Page 25 of Arise the Queen
Esme and Málik?
Arachne hadn’t spoken their names, but Gwendolyn knew.
“To this day, those two remain at odds, but with one true purpose to unite them. But, alas, this must be the end of my tale. To say more may doom us all, and perhaps I’ve already said too much.”
“Oh, please!” Gwendolyn begged. “Please! Don’t go!”
“You’ve more than enough to think upon, Queen of Dying Lands. But know this: we’vealltwo souls. Some, like Locrinus’, are equally vile. Some, like mine… neither good nor bad. We do what we must for the good of all.”
She turned then, to pluck at a strand of her web, smiling coolly as she added, “In any moment we can be both, or neither, but always, always, it is the soul we feed that thrives. Dinner calls,” she announced, and with that, turned to go. “Do notrelinquish the cloak!” she commanded as she climbed her web and scrambled away so swiftly that Gwendolyn saw her departure only as a blur.
Stunned by everything she’d learned, Gwendolyn peered up to discover that she had been so engrossed in Arachne’s tale that she never realized… the Púca was gone as well. Within another heartbeat, she heard the unmistakable march of booted feet.
11
Betrayed.
Again!
Málik had warned Gwendolyn that the Fae king would sense her presence in his realm and stop at nothing until he found her, but the swiftness with which he’d accomplished that task was only slightly less alarming than the haste with which she was abandoned by Arachne and the Púca—both were long gone before the King’s guards arrived to seize her.
Because they knew…
Had the Púca intended all along to lead her into this trap?
Thepiskies, too?
All this time, Arachne had spoken to her so sweetly, offering gifts and making Gwendolyn believe that she, too, once suffered the pain of betrayal.
And yet, all the while, Gwendolyn had sat there, empathizing, feeling as though she’d found herself a kindred spirit, and all that time Arachne had been biding her time, plotting against her, only waiting for the King’s guards.
Dinner calls? Humph!
A militia of Fae soldiers poured into Arachne’s lair, all dressed in black leathers, with shining black boots—all silver haired, with pointy ears. But Gwendolyn never had a single glimpse of their teeth for the tight press of their lips.
“Stop!” Gwendolyn insisted. “Please! Stop! Nay! Wait! You misunderstand me! I’ve come in peace to see the King! I amnotyour enemy! I am Gwendolyn of Cornwall—please! Stop! Listen!”
There was no chance for discussion.
They did not consider Gwendolyn their equal—because she was a woman, or because she was human? They treated her like a rabid dog that had been hunted and captured. The looks they cast down their noses rivaled even the judgment she’d suffered at Locrinus’ hand. Struggling against her would-be captors, Gwendolyn shouted, enraged, as they dragged her out from Arachne’s lair.
Once outside, they thrust her into a company of more than thirty Fae soldiers, but not before seizing her weapons. Stripping her bare of her defenses, they took Kingslayer, and the dirk she’d kept at her boot.
Remembering Arachne’s warning not to part with the cloak, she beseeched them more ardently to allow her to keep it, and in the end, still peering down their noses, the guards relented. Now, as they marched along, she held the cloak about her shoulders as she said through clenched teeth, “There was no need for such violence. I came willingly to speak with your king!”
Not a one replied, and for all Gwendolyn knew, no one even heard her—certainly, none of the Fae soldiers even looked in her direction, as though they’d judged her and found her unworthy of lending even their voices to the effort.
Taut jawed, furious, Gwendolyn endeavored to tamp down her rage, realizing that in her present situation, fury would gain her little.
Her head was still spinning with everything she had learned—so much revealed that her weary brain could not yet work it all out.
So Esme and Málik were, indeed, lovers, unwilling though he may have been. And Gwendolyn was the child Esme and his mother hid in the mortal realm. And yet, despite this, Gwendolyn was a mortal, delivered of mortal parents.
She remembered every moment of her life—her rearing by Demelza, her father’s doting, her mother’s disaffection…
She was Gwendolyn of Cornwall, who’d skinned her knees till they bled—and, oh, yes, she’d bled, and her blood was as red as any. And she knew without a doubt that if a blade should find her breast, she would perish the same as any.
At least they didn’t bind her hands, nor did they try—so certain were they that escape was futile, and perhaps it was. Gwendolyn was far outnumbered. As she marched her way through the strange woodlands that she’d once found so beautiful, she was surrounded by glaring, judging faces. A terror of curious trolls met her gaze as she passed, peering up from beneath a procession of wooden bridges.
