Page 48 of The Forgotten Prince

Málik crossed his arms and shook his head. “Impossible to say. But, Gwendolyn, I am unfamiliar with the poisons of your realm. Those in mine could easily affect a man aversely, and favored though he might be, he is still a man—mortal, as you. For too many years, he has descended into that grotto. There’s no telling whether he descended once too oft. Your human form is not meant to endure.”

“And yours?” Gwendolyn dared ask. “Lir claims you, too, can die?”

He nodded in a manner that led Gwendolyn to believe the prospect did not concern him. “I could,” he agreed. “But do not worry, Banríon.” He offered her a winsome smile, one without teeth. “To manage such a feat, I would have to be stupid, or—”

A sudden shadow fell across the door, but by the time Gwendolyn turned to see who it might be, the figure was gone.

Málik left her to peer outside, frowning as he turned to meet Gwendolyn’s gaze. “Stupid,” he said once more. “Or… betrayed…” And there was a certain something in his tone that gave Gwendolyn pause.

Esme… was the first thought that entered her mind.

23

In Emrys’ stead, one of the elder Druids had taken up the Máistir’s staff, and now sat in Emrys’ chair at the head of the Máistir’s table in the Hall of Feasts. Having requested an audience, Gwendolyn was told it would be most propitious to conduct their meeting at the dinner hour. So, at present, the knives were in the meat, and the drinks in the horns. Gwendolyn had never witnessed a Druid table so replete.

All the while the Máistir’s fate remained uncertain, these men were feasting, and if she didn’t know better, it would appear to be a celebration. And yet, despite this, Gwendolyn could not imagine any Druid taking glee in the Máistir’s death, nor planning for it besides—not even this sober-faced prelate seated across from her.

He took his time, pulling a slice of bloody meat from his poniard, and waited to speak until he had thoroughly masticated the bite, then, using his greasy hands, he tucked his long black hair behind his ears.

“Nay,” he said at last, and with such finality a less determined soul mightn’t dare ask again. “I’m afraid granting you passage is not possible.”

Gwendolyn couldn’t accept that answer. His village did not fall within her dominion, but there was too much at stake to let his decision stand. If she could but convince the Fae king to give back her sword, the rest would come easier.

But it all began with Claímh Solais.

Her sword.

The one Málik had taken from her.

The one her father had denied her.

Gwendolyn made a fist beneath the table, squeezing.

If only Málik had not taken it away—she glanced at him now with some measure of annoyance—she mightn’t be forced to press the issue with these Druids. For once, there was regret in the turn of his gaze. But that wasn’t enough to appease Gwendolyn at the moment.

Truth be told, she didn’t wish to be angry with Málik, but this was in great part his fault. After everything they had endured together in Chysauster, even if her father hadn’t believed in her, Málik should have.

Or, if he’d had any doubts over Gwendolyn’s ability to keep the sword safe, he should have taken it and hidden it somewhere of his choosing—some place they could retrieve it without defying the Lifer Pol Order. Instead, that day in her father’s vault, he’d left without a word, taking her sword, never allowing her the chance to try it. And he, more than anyone, should have known it would come to this… the possibility of war betwixt two realms that could otherwise have stood together against the scourge that was Loc.

Then again, she vacillated. If that sword hadn’t been scuttled away, perhaps it, too, might now be in Loc’s hands, and she understood regardless of whether the sword would burn for Loc, it would remain a powerful symbol of sovereignty. Simply having it in his possession would create allies of foes—but why, oh, why, had Málik presented it to the one creature whose distrust of mankind could cost Pretania its future?

But the most pressing question right now was: Who was this greasy fool who held the Máistir’s staff?

Gwendolyn found she didn’t like him. He was stubborn and self-important, and perhaps he believed he was considering the Druids’ best interest, but he was working at cross purposes.

Considering her words, Gwendolyn unclenched her palm and flattened it atop the table, calling upon all her patience and strength.

The child in her longed to rise and command he acquiesce, though she was no longer that spoiled, youngling princess, and neither was she fool enough to make demands of these men. Now was no time for tempers. Somehow, they must find a way to work together for the sake of this realm.

Her father had considered the good of his kingdom in every decision he’d made, but she also knew his temper was many times off-putting, and there was something of that arrogance in the lift of this man’s chin—an inflexibility that demanded silence from her. Gwendolyn vowed she would never be so unswerving.

She said calmly, “I am certain if Máistir Emrys were here with us, he would agree with me.”

“Well, then, perhaps ’tis a good thing he is not,” suggested the Druid, his tone rife with disapproval. “My brothers cannot afford to disregard our covenant with the Fae. I know too well what the consequences may be.”

Gwendolyn cast Málik another glance, begging him to speak on her behalf. For the past bell, he had been naught but a spectator in this debate, as he was in her konsel, and she had run out of reasonable arguments. When he persisted with silence, she continued. “Mayhap,” she allowed. “But the consequences will be worse for Pretania if you do not allow me to cross the Veil. Surely, you must realize this? An exception must be allowed, or life as we know it may cease.”

“Life as you know it, Banríon. But I can assure you, change is not always a loathsome thing…” He’d used the Fae word for queen with no reverence, the look in his eyes making it clear he did not bow to her now, nor would he ever. He had been quite definite that this village did not fall within Cornwall’s jurisdiction. Nor Loc’s either, he was quick to point out. The conflicts of this mortal world were not his to prevent nor to encourage.

---