Page 62 of The Forgotten Prince

Oddly, neither did she encounter Bryn, and Gwendolyn wondered if he was making progress—or even if there was progress to be made.

By early afternoon, she grew frustrated. She had looked everywhere. In the bathhouse. In the Máistir’s chamber. She’d checked the dining hall, the kitchen, and once, entirely by accident, she poked her head into a strange Druid’s quarters, searching for Bryn, and found the man on his knees, nude, and crawling about on all fours. Stifling a yelp of surprise, she backed away without disturbing him, befuddled over what he might be doing, and thereafter resolved to at least clear her throat before entering any quarters.

Having spent too little time in this village the previous visit, she had had no genuine sense of how curious this place was. The entire village was a spidery maze, and the mist, she suspected, muddled the mind.

For all Gwendolyn knew, she’d only dreamt the conversation with Esme, and only wished her mother was still alive.

Gods. Had she?

Gwendolyn hoped not.

Not only did she long so desperately to see her mother again, but the more she considered Esme’s plan, the more she felt it was the right thing to do. She couldn’t live with herself if she endangered others. Not if there was another way.

And there was.

Bryn, for one, couldn’t think clearly where Gwendolyn was concerned. If he believed for one moment it was for the best to defend her, she could not be certain he would stand down, even if she commanded him to do so. It didn’t matter she had survived Loc’s wretched court, nor she had rallied a once-sworn enemy, nor she had stood up to Caradoc, besting him at swords, nor she herself had devised the plan to save Trevena, nor she had been the one to climb the piscina shaft to see her plan to fruition. Gwendolyn could defend herself but judging by the way Bryn had spoken to her yesterday afternoon, he would always see her as the youngling princess he was sworn to defend, and she might never outgrow his solicitousness, nor his dubiety. When they faced Esme’s father, Gwendolyn must be certain she was the one in command, and that no one would undermine her efforts to retrieve her sword. A peaceful negotiation was preferred, but if blood must be shed, it should be hers—not Bryn’s, and not Lir’s.

Nor Málik’s, though she felt like eviscerating him herself.

Indeed, she had to restrain herself from accosting him when, late in the afternoon, he found her wandering, and insisted she join him to sup.

Angry though Gwendolyn was, she had no choice but to accept his offer if she didn’t wish him to suspect. But this was the first time since learning the truth she’d had to look him in the eyes and knowing he had been sent to assassinate her, not confronting him over it was the most difficult thing she’d ever had to do—more so, even, then keeping the truth from Bryn.

No, she wanted to say.

Bloody liar, she wanted to shout.

It didn’t matter whether Fae couldn’t speak untruths. Bryn was right: A lie of omission was still a lie. And Málik’s lie was not a small one.

He came to kill her? Truly?

How dare he claim he loved her when all along he was carrying such a dark secret, with even darker intent?

Seated in the hall now, with Málik by her side, Gwendolyn turned the ring Esme gave her under the table, flicking her thumbnail against the little flowers—proof she and Esme had spoken… proof her mother lived.

So long as Gwendolyn had a memory of it, her mother had never once removed this ring from her finger. Even when she’d dressed for the finer occasions, she had worn this relic of her Prydein youth. She must believe Esme spoke true.

Turning the ring around and around and around her finger, Gwendolyn sat on pushpins, eager to be done with the evening’s discourse and entertainment… eager to speak with Esme again, intending to press her about her mother. If she could not answer with conviction, or if she digressed, Gwendolyn would know to suspect.

But then what?

Did she go back to her original plan and concede to the danger it would pose to Bryn and Málik? Never mind Lir; she couldn’t bring him now, not with Emrys so ill. But then, after all, Esme had been so adamant Málik and Lir should be left behind. Had she changed her mind? And if she did, what about Gwendolyn’s mother? What about the portal?

Gwendolyn would have thought for sure Esme would have found her by now.

Her thoughts spun like the ring on her finger as her gaze sought the door beyond the creature seated atop a stool on the dais, praying Esme, or even Bryn would come save her from this pretentious discussion.

And meanwhile, now and again, her gaze fell upon the odd little creature in the center of the room, whose fur alternated between black and white.

Introduced as a Púca, Gwendolyn soon discovered it had the same peculiar quality as Hob cake. Only instead of becoming what others wished to see, it transformed as it pleased—one moment, a tiny blue man with pointy ears, singing at the top of his lungs, another moment a three-headed beast, still singing, but each head crooning a different verse. The cacophony gave Gwendolyn a pang in her ear.

Meanwhile, Málik sat beside her, watching her with unbridled interest, and Gwendolyn daren’t speak a word lest she give herself away. Foremost in her mind was Esme’s disclosure, and though she longed to ask him, why—not so much why he would agree to his father’s command, but why, after everything they had endured together, he had not revealed the truth.

“Tricky little beasts,” Málik said, hitching his chin at the stage and rubbing the stem of his wooden goblet between two long fingers.

The silver glint in his eyes gave Gwendolyn the strangest feeling that, for the first time, she was witnessing his inebriation. She frowned, peering at the goblet in his hand. Like you, she thought, quietly seething. She had the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about the Púca right now, and she longed to challenge him and turn the table. But no matter how sore her heart, she couldn’t divulge any of the things Esme had told her. If her mother still lived, and she had any opportunity to reunite with her, she would not spoil the chance by tipping her hand.

For now, she must keep her thoughts to herself and her mother’s ring beneath the table. But this marked the first time since Chysauster she’d held back from Málik, and she sensed his chariness… multiplying by the moment.

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