Page 81 of The Forgotten Prince

Gwendolyn’s outrage deepened.

Neither did Deartháir Harri wish her to cross, and now she must wonder who else had been part of this scheme to keep her from the Fae realm.

Seizing the covers to toss them away, she flung one bare foot out of the bed, only for Málik to arrest her. “No,” he said, and this time his tone brooked no argument. He shoved her leg back beneath the furs and then drew up the covers. “Everything can wait. Rest, Curcog.”

How could he ask it of her?

Gwendolyn didn’t wish to rest, but suddenly she hadn’t any choice.

“Rest,” he said again, and she sank into the furs, powerless to resist, only to watch him as he turned to walk out the door. Her first thought was to get up and follow as soon as he was gone, but the weight of her covers felt like a load of tin, compelling her to close her eyes.

33

For two days, Gwendolyn drifted in and out of a dreamless sleep, each time waking stronger. But, unlike her first night in this chamber after the pookie stew, she experienced no prophetic dreams, only a healing rest that, oddly, made her feel… renewed. For all this time, no one intruded upon her respite. It was as though Málik had warned everyone against it, and despite Esme’s previous urgency to be away, neither she nor Bryn once poked their heads in the door.

For two sleepy days, there was no sign of Málik either.

If Gwendolyn didn’t know better—know how everyone supported her—she might even wonder if they had joined Deartháir Harri in his opposition, dosing her with a sedative to keep her resting.

When, by the third morning after the spriggan attack, Esme did not materialize, Gwendolyn decided she’d had enough rest.

Somewhere, her mother was waiting. She must retrieve her sword, and find her mother, and she intended to hold Esme to her bargain.

Dressing for war, intending not to return to this bower, she donned her black mithril, her sturdy boots, and leathers. Although the mithril was damaged, it seemed not to be ruined beyond repair. She put Borlewen’s blade into her boot, then buckled the shoulder strap of her sword scabbard, prepared to leave. But then, seeing her mother’s Prydein gown, she made her way over to it and laid a hand atop the buttery leather. Even if she wished to wear it now, she didn’t believe it would fit, regardless that Demelza had tailored it for her. Along with her hair, Gwendolyn had lost most of her curves. And no matter that her hair was growing now, their respite in Trevena had not returned an ounce of flesh to her bones. Her mother had been tall for a woman, and Gwendolyn certainly inherited her height, but it had the opposite effect on Gwendolyn, giving her a sense of height, and not enough curves—at least of late. It wasn’t so long ago, save for her meager breasts, she’d had nothing but curves. However, much to her dismay, her breasts seemed to have diminished further along with the curve of her thighs, and she looked like a boy. Though reminded of the attention Málik had lavished upon them, she blushed hotly.

She didn’t wish to leave him this way, but now, whilst he was elsewise occupied, would be the best opportunity to slip away. Nor could she leave him a note. Gwendolyn didn’t know where Esme was, nor how long it might take to locate her, and she didn’t want to take any chance that Málik might return before she had the chance to find her and be away.

As for the gown, she slid her hand from it, turning away, intending to leave it, along with her copper breastplate and golden tiara.

The crown, without her sword, would serve no purpose. These items had no place with her until they ventured north. They were simple adornments, intended to impress, but something told her that neither their beauty nor their import would influence the Fae king. Instead, she intended to face him, wearing only her humility. And if he did not comply and return her sword, she would take it perforce.

She would not be thwarted.

Family was everything and now that Gwendolyn had the chance to be reunited with her mother, nobody would keep her from this reunion—not even Málik.

Unbidden, her thoughts returned to Baugh, and Emrys’ warning, remembering what Queen Innogen had once told her—that Loc’s brothers intended to ride north. She had announced this with such a slippery smile. At the time, Gwendolyn surmised they’d intended to attack the northern tribes, as they had once before. But what if instead they were going with the purpose of bargaining with her grandfather? Gwendolyn couldn’t bear it if her own blood took Loc’s side. But even if he didn’t, Baugh still might not raise his sword to her cause. Having her mother by her side would help insure he might, and only Esme could provide Eseld’s whereabouts.

34

Gwendolyn was running out of time.

Finding Esme nowhere within the village proper, she ventured to the Máistir’s chamber, hoping to see for herself how he fared and, if Lir was about, perhaps ask him what he knew about Málik and Esme’s whereabouts—the first to avoid, the second, so they could be away. To her relief and joy, she found the Máistir awake and well.

“At last!” he exclaimed when Gwendolyn walked in the door. He delightedly clapped his hands. “I see our beloved Prionsabail has finally allowed you to rise from your bed!”

Gwendolyn laughed at his exuberant greeting, but her laughter cut short when she neared the bedside to find the small bruise he’d suffered had spread from the one small prick behind his neck, darkening his veins, so it appeared he had a sprawling tattoo across one side of his neck and up the side of his face.

“Oh!” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “I am told it is harmless. It should fade, and if it does not, I will wear it proudly.” He winked at her. “Not everyone can claim they survived a spriggan attack, now can they?” He laughed then, and Gwendolyn lifted her brow. She hardly shared the view. She could go a thousand lifetimes without seeing another or claiming such a thing. Unwittingly, she lifted a hand to the place on her breast where the spriggan had wounded her.

“I heard what you endured,” the Máistir said, noting the hand at her breast. “I am relieved you survived. Alas, I am told Deartháir Cathbad and Deartháir Pikel did not. Poor, dear souls. We’ll celebrate their lives as soon I can rise from this bed.”

Gwendolyn had never heard him chatter so endlessly, and she wondered if he was attempting to make up for it now that he was awake and could. Remembering Málik’s description of the disease’s symptoms, she wondered how much the poor man overheard, and his next words made her wonder.

“My brother slept through the attack, ‘tis no wonder! He spent every moment by my side begging me to awake. I don’t know where he is now—no doubt sleeping again.”

“He was quite beside himself,” Gwendolyn agreed. “I’ve never seen him so dispirited. He, more than anyone in my party, has been the very spirit of good cheer.” She tilted her head and offered a wink of her own. “If only he could learn to wield a sword.”

“Alas, we are Druids,” the Máistir reminded her. “We have no use for swords.” He averted his gaze. “Until now.”

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