Arise the Queen (The Goldenchild Prophecy #4)

Chapter 18

18

C ome fire or flood tide, Gwendolyn intended to depart this day.

She did not know where Málik slept, nor had she expected him to join her after their terse goodnight. As far as she was concerned, the entire evening was a disaster. At a time when she should have felt empowered by the sword in her possession, she had never felt more alone or unsettled. And yet, she could not afford to behave like an injured lover if she ever intended to win the tribes’ respect.

Clearly, Málik felt no remorse for his lies or his deceptions and ultimate betrayal. From the moment she’d met him, he’d been concealing his true purpose, not to mention their history together. And, truly, considering his aloofness last night, Gwendolyn found herself envious—not for one moment had he appeared remotely troubled. And meanwhile her emotions veered from heartache to anger, but it was past time to shed this cloak of girlish pride, don the mantle of a sober queen.

Not everything in life would bring her joy, nor could she afford to weep over every disillusionment. She had a war to plan and waiting for apologies from some damnable Fae was reckless—and this included Esme.

To accomplish what she needed to accomplish, she needn’t like it that Esme had abandoned her word, nor that Málik had belatedly reconsidered his affections for Aengus’ daughter. What was essential to Gwendolyn now was this battle she must wage, and the sword she must wield.

She made her way to the bed to gaze at the sword that had cost her so dearly. She was not so cold-hearted that Aengus’ death could so easily be cast from her thoughts. And the Lady warned her… in those moments between the strike of her blade and the removal of his head, she’d witnessed a melee between his two souls—hatred, confusion, regret, sorrow and fear… and yes, even fondness for the youngling Fae who’d dared to spurn him.

Careful only to touch it where it remained wrapped in wool, Gwendolyn lifted it now from the foot of her bed where it lay next to Kingslayer, examining it from hilt to point. It was beautiful, certainly, but she didn’t intend to wield it before the last battle. Until then, her preferred weapon would be Kingslayer—the sword she’d been training with since Esme first presented it to her on the day they’d met. It was sleeker than the Sword of Light, balanced and already familiar in her hand. But she had to admit… there was something about holding this sword that made her feel… invulnerable.

Two swords.

Both Fae forged.

But they couldn’t be less similar.

With a sigh, she laid the ill-begotten sword down upon the bed, unsheathing Kingslayer from its scabbard. She tested that weapon as well and found its weight like an old friend returning to her hand, the swing of it effortless.

Unbidden, a memory assailed her—before the raid on her uncle’s village… The point of Málik’s sword sharp at her back, his throaty whisper at the back of her neck as he’d taught her how to kill most efficiently.

“Notice where the point is,” he’d whispered, and she’d heard the pop of fabric as his blade penetrated to kiss her sensitive flesh. “If you ever find yourself in this vulnerable position, do not aim for the heart. ’Tis difficult to hit anything of consequence when you stab a man in the back. Here,” he’d said, pressing the tip a little harder, so it gave her flesh a sting. “To the right, not the left, you will pierce the reins. The pain will be excruciating, and your opponent will drop like a stone.”

The memory of this lesson sent a frisson down her spine, and she at once laid the sword aside. He had done his part to prepare Gwendolyn for what was to come, and for that she would always be grateful. But she would never beg for his love, and the time for daydreaming was done.

To prepare for the morning’s departure, Gwendolyn donned her battle leathers, tugging on her good boots thereafter, then tucking Borlewen’s blade into the right boot. Once dressed, she forced both swords into the scabbard she would carry on her back before strapping it on. It was a tight fit for two swords, but once down in the stables, she meant to re-home the heavier blade to her saddle sheath, leaving Kingslayer on her back. Each blade had a purpose, and if there was one thing she had learned these past months, it was that two blades were better than one, and three better than two.

At the last minute, anticipating the inevitable meeting with her grandfather, she remembered her mother’s ceremonial gown, retrieving it from the stool where it had lain for too many months. This she intended to wear when she faced Baugh, but for now, she rolled the leather garment, thrusting it beneath her armpit, praying the gown would make it difficult for her grandfather to refuse her.

No doubt, the Sword of Light would prove the gods’ favor, but her mother’s dress could soften his heart.

The mithril, too, could wait, so she rolled that up as well, then added it to the bundle beneath her armpit, a sense of urgency driving her now.

After last night’s celebration, Bryn and Lir would think her unsympathetic for commanding them so early from their beds—and perhaps she was. But as it was, they would be a minimum of a fortnight on the road north, and that, weather permitting, was only if they drove Enbarr’s mares, never stopping to rest.

More likely, the journey would take a month. But if they departed now, it would place them in Caledonia before the first snowfall, and if all went as she hoped, they could spend the winter in her grandfather’s village, giving her plenty of time to convince Baugh. Gwendolyn was not so na?ve as to believe it would be a simple task, even wielding the Sword of Light. Baugh would prove to be her greatest challenge, and despite this, she must secure an alliance with the northern tribes.

Happily for the Fae, they had all refrained from the evening’s festivities.

Only Bryn and Lir would be worse for the reveling.

And no matter, while it was well and good to celebrate small victories, they could not do so at the expense of Gwendolyn’s campaign.

If Locrinus should court and win the support of the remaining tribes, there would be nothing left to celebrate. Already, he had the most impressive advantage. With his ten thousand warriors, even her new Fae army was no match for his. And this was no idle concern: Máistir Emrys had already apprised her before her sojourn into the underlands that emissaries from the Brigantes, Deceangli, and Votadini tribes had met with Locrinus under the auspices of the Llanrhos Druids.

And those Llanrhos Druids were yet another matter. She could not wait about to see how they might rule in Loc’s suit for the “return of his bride.” She shuddered at the thought he could win, but the suit was baseless. Indeed, she had accepted his torc, and he had accepted hers, but their union was never consummated, and no matter how the Llanrhos order ruled, Gwendolyn would sooner hang herself from the nearest tree before agreeing to lie beneath that cold-hearted fiend.

There was no judge or law in this land that could force her to consider Loc as her husband, even in name. Gwendolyn had absolutely no intention of losing her freedom again, though she would relish any opportunity to stand close enough to that monster to pluck out his greedy eyes. But, as for that matter, she added one more thing to her to-do list this morn: Before leaving, she must inquire of the Máistir to see if he had news. Perhaps the Llanrhos order had brought word of his suit, and their presence here could mean they had abandoned her husband’s cause. If so, perhaps they, too, would help prepare the way for Gwendolyn to appeal to tribes?

For the sake of these lands, and to cure the Rot, Gwendolyn must find some way to give her people hope, and it would be the greatest of boons to have both Druid orders in her corner. The people feared those Druids, but they esteemed them far more, and if they had not, the Brothers’ Pact would never have prevailed so long.

So, on with it!

Dressed in her battle leathers, she chose the cloak Arachne fashioned for her, eschewing her father’s heavy fur coat. Gwendolyn had no illusions that Arachne’s cloak bore any magical properties here in the mortal realm—nor did her mithril for that matter. But her father’s cloak, lined and trimmed with fur, was every bit a king’s coat, and she didn’t wish to call attention to herself on the journey north. With its modest weave and the cowl attached, Arachne’s cloak would make it far easier to blend amidst common folk. And neither did she bear any delusion about what the northern tribes might think of her father’s extravagances. They were far more unassuming, and her grandfather would prove no exception. Even without having met him, she had every sense of Baugh’s disdain for Trevena’s court and her father’s bent for… progress .

Later, when she returned to Trevena and peace was achieved, she would dispatch riders to retrieve everything she’d left behind.

Pausing a moment before leaving her quarters, she studied the room a long moment… committing to memory every detail—the ethereal beauty of its construction, the cocoon-like quality it provided, the immutable sense of refuge… as though nothing in this mortal world, nor even that of the Fae world could harm them whilst sheltered here.

The Betwixt was a sanctuary.

If she wished, she could don the Druid’s robe… stay… never leave this place, live well… be safe, and she would be lying if she said she did not consider it. The Druids were very much a men’s association, but Gwendolyn was hardly the only female who’d ever ventured here, and she knew they would welcome her without question. And…

This was also where she and Málik first consummated their… bond .

However…

She could not afford to be soft.

Not now.

She’d made a promise to defend Pretania against the Red Tide, and she would lead this army to victory. After all she had been through, she must rise to the task for the sake of her people. She would not let them down.

At last, turning to go, pushing through the drapes, pulling her cowl up to cover her golden curls as she quickened her pace, slipping through the Druid village, eager to be away. All her life she had been sheltered by her father's wealth and power, shielded from the harsh realities of war and politics. But now, she must step into a world unknown to her, where strength and cunning were far more valuable than wealth and beauty. Once and for all, Gwendolyn determined to prove herself worthy… even if it meant losing Málik forever.