Page 20 of The Forgotten Prince

“That’s brilliant,” he said, smiling. “Your father would be proud, Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn’s mood improved at once, though even as she lifted her shoulders, her fleet-footed mare stumbled, sinking to the cannon bone in the soft, stinking muck and she whispered an oath beneath her breath.

“It gets worse and worse,” said Bryn, plodding through the mire.

“The land weeps,” said Málik, trudging by, and the revelation struck Gwendolyn like a bolt of thunder. It never once occurred to her that the land could weep as people wept. But of course, it could.

What had Esme told her?

We are all the same in this world, living and dead. The Aether absorbs our emotions; this is the ysbryd y byd. The spirit of the age. It weeps like men weep, over time, seeping into everything it touches. Gwendolyn had always known the King—or Queen, as it were—was connected to this land, but perhaps she had not considered it well enough. She had certainly connected her father’s illness to the land’s decline, but rather than it be a measure of his health, it was a measure of the people’s spirits, and, really, no Druid, or Gwyddon, or Awenydd could heal the land without lifting the people’s spirits. No prayers, nor balms, nor alms could atone for the lack.

Only faith and peace could restore this land.

Despite that Gwendolyn had given her people hope, there was still much to be done before their spirits were healed, so rather than focus on curing the land, she must focus on healing her people. Unfortunately, considering the current condition of these woods, she feared they would encounter worse when they entered Loc’s demesne, and now she worried anew about Bryn riding an inferior horse. Enbarr’s mares could traverse this land without trouble, but already, he was falling behind, and over the course of the day, Gwendolyn began to realize she was slowing her pace only to keep him company instead of the other way around.

9

The following afternoon, the skies opened up, battering an already abused landscape. When Bryn fell woefully behind amidst a worsening quagmire, Gwendolyn finally resolved to send Lir home.

Now would be the time to do so, before advancing farther into enemy territory.

As far as she was concerned, it made more sense to continue the journey with Bryn riding Sheahan. Quite deliberately, she had chosen her companions to make the best use of Enbarr’s mares. The fact that three could ride more swiftly and pass easier without detection was in part the reason she’d settled on such a small retinue. And nevertheless, here they were, slugging along, impeded not merely by the fog that settled so densely about them, but by the boggy terrain as well.

Settling Aisling by the stream to drink her fill, she sought Málik and found him rifling through his saddlebags. “Tell me again why Lir must accompany us?”

Her tone was perhaps a little too reminiscent of their former, contentious relationship. But she had good cause to be annoyed with him, not the least for which, she didn’t enjoy being ignored, and less so by the one being she needed and trusted most. But, more, she was still vexed about Porth Pool and that was a matter she intended to broach as well.

“I told you,” he said, peering back at her over his shoulder. “Though if that’s not reason enough, he’s also a healer. Remember? This is why he was appointed to join us in the first place. You didn’t believe we could do battle against the Fae king and march away unscathed?”

Gwendolyn frowned, resting her hands upon her hips. “So certain are you it will come to that?”

Málik shrugged, but he continued to fiddle with the contents of his satchel, appearing to readjust everything, finally removing a bundle of cloth, unwrapping it, then proffering the contents to Gwendolyn—ordinary wafers, not Hob cake. She shook her head, refusing it, far more interested in his explanation than she was over the prospect of filling her belly. But neither was she hungry—not after chewing so long on questions that left her belly unsettled.

“It’s not wise for him to join us,” she persisted. “We will travel faster without him.”

“And you would deny him the chance to return to his village only to serve on your konsel?

“I do not require that of him. I only asked because I wished to honor him, but if he does not wish to do so, I would not force him.”

“We are nearly there.”

“We are not nearly there!” she argued. “We must still travel through Silures, Ordivices, and Deceangli territory. I fear for his life!”

Málik shrugged, placing one wafer between his teeth, before settling the rest atop Daithi’s saddle. Once the cloth was free of its contents, he then removed a flint from his saddlebag and wrapped it within the cloth.

“I can summon fire,” he said, as though she couldn’t remember he had done so in the fogous. Taking the wafer from his mouth, he handed it to Gwendolyn. “But that would be unwise.” He finished wrapping the flint in the cloth, then lifted it to show Gwendolyn. “This won’t do us any good if it’s wet. Doubtless, your page has no experience with packing for travel, else he’d have known to make certain to keep it dry. Damp food may be unpleasant, but we can still consume it. But it’ll be a chilly night without a fire.” He then returned the bundle to his saddlebag, and though she tried to hand him the wafer back, he wouldn’t take it.

It didn’t matter; she didn’t intend to eat it any more than she intended to allow him to change the subject. “What good is a healer if he dies before we cross the Veil? The chances are good we’ll encounter Loc’s men on his own lands. Lir cannot wield a sword. I would wager he might not even know how to carry one, much less wield one.”

Málik gave her a forbearing smile. “I would argue a keen mind can be far deadlier than a sword,” he said, but his response only vexed Gwendolyn because she didn’t believe he was taking her concerns seriously. “He could die,” she said, emphasizing the last.

“Indeed, he could,” agreed Málik. “So, too, could you.”

That was true. Gwendolyn had no argument for that, but she could far more easily bear the possibility of her own death than she could Bryn’s, or Lir’s, or Málik’s—she wasn’t worried about Esme. Esme was too mean to die. However, not only would Lir slow them down, having one hapless soul to defend could be their undoing, and Gwendolyn was unapologetically concerned about that. Frowning, she peered over her shoulder at the Druid where he knelt by the stream, tending to his thirst, even as the horse refrained. Not once had he shown himself prepared to do battle, even with his words. Gwendolyn appreciated his calm demeanor, especially considering the company she was keeping, but he was Esme’s victim to such a degree it would force Gwendolyn to keep watch over him more than she could afford to do so. In Esme’s present mood, she would chew him to bits before they ever arrived at their destination—never mind Loc, or his men. “I’ve no proof his mind is lethal or else wise,” Gwendolyn contended. “To be sure, Málik, he scarcely speaks, even to defend himself.”

Málik thrust a hand into his silver mane, sweeping it away from his face. “A wise man knows to spend words like gold.”

Gwendolyn huffed, growing frustrated, because, as usual, this conversation was going nowhere—at least not where she expected it to go. But more, although she had prepared a lengthy explanation for all the reasons Lir should return to Trevena, she was no longer so certain he should go. Admittedly, she hadn’t considered the fact that he was also a healer, and this was the reason he’d joined them to begin with. If he’d not come along, Bryn would have died after the battle defending Durotriges. So now, she was second-guessing herself and loathed to confess it to Málik, especially considering the knowing smirk that curled his lips.

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