Page 11 of The Cornish Princess
Turning her attention from the harbor, Gwendolyn reveled in the lengthening silence. It was a lovely day for the ides of April. The sun shone brightly, warming the countryside a little more with each passing day. At long last, she gave a casual wave to the palace guards as she passed beneath the outer gates and made for the forest at an easy pace.
Only once her mare’s hooves bit into softer soil did she feel any true urgency to be away. And then she spurred the sweet beast into a canter, confident that Bryn would follow.
Tilting her head back with glee, she breathed in deeply. The countryside was a welcome departure. Already the grass was greener, and the distant trees were unfurling new leaves—the scent of them more welcome than any perfume from Illyria.
Finally, when she reached the tree line, Bryn dared to sidle up beside her. “There you are,” she teased, with a smile in her voice. “I worried you’d abandoned me.”
“Never,” he swore, and Gwendolyn knew in her heart that come what may, this would always be the case. Loyal Bryn would follow and serve her till death did them part. And if the need ever arose, he would sacrifice his life for hers—but he would choose to do so, not because it was expected, nor because it was his occupation, but because he loved her, not as a man loved a woman, but as a brother loved a sister. She trusted this and loved him, too.
Indeed, if there was one source of comfort to be found in the adventure to come, it was that she would never have to face her destiny alone. She would always have Bryn. Lamentably, her mood soured as she considered his new sparring partner. “I don’t know why you like thatSidheso much,” she groused.
“Because he is true to himself,” Bryn replied. “Málik is who he is, without compromise or apology.”
“Oh, I’d say. Apologies are lost to that ignorant elf.”
It wasnota polite thing to say, and Gwendolyn loathed that she’d felt compelled to say it, and perhaps she was even embarrassed, yet not enough to take it back.
Málik brought out the worst in her.
“Perhaps,” said Bryn, and left it at that, until Gwendolyn’s irritation got the better of her, and she added, “He is rude!” She cast Bryn a beleaguered glance. “I saw for myself the way he smacked you with his blade, smiling like a fox who swallowed the hen.”
Bryn smiled companionably. “I warrant ’tis naught more or less than what I would have done to him. We are friends.”
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Truly? And does it not bother you that your father gives him such favor? He came from where, Bryn? Nowhere, truly? Recommended by no one and yet suddenly this man is training our Elite Guard?”
“He has taught me well—more than my father.”
Gwendolyn fell silent, not wishing to argue, but not wanting to capitulate.
“At any rate, lest you forget, he was summoned here by your father.”
“Humph!” she said, straightening her spine, unwilling to afford Málik Danann any generosity at all. “I doubt this. And regardless, he enjoys showing off.”
Bryn’s lips thinned. “You know… I find it odd you would hold hisrásagainst him—particularly you, Gwendolyn, since you seem so preoccupied with all thingsfae.”
Shewaspreoccupied with all things fae.
Not anymore.
As children of the gods, the Tuatha’ans were supposed to have ruled eternally. Yet where were they now? Consigned to some dark underworld conceived for their penance, and why? If they were anything like Málik Danann, it must be because they were all arrogant fools.
Annoyed, Gwendolyn returned, “It is not hisrásI hold against him, Bryn. It is his… attitude. He behaves as though he is born of gods.”
Bryn lifted a shoulder. “Aye, well, if the tales are to be believed, so he would be.”
Gwendolyn shot him another bedeviled glance, narrowing her eyes. “Soheclaims. Yet anyone could claim to be Danann and appoint himself such.” She forced a smile and gave Bryn an exuberant nod, false though it was. “Hello, friend. Have you met me? I am Gwendolyn Danann!”
Bryn shook his head. “I must disagree,” he said. “Aside from his name, he speaks little of his kind. You are wrong about him, Gwendolyn. All I know of Málik, aside from his prowess on the court, I only know through the gossip of others.”
“Humph,” she said again.
For a while, they cantered through the woods in silence. Alas, though Gwendolyn would have liked to have said she enjoyed the sound of Spring—the pitter-patter of creatures, the snapping of twigs beneath their hooves, and the warbling of birds—all she could hear was the sound of fury rushing through her ears.
“Alderman Morgelyn has been even more forthcoming about him than my father. Care to hear what more I know?”
Gwendolyn knitted her brows. “Nay. AllIneed know of him, I see in his eyes.”
It was true—according to theAwenydds, the truth of a man’s heart was like a flame in his eyes, and Málik’s flame burned bright with contempt.
