Page 67 of The Forgotten Prince

It wasn’t simply because her heart yearned for the woman who’d given her birth… she needed Queen Eseld as well. With her mother at her side, there was a far better chance Baugh would fight by her side, and she needed Baugh. More than ever, Gwendolyn was convinced he was the key to her success. Even if she faced him wielding Claímh Solais, there was no guarantee he would see it as a divine sign. What had Málik said? He might be your grandsire, but he’ll never be swayed to your cause solely because his blood flows through your veins. During all those years, her mother had lived in Trevena, never once had he traveled to see her.

For all this time, the piskie remained on Gwendolyn’s nose, watching, and then it bounced away with the spryness of a flea to rejoin its swarm. Suddenly, they put their voices together, forming a single, coherent word—a swelling sound formed of a thousand voices.

Danger!

Gwendolyn blinked, staring at the swarm.

Danger! They bellowed again.

“What danger?” she asked, and then, without warning, the swarm dove toward her face, giving her cheeks an odd sting. Startled, Gwendolyn sat, swatting them away, and the little buzzing creatures flew away, toward the door, and out, the swiftness of their flight leaving Gwendolyn with a sense of unease, but for what, she couldn’t say. And then… she heard voices outside.

Familiar voices.

Málik and Esme?

Whispering.

Quickly but quietly, Gwendolyn cast away the furs, thrusting both legs off the side of the bed. She landed on her toes and made her way to the door.

“Once again, you’ve appointed yourself her Shadow?”

“What business have you with her?”

“My business with your queen is for her ears, not yours.”

Gwendolyn sidled closer to the door—well, not a door, more like a curtain, and despite she knew by experience these walls were sturdy enough to hold her, she couldn’t be certain they wouldn’t betray her presence if she leaned against them, so she tipped forward, careful not to touch the wall, only listening.

“After weeks of disregard, you come crawling now?”

“Mayhap you’ve forgotten, dear betrothed. You are not the only one with business here.”

As though buffeted by her words, Gwendolyn rocked back on her heels.

Dear betrothed.

With so much enmity between them, it had been too easy to forget their relationship, but he was Esme’s before Gwendolyn ever knew him. And no matter, she was so startled by the endearment she missed what else they were saying, and now she focused again only to catch the last of it…

“…Please, Málik! You will risk all we have worked for.”

We? Perhaps she meant the rebellion? Although, as far as Gwendolyn knew, Málik had taken great pains to keep himself apart from that effort…

“No matter what you do, or what you say, he’ll never concede the sword, and you well know it!”

“If I must, I will take it for her,” Málik said darkly.

“By the eyes of Lugh! Have you forgotten who you are?” Esme whispered fiercely. “A prince of the realm! Why would you give up so much for her?”

Confusion swam in Gwendolyn’s head. Gods. Esme sounded so bitter—like a spurned lover. Did she, or didn’t she, intend to help Gwendolyn?

There was a note of menace in Málik’s response. “It suits me better to be a lowly huntsman than to wear a black-horned crown!”

“My father will flay you!” Esme warned.

Gwendolyn didn’t know what to think.

Who was helping whom?

Who was the villain and who was the champion?

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