Page 22 of Arise the Queen
And so she spoke, and so they spoke of things Gwendolyn had no knowledge, until she herself felt like a hapless fly trapped in a spider’s web, simply waiting to see what mighthappen.With no thought for their audience, the two creatures continued to converse, discussing the return of Manannán’s boat, and then again, the trolls, and finally Emrys and thespriggans. Gwendolyn was only half listening when the lady clapped a hand to her lips. “Poor Emrys!” she cried out.
“Don’t worry. He lives,” said the Púca.
The lady’s expression grew sober. “I’ve never known him to send creatures into the mortal realm.”
“Nor I,” allowed the Púca. “But there we were. He did what he did, and I witnessed the massacre with my own eyes.”
For a long moment, both stood contemplating this, shaking their heads. And the mere retelling of thesprigganattack brought an ache to Gwendolyn’s chest and arms. She rubbed absently at her shoulder, remembering how close she’d come to death, when suddenly, the lady drew back, patting the Púca on the head.
“Go now,” she said. “Rest your weary bones.” And then she spun to face Gwendolyn as the Púca shifted into the cat-sidhe, crouched, and leapt atop a nearby shelf. There he sat, folding his paws beneath him.
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“I’ve been expecting you,” said the lady, as she pointed to the length of cloth she’d brought. “A gift for you. Now, please… Sit. You must be weary.”
It was a command as nicely as a command could be given, but Gwendolyn heard the steely note of her voice as she gestured to the stool and Gwendolyn did as she was bade, if warily. However, she perched herself on the end of the stool, ready to flee at a moment’s notice.
This was not what she’d ever envisioned when the Púca said they must seek the lady. Nor could she have expected such a meeting, even knowing what creatures had crept into the mortal realm in the dead of night.
Acutely aware of the blade sheathed at her back, Gwendolyn only belatedly considered checking to see if the sword might be glowing. Unfortunately, it was too late to do so now. She was afraid it would give the lady undue offense, and that was the last thing Gwendolyn wished to do.
Up on the shelf, the Púca shook his head, as though he’d read Gwendolyn’s mind, and her brows knit as the lady extended a human hand.
“I am Arachne,” she said. And then, grinning, she pointed at Gwendolyn’s breast. “I made that.”
A bit uncertainly, Gwendolyn lifted her hand to her breast, peering down. She splayed her hand across the tunic, feeling the cool rings of her mail. “My mithril??” And then, she remembered. “Oh, yes! Esme?—”
The spider lady waved a hand dismissively. “Dear, sweet Esme is a treasure, but too oft she speaks out of turn—impossible to manage, but who would dare?”
Esme?
Sweet?
Gwendolyn coughed nervously because this much was true. No one could tell that recalcitrant Faerie what to do, and, indeed, who would dare?
“She spoke to me only good things about you,” Gwendolyn reassured, remembering Esme’s tales of her friend, the weaver.
“No doubt,” Arachne replied. But then, just as Gwendolyn somehow forgot about her horrid spider legs, she employed them all, scrambling over to seize the length of cloth and her needle and thread, then returning to squat before Gwendolyn, folding six of those hairy legs beneath her large, black form, so their heads rested about at the same height. And then, without further ado, she began to sew. “This will be a cloak,” she explained. “In case you were wondering.” She cast Gwendolyn a glance from the corner of one eye.
“Oh,” Gwendolyn said. “A cloak?”
Blood and bones.She didn’t know what else to say. This entire experience was… unreal. She was seated atop a stool in the richest of quarries, making idle chatter with, of all things, a spider lady, who was even now sewing.
“For you,” said the Lady.
“Well… I thank you,” said Gwendolyn, and the lady tilted her head as she worked, untucking two of her woolly legs toassist. She handed the needle to one spindly spider leg, and then a corner of the cloak to another, before offering Gwendolyn a knowing smile.
“You must be wondering why this form,” she said, sweeping one human hand before her as though to indicate her person. “As I’ve said, I was not always this way, and I shall weave you a tale as I finish your cloak, though be advised, Gwendolyn of Cornwall, I will not counsel you of your own truth. This is something you must do for yourself.”
“My… truth?”
The lady snapped out the garment, drawing it out, revealing its entire length. It was, Gwendolyn noted, a modest, dark-brown cloth, nothing special to call attention to, and yet well made, with a weave so tight and fine it could have easily been mistaken for rough-hewn silk. “There is no other of its kind,” Arachne said proudly.
“I… am… honored,” said Gwendolyn. “It is… lovely.” And then she found herself at a loss for more to say. Nothing in her life could have prepared her for this moment—certainly none of Demelza’s stories.
Arachne lifted a perfectly arched brow. “You need not dissemble, dear. It is not meant to be lovely,” she explained. “This cloth was fashioned from the silk of an orb weaver, a sister of mine who weaves the largest, drabbest, densest webs in all the lands. However, her silk is impenetrable.”
“Impenetrable?” Gwendolyn repeated, peering up longingly at the napping Púca.
