Page 88 of The Forgotten Prince

The end of her journey was like that moment when she was six, twirling in a field of daisies, spinning, spinning, spinning and then tumbling down, everything wildly adrift—no solid ground, until abruptly there was, and the feel of it made her belly roil and her eyes close against a violent surge of nausea.

Groaning, she felt about for stability, grasping at what appeared to be rocks and soil… many little pebbles. Whatever the case, she was most definitely alive, judging by the pang between her shoulders where the hilt of her sword pushed against her mithril. She opened her eyes and blinked, to find herself dizzy and seeing stars… but nay, not stars… piskies… all buzzing about her face, winking furiously.

Gwendolyn sat up and, by the light of the swarm, found herself stranded in a cavern that reminded her of her uncle’s fogous.

Was this only a memory then, and at any moment, Málik would light the flame in his hand? She remembered falling down from her uncle’s bedroom, into the fogous, the smell of dirt heavy in her nostrils…

“Fáilte,” said a voice, and Gwendolyn blinked against the shadows to clear away the confusion. “Fancy meeting you here?” said the white and black creature that now reclined atop a small mound. And despite knowing the language was not her own, Gwendolyn somehow understood.

The Púca rolled onto its side, lifting a leg to lap at the inside of its thigh as a cat might do, its pink tongue stretching unnaturally. As she stared, it continued to clean itself until satisfied, and then sat upright and began to sing the same song Gwendolyn recalled from the Druid’s hall, only this time she understood every word…

A babe was bequeathed by two Fae,

Two gifts, and a lie they all say.

One younger, one elder,

One wiser, one skelder,

Then, sniggering, they stole awa’.

“Danger!” squealed the piskies, and with a thousand shrieks, the swarm scattered, taking Gwendolyn’s light along with them, leaving her immersed in darkness and silence, but within that darkness, another flame kindled—this one in Gwendolyn’s heart.

White. Hot. Fury.

Betrayed.

Even as she peered up, half expecting Málik to appear beside her, as he had in the fogous, she knew he would not. The sack she was still clutching between her fingers was a painful assurance that this was no dream, nor even a memory.

The Púca had stopped singing for a reason. Bewildered, Gwendolyn unsheathed Kingslayer, resting it atop her lap.

Málik hadn’t simply shown her the portal. He’d shoved her through and then deserted her. And even as she grew certain of this truth, the runic inscriptions on the flat of her blade began to flicker, and glow… blue.

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