Page 82 of The Forgotten Prince

Gwendolyn’s belly turned, feeling the worst. But there was no recrimination in his expression when he peered up again to meet Gwendolyn’s gaze. The best thing she could do would be to hasten her departure.

“I was wondering if you knew where Málik might be?”

The Máistir tilted Gwendolyn a look that gave her every sense he knew but did not wish to say. “No,” he said. “I do not.”

He was lying.

No matter. Gwendolyn laid her fingers atop his black-veined hand. She’d not press him if he would not say. “Will they restore you to the Máistir’s position?” She wasn’t merely asking to make polite conversation. She wished to know where he stood on the matter of the portal.

Emrys shook his head sadly. “Neither do I wish to be.” He sighed despondently. “My time in the mortal realm is done, Banríon Dragan. On this occasion, perhaps the cause of my illness was foul play, but eventually, death will be my fate.” He shrugged. “I should like to linger a while.”

Gwendolyn squeezed his hand fondly. “I would like you to linger, as well. Words cannot express how grateful I am that Cathbad and Pikel’s fates were not yours.” And then she furrowed her brow. “I do wonder though, did you perchance spy your attacker?” She was still suspicious of Harri.

The Máistir shook his head. “I did not. I descended to await my guest, and when he did not arrive, I grew tired of pacing, and meant to return. But then, I felt the smallest prick at the back of my neck—a bit like a horsefly. I grew dizzy and sat to put my feet in the pool—sometimes the warm water calms me. But just then, as I removed my shoes, I remember nothing more. Esme tells me it was a splinter from a blowgun that struck me here.” He moved his hand to the back of his neck, tapping the area where Gwendolyn had first examined his wound.

“We are both quite fortunate,” Gwendolyn allowed, lifting her fingers to her mithril to trace the scar—barely discernible to look at, but easily distinguishable by touch. “They discovered you sleeping,” she said. “That is how I found you, as well.”

“Alas,” he said. “Had I shuffled this mortal coil, I’d never even know.”

“I would have known,” Gwendolyn reassured.

He smiled warmly. “As I you, dear,” he said, patting her hand, then suddenly lifting a finger, giving her a sharp glance. “But I should warn you… I’ve received word that Locrinus has journeyed north, in hopes of swaying the Parisi to his cause. That is who I was supposed to have met—an informant from this tribe.”

“The Parisi?” Gwendolyn’s brows collided. “Art certain?”

The Máistir nodded. “Quite. And yet, this news came to me first from the Brigantes. They wished to know my thoughts on this matter.”

That didn’t bode well. Like the Brigantes, the Parisi were never known to take sides, although perhaps Locrinus had discovered some argument to sway them.

The Máistir studied Gwendolyn, squeezing her hand. “I am heartily pleased you’ve awakened, but I must also tell you that no one here will support you in your quest to cross the Veil, Banríon—particular now, in light of this attack. In all our seven hundred years in this village, we have never once endured such a thing. We’ve been duly warned, and yes, I’ve been apprised of Deartháir Harri’s decision, and I would uphold this. But I can tell you, as an aside, your best hope is Esme.”

“And Málik,” Gwendolyn said, correcting him.

Regardless of her own plans with Esme, she knew Málik had not changed his mind or his heart. He supported her quest and had never wavered from the conviction that Gwendolyn must face his stepfather.

The Máistir shook his head. “Poor Prionsabail. I have never seen him so stricken. It would not surprise me to learn he means to keep you from this quest.”

Gwendolyn’s brows collided. “He would not,” she argued. “He, more than anyone, understands how important it is for me to retrieve my sword—now more than ever!”

Important enough he’d had so many opportunities to fulfill his father’s directive, and still he had not. Even during this spriggan attack, Málik had risked his life to save her.

“Does he?” asked the Máistir, his tone elevating, as though he himself did not believe it.

“Yes,” Gwendolyn said with certainty.

And regardless, the Máistir had sewn a seed of doubt.

Once again, he patted her hand, as though to console her. “No worries, dear. Love is a force unlike any you will encounter. Your Prionsabail will move heaven and earth to keep you safe. I know this, as I know him. But please! Do not listen to me,” he said. “What do I know? Except!” His eyes brightened, and he lifted a finger to wag at her. “I do know where else love has cast its capricious eye!” At once, he placed two fingers to his lips as though to turn a key in a lock, and then declared, “You did not hear this from me, but our Esme has… shall we say… kept your Shadow preoccupied… if you know what I mean?”

Gwendolyn drew back, surprised. “Bryn?”

The Máistir nodded, his eyes sparkling with something akin to titillation over the tidbit of gossip. “Oh, yes, I see you take my meaning,” he said, and then he smirked. “I may be old, but I am not so old I do not recognize flirtation. I am told my brother went to locate your Shadow, and, well…” He shrugged then, pushing up a hand.

Gwendolyn blinked again.

Gods. She had never once suspected either, and if she had suspected Esme’s feelings for anyone, it would have been Málik, or Lir.

Why then had Bryn suggested she might have feelings for Lir?

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