Page 79 of The Cornish Princess
After a moment, she coughed and sputtered, spewing more dirt than air. Her fingers still ached from the crush of Málik’s boot, and her stomach protested violently.
Even after the dust cleared, it seemed an eternity that she sat, trying to catch her breath in the damp, musty air. She knew Málik survived the collapse, only because she heard him breathing…or was this the echo of her own breath?
Gods.
What if she was alone, with no way out?
What if the collapsing shaft buried Málik beneath it?
What if—she heard digging.
Sudden, furious digging.
Coughing.
Bellows.
Screams.
Then, all at once, the digging ceased abruptly, and the heavy silence lengthened, until Gwendolyn heard the hiss of Málik’s blade as he re-sheathed his sword.
Holding back her fear, she slapped a hand against her trembling lips, if only to keep from sobbing. After a long moment, when the muffled voices did not return, a tiny blue flame flickered to life… in the palm of Málik’s hand, wobbling uncertainly, perhaps vying for the same air Gwendolyn needed to breathe.
But now she could see what happened.
Somehow, Málik had cut down the wooden braces supporting the shaft, leaving the earthwork to collapse. Whoever was above trying to open the door must have been sucked into the shaft and smothered with dirt.
The flame he held now danced in his palm, forming itself into the shape of a small moon, spitting bright blue flames like arms that embraced the orb, twisting and swirling, emitting embers like a damp flame. His eyes met hers, and in the dancing reflection in his pupils, Gwendolyn saw the truth.
A mountain of rubble lay where she’d once crawled. The rope ladder was gone.Buried.As dust settled more and more, the little light grew brighter and stronger, lighting more and more of the environs. Apparently, when Málik tossed her away—like a rag—she’d landed against the far wall, but her foot lay close enough to the rubble that it was covered by a small mound of dirt. Blinking, confused, Gwendolyn sat, testing the movement in her limbs. Nothing seemed broken, so she shook her leg and drew up her knees.
In the meantime, Málik grabbed the hilt of her fallen sword, drew it out of a larger mound of dirt, and handed it to her. Only then, as he faced her, every tumultuous emotion that warred within Gwendolyn was reflected in his pallid face—a mirror against her own pain.
She didn’t cry, nor did she speak.
There was nothing to say.
So, it appeared they were trapped. In a small cavern. With myriad tunnels creeping further into darkness.
“What now?” she asked, and shivered as she asked, “Will there bespriggansin those tunnels?” Ill-tempered creatures, likepiskies, but grotesque, with wizened features and gnarled little bodies, although they could swell to gigantic proportions if threatened. They were also the ones responsible for leaving changelings in the place of babes.
With a hint of his usual mordancy, Málik arched a brow, then cast Gwendolyn a sideways glance. “Spriggansdo not exist,” he said, tossing the flame in his hand in her direction. Wide-eyed, she watched as it flew—flew!—then paused, like a deer suddenly wary of a hunter. She gasped softly as it crept closer, then poised itself over her, sprinkling light like fairy dust over the pate of her head. Open-mouthed, Gwendolyn watched the swirling orb of blue.
“What… is… that?”
She met Málik’s gaze.
“You call thempiskielights. Tisfaeriefire.”
Gwendolyn blinked.
Incomprehensible.
He came to sit beside her, nudging it slightly away, then down, so that it burned directly before Gwendolyn’s eyes, bright as stars.
Gwendolyn lifted a hand to its vicinity and found it cold to the touch. “Faeriefire,” she said, with wonder, realizing what that meant.
His eyeswerekeener than most and his strength was greater than any man’s she had ever met—because hewasfae… well and trulyfae.
