Page 59 of The Forgotten Prince

Gwendolyn’s brows collided. “Are you suggesting Málik or Esme would do the Máistir harm? They were with us, Bryn.”

He inspected the Hob cake in his hand. “I suggested no such thing,” he argued. “But they are not the only Fae to be considered here. What I’d like to know is what motive there is for murdering our good Máistir?”

“Precisely!” Gwendolyn allowed, and then she suggested, “Perhaps to keep us from crossing the Veil? Deartháir Harri was quick to refuse me. He opposes the notion and swears it will make no difference who I ask, and that Emrys will uphold his decision, but I do not believe him.”

“Deartháir Harri?”

Gwendolyn shrugged, remembering belatedly that Bryn had yet to meet him. “He is the acting Máistir now that Emrys is so ill. Perhaps he has a motive?”

“What motive, precisely?”

“They will lose this village if we spill blood in the Fae realm, so I presume he cannot face his own mortality.” Even as Gwendolyn spoke the possibility aloud, the argument grew stronger. “He would rather stay here than allow me to cross the Veil to retrieve my sword. He would put himself and his youth before the good of Pretania!”

Bryn lifted a dark brow as he popped another bite of Hob cake into his mouth, then used the free hand to brush a lock of shining black hair from his face. “What do you propose we should do? Will you have me spy upon our hosts? Peep through windows and skulk about the kitchen, making inquiries?”

Gwendolyn offered him a crooked smile. “Isn’t that what you were already doing?”

“Well, I wasn’t skulking,” Bryn argued. “I was there for the precise purpose of filling my empty belly,” he said. “Not to gather intelligence so I can accuse the chef of poisoning our good Máistir.”

Gwendolyn’s gaze snapped to his. “You suspect the chef?”

Bryn frowned. “Well, more than any, he would have the knowledge, wouldn’t he? After all, it was our kitchen service we employed to produce the theriacs we took. They must also have some knowledge of plants in order to cook without unintentionally murdering everyone. But nay, if indeed Máistir Emrys was poisoned, I must believe they perpetrated it another way. For what it’s worth, I do not believe that kind chef would hurt a flea.”

“Why?” Gwendolyn grinned. “Because he was kind enough to gift you Hob cake?” She sobered again. “Perhaps that, too, was by design,” she suggested. “Again, I would take care with that Hob cake,” she advised.

Still, Bryn ignored the warning, taking another hefty bite, and Gwendolyn noticed his hands were no longer quite so full. “There are no windows, anyway. Have you noticed?”

Of course, she had. This Druid village was nothing like any place Gwendolyn had ever encountered. “I am not suggesting you should peep into windows, Bryn. I don’t know how you should go about your investigation. I only feel in my heart this is the right thing to do.”

“My investigation?”

“Yours, yes,” she agreed, avoiding his gaze.

There was so much Gwendolyn couldn’t say, and the worst of it was withholding the possibility of his mother’s escape. She longed to reveal that news most of all but dared not. Not only had she promised Esme, but she could not yet verify it as truth, and she would not raise Bryn’s hopes only to dash them again. As it was, she was well aware of how much grief she had already caused him, and she refused to do aught more that would undermine him or their friendship. Slowly, but surely, they were rediscovering their amity, but this would end swiftly enough if Gwendolyn wounded him again.

Or… if he perceived she had lied to him.

A feeling of dread formed in the pit of her gut.

Gwendolyn trusted Esme only so far as to know the Elf could not wittingly lie. But to that end, Esme never actually said anyone besides Queen Eseld had lived.

Or had she said even that much?

A dark thought occurred to her—one she’d not considered before now, regardless of the differences between hers and her mother’s countenances…

Was Queen Eseld her mother?

Could it be her true mother still lived, but Queen Eseld was dead?

Blood and bloody bones.

Gwendolyn was too aware now of the possibility of crosstalk in every Fae agreement, and her heart sank over the deliberation.

But nay, she had her mother’s ring for proof.

Still, Esme could have somehow discovered it, and used it to deceive her. That would be clever—to offer it as proof, without ever speaking her mother’s name.

She tried to recall if Esme even once spoke it aloud and could not remember.

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