, Málik had drawn his bastard blade from the sheath upon his back and the King lifted his chin with unreserved approval, beckoning him forth. A cry of protest caught in Gwendolyn's throat. Tears pricked at her eyes.

"You remember my executioner?" he asked, and his entire face seemed to smirk. "Go on, try," he begged. "Try the sword." But then Gwendolyn found her feet rooted to the spot, her heart skittering wildly.

Málik would not do this, would he?

Esme's warning abruptly returned to taunt her.

Our true names compel us.

He is compelled.

Indeed, Esme had been prepared to give Gwendolyn Málik's true name, and if she had known his name, it was certain Aengus knew it, as well. Gwendolyn regretted now not having accepted Esme's offer.

She was a fool then…

As she was now.

Her tear-sheened gaze lifted to find Málik's, and the emotion she encountered in the depths of his silver-blue eyes was a bittersweet storm. He would kill her. He would. He might not like it, but he would on the King's command.

As a matter of habit, he calibrated the blade in his hand, and Gwendolyn recognized the gesture, and knew fear.

Her gaze skittered to Esme's once more, and found her bright green eyes a perfect mirror to Gwendolyn's emotions—sorrow, terror, regret…

Only you can sway my father before he strikes you down.

If you do not, blood will spill, and it will not be his…

Watching the display of emotions cross her face, amused, Aengus cast his head back and, with hands akimbo, roared with laughter. Clearly, he believed he'd won… and perhaps he had. Like it or not, Málik was prepared to strike.

"I shall give you one chance to flee… now …" He slid his tongue across his porbeagle teeth as though relishing what came next. "Crawl back to your mortal world, to your worthless kinfolk… else the one you believe I sent to aid you will be the one who takes your head."

He motioned once more for Málik to come forward, and to Gwendolyn's horror, Málik obeyed, once again, calibrating his weapon.

In Málik's hands, that blade was a death sentence even to the most tried and true of warriors. His skill was unparalleled. Even if Gwendolyn had a weapon on her person, she could never best him.

Her heart beat so loudly, she was certain everyone in the hall could hear it. As an act of preservation, she once again pinched her cloak together, as though the simple act could defend her from the warning in his eyes.

Go!

Leave!

Run!

Flee!

The tension in the hall grew palpable. Every Fae held his breath, and if any were preoccupied before, no longer. All eyes rested upon the dais, the entire hall gathering to watch, bodies cramming close, like spectators at an execution.

Aengus himself took a step back, away from the sword, as though he meant to allow Gwendolyn space to come closer. Offering a flourish of his hand, he said with glee, "The sword you would wield in the name of your kingdom was fashioned, not by the hands of your finest of blacksmiths, but by the Lord of the Sea!"

Manannán.

Gwendolyn blinked.

Time and space seemed to halt entirely, because it was Manannán who'd bespelled the sword—Manannán who'd forged it, as well. He was the Lord of the Sea… not merely a hoarder of weapons. He'd also forged them.

And now, another flood of memories came rushing at Gwendolyn.…

The bargain Manannán struck with Aengus to send his golden-haired daughter to the new king's court… presenting her as Niamh of the Golden Hair. But that was not her true name, and she had never once revealed it, despite knowing Aengus'. Manannán told her what it was, arming her with the knowledge to defend herself, and she had finally let it be known on the day she'd compelled him to release her from his court. She'd had to. He'd meant to keep her for himself, despite that his foster son had already asked for her hand in wedlock. But when Gwendolyn refused, Aengus slew her, and he slew her again every time she dared to beg for her freedom. The last and final time she'd stood before him on that very dais, he taken Málik's blade, the Answerer, and set it to her throat, commanding her to speak her own true name so he could compel her as he could Málik. She had believed Málik would save her, but to her dismay, even knowing what would come next, he had remained resolute.

It was the fifth, and last time Gwendolyn asked.

Gwendolyn blinked, remembering… looking first at Málik where he stood, a cry of protest frozen upon his beautiful lips, a look of terror in his icebourne eyes.

Lir cannot help you, Esme had insisted.

Bryn cannot help you.

Neither Málik nor I can help.

Because that was true…

Unlike her battle against Locrinus, this fight was Gwendolyn's alone.

There is no more you will accomplish if you face him with five than you will if you face him alone…

And then Gwendolyn understood.

Ignoring the hammering within her breast, she ascended to the dais, and ventured closer to the sword, tearing her gaze away from Esme, who perhaps recognized the light of recognition in her eyes, and gave her a nod. "If you doubt me, what harm can come of my trying?" Gwendolyn said, and judging by his arrogant expression, Aengus remained unconcerned, but Gwendolyn sensed the tension rising behind him where Esme and Málik both stood watching her every move. When she arrived at the sword in the stone, Gwendolyn inhaled a breath, reaching out to place her palm atop the hilt. No one stopped her. The alloy beneath her palm hummed, but she gave no clue what she felt, and the King laughed. "Please do! I beg you try, Banríon na bhfear."

Gwendolyn lifted her chin, daring to bargain once more. "If I succeed, perhaps we may yet make a bargain?" she asked. "Together, we might form an alliance… you on the Fae throne, I, your liege in the mortal world…"

She hoped to appeal to his arrogance and greed. There could still be a way to avoid bloodshed. "You will rule both lands, and I shall raise bonfires in your honor…"

"Bold," he said smugly. "Alas, you will fail, but I admire your mettle. Still, why should I? What need have I for a mortal queen to govern a land I'd sooner burn?"

Gwendolyn's heart beat mercilessly as she ever so slightly pushed her palm against the pommel merely to test it…

She was Fae and mortal both…

The pommel shifted imperceptibly.

"Wha—" said the King, noticing too late.

Remember , Málik had begged, and so she did. She remembered everything, all of her lessons from Málik. It happened so swiftly. Her cloak slipped and fell away and a spark of flame ignited at her touch, burning brighter, gaining strength as she drew the sword from the stone. She felt strength as light swept up the length of the blade.

Raise the pommel.

Lend your hip to the thrust.

Claímh Solais whistled through the air, sweeping unerringly toward its aim… severing the King's head in one fell swoop.

The last thing Gwendolyn heard was the sound of a collective gasp. And the last thing she saw before being violently snatched into the void was the head of her foe rolling across the dais.