Page 50 of The Forgotten Prince

“Can you swear to me on your Fae honor that no blood—neither mortal nor Faerie—will be shed for this cause?”

He was silent for a moment, and it was impossible to say whether that was because Deartháir Harri had referred to him as Fae. Gwendolyn knew he did not like it, but she also sensed he knew it would not be in his best interest to deny his affiliation here and now. Or was he trying to answer without lying?

Málik shook his head, and Gwendolyn’s hopes fell.

“There we have it!” the elder Druid declared. “Therefore, we cannot allow it! I will bear the Máistir’s staff only a short time, but I’d not have it said I was the one who ended our habitation in this village—or worse!”

But that was precisely what Gwendolyn was afraid of! Deep in her heart of hearts, she knew that whatever came of Locrinus’ reign would be far worse for Pretania than whatever might be visited upon this fellowship of old men who’d been fortunate enough to live on borrowed time in this abandoned Fae village. But what could she say to convince this man? Give up your purpose and your lives so I can fulfill my destiny?

Indeed, Gwendolyn would sacrifice her own life to make things right, but how could she force others to sacrifice what they would not?

Neither could she swear to this man that her quest would not end with crossed swords.

Sick to her belly, she peered down at the medallion of venison that graced her plate—too bloody for her tastes. Neither was it something she had expected to find at a Druid table. After the sparse meal she’d shared with them during her previous stay, she’d presumed their tastes leaned toward… well, pookies. In light of the moment, the blood that lay congealed beneath her cut of meat seemed to be an ill omen.

She tried to find something to say, but any decent argument eluded her. So, she said, “Wise men must be brave men. We must accept some manner of risk to ensure the longevity of Pretania, not solely your Druid village! You hold it has existed since time immemorial, but if the gods intended for it to survive in perpetuity, they would have kept the village for themselves instead of abandoning it to a pack of greedy old fools!”

The Druid elder was unmoved. He cocked his head back, staring at Gwendolyn with slightly lifted brows that conveyed only boredom.

“Please,” Gwendolyn begged.

The elder shook his head, and Gwendolyn straightened her spine, rising to her full height in her seat. “I am charged with the well-being of this land and its people! I’ll not accept your answer, Deartháir Harri. I will pray and hope Máistir Emrys wakes soon, and that he sees the truth in my words before all hope is lost!”

“Even if he awakes,” argued Harri. “He should not and cannot decide this matter alone.” He lifted his staff and slammed it down onto the wood floor. “We hereby deny your request to cross the Veil!”

24

The first thing Gwendolyn noted upon entering her assigned bower—the same bower she’d occupied during her first visit to this village—was the garment that lay folded atop the bed. She recognized it at once as her mother’s Prydein gown, unmistakable for the symbols. The last time she’d seen it, it looked worse for the wear, and she had abandoned it here, opting for the mithril Esme gave her. As promised, the gown appeared to have been washed and mended, and the sight of it now turned the corners of her lips, even as it brought a sting to her eyes.

That gown was all she had remaining of her mother, and seeing it, she felt a failure. More, she despaired ever to wear it again. Not only was she certain it would not fit in her current state, she didn’t intend to wear it until she rode north to face Baugh—a quest she could not embark upon until she had the Sword of Light in her hands.

Stubborn, short-sighted fool!

Didn’t he understand? If she failed to unite these tribes, his purpose in this village would come to naught. These Druids were arbiters of the laws of men, but they were so well-respected only because of their relationship with the tribes. If there were no tribes to arbitrate, what then? What motive could the Fae have to give mere mortals dominion over their precious portal? The answer eluded Gwendolyn, and no doubt, escaped the Druids, as well.

She had used every argument to convince Deartháir Harri, but that man was an irascible buffoon, who believed himself chosen for a task he had merely been fortunate enough to hold—with his pretend Fae ears, and his haughty demeanor, one would think he considered himself a king.

Poor Emrys was never so despotic!

Unfortunately, Gwendolyn had counted on the Lifer Pol Order.

Without them, the situation seemed hopeless.

For one, she didn’t have the Sword of Light, and without that sword, no certainty anyone but Caradoc would follow her—and even with Caradoc, Gwendolyn had concerns. Meanwhile, Locrinus had many thousands of warriors more than she did, and her lands continued to be ravaged, and Loc’s were not.

Already, Porth Pool was lost! What might be deduced from that?

On top of everything else, her city’s fate lay in the hands of a man who was once her rival. And for the ultimate injury, Máistir Emrys was deathly ill, and no one seemed any wiser about how to help him—certainly not Gwendolyn. And she felt like the very worst of villains for worrying more about trying to find a way across the Veil than she was over the Máistir’s health.

She inhaled a breath, exhaling with patience.

And then again.

And again.

And then, curiously, she wasn’t worried about anything at all. Her outrage dispelled with the swirling mist—a mist whose very purpose appeared to be to inspire forgetfulness. It held the same odd, dreamlike quality she’d experienced when Málik had turned her into a tree—a fluidity that made it impossible to distinguish contours, edges, or extremities. Gwendolyn didn’t remember this mysterious effect from her first time in this village, and yet, truth be told, neither did she recall anything at all beyond the pookie stew and those odd prophetic dreams. She’d left here with only the vaguest sense of the village itself, and now she wondered if her meal had once again comprised more pookies.

No matter; if it did, for once she was grateful.

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