Page 14 of The Forgotten Prince

And still she would leave them, and there wasn’t any guarantee they would shout her name upon her return.

It didn’t matter.

Gwendolyn hadn’t any choice.

They must do battle for the soul of this land.

In anticipation of the morning’s departure, they had opened the gates during the wee hours of the morn. They would be lowered as soon her retinue crossed the threshold.

Don’t look back, she told herself.

As she had done so many a time before, she waved to the guards as she veered onto the narrow bridge, even despite knowing these would be Caradoc’s men. And then, even as the groan of chains began anew, she daren’t look back. The boom that followed as heavy lumber and steel settled against unyielding stone sent a quiver down her spine. The terrifying finality of it lobbed another boulder into her belly.

“You should have allowed me to gut him,” said Esme as she sidled up beside Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn laughed, though she knew Esme wasn’t jesting. And nevertheless, Gwendolyn answered in jest. “And then who would hold the city in my absence?”

The Elf’s eyes glinted as sharply as her teeth.

“If that is your question, Banríon Dragan, perhaps you are still unprepared for the task you face.”

It wasn’t a question, and Gwendolyn knew Esme wasn’t expecting an answer. But if it had been her intention to unsettle Gwendolyn, she had succeeded. Regardless of Caradoc’s flirtations, Gwendolyn also knew he had spoken from his heart when he’d proclaimed this city was too small for the both of them. Now, remembering his words during yesterday’s konsel, doubt reared its ugly, fanged head, and before she could stop herself, she wheeled Aisling about, turning one last time to peer at the city she was born in…

6

From this vantage, everything appeared quite ordinary—as it had a thousand mornings before. Except for the empty barbican, it was as though nothing had ever transpired in that city, and if only Gwendolyn returned to the palace with Bryn after the morning’s adventure, she would discover her father seated upon his ancient throne, and her mother in the hall with her ladies in tow.

But this would not be the case.

No matter how Gwendolyn wished for it to be otherwise, her parents were gone, her life as it was… ended. No matter she still considered Trevena her greatest love, she no longer recognized half the faces remaining. They were mostly Caradoc’s people, and, with over six hundred to witness her bestowal, she had given her father’s sworn enemy the keys to her city. Along with those keys, Caradoc would also assume command of the army and control of the harbor. And with the Dragon’s Bay, he held the key to Trevena’s advantage and the last of Cornwall’s supplies—every last weapon, every brick of ore, every block of Loegrian steel…

Even as she watched, one thick plume of dark smoke rose from the east end—the firing of the forges, she realized. As her final command, she had mandated the gathering of weapons, with the intent of repairing all the ones that were still serviceable and making new ones for those who had none.

War was coming.

There was nothing to be said or done to soften this truth, but the question remained: Must she now add one more battle to her list of battles to be waged?

Sensing her agitation, Enbarr’s youngest mare stamped restlessly beneath her, eager to go… one direction or another. Gwendolyn’s fingers tightened on the reins, second guessing her plan. One small tug and she knew the mare would obey.

But it was too late; there would be no admittance to this city unless Caradoc ordained it and she had pressed her last advantage. The shaft housing the piscina’s water screw was now permanently sealed. By her own command, the outer barbican had been vacant for months, the gates secured, with no one admitted for any reason at all, not even to seek sanctuary.

Now with the Dragon’s Flame restored—the light in the cave which guided ships safely into the Dragon’s Bay—trade could resume. All supplies they would need could be procured or received through the newly reopened port. It was perhaps not the greatest solution for local farmers or merchants, but for them, there would be access to the beach via a path down the cliffside, and from there, entry to the docks. If anyone should require admittance to the city proper, it could be granted from below and all wares could be lifted from the docks to the ramparts—a painstaking effort, and more precarious than traversing Stone Bridge, but so long as there were ample precautions, it was a viable solution.

Meanwhile, the main gates could easily be defended by a handful of archers… even if Caradoc’s bowmen weren’t as skilled as her father’s.

And still, every muscle in her body ached to fly back.

She could try… if only to see whether Caradoc would reopen the gates, but what good would that do? If he refused her, it would force her to deal with his defiance here and now, and she couldn’t afford to waste more time.

Even worse, rushing back to shake her banners at the towers, demanding reentrance… this would only serve to pin an epithet of “mad queen” to her already abused reputation, and no one could afford that.

Don’t do it, she begged herself.

Don’t.

Don’t.

Don’t.

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