Page 41 of The Forgotten Prince

This, again, was why she must fight—for this child—for every poor soul who had no chance without her support.

Gwendolyn wept, and she didn’t care who saw.

“Get over it,” scolded Esme, as she laid down another body. “They are dead now. Whatever honor they should have been granted should have been offered whilst there was breath to be had. Now they are fodder for worms!”

Horrified by the truth in her words, as cold as they were, Gwendolyn spun to face Esme, her brows colliding, and for a moment, the two locked gazes.

“Fodder they might be,” Gwendolyn allowed, once she found her voice. “But we will not leave this place until we’ve given every one of these people their due respect. If I have to carry each one to the pyre myself, I will do it!”

Esme sneered at her. “We’ve not traveled so far only for you to find yourself with a blade at your throat, Banríon na bhfear.”

Queen of men.

But this time, unlike the first time she’d said it, it was not spoken with respect or affection. Rather, this was Esme’s way of reminding Gwendolyn of the obligation she faced… and no matter. She couldn’t leave them.

What manner of queen would she be if she disrespected her people?

It didn’t matter who they were.

“Leave if you must!” Gwendolyn said, furiously. “I will not!”

Esme shook her head as she returned to the search for bodies.

Bryn said nothing, but Gwendolyn knew him well enough to know he would agree with her. His sense of decency ran too deep, and Gwendolyn had never known him to shy away from duty, no matter what disadvantage it gave them. Come what may, they would do as they must, and if Loc’ soldiers—or whomever it was who had perpetrated this atrocity—returned whilst they were burying the dead, what better time for sword practice? Even now, Gwendolyn’s blade thirsted for blood over this offense against her people—her people, not Loc’s, because these were still her kin by blood. Give or take, all children of the Sons of Míl.

Unfortunately, if the raiders returned, she knew Lir would find himself tested, but he had insisted upon joining them and Gwendolyn could not consider his needs above the honor of these children.

Eventually, Málik returned, and it wasn’t long before they had rounded up all the dead to prepare for the pyre. Gwendolyn couldn’t help herself. She took their bloodied, burnt, and mangled arms, folding them atop their breasts in order to see them into the After Life with some small vestige of dignity. Meanwhile, Bryn gathered wood and once they were ready, Lir spoke words and Málik lit a flame—a flame unlike the cool wisps Gwendolyn had witnessed before. He stood at one end of the pyre, and the firestorm came roaring from his mouth, golden-hued and consuming everything in its path. This was no wee flame like that one he’d nestled in the palm of his hand in her uncle’s fogous. This was a raging torrent.

Blinking, Gwendolyn turned to give Esme a questioning glance, to which Esme replied with a knowing smile, “Dragon fire.”

Stunned, Gwendolyn turned again to gaze into the pyre.

Every time she thought she knew Málik, he surprised her again. But… she didn’t know how to feel about this discovery—only that, once again, she must face a terrible truth: If this was the power of the creature she loved, and he could not defeat the Fae king… how could she do so?

His dragon fire made quick work of the remnants, turning everything to dust. Not one cloth survived the blaze, and she thought back to the day he’d lectured her about the wet flint, wondering why he’d bothered if he could produce a flame like this… And yet… she must confess, there was nothing elegant about this blaze. It was hotter than Hellas fire. Even from where Gwendolyn stood, twenty paces away, she could feel the intensity of the blaze.

“Let’s go,” Málik said once he was done. “The smoke will be visible for leagues.”

Peering up, Gwendolyn watched as thick, black plumes eddied into a watery sky.

19

Gwendolyn’s arms ached, and her heart hurt—which one worse, was impossible to say. They didn’t go far before stopping for the evening. But having gone as far as they physically could, Gwendolyn was certain no distance could take her far enough from the savaged village. And judging by the sullen expressions she faced when she dismounted, she wasn’t the only one unable to forget the day’s carnage.

They found a secluded spot near a small bourne, and no one spoke a word as everyone, except Bryn, went straight for the stream to wash.

Bryn stayed to dig a pit for their campfire.

One year ago, if someone had told Gwendolyn she would spend the better part of an afternoon gathering bodies for a pyre—thanks to the husband she’d wedded but never bedded—she’d have judged them mad.

Then again, one year ago, she was still a silly little girl, incensed by everything her parents did and said, looking for any cause to defy them, too naïve to realize how difficult life could be.

Perhaps even to the day she and Bryn were swimming in Porth Pool. Wincing, she pulled at her shoulder to ease the ache. What she wouldn’t give for a soak in those warm, healing waters!

The stench of death permeated even her clothes.

But far, far worse than any filth or physical discomfort, the memory of that poor child haunted her still—that dear, sweet babe and his mother.

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