Page 30 of The Forgotten Prince

Good?

Gwendolyn blinked with confusion.

Gods.

She was trying desperately to lift the mood. But nothing she said or did seemed to make any difference. Bryn, Málik, Esme—all three of the individuals she most trusted—grew more preoccupied and quarrelsome as the days wore on. Even Bryn took every available occasion to slip into the woods for peace of mind—not that Gwendolyn blamed him. She was growing weary of attempting to placate her ill-tempered companions. Her own mood mightn’t be exemplary, with all she had on her mind, but she was trying. And, on top of everything, this incessant drizzle left her cold to the bone. But above everything—more than any other concern she was realizing how connected she was to Málik. If only he would give her a smile or glance, she could deal with anything, and she didn’t like the revelation.

He turned his too familiar gaze on her, and said, “It is good, is it not?” He awaited her response, and Gwendolyn pursed her lips, seizing hold of her reins.

“Indeed,” she replied, and that was the end of their painful discourse.

For the love of the goddess, she wished she had asked Caradoc to join them! At least then he would have had her smiling over his silly male swagger! In Gwendolyn’s mind, she had envisioned this journey so differently.

And more, if she must confess, despite that she and Málik were not alone on this road—with no aldermen present to tug at her sleeves, nor governmental issues to resolve—she had looked forward to spending a moment alone with him.

Apparently, that was not to be.

Of course, he had explained why he was keeping his distance, and she understood his reasons, but that didn’t appease the ache she felt over the growing rift between them—a chasm already and growing more by day.

She didn’t enjoy feeling so petty, nor having to confess that she lived for Málik’s smiles… even if she did. Whatever they might be to each other, he had become her touchstone and Gwendolyn needed him as fiercely as she needed air to breathe.

This, too, was a revelation she didn’t relish.

After Gwendolyn’s escape from Loegria, during those long weeks when Bryn had so little to say to her, it was Málik she had turned to. He’d remained her closest confidante. And then, during the first days after returning to Trevena, he had stayed steadfast by her side, counseling her, keeping her safe.

Thereafter, it wasn’t long before he’d begun to distance himself. Firstly, he’d returned Bryn to his “rightful” place as her Shadow, and when Gwendolyn asked him about it, he’d claimed it to be for her own good, giving her the most vexing of explanations—vexing because she didn’t understand it. He’d claimed his father would scent their bond the same way her people viewed a torc about the neck. But it wasn’t as though they were rolling about together. Gwendolyn had hoped the journey would give them a few moments alone to discuss the matter further. Instead, she felt the rift growing and growing and it pained her as it would if someone were to thrust a lance through her belly. No matter, she told herself.

She didn’t need distractions.

It must be enough to focus on making it safely to the Druid village, preferably with all her ill-natured companions in tow—including prickly Esme.

Certes, Málik’s aloofness made it easier for Gwendolyn to forget how it felt to be in his arms. And gods knew, there was too much at stake to pander to her woman’s heart—if only he would reassure her now and again that the reason for his troublesome formality was on account of his father, not that he’d grown weary of her, and no longer cared. He slid her another glance, and, to Gwendolyn’s dismay, she could read too little in his expression—nothing more than boredom—and it soured her belly. Disheartened, she fell back, allowing him to lead unfettered by her presence, certain that, at the least, with his keen eyes and sense of smell, he was the one best suited to the task.

Unbidden, the memory of their first travels together assailed her…

He was the same then—focused and taciturn, his blue eyes ticking back and forth across the woodlands, like a wolf seeking its prey. Every sound, every hare, every bird in the trees caught his notice.

At least she could say with certainty that no matter what his mood, she felt safe in his presence—at least, until he lost his temper with Esme.

It happened quickly.

Esme said something that angered Málik and his response was startling. For the first time in the history of their acquaintance, Gwendolyn witnessed Málik in all his terrible splendor—a creature not of this world. Snarling, he bared his teeth at his Fae counterpart, and Esme brandished hers in return. The two hissed at each other. Málik’s hackles rose, and in profile, his was a fearsome visage, his jaw lengthening to what appeared to be a snout, fangs bared, long and cambered. Small horns presented themselves atop his forehead—as they had the night on the ramparts. The confrontation ended abruptly with a furious Esme tugging at her reins. She disappeared into the woods, only to return hours later, with a glint in her eyes like daggers, casting glares at Málik, and a few more for Gwendolyn.

If nothing else, that vicious exchange was a keen reminder to Gwendolyn, that no matter what she felt for Málik, he and Esme came from a world apart.

Gwendolyn was no longer a child, and she believed herself strong enough to do what must be done to win against mortal men, but despite awaking each day to Esme and Málik’s foreign faces, she often overlooked the truth of what they were. What if some day they were to turn the full force of their anger against her? What power did she have over them, save love and friendship? And both these things seemed tenuous and growing more and more questionable.

Moreover, this display was perhaps only a preview of what awaited her in the Fae kingdom—an army of like creatures.

How could she prevail against them?

13

The journey went from bad to worse.

No one ever said it should be pleasant. But it was far less so with Gwendolyn’s band of not-so-merry minions. To make matters worse, it was the rainy season, with abrupt downpours that soaked everyone to the flesh.

At the moment, even the insides of Gwendolyn’s good leather boots were sopping wet and the tiny hairs of her piloi were squishy. She was pretty sure that when she removed them, her toes would look like prunes. The one blessing about wearing her mother’s breastplate was that copper didn’t rust. Lamentably, it was quick to warm to the heat of one’s body, and when the temperature plummeted, it drew it away, leaving her cold and shivering.

---