Page 17 of The Forgotten Prince

So stunned was she, so dumbfounded, she was only vaguely aware Bryn came trotting up behind her, reining in his mount. “I am sorry,” he said at once. “We meant to tell you.”

Gwendolyn slid her gaze to his. “We?”

“Málik,” he confessed, with a bloom in his cheeks. “He told me not to tell you.”

Gwendolyn frowned. Why? To spare her? Did they believe she would never find out? “Málik has seen this?”

Bryn nodded, his gaze moving past her to the devastated pool. “Aye,” he said, looking chagrined, though at least Gwendolyn didn’t have to drag the explanation from his lips. “The day we captured Loc’s spy. He fell into this pit.” He gestured toward the crevice below, where a gnarled tangle of roots had prevented a full collapse of the forest floor. “That’s how he broke his leg,” he said, before turning again to meet Gwendolyn’s gaze. “The horse fared worse. We put it down before dragging the idiot to his cell.”

Gods. That was weeks ago! Gwendolyn realized. So long ago that the spy Bryn was speaking of was the same man she released to carry her message to Loc. He’d had ample time to heal in his cell. He’d kept this news so long?

No, not he… they.

Her jaw clenched.

And Esme? Did she know, too?

Admittedly, Gwendolyn had been mired with preparations for their departure, but this was something she would have wanted to know.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Bryn?”

He shrugged. “I am sorry,” he said again. “You had so much on your mind,” he added. “I did not wish to add to your burden.”

“Blood and bones!” Gwendolyn exclaimed, her gaze returning to the decimated pool, fury burning hot through her veins.

This… pool… it was nothing as it was when the two of them had swum here together only last spring. Despite that the Rot was evident even then, there had been a glimmer of hope in its condition.

Their journey was only beginning, and Gwendolyn knew she must temper her words, but she barely restrained fury. “Never again will you lie to me,” she said.

“It was not a lie—”

“It is a lie, “Gwendolyn argued. “Was it not you who only moments past reminded me that a lie of omission is still a lie?”

“Yes, but—”

“Never again!” Gwendolyn declared. “You will not spare me any truth. It is my duty to protect these lands, and how can I do this if you will not apprise me?”

“I am sorry,” he said, but Gwendolyn didn’t trust herself to say more. Disheartened, she turned Aisling away from the pool.

And yet, she must take part of the blame here. She had known for so long that something terrible was happening here, and she had been too afraid of angering her father or turning the people against him. She had worried incessantly, when what she should have done was to summon every bloody Druid from every corner of this isle—every Gwyddon, every Awenydd. She should have attended all her father’s konsels and persisted with her concerns, instead of allowing a few doddering old fools to dismiss her concerns. Instead, like the day they’d discussed her betrothal, she had behaved like a sullen child.

Quickly on the heels of her fury came fear—bone rattling fear.

Gods.

The condition of this land did not favor her, and if Porth Pool was lost… she must retrieve that sword with all due haste and return.

Only what if she failed?

What if the sword would not burn for her?

What if she wasn’t worthy?

What if she couldn’t heal this land?

What if she wasn’t able to unite the tribes?

What if they turned away from her, even with the sword in hand?

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