Page 80 of The Cornish Princess
Seizing her by the leg, but gently, he brushed off a clump of soil on her hosen to better inspect her weeping wound. He said, “Spriggansare but a figment of your mortal imagination.” He pulled off her boot and set it aside. “Shadows play tricks,” he explained. “Men too long in the mines carry fantastic tales.”
He gave her a pointed glance, peering up at the orb of flame that seemed to obey him like a small pet. “Not that there are not worse things to be found in the dark.”
He returned his attention to her wound. Perhaps because it was closer than his, he plucked up the blade from her boot, and cut her hosen from the hem halfway up her leg. Ripping it, he turned the material inside out to brush at the wound on her leg, removing all dirt from the vicinity. It was still bleeding, though not much. “Fortunately, it appears to be superficial,” he said, sounding relieved. He returned Gwendolyn’s dagger. “Art hale otherwise?”
Gwendolyn nodded quickly, even though she wasn’t precisely sure—in fact, she could be dead. That would certainly explain what she was witnessing here.
Her gaze returned to the glowing blue sphere, as he handed her back her boot and wrapped her leg with the strip of cloth he’d made from her hosen.
Gods.Her entire body hurt, and even if she’d not sustained some greater wound, her heart ached too much to admit. He tied the cloth, then gave her a nod. Then, with some effort, and a little help, she slid her foot back into the boot.
As for Málik, his face was no longer quite so glowsome. His skin was grey with filth… as hers must be. His hair, once so silken and shiny, was dull and covered with dust.
Somehow, probably during the descent, he’d sustained a small scrape on his cheek that was… bleeding…redblood… like hers. Worry lines furrowed the edges of his beautiful mouth, and it was all Gwendolyn could do not to cast herself into his arms and sob.
She did not need to go back and see the carnage above to know what was left. The screams of the children in the garner would haunt her until her dying day. There had simply been too many to defend against.
Her uncle.Gods.Her throat constricted. He’d sent them off only to battle those men by himself. There was no way he could have defended against so many.
Poor Lowenna.
Her throat tightened again. Sweet, sweet Lowenna. She was gone before the battle ever began—dead and twisted, trampled underfoot.
Briallen and Jenefer.
Were they both dead now?
And what of Borlewen? What became of her with no one left to defend her?
So many questions hovered at the tip of Gwendolyn’s tongue, but she hadn’t the courage to ask a single one.
Thefogousrambled ever onward,twisting this way and that, leading to nothing, always nothing. Every tunnel too narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to crawl through, much less two, although sometimes they heightened to allow one to walk with a bent back.
The walls were built of stone—all except for the shaft area beneath the trapdoor. Braced only with wood, Málik had somehow brought it all tumbling down.
He insisted upon leading the way, sometimes leaving Gwendolyn with the strange orb of light whilst he scouted the path ahead. Curiously, he hadn’t any need to touch the flame, ever. It followed like a pup, seeming to read his mind, moving ahead into the farthest reaches of the tunnel to light their way, and sometimes lagging, or else to one side, but never between them.
Twice Málik returned to say the tunnel ahead had ended, and they needed to turn back. Three times they encountered dead ends together.
Once, he was gone so long, leaving Gwendolyn with the curious blue orb long enough that she worked up the nerve to reach out and pet it. It didn’t move away, allowing her to wrap her hand about the spherule, but it wouldn’t budge—as though he’d purposely commanded it to stay, no doubt so Gwendolyn wouldn’t stray.
Well, it worked. She hadn’t any desire to discover ifsprigganstruly existed. Indeed, ifpiskieswere real, andfaewere real, why notspriggans as well?
Staring at the orb, Gwendolyn found herself intensely curious about how it worked. Lifting two fingers to tap it gently, she started when it showered her with tiny blue embers that took on a life of their own, wheeling about in circles until they joined the rest of the embers encircling the flame, like a tiny orbit of stars chasing a moon.
When Málik returned, though she wished to ask him about the light, she couldn’t find words to speak—not yet. For the first time in her life, curiosity fell prey to her mood. Grief settled into her breast, crushing her heart like a stone.
Hours later, Gwendolyn was exhausted, filthy, freezing, and she needed to find a place to relieve herself. The problem was that she didn’t actually wish for Málik to leave her again, and every time he did, she held her breath till he returned.
Gods help her, there might not bespriggansin these tunnels, andspriggansmight only be a figment of some miner’s imagination, but she swore she heard breathing that wasn’t her own—nor Málik’s. Although perhaps this, too, was in her imagination.
She’d also heard some wheals were infested withknockers, but these were helpful creatures, given to song, who aided the miners. And regardless, she’d had more than enough of the supernatural for the moment, and whether they existed, good or bad, she didn’t want to know.
A rat rushed by, stopping to assess them, its eyes reflecting the blue of thefaeriefire. Abruptly, it scurried away, and with its departure, Gwendolyn longed to weep. She wanted to follow but knew that wherever it had gone, she couldn’t go.
Now and again, they encountered brown bats hanging from beams along the tunnels—braces meant to sustain the passages. Wrapped in winged embraces, their black eyes shone against the flickering light, seeming to watch them curiously, though ultimately uninterested in their plight. Disturbed by thefaerielight, one suddenly awoke, shrieking, and flew away.
In the silence that followed, Gwendolyn wondered who the raiders were. It was impossible to say whether the attack on her uncle’s village could be connected to her investigations, but she couldn’t help but feel everything was her fault. Could it be that someone—Alderman Aelwin, perhaps?—learned of her intention to speak with Bryok’s widow?
