Page 34 of The Forgotten Prince

It would not surprise Gwendolyn to learn Loc had lied. But why would he bother to do so when she herself did not know of this place?

Every learned person knew of the four cities from which the Tuatha hailed—the sunken city of Murias, the city of Gorias, and the cities of Finias and Falias. But this was all her people ever knew.

“Interesting,” Gwendolyn said, trying to recall what else Loc had claimed during that pompous conversation—too much, she’d thought, and most of it blather. Mostly, he’d yammered about things he must have gleaned would impress her, and certainly, he had, much to Gwendolyn’s disgust. But that conversation was when she had begun to suspect Loc’s character—speaking ill of the Temple of the Dead, and the consortium of tribes that governed it. He’d referred to it as the Æmete Temple, referring to the people as ants, and telling Gwendolyn they were inconsequential.

After that, she’d never recovered her opinion of him, but neither did she go tell her father, which was what she should have done.

Gwendolyn had so many regrets.

Lir gave a flourish of his hand, speaking as though reciting some passage by rote. “When they came, they arrived on a mighty cloud! Sailing without ships! And the truth was ne’er known beneath our sky of stars, whether these gods flew from Albios, Bitu, or Dubnos!” Aside, he explained behind his hand, “Albios, Bitu, and Dubnos are the names attributed to the White World in the heavens, our own mortal realm, and the Black Realm below.”

The man was a walking tome!

He knew things none of her tutors ever shared.

Nor were any of these stories taught by the dawnsio.

Even as wise as he had been, the old Mester had never even believed in Gwendolyn’s prophecy. Still, it came to pass, evidenced by the crown she now had stashed in her saddlebag—made of her own cut locks, and fashioned by Esme’s deft hand. No matter what naysayers might say all who were present knew the truth: Her hair turned gold by true-love’s hand. And simply by virtue of this truth, her marriage to Loc—despite so many having concluded he should be The One—was not the union she should have made…

Her gaze sought and found Málik, finding him too beautiful for words. A lump formed in her throat and she felt anew the pain of their estrangement.

Clearly, aldermen were not infallible.

Now, after everything Gwendolyn had witnessed, she no longer had any doubt in the existence of Faeries or magic. Certainly, as fanciful as Demelza’s tales may have been, there was proof of Fae magic even in Trevena, in the Dragon’s Lair.

That sacred place in the cliffside was there when her people first settled on the Stone Isle, and throughout their tenure in the city, no one could ever account for the source of that flame, regardless that her father had invited the most scientifically minded to investigate. Over the course of the years, the alcove was laid bare to all, yet no one ever explained why the Dragon’s Flame existed, nor why it burned so brightly by night. And despite its name, no one ever found a dragon in that cavern, though if anyone would have, it would have been Gwendolyn. So many times she and Bryn had snuck up to the cavern, hoping to catch a peep at some mysterious beast. Never once did they do so. Despite that, the flame burned bright and true. Each night, the altar lit of its own accord, revealing twin flames within the “dragon’s maw.” Somehow, even after the deluge that took the original Fae villages many generations ago, that flame never extinguished, except during that short time after her father’s death—not because the tarp was drawn. But, rather, the flame, like her sword, refused to burn, as though it knew of Loc’s treachery and declined to light.

And this was perhaps the reason Trevena depleted its stores during her absence, because for months and months, no ships dared enter that harbor. It was likely also the reason Loc’s brothers left Trevena so poorly defended. As remarkable as the city and palace might be, without a means to procure sustenance, a walled city such as theirs would effectively serve as a tomb—a mere monument to the stupidity of men.

Or even the Fae, truth be told. After all, Trevena was not the first village to grace the Stone Isle. Long before the battle between the Sons of Míl and the Tuatha, there was yet another village there whose history they lost as surely as the Fae realm was shrouded by the Féth. If any soul remained who could remember those days, the details had grown smoggy, like the Druids’ memories. And yet stories persisted, passed down through the ages by wizened old nursemaids, like Demelza.

“Málik was right. You are a wizened man,” Gwendolyn allowed. “I shall make you a bargain, Lir.”

He lifted a finger to his pointy ear sheaths, cocking his head. “Bargain, Majesty?”

“Indeed,” said Gwendolyn with a wink. “I will teach you to wield that poor, neglected sword in your scabbard, and since I cannot seem to pry a word from our Fae companions about what to expect once arrived in the Fae lands, I would have you teach me everything you know of their world.”

“Everything?”

Gwendolyn nodded. “Everything.”

“Our volumes are quite lengthy,” Lir said loftily.

Gwendolyn was undaunted. “No matter,” she said. “We have time, and it will serve us all better if you can wield your sword aptly, and I know what we face.”

Lir agreed. “Indeed. Very well. We’ve a bargain.”

Gwendolyn smirked, casting Málik another glance. Leave them to hiss at each other like cats. Gwendolyn would learn what she could from Lir, and in the meantime, she would teach the poor man how to wield his sword, and together, they would lift the odds and no one would die.

15

By the eleventh day of their travels, Gwendolyn knew more than she feared her brain could hold. Much to the contrary, Lir was only marginally better at wielding his sword. In his defense, it was certainly easier to converse while on horseback than it was to spar, and there had only been a few occasions where it was safe to practice swordplay. Undoubtedly, the arrangement benefited Gwendolyn most. For one, she had never realized how tricksy the Fae could be even despite that Demelza had warned her. Not that Gwendolyn hadn’t believed her, it was more perhaps that the stories her maid told seemed contrived—so much so the Mester Alderman had admonished Gwendolyn not to believe them. Still, so much of what she’d learned from Lir seemed apropos to Esme, even though Lir advised her to be wary of all Fae, including Málik—particularly, the words that came out of their mouths. And this would appear to be the reason Málik himself had counseled Gwendolyn to allow the Druid to accompany them. There was a wealth of information to be gleaned from every aspect of their communication, including their tone, and even the construct of their words. Neither did their bent for deception need be done with any malicious intent. They simply could declare one thing and mean another, and the trick of the matter was to listen to every word uttered and look for hidden clues.

For example, if one said, “Yes, I would give you the sword,” this didn’t reveal when, or how, or, under what conditions. It might be given in one’s hand, or thrust into one’s breast, or even offered to the bearer whilst he stood in chains, locked away in some gaol, where the sword might never be wielded to its purpose.

Or, if one said, “I should give you the sword.” Should did not convey any true intent, any more than would. Instead, it could express duty, wistfulness, or even obligation without action.

Every word had some nuance, like an artist with his palette.

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