Page 42 of The Forgotten Prince

“Monsters,” she whispered.

Some might call Málik and Esme monsters, but despite Esme’s foul temper, Gwendolyn knew she hid a mountain of sorrow for those villagers. She might never confess it, but Gwendolyn could see it in her eyes. Even now, as Esme stood, splashing water onto her face, she did so with a ferocity of temper that betrayed her grief. And then suddenly, Esme froze, sensing Gwendolyn’s regard. She turned and sent Gwendolyn a look of fierce imputation that forced her to look away.

It was not that Gwendolyn felt guilty for having forced her company to deal with the dead—she did not. But she suspected Esme was struggling with something, and Gwendolyn wanted to give her as much privacy to deal with it as was possible.

In the meantime, she had her own aching body and mind to tend to.

Ash blackened her hands and charred flesh was wedged beneath her nails. She would gladly strip bare, but for the lowering temperature. And neither had she a proper change of attire. As disgusted as she was with her state of disrepair, worrying about it was pointless. That little brown mud-stain she’d acquired near Porth Pool was the least of her defilement. Sadly, she would have to wait until they arrived at the Druid village for a simple change of clothing. Neither could she afford to sleep in wet attire, so she washed as best she could, and resigned herself to live with the rest.

Tired and ready for bed, she returned to camp in time to watch Málik retrieve the flint from his saddlebag. Without a word, he kindled a fire in the pit Bryn had dug, before departing to hunt for supper. That was perhaps a moot effort, Gwendolyn thought. Who could eat after the atrocities they’d witnessed?

As though to illustrate the truth of that, Bryn sank to his arse beside the firepit without bothering to wash, and then sat, staring into the rising flames, his expression haunted.

“I’ll go tend the horses,” offered Esme, returning from the bourne.

Lir rushed to help her and Gwendolyn hoped the gesture would prove a balm for Esme’s mood, but that was not to be.

“I don’t need help!” she snapped when he tried to hobble her mare. “Enbarr’s mares do not wander,” she apprised, and then hitched her chin at Bryn’s distressed mare. “Hobble that one if you feel the need to pretend you’re of use,” she said, then casting Gwendolyn a withering glance, she added, “Better yet, take the horse and go home!”

Not that he was ever compelled to do so, but Lir didn’t argue. The sweet Druid abandoned the Faerie mounts, moving at once to the only horse in their company born of mortal stock. Poor Lir, Gwendolyn thought. There was nothing about Esme’s treatment of him that felt the least bit tender. If, as Bryn seemed to believe, she held some measure of affection for him, it wasn’t clear by her demeanor. More than aught, Esme seemed affronted by his very presence.

Too tired to intervene, Gwendolyn sighed, and she, too, sank to her bottom by the campfire next to Bryn, placing a hand atop his shoulder.

As it once used to be, they did not need words between them. Gwendolyn gave him a nod of appreciation, grateful beyond measure to have him by her side.

Altogether, they gathered about the campfire, partaking of Málik’s contribution in silence—forest grouse. And regardless that Gwendolyn hadn’t believed she could find her appetite, she did.

After a solid week with only foraged berries, wafers, and nuts, she welcomed a warm meal. As well-stocked as they had been for the journey, they had depleted their stores, except for a few wafers and lengths of salted meat.

Simply for the matter of expediency, they’d not lingered long enough at any given camp to hunt, much less cook. Tonight, this grouse was like manna from the gods and Gwendolyn hadn’t realized how famished she was until she tore the first bite. Thereafter, she swallowed her meal so rapaciously she later found herself embarrassed by her lack of decorum. Gods knew the sight of her would have horrified her well-mannered mother. But Gwendolyn was a long way from home, and a long, long way from the conventions of her father’s court.

Most significantly, her mother was dead. Queen Eseld need never again worry about Gwendolyn’s prospects.

“You missed some,” apprised Bryn, reaching over and plucking something from Gwendolyn’s dirty mop of hair.

Gwendolyn laughed, horrified, to find he held up a bit of greasy meat. And yet, much to her dismay, she was also quite relieved to discover it was grouse and not refuse from the village. He offered it to her with a weary smile.

“No, thank you,” Gwendolyn said. “I am quite satisfied. Do enjoy.”

It was Bryn’s turn to laugh. “You never were one for proper graces,” he said warmly, and Gwendolyn had no argument for that. It was true, perhaps, though neither had she ever been so befouled. What she should do right now is lift her bottom and go back to the stream, drag Bryn along with her. He smelled, too. But, as weary as she was, she was looking forward to a good night’s rest, and she didn’t care how unkempt she was. She hadn’t any idea how many people she’d carried to the pyre. She’d stopped counting at thirteen—and more than a few had had houses atop them, so removing the debris had been an effort all on its own. For once, when she closed her eyes tonight, there should be no rumination to keep her awake. Even now, her eyes were threatening to close, and her arms and legs felt as quivery as meat pudding. She was so tired, in fact, she hadn’t even bothered to deposit Kingslayer into her saddle sheath, and it lay by her side.

Málik and Esme might feel comfortable wearing their swords in the most awkward positions, even whilst riding, but Gwendolyn had yet to accustom herself to sitting with the point of a sharp blade nestled in the cleave of her bottom.

Fortunately, one glance up through the treetops revealed a night sky peppered with twinkling stars. The skies were clear; the rain was gone, and the woods were quiet as a broom handle. Once she closed her eyes, she was fairly certain not even a deluge would wake her again.

“Do you think those were Loc’s men?” Gwendolyn asked no one in particular. She hadn’t any need to say of whom or what she spoke.

She was certain the culprits were those men whose song had so affronted her; they were the only soldiers they’d encountered in these woods who seemed capable of such a crime. And they were coming from this direction. In retrospect, Gwendolyn remembered them being as filthy as she was tonight. And she wondered if those mongrels had pilfered their mead from the hardworking men of that village.

Seemingly so.

“Difficult to say,” said Bryn. “The cruelty is reminiscent of Loc.”

He should know. He’d spent enough time in Loc’s barracks to know what type of soldiers the man was raising.

Gwendolyn considered the cruel way they’d fought at Loc’s behest. And, in her mind’s eye, she could still see them from the crack in her window, and no doubt Loc had declined to fix that window because he knew Gwendolyn would be watching. Bare chested, they’d practiced with fine steel, without armor, painting the dirt red with their blood. Once or twice, the injuries had been fatal. And more than twice, Gwendolyn had feared Bryn would be among the casualties.

But, of course, Gwendolyn knew Loc was cruel.

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