Page 94 of The Cornish Princess
He nodded. “As always, I am yours to command,” he said stiffly, and Gwendolyn found herself torn between sending him back to the palace, and leaving him here, to watch her go.
“Very well, then. I command you to accompany me,” she said through clenched teeth. And then she felt like weeping—for all that she’d lost.
Her youth.
Her innocence.
Her friends.
Her throat constricted.
Her father all too soon.
And Málik…
Gwendolyn could scarcely bear it, knowing her pain was in her eyes for everyone to see—especially Bryn. Though he was clearly furious with her, he knew her better than anyone, and she knew… he would know.
Without further ado, she led the way into the woods, thinking about thatpiskielight Málik had produced. Yet even now, her tongue would not form the words to share what she’d learned. He had done this to her! As surely as she knew he’d lied, she also knew he’d cast a spell on her to keep the things she’d learned from ever being spoken aloud.
Once again, fury seized her, and she spurred her mare to ride ahead of Bryn because she couldn’t bear for him to see her cry.
She dismounted, tied her mare to her favorite oak—a stranger to her, because now her faithful horse was lost. And, even before Gwendolyn emerged into the glen, she saw the wasted trees, and fell to her knees, a knot forming in her throat.
The leaves… they were blighted.
The fruit flowers were wilted.
Worse yet, so much worse… the pool itself had grown stagnant, murky, and green, with black algae growing in pockets. Dark lichen crept up the shore to the base of the trees, scaling the oaks and hawthorns. The oak leaves bore ugly blisters, and the hawthorn leaves were stained with black, the yellowing foliage scarcely clinging to their withered boughs. A bed of ravaged leaves lay puddled at her feet.
Whatever part of Gwendolyn that entertained any notion of staying in Trevena, and refusing her groom… this, too, withered… and died, like the ravaged leaves that floated downward from a once-green canopy, into a bubbling, corrupted pool.
How could she leave her father alone?
Yet how could she not?
As surely as she knelt here, her fingers catching the cold, damp, corrupt soil, marrying Prince Locrinus was the only way to save the land, and ultimately bring it peace.
“Father,” she said, brokenly. “Oh, my dear, sweet Papa!” She had not called him Papa since she was young—small enough to bounce on his knee.
Bryn stood behind her now, and whatever steel he’d set in his spine seemed to soften at the sight of her, kneeling with her hands splayed over the dark lichen, fingers clawing the perverted earth.
“The land is struggling,” Málik had said.
And then he’d abandoned her to this fate.
Bryn came to one knee beside her, placing a steady hand atop her shoulder, and he said, “I am sorry, Gwen.” But he couldn’t possibly understand it, even though he understood, as all understood, the king’s ties to this land.
“I know,” she said brokenly. “I am… sorry, too—for everything, Bryn. Truly, I am. I shall never again place you at odds with your duties. I give you my word.”
He squeezed her shoulder, and said, “You are not alone, my dearest friend.” And then, when Gwendolyn choked on a sob, he said once more, “You were never alone.”
But that wasn’t true.
She.
Was.
Entirely.
