Page 29 of The Forgotten Prince

Surprised by the vehemence in her voice, Gwendolyn tried to explain that, when everyone else had feared reprisal from her mother, Demelza was her greatest ally, defending Gwendolyn even when many had suspected her a changeling. In fact, even when her father dared not intervene, it was Demelza who’d dared to defend her.

Esme’s response was devoid of compassion or good humor. “Mayhap you are a changeling,” she’d said shrewishly, and Gwendolyn resolved to avoid her thereafter.

She was not a changeling, though her mother had too long accused her, and the memory of her treatment never failed to bring an ache to Gwendolyn’s belly. How many countless years had Queen Eseld marched those contentious physicians into her bedchamber to inspect every freckle, every mole, every finger, every toe? It went on so long that, at long last, it forced her father to call a halt to the endless investigations, and no one ever found reason to suggest Gwendolyn was aught but a girl.

“What does this prove?” Esme argued. “That Demelza herself believed it an abomination they should denigrate you by calling you a changeling? I do not find this behavior admirable,” she said. “Please spare me the endless extolling of this maid’s extraordinary virtue.”

Gwendolyn bristled over the condemnation, but tempered her response, realizing something more was bothering Esme than having to bear witness to Gwendolyn’s tales.

No one said anything, and Esme left off, swallowing her words as she swallowed a wafer, and then rose, slapping her hands on her leathers and, giving Gwendolyn an indignant backward glance, left.

Gwendolyn let her go without reproach—who could reproach Esme, anyway? Hoping to make nice, she refrained from pointing out how vulgar it was to disparage a grieving person’s dead loved ones.

But that was not the end of it.

Later the same day, when Gwendolyn and Málik were discussing the Rot, Esme insinuated the worst. “Perhaps it follows you?” she’d said with a tilt of her head—as though Gwendolyn herself could be the cause.

After so many days on the road, Gwendolyn hadn’t the tenacity to fight with her, and even Málik seemed to grow weary of Esme’s temper, judging by the rigid set of his shoulders and the way he turned his head every time Esme approached.

One thing was certain: For all Gwendolyn’s initial concerns about Lir, he was the only one whose presence wasn’t dispiriting. For all the abuse the poor lad had endured over the past days at Esme’s goading, he more than anyone remained uncomplaining, brushing off Esme’s barbs with a natural forbearance, which was far more than even Gwendolyn was inclined to do. Indeed, observing Lir filled Gwendolyn with a burgeoning sense of respect, and she understood why Bryn had risen to the young Druid’s defense. Gwendolyn, too, felt defensive of him, and without advising him what she was doing, she drew him close by her side, despite that this was specifically what she did not wish to do. But they were too far down the road to turn back now, or to send him away. This was the company she had, and Lir was an integral part of it. Come what may, she would protect him and keep him safe—as much from Esme as any of Loc’s men.

* * *

As the days wore on, Esme’s temper remained disputatious. She was abominable in every way she could manage, arguing with Málik, bullying Lir, and avoiding Gwendolyn. Only Bryn seemed to take her mood in stride.

“Something is troubling her,” Gwendolyn said to Málik on the one occasion he was drawn to her side. When he didn’t reply beyond the lift of his brow, Gwendolyn tried changing the subject. It had been too long since they’d had much discourse, and she was desperate for conversation with him. “You were right about Lir… I was too quick to judge.” This earned her an even higher lift of his brow, but still he said nothing, and Gwendolyn tried once more to find a worthy topic of conversation—something they could latch on to and seek respite from this bothersome silence. Sadly, being queen did not save her from awkward conversations. “You know, I wondered… when you said our journey was ill-timed, were you referring to the state of our konsel?”

She’d used the word “our” quite deliberately because she’d never once viewed this role as hers alone. If they were going to return the spirit of this land to its former glory, she couldn’t do it alone. She needed every member of her team.

Málik peered at her, and she added, rambling, “Caradoc will honor my wishes, I believe.”

“Art trying to convince yourself?”

Gwendolyn’s tone betrayed uncertainty. “You think he would defy me?”

“It is not what I think that matters, Gwendolyn. I do not confess to knowing the turn of your minds.”

Your minds?

Yours

Plural.

Gwendolyn blinked at his choice of words. Did he now lump her with all her mortal brethren? Was there nothing sacred between them?

She tried not to take offense, still she did.

Day by day, she felt their closeness dissipating.

In part, it could be because Esme was chipping away at their bond with every wrathful word she uttered, yet Gwendolyn had done nothing to deserve the distance Málik was raising between them.

She lifted her chin. “I think Caradoc mightn’t like it that I placed Ely on his konsel, but she’s wed to his son. I do trust Ely to do what is right, and I am quite certain—as Caradoc should be—that she will consider his concerns with great care.”

Still, Málik said nothing, and Gwendolyn continued. “She is young, mayhap, and inexperienced, but I know her heart—more than I can say about some,” she said with growing impatience.

Without meaning to, she had perhaps revealed her own worst fears—that she would place her own trust in the wrong hands. But rather than bother to reassure her, Málik said, “Good.”

“Good?”

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