Page 58 of The Forgotten Prince

“Nay,” he said. “When I asked for the recipe, he said it was stones—one stone. He said that stone was a gift from the Fae when they’d first arrived in this village. Like the Dagda’s Cauldron, its bounty never ends. He has cooked every pot of soup with that same stone for seven hundred years!”

“Seven hundred and three,” Gwendolyn corrected and Bryn furrowed his brow. “That’s how long they’ve been here,” she explained.

“Fascinating. I love this place!” he said. “Everyone is so agreeable. I am certain he would have allowed me to take another three.” And then he gave her a sheepish grin. “I wouldn’t have taken another if not,” he asserted. “That would be stealing.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “No doubt,” she said, smiling, though she felt compelled to caution him as he lifted another bite into his mouth. “Go easy with that Hob cake, Bryn. It’s quite potent as well as flavorful.”

“Dagda’s balls!” he declared suddenly. “Do you remember those bloody oysters we fished from Dragon’s Bay? That summer when the currents were so strong, and the waters warmer than usual?” He grinned, waving the bite in his hand. “That time when Ely spewed from the ramparts and found the head of one alderman? Well now, this bite! This bite!” he declared. “It tastes like those oysters.”

Gwendolyn couldn’t help herself; she giggled, her mood lifted as much as she could manage, considering the circumstances. Bryn’s expression was one of wonder—one that must mirror the look on her own face when she’d first tasted Hob cake. In fact, Gwendolyn was envious she could no longer experience that wonder for the first time. Despite Málik cautioning her against eating too much, she, too, had stolen little bites all day long—in part with disbelief over the fact every bite could taste so extraordinarily different, so delectable besides. The confection was incredible—as though it somehow replicated one’s most beautiful memories regarding food. Every dish she had ever loved, that’s what Hob cake tasted like.

“Hmm” she said, wondering about that stone soup.

Truth to tell, she would like to try that, as well, but dared not—not today. She would have to wait until she returned, and perhaps if Máistir Emrys was well enough, she would beg him for some, and they would celebrate together with stone soup and Hob cake and if she slept for a week thereafter, and woke with an aching head, she would endure it most gleefully.

At any rate, she believed it was the pookies she’d eaten after her arrival in the village that had affected her so horribly. And somehow, the combination of the two had also given her those prophetic dreams. In the end, it was those visions that had helped her to win Caradoc to her side, and also save Ely—although, admittedly, Ely hadn’t needed saving. Thus, she allowed Bryn his newfound delight over the discovery of Hob cake and took a bit of joy in his bliss. No doubt, they’d all had too little joy since the Feast of Blades.

As to that matter, it was the most difficult thing Gwendolyn ever had to do not to blurt out the news of her mother’s escape—not merely to share her own burgeoning joy and sense of relief, but to give Bryn some hope that his mother might have survived as well. Gwendolyn sighed. “I remember that day all too well,” she said fondly, though Ely mightn’t recall the occasion so fondly, since she was ill for two days after.

“This one!” Bryn exclaimed, once again waving the Hob cake, Ely’s encounter with summer oysters forgotten. “Oh, gods! ‘Tis better than Cornish oysters!”

“Be warned,” Gwendolyn said, feeling guilty for not fessing up sooner. “You might discover yourself asleep for days. Málik warned me, too, but I did not listen.”

“Cheese!” Bryn exclaimed, ignoring her warning. “Freshly made!”

And then, perhaps only recalling Gwendolyn had come searching for him for a reason, he asked, “What did you wish to speak to me about?”

27

Bryn’s delight over the Hob cake dimmed after Gwendolyn finished sharing her suspicions—well, not hers precisely. She was not the one who’d voiced them, nor did she believe them. However, she was not above using the Druid’s proclamation to her advantage. As far as Gwendolyn was concerned, there was no evidence of poisoning. And despite that, if she did not investigate this case, and someone in this village was behaving nefariously, they would perhaps try again. Gwendolyn didn’t wish the good Máistir to expire, simply because no one had treated this concern earnestly. It was enough that someone here thought there was an attempted poisoning, and by engaging Bryn to investigate the matter, she could slay two hares with a single arrow. Indeed, not only did she trust Bryn to leave no stone unturned, this task would keep him from scrutinizing her own actions too closely. While it was his job to do so, she didn’t intend to have him following her about, asking questions. As it was, it was killing her not to tell him what Esme had revealed about her mother—and mayhap his as well. But there was yet another reason to task Bryn with this. As one of only two women in this Druid village—and being the one who’d so vehemently insisted upon accessing their portal, she was quite sure she would have eyes upon her. No one would miss her poking about, and meanwhile Bryn, being of the male persuasion, would have more freedom to uncover the portal. If he found it, Gwendolyn might have yet another option should Esme decide to betray her, and Gwendolyn could still not convince Deartháir Harri to allow them passage into the Fae realm. Naturally, Gwendolyn didn’t tell Bryn her true feelings about the first reason, nor did she reveal the second, but she suggested the third.

He slid her a frown like so many he’d given her throughout the years—a frown that said he didn’t approve. “Have you not had enough playing the sleuth-hound, Gwen? Do you remember what happened the last time you set about investigating?”

Gwendolyn returned his frown. “Don’t make this about that, Bryn. As I’ve said, we need to locate the portal. Without it, we can proceed no further.” She averted her gaze, unwilling to allow him to study her eyes. Somehow, he had always gleaned when she was hiding something, and although the past year had hardened Gwendolyn, she wasn’t so complicated or unknowable to Bryn.

She slid him a careful glance. “I assure you, this is not that,” she asserted. “But, no matter, even if this were solely about the Máistir, I cannot ignore this matter. I know and care for the old bod. Before we go, I would like to be sure no one will make another attempt on his life.”

“Do you believe someone tried to poison him?”

There was doubt in his voice, and Gwendolyn feared he’d read it in her voice. No. She didn’t believe the Máistir was poisoned, but neither she didn’t wish to admit that to Bryn.

Nor, in truth, was she willing to be judged for her investigation into Bryok’s death. That occasion was gone and done, and perhaps if she hadn’t bothered to do so, her uncle and his family would still be alive, but so much as she wished things were different, they were not. Much to her eternal regret, she went to Chysauster, everyone died, she returned none the wiser, and nothing changed for Trevena. But at least Alderman Aelwin spent some time in gaol. And now Gwendolyn had the chance to locate her mother and make some things right—for Bryn and for her.

Anyway, having Queen Eseld by her side might also help convince Baugh to fight with her against Locrinus. So, this wasn’t only about mending her broken heart. Strategically, Gwendolyn needed her mother as well.

This was the right thing to do.

She felt it in her bones.

At least she thought so.

Gwendolyn slid Bryn another mindful glance, intending to lie to him now, but what came out of her mouth was another version of the truth. “I don’t know what I believe, but his Druid brother believes it, and Máistir Emrys is our ally—one of too few. I’d not abandon him when he needs us most.”

“What about the Fae?”

“What about them?”

“Do you suspect them?”

---