Page 27 of The Forgotten Prince

“Gods forbid,” said Bryn, and he shuddered. “No, thank you! I would die for you, My Queen, but I’d not wish to tempt that one!”

Gwendolyn laughed again, warmed by their rediscovered fellowship, but suddenly she shuddered, remembering how Málik had once advised her to note there were few occasions when the goddess’ creatures were made without regard to their needs. If you spy claws, or fangs, he’d said, “Run.”

For all her other-worldly beauty, Esme had both.

11

These were all once Cornish territories. And yet, before Gwendolyn’s marriage to Locrinus, she’d never once ventured north of the Aber Hafren and its estuaries. Despite this, she knew the lay of the land, as she knew the Druids’ Crossroads—from the detailed map in her father’s war room.

As a girl, she had studied every beautiful detail, sweeping her finger from north to south, west to east, memorizing every dip and swell in the painted clay. She had marveled over the wheals—the tin and copper mines that provided Cornwall’s wealth and were so numerous the Phoenicians had appointed their island Cassiterides, meaning “tin island” in their native tongue.

She had studied the coastal plains where Duke Osian’s villages surrendered to the sea, and scrutinized every slight variation as lowlands gave way to hill and dale, and then to the mynydds—mountains.

But there was one feature not on her father’s map.

After arriving in Silures, they discovered the new border wall—an immense earthen embankment the height of two hulking men and fronted by a quarry as wide as four cubits across on the east side.

To Gwendolyn’s dismay, it was obvious what guide the builders had used for the demarcation. On the west lay verdant fields interspersed with rich farmlands. To the east stood withering trees and stinking rivers.

Somehow, she had missed this development in her flight from Loegria. But now that she had found the wall, and could follow its length, it raised myriad questions. Ostensibly, King Brutus had begun to partition their lands before the Feast of Blades. Why? Did he do so to prevent the Rot from spreading west? Or was he simply separating what was his?

Gwendolyn had never considered greed or excess among Brutus’ sins. On the few occasions she’d met him, she’d had no sense of his avarice, or vainglory. He was modestly dressed, and even unclean—so much as to arrive at Gwendolyn’s Promise Ceremony unwashed and smelling of horse and sweat. But this was a matter Gwendolyn could hardly fault him for when she might have done the same if she could. How many times had her mother chided her for the smell of her horse?

Nay, if Brutus was greedy for aught, it was for power. But power came with the acquisition of lands, and partitioning these territories did not strike Gwendolyn as a wise thing to do, especially when he was in accord to merge his house with hers.

And regardless, someone had intended for this wall to be a border betwixt their lands, and Gwendolyn knew it wasn’t her father. King Corineus had well-known aspirations to the contrary—open borders across the entire island.

Yet neither did she believe this was Loc’s work. As well as she knew him, she knew he would no more be content to remain in Westwalas, enclosed by this immense wall, than he would have been with Gwendolyn by his side. Therefore, she must conclude this was Brutus’s work; only why was a question.

Beginning north of Aber Hafren, the wall persisted north, and the demarcation remained the same as far as the eye could perceive. Only for some odd reason, construction seemed to have halted, and Gwendolyn wondered if it might be because, after setting his sights on the river-fed territories in the east, Loc no longer intended to base any of his armies in Loegria. After all, why should he bother when his people’s safety was not his concern? Even so, it was difficult to believe anyone could discard such rich lands, or the possibility of a thriving western port. But she had an inkling it could be the same reason Locrinus could not envision himself settling in Trevena—a city founded by someone else, revered for its culture and renown by so many across the Endless Sea. It was not his work, and Locrinus was egotistical enough to require the glory to be all his.

Though maybe it wasn’t Brutus, either?

At intervals, they encountered abandoned towers that could have been intended for a watch. Scarcely a league apart, some were complete, some only partially so, but very clearly, no one had ever bothered to occupy them. Only a steady stream of bird droppings gave any indication any living creatures frequented them.

“Should we return to the road?” asked Bryn.

“No,” Gwendolyn said, surveying the wall as they rode.

With Málik in the lead, and Esme riding ten rods to the east, Lir another five behind, they should be careful to remain close to the dyke, away from the Brigantes’ lands.

Gwendolyn wasn’t ready yet to deal with that quick-tempered chieftain, nor did she wish to drag anyone into the conflict until she could fight if she must—later, she decided. Later when she had more sway. In the meantime, she was counting on the fact that Loc’s army had already traveled east.

So she had been told: Not long after her escape from Loegria, he’d marched off to Lundinium, taking his mistress along with him, and leaving his bastard son in the care of his mother. But that could be his worst mistake ever, Gwendolyn mused, because Innogen would sacrifice even her own sons if it granted her the right to rule through her grandson. After all, wasn’t it her idea to pit her sons against her husband? Next, she could pit them against each other. Gwendolyn knew better than to trust her, and she had long suspected Innogen—vindictive and sharp as a thorn—had coordinated every aspect of the planning for the Feast of Blades. Her sons were only pawns in a game of Queen’s Chess.

Indeed, Brutus’ consort was no fool—too shrewd to allow Loc to take all their troops east and leave her with none. She would insist upon keeping a proper garrison, and with her grandson in her care, her son would have had no choice but to agree. He might like to believe himself a leader of men, but Gwendolyn knew too much about his relationship with his mother to doubt who was in control.

But, like her son, the people of Westwalas were not Innogen’s concern. She cared only for her own welfare and that of her grandson. So bloody far from Loegria’s capitol, this half-formed wall should hold no interest for her—unless… unless… she intended to use it to prevent her son’s return?

What could be her endgame?

Could she have so much influence without her husband and son?

Enough to convince the neighboring tribes to build this wall?

Although it appeared deserted, perhaps Innogen was only starting?

Looking for clues, Gwendolyn insisted upon following the wall north, a seedling of a plan beginning to germinate… there might eventually be some way she could use this to her advantage.

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