Page 79 of The Forgotten Prince

“No need,” said Esme. “Málik has already done so.”

Málik…

Desperately, Gwendolyn tried again to open her eyes, realizing Málik’s was the one voice she’d yet to hear, eager to see his face. Her throat bobbed painfully, and she tried to speak, to no avail. Her words emerged as a hapless groan.

“Shhh… leave her to rest,” suggested Esme, whispering again. “You, come with me,” she demanded, and there was an answering chuckle.

Málik?

Gods.

No.

In her mind’s eye, she saw him battling spriggans, wielding his sword like a creature possessed. But that battle was over now, wasn’t it?

Gwendolyn was back in her room, safe.

Where was Málik?

Try as she might, she still couldn’t open her eyes. Struggling against the weight of her closed lids, she lost. Awareness faded, dragging her back down into a dark, dreamless slumber.

Gwendolyn blinked awake.

“There you are.”

To her greatest relief, it was Málik’s face she first spied when she opened her eyes. “You’re here,” she said weakly, but unlike the torpor in her limbs, her heart leapt with joy. Only to be certain this was no dream, she reached out to touch his precious face, and then grimaced over the pain that assailed her.

“Where would I be?” Smiling, he seized her hand, laying it back down atop the bed, holding it fast, his long fingers curling about hers, squeezing gently.

Gwendolyn blinked away happy tears, not wishing to share the dream she’d had where he’d perished in the fight against the spriggans. Clearly, he’d fared better than she. Peering down at her aching chest, at the wound hidden by a mountain of furs, she found that Málik—or someone, perhaps Esme?—had removed her mithril, and dressed her in her sleeping gown. Unfortunately, despite the fresh clothes, the scent of her own blood persisted in her nostrils, and though it was difficult to see in the half light, she thought there might be bruises beneath her gown.

“They came to kill me,” she said. “Didn’t they?”

“Excellent conjecture,” he said, his lips lifting at one corner. “Little did they realize my Dragon Queen is much too fierce to be brought down by a horde of wood-brained spriggans.”

My Dragon Queen… the endearment squeezed at Gwendolyn’s heart, the sound of it so full of pride. It didn’t matter what Esme claimed; she believed their love was strong enough to overcome whatever influence his father might wield over him—his true name be damned. Gwendolyn tried to smile, but her face hurt. Instead, she lifted a hand to her breast, where it ached, and Málik seized it again, dragging it away.

“It’s the spriggan poison,” he told her. “It has a temporary effect, but do not let it concern you.”

Gwendolyn gave him a nod, letting her hand rest beneath his, content enough for the moment to linger under its warmth. “How many attacked?”

“Thirty, perhaps, all intent upon you.”

“Bryn?”

“Unharmed,” he said. “Sadly, the same cannot be said for everyone. Deartháir Harri has sent men below to prepare a pyre.”

Another pyre? Gods. The second in less than a sennight. But, of course, they could not light a fire in this tree-bound village.

Gwendolyn’s heart ached over the news, though it might be impossible to say whether it hurt more for the lost souls or the wounds she’d sustained in the attack. Her body truly ached, and it felt as though she had twenty stones resting atop her breast. The inexorable heaviness and pain extended well into her limbs. And this was all her fault. She was the one who had lured those creatures to this place. She alone was answerable for any injuries or death. Gods knew she could not lay abed and await another attack. She refused to endanger these people more than she had already. Gwendolyn tried to rise, intending to find Esme. “Argh!” The pain in her chest flared, radiating to every limb, every finger, every toe. Defeated by it, she laid back down, frustrated beyond measure. “How long have I slept?” she wondered aloud, worried that, once again, she had whiled away days, wasting time they did not have. Her plans could not change. More than ever, she was determined to cross the Veil and Esme’s bargain afforded her the best opportunity.

“Not so long as you slept after the pookies.”

Gwendolyn wasn’t in the mood for jests. “How long?”

“A few bells.”

“How few?”

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