Chapter 19

19

W ith both swords heavy at her back, Gwendolyn was never more aware of her burdens as she made her way through the Druid village, her feet moving deftly, quickly, navigating the twists and turns with all the familiarity of one who had lingered here too long.

Oddly, it was Bryn on his first visit, who'd shown her how to find her way about this village—simple once she understood the signs.

On the ramp down, she was struck by the rich autumn hues of the surrounding trees, and it bolstered her resolve to leave. Summer was waning.

Moving with purpose, Gwendolyn followed the ramp down until it spilled her upon a ribbon of earth she knew would lead her to the Druid's stables. In the forest below the village, gnarled-old trees flanked the dappled path. Ferns, whose fronds were already brown and curling along the edges, skirted a path blanketed with fallen leaves, creating a soft, rustling carpet that cushioned her steps. In the cool shelter of the woods, near a stream, the stables housed only a handful of mounts, her company included, but before seeking Emrys, she wished to make certain Enbarr's mares were being prepared to ride.

Admittedly, she was also curious to note whether Esme had retrieved her mount, but Gwendolyn was fairly certain she had not. No one in this Druid village had seen Esme since before her departure with Málik—and thinking of Málik again, she whispered an oath. Everything always came about to him—always, and it galled her.

Truthfully, she was not so much wounded by the evening's culmination—how could she be when it was she who'd left Málik to dine alone? Rather, she was far more troubled by the things she had learned in the underlands , and the fate it now boded her. His lies, his deception—why, by the eyes of Lugh, had he left her to wonder over his intentions with Esme? Didn't he realize how painful that was to see them together, even if only for pretense?

But he had yet to reassure her over this, and for all Gwendolyn knew, they were lovers reunited.

And that song!

Gwendolyn didn't know why it unsettled her so much, except that it left her grieving again for the woman who'd given her birth. All night long, she'd lain in the shadows of her room, mulling over the current state of affairs, and try though she might, she couldn't see her way to forgiving Málik for lying to her face about something so fiendish as his mission to end her life.

Neither could she forgive the fact that, for every moment of their affiliation, he had been biding his time to complete his task.

In fact, the more she thought about it, the angrier she got.

How came you to be in my father's employ?

I was sent.

By whom?

My father.

If Gwendolyn dared allow herself to consider this too closely, her heart would break a thousand times more. But anger would serve her well, so here she would dwell, and she was still seething over it when Málik found her on the path to the stable.

His first mistake was to grab her by the arm.

She spun to face him. "You!" she spat.

His beautiful lips bore the barest hint of a smile, and Gwendolyn cursed him to Ifreann for that handsome face. "I am told you mean to ride within the hour?"

The hand at her side clenched of its own accord. "Yes. But I told you that last night. I would be in Caledonia before the winter."

"One day will make no difference," he argued, and the intensity in his winterbourne gaze burned brighter than any flame, a clear sign of the temper he, too, held in reserve. But his fury was no more potent than that which raged within Gwendolyn. No doubt, he had inherited a burden along with his new crown, but the reality of this truth was yet another barrier between them.

And no matter, despite the wall of anger she'd erected between them, she was weak in his presence… It galled her. No , she told herself.

No.

No.

No.

She could not afford to let down her guard. She had a duty to her people, and Málik's betrayal was not something she could easily overlook.

Straightening her spine, Gwendolyn met his gaze, a glint of defiance in her storm-blue eyes. She had already given the order and she would not rescind it, no matter what he said.

His second mistake was to give her that too-familiar look of concern—a look she had seen too oft before discovering his true nature. And her temper rose.

"Art certain we should not rest?—"

" No ," Gwendolyn interrupted, her tone firm.

Even now, he had nothing to say for himself? Her nostrils flared and her chest heaved with suppressed anger. She spun away, starting down the path again, leaving Málik to follow, though she did not invite him to join. She did not need or wish to be coddled by him. He should never concern himself with her welfare again!

"Gwendolyn," he beseeched.

She whirled on him when the sound of his footfalls persisted behind her. "Do your troops need rest?"

"Nay," he allowed.

"Nor do mine," Gwendolyn returned, very much aware of the absurdity of this declaration. Her troops comprised two people, perhaps three, if she counted Lir. Her cheeks flushed, but she turned about and kept walking, quickening her pace. Blood and bones —she had to keep walking, because if she stood still one moment longer, she feared what she might do. It was a dangerous game they played, sparring with words as they would with weapons—a dance between a wolf and a lamb, but this lamb now had a sword that burned with the fire of righteousness, and she would not be cowed, or subdued. No doubt, she was grateful to Málik for lending his warriors, but at the moment, she could not rise above her outrage.

"You've only recently returned," he argued. "It is no small thing to pass from one realm to another, especially if expelled."

Once again, Gwendolyn turned to face him, aghast. "Expelled?" She had not considered such a thing, or that he would possess such a power.

"Yes," he said. "The power to expel a soul from the Fae realms belongs to the King alone. Upon his demise, it passed to me, and I did not know how Aengus' death would be received. I did it for your own good."

Gwendolyn did not know what to say. "I am well enough to ride," she insisted, and turned about again, calling over her shoulder, "Do you believe that merely because I am a woman I must have some need to lie abed for days only to mend my broken heart?" Only belatedly, she realized what she had said, and she winced over her poor choice of words. Her chest tightened at his tone filled with concern.

"Does your heart need mending, Gwendolyn?"

"Nay," she lied. "It does not!"

One last time, she turned to face him, tempering her anger as best she could. This was neither the time nor the place for a battle of wills. "Truly, Málik," she said, with more restraint. "Do not fret. I am well enough to travel, and there will be time enough to rest when I am dead."

Far sooner than he , because she now had a painful new awareness of the differences between them. He shouldered his feelings with too little concern—and why not? He was immortal! He had more than enough time to heal from heart wounds, and she—well… she did not know what she was, but Gwendolyn knew she bled as any mortal bled, and she indubitably would suffer this mortal coil.

Gods' blood. If she didn't need him and his army so desperately, she would send him to fly from the nearest parapet.

"I am well enough. To ride," she said once more, straightening her spine. She had no choice but to be strong. Anything less would leave her too weak, and with or without that sword, strength was the only position she could afford to promote. Despite this, she softened a bit, because with anger as a constant companion, this would prove to be a lengthy journey. "Already we've lost too much time," she reasoned. He stood a moment as her eyes burned into his—not with anger this time, but with loathsome tears. Before she could betray herself, she turned away, resuming her march down the path without another word.

For his part, Málik watched her go, then he turned to make his way back up the ramp. Gwendolyn knew, not because she peered over her shoulder—she didn't dare—but because she was excruciatingly aware of every sound he made.

Once in the stables, she discovered three of the four mares already saddled, each with satchels full. Only Daithi was absent, and she determined Málik must have claimed her, but she couldn't know for certain because, of course, she'd yet to visit his Fae camp. And neither did he invite her.

It didn't matter. She had more important matters to consider.

Fortunately, this time, they should not have to hold back their pace for Lir. Their young healer could resume his fellowship with Sheahan, whilst Esme's mare, Lorcan, would suit Bryn well. Because Bryn had been absent from their company when Esme originally gifted the mares, he'd never received one of his own. But since Esme was nowhere to be found, she could find herself another. Gwendolyn was still peeved by her absence, although Bryn should well appreciate the appointment of his lover's horse—or at least Gwendolyn believed he and Esme were lovers. As yet, she had had no opportunity to question him about it, though if her memory of the night Málik shoved her through the portal were accurate, it stood to reason her memory of Esme and Bryn cavorting in his bower must be true as well.

Gwendolyn wanted Bryn to be happy.

She could never give him what he'd once desired of her, and so it appeared, he no longer coveted that, so that was good. However, she must insist upon his fealty, and this meant that, no matter what his association with Esme, he could not place her above Gwendolyn. However, this would be a tricky dilemma. She knew Bryn to be an honorable man. She could not be entirely certain he would do as she had and choose duty over love.

But Gwendolyn still had a trick or two up her sleeves. Already, she had determined she could not keep him as her Shadow. He might well have spent his life in training to defend her, but Gwendolyn needed him to rise above this station. At the earliest opportunity, she meant to promote him as captain and mester at arms, advancing him to the same position his father once held in her father's army. No doubt, this gave Gwendolyn some trepidation, but in her heart of hearts, she trusted Bryn would never betray her, as Talwyn had her father.

Only Aisling remained unsaddled, so Gwendolyn thanked the stable hand for his service, giving him a pat on the arm instead of a copper as she would have done for the stableboy in Trevena. She sent him to care for another mount, eager to see to Aisling herself. Alas, she had no money to give him. In so many ways, Gwendolyn was a pauper queen, but at least it would be one less task the young Druid needed to perform. Her father taught her that a horse would serve her best if she was the one to care for it, including the shoveling of its stall, and she believed him. Throughout her own experiences, she'd had the greatest joy to know and love two exemplary horses. One lived to be fifteen, and the last mare she'd raised—not counting the wedding gift Loc gave her, then rescinded—was only four when she'd lost him in Chysauster. That sweet horse was completely in sync with Gwendolyn, recognizing her every command. She only hoped that someday, Aisling, for all her breeding, would be half as gifted as that mare.

Shoving her mother's gown and her mithril into Aisling's saddlebag, she shrugged the harness from her back and laid it aside, then found a boar's bristle brush, and took it to Aisling's flank, brushing her well.

The animal shimmied with pleasure, and Gwendolyn smiled, calmed by the task. It would be a long, long ride, and she wished to make certain Aisling was primed for the journey. And meanwhile, the occupation gave her much-needed respite from her thoughts. Her relationship with her horse was entirely uncomplicated. Aisling would grow to know her, and if she treated her with love and care, she would grow to trust and love Gwendolyn as well. It wasn't without effort, but there was no chance this gorgeous beast would ever lie to her…

Or seek to murder her.

At the very least, Málik owed her an apology for that , and Gwendolyn would not soften till she received one. If she could not demand Málik's respect, how could she demand anyone else's?

Including her own.

Stroke by stroke, she calmed herself, waiting for Bryn and Lir to arrive, and by the time Bryn wandered down from the village, she was adequately soothed. He came stumbling in, rubbing his forehead with one palm, complaining.

"I am a dead man," he groaned, and Gwendolyn arched her brow, trying not to snicker at his expression of misery.

In the end, she took pity on him and sent him down to the stream to bathe before seeing to his mount. A dip in the Mersey's cool waters would invigorate him, even if it would do nothing for the ache in his head.

Perhaps if Lir wasn't too hung over himself, he might spare some Zingiber and chamomile to heal him.