Page 87 of The Forgotten Prince

“You know, all I have said is true, Diarmuid. Any other way, and she will fail.”

He spoke through clenched teeth. “You offered hope, then stole it away, and when all is done, her blame will fall to me, because I am the one who betrayed her, not you.”

“We share the blame. And if she lives, I will give everything I promised, and more.”

He could hear the note of sorrow in her voice, but it wasn’t enough. She was the consummate siren, and he could not afford to believe her, or to lower his guard. He answered with silence, considering the journey Gwendolyn faced—a treacherous path to a potentially treacherous end.

“Where did you send her?”

“That is none of your concern.”

She spoke now with that silky tone he recalled—the one she’d used to enchant him. “I could take a gander.”

He spun to face her, his hand clenching and unclenching by his side. “Do it, but know this, Gráinne: If aught should befall Gwendolyn, I will split your belly and drag your entrails from your middle, then feed them to the trolls!” He lifted a finger to wag in warning. “And this is the last time you speak my true name. Do it once more, and before you utter a sound, I will rip out your tongue.”

It would be pointless to tell her how desperately he regretted their intimacy, because he could not change the past, nor even the future.

Fate was no longer in his hands.

Without another word, he turned away from the creature, who had too long been the bane of his existence and walked away.

38

Gwendolyn tumbled backward into the void, the bright blue of Málik’s eyes shrinking to pinpricks of light, which, even as she watched, grew smaller, smaller. And then, winking one last time, extinguishing, plunging her into infinite gloom.

No light.

No sound

Only peace.

Was this a portal?

To where?

Nowhere.

Cocooned within darkness, she convinced herself she was dreaming, but she was falling.

But nay, that was it; she’d never gotten out of bed this morn, never donned her weapons for war, nor her leathers. She’d never spoken to Emrys, never discovered Esme with Bryn… shouldn’t that alone have given her pause?

Esme and Bryn—only in her dreams!

But she’d heard once that if, in a dream, one fell, and reached the bottom without waking, the end would come as surely as if one fell from the highest clifftop?

Or mayhap everything that transpired after succumbing to the spriggan poison was merely an illusion, and Gwendolyn was still up there, somewhere, lying abed, little by little, breath by breath, moment by moment, losing her will to live…

What if even now Bryn, Esme, and Málik were sitting by her bedside, squeezing her hand… whispering sweet words and weeping?

“Don’t cry,” she whispered, but her words formed no sound, and somehow, despite her disembodied experience, she found a sting of tears pricking her eyes.

Betrayal wove itself through her heart like thorny vines. Only once before had she felt so betrayed… As it was the spriggan vines, pain clawed through her veins.

Why did he push her?

The answer spun away from her, even as she continued twisting and falling into… nothing. Falling, falling… until, finally…

Gwendolyn landed, disoriented.

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