Page 43 of The Forgotten Prince

Hadn’t he been cruel to her as well?

So was Estrildis, with her lover’s blessing. Those two deserved one another. But right now, Gwendolyn was too weary even for the thought of vengeance.

Already, so much blood had been shed.

So much death…

Slow to finish his meal, Lir tore a bite from his own portion of meat. “Unless Loc has the power to turn a heart black, I do not believe any of our neighbors would treat one another with such disdain—and believe me, I have seen my share of war.”

“Have you now?” taunted Esme, with a contorted grin. “Amidst all your seven hundred and two years?”

Lir sat, unfazed. “Three now—my birthday came and went a fortnight past.”

“Oh, nay!” Gwendolyn exclaimed. “Why did you not speak of it?”

Lir shrugged. “We were preparing to leave; it did not seem of import.”

“Of course it was, brother!” Bryn argued. He winked. “Perhaps for you, having weathered so many, it might not seem so remarkable an accomplishment, but every year survived is a triumph to be celebrated!” He reached out to clap a hand on Lir’s back. “I’ll tell you what; first chance we get, you and I must share a pint. Then we shall see if your seven hundred and three years have taught you how to endure your mead better than me.”

Gwendolyn laughed, enjoying their light-hearted banter—such a boon after a harrowing day. “Do you remember that time you and I got into Yestin’s store of mead, prepared for the Carthagian emissary?”

Bryn grinned, ripping off another bite of meat and talking through the chew. “Do I ever? That was your first time pissed, and we tried to hide it from Demelza—remember? —by securing you into your bedchamber and telling her you were ill. But she knew.”

Gwendolyn laughed, the sound as drained as she was. “Of course, you fool, she smelled it on you. But, regardless, no one could never pull the wool over that one’s eyes.”

“Ah, yes! The maid, Demelza, because she was so utterly brilliant,” suggested Esme, and finally, Gwendolyn turned to look at her, tilting her head in question. “What ails you, Esme? Why are you so full of enmity? Have I done aught to anger you?”

“Nay, of course not!” Esme said. “Art perfect, Gwendolyn!”

Gwendolyn stood. “I am not, but neither are you, no matter that you seem to believe it.” They were behaving like sisters, though Gwendolyn didn’t like it one bit. Why couldn’t it be a sisterly affection? She was on the verge of asking where the nice Elf had gone, because she missed her fiercely, but Esme stood suddenly, shoving Gwendolyn back onto her bum with such force it brought a cry of pain and a sting of tears to her eyes.

“Hey!” Gwendolyn exclaimed, but before she could rise again, an arrow came flying through camp, embedding itself into the tree behind where Gwendolyn had stood. Another whizzed toward her as Gwendolyn leapt to her feet. Málik caught it midair before it found Gwendolyn’s eye.

“We have company,” he said, as a chorus of steel rang against the night.

20

Chysauster again!

Armed men exploded into their camp.

Rushing from the woods, a few on horseback, some afoot, Gwendolyn recognized the one with the lime-washed hair, and the other whose song had enraged her. But all thought of vengeance flew from her mind as another warrior advanced upon Bryn. Panic seized her heart.

Moving to defend Lir, Esme beheaded one assailant, sending his head rolling toward Gwendolyn. Without missing a beat, Gwendolyn booted it away, sweeping up Kingslayer, and then flew to Bryn’s defense, placing herself betwixt Bryn and his attacker—Loc’s soldiers, each wearing Loc’s golden serpent!

A scant moment ago, Gwendolyn couldn’t lift her arm for the day’s efforts, but she refused to be defeated by her own exhaustion.

Raising the pommel, she swung, missing—knowing she would. Her intent was only to stop this miscreant’s advance. If she must die today—here and now—she would die fighting. But whatever it cost her, Bryn would not be the first to fall.

But too many had set upon them, even if already Málik and Esme had felled four between them. Dancing about Gwendolyn like a blur of glinting steel, both Elves struck and withdrew, struck and withdrew, struck and withdrew, each time leaving broken, twisted forms in their wake. They would have been a marvel to watch if only Gwendolyn had the leisure to do it. She did not.

She danced about her quarry, giving Bryn a chance to find his sword.

They were unprepared for this—so stupid! So stupid! They had been too arrogant, too unaware—nursing their wounds like old men!

Merely because those idiot soldiers did not spy them hidden in the thicket did not mean they would not find evidence of their presence. Esme had warned them of the smoke, and knowing in her heart she could do nothing differently, Gwendolyn had ignored the warning. Only now, in the heat of battle, with so much at stake—the direst possibilities flashed behind her eyes, none good—she must confess it may have been a mistake. If her mission should end here—if she died, should Bryn fall, or if Málik or Esme should perish, even Lir…

Gwendolyn’s feet worked by rote as she advanced upon one soldier, moving with purpose, remembering her lessons, gaining her bearings so that, when she swung again, she did so with confidence, missing only by a fraction.

---