Page 51 of The Forgotten Prince

She’d not had much rest during their journey north, and she would like to sleep tonight—without worrying about being set upon by Brigantes or Loegrians.

In the meantime, her thoughts were both the clearest they had ever been, but also the fuzziest—like the feel of these marvelous walls…

With unvarnished wonder, she smoothed her fingertips across the fuzzy surface. Made of a substance she’d never encountered beyond this village, the entire edifice reminded her of an enormous leaf, although if she was standing beneath, it was the largest leaf Gwendolyn had ever encountered, and she, beneath it, must be the size of a flea!

The interior was no less… peculiar.

At first glance, it was hardly remarkable—perhaps even austere. Precisely what she might expect for an order of reclusive prelates.

Along with a small tub—which, by the by, appeared to be filled with warm water if the steam was any indication—there was also a bed, a small table, and a stool. Else wise, the chamber was unfettered by frippery—no tapestries on the walls, no baubles, nor even a simple candle gracing the bedside table. Instead, the room’s only true source of illumination came from the muted light filtering in with the breeze, and a small golden orb resting atop the table, its gentling pulsing light casting a soft yellow glow against the swirling mist.

Did she come here to sleep? Or bathe? Gwendolyn suddenly couldn’t recall.

Whatever the case, no one had come or gone since she’d arrived, and despite this, steam curled up invitingly from the interior of the tub, sending tendrils of wispy fingers to beckon her into the bath.

At the far end of the room, the bed lay atop what appeared to be a thatch-woven dais, and save for the furs that lay atop it, the berth reminded Gwendolyn of a bird’s nest, complete with a feather-stuffed pallet. She almost expected to find it occupied by cheeping birds, but nay, she was alone. In her stead, Málik had gone to inquire about the Máistir’s condition, insisting Gwendolyn retire for the evening. There was little more to do, he’d said, and unfortunately, this was true. Whatever ailed Máistir Emrys, it was nothing she had any knowledge of, and in the meantime, she was bone weary and filthy and they had another long, arduous journey ahead.

She refused to be thwarted.

Brooding, her gaze returned to the small tub gracing the center of the room. It wasn’t so elaborate or grand as the one she’d enjoyed in the bathhouse, where she’d first met Esme, but the water was still warm. And, recognizing that even in this odd place, it was bound to cool, she undressed, and waded into the tub, sinking into the temperate water—again, deeper than such a tiny tub should allow. But Gwendolyn was beyond questioning the peculiarities of this village. As Bryn had once said, up seemed down, and down seemed up, and she had far more pressing matters to consider—for one, how to cross the Veil if Deartháir Harri continued to refuse to allow it. Intent upon cleaning herself in the meantime, she found the cloth that lay draped over the rim of the tub, along with a small wedge of delightful-smelling soap and washed—vigorously scrubbing the scum from beneath her nailbeds, her face, ears, breasts. No one should come to the bargaining table so defiled! It was perhaps no wonder Deartháir Harri had peered down his nose at her.

Before long, Gwendolyn forgot to scrub so ruthlessly, and sighing over the enchanting scents accosting her—oddly reminiscent of her mother’s perfume—she laid her head back and closed her eyes, reveling in the bath.

Quite thoughtful, despite the mulish, half-witted arguments…

At home, a bath like this required the service of an army of servants—a number to heat the water in the kitchen cauldrons and too many to rush the buckets to her chamber. Gwendolyn had preferred bathing in Porth Pool. Unlike her mother, she could never justify the use of her people for such an effort—not that she didn’t appreciate being clean, mind you. She did, and particularly now, after having mired herself with the soot and grime of that wretched village Loc’s men destroyed.

She tried not to think about the woman and her sweet, dead child…

Tried not to think about the brave men felled there, defending their families…

Nor, again, the execution of Loc’s man…

Gwendolyn didn’t wish to upset Lir’s village, nor his order, but she knew in her heart that, no matter how Loc’s land fared right now, there was no joy or hope to be borne by a tyrant who cared nothing for anyone except himself.

What had Esme said? Eventually, all things perish without hope, and hatred’s roots, no matter how deep, do not sustain.

The people feared Loc, but this was not the same as whatever her father had inspired. Like his sire, the only thing Loc cared about was power and gold, and even with all the wealth her father had sent his way, he’d coveted more. He’d never wanted her. He’d only wanted the gold promised by her prophecy. And then, after discovering her hair was simply hair, he’d chosen bloodshed and betrayal over any true alliance. With his choices, he’d stolen her life—her hopes, her dreams, and her trust.

With a pang, Gwendolyn recalled the look on his face as he’d snicked her hair, and even now, it made her long to cut out his heart.

She would not play the fool for anyone ever again.

After everything Loc had done, she refused to believe any good could come of his reign, and, even if she was not the one who should rule in his stead, Gwendolyn was destined to liberate Pretania—sooner than later, else there would be more of what they’d encountered en route to this Druid village.

Burnt villages. Murdered innocents. Such cruelty.

This land would become a lawless land without hope, and, without hope, it would wither, even as the lands surrounding her own beloved Trevena now withered.

She slid lower into the tub, turning her thoughts to more pleasant ones… specifically, the moment when Málik had placed his hand upon her shoulder… his lips against the curve of her throat.

That was the first genuine show of affection he’d given her since the night he’d kissed her on the ramparts, and she sighed over the memory.

What if she should perish in pursuit of this sword? She would die with such bitter regret for never having known a lover’s touch…

For never having known his touch.

Sinking lower into the tub, she dared to imagine how it might have been if they had been alone in those woods… and then, quite rudely, a bell startled her from her reverie, sobering her at once. She sat straight, but before she could call out to say she was indisposed, the curtain parted to reveal Esme—once again intruding upon her bath, only this time, she was not welcome.

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