Page 31 of The Forgotten Prince

Over time, they made their way west, then east, and west again, weaving in and out of Brigantes and Ordovician territory, traveling as much as possible by night. Considering the dearth of people they encountered on the road, Gwendolyn grew certain Loc had conscripted every able-bodied man in Westwalas, and if that was the case, perhaps the women and children had gravitated toward the shelter of the capital. Deer, they found plenty, as well as coney, badgers, and foxes. A few owls kept watch over the night, and once, a bat swept close to Gwendolyn’s head, making her squeal. They slept wherever and whenever they could, and once, when the drizzle escalated to a downpour, they dared to shelter in one of Loc’s half-built towers. On another occasion, they hunkered within the dyke itself. Most often, they took shelter in the thickets, careful to avoid open spaces. Fasting by day, they hunted at twilight, then supped by night. And, when they slept, and were compelled to build a fire for warmth, they dug pits to conceal the flames.

Unfortunately, as it must eventually, their luck ended halfway through Ordovician lands, when, ironically, the construction of Loc’s wall ceased altogether. There, in the dying light of a watery sun, they encountered a horse and rider, both wearing Loegrian livery. On one of her scouting missions, Esme spotted the soldier and doubled back to rush them all into a nearby thicket. Moving quickly to settle the horses, Gwendolyn waited with bated breath for the soldier to pass, her eyes narrowing on the tattered attire…

Loc’s serpent reared its head on the man’s worn leather jerkin, and Gwendolyn’s jaw clenched at the sight of it, considering for the first-time what Loc intended with the melding of their standards. With that simple design, he had too easily replaced her father’s sigil with one still recognizable to her people, giving the impression he belonged on the Cornish throne—that his blood was the blood of the Conservators. The sigil was both brilliant and abhorrent at once, making it clear to Gwendolyn that this plan of his had been in the works since long before their betrothal.

Estrildis had spoken true. Gwendolyn knew it then, as she knew Loc was a monster. The toad murdered his brother! Either he did, or his mother did, but regardless of who performed the deed, those two were one and the same.

Gods.

Was the sigil Innogen’s vision?

As it was to murder Brutus’ first-born child and Brutus as well? Along with her father, her mother, and everyone Gwendolyn held dear?

The notion sickened Gwendolyn.

So many had perished on account of their greed, and evidently, it wasn’t enough that, through their marriage, Loc would someday come to possess the Cornish throne—he wanted it now!

Gwendolyn had suspected much of this, but it was difficult to argue with evidence. That this lowly warriors’ dirty, ragged uniform was emblazoned with the standard gave clarity to the grandiosity of their scheme—like that wall that should take ages to complete. Indeed, the time and effort it must have taken to design the sigil, and then apply them—even to scouts, who, for the most part were never meant to be recognizable apart from the army—bespoke such arrogance. Those men were meant to travel undetected, solely to report on the state of the realm. Not only was dressing this fellow such a stunning form of hubris, it was also quite revealing because this was not a feat that could have been accomplished overnight.

Gwendolyn’s eyes misted.

Wet, dirty, and cold, her emotions roiled.

On the eve of their nuptials, only Locrinus had arrived wearing that sigil, and yet… this man’s uniform was not new. Clearly, he’d needed her to believe his gesture was a measure of his affection for her—a merger of their houses, a symbol of their unity.

It. Was. Not.

With his greedy little mistress awaiting him at home, he’d simply needed Gwendolyn’s compliance—until the night he’d snipped her hair, and found, to his disgust, it was simply hair, not gold.

And then he’d decided her Prophecy was a lie.

He’d rebuffed her. Discarded her. Left her to rot in the room where his brother died, perhaps hoping his black-hearted mistress would do the same to Gwendolyn.

The soldier trotted past, oblivious to his audience, but Gwendolyn’s fury ignited with remembrance—that moment of her violation.

The look of disgust on Loc’s face as he’d pulled and hacked her locks.

The fury with which he had hurled Borlewen’s blade into the bedding.

The glee with which he’d conveyed the truth of her cousin’s death.

The injury it left in her heart!

Gods. She’d sat so dumbly on that bed, so expectantly, only waiting for a husband’s love… and what she’d received instead was revilement, rage, and shame.

Acting on impulse, Gwendolyn drew her dagger to cut the offending serpent from the man’s breast, incensed that he would wear it. But before she could hurl herself into his path, Málik produced a fairy flame and dispatched it. With her dagger still in hand, Gwendolyn watched as the fool hastened after it, none the wiser over their presence in the bush—or how close he’d come to tasting the tang of her blade.

Borlewen’s dagger screamed for vengeance.

Gwendolyn’s legs trembled with fury.

Her gut burned with rage.

So much she could taste her own bile.

Bryn’s hand closed about her upper arm, drawing her gently back as she watched both horse and rider chase the fool’s fire.

“Gwendolyn,” he said. “He is gone.”

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