Page 15 of The Forgotten Prince

“If you tarry long enough, you may hear him celebrating,” said Esme, chortling, and Gwendolyn cast the Elf a backward glance, but she refrained from responding, loathing how true she spoke. Caradoc would indeed be compelled to celebrate her departure, but Gwendolyn also trusted he would keep her people safe, and that’s what mattered most.

Far more than her ambivalence toward Caradoc, it was Esme’s demeanor that bothered Gwendolyn most. Changeable as the wind, her sense of humor—if it could be called that—had turned dark and biting and there was an edge to the Elf’s temper that was sharper than Borlewen’s blade. And considering the countless hours Gwendolyn had spent honing her cousin’s blade in anticipation of exacting her revenge, it was razor-edged.

Gwendolyn didn’t know what had happened in the Cods Wold, but something must have. This was not the Esme she’d first encountered in the Druid village. She was moody and contentious of late—as a sister would be, one moment doting and sweet, the next bitter and grudging, given to rivalry.

Pivoting in her saddle, she watched Esme approach Málik, her heart squeezing when she saw them resume their heated whispers.

“Something is amiss with those two Elves,” said Bryn, as Lir rode by—slow as freshly sapped honey, even despite riding one of Enbarr’s mares.

Gwendolyn looked at her oldest, dearest friend, arching a brow. More than anything, she longed to point out that the same could be said for him, though she was more concerned with the tone of his voice. It wasn’t so long ago he had been Málik’s most ardent champion, but she couldn’t fail to note the bitterness that lingered in the glint of his brilliant blue eyes. She wondered over the cause of it, but suspected she knew. “You shouldn’t call them Elves,” she rebuked.

“Why not? She refers to herself that way.”

She was Esme. And, indeed, she did.

Gwendolyn refrained from pointing out that Málik and Esme could call themselves whatsoever they pleased. There was nevertheless something about Bryn’s use of the word that unsettled her. He didn’t know what she knew. To him, the Faerie nomen was interchangeable with the age-old insult, and his use of the word only depended upon his mood. And perhaps that’s what Gwendolyn didn’t like. He only ever called them Elves when he was annoyed by them.

“I can never quite decide if they are enemies or…”

“They are not lovers,” Gwendolyn asserted.

“Perhaps,” Bryn allowed. “But if you have a doubt, Gwendolyn—any at all—now would be the time to confess it. Once we leave, we’ll be at their mercy.”

Not until they descended into the Fae realm, but Gwendolyn understood what he was saying. They shared a look—one she feared revealed too much, and then averted her gaze too late.

“Do you trust him?”

Gwendolyn answered without hesitation. “Of course, I do.”

“And Esme?”

This time, her nod came hesitantly, regardless that she trusted Esme—so much as she could trust anyone, including Bryn.

Bryn was her oldest, dearest friend.

She needed to trust him.

She should trust him.

Even after she’d failed him so grievously, he’d stood by her, regardless of her ill-considered choices—defying his own parents, and even his king. In the end, Bryn made the ultimate sacrifice for Trevena… by helping Gwendolyn defeat his turncoat father. Still, there was something about his reticence these past weeks that gave her pause… did he regret having helped her?

Was he still bitter over Málik?

Even now, she had the distinct impression he wanted to say more; still he refrained. As children, they had been so quick to understand what the other was thinking without any need for explanation. A single word conveyed so much. But, of late, Gwendolyn didn’t feel attuned to him, and she wondered if they would ever overcome their misfortunes. “If I did not trust her, I’d not keep her close.”

His tone darkened. “My father oft warned me to keep friends near, and enemies nearer,” he offered.

“As did mine,” Gwendolyn allowed. “Regardless, I’ve been close enough to the worst of them to know all vipers should be kept at arm’s length.”

“Perhaps,” said Bryn, nodding, but then added, “I am told they cannot lie, but… those two are certainly keeping their own counsel and I will caution you to remember that a lie of omission is still a lie.”

“True,” said Gwendolyn, but she suspected Málik’s silence was because of something else. Sometimes she had the sense there were words that might fly from his lips if only he could speak them, and the struggle was clear in the storm of his eyes. Whatever the case, she had more to worry about than Bryn’s reticence or Málik’s silence—foremost, how to convince Esme’s father that she was the rightful heir to Claímh Solais. And getting to the Druid village in one piece was hardly the least of it while Loc’s men plagued the area, raiding and burning villages.

One last time, her gaze sought the comfort of Trevena’s spires. But there was nothing more to be done, she told herself.

“It’s not too late,” Bryn suggested.

“It is too late,” Gwendolyn responded. “The way back is before us,” she said, with certainty. And putting the decision behind her once and for all, she wheeled Aisling about, and said, “Let’s go. I’ve one last thing to investigate before we’re away.”

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