Page 10 of The Forgotten Prince

“Art ready?” Bryn asked.

Gwendolyn nodded.

She was, and she wasn’t.

However, she was as ready as she would ever be.

The last thing she intended to do now was reveal how nervous she was, not even to Bryn. She would do nothing more to disillusion him.

Oblivious to her thoughts, her Shadow made his way across the antechamber to retrieve his belt and sword, and Gwendolyn turned one last time to peer into her mother’s bower, her heart pinching.

When they returned, this chamber would be different.

Not empty, just different.

The scent on the bed furs would belong to someone else.

The coffers would be Taryn’s.

Although Gwendolyn would be pleased for Taryn to occupy these apartments, it still tugged at her heart. There was no help for it.

Her mother was gone.

Everyone was gone.

And, after today, she would be gone as well—perhaps forever.

“Let’s go,” she said, pulling the heavy door closed behind her. Marching past Bryn, she preceded him through the antechamber and then out the door, determined not to look back. There wasn’t room for doubt, nor time for regrets.

Come what may, as of this morning, Caradoc would hold the keys to her city, and if he kept his word, it would better serve them all.

If he did not… well, then… she would have one more battle to wage.

4

At long last, the palace had resumed its normal activities and Gwendolyn knew who to thank for the effort—Ely.

All the while they’d been arguing about whether to admit another woman to the konsel, Ely had been helping to set the palace to rights. Clearly, she had learned much through observing her uncle Yestin and, considering that, considering the old steward, Gwendolyn listened to Bryn’s footfalls behind her, wondering if he, too, was as dismayed as she was by the state of this house. If she’d thought him reticent before the coup, he was more so now, keeping all his thoughts to himself. But if he was aggrieved by his uncle’s incarceration, not once had he argued for his release.

Neither had Ely, for that matter.

Truth be told, even Gwendolyn was torn.

Yestin was the one who’d taught her to keep the household accounts. He was also the one who’d taken time to instruct her in her letters when the Mester Alderman grew frustrated with her mistakes. And yet, without Yestin, Talwyn could not have accomplished his coup, and if Yestin had simply remained loyal to his sworn king, everything would have transpired so differently.

Since reclaiming the city, Gwendolyn had spoken to him quite frequently and so it seemed, he’d had no inkling her father would be murdered—at most, deposed and perhaps incarcerated. But considering the King’s health, Yestin had believed he was doing the right thing for Gwendolyn, so certain was he that she would return to rule by her husband’s side. But more than anything, he had believed he was serving the welfare of Cornwall and Trevena. It was only after the Feast of Blades he’d come to understand his folly. By then, there was nothing to be done, and so, for him, there was nothing to be done until Gwendolyn returned—if she returned.

More to the point, if Caradoc returned the keys to her city.

Whether he would or would not remained to be seen, but showing any manner of weakness would not bode well for her, or for the city. Unfortunately, releasing Yestin would make her appear weak, and weakness was not something she could afford. Yestin would have plenty of time to keep his own company and consider the enormity of his decisions. In the meantime, Ely would serve well enough as steward until they found a new one. But if recent changes were any indication of how she would negotiate the konsel, Bryn’s younger sister would have every one of those quarrelsome old men lapping from her palm before Gwendolyn was gone a fortnight.

Gwendolyn need only look about to see how Ely dealt with everyone.

Bright and early, whistling as he went, the gong-farmer wheeled his smelly little cart up and down the halls. Gwendolyn couldn’t fathom how anyone could whistle whilst pushing about that reeksome burden, but there he was.

Meanwhile, a runner carried buckets of steaming water to freshen each of the wash basins. On his back, he toted a sack of dried lavender. Gwendolyn caught the scent of the fragrant petals as he passed, a far cry from the stench of that gong cart.

She smiled at the runner but didn’t recognize his face.

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