Page 60 of The Forgotten Prince

Ambling along, she was silent a long while, considering the possibilities, listening to Bryn swallow and chew bite after bite of Hob cake—devouring it as though he had gone for months without sustenance. He seemed fine at the moment, but he might yet come to regret his belly full—and so might she.

He would not be alone in his inebriation.

Long ramps made of ropes connected the village, intersecting at intervals by cross points where Druid prelates sat meditating and smoking their reeds. These men were all so preoccupied with their pookies and their pipes, and their Hob cake and mead, it was little wonder how they accomplished anything at all.

Were they all this way?

Even the Llanrhos Druids had seemed immensely preoccupied with inducing their “visions,” and Gwendolyn now wondered if they’d only ever visited Trevena in order to swelter beneath their ancient yew, filling their lungs with vapor.

The thought made her glower.

At long last, Bryn finished the last of the Hob cake. “Parsnip puffs!” he blurted, and Gwendolyn lifted both brows at the mention of the dish, made with salted, boiled parsnips and heaped with cream, butter, nutmeg, and eggs. It had been so long since their cook had made it, but the first time she recalled eating parsnip puffs, Bryn had pushed an entire salver into her face, and then laughed and dashed away. They were twelve and eleven that summer—the year before she’d met Urien for the first time. Poor man, she thought. He had seemed hale enough in those days, and Gwendolyn’s only thought had been one of horror over the possibility of wedding a man nearly her father’s age. She wondered when his stepmother had begun to poison him, and felt terrible for his fate, despite that they did not perpetrate the crime on her behalf.

Bryn gave her a familiar grin, telling her he remembered that day as well, and Gwendolyn laughed and said, feigning irritation, “Parsnip puffs, humph!”

Of course, he would remember that occasion and dish—he had relished every moment of Gwendolyn’s shock when he’d pushed the salver into her face. His laughter, as he’d run away, reverberated for weeks throughout Trevena’s halls. Alas, if it was his intention to divert her, she would not be—not even by such pleasant memories. “Whatever you do, do not stir suspicion,” she persisted.

“Discretion is my true name.”

“Is it?” Gwendolyn knitted her brow. “Since when?”

For the first time in months, her childhood friend’s cheeks mottled red. “Since my father discovered me in the stables with Caja.”

“Caja!” Gwendolyn blinked. “The kitchen maid?”

Bryn nodded, his cheeks coloring deeper.

Gods. How was it she’d never known this? “You never said.”

“Why would I?”

The question sobered Gwendolyn at once.

Why would he, indeed? Gwendolyn had always been aware of his feelings for her. But she’d also learned his father never refrained from using the lash on his only begotten son. Bryn was too proud to tell her and Gwendolyn wanted to kill his father all over again, solely for the possibility of his having taken the lash to his sweet little boy—a just and honorable soul, who’d deserved more than what he’d gotten.

Including from her.

Gwendolyn owed Bryn so much.

Someday, she would honor him rightly.

Someday, she hoped he would find his own true love, as Ely had—hopefully, not like Gwendolyn, always wanting, wanting but never having.

Already, he’d known too much of that.

Indeed, the thought further sobered Gwendolyn, filling her with guilt. It was no wonder Bryn’s mood grew ever more somber. Even now, though she could see the sadness in his eyes over the mention of his father, it also glinted with an underlying fury—perhaps because Talwyn always held him to such high standards, and meanwhile, would stoop so low as to commit treason—rotten, misbegotten cur.

As yet, she and Bryn had not had a suitable occasion to explore the events of that day—specifically, the death of his father by her hand. She sensed he didn’t blame her, but there was still too much left unsaid.

“Everyone has secrets,” he said, as though he’d read her mind. “Including me.”

Now it was Gwendolyn’s turn to flush because it was true, and clearly, she was keeping a few of her own.

He fixed her with a pointed glance, before relenting. “Very well. I will do as you suggest—as though there ever was a doubt. I am far too soft where you are concerned, Gwendolyn. Don’t worry, I shall be discreet,” he promised. “But I will only investigate under one condition...”

Gwendolyn slid both hands behind her back, linking her fingers, trying for a lighter tone. “And that would be?”

“You must allow me to deal with this my way, with no intervention from you. And furthermore, you must abide by my conclusions. In the meantime, you will worry only about getting us through the portal. No matter how charming this village, or how good the Hob cake, I’d not like to see us waylaid. For that matter, I heard some gossip in the kitchen, and it does not bode well.”

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