Chapter 35

35

N o longer willing to waste a precious moment, Málik rode beside Gwendolyn, greedy for every word that came from her beautiful lips… every glance… every soul-cleansing sigh. He measured the moments by her smiles…

By every cocksure lift of her brow.

Every scrunch of her freckled nose.

Every twinkle in her storm-blue eyes.

Gwendolyn was his one true love.

And once more, he was fated to lose her.

This time by choice.

In the end, he could not stay.

She would not go.

Twice he'd asked her to come with him, twice she'd refused, and he would not ask her again, knowing this was her life's purpose.

And he had never been more proud to know and love her.

Like a goddess, she rode at the helm of her new army, her golden locks flying at her back like a banner unfurled, sunlight catching the brilliant strands, spinning them into ribbons of gold. With quick work, she had accomplished the impossible— defeating the Fae king and then uniting these northern thanes under one banner.

She'd also won his heart, when he'd feared he had no heart left to win. With a sigh, he remembered the first moment he ever saw her… as Niamh of the Golden Hair. Defiant. Proud. Furious with her father for presenting her as a ward to the new Fae king. She'd called Aengus a tyrant, and her father as well, foreswearing both.

It was also she who'd begun the rebellion against Aengus, and she who'd won Esme to her cause. It was also she who'd convinced Málik to seek the truth about Aengus, as well as his father.

How much he had admired her, even when he was too blind to see the truth. And how dearly he grew to love her. How utterly furious he had been when Aengus stole her away.

How long he had searched…

And now, here they were, and he would do anything for her—anything, except… stay. To honor this dream of hers, he would lead his Faekind into a kinder, gentler future. Because, if her memory should ever return, and he'd dared abandon his seat, even if it was to remain by her side, she would despise him for his weakness—for wasting an opportunity to make a difference when she and her rebellion worked so hard to unseat the "Usurper."

And no matter that the Fae did not recognize her in her mortal form, she was doing the same… again… fighting another Usurper.

It could be no coincidence she was chosen to lead by those wiser than he. For Gwendolyn, he had assumed the crown of horns… and, for the same reason, he had declined to wear his crown in this mortal realm… to give the Queen of Cornwall her due. He watched her now—the arch of her back as she leaned backward in the saddle to stare up into the cloudless heavens… her beautiful face… her golden skin, perfectly kissed by the sun.

In a heartbeat, he would bow at her feet. These mortals were fortunate to have her and still… not a one of them understood how precious she was… how unmatched… How rare a soul, who did not waver from her destiny, no matter what face she wore.

Now and again, he studied her face, trying so hard to see the image of Manannán's daughter, Curcog, but this visage was lost to him now. She was, as she claimed, Gwendolyn of Cornwall to the marrow of her bones… and he loved her still.

A mortal queen with a Faerie soul.

Suddenly, she peered back at him, catching him staring, though she mistook the reason for the glint in his eyes—it was not lust, but love.

She grinned. "Not long now," she said, winking, and for the briefest instant, he saw her face as it once was… that seductive curl to those beautiful lips, the fangs that peeked beneath… promising anew a melding of their lifeblood—and the vision gave him hope. It stirred his blood until it simmered like fire through his veins.

And then she peered back at the army that followed, tilting her head in a rare moment of unsuppressed exultation, and the image of Curcog was gone.

"We did it," she mouthed, for his ears alone.

" You did," he said, smiling fondly.

"Seven. Thousand. Warriors."

It was still not quite enough, but they had yet to approach the Parisi and Iceni and, along with the Iceni, would surely come Cantium.

"Loc will not expect this!"

Indeed, he would not.

They had made certain to avoid the King's Road, steering clear of Brigantes territory. They'd passed from the Selgovae lands straight into Votadini lands, then skirted the coast from there, traveling by day, resting by night, and every night, as soon as they'd concluded the evening's Konsels, he and Gwendolyn slipped into the shadows, his desire for her insatiable and all-consuming. He had no will to deny himself. From dusk until dawn, they'd loved fiercely, and without restraint, resting between their lovemaking on a bed of autumn leaves and soft, fragrant meadow grasses, hidden from prying eyes by the last vestiges of his magic…

A magic he could feel waning even now.

And still he would follow this woman.

But he did not pursue her now as, in her exhilaration, she gave Aisling a heel, surging ahead. Love for her had spurred his every action for so long. But it was that same devotion that moored him now to his saddle, leaving her free to revel in this moment of joy. The beat of Málik's heart echoed in his ears, and his heart swelled with love as he took in every detail of her, from the profile of her face to the delicate curve of her jawline to the way the sunlight tangled in her glorious hair, the effect of it like a golden halo beneath the bright noon sun.

And… once more, he saw her as she once was… whirling, twirling in a field of sunflowers… in the sacred place they'd once created.

He'd give anything to be back there, to protect her, even if it meant sacrificing his own life. And if he died in her service… at least then she could not fault him for it, nor could she loathe him for abandoning his crown…

"You're in love with my granddaughter?"

Málik's gaze snapped to the burly elder, who had so quietly sidled up beside him, his horse as modest as that of his men's.

Baugh, the indisputable leader of these northern tribes whose principles, after all, did not fall far from those of his granddaughter's.

But Málik did not fail to note his use of the word my , and this was perhaps an obnoxious question for a man who knew so little of the woman he'd like to claim, but Málik sensed his interest was genuine, so he nodded.

"I thought so," said Baugh, and they rode together for a long interval in silence, listening to the footfalls of seven thousand men and horses behind them. "But," he said, "There is one thing that troubles me… I only wonder what stake you have in the outcome of this battle?"

"Me?" Málik asked with a lifted brow, though he said nothing more.

In truth, he would like to say he had none… but that was not true. He averted his gaze, watching Gwendolyn frolic with Aisling.

"You see," pressed Baugh. "I am no stranger to the Fae. You do nothing without a favor returned… and what would be that favor?"

It was perhaps true of his ilk, and perhaps once true of him, but Málik didn't wish to justify that question with an answer.

"I knew your father…"

Once more, Málik's gaze snapped to his, and the old man's eyes glittered fiercely. "Yes," he said, perhaps sensing how easily Málik could wrest the truth from him if he so desired. He laughed then. "I was blessed with the gift of time, and despite this, I have been cursed—like Enbarr's mares. I will bear only daughters and will never know the joy of a son. That is why Albanactus will inherit my lands."

"Fascinating," said Málik with some mordacity, and though he might have liked to have asked why his daughters would not inherit, when he had so many, he knew why—knew it for the same reason his soul wept for the loss of Gwendolyn. There would be no offspring between them, and Málik would be the last of his house.

He said nothing more, and Baugh peered down at the ground between them, his jaw working furiously, confessing as expected. "I will be the first of my name, and the last," he said darkly. "Thanks to Manannán mac Lir! For my aid in ousting your father, he promised me the Isle of Man and gave me Skerrabra, instead—along with a cock that will never produce sons."

It was an unforeseen confession, but Málik tempered his fury… for Gwendolyn's sake. He peered up to find her returning now, a smile on her face to rival the brilliance of the sun itself. His jaw worked, and his fingers bit into the reins. Baugh was brave to reveal himself so boldly. Simply because his magic was waning did not mean he could not summon roots and vines to twist this man's entrails into knots. Even as he schooled himself, his fury coiled and turned inside him.

Bitterness flooded his mouth, the taste of it vile…

How vast was Manannán's reach?

How limitless his treachery!

And no matter, Málik could not fault Baugh when he himself was as much to blame for his actions before and after his father's ousting. They'd all believed, as Málik once believed, that his father had misled them—that he'd been so determined to lead them back into the light, and to combine theirs with the mortal world, that he was prepared to sacrifice even their immortality. Even after the Sons of Míl Espáine conspired with Manannán to see them exiled to the darkest regions, his father had invited Amergin Glúingel—a Milesian himself—to reside amongst them, giving the mortal a place of honor and the title of Chief Ollam and Druid of Druids. For that decision alone, Aengus had renounced him, and Málik did, as well. Thus, Baugh was not the first or the last to aid the Poet King, even unwittingly, and none of Aengus' connivance would have succeeded without Manannán, the master deceiver. It was, after all, Manannán who'd lured them out from Hyperborea with promises of wealth and power, and, at every turn, presented only tribulation. If the land of their exile was now a living hell, Manannán himself was its deamhan .

Everything the Sea God ever offered came with a price—the Land of Promise, Enbarr's mares, the Lake of Fire, the Féth fiada , Tír na nóg , and every gift he'd ever lent. Manannán had even had a hand in this fate they were dealt by the Sons of Míl, conspiring with those men to conquer the Tuatha Dé Danann, and then, even the mists he'd cast to "conceal and protect" had become a prison—and why?

Because he could.

To teach them all a lesson—that they were not gods, as he.

To put them in their place.

To punish them for wanting more.

If Manannán was barred from returning to Tír na nóg, this was the least of which he deserved, and still he'd found some way to interfere, though he'd underestimated his golden-haired daughter.

"I recognize that sword at your back," said Baugh, intruding upon Málik's reverie. "The Answerer." He laughed then. "Fortunately, I realized when he offered it to me it, too, would come with a price."

It did. And its price was this: He who held the Answerer could not only not lie, even as it wrested the truth from the lips of others, neither could he cast it away. Manannán had gifted Málik the sword. And now, it would be his burden for eternity unless someone took it from his lifeless body.

No matter… it had served him well enough, and any harm it could do to him had already been done and never again undone—the betrayal of his father, the divulging of his true name… the divulging of Gwendolyn's rebellion.

When he'd told Gwendolyn he could not lie, that sword was the reason—not because Fae had any complaint against deception.

They were tricksters, every one.

Himself included.

"You say you knew my father?" Málik asked, changing the topic. He did not wish to speak of Manannán, nor the gifts he'd been too young, too stupid and greedy not to accept.

"I did," said Baugh. "You should know… he came through Skerrabra many, many moons ago, intending to make his peace, and said he meant to go home."

Home.

Málik blinked, surprised.

Their true home was a place Málik could scarcely even recall—a land of eternal spring, with woodlands of golden poplars, their ageless beauty rivaling even the garden of Appollon. In that place, they had been blessed with long-life, untouched by the ravages of age or disease, and still they'd been tempted to leave it.

Bordered on the north by the furious Okeanos, on the south by the impassible Rhipaion mountains, with the Lands of Eternal Winter at its feet, its peaks were guarded by Grypes and Wyrms, and its valleys by the one-eyed Arimaspoi tribe, from which the Fomorians were descended.

If his father had returned there, it was only because he had kin amongst the Wyrms, but there was no way to know this unless Málik attempted the journey himself. But if he did that, any hope of reuniting with Gwendolyn would be eternally lost.

So then, he could go seek his father…

Or he could wait upon his throne to see if the Fates might be kind.

"My wife's kinsmen have a tale they tell… of a place called Valhalla… where the warriors will go when they are slain… carried away by Valkyries… said to be the loveliest of angels. And there, they feast eternally."

Málik said nothing, watching Gwendolyn still. She slowed her pace, approaching still, tilting her head in question.

"Perhaps you may think of your father in such a place… in that house of the dead, where someday his kin will all gather."

Still, Málik said nothing, his heart heavy despite the act of kindness he sensed this man was attempting to impart.

"Well, it is an excellent story," Baugh allowed. "Even if it is not true."

Málik nodded, still watching Gwendolyn's approach, intending to be done with this conversation by the time she returned.

In like kind, so long as he had searched already, his father's story must end. It was possible he had gone to Trevena to give up his ghost in that alcove above their city, bestowing upon Gwendolyn a last gift meant to atone for the sins of his son. But… maybe he had returned to Hyperborea to live out his years with the ones who'd begot him. Some things were not meant to be known.

"So tell me," Baugh persisted. "Why did you lend your warriors to this fight if you stand to gain nothing from its resolution? As Amergin will have it, the fate of our worlds will no longer entwine?"

Málik cast him a pointed glance. "Everything is always entwined," he argued, and Baugh shrugged.

"Perhaps. But wouldn't you be better served to keep your armies close to home… to prevent another rebellion?"

"There will be no further rebellions," said Málik.

"Why?"

"Because I've given them what they most desire."

Baugh nodded, weighing the answer. "So… it is true?"

Málik nodded, but did not feel the need to elaborate.

Once they were done in this realm, he'd given the command to close the last portal. There was no place for magic in this land, and as every spirit departed, the portal's magic would grow fainter… and fainter… like the dying embers of a once-dazzling flame… Until one day, the last of the piskies , the last will-o'-the-wisps, the last of the Fae would pass through, and the path Betwixt would be closed evermore. This was the price he'd paid for his army—the deal he'd brought to the table. They needn't believe in the Cornish Queen to fight for her. They simply wanted their affiliation to end.

"Why did you choose to fight?" Málik countered, turning the question, and Baugh scratched his head, then chortled.

"Consider it my parting gift… as my time here will be done when yours is," he said. "Like your father, I will try my hand at a return to the homeland. I mean to take my wife and return to the Rhipaion valley, leave Caledonia to the likes of Albanactus."

Gwendolyn's return silenced both men until Baugh reached out to clap Málik upon the shoulder. "I leave him to you, Dótturbarn ," he said. "Have a care with him." He gave her a wink. "Even a god's cock will grow weary if you use it too well." And with that, he gave his reins a snap and trotted away.

"What was that about?" Gwendolyn asked once he was gone, her cheeks stained with pink. Málik grinned. So it seemed she could sever a head, or run a man through, and bury him with her own two hands, but she was still demure enough to blush. He winked at her. "We've fooled no one, so it seems."

It wasn't a lie, only a deflection—for her sake. With the coming battle, he did not intend to divert her attention any more than he had already.

"He's right, you know. Half-bloods do not fare well without the sanctity of marriage."

"You mean babies!" she squeaked, and her brows collided, a look of horror twisting her features, as though she had never even once considered this consequence of their union. As it was, she needn't worry about it. The difference between a Fae's mating and a mortal's was that Fae could not bear offspring, unless by mutual agreement. She would have to want it, but so, too, would he, and he would not leave a child to be raised without both a mother and a father. She leaned close. "I dislike Baugh asserts himself where he has no right, but, yes, we must have a care."

"Worry not," he said, winking again. "There are ways to bring pleasure that do not risk a babe."

"Have we…?" Gwendolyn asked, and Málik was quick to reassure her, but it wrenched his heart when he spied the look of disappointment that crossed her features, despite her attempt to hide it.

Yet one more thing that would be denied them—the sharing of children.

It galled him, though he would not allow her to see his ire, nor did he intend to share the rest of the conversation he'd had with Baugh.

"When the time is right, you'll have babes," he reassured, and Gwendolyn averted her gaze. Because they both knew that if that came to pass, those babes would not be of his blood.