Chapter 3

3

T he Púca led the way through a twisty maze of nondescript paths. Gwendolyn tried her best to keep up, even as the terrain grew uneven and treacherous.

After a while, her eyes grew accustomed to the diminished light, but it was still difficult to see what lay ahead, much less what was left behind. Were it not for the piskies , she would be blind as a mole. The endless gallery of grey was identical to her uncle's fogous , only far, far more expansive, and now Gwendolyn feared this place was like those tales told by one Sumerian merchant of a netherworld called Kur—a dreadful place below his Zagros mountains, through which the Sumerian dead must traverse seven gates and perform seven trials before arriving at his paradise. Gwendolyn only prayed this realm was not like that one, because she was woefully unprepared for trials of any sort.

She had her Kingslayer, she had her mithril, she had a sack full of Hob cake, but none of these things would assure her survival.

So it was that, despite her best intentions, her emotions veered sharply from anger to fear, then to outrage, for it seemed she would meet her end in this gloom. And worse—no matter how she tried, her efforts to win the Púca's favor were proving futile. If she heard one more time that she was a "stupid girl," she was going to draw Kingslayer and lop off his head!

There must be some reason Málik had sent her to face this trial alone—or she might as well be alone. The silence, like the landscape, was interminable. Every once in a while, the vexing little creature sent her a long-suffering glance over his shoulder. But Gwendolyn wasn't about to apologize for not allowing him to abuse her ears, particularly when he seemed so keen to hurt her feelings.

Clearly, she had offended him, but that couldn't be helped.

Gwendolyn needed to think, and she couldn't do so when he was singing at the top of his lungs. Tired and ill-tempered, having had nothing to break her fast—nor even a bite to eat as she'd filled her sack for the journey—she marched along behind the Púca, worrying one corner of the meal sack.

Tempted as she was to pull it about and thrust in her hand, she stopped herself, remembering only too well what happened to her the last time she'd eaten too much Hob cake. She had slept for days, and what good would it do if she holed up with a sack of cake and ate herself into oblivion?

With a grunt of frustration, she let the sack go, cursing Málik beneath her breath. And meanwhile, where was he?

Seated at the Druid's table?

Along with Esme and Bryn?

Slurping Stone Soup?

Don't think about him, Gwendolyn commanded herself.

Don't. Because, if she dared—and make no mistake, she too-oft dared—she would fall upon her aching rump, right on the cold, wet stone and weep like a babe. And yet, though she refused to shed tears, she couldn't help but feel sorry for herself.

Esme never meant to join her here. It was a ruse.

And Bryn— her oldest, dearest friend. Was he, too, privy to her plan?

Bryn had always been such a terrible liar. And yet somehow, he'd kept his relationship with Esme a secret, along with the state of Porth Pool.

By now, everyone Gwendolyn cared about and trusted had lied to her or betrayed her on some occasion.

She no longer knew what was true or real.

Struggling to keep up, she stumbled, twisting her ankle, and with a cry of pain, landed on one knee. The blow made her eyes water as they had when she was a child, skinning her knees.

A thousand curses bristled at the tip of her tongue, but she kept them to herself.

After a moment, she rose with a sting in her eye, dusted herself off, rubbing furiously at her leg where she suspected yet another bruise must be forming—a painful reminder that she was all-too human in this strange Fae world.

Gods. This must be hell , she thought, and fie ! Her regrets were the foulest of deamhans . At the moment, she felt as insignificant as the smallest of ants, and she could hear Locrinus whispering mendaciously at her ear…

If anyone should be called ?mete, it is you.

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

She didn't need Locrinus, or Málik, or Esme, or Bryn…

She would accomplish this feat on her own, and she didn't need anyone… except… she did.

Her gaze lifted to find that the Púca had stopped to wait, saying nothing, only watching. "It's hard to see," Gwendolyn confessed.

"Don't look with your eyes," he advised, then turned away.

What a silly response!

To the tip of Gwendolyn's tongue rose the most acid remark, but she realized before speaking it that, for once, his tone was not unkind. When she did not answer defensively, he explained, "There are creatures in this realm who live entirely without eyes."

"Truly?"

The Púca nodded, and she said, "Tell me more?"

The Púca shrugged. "If you wish?"

"Please," Gwendolyn said with interest, and when they started again to walk, she was grateful to find he slowed his pace—so grateful, in fact, that she said, "You may sing if you like. I will listen."

"Perhaps the girl is not so stupid after all?" the Púca said, and though Gwendolyn bristled at the backhanded compliment, she swallowed her indignation and prepared to listen.

Slowly, the Púca sang, his voice rising and falling with the rhythm of his steps, and Gwendolyn was immediately captivated, unable to tear her focus away from his mesmerizing tales of creatures who lived and breathed through sound and touch. As the Púca's song wove its dreamlike tapestry, time itself seemed to distort, speeding up as Gwendolyn lost herself in the enchanting tune.

After a while, she no longer felt the ache in her limbs or the emptiness in her belly as she lost herself in the music…

Down was the direction they were traveling.

She could feel it in the slight incline of every step—so very slight, but there it was. Deeper, deeper, they ventured into what would appear to be the very bowels of the earth. When the light arrived, Gwendolyn found herself wide-eyed with surprise. The cavern walls began to emanate an odd yellow-green glow and thereafter, the farther they traveled, the thicker the lichen, the brighter the illumination.

And so it followed, the brighter the environs, the lighter her mood…

Not all was lost, Gwendolyn reasoned.

So long as she had breath, there must be hope.

One way or another, the outcome of this meeting with the Fae king would go a long way toward curing her kingdom's ills—or destroying it forever.

But every moment she had ever lived, every counsel she had ever received, every fear, every hope, every sorrow, every lesson, every bit of hard-earned wisdom—this was how she would prevail.

Remember, Gwendolyn…

For better or worse, she came to bargain with the Fae king and this she must do, so she'd better figure out what to say.

Foremost, Esme had warned Gwendolyn that her father would strike her down if Gwendolyn said the wrong thing; but this must also mean she could say the right thing, and hope flowered amidst the gloom.

She didn't have a plan as yet, but she had faith something would present itself. Perhaps the " lady " would provide answers.