Page 35 of The Forgotten Prince

But neither was cornering an Elf for answers so easily done. They invented language and had many ages to learn to wield words as deftly as weapons.

Gwendolyn tried to determine whether she’d ever felt Málik to be evasive, and certainly she had. To be sure, even now—especially now—conversations with him were more frustrating than they were with Esme.

Although what had Lir said? Esme was the only one her father still trusted to come and go as she pleased, most probably to spy on Málik.

Was this what Esme was doing all this time? Did Gwendolyn’s cause mean nothing to her? Was this also why Málik mistrusted Esme?

Gwendolyn noted that, even now, Málik didn’t return Esme’s conversation with any great relish. He responded with the same economy of words that always vexed Gwendolyn so much.

Gwendolyn didn’t wish to believe he was capable of deception—at least not with her. But he had warned her she could not rely on him nor Esme to manage negotiations with his father. This should give her pause.

Riding alone, for once, without Esme by his side, Málik’s back was straight and proud, his attention on the road ahead, his silver mane shining beneath the morning sun like silver spun… But even as Gwendolyn watched him, she knew…

He knew more than he would say.

And not only about the Rot.

Indeed, Gwendolyn suspected her plight was no mystery to either of these Elves, and she grew certain Málik wasn’t the only one keeping things from her.

Curious how Esme might answer in her present mood, Gwendolyn waited for the Elf to tire of her one-sided conversation with Málik, and then sidled up beside her.

“You once advised me the Aether absorbs our spirit. This is the ysbryd y byd. But I do not understand why the Rot is worse near Trevena, when my father tried so hard to rule as the First Men ordained.”

“Did he?” Esme asked.

“I believe he did.” Gwendolyn furrowed her brow, taking issue with the flippancy of Esme’s tone, and when Esme responded with silence, Gwendolyn continued. “Clearly, he made mistakes, else we’d not be where we are today. But he considered the Brothers’ Pact with the utmost respect. All he did, he did to honor our Conservatorship.”

Esme slid Gwendolyn another glance, her gaze slippery as an eel. “Aye, well… I will argue that a pact between warmongering mortals intent upon dividing lands not their own should never be commended. Instead, perhaps your tributes should be offered to the land?”

“Are you suggesting my father forsook his duties?”

The Elf gave an exaggerated sigh, once more turning to Gwendolyn, her eyes shining curiously. “Gwendolyn,” said Esme, with scant patience. “You know the answer to this question already. May I ask what your father hoped to gain with the Loegrian alliance?”

Gwendolyn responded without hesitation. “Peace, of course.”

She knew this beyond a shadow of doubt. Everything her father had ever done, he did for the sake of peace—the taking of a Prydein wife, the treaty with Leogria, the money invested in the dawnsio, the honoring of ancient wisdom through his patronage of the Gwyddons and Awenydds—not to mention his affiliation with the Druids.

“And you’re certain of this?” Esme asked. “Because I assure you, the Spirit of the World does not wither and die of its own accord.”

Gwendolyn’s frown deepened. “Perhaps I should ask instead, why does this land thrive in the heart of a Usurper’s demesne? Why would hopelessness and despair not manifest itself like a cancer upon this land, as it has in Cornwall?”

Esme tilted her head, as though she found it difficult to explain. And then, settling upon an answer, she lifted a finger. “When there are no expectations, there can be no disappointment. There is a certain… fervor—if fleeting—in the freedom granted an unbound soul.”

Gwendolyn considered that explanation, but before she could consider it too carefully, and ask questions, Esme added, “Anger bears its own force, as does fear.”

Gwendolyn thought about that as well.

“So, you are saying there is power in the spirit of anger?”

“Life is passion and passion is life,” Esme explained. “Loathing is not the opposite of love, Banríon. Dispassion is. Hatred might sustain life… for a while—did you never hear it said a man was too mean to die?”

Indeed, Gwendolyn had. She had said just such a thing about Esme. She lifted a hand to her lips, as though to keep herself from expressing that fact.

“There is truth in this,” Esme said. “But the energy of it is short-lived, even by mortal years. Eventually, all things perish without hope, and hatred’s roots, no matter how deep, will not sustain. Only a true sanguineness of spirit may do this.”

“So… you are saying… Loegria thrives through Loc’s wrath, and meanwhile Cornwall’s spirit withered before my father did?”

Esme gave her a nod, then shrugged. “Something like that. Though I do not scry, so I cannot tell you at which point your people’s hope died, only that you should seek your testimony in the land itself.”

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