Page 86 of The Forgotten Prince

Confusing.

As her jaw fell, Gwendolyn dropped the sack, holding the twine loosely in the crook of one finger, so it rested it at her feet as she peered out over the horizon. She was still inclining her head to alter the perspective so she could better comprehend the view. It was… fantastical. Over the immediate horizon, she could spy a canvas of green—trees? But at the far, far reaches of her vision… there was an endless expanse of blue. The sea? Even farther, expansive new lands… and farther yet, an icy tundra. But these perspectives were strange. It was as though she were looking upon her father’s war table upside down, and if only she reached out far enough, she might move the pieces around. One tree there, another here…

Gwendolyn had no words.

“Come,” Málik said, tugging at her hand, pulling her along.

Gwendolyn went. Neck craned, she gaped as the landscape changed, walking along like a twisted old crone as she examined the horizon, trusting Málik to keep her safe. One step brought them across the Tin Isles, another two, and they had crossed a cerulean sea. One last step and they were standing beneath a mountain of fire. “What is that?” she gasped, still looking up.

“A bolcán. A fire mound. There are many across the mortal realm and many points of entry into the Fae realm from this portal, but this one is nearest to my home.”

“Your home?” Gwendolyn said, looking about, confused. There was no door here, no entrance she could see.

“I have told you many times, Gwendolyn. Nothing is ever what it appears.”

“Gwendolyn,” he said again, whispering her name as he pulled her upright to look straight into his face. His expression sober, he took her by the shoulders and held her steady to face him. “Do you remember what I told you that night on the ramparts—everything? About whom your grandsire is… your mother?”

Gwendolyn nodded, growing even more confused. “Fomorian,” she said, only to appease him. She remembered, but there was a strange new light in his eyes.

“You remember everything?” he pressed.

Gwendolyn nodded once more, but said, “You are frightening me, Málik. Why are we here? Where are Esme and Bryn?”

He peered down between them, gripping Gwendolyn’s shoulders tighter as he spoke. “Everything you know is incorrect,” he declared. “But I can tell you no more, and Esme…” He peered up, meeting Gwendolyn’s gaze, his pale blue irises burning like the hottest shade of a flame.

“Esme what?” Gwendolyn lifted a hand to her shoulder, trying to push off his grip, losing her patience. “Esme what!”

“Listen,” he demanded, resisting her and shaking her gently. “I know what she has planned. I will not allow it!”

Gwendolyn’s belly turned, seeing the fury in his eyes. “Málik, I can explain,” she said, and truly, she meant to. But something about the look he gave her made her afraid. She longed to find her mother and didn’t wish to jeopardize her chances, but the way Málik was looking at her now—as though he could read her mind, as though he could kill her—it gave her a panic.

His fingers gripped her shoulders tighter, his pale eyes darkening with… sorrow? “Trust to no one,” he demanded.

“You are scaring me!”

“Look with your heart,” he persisted, giving her another shake.

“Málik! I dislike how you are looking at me.” With her free hand, Gwendolyn tried to pry his fingers loose, but could not. “I can explain everything!”

“Remember, Gwendolyn. Remember!”

“Remember what?” Suddenly, Málik pulled her close for a kiss, wrapping his arms about her, kissing her so deeply, hungrily, thoroughly, it left her dizzy with confusion as he withdrew. “Málik?” she cried as he slid his hands back to her shoulders. Blood and bones. She hadn’t the presence of mind to kiss him back, and now, she had the oddest feeling to swipe at her mouth. This… this felt like a kiss of betrayal, and his next words gave truth to the fear unfolding in her heart.

“Forgive me,” he said. And then he shoved her.

Gwendolyn was unprepared for it, tumbling backward, snatching fearfully at Málik’s tunic. Her fingers grasped at thin air as she flailed her arms, trying in vain to regain her footing, her gaze clinging to Málik as though he were a lifeline.

But he was not. He stood without moving. Without helping. Merely staring. And even as Gwendolyn stumbled backward, he continued to watch, a coldness settling in his bleak, wintry eyes.

37

“It is done, then?”

Esme approached, and without looking at her, Málik echoed her words, fury darkening his tone. “It is done.”

“It is for the best,” she dared to console as he placed his arms akimbo, peering down at his feet.

“For whom?”

---