Page 28 of The Forgotten Prince

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The sun and moon came and went, rising and lowering for three days without their party encountering a soul. On the ensuing day, they came across a traveler on horseback—an Ordovician soldier. At Málik’s behest, they hid until the soldier passed, and then continued north, following Innogen’s wall until they were well into Ordovician territory. Thereafter, they retreated east again, though not too far. Unless they wished to add days, perhaps even weeks, to their travels, it would be necessary to stay close to the wall until they reached the River Dee. From there, they could follow the tributary on the east side, until the Mersey and Dee emptied into Lifer Pol Bay. That’s where they would encounter their destination…

The Druids’ Crossroads.

Without knowing what Gwendolyn knew, those blood-painted stones would frighten even the worst of trolls, but though it was no longer a destination to be feared, she dreaded the meeting to come, yet not because of the Druids.

The Lifer Pol order was not what they once led her to believe. Those men might not welcome tribunals, nor visitors, but it wasn’t because they were murderous fiends. Along with their guardianship, the order was renowned for shamanic ceremonies, most oft performed in the grotto beneath their tree-bound village—a ceremony Máistir Emrys most often officiated, evidenced by his much-aged form. He and Lir were brothers, separated by less than three years, but the Máistir appeared more than three times Lir’s age. And now, for the first time, Gwendolyn considered what might happen if Máistir Emrys continued to descend from his village to perform his pookie ceremonies. Would he age enough to die?

Casting a glance behind her at Lir, riding with shoulders back, wearing his dignity like a royal cloak, she wondered if he had ever considered his brother’s mortality. To Gwendolyn, it seemed Lir had lived too-sheltered a life to remember his own, much less his brother’s, and this gave her pause.

So far, luck was on their side, but they had a long journey ahead, and even once they arrived near the Crossroads, they would not be safe until they ascended into the village itself. Lir was too innocent and too peaceable to perceive how to defend himself. And, truly, despite their reputation, none of the Druids she’d ever met seemed remotely capable. How they had survived in their treehouse village so long was a mystery nearly as great as that of the portal.

For one, the stories circulating about the Druid Orders, frightening though they might be, were not the only reason people avoided that area. Warring tribes occupied those lands—most allies of Loc’s. Brigantes to the northeast, Deceangli and Ordovicians to the north and south, and Loc’s own territories to the southwest. And yet, despite their allegiance to Loegria, two of those three did not even get along amongst themselves. The third, the Brigantes, were loyal to none. As long as Gwendolyn could recall, their fidelity swayed like reeds against the gentlest of winds. Though she found comfort in this: Loc would keep loyalties only so long as he maintained the upper hand. None of these tribes had any stomach for weakness, nor was Loc of their blood, and blood must count for something. For the time being, Locrinus held the advantage—no matter whether gained through subterfuge and treachery—but the instant he lost it, the tribes would turn against him.

To Gwendolyn, if she had anything to do with it.

She didn’t have to like or respect them—or even trust them—to make use of their armies. And neither could she afford to allow pride to turn them away. Before long, she vowed, they would all bend the knee to her—as Caradoc had done.

As Loc would do.

Only for Loc, there would be no mercy.

He would meet the same unsparing fate he’d dealt her cousin.

As Danu was her witness, Gwendolyn would not rest until Locrinus tasted the sting of her blade. And even as she considered this, her hand sought the dragon hilt of Borlewen’s blade, seeking solace from the weapon Loc had once used both to strip her of her dignity and to end her cousin’s life. But the feel of the cold steel in her hand never failed to bring a sting of tears to her eyes.

One day, she would put this dagger to his throat and make him beg for his life, but if the gods were merciful, he would breathe his last in those fens—and perhaps take his simpering mistress along with him. It would save Gwendolyn the trouble of killing them both. But come what may, Loc’s son would not inherit his father’s crown.

In the end, Gwendolyn vowed to make Locrinus suffer for every offense he’d delivered, not only to Gwendolyn, but to her people as well.

It was one thing to betray his own sire and hers as well. But that he’d brought so many innocents to bear for the issues he took with the old kings… and with her… This was… unforgivable.

“We should make camp,” suggested Bryn, peering up at the heavens, turning his hand up as though to catch a drop. “I feel rain,” he said.

“That is not rain you feel,” said Esme, the tone of her voice lifting the hairs on Gwendolyn’s nape. She, too, peered up at the heavens, and Gwendolyn did as well, noting the strange light permeating the skies.

“They know we are coming,” Esme added darkly, and Gwendolyn might have asked who, but she didn’t have to…

She knew.

12

“They” were Fae.

It wasn’t Locrinus Esme was speaking of, of that Gwendolyn was certain. Else, by now, Loc’s men would have had them surrounded, and if that be the case, nothing could save them. They were only five against too many.

Would the Fae king assail them here in the mortal realm?

Did they know what Gwendolyn was after?

Did he mean to deny her?

Was the Fae realm, even now, preparing for war?

Gwendolyn didn’t know the answers to these questions, nor was she certain of Esme’s warning, but Esme’s present mood did not invite questions, and neither did anyone seem overeager to place themselves at her mercy.

At one point, while Gwendolyn reminisced about Demelza with Bryn, Esme rolled her eyes and said, “Your tales of this simple maid have grown tiresome. You speak as though she were your blood.”

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