Page 18 of The Forgotten Prince

Gwendolyn’s journey was only beginning, and already she had a knot in her belly the size of the yew tree. But she took heart in this: If she’d had some part in this land’s demise, she was unwilling to accept she had no part in its recovery. Somehow, she would heal this land of Rot.

There was no time to wallow in self-pity.

She must keep her mind on the task she was given. As it was, the journey to Lifer Pol would prove treacherous and long—no less than a fortnight wading through boglands while Loc’s armies continued to scour the area. To find and kill her—wasn’t that what he’d commanded his men?

I mean to put an end to that Cornish vermin once and for all.

All this time later, his voice still rang in her ears, the vitriol consuming every word uttered. How pleased would he be if he learned how thoroughly the gods had abandoned her?

Soured by the morning’s discovery, the buzzing in Gwendolyn’s belly quickened to a full-on ache.

Bryn said nothing more as they made their way back, and when she caught up with the party, Lir blinked at her like a buck facing a bow. He twisted away, peering up—anywhere but at Gwendolyn—pretending to study a storm cloud. But Gwendolyn could tell by his expression that he, too, had known.

Had everyone known?

Málik gave her the briefest of glances before resuming his conversation with Esme, and Gwendolyn couldn’t help herself. A prickle sidled down her spine. Something dreadful was driving their discourse—something Málik was unwilling to discuss with her, or even with Esme, judging by the rigidity of his shoulders.

Conversely, Esme seemed quite adamant he listen, and whatever she was saying commanded all his attention—so much so he hadn’t even bothered to give chase when Gwendolyn had made off for the pool, leaving Bryn to see to her safety.

Another prickle ran down her spine, a feeling Demelza cautioned her not to ignore—a pip of intuition borne in the gut and perceived by the heart. What was it trying to say? More than ever, she missed Demelza’s counsel and candor. Her mother’s maid had been one of her most trusted advisors, always telling her precisely what she needed to hear, not merely what she wished to know. But suddenly… with the hiss of wind through the trees, she heard the ghost of Demelza’s voice whisper into her ear…

Slay the child, arise a queen.

Gwendolyn lifted her shoulders and chin.

She had an impossible task now before her, with impossible odds, and despite this, she had no choice but to embrace the quest.

There was no turning back. No matter how much she wanted to.

As she’d apprised Bryn, the way back was before them and their only hope lay in the Fae realm.

Once more, her gaze returned to Málik.

To accomplish her goal, she needed both Málik and Esme, yet she could afford to trust no one. Twice, Málik had claimed to love her, and she trusted that in this, at least, he’d spoken true. However loving her wouldn’t prevent him from doing whatever he believed he should. In the end, if loving her meant he must leave her, Gwendolyn knew he would do it. Hadn’t he proven that already?

Indeed, he’d promised not to go, and still he did, but that wasn’t the worst of it. At her father’s behest, he’d stolen her sword—the one she must now reclaim—never once giving her the opportunity to prove it should remain in her keeping.

If he had, they mightn’t now be forced to go beg for it…

Or steal it.

Worse yet, kill for it.

She loved Málik, but since that night on the ramparts when he’d bared his heart to her, telling her so much, and still too little, he had grown more and more distant. Meanwhile, he and Esme seemed to have grown closer—close enough to argue like mates. Look away, Gwendolyn told herself. Look away and guard your heart.

Slay the child, arise a queen.

8

Gwendolyn’s mood foundered as they wended their way north through wet and withering woodlands, her thoughts pervaded by dark thoughts.

Furious as she was at Bryn and Málik, she was also deeply concerned for her people. All she could think as they rode through this endless slough, was if this Rot persisted, there would be no grain for the fall.

Already, the planting of spring crops had been delayed by a full month, and no matter that they had reopened the port, the garners were nearly depleted.

For too long, they denied merchants entry to the port; it only stood to reason there would be fewer ships. It would take time to ramp up trade again, but her people needed food now, and it didn’t take a grandmester to deduce that without an immediate increase to their supplies, filling those garners—much less maintaining them, for winter—would prove a difficult task.

Especially with the threat of Loc’s soldiers in the area.

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