Chapter 31

31

" B augh?"

It took Gwendolyn a moment to clear her head—not solely for the muddle of unspent passions, but also because of the sudden desire for bloodlust she'd experienced over the belligerence of these barbarians. If only to appease her frustration for this evening's disappointment, she longed to slice their throats. And nevertheless, she bent to re-sheath Borlewen's blade, raising a hand, peering over at Málik to temper his ire.

His eyes, too, were still glazed, and Gwendolyn had never quite noted that shade of feral blue. He said nothing, and did not re-sheath his sword, but she stepped in front of him, leaving him at her back.

"I am Gwen?—"

"We know who you are, Daughter of Corineus. We simply did not expect you would survive your husband."

They did not address her as queen, nor her father as King, but it was that word she took the greatest offense to. And yet, Gwendolyn tempered her ire, knowing that she had not come so far only to engage in a war of words… or worse.

"He is not my husband."

The Caledonian shrugged. "Simply because you have made him a cuckold does not mean he is not your husband. In case you forget, our emissaries were there to witness the Promise Ceremony where you exchanged your vows, and then your wedding to follow…"

Gwendolyn did not cow. "A man must have claimed something at least once to call it his own, and Locrinus never did. I am a free woman!"

"Says who?" the man persisted, his tone bleeding with sarcasm. He tipped his head toward Málik, and Gwendolyn's cheeks burned—not with chagrin, but with fury.

"Says the Llanrhos order," she said, and felt, more than saw, that Málik's gaze snapped to her—apparently, Bryn never told him.

"How convenient for you. But neither did we expect you would be so bold—or brave—as to venture so far north…" An air of disapproval surrounded his next words. "Much less to find you rutting in our woods."

Gwendolyn's cheeks burned hotter, though she refused to make any apologies for what she did with her own body. Nor would she apologize for loving who she chose. "Why? Because I am a woman?" More than anything, Gwendolyn wished she were holding the Sword of Light so she could wipe that arrogant smirk from his lips.

His grin turned into a frown, and he scrunched his prominent chin, shaking his head. "Nay," he said, and laughed. "Because you are Cornish." He spat the word with open disdain, and then he spat on the ground. "Our women are better warriors than any man you keep in your army—the Fae included."

Gwendolyn said nothing, uncertain just how many of her company he'd spied, because Málik's warriors seemed quite adept at concealing their numbers.

Behind her, Málik snarled, a feral sound akin to that of a wolf's, and Gwendolyn slid a hand back to hush him. "Well," she said, daring to return the man's wintry smile. "I would see this for myself, and if, already, you know who I am, you must also know I've come seeking my grandfather."

The leader grinned. "Your grandfather?"

"Yes," she said. "That is what I said. And if you do not show me respect?—"

His hands moved to his hips. "You will run, tell Baugh?"

"Nay," said Gwendolyn, her own hand once more sliding down the length of her thigh, toward her boot, where she had sheathed Borlewen's blade. "Then I will endeavor to teach you better manners."

He gestured to her boot with the blade in his hand. "With that wee dirk?"

Gods. He reminded her of Caradoc, with his indefatigable good-humor—no doubt, at her expense. Behind her, Málik made a strange sound—a high-pitched whistle—although none of the six appeared to acknowledge it. Neither did she.

"I warrant I could draw this wee dir k quicker than you can cross this glade, and you'll find it buried in the apple of your throat before you can even think to swing your sword. Bigger is not better," she explained. "Or did your woman never explain this to you?"

His eyes widened with surprise, and Gwendolyn insulted him again. "Oh, beg pardon—do you have no woman?"

The burly man barked with laughter, and Gwendolyn's brows knit as she took in his arrogant stance. Black-haired, black eyed, he was certainly kin to her mother, but this was where the similarities ended. Whilst her mother had been lovely, this man was not so much. The skin of his face was weathered and wrinkled, but not with age. He was young, perhaps, without a trace of grey in his thick head of hair, and his beard was filthy and long, braided at intervals in the Druid fashion. His boots were ragged, rising beyond his knees, nearly to his thighs, tied with leather straps. His tunic was overlong, and his hairy thighs, inked with woad, were bare in defiance of the weather—which Gwendolyn was feeling acutely, no longer so hot and bothered by Málik's kisses.

Within another moment, she understood what Málik had done—he'd called several Fae to the glade, and one by one they appeared, surrounding them, leaving no escape for the six men who'd dared to ambush them. No one appeared cowed.

The leader crossed his arms and said, "If you wish to see ‘your grandfather,' you cannot bring them." He pointed with his sword at the Fae warriors newly arrived. "You, alone… and that one," he said, pointing to Málik. He laughed then. "By Lugh's good-eye, judging by his demeanor, he'd never let you go without him!"

Gwendolyn's cheeks burned a little hotter, but she gave no hint of her chagrin. "Not only him," she bargained.

"Nay! The rest cannot come," the Caledonian maintained. "Unless they fly. We'll cross by boat."

Boat?

"Four more," Gwendolyn haggled. "Three Druids, and my Shad—er, mester. I'd have all these accompany me, and if you'll agree to that, we'll come peaceably."

He thought about it a moment, peering at his men. They all nodded, and he nodded, and then he turned and said, "Very well. Fetch your lickspittles."

Leaving the Caledonians to wait with Málik, Gwendolyn returned to camp long enough to gather her chosen entourage. Scooping up both her blades, she shrugged into her shoulder harness, shoved Kingslayer within. And then cursing herself because there was no time to don her mother's gown, she hurriedly took that, and laid it out, then wrapped the Sword of Light within its heavy folds. She had known they were nearing the vicinity of Skerrabra—simply hadn't realized how close.

"Bryn," she commanded. "Fetch Emrys and Amergin." She decided against bringing Lir. It would be better for him to remain with Málik's army. "Hurry," she said.

Her head had been so full of Málik and his kisses that she'd not been paying attention. To her utmost relief, and sensing her mood, Bryn did not ask why. He left at once to locate the Druids. And meanwhile, Gwendolyn found and gave instructions to Lir, knowing Málik would leave his own men with direction as well. Finally, when the Druids returned, she handed the Sword of Light to Emrys, thrusting it into his hands without a word of explanation, not trusting herself to keep it from flames, but not quite trusting Amergin with it either. Although he had given her no reason not to trust him, Gwendolyn was too close to take chances. If he now revealed himself as a traitor and took the sword, she'd have no recourse but to skewer him through, and she liked him.

Upon her return to the glade, she found Málik alone, with none of his warriors to guard his back. It was also clear to Gwendolyn that words had been exchanged, because neither Málik, nor the leader of the Caledonians, stood smiling. They were, in truth, glaring at one another, and Gwendolyn made a mental note to ask Málik later what was said.

With no explanation, they were escorted to a nearby beach, and in keeping to his word, they did, indeed, cross by boat, to yet another isle, not more than three leagues to the north. Having departed from a small camp, leaving perhaps fifty or more Caledonian warriors, they traveled a good two bells before reaching the island. And then, from there, the leader, who'd yet to introduce himself, rudely ushered them all out of the skiff, and up the beach, across a short field. All the while, Gwendolyn, Bryn and Málik shared wary glances, but neither Emrys nor Amergin seemed the least bit troubled. Both were laughing and jesting along the way, even with the Caledonian leader, whose words were few. Finally, they reached what appeared to be a series of mounds, and the leader halted abruptly. Gwendolyn's brow furrowed, but her question went unsaid, and she discovered the answer without delay.

The Caledonian pushed aside a rock, then entered the mound, leading them through a torch-lit tunnel that reminded Gwendolyn a bit too much of her uncle's fogous . The passages were never-ending, twisting and winding this way and that. She had nearly had enough and was about to complain when the path spilled them into a larger chamber. "Where are we?"

"You wish to speak to your grandfather ," suggested the Caledonian. "And speak to him, you will." And then he left them for a moment, ducking into a nearby passage, before returning, and shrugging off his cloak, tossing it onto a nearby table. He then stamped his boots to free them from leftover sand, and Gwendolyn considered pointing out that it was a bit too late for that since he'd already carried in half the beach into this… whatever it was.

Gwendolyn peered about, studying the chamber. It was an odd place to be sure.

Dimly lit, constructed entirely beneath the earth, yet clean, somehow, even despite the man's sandy boots.

Much of the furniture was built into the walls or nestled in corners out of the way. As it was in the palace at Trevena, thick tapestries adorned the walls, many of which were stitched with the same symbols that adorned her mother's gown.

At last, the Caledonian sauntered over to a nearby chair, settling his enormous form into it, and meanwhile, his other companions departed, each through various exits.

"Well?" Gwendolyn said. "Would you have us stand idly by like eejits , only waiting?"

The Caledonian's creviced face split into a wide grin, his eyes glinting with humor. "What are you waiting for?" he asked, and then shared a brief look with Amergin, before Amergin's face also cracked and his lips spread into a similar grin. "Shall I tell her, or will you, old friend?"

At once, Amergin cleared his throat, as did Emrys now, both smiling sheepishly. " Banríon Dragan ," said Emrys. "Allow me to present your grandsire… Baugh."