Page 23 of The Forgotten Prince

Gwendolyn blinked. She had a hundred thousand questions, but she asked the first that came to mind. “So, you believe he will refuse us?”

Málik shrugged.

Gwendolyn blinked. For the second time in the space of a single day, she found herself gobsmacked. If they could not cross the Veil, and there was no other passage in this realm, how could they retrieve her sword? “Can he prevent us?”

“Not us. You.”

“But…” Gwendolyn said, shaking her head, confused. “I don’t understand… I thought he supported me?”

“I am certain he does,” Málik allowed, and the furrow in Gwendolyn’s brow deepened. She didn’t understand. If Emrys supported her bid for the throne, and he understood she must traverse the Veil to retrieve her sword, why then would he not allow her to do so, regardless of the consequences for his village? The repercussions for Pretania were far worse than to lose the right to occupy a village—extraordinary though it may be. Loc’s reign would be the death of this land.

She opened her mouth to ask why Emrys should refuse her, but before any words could leave her tongue, Málik continued. “He is only one man. Our timing could not be worse. Even were our mission entirely peaceable, he could not guarantee—because you cannot guarantee—we’ll not raise arms against the Fae king if he refuses your behest.” He gave Gwendolyn a pointed look. “Can we?”

She shook her head, because, in truth, she could not.

If the Fae king did not return her sword, Gwendolyn was duty-bound to seize it, one way or another—at any cost. She could not abandon her duty to Pretania, nor could she abandon her sword—justly hers—in the hands of a king to whom it did not belong. Only now she wondered why Málik had not brought this up sooner, when everything depended upon her retrieval of that sword.

Where were they going, if not to the portal and the Druid village?

“So, you are saying he must deny me passage? What then? Do we battle with friends?”

Málik sighed. “As I have said, allowing you to pass will risk the village.”

“Has Emrys ever crossed the Veil?”

“Nay,” said Málik.

Gwendolyn’s frown deepened as she peered over at Lir. “How then can he help if no one has ever crossed the Veil?”

“You mistake me. I did not say no one ever crossed. I said Emrys has not crossed.” He cast the young Druid a glance. “I suggested Lir join because perhaps if Emrys knows Lir will accompany us, he may yet agree.”

“Why Lir? Why not Emrys himself?”

“Because… Lir has spent the entirety of his life studying our covenant,” Málik explained. “He is a student of Tuatha’an law as well as the laws of men. He will understand every nuance of every word my father utters, and simply because of this, he will make certain everyone adheres to that covenant—my father included. You included.”

“Why can’t you or Esme help with this?”

He said her name, like a prayer. “Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn knew that tone. This would be his ultimate word on the matter. He would say no more, regardless of how she pressed him. That night on the ramparts, by his own admission, he’d left so much unsaid, and to this day, no matter how many times Gwendolyn pressed him over it, he’d yet to reveal more.

“Blood and bones!” she exclaimed, turning and walking away, realizing an argument with either of these two Elves would be pointless. Neither would speak a word until it suited them, and Málik had decided answers were beyond her privilege. Gods. He… he was… maddening.

Frustrated, she made her way to her mare and stood a moment, thinking as she rubbed Aisling’s shoulder. “Sweet girl,” she crooned.

And then she opened her saddlebag to remove the golden tiara Esme had fashioned for her, only to see how it fared…

This crown, without her sword, would serve no purpose. Loc stole the real crown—the bronze circlet of flowering myrtle. No one would even recognize this as a sovereign’s coronal, but the circumstances of its creation were as extraordinary as the crown itself, with its delicate beauty and indestructible composition. It had spent these past days stashed in her saddlebag, amidst items that could easily have ruined or bent it, and still it remained perfect, shining as brightly as it had the day it was formed. Whatever the reason for Esme’s temper, and Málik’s forbidding demeanor, she must look to this crown as proof of their loyalty—and she must not be thwarted.

She sighed. And determined to make the best of it, she put the crown away and then took the mare’s reins, drawing Aisling away from the stream.

“Let’s go,” she said, passing Bryn, though she didn’t look back to make certain he followed, nor to see whether Málik and Esme came after, because the moment she’d abandoned Málik’s side, Esme returned to him, and now, again, they were discussing some private matter. She didn’t know what to do, but for now, doing nothing seemed most appropriate.

To her surprise, it was Lir who caught up to her, and he said, as though he’d somehow read her mind, “I wished to thank you again, Banríon. I vow to serve you well and to give you no cause to regret my attendance.”

So much for sending him home.

Even if Málik’s defense of him had failed to convince her—which it did not—she found she could not disappoint Lir. He was such a kindly soul, and she wanted him to see the City of Light—wearing those silly ear sheaths if he must.

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