Chapter 2

2

" H ide!"

"Where?"

No sooner had the Púca spoken when he shifted form—like a polypous, bearing semblance to the obsidian stone that permeated the grotto. Answering her with silence now, he flattened himself parchment-thin over the boulder, then hugged the stone close as two small, hirsute creatures came sauntering into view.

Gwendolyn's heart skipped at the sight of them.

These were trolls?

Blood and bloody bones.

She lay splattered along their path, with nowhere to go, and not entirely certain she hadn't actually broken a bone, judging by yet another pang that materialized between her arse cheeks.

Apparently, Málik didn't intend to join her.

As he once had in her uncle's fogous , she'd half expected for him to materialize, and light his Faerie flame.

But no.

Gwendolyn sat unmoving, gaping at her sword glowing blue, the reality of her situation accosting her like a rude, malodorous belch.

No time for tears.

No time for regrets.

And no thanks to Málik, she was lost, undefended and alone, except for this damnable Púca, whose fealty she had yet to discern.

And clearly, he did not intend to defend her.

Indeed, his purpose thus far appeared to be only to present himself as the deamhan on her shoulders—scolding her at will.

Gods knew Gwendolyn didn't need him to explain that elf wasn't proper. She wasn't intending to be proper! Never during the entire time she had known Málik had she been more furious with him.

Ugly and foul, the trolls came marching straight toward Gwendolyn, their snips and snarls filling the grotto, and the closer they came, the brighter the glow of her sword, until she feared the luminesce would give her away.

Trolls, really? Gwendolyn had always imagined them to be giants. They were so oft depicted as large, brutish, grotesque beings—and grotesque they were, brutish as well, but these two were anything but large.

In fact, the tallest of the two was scarcely taller than Gwendolyn. To her mind, they appeared to be more like blighted Fae, which was to say there was still something about them that proclaimed them as Fae, despite their corrupted forms. Both had the same pointed ears and porbeagle teeth as Esme. But whereas Esme's open-mouthed grin could stop a man's heart from beating, it would be impossible for either of these two beasts to hide their gobs full of teeth.

Fortunately, neither troll appeared to notice Gwendolyn— thanks to her mithril?

In his present form, the Púca was no help at all.

Oblivious to Gwendolyn's presence, the trolls continued to argue feverishly, but Gwendolyn couldn't make out a word they spoke until they stopped an arm's length from where she sat—so close that if the smallest of the two only retreated a long step backward, he would surely meet the edge of her blade.

Breathe , she commanded herself. Breathe!

Swallowing the knot of fear that bobbed into her throat, Gwendolyn fought the most overwhelming urge to bolt, not daring even to draw back her sword, if only to make certain it wasn't met by a clumsy, oversized troll foot. The last thing she wanted for one of these creatures to do was to trip over the sword.

" We wants her," growled the smaller of the two, but then, for all his boldness, he shrank back from his companion's spittle-filled growl.

Warm slime sprayed Gwendolyn's cheek, but she daren't swipe it away, nor even twitch her nose over the terrible smell. Gods. For all that their height had surprised her, they smelled precisely as she'd imagined they should. Never in her life had she smelled the like—except for the one time she and Bryn ferreted away that crate of oysters to the Dragon's Lair, only to forget about the bloody thing, and return later to find it reeked. These two smelled like that .

"It my idea to search here," complained the smaller troll and his companion gave him a long-suffering scowl.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn weighed her options…

If she rose, slowly… she could back away… find shelter… behind a boulder stone, although there were none in sight so large as to conceal her… none except for the one the Púca was using now.

However, the path between them was narrow, and if Gwendolyn intended to join him on the other side of this grotto, she would have to slip between these trolls, and even as she contemplated that possibility, the larger of the two pounced, and the pair erupted into a blur of limbs, moving quicker than Gwendolyn might have imagined two hairy blobs could move. Hissing, snarling, claws swiping at the air, they sidestepped the sword, and Gwendolyn as well. But they didn't stop till blood spiced the air, and then the smaller of the two retreated, petting his arm and whimpering. "'Tis true what they say about Yavo—Yavo be selfish!" he complained, and then suddenly, his mood changed, and he emitted what Gwendolyn surmised to be a squeal of delight, forgetting his wound as he lifted a long-clawed finger. " We know!" he said gleefully. " We know! Rip 'er in twain!" He poked his blood-stained claw at his partner, then turned it to his own breast. " We get half!" he said, chortling. " We both get half!"

But for all his enthusiasm, the proposal failed to rouse his companion.

"If we rip the girl in twain, she'll be dead as your pea-sized brain," said the larger troll, whom Gwendolyn now presumed must be Yavo. "He said alive, so we take her to Manannán alive!"

Manannán?

Gwendolyn blinked, recognizing the name of the Sea God. Without a doubt, she understood these trolls must be speaking of her, but why should they wish to drag her before Manannán? Confused, she furrowed her brow—no less befuddled for the fact that she somehow understood everything these creatures were saying as well.

"But… the King wants her, too," maintained the smaller troll. "He will pay!"

"We will take her to Manannán!" growled Yavo. "If you argue, I put my blade in your belly." To emphasize this threat, he laid a hand over a small, but nasty-looking dirk that lay nestled within his belt sheathe, and thereafter, both trolls stood facing one another, neither prepared to capitulate.

For a long while, silence permeated the grotto, punctuated only by the nearby dripping of water from the ceiling.

Drip.

Drop.

Gwendolyn was certain that if these two fought again, she would be caught in the middle. She couldn't imagine being so fortunate as to escape the fray twice.

Sweat dampened her palms as she cast a prayerful glance at the Púca, who lay still as stone. Only this time, he cracked an eyelid, revealing a shining, black pupil. He said nothing and closed the eye again. Still, there was no mistaking the warning gleam in his eye. Without words, he'd urged Gwendolyn to remain silent, though she hadn't any need to be warned. With her legs twisted beneath her, she would find Yavo's dirk in her belly long before she could even think to rise. Better to sit and wait despite fearing the silence would betray the pounding of her heart.

"Understood?" pressed Yavo.

"Understood," relented the smaller troll. And then, to Gwendolyn's utmost relief, both creatures left off with the disputation and turned to saunter away, continuing along their journey, with the runty one grumbling behind. "Nothing for Razi! Always, Yavo! Selfish, selfish Yavo!"

He sounded on the verge of tears, and how ludicrous it was that Gwendolyn should feel the least bit for this creature, despite comprehending that the girl he longed to "rip in twain" was Gwendolyn.

Blood and bones.

This must be a dream , she thought— it must be!

A dream would explain so much—for one, that odd, preternatural quality to this air, a cold, damp mist that tickled Gwendolyn's memory even as it tickled her nose. Remember! Málik had begged. But for the life of her, she still hadn't the first clue what it was she was supposed to recall.

Only to be certain she wasn't dreaming, Gwendolyn pinched the tender flesh of her inner wrist—hard . Then, again, even harder the second time, gritting her teeth when it brought a sting to her eyes. It did not feel like a dream.

But then she had a brief, hopeful thought.

Had the Druids fed her pookies ?

More than anything, she wished she were still abed—never rose to search for Esme, never filled her sack with victuals, never encountered Málik on the way back to her bower. But, no, so it seemed, this was not the case. Gwendolyn squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again to find herself in the same spot. So now what?

Considering the answer to that question, Gwendolyn waited as the trolls made their way through the grotto, taking their sweet time as they meandered along a sloping path toward yet another passage whence emitted an odd ruby light. The Púca, too, remained silent and still, though the instant the quarrelsome pair entered the red-tinted arch, he shifted his form into that of the cat- sidhe , and bounded down from the boulder, demanding she follow.

Much too belatedly, Gwendolyn wiped the troll spittle from her face, peering back at the arched tunnel, then back down at her sword, thinking how close she'd come to… what?

As far as she could tell, it sounded as though they were searching for her on behalf of Manannán, but why?

What stake had the Sea God in Gwendolyn's quest?

The Sword of Light was not Manannán's, and if Manannán knew she'd come to fetch Claímh Solais , he must also know that Gwendolyn was no longer in possession of it, so what business would he have with her?

"Well!" said the Púca, reappearing before her with arms akimbo. "Art coming, Stupid Girl?"

Gwendolyn frowned. Harnessing patience, she inhaled a long breath, and then held it as long as she could before blowing it out. "I am not a stupid girl," she said.

" I know who you are. Do you know who you are?"

What game did he play? Gwendolyn had no tolerance for riddles this morning and less for this rude little creature.

"Well, then," she said. "If you know who I am, then you must know my name is not Stupid Girl. It is Gwendolyn."

"Is it?" he returned with a coy tilt of his head.

"Yes. It. Is," Gwendolyn affirmed, though she wondered why she bothered when she still didn't know this creature's purpose. Never in her life had any one creature annoyed her so thoroughly—not even Málik.

And speaking of Málik…

"Did he send you?"

"Who?"

"Málik!"

He didn't answer. "Come, now!" he said instead. "Hurry! Hurry, now! We haven't all day!" And he stood, tapping his paw, waiting for Gwendolyn to find her feet.

Alas, Gwendolyn was slow to move.

For one, no one in her life had ever spoken to her so disrespectfully—none save her enemies. How dare Málik saddle her with such a discourteous beast! Not even Demelza would have dared tap her foot in such a blatant show of impatience.

And no matter, Gwendolyn didn't intend to argue when arguing would serve no purpose. She did not choose this path, nor did she choose this Púca to be her guide—if, indeed, that was what he was meant to be. For all she knew, the vexing little creature would march her straight to her doom, and still she had no choice but to trust that Málik had sent him in good faith.

By now, the trolls' voices had ebbed, and the blue in Gwendolyn's sword had faded, so she returned Kingslayer to its scabbard, turning her attention to the small of her back, rubbing with two fingers. Alas, if a bruise was all the injury she had received after falling through that portal, and after facing trolls, she should count her blessings.

Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to ease the ache in her heart.

If Gwendolyn had once believed that hateful look Loc gave her on their wedding night was the image that would haunt her for the rest of her days, it was overshadowed by her last glimpse into Málik's face—eyes full of sorrow and regret, but still he'd let her go.

"Where now?" she asked, resigned.

"You wish to see the King," the Púca said. "We go see the King, but first we seek the Lady."

Gwendolyn hadn't actually asked to see anyone, but pointing that out when it was indeed her greatest desire was pointless. "What lady?"

"She who dwells in silk and shadow," explained the Púca, and his answer made Gwendolyn roll her eyes.

Did no Fae ever speak plainly?

She tried once more. " Who is the lady?"

To answer the question, the Púca shifted this form into that shrieking, three-headed bard and then opened all three of his mouths to sing…

Gwendolyn lifted a hand to stop him. "Nay! Please… nay," she begged, and when his black eyes narrowed with disapproval, she inclined her head toward the ruby-lit passage and whispered, "Those trolls will hear."

Of course, that wasn't the reason, and the Púca must have gleaned as much because he spun about with a huff—to Gwendolyn's utmost relief.

Vexed though he might be, she couldn't stand here listening to all three bloody bard heads, each singing a different tune. For all that was sacred, it was scarcely bearable when she couldn't understand what he was saying; now that she could, it would be intolerable.

And yet, how was it possible she understood the First Tongue?

Gwendolyn didn't know anyone who could speak Gaelg —Málik perhaps, though he'd never done so in her presence, although he did once interpret the Púca's song.

"We are late," apprised the Púca, reforming himself as the cat- sidhe . He gave her a withering glance, then bounded away, muttering something snippy beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like: "Stupid is as stupid does!"

Gwendolyn lifted her brow, but let it go, hurrying after him, fearing that, in his present mood, he would be tempted to leave her. And, like it or not, she couldn't afford to alienate that irksome beast, when even those she had trusted had forsaken her. "Wait!" she shouted, suddenly remembering the sack of food she'd brought and rushing back to retrieve it before rejoining the Púca, who never for a moment broke his stride.

It was going to be a long, long day… although…

Gwendolyn peered up at the speleothem-covered ceiling, wondering how anyone could tell day from night in this gloom. At the very least in the Druid village there had been perpetual twilight. Here, it was impossible to see aught without the light of her sword, or the piskies , which, considering the circumstances, she would gladly do without. Fortunately, she didn't have to suffer the dark long. As though summoned, the piskies returned to help light her way, and Gwendolyn reassured herself that this was a good sign. If the piskies were comfortable with this Púca, it should count for something.

Shouldn't it?

"Count blessings, not troubles," Demelza used to say.

Now was as good a time as any to remember that lesson.

Right now, blessings might be scarce, but foremost, Gwendolyn must be wholly grateful for this: She wasn't dead.

And really, if not for the Púca, she could so easily have met her demise. Therefore, she had this choice: She could remain bitter—and, mind you, she was, if only a bit—or she could make this her first test. If she would be canny enough to unite the tribes of Pretania, she must also be canny enough to win the favor of a bad-tempered Púca.

Anyway, for all Gwendolyn knew, he, too, might be less than pleased over this task he'd been given, and it was simple why when already they'd encountered trolls.

"Slay the child," Demelza had also advised. "Arise a queen."

That was what Gwendolyn must do. It would suit no one for her to wallow in self-pity. If she'd learned anything this past year, it was that. After Loc's betrayal, she'd wasted far too much time shedding tears of regret. She'd not do so again.

Putting one foot in front of the other, she grew resolved. With or without help, she meant to find Claímh Solais , and once she had the sword in her possession, she would make her way back to the mortal realm to make Locrinus pay for his crimes.

With a last glance over her shoulder to be sure the trolls weren't following, she spied no one, not even a shadow—certainly not Málik.

What more was she fated to encounter in this infernal place?

Deamhans? Spriggans? Trolls?

The instant you descend, he'll send armies to end you, Málik had warned. Only now, Gwendolyn wondered why he'd ever bothered to warn her when all the while he'd intended to abandon her. Not for a moment had he intended to stand by her side, much less to defend her.

Stupid is as stupid does.

The Púca was right.

Gwendolyn might not be witless, but she was behaving that way. As it was with Locrinus, she had but heard what she'd wished to hear—lies and more lies, but none so treacherous as the ones she'd told herself.

Harden your heart, she apprised herself.

She could not afford to remember sweet caresses or pine for things that could not be. Care for it or not, she must cast Málik out of her thoughts—out of her heart, as well. Her first task—her only task—must be to retrieve the Sword of Light. And, so much as Gwendolyn loathed the truth of this, she feared that whatever it was she was supposed to face in this realm, it would eclipse all the problems she'd left behind. Only one thing was certain: Like Locrinus, the Fae king would have an army at his disposal.

Gwendolyn had none.