Chapter 16

16

S pread before them sat a magnificent army of mounted Fae, all in perfect formation, clad in shining black leather armor and wearing arm sheaths of silver and gold—beneath them a sea of Enbarr's mares, with white, flowing manes, each wearing golden scales, with silver crinets and shaffrons that featured uni-horns . Amassed all in one place, they were a sight to behold, with their armor winking against the morning light. And yet, it was the lead rider Gwendolyn couldn't tear her gaze from… Málik.

She swallowed the knot that bobbed into her throat, overwhelmed by raw emotion. He was here… not gone. And she had never seen him so resplendent, with his brilliant helm and antlered horns.

She remembered little of her life before, but she recognized that crown—knew it by sight—knew his father had worn it in battle against the Sons of Míl. It was the battle crown of the reigning Fae king, and it rested on his brow.

The significance was not lost to her.

Málik was the new Fae king.

And still he was her humble Shadow, dressed only in modest black, with his trusty bastard sword rising from the scabbard upon his back.

He lifted his head when he saw her—beauty incarnate, his silvery hair and crown the only gleaming accoutrements. But he needn't wear golden robes to proclaim his worth. His very demeanor commanded respect. His eyes found Gwendolyn, and the birds held their songs as he gazed at her. A frenzy of butterflies took flight in her belly, and she lifted a hand to her pounding heart, as though this effort alone could still the violent thump. "Málik," she whispered, and the word escaped like a sob—reverent, and joyful, filled with love.

He was not gone.

He was not with Esme.

And then, as he did all else in life, he slid down from his saddle, much too calmly, with great purpose, his eyes never leaving Gwendolyn's face.

But she couldn't wait.

Every ache, every pain she'd had upon waking now vanished as she scrambled down from the roof of the cairn, where she'd perched herself after Harri led her down from the village. Crying out with joy, uncaring what anyone would think, she rushed up the hill, casting herself into his arms.

Málik caught her easily, pulling her into him, but no words could escape Gwendolyn's thickened throat. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"You're here," she said when at last she could speak. "You've come! Oh, Málik," she murmured into the crook of his neck, her voice scarcely more than a whisper, inhaling deeply of his intoxicating scent.

She had missed him so terribly. "I did it," she whispered, with tears in her eyes, and she couldn't tell whether they were tears of joy or sorrow. Against all odds, she had vanquished the Fae king to reclaim her sword, and she was glad to have survived, but it would have been such a hollow victory without Málik by her side.

Embracing him, grasping him jealously, this was how they remained for what seemed an eternity, but Gwendolyn didn't care. She didn't! His arms tightened about her waist and, for the briefest instant, he rested his chin against her temple, but only that instant, and there was a sudden awkwardness to the embrace that, once noted, gave Gwendolyn pause… She slid down, planting her toes on the ground, leaning backward, trying to read his eyes beneath his golden helm.

When he averted his gaze, her sense of unease grew, and a knot tightened in her belly. Blinking back tears, Gwendolyn stepped back from him, breaking their connection entirely and he straightened, all trace of emotion… gone.

He bowed, and said, "Banríon na bhfear. We owe you a debt and to repay this debt, we will lend our swords."

Confusion wove itself through Gwendolyn's thoughts.

So formal?

She swallowed the lump in her throat and drew herself up proudly. Was this all she was to him now? A debt to be repaid?

"Where is Esme?" she dared ask, and his look only darkened, his pale-blue eyes flashing like the edge of a freshly sharpened blade.

A slow dread spread through Gwendolyn's veins, turning her blood to ice when he replied so coldly. "I am not her keeper."

Hot tears pricked at Gwendolyn's eyes, but this time they were tinged with anger. "And yet," she replied. "You are her betrothed."

Those silver-blue eyes glinted again—in warning?

There was no warmth in the porbeagle smile. "And you?" he asked. "Is your husband always privy to your whereabouts?"

Gwendolyn flinched as though slapped. His words tore through her like a serrated blade. Of all the things he could have said to her, that was by far the worst!

Staring at him in disbelief, she took yet another step backward, recoiling from him, her eyes burning with unshed tears, feeling the depth of his betrayal.

And then, without another word, she turned and walked away, ignoring the murmurs of curious men following her as she strode back down the hill, making her way back to the Druid village, her chin high, her back rigid.

She would not crumble. She would not break.

She was Gwendolyn of Cornwall, and if she could survive all she had survived, she would survive this as well!

He'd brought her an army, and for that he could have her gratitude, but she would not give her heart to see it broken.

If he'd had a change of heart about Gwendolyn and Esme, so be it.