Page 11 of The Forgotten Prince

Unfortunately, the first thing she’d done after reclaiming the city was to dismiss every man and woman who’d remained to serve under Talwyn—very few, thankfully. Alas, there was simply no way Loc’s coup could have succeeded without help from every sector of this household. It broke her heart to see the faces of those who had remained. But, judging by their lack of effort here, those who’d served under Talwyn had no true love for this palace, much less for the general they’d stayed to serve. Indeed, after Kamber and Albanactus had departed, no one even bothered to keep up with their duties. Loc’s brothers clearly had not deemed this bastion worthy of reinforcement. Or perhaps they had believed the claims that the city was impenetrable—and it might have been, but not to Gwendolyn, who knew its secrets. And regardless, even knowing what she knew, retaking this city could only have been possible because they were undermanned. Upon their departure, Kamber and Albanactus had taken most of the armed forces, leaving only a few guards, and the palace itself with a skeletal staff—none of whom had a care for the work necessary to keep the palace in order.

Not even Yestin could rally them to the cause.

Well, their loss was Trevena’s gain.

Little by little, Ely was replacing the servants. And no matter that Locrinus and his fool brothers might not have appreciated what her father had built, this palace was nothing to fleer at. Influenced by some of the greatest cities across the sea, Trevena was the only port of its kind in all Pretania. As it was with the blueprints for their piscina, King Corineus had, throughout the years, incorporated many of the suggestions offered to him by visiting artists and architects, many of whom reassured him Trevena, with its thriving seaport, robust trade, and wealth of ore, was in every way worthy of the glory. They’d regaled him with tales of hanging gardens in a city called Bab-ilim, where flowers and fruit trees grew in the most unlikely of places—on rooftops, atop ledges, and on buildings constructed to emulate mountains.

After hearing those tales, her father dared to envision a city of equal splendor. Indeed, few things had compelled him more readily than the desire to raise Trevena’s eminence amongst the world’s greatest capitals. Her father had envisioned a flourishing metropolis that would bring more ships, more traders, more marvels. And, along with the peace he’d sought by uniting Pretania’s tribes, he’d dreamt of a kingdom where no child would go hungry, nor any citizen fail to provide for his family.

This was the reason he’d welcomed King Brutus so readily, providing the exiled Trojan with lands of his own to keep. But, as far as Gwendolyn was concerned, he gave Brutus too much advantage. And, because of the terms of their alliance, too much of Trevena’s wealth made its way into Loegrian coffers. Much to her people’s dismay, Brutus arrived on their shores with promises of prosperity and discovered a king too willing to embrace him for the price of his flattery.

Soon enough, it became apparent that while her father would prioritize the welfare of Trevena and its boroughs, King Brutus would not. His dream was something else—something that, if not shared by his odious sons, had certainly nurtured the seeds of their betrayal. And yet, considering his own death at the hands of his traitorous sons, Gwendolyn must believe Brutus had allied with her father in good faith, content perhaps to unite their houses and rule this kingdom through his son and his grandsons. But all the while he’d been amassing armies, placing his wolfish sons in positions of command, his own city had languished.

Whereas Trevena’s windows sparkled like Faerie dust beneath a midday sun, Loegria grew dim and dimmer throughout the years, with dirty streets, poorly constructed buildings that grew timeworn and in need of repair.

After having lived in his burgh, Gwendolyn surmised that every day of Loc’s miserable existence he must have begrudged his father’s austerity, and perhaps after seeing Trevena, his covetous heart turned sour. Alas, though Gwendolyn could easily understand why, she couldn’t make allowances for his greed.

In comparison, Trevena was a wonder, boasting a stone palace the likes of which no one on these Tin Isles had ever beheld.

Not that Gwendolyn had ever spied the city from this vantage, but it was said that, to look upon Trevena from the heavens, it would appear to be a giant, dressed in a coat of many colors, with arms wide, and head bowed, and the crenelated ramparts serving as his crown.

From the main hall extended two corridors, each leading to apartments reserved for the royal household—one aptly named the King’s Arm, and the other referred to as the Dancer’s Hall, though Gwendolyn lived there as well.

Naturally, her apartments were considerably smaller, having to share the wing with the steward and his attendants. But all those rooms except hers were now empty, and without her mother’s vision, Gwendolyn couldn’t begin to consider accepting applicants for the dawnsio—nor would any of the tribes dare send daughters to a city under siege. As it was with the position of steward, the dawnsio would have to wait, and truth be told, without Queen Eseld, it might never return to its former glory.

Frowning as she wended her way through the familiar halls, Gwendolyn found herself incensed by the way her home had been treated during the occupation. There were still malodorous, yellow stains at every corner, where Loc’s men had marked their territories like hounds staking their claims.

Here, along the interior halls, where windows were not practicable, the corridors were lit by torches, one every five alens—the length of five forearms. The result was a brightness that belied the windowless structure and betrayed its newly acquired filth. Swatting at a tapestry as she passed, Gwendolyn grimaced as black soot billowed in mockery of its former state. Fashioned of good wool and fine silk woven with golden threads, this was a depiction of her father’s battle against the giant Gogmagog—a gift from a Cathayan merchant, who’d heard the tale.

Abused even so, it surprised Gwendolyn to find it intact, especially considering it portrayed her father in such heroic light.

When Gwendolyn was ten, her father obtained a formula for a longer-burning resin made from a water-resistant solution of sulfur and lime called Hellas fire. Their chandler had become so well versed in the art of its creation he’d kept the garner full of ready replacements. Loc’s brothers had clearly depleted those stores and had used rushlights dipped in tallow to replace them.

Interesting to note, that was also what they’d used in Loegria, despite that the formula for Hellas fire had come from Queen Innogen’s people—further proof, perhaps, that Loegria was never meant to be a permanent base.

Whatever the case, the reek of scorched pig fat vied terribly with the lingering scent of urine. But also, because the rushlights burned so hot, at every cresset, angry, black stains clawed at the whitewashed stone. Sadly, though urine could be cleaned and aired—over time—these walls could not so easily be painted. The gypsum used for the whitewash was imported from Cantium, who were allies of the Iceni, and now her enemies after joining forces with Caradoc. The Catuvellauni and the Iceni were the bitterest of foes. But though this was something she intended to change, for now, she must be grateful that Ely had this palace so well in hand. It would bolster morale. But her people’s true healing would not be possible until she eradicated the tumor growing in their midst—namely Locrinus.

As she neared the palace entrance, Gwendolyn heard the drone of chatter, growing steadily louder as they approached. Her belly fluttered as she spotted her traveling companions near the Mester’s Pavilion: Esme, Lir, and Málik.

Already, the horses were saddled—Aisling for Gwendolyn; Sheahan for Lir; Daithi for Málik; and Lorcan for Esme.

Only Bryn was not meant to ride one of Enbarr’s mares, but hopefully, his mount would be sturdy, and she would not come to regret allowing Lir to join.

Emerging from the palace, feigning a confidence she did not feel, Gwendolyn took the steps two at a time, alighting into the courtyard. But then her gaze swept the gathering to find Caradoc standing with his son and Ely, and her heart turned a somersault. Caradoc appeared formidable, as did his son—both with hair the color of obsidian. Beside him, even wearing her mother’s copper breastplate and her gold-leaf crown, she would look small beneath her father’s cloak—a child merely playing at this game of thrones. Dread made her turn and lift a hand to shade her eyes, pretending to admire the familiar slate stonework and the minarets surging against a cloudless sky—the brightness of it belying the crisp, cool day.

Enough, she told herself.

You are not a child!

This is not your sanctuary.

Not anymore.

It might again be, someday, but not if she did not fight for it.

With a lump in her throat, Gwendolyn tugged her father’s cloak to cover her shoulders and then whirled to make her way toward the waiting horses, her heart tripping painfully as she turned to seek the one whose presence would help compose her…Málik.

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