Page 49 of The Forgotten Prince

She turned his argument against him. “I beg to differ. We have appointed you and your brethren arbiters of this land. You make judgments of this nature upon request quite frequently. Why else would a tribunal be called?”

“I would not say we offer tribunals frequently,” he argued, tearing another bite from his meat and talking with his mouth full. “In fact, we profoundly discourage it. Why else do you think we have placed those blood painted stones—for their ornamental value?”

Gwendolyn frowned.

The Druid turned to address one of his brothers. “I would say it’s time for another gruesome rumor to illustrate what happens when men come knocking upon our door unnecessarily. Put your heads together over that one. Clearly, the possibility of having one’s entrails spilled for the sake of judgment is not enough of a deterrent.”

“We have been considering one already,” answered a Druid brother. “How does this sound? Along with human sacrifice, we have a taste for human blood?”

“That could work,” said another, and Gwendolyn rolled her eyes over the inane conversation. To think she had once feared these men. Despite their age, they were like a pack of shavelings with the sense of humor of little boys.

And regardless, she continued to reason with the leader. “Perhaps, as you say, change is not always such a loathsome thing; but perhaps it is time for a change for Druidkind as well? Give me passage, and I will provide you the means to work and live as you will.”

“Nay,” said the elder Druid, picking rudely at his teeth. “I cannot allow you passage, lady queen.”

Was it truly necessary to call out her gender? Gwendolyn bristled, but she was near to begging. “It would be a dreadful thing if Locrinus were made king.”

“Fie! He is king already,” argued the Druid, wiping the lingering grease from his hand across the front of his robe. “To that end, my spies report his lands are far less ravaged than yours, Banríon. This would indicate to me that the evil we fear is not the change you oppose.” He eyed Gwendolyn with meaning, and she felt the prick of his accusation like a dagger to her heart. Heat crept up into her neck, then ignited upon her cheeks. This was not the first time that insinuation was broached—in fact, the first time by Gwendolyn herself. Still, she could not conceive why her father’s reign would be worse than that of a murdering, usurping madman. And no matter, she did not intend to rule as her father did. Woman or not, she would not make the same mistakes—even if she didn’t yet know what those mistakes were. She would continue seeking answers, and she would not rest until her lands were healed and her people contented. However, she couldn’t address these matters until she had the sword in hand.

Despite the hysteria welling within her, Gwendolyn kept her voice calm. “Esme will be the first to apprise you—as she once did me—the future for Pretania will be bleak if we do not prevail.”

The elder Druid waved a hand about the table. “And yet… our esteemed Fae princess is not here,” he said. “Why do you presume that may be, Banríon Dragan?”

Gwendolyn had no answer for this, and seeing she did not, the Druid continued. “I must suppose she knew you would seek an audience with us for this purpose, and yet she has declined to appear by your side?”

“I don’t know where Esme is,” Gwendolyn confessed, sliding Málik yet another pleading glance. Trying not to panic, she peered down at the hand she’d laid flat on the table, her finger itching to find Borlewen’s blade. But that would not be the noble way to solve this problem, and neither were the Druids her enemies.

Neither was the Fae king, for that matter, but she would make him one for the sake of this quest. She needed that sword.

“Deartháir…”

“Harri,” the Druid said. “I am Deartháir Harri.”

“Well, Deartháir Harri,” Gwendolyn repeated. “I really do not mean to place your village at peril, but you must realize it is my duty to retrieve my sword. I was rather hoping…” Again, she peered at Málik, begging with her eyes. “I was hoping Lir might accompany us. His counsel would be invaluable to me, and I am certain with Lir by my side we would strive to safeguard the interests of your village, even as we do mine.”

“Deartháir Lir has agreed to this?” interjected another Druid.

“Well… yes… he did… before.” Gwendolyn averted her gaze.

The elder Druid narrowed his eyes. “You mean… before he arrived to find his brother afflicted?”

Gwendolyn nodded. “But it was his suggestion. And Málik concurred that his counsel would prove fortuitous.”

Every Druid turned to look at Málik now, but again, Málik declined to speak, allowing their silent questions to go unanswered.

“No Druid has ever dared venture beyond the Veil,” said Deartháir Harri. “Not since—well, that is neither here nor there. But we cannot condone this, and particularly now with—”

Gwendolyn interrupted. “But if the Máistir recovers, you will approve?”

“I would not!” Harri said decisively. “Nor can I say what others might do. But kings and queens will come and go. This village has stood longer than the seven hundred years we Druids have occupied it—so I am told, since the First Dawn. We’ve been apprised that anyone fortunate enough to live here will remain so long as our covenant remains unbroken. Therefore, no Druid I know of will presume to allow what you propose. Even as it is our duty to enforce the laws of men, it is also our duty to defend the Veil against those who are not welcome to cross.”

The man was impossible to argue with.

Even more so than Málik.

“It may not come to war!” Gwendolyn argued. “It could be the Fae king will happily agree to return my sword—and in such case, there would be no dissent between our realms. All you will have done is to allow a mortal to cross the Veil.”

Deartháir Harri directed his gaze at Málik, and, finally, Málik spoke to agree with Gwendolyn. “It is not expressly forbidden for a mortal to cross,” he said, and Deartháir Harri persisted.

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