Page 16 of The Forgotten Prince

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Giving her mare a heel before anyone could stop her, Gwendolyn flew toward Porth Pool.

“Wait!” Bryn shouted. “Gwendolyn!”

Nay. She would not wait. It had been too long since she’d had the chance to inspect Porth Pool—not since hers and Bryn’s ill-fated swim a few weeks before her wedding to Locrinus. Before leaving, she needed to see how it fared. Every time she had previously suggested they should inspect it, excuses were made about why she should not—particularly by Bryn, who’d insisted she not expose herself to Loc’s assassins. And perhaps there was merit to that argument, but here they were now, and the pool wasn’t far.

Besides, Málik and Esme were too preoccupied with their discourse to miss her for as long as she would be gone.

At any rate, she trusted Bryn would follow. And even if he didn’t, she knew these woods better than anyone. In their current state, there was no cover to be found; so far as she could tell, there were no scouts in the area—not anymore. But if she was wrong, she would welcome the swordplay. She could use an opponent other than Málik or Bryn. Málik’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere, and Gwendolyn’s skills had long surpassed Bryn’s. Even Caradoc, with his brawn, had been too slow for her.

Leaping over a large puddle, Aisling missed dry land by a shred, sending up a slosh of muck. But Gwendolyn didn’t care. She had weeks to go on the road without a change of clothes. She was bound to get dirtier still, as the condition of these woods were atrocious and growing more so by the day.

Behind her, she heard another splash and Bryn’s pursuant curse.

He’d missed his mark, landing in the puddle.

Gwendolyn didn’t stop.

The sound of Bryn’s pursuit recommenced, and in scant moments he could rejoin her and scold her all he wished—gods, it felt good to ride!

It had been too long.

Her heart sang, her veins stirring with anticipation.

She loved Porth Pool so much.

Ever since she was a girl, she had cherished every moment spent at that pool, only waiting to return to its pleasant, restorative waters.

The first time her mother sent her there—ostensibly to restore her complexion—Gwendolyn bemoaned the need for it, but once she’d waded into that pool, and discovered those piskies… she was… beguiled.

To her knowledge, there was no place like it in all Pretania—where divine creatures still thrived. Demelza once told her their presence here was a measure of the gods’ favor, and if the piskies ever abandoned the pool, all hope would be lost.

Hidden within a coppice, it was easy to miss. Betimes, travelers came seeking its warm, curative waters, and perished before they ever found them, especially during the long winters, rife with ague. Gwendolyn knew that only because after the snows melted in the spring, their bones were uncovered amidst the bracken—so near to their destination, without reward. Today, in the sixth moon since Samhuinn, these woods were alarmingly bare, and the lands were boggy. Just when the dark half of the year should end, and Calan Mai grew near, when her people were normally frolicsome, and preparing for the Fire Festival, the forest appeared as though it was still bracing for winter.

Slow to grow and slow green, what few leaves had appeared on the trees looked sickly—as though they too would perish seeking a cure. Despite that, Gwendolyn took heart because this was not the first time their lands had been so mired.

She was scarcely old enough to recall the Great Southern Storm, and this reminded her of that—browning leaves on once-verdant trees, despite the endless precipitation; wetlands that appeared from nowhere, made to swallow horse and rider.

After the storm, her father had opened the city gates to men and women traveling from more devastated southern regions, and soon after, the rains stopped, the bogs dried, the land healed. But before that, entire provinces and forests were lost. And still the land recovered. Everyone had celebrated, praising her father for his generosity of spirit.

Until one day, his flesh turned sallow, and his limbs began to quake.

And thereafter, as Gwendolyn feared, the beginning of his wasting illness foreshadowed the return of the Rot.

“Whoa, girl! Whoa!”

Aisling whinnied, tossing her head, and Gwendolyn tugged at the reins as the mare skidded to a halt before the path’s end. She quickly regained control of the horse, but her jaw fell and her eyes widened at the sight that greeted her.

Blood and bloody bones!

There was a pit between two large ash trees, where the pool had eroded the land allowing the pool to drain. It poured from its reservoir.

Trickled more like.

The water remaining in the pool could scarcely be seen from this vantage, despite bared-limbed trees. But it was the condition of it that rent Gwendolyn’s heart and robbed her of breath and hope…

The surface of the pool appeared black and oily beneath the sun’s watery rays. And, even as she considered this catastrophe, a glance up revealed more storm clouds gathering overhead.

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