Page 61 of The Forgotten Prince

“What gossip?”

He exhaled wearily. “There have been emissaries coming and going for the past two moons. Many from the Brigantes tribes, and a few from the Deceangli and even the Votadini. Locrinus has been busy wooing them, with a bit of help from Mona.”

“Mona!”

Mona was the home of the Llanrhos Order.

The red in Bryn’s cheeks spread to his neck. “Yes. Locrinus has sued for the return of his bride.”

Sued? Gwendolyn felt a prick of fury over that news.

Over her dead body would she return to that ill-bred viper! “How dare he!” she said. “All the while, he travels with his mistress by his side!”

“From what I have been told, the Llanrhos Order has denied him, but they came to speak to the Máistir to glean his thoughts on the matter.”

Gwendolyn felt her shoulders tighten.

Could that be who Emrys had met with in the grotto? If someone had poisoned him, she would loathe to think it could be anyone from the Llanrhos Order.

What had begun as a means to keep Bryn preoccupied now looked to be a matter of prudence. The more Gwendolyn heard, the more she was afraid there was foul play.

“Have we a bargain?”

“Yes,” Gwendolyn said. “Of course.”

Bryn tilted her a wary glance. “That was too easy.”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “Mayhap I have learned my lessons, and therefore I have asked you to investigate in my stead. I know you will see everything more clearly than I will.” That was and wasn’t true. Bryn might be broodier than she, but he had the most annoying habit of seeing only the best in those he loved—that included Gwendolyn.

“Leave it with me, then.” He grinned at her. “To begin, shall we pay our favorite brothers a visit and see how the Máistir fares?”

Gwendolyn stopped abruptly, peering about, dropping her hands by her sides, realizing they were lost. “Bryn? Where are we? Do you know how to find the Máistir’s chamber?”

“I do,” he said, turning to face her and skipping backward, pointing to the bark of a tree. “Note where the moss grows. Always, on the north,” he then said, pointing again, only this time to the courtyard itself. “Also, note the corners,” he suggested. “They marked every corner with symbols, showing what lies ahead.”

“That’s brilliant,” Gwendolyn allowed, wondering why she’d never noticed those before. But that would make sense, when otherwise, there was nothing in this village that gave one any sense of direction. One could not glimpse the sky, nor the ground, nor was it possible to distinguish day from night, except in the vaguest sense—which was to say, if the sky was dark, even by day, then the light was minimal, regardless of the hour. And despite this, the hour was never too dark to see one’s hand in front of one’s face. From outside, every dwelling looked the same, except for the length of the chambers. That was the only reason she had known which was the Máistir’s Hall and which was the Hall of Feasts. Or the bathhouse—she’d recognized the last by the outpouring of steam. But even that wasn’t foolproof. The curling mist was ever-present, light but impenetrable, so even as one passed through it, knowing full well what was left behind, every sense of what was gone was forgotten, and a glance ahead revealed nothing more than billowing mist—like a waking dream, even without the aid of pookies, everything illusory. Only this time, that quality left Gwendolyn unsettled. This was a village lost in place and time, and perhaps someone intended for it to remain that way…

At the cost of Máistir Emrys’ life.

28

As heartening as their conversation had been—giving Gwendolyn a much-welcome return to normalcy regarding Bryn—she sent him on his way, reassuring him most vehemently she could locate the Máistir’s chamber on her own. She alone would check on Emrys and Lir. And, instead, Bryn should begin his investigation. The longer she remained in his presence, the greater the chance he would suspect her ruse. But Gwendolyn didn’t have to lie: Their time was growing short. She told him so, and he gave her a dubious tilt of his head. “Art certain, Gwendolyn? I haven’t seen Lir since we arrived. Shouldn’t I lend support?”

“Later,” Gwendolyn pressed. “We haven’t time, Bryn. Go discover what you may. In the meantime, I will see to Emrys, and I promise to tell Lir you will visit soon.”

He scratched his head. “Very well,” he relented, and walked away, and though Gwendolyn had the feeling he suspected something, he didn’t look back.

Once he was gone, she made her way at once to Emrys’ quarters, using the symbols Bryn had pointed out. It wasn’t quite so simple as Bryn had suggested, but the marks made it easier to find. Unfortunately, when she arrived, it was to discover the Máistir’s condition unchanged. He wasn’t improved, but neither was he in immediate danger, and Gwendolyn took comfort in that, at least.

He rested easily, with no fever. No bluing of his skin. No flushing. Only this odd bruising, which seemed to have traveled from its point of origin—that, and his hands were now stiff as a boar’s bristle. As though he were already dead, rigid, despite most certainly being alive. It was the most perplexing array of symptoms, and the only thing that gave her any pause. Because, if, in truth, the cause of his illness was his advanced age, there shouldn’t be any symptoms at all.

Frowning, Gwendolyn smoothed a hand over his forehead, then patted his cheek with affection, hoping he would recover, although she must consider these Druids had put off for seven hundred years what most mortal men experienced after fifty or less—only if they were fortunate. Many men expired younger, and though her father had lived more than most, despite his illness, he did not come close to Máistir Emrys’ age. Alas, no one could cure old age, nor prevent one’s natural death. Sliding her hand from Emrys’ cool forehead, she considered the color of his skin—neither pale nor flushed. For all he had endured, he appeared as though he were sleeping. “Has he stirred at all?” she asked Lir.

Solemnly, the young Druid shook his head. “Not once.”

By the following morning, when Gwendolyn had yet to receive Esme, she rose and set out to find her.

Normally, the Elf appeared whenever it suited her to do so. Half the time during their travels, Esme hadn’t even slept when they’d slept, abandoning camp at twilight, and returning in the wee hours, only to continue the journey in the morning as indefatigable as Enbarr’s mares. And yet, considering the urgency of this mission, Gwendolyn would have expected to leave by now, and nevertheless, Esme was nowhere to be found.

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