Chapter 6

6

T hey journeyed for at least two more days, though Gwendolyn only surmised as much because they'd stopped twice to rest. As to be expected, anytime she inquired about the hour, the Púca answered with his normal twist of words.

"Time in our world is not the same as in yours, Banríon na bhfear ."

Queen of men, he'd said, and Gwendolyn smiled to hear it, pleased with this progress, until the Púca spoke again, wresting a frown.

"It could be that when you return, you'll arrive as a crone to watch your kingdom burn… or, could be you'll appear again as a babe in your cradle, with all you've suffered to remain your fate."

Gods! The notion was untenable.

Neither of those fates would be the least bit welcomed.

Indeed, what point in any of this if Gwendolyn must return to witness her kingdom's destruction? Or, if once more she must be deposited as a babe in her crib, only to watch her uncle and family be slain again, her father murdered, her city stolen, her hopes all dashed, and her friends once more prepared to betray her?

Or to marry Locrinus again!

She could not bear it.

She'd sooner never return at all.

Gwendolyn expelled a breath she'd not realized she'd been holding, frustrated, but pleased to learn she was making progress. She was no longer "Stupid Girl," or even "Silly Human." She had graduated to "Queen of Men," though she still didn't know how long they'd been traveling, or how far they had to go.

It wasn't possible to gauge the hour without the aid of the sun or moon, but she could feel the hours spent marching in the arches of her feet, growing more and more tender as they trudged along. But it wasn't until waking on the third day that Gwendolyn realized how little she had eaten. And despite that, she was even less hungry than she was at the beginning of their journey. Her belly complained only from worry. Shouldn't she have by now been tempted to gobble the entire sack full of Hob cake? Or mayhap she'd already done that and simply didn't remember.

Shrugging the sack from her shoulder, she peeked within, only to be sure, and sure enough, the sack was still full—or as full as she had dared to fill it. Truth be told, she had never counted on traveling without Esme, and she'd only grabbed what she could to keep from being so much a burden—so much for that.

Closing the sack again, she returned it to her shoulder, counting it a blessing that she wasn't hungry. One bite was more than enough to sour her on the taste of Hob cake altogether. As it was with any Fae concoction, it was infinitely more distasteful than to simply not enjoy the flavor. Every bite brought a vivid memory to life, and somehow, Gwendolyn managed to keep Málik off her mind. The last thing she needed right now was to be reminded of him—to remember a meal they'd shared, or taste his lips… Far, far better to listen to a grumbling belly.

"You never said… who is this lady we seek?"

"You will see," said the Púca, his voice lilting, as Yestin's used to do whenever he'd teased her over some tasty recipe he'd meant to serve at the evening's meal. But, of course, it was never Gwendolyn who'd wished to know, and she was certain Yestin knew she'd asked on Ely's behalf. As a member of the dawnsio, poor, sweet Ely was always so famished. And usually, by the time the dancers could sup, the best of the dishes were already gone, and it was so curious to Gwendolyn that so much as her mother had valued her dancers, and so much as they were esteemed by all, those girls had had to content themselves with the same repast as was served to the kitchen help. Gwendolyn wondered if this was her mother's way of keeping the dancers lean and fit, though she couldn't say that was so, because Queen Eseld never confided in Gwendolyn about anything.

Every now and again, the senior-most students of the dawnsio were paired with visiting emissaries, and expected to dine alongside them, but even then, they were instructed to eat sparingly, and to serve their guests before themselves.

Blood and bones.

Had so little time passed since Ely was asked to dine with that flat-nosed ambassador? It seemed only yesterday, and somehow, a thousand years past.

Gwendolyn desperately missed her old life—missed her innocence most of all.

She must wonder if Yestin was still in his gaol cell, or if he'd nettled Caradoc well enough to earn himself a noose.

The old steward was not the same as he was before the coup. Gwendolyn only wished he had trusted her enough to tell her what Bryn's father was planning. So much bloodshed could have been avoided, and if Gwendolyn could have arranged it, she would have given his lover sanctuary.

And now what of Caradoc? Had he ensconced himself so inextricably amongst her people that even Ely would side with him against her? When came the time, the decision would test her, because Gwendolyn knew, without having to be told, how difficult it would be to have to choose between the father of her child—Caradoc's son—and her old life, long done.

Uncertainty reared itself, like a viper striking from the grass.

As it was with everything, nothing was simple—certainly not the prospect of winning back her sword from the Fae king.

How was she, a mere mortal under his eye, supposed to convince him that her kingdom was worthy of saving, or that, she, a descendant of the men who'd tricked his people into exile, was deserving of a holy relic forged by his tribesmen?

As Málik once saw fit to remind her, Claímh Solais had belonged to his tribe first. Whether it burned for Gwendolyn would have little bearing on whether the Fae king would return it to her.

But he must be reasonable, mustn't he?

How could anyone reign so long if he had no sense of justice?

Then again, Málik loathed him, and, kin or nay, Esme could not support him. Against her own father, she had joined a growing rebellion. So then, perhaps there was nothing that Gwendolyn could do or say to persuade him, and her mission here was a fool's quest?

Realizing how much her thoughts had drifted again, Gwendolyn returned her attention to the Púca, rejoining his conversation. Incredibly, he was still expounding upon the many reasons he could not reveal the lady's identity—but this was his greatest skill, his ability to expound so thoroughly upon the most inconsequential of details.

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. "Wouldn't it be better for everyone if I arrived prepared?"

" Hers is not my story to tell."

"But you are?—"

"Never mind," said the Púca, and Gwendolyn shook her head. How could he possibly know what she was about to say?

"So, you would lead me to this lady, but you'll not tell me who she is?"

"Shhh," said the Púca. "We must never speak her name!"

Gwendolyn's brow furrowed. "I assure you, I am hardly in such danger when I do not know her name."

He answered with silence.

"Nor do I know yours," she persisted. "But shouldn't I?"

"A Púca has many names."

"And what is your s?"

"I am who I am," the Púca relented. "And sadly, we are few."

Gwendolyn shook her head at the futility of arguing with him. "At least tell me this… why must her name not be spoken?"

"We are bound," the Púca said.

Gwendolyn was not bound. "We? Who are we?"

" All who love the Lady."

But Gwendolyn did not love the lady. She didn't even know the lady! How could she love a person she did not know? "Well," she said, hoping to establish some authority. If he was finally calling her Queen of Men, she should begin acting like one. "I must insist. What if our lives depend upon this meeting? Shouldn't you tell me all you know?"

"Make no mistake," allowed the Púca. "Our lives do depend upon it."

"Yours, as well?"

"Mine, as well."

"And still you will not speak of it?"

"I cannot," the Púca persisted, and Gwendolyn's confusion deepened.

"Cannot or will not?"

The Púca shrugged, as though the two were the same, and Gwendolyn was on the verge of giving up entirely, though perhaps she could learn something if she took another tack. "Perhaps you could explain to me the difference between being bound and compelled?"

"They are hardly the same. One is an agreement, offered willingly, the other is a thing perpetrated upon oneself, whether one agrees to it or not."

"So I see," Gwendolyn allowed. And perhaps she did. But it was still quite confusing. "So… you have promised someone—perhaps this Lady?—that you will not speak her name, and now you are governed by your word?"

"Yes."

"But you were not compelled?"

"Not in this matter, or any. A Púca may not be compelled because a Púca is many," he explained, speaking of himself again as a person removed.

Gwendolyn considered his answer, and it sort of made sense. If one of his forms were compelled, he could easily alter himself to another form in order to avoid any restrictions. "So then… to be compelled… this is more like a curse?"

"Yes," the Púca said. "But you must recall, this world is not your world, banríon . Here, words are insoluble. Humans lie, we do not lie."

But you do! Gwendolyn wished to argue. What was it to say there were no spriggans here when there were?

Only because they existed in another realm?

Málik had twisted his words with the precise intent to deceive her to lead Gwendolyn into believing what she wished to believe. Wasn't that the very essence of a lie? No matter what the Fae wished to believe, it was.

How dreadful to study words so meticulously with the sole purpose of talking betwixt one's teeth.

"As to my name," said the Púca. "We are not free to refuse any request made of our given names, and this is why we do not share our names. I am proud to say no one in this land or the next knows mine—nor will you."

Well, that was a new twist on it. "The Lady does not know?"

"Nay."

"And you'll never reveal your true name so you cannot be compelled?"

"Indeed."

"Because even if you are not compelled, you may still be compelled by the use of your name?"

"Correct."

"So, cursed or not, you are obliged one way or the other?"

"Yes."

"However, you do not lie?"

"Correct."

"But you may refuse to speak?"

He said nothing, and Gwendolyn made it a point to explain what Bryn had so pointedly reminded her. "You know… simply because you do not say a thing does not mean you are not declaring an untruth solely by the omission of truth."

He answered with silence, and then he said, "Stupid Girl."

Without warning, he transformed himself into the cat- sidhe, and with all the haughtiness of a true feline, lifted his furry bottom, flicked his tail at her, then bounded away—clearly annoyed, but not enough to leave her.

Gwendolyn lifted her brow, trying her best not to smile.

That was one certain way to end a conversation.