Chapter 23

23

Once I've endeared her, she will love me

The offer I bring will cover my sin

And she, my wife, will bear to the helpmeet…

" W hat song is that?" Gwendolyn inquired of Amergin.

"The oldest," he said, chuckling. "And yet, ageless—the prayer of every man, do you not agree?"

Gwendolyn shrugged. She knew nothing about that, but she feared there was an aspect of it that rang true—every man needed heirs.

So did Pretania, and so it seemed she would bear none.

Shivering, Gwendolyn drew up the cowl of Arachne's cloak, dismayed to have so thoroughly misjudged the weather. The temperatures dropped, and the fog grew thicker the further north they journeyed until Gwendolyn rued having abandoned her father's cloak. This one could never warm her so well.

The persistent fog was turning her mood as grey as those infernal fogous , sending a chill through her bones, hovering like a brume, coloring the landscape to match her mood. Somehow, it muffled all sounds, creating an eerie silence that revealed only the faintest rustle of leaves beneath their hooves, and Gwendolyn suspected it wasn't natural. Cool and clammy against her skin, it left her testy, making her long for the warmth of a fire… and Málik.

By now, her clothes were damp and dirty, and her curls were matted with leaves and twigs from sleeping on a leaf-strewn ground, but at least it concealed her army, and the cold wasn't so brisk as it was in the underlands . There, she'd had no cloak at all until the end of her journey, and if she could weather that, she could weather this.

Resolved to endure the discomfort, knowing there were worse things than to shiver against a bit of cold, she marveled how changed she was—how differently she viewed such things as adversity and misadventure. Before her sojourn into the underlands , she would have suffered this cold like a petulant child, and no doubt, she had harried Málik for every moment of their journey to Chysauster.

Smiling ruefully over that bittersweet memory, she yearned for those days when the worst of her troubles had seemed only the question of a mester's death. Alas, all but for the yearning for Málik's affections, those days were long gone. Whilst Lir, Amergin and Emrys rode at her side—Amergin either singing or arguing with Emrys, he and Bryn had ridden at the back of their cavalcade and the repeat of it all, day in, day out, grew wearisome.

Meanwhile, thoughts of Málik grew like brambles in her mind, ensnaring all other thoughts, until, after a while, even the Druids' conversation held no interest for her. Málik's absence by her side was like a gaping wound, raw and excruciating. She missed the way his silver hair rippled at his back with the breeze… how his pale-blue eyes twinkled with mischief. Every passing moment without him felt like an eternity. And yet, every time she thought about riding back to speak to him, something kept her from going—perhaps fear of rejection?

Or perhaps simply pride.

Whatever the case, Gwendolyn found herself rooted in her saddle, staring wistfully at the path ahead in a trance-like stupor. When the brothers fell away to discuss something in private, leaving Amergin to ride at her side, alone, she seized the opportunity for conversation. Giving her reins a tug, she sidled closer to Amergin, giving him a nod, and the old Druid returned it, smiling companionably.

She nudged her horse forward, curiosity piquing amidst the eerie quietude that surrounded them. "You say you knew my grandfather?"

He nodded, but so much as he'd had to say to his Druid brothers, he appeared little inclined to expound.

"Won't you tell me about him," she urged gently, with an unmistakable longing in her voice, a yearning to know more about the man she knew only through Demelza's tales, and her father's complaints.

"He is stubborn."

As was her mother.

"Fierce."

As was her mother.

The cloak about her shoulders was drenched from the persistent mist, and she shivered again, but it no longer mattered so much. Her grandfather's image in her mind gave her a strange sense of solace against the biting cold. "He sounds like my mother," she said. "Did you know her as well?"

Amergin shook his head. "Your mother came long after my time, banríon na bhfear. I've not stepped foot upon these lands in quite some time."

Gwendolyn wondered how long, but didn't ask. It seemed far more important to know why he had come, so that was what she asked.

Amergin slowed his gait, gazing at her thoughtfully. "To fulfill an old promise," he explained after a moment, and Gwendolyn studied the old man, who must be quite some older than Emrys, although this, too, was the least of what she wished to know.

"An old promise?"

Again, he nodded, and this time, a tinge of sadness colored his eyes. "One I made to a dear old friend."

"My grandfather?"

He shook his head, keeping his silence, and Gwendolyn wanted to ask him what help he thought he could be if he had so little to say.

It wasn't as though he could wield a sword—nor rid them of this fog.

"How ambiguous," she said, growing frustrated.

For days now, these two old men had prattled on and on like two old women at a knucklebones wager, and now he had nothing to say. Every word she pulled from his lips came reluctantly, as though from a desolate well.

His eyes narrowed owlishly. "It is not who I promised, but what I promised that has any bearing. I vowed that once the time arrived, I'd return to this land to ensure its preservation."

"You… alone?" Her tone was laced with sarcasm.

"Nay, banríon na bhfear, though as you can well imagine, I am not a man without influence." He winked, unperturbed by her insolence, despite Gwendolyn's attempt to nettle him. She nodded, weighing her next question, realizing that, with Amergin's canniness, she must choose her questions more wisely. Despite that, she perhaps wasted a question because curiosity could not still her tongue.

"Was this friend of yours Málik?"

Plainly, she could not stop thinking of him, and that also vexed her.

The elder Druid shook his head. "Same blood, different king," he said with half a smile. "Howbeit, the son would hold me to the promise I made to the father."

Always with the riddles!

Evidently, Amergin had lived among the Fae too long, and Gwendolyn felt thoroughly vexed to be thwarted. She nipped at the tender flesh inside her cheek, wondering what topic would be best to broach with him now. Whatever information she would glean, she sensed it must be dragged per force from his unwilling tongue. The old Druid gave her a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement and something resembling… pity?

His white hair shone in the twilight as he leaned in, one bony hand bracing against his pommel. "I can see you are troubled," he said, and Gwendolyn nodded. It would be pointless to lie. She longed for a confidante, but had too many questions and no inkling how to begin. "As you must know, this day was long foretold."

"Which day?"

" This day," he said, his head tilting first to one shoulder, then to the other, adding, "The end of days … or the beginning."

Again, more riddles, and Gwendolyn found her tongue tied with too many questions. Who and what foretold this? The end of what? The beginning of what? What stake had this man in the outcome of Gwendolyn's trials? So he had claimed, as did Emrys, that it was their intent to be her champion in her bid to convince Baugh to join her fight, but Gwendolyn suddenly had the most unsettling suspicion—as she always did with the Fae—that Amergin, too, held secrets meant to shape, not only Pretania, but the fate of men. And still questions stuck in her throat—like that time she'd so desperately longed to recount to her father everything she had encountered in her uncle's fogous . And somehow, despite trying, she could not—that feeling was worse now than before, and Gwendolyn didn't have the energy to pry any more words from this Druid's mouth. She said, "For what it's worth, I am pleased you've emerged from the grave to become my champion."

She gave him a halfhearted wink, and added dryly, "It is not oft we are graced with Druid royalty."

The elder Druid chuckled, but his dark eyes ignited with a new fire. "Ah, Child, you must not mistake me. I've not come to be anyone's champion. I am but a humble servant."

"So you serve the Fae?"

"Nay, Queen of Men. I serve justice."

Gwendolyn eyed him suspiciously. "For whom?"

The glitter in his eyes now sharpened. "If you must ask, mayhap I sit in judgment of you?" He wasn't jesting, Gwendolyn realized, and a shiver of foreboding swept down her spine. Her inability to ask the right questions only roused her temper, for neither had anyone called her "child" since Demelza, and she took issue with that as well—she was no child, and certainly not his!

Her tone hardened. "That is quite the responsibility," she allowed. "And yet, if you've come to serve your justice upon me, old man , you'd best declare yourself rightly, and know I bow to no man, including you!"

Unsaid, she'd left too much, including all the questions about her past life, though Amergin must know it all, and despite this, Gwendolyn could not speak again even for the possibility of loosening an old man's tongue. Only this time, it wasn't any hex that bound her words. It was pride. She had not come so far to be judged by this man or any. Nor had she tainted her hands with blood only to throw down her hard-won sword and bow to the Fates.

The Druid's lips lifted into a slow grin, showing a magnificent set of straight, white teeth that belied his wrinkled face. "So I see… your sister spoke true."

Gwendolyn blinked.

"You'll make a fine queen someday," he allowed, and then he tugged his reins and fell away, leaving Gwendolyn alone to think on his words…

But… she was queen now —what did he mean by that? And more, though he'd argued his right to speak on her behalf, she must now wonder if he intended to undermine her instead?

It was only belatedly that Gwendolyn realized what more he had said—s ister? She had no sister!

Or did she?

Gwendolyn had grown up as an only child, her parents proclaiming her the Kingdom's sole heir. But the Druid's words haunted her with unspoken truths, for even as she mulled over the mortal life she had lived, his words stirred in her a cruel sense of uncertainty, and the truth clawed at the edges of her memories, like shadows seeking the light.