Page 24 of The Forgotten Prince

Drawing Aisling onto the dirt path, she hauled herself into the saddle and said, “See you do not.” But even as she said it, she regretted it, feeling like a shrew, hating herself for her tone of voice.

Truth be told, Gwendolyn already regretted Lir’s presence for all the reasons she’d conveyed to Málik, and a few more she did not.

More than aught, she was worried for him. She worried about what they would face, and neither of her Elven companions seemed the least bit inclined to enlighten her. She didn’t relish the thought of having Lir’s death on her conscience, nor could she bear it if his inability to defend himself put others she cared for at risk—Bryn, for one, and not simply because he was astride the weakest, slowest mount, but because, despite a lifetime of sword practice, Gwendolyn feared he was as unprepared for this battle as she was. More and more, she feared death would result of this quest, and nothing Málik had shared with her had renewed her faith.

Unlike Lir, Gwendolyn knew Bryn would not hold his tongue. Nor would he hesitate to wield his sword in her defense, and that could well be the death of him, and that Gwendolyn could not bear. Gods. If she should live, and Bryn did not, she would have to face Ely with tears and apologies. And this time, unlike with Talwyn, her brother’s death would destroy her. Gwendolyn had promised to return him, but it was a promise made in vain because Gwendolyn couldn’t even control her testy companions.

Resigned to the journey as it was, she dared to cast a backward glance, and found that, while Bryn had caught up with Lir, riding companionably beside the young Druid, Esme and Málik had yet to remount. Once again, with their heads together, they stood by the stream, and a shadow fell across Gwendolyn’s heart.

Let them stay. She would not wait.

She knew the way to the Druid village, and they would know where to find her. If she would lead, she must lead. And, unless those two confessed their quarrels, she could not consider them first. She must follow her heart.

10

Green!

Loc’s lands were green!

It should have filled Gwendolyn with hope, but as the rich canopy grew thicker and more verdant the farther they ventured into Loc’s territory, a most unwelcome thought began to brew in her mind…

If this Rot reflected the King and his people, there must be more to the story than what she’d been told. If Trevena’s parklands were already so wasted, she would have expected to find Loc’s worse. But it wasn’t, and it now appeared to Gwendolyn as though the disease began near Trevena, and her precious city was the root, if not the cause.

But that made no sense. The condition of this land was not something she had expected to encounter and neither could she fathom why Loc’s lands should be flourishing. Meanwhile, hers lay rotting.

It confused her beyond measure.

Doubtless, the return of her sword was paramount to the prosperity of this kingdom, but what good would it do to rule over wasted lands, or people who were dead or dying? Would her people prefer a kingslayer to a sovereign queen? Truly?

Unfortunately, the answer to that question might easily be deduced by the weeks and weeks of discord she’d had with her konsel. Truth was a bitter pilule; it was past time to swallow it. She could not force the will of her people, and if their hearts would not embrace a woman as queen… what then?

A man would have had an easier time of it.

So few had rallied to Gwendolyn’s cause, despite that, by now, news of the coup must have reached every distant shore.

Even so far north, her grandsire must have heard, and months and months had passed since the Feast of Blades; despite that, she had yet to receive a messenger from his tribe—nor from any of the Prydein confederacy. Even Talwyn had considered himself the better choice to lead in her stead.

Unfortunately, to their minds, Gwendolyn must appear the weaker contender for her father’s throne… Of course, she was a woman, and, amidst these male-governed tribes, that was proof enough against her. But being the daughter of a deposed king, and the bride of a man who’d discarded her with impunity… that would seem to be death knells for their support. Perhaps, to their view, she had been a willing participant in Loc’s treachery, only to end with nothing because she was too feeble to stand up to her husband. But Gwendolyn would rather swallow a viper than to sit idly beside Loc as his queen—let him have his simpering mistress.

Like metal to a lodestone, her gaze sought Málik… as it happened the night of her Promise Ceremony, only to discover him and Esme with their heads together—yet again. Gwendolyn couldn’t help herself. Envy burned through her veins.

Watching the two of them together, she endeavored to harden her heart, vowing to shed no more tears for the silly girl she had been.

If, for the good of her people, she must purge Málik from her heart, so be it.

Like her father, she was a servant to the people. It was her gods-given duty to see the land restored, come whatever may.

Nor did it matter what doubts Esme had placed in her mind over leaving Caradoc to rule in her stead. That was the only decision she could have made. If she was not the one meant to govern these lands, she would accept this fate…

But first, she would carve the heart from Loc’s breast.

Not for the first time, her hand sought Borlewen’s blade, her callused thumb caressing the dragon hilt, the black pearl eyes… remembering Loc’s expression as he’d butchered her hair.

The night of her Promise Ceremony she’d felt such a fool, and more the fool now that she understood what Loc must have been doing all those hours whilst his father made excuses for his tardy son. Even then, he must have been planning his coup—unbeknownst to his father, and certainly to hers. Meanwhile, like a love-starved girl, Gwendolyn had sat there, waiting, and waiting, until, at long last, he’d deigned to appear. And then she had been so blinded by his shining splendor and silken robes she’d never once questioned what dirty work he might have been doing.

Would she have carried on so if his countenance had displeased her? Or would she have done instead what so many had done to her? Dismiss him for his face?

There was no way to know, but it forced Gwendolyn to confess that she had so much preferred Loc to Urien, his older, sickly brother. She had counted herself fortunate to have been dealt another fate—a younger son, whose face and mind were allegedly forged by the gods. However, beauty was no virtue itself, and it would seem she, more than anyone, should have minded this lesson. Her Prophecy should have taught her that above all else. Neither was a sharp mind necessarily a good mind. Loc was evil, but she had realized this too late—only after her mother and father were both slain, along with poor, sweet Demelza.

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