Page 13 of The Forgotten Prince

Giving her a halfhearted smile, Bryn turned to tuck the sack of coins into his own saddlebag before returning to address his sister. He whispered into her ear, only to make her giggle and then made a show of embracing Kelan, bidding him, as Gwendolyn had, to take good care of Ely. He smacked the chieftain’s only remaining son on the arm—hard—then stepped back to make room for Gwendolyn.

There was no use putting it off any longer.

With a last glance at the palace entrance—where she longed to flee, Gwendolyn embraced Elowyn, and then, lifting a finger to touch Ely’s cheek, she said, “Take good care, my dearest friend. You are a sworn alderwoman now, and you must command your due respect. By law, they must heed your words. Accept misery from no one.” She cast a glance at her new father-by-law. “Know your suffrage preserves the will of our people and our lands.”

Ely nodded, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, and Gwendolyn reached up to swipe the glittering moisture away.

Gods. It was so difficult to leave her. They had once been like sisters. The minute she rode through those gates, she would leave yet another splintered piece of her heart. No doubt, she had battled a few demons where Ely was concerned, but not for one moment had she ever blamed Ely for any of it. Ely was like the sun to a blossom. “Weep not, sister of my heart. I have faith in you, and I promise to return your troublesome brother unharmed.”

It was a promise she shouldn’t make, but she vowed in that moment that whatever it took—even if it meant sacrificing her own life—she would do it.

Ely nodded, reaching up to wipe another tear.

“Enough!” Bellowed Caradoc. “You’ll turn us all into weeping crones. Already, I find myself unmanned! Away! Begone!” he declared, waving a hand in a manner that could never be mistaken by the gathering crowd—shooing her like a dog.

Gwendolyn inhaled deeply and somehow refrained from pointing out that he was not her sovereign. She would go when it suited her, but as it so happened, it suited her to do so now. Canny old bastard. But leave it to Esme to put his swagger to the test. No one could tell that surly Elf what to do, nor when to leave, and she was more protective of Gwendolyn than even Gwendolyn was inclined to be. Unsheathing her Elvin dagger, she moved swiftly, turning the razor-sharp blade to Caradoc’s throat. “Banríon Dragan will depart when it suits her, not before,” she said, smiling, her lips pulling back tight over prominent fangs.

Startled, rearing back from the blade, Caradoc lifted both hands in submission, removing his throat from the vicinity of her sword. “Calm yourself!” he suggested. “No harm was intended.” And then, only to be certain his position was clear, he fell to one knee before Gwendolyn, and said, “Go with the people’s affection, Majesty. All will be as we said.”

Gwendolyn swept a hand down, tapping his arm, bidding him to rise. She needn’t see him so humbled, only a bit less… despotic. When he stood to face her again, she retrieved her father’s judicatory brooch from the pouch at her waist—one similar to the ones worn by the konsel of Twelve. Only this one bore the royal seal and served as the city’s symbolic key. So long as Caradoc held it, Trevena would be his to command. She handed it to him. “Wield it wisely,” she charged him, withholding it only for a moment so the people could see she held it and gave it willingly. “Keep our people safe.” Her choice of words was not by chance. His people were her people now, and she wanted him to feel the same responsibility for the ones she left behind. “We will return victorious,” she promised. “And then, you and I will ride together as friends and allies to take back your rightful lands. I have given you my word and intend to keep it. Keep yours to me.”

“I shall,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye—the look far less reassuring than Gwendolyn had hoped for. Yet, she had no choice but to take him at his word.

It was past time to go—because if she did not leave now, she would lose her nerve, and run back into that palace to hide beneath her mother’s covers and never again peek out. She released the broach into his hands, and then, swallowing her uncertainty, Gwendolyn spun about to find Esme mounted—so quickly she’d moved from Caradoc’s throat to her horse, with her sword returned to its scabbard. Gwendolyn would never grow accustomed to that—the swiftness of the Fae’s movements.

Lir, too, was mounted, eager to reassure Gwendolyn that he was ready to go.

Bryn’s foot was in the bridle iron, and even as he swung his leg over the mare, Málik assumed his saddle as well.

Gwendolyn would be the last to mount.

No one advanced to aid her, but she didn’t need help; she was an accomplished horsewoman. Even so, she experienced the tiniest flutter of nerves as she placed her boot into the bridle iron, thinking how cruel a twist of fate it would be if she should stumble now, leaving her people with a lasting impression of inadequacy—something she could not afford!

Too many years her people had floundered beneath an ailing king, and in the end, her father’s weakness was Trevena’s undoing.

The people’s perception was a powerful force. This was why she needed them to view her departure as a willing sacrifice for Cornwall.

In fact, she’d once heard a tale about a king who tumbled from his horse on the eve before a battle. His fall was presumed to be an ill-omen from the gods, and after the battle was lost, his people deposed him, allying themselves with his enemy. And truly, wasn’t that what had happened with her father? His most loyal subjects had judged and found him unworthy, opting for an outlander in his stead.

Mounted now, half-blinded by the morning sun glinting across her mother’s breastplate, she lifted a hand to the crowd, waving. “We will soon return with Claímh Solais and all the fury of the North!” she declared, with a glance toward Caradoc, who stood, arms crossed, watching. It was Gwendolyn’s not-so-subtle way of reminding him she had resources beyond his dwindled army.

He knew it and grinned as a chorus of huzzahs arose amidst the crowd.

Gwendolyn straightened in the saddle, unsheathing Borlewen’s blade and holding it high so it winked against the morning sun. “Cornwall and her allies will prevail!”

Another concert of shouts, and Gwendolyn didn’t wait to be led. Taking the reins, she wheeled Aisling about, pointing the mare’s nose toward the Trade Streets. From there, the path curved northwest through the market, to the main gate.

It was a sovereign’s duty to ride at the head of the army.

In his youth, her father would never have depended upon others to fight his battles, nor did he once depart these gates for war hidden behind his men. Rather, he’d ridden at the fore, always, unmistakable in his leadership. Gwendolyn wanted no one to mistake that she was in command. She shoved her cloak behind her with intent, wanting everyone present to see she rode without a torc at her throat—unclaimed, unbowed, unwed!

She might have exchanged vows with that lying, conniving impostor, but she’d never once shared his bed—not even on the eve of their wedding, and so, in her heart, she was a free woman. And she would cut the heart from her own breast before she submitted to any man for the sake of duty.

Not Locrinus, not Caradoc—no man.

With thoughts of vengeance darkening her heart, she gave Caradoc one last glance and moved into the gathering. The rest of the party fell in line behind her, cantering toward the main gates. At the sight of her retinue, the people let loose another resounding cheer. “My'ternes!” They shouted. “My'ternes!”

Queen.

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