Page 32 of The Forgotten Prince

Not yet, he was not. Gwendolyn could still see him, her gaze following him as he jumped over fallen logs and ducked beneath low-hanging limbs.

If she but mounted Aisling, Enbarr’s mare would overtake him. And yet, it wasn’t that man’s fault—not really. And now his fate was sealed.

From a distance, in the dark, those Faerie flames could easily be mistaken for lanterns, but the light was not golden-hued. The fool had likely recognized it for what her people knew as piskie lights or Foolish Fire, aptly named because that flame would lead him astray, and to his doom. They had nothing to do with piskies, though her people still believed in the old tales—that if one could capture a will-o’-the-wisp, it would bind itself to you, and lead you to untold riches.

Pity for that horse and rider, Gwendolyn knew better.

That flame served one master and she needn’t ask who when it returned a few hours later to shadow Málik… alone. No one spoke as they returned to the road, silent and brooding, and this time, it was Gwendolyn’s mood more than anyone’s that darkened the brume. Meanwhile, like an annoying little biting midge, Málik’s flame buzzed about his head, eventually coming to rest upon his shoulder, but not before buzzing back to glare at Gwendolyn. Indeed, she could swear it did so—even without a face. And then, finding her dull perhaps, it returned to its master, staying close to him until early the following morn, when it vanished at the break of day.

Gwendolyn was relieved to see it gone. This one was nothing like the one she’d named Sterenglas—blue star. At Málik’s behest, that one had remained dutifully by her side, keeping her company, making her wish she could have one too.

This one had been… hostile.

She’d been apprised that every flame had a will of its own, and once given life, they burned until no longer required, seeming to comprehend when they’d outgrown their usefulness, extinguishing without ceremony. They were indisputable reminders of their eventual destination—a place unknown to Gwendolyn.

How was she supposed to win back her sword if she knew so little about the Fae realms?

Her gaze slid to Lir, and she realized if she wished to know more, there was one person she could ask who wouldn’t evade her questions.

There was more than one way to skin a rabbit, she decided, and silently thanked Málik for the unintended suggestion.

14

From her mother, Gwendolyn had learned there was a place and time for political machinations; careful planning served one best. Therefore, she waited until Bryn and Esme were preoccupied with conversation, and Málik content with his solitude, before sidling up beside Lir. She gave him a tilt of her head and, smiling, gave their Fae leader a quick nod. “So, I am told, you are the expert—not merely with Pretanian histories, but Málik claims you are also quite proficient with the Fae’s as well—particularly brilliant with the peculiarities of their language.”

Lir cast a glance at Málik, and even as Gwendolyn watched, his spine straightened. “He said that?”

“Indeed, he did.” Gwendolyn made a pretense of reaching out to pat Aisling’s withers, not quite able to meet Lir’s gaze—not because she was lying. Because she was not. Málik had said those things, more or less, but she didn’t wish to make it seem too important. She’d rather Lir believed she was only making conversation—not that Málik had refused to elaborate, and it reduced her to ferreting out the rest of the information from others.

“Well…” Lir said, eyes brightening. “I must confess, I do not know so much as I’d like to know. As I have previously expressed, for all my life I’ve longed to cross the Veil to see the City of Light. I cannot help but think that to see it would be even more illuminating—did you hear what I did?” he said, pleased with himself over the reference to light regarding the City of Light.

Gwendolyn smiled, amused. Of course, she remembered him saying so, but she feigned ignorance, asking conversationally, “City of Light?”

“Tír na nÓg so it is called in their tongue—the land of the ever young. To hear the stories told, the city shines eternally, even without the light of the sun.”

Gwendolyn’s brow furrowed.

That really shouldn’t be possible.

She had always envisioned the Underworld as a dark and grim place, with tunnels like fogous and creatures like rats burrowing through inky passages—a place where spriggans dwelt, despite that Málik had said they did not exist. Indeed, more like her uncle’s fogous, occupied by bats, beetles, and rats. Now, she was genuinely curious. “What do you suppose provides this light?”

The Druid shrugged. “I cannot say, and they will not.”

He hitched his chin twice, once toward Esme, then Málik. “What we know, we have gleaned from our past encounters with the Fae. Their ambassadors oft used to visit, and, in fact, it was from them we first learned about pookies. I am told they were planted in our mortal realm by Faekind and, like their creators, they are far more remarkable than anyone could suppose. Did you know that pookie are connected to the trees through tiny threads, like roots? They form a vast web across this isle, and perhaps even the entirety of this world.”

“Fascinating,” Gwendolyn allowed. And truly, it was. But hadn’t Málik claimed everything was similarly bound?

That day when Málik had saved her from Loc by doing whatever he’d done, later, in order to explain this phenomenon, he’d patted the tree at his back, and said, “What one knows, all will know.” And he’d spoken of the roots running deep.

“It is the opinion of some in my order that pookies contain the mystery of life. Therefore, we consume them frequently—seeking wisdom. Hidden in the fiber of those mushrooms is the very book of life!”

Gwendolyn laughed softly over his unrestrained exuberance.

He continued, describing his dream of building a temple full of tomes, and then told her about a magnificent library in the city of Rhakotis in the harbor of one Pharos on a river called Nile, where it was said more than forty thousand scrolls were secured, some unraveling to the length of two full-grown men, with every space filled with scribblings of note. “I would build one in the Druid village if there were room, but our poets are nowhere near so prolific as they.”

And despite this, they had already amassed a proper library. The difference being the manner of their storage. The Druids had developed a method of binding, wherein the parchment must be folded, and then sewn together with strong cords or ligaments that were attached to wooden boards, then covered with leather. So, he claimed, every time they partook, they rendered this experience to a written word—sometimes by the one experiencing what he called a journey and sometimes by another. Occasionally, what came of the sessions were nuggets of wisdom or accounts of the past or future—as it must have been the case with Gwendolyn’s pookie dream.

“Even now, we are still remembering all we forgot,” said Lir. “None of my Druid brethren ever imagined the Fae ambassadors would forsake us.”

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