Chapter 17

17

B y eventide, the Druid's Hall was a crush of bodies. Fist- and boot-thumping joined heartfelt cries of, "Long live the Queen of Men!"

Chants of "Ut! Ut! Ut!" resounded throughout.

In observance of the sword's return, even the Llanrhos order arrived to pay tribute, and it might have been a celebration for Gwendolyn, but as the revelers lifted tankards in her honor, resentment and uncertainty wrapped themselves about her heart like prickling vines. Málik aside, this celebration was premature, she knew, even if no one else did. Far from ended their fight had just begun. With a horde of Fae warriors now encamped about the surrounding fields, her campaign had a chance, but whilst she had the Sword of Light in her possession, and a fledgling army at her disposal, she had a long way to go before she could call herself victorious. Like it or not, it was time to prepare for war, not to drink till their eyes rolled back in their heads.

Even now, as they celebrated, Locrinus was out there amassing men. Before Gwendolyn could even think to face him, she would need to conscript every able body she could find, and even that might not be enough.

Two thousand warriors—Fae or not—would be no match for ten .

To make matters worse, Gwendolyn knew well that inspiring these tribes to fight on her behalf would prove trickier than merely to wield a burning sword in their presence. In the end, it was a woman they must follow. And no matter how much she wished it could be otherwise, she knew this would be her greatest challenge.

Despite claiming her as his rightful heir, even her own father made provisions to see a man crowned beside her.

And then there was Málik…

Ever since his arrival this morn, he'd been as sober as an alderman, avoiding her as surely as rats scurried from the light. After their odd, terse greeting, he'd vanished amidst his troops, and Gwendolyn didn't see him again until supper. Instead of coming himself to return Kingslayer and Borlewen's blade, he'd sent one of his minions to return both blades, and even now as she sat beside him at the table, her fingers itched to draw her cousin's dragon-hilt dagger, and put it to his throat.

He was not the same—and it wasn't solely because of that crown he'd worn atop his head. The truth glinted behind the silver of his eyes every time she caught his gaze. Something had changed during their time apart, and the rift between them grew with every passing moment and every word left unspoken.

Beautiful as ever, he sat, half reclined in the seat beside her, vexingly arrogant in his insouciance, something like apathy seeping from his pores, giving Gwendolyn every impression that he was a bored Fae king only forced to tolerate this mortal gathering. Her belly soured at the thought, and she returned her goblet to the table, shoving it aside.

As yet, except for the return of the sword and Aengus' death, nobody even knew what transpired in the Fae realm, nor what history she and Málik shared. Gwendolyn hadn't had the chance to enlighten Bryn. But shouldn't she be the one upset? Without a word of explanation, Málik had shoved her through that portal and still she'd found it in her heart to forgive him, trusting that he knew best, no matter how it had appeared. But perhaps he had used her?

Or mayhap he would have preferred for Aengus take her head?

Or had he expected that, once revealed, their past should hold sway and that she would so easily cast away everything she had worked for to return to… what?

Forsooth.

If every action had a consequence, the result of Gwendolyn's "rebirth" was that she had only the vaguest recollections of the creature she had once been. Her mother had been right, after all. She was a changeling! But if Manannán himself stood here before her at this moment, Gwendolyn doubted she would know him. And no matter, she could never consider that creature her father over the man who'd raised her. If, indeed, she shared the Sea God's blood, the only good she knew for sure it had ever done for her was that it gave her the right to reclaim Claímh Solais . For all that she had endured, for all that she had become, she was Gwendolyn of Cornwall, and she could not divest herself of this responsibility she was born to simply because she'd lived another life.

Alas, if anyone else shared her misgivings this evening, it wasn't apparent. Even Bryn, who knew her best—and perhaps should have read her mood—celebrated with abandon. Ten times the brewster passed him by, and ten times he held out his tankard. Now, he stood, grinning drunkenly across the table as he proffered up his tankard, lifting it for a toast. "May Lugh's shpear shtick 'em where the sun don't shine!" he said.

"In the arse!" followed Lir, and the hall erupted with bellows of laughter.

No one needed to be told where Bryn was proposing sticking that spear, but Lir, in his innocence, was proud to explain the jest.

Beside her, Málik chuckled low and despite Gwendolyn's mood, she laughed as well.

More tankards lifted, followed by ribald jests and Bryn gulped back his ale. Then, for the eleventh time this evening, slammed down the tankard, and called for another round.

"I will miss that Druid," said Málik offhandedly, offering his first smile of the evening—a half-hearted, rueful smile. "I've never met a man with so little guile," he suggested, leaning closer, and his nostrils flared, as though seeking Gwendolyn's scent. Her traitorous body responded with a thrill, but she shifted away, stung by the casual mention of his impending departure.

But, of course, he would go.

He was king of the Fae even as she was Queen of Pretania, and their destinies must eventually part them—Málik to his shadowy realms, and Gwendolyn to the only life she had known these past nineteen years. How could it be different?

Gwendolyn had never truly considered that, but no doubt Málik knew it. And the reality of this, too, he'd kept from her no less than he'd kept a hundred other secrets. It soured her mood all the more. Lies were not simply things one spoke untrue. How many times must she say so? They were also the things one held back, when speaking them might change too much. It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest he should include the Fae in his assessment, because no matter how they might avow to hold truth, it eluded them still.

The sting of tears pricked at her eyes.

Eager for something to hold in her trembling hand, Gwendolyn retrieved her goblet again, lifting it to her lips, knowing he would bristle over her question, and perhaps, in truth, she meant to nettle him. "Still no word from your betrothed?"

His gaze snapped to her, his icy-blue eyes glinting sharply.

Clearly, he didn't appreciate that she would ask after Esme—or how—but he should endeavor to see it her way. It had been a full year since the Feast of Blades. Gwendolyn needed to know whether Esme had spoken true and her mother still lived. If her questions persisted, there was a reason for it. Whilst everyone else here was busy celebrating, Gwendolyn felt like a half-starved dog with the promise of a bone, and the very thing that might have bolstered her spirits was the hope of reuniting with her mother. It did not set well with her that Esme could so easily abandon her promises, nor that Málik could so easily discard her.

"I am not her keeper," he snarled.

Gwendolyn took a long, slow sip, giving the mead time to coat her tongue before swallowing. It left a warm, sweet trail down the back of her throat, imbuing her with courage. "But you are her betrothed," she persisted behind the rim of her cup, and her heart squeezed painfully when he did not deny the charge. She had not truly meant to say that again, but neither could she eradicate the image of those two together, hand in hand behind Esme's father—with Málik preparing to take her head. And nay, she did not mistake those actions. She'd fought beside Málik too many times. One word from Aengus and she would not be here now… swirling this mead in her cup. No doubt, she had been overjoyed to see him this morning—relieved, as well—but that didn't change the fact that she had come but a blade's edge from finding her life's blood spilt upon the Fae king's dais, and it would have been Málik who'd shed it.

"She'll return when it suits her," he said with an affectation of boredom, shifting his weight in his chair to create more space between them, but Gwendolyn sensed his ire, and she bristled, longing so much to say his answer didn't suit her.

And more, she had questions, such as, knowing what she knew now—that the Fae held no love for mortal kind —how had Málik raised this army to fight on her behalf? What price had he paid for their swords?

And why, if she and Málik were lovers in her past life, would she ever allow herself to be hidden from him?

Why would Esme have known her whereabouts, but not Málik?

And why in the name of the Ancients would Gwendolyn ever agree to such a bargain, presumably sacrificing her immortality in the process?

There must be a reason for everything, and it galled her that Málik seemed so averse to speaking the truth. In fact, the only creature she trusted to tell her the truth—the entire truth, unvarnished—was the only one who'd remained absent from this celebration.

Whatever else Esme might be, she was the only one who'd ever dared speak only truth, not merely what Gwendolyn was meant to hear.

Inconceivable to imagine she trusted a troublesome, disagreeable Fae more than she did the one she loved.

"Gwendolyn?" Málik's eyes flickered with a strange light, and Gwendolyn frowned, loathing the way he spoke her name… because… yegods … it left her weak and wanting. "Can you not rest easy… enjoy the celebration?"

"Nay," Gwendolyn said, because she could not.

She could not pretend all was well and good when the one she loved sat so distantly beside her. She straightened in her chair as Málik reached for the plate before her, snapping off a bite of Hob cake. She watched him toy with that wafer, her body remembering the way his fingers had teased her nipples so intimately, and her cheeks bloomed with remembered heat.

Gods knew this was her first meal since her return from the Fae realm, and still she couldn't rouse an appetite, although perhaps she feared to eat. Forbidden though it might be, these Druids had a penchant for Fae foods.

"May we not cry peace?"

"Peace?" Gwendolyn replied, pretending a coyness she didn't feel. "Are we at war, my—" She leaned closer to ask, "What are you now, anyway? My huntsman, Shadow… lover… my king ?"

He did not answer, and she couldn't help but remember every time he'd so blithely knelt before her, declaring himself her servant. She had never truly asked him to do so, but now it seemed a cruel jest that he had.

"Shall I bend the knee to you now?"

His voice held an unmistakable note of flirtation. "I would not refuse it," he said, his lips curling, showing her the very tip of one fang. "Although this act would not require obeisance…"

Gwendolyn's cheeks burned.

Alas, innocence was no longer her refuge.

He lifted his shoulder, then sighed. "We seem at war, when, in truth, I am not your enemy," he reassured, and there was something about the way he said it that promised to settle her heart. "I would not have lent you my warriors, if that be the case. Don't you think?"

"Why did you?" she asked, not daring to look at him.

"Why do you believe?"

Gwendolyn shrugged. "For all I know, you've some stake in my victory."

"Don't we all?" he allowed, and Gwendolyn sighed.

"Gwendolyn," he said once more. "I am not your enemy…" And this time, when he smiled, she felt the sincerity of it in the marrow of her bones.

If she did not mistake it, there was a suspicious glitter in his eyes when she turned to look at him, and Gwendolyn swallowed her pride. "Very well. I shall cry peace," she allowed, her voice softening. "If you will promise me a plain-spoken conversation?"

"Now?" he teased, flicking his gaze about the room.

Yes, now . Though Gwendolyn knew it would be impossible with so many ears and eyes upon them. There was so much she longed to say. "When it suits you," she said.

"You have my word," he said, and Gwendolyn turned her face back to the celebration, a little more heartened.

"A song of tribute," shouted one of the Llanrhos Druids, and then another crooned, and Gwendolyn's brow furrowed. "I… I know this song."

Málik tilted her a glance. "Do you?"

"Yes, it was a favorite of the dawnsio ."

A melody she had, in truth, nearly forgotten, but how could she? It was her mother's favorite. The story of Amergin Glúingel, a judge of the Sons of Míl, who, having impressed the Tuatha Dé Danann with his fair judgment, won their favor and trust. Later, when the Fae were banished to the underlands , it was Amergin who was appointed the First Druid. And in due course, when the sons of Míl inherited ériu and brother set upon brother, it was Amergin again who'd divided the isles, imposing the Brothers' Pact. The Druid continued singing, capturing everyone's attention, effectively silencing the hall, but Gwendolyn's brow furrowed as tankards settled atop the tables. Some of the Druid brothers rose to accompany him, and together, their voices blended with the music of the lute and reed. Achingly lovely, it made sense they would sing this tribute, surrounded by the descendants of the man who wrote the song… but the words sent a frisson down Gwendolyn's spine, for they spoke too familiarly of her life…

Could it be?

I am a tide that drags to death

I am an infant…

I am the womb of every bolt.

I am the blaze on every hill.

I am the Queen of every hive.

Was he singing about her? Had the Druid of Druids so long ago prophesied her reign? Why would this song speak so eloquently of a woman's strife when it had always been a man's world?

The Red Tide was foretold…

And the infant…

Why had Queen Eseld favored this song? Had she, after suspecting Gwendolyn's true nature, drawn her own conclusions from Amergin's song?

Even then, had she viewed Gwendolyn as Pretania's deliverance? Had she, as Bryn once claimed, only ever wanted the best for Gwendolyn, and perhaps if she was too hard on her, it wasn't because she'd believed her unworthy of the dawnsio , but too far above it to be led? The possibility of that made Gwendolyn's heart wrench for all the wrongful conclusions made—and more, every argument she'd waged. She and her mother had been at odds for nearly all of her life—every rueful moment…

And now she was gone, and Gwendolyn feared that the reason for Esme's absence was that she'd lied. Because… already Gwendolyn had determined that lies were effortless within the Fae's constitution.

Is my mother dead?

Gwendolyn swallowed the lump of emotion that rose to choke her.

"No Hob cake?" asked Málik, dragging her attention from the Druid's song as he pulled the tray closer. And suddenly, Gwendolyn had the most devastating urge to flee…

"Nay," she said, her hand flittering to her belly. "I… I… am… not… hungry." And she rose from the table. "I beg pardon," she said hurriedly. "I shall be prepared to ride at sunrise. Please see to it your men are as well…"

Málik caught her by the hand. "What is it?"

"Nothing!" she said. "I am only tired and mean to seek my bed.… alone ." He peered down at the hand she was tugging so insistently from his grasp, suddenly releasing her.

"Go, then," he said, and without another word, Gwendolyn flew from the hall, tears stinging her eyes, never turning even when Bryn called her name.