Page 3 of The Forgotten Prince

Marriage.

Argh!

The thought turned Gwendolyn’s belly, though this was hardly the first time Caradoc had suggested it. Regardless, she did not believe for a moment he wished to marry her any more than she wished to marry him. “Are you asking me to defy the Druid’s Law?” she said gently, referring to her existing marriage.

There was no way in Creation she would ever marry Caradoc, but she couldn’t say so without embarrassing him for a second time today. Fortunately, her marriage to Locrinus had at least one beneficial use. She was already wed to that faithless charlatan, so she couldn’t marry anyone else—not even the one she wished to wed. Without meaning to betray so much, Gwendolyn cast a curious glance toward Málik, only to find him unmoved by Caradoc’s question. All this while, he had sat there in his chair, listening to the discourse, saying not one word.

Following her gaze, Caradoc added with a gleam in his eyes, “What you need, My Queen, is a man—a real man.”

Málik did not stir.

Instead, he took a sudden interest in the condition of his fingernails—fingers that were too long to be human, and stronger than they appeared. The claws alone, short that they were, could gut a man as easily as a cat disemboweling a mouse.

For a moment, Gwendolyn allowed her gaze to linger on his too-handsome face, daring to take comfort in his presence, despite his show of dispassion. In her heart, she held the faith he didn’t feel that way. Indeed, his actions too oft belied his words. He had never been more distant, yet he was also never more solicitous, anticipating her every need to the degree she sometimes wondered if he knew her mind.

She understood Caradoc meant to needle him. Still, she said nothing, some part of her wanting him to raise Málik’s ire—if only to provide some evidence that Málik still cared. It was perhaps ungracious of her considering all Málik had done for her, but Gwendolyn also knew Caradoc’s words were not meant to anger. Rather, it was Caradoc’s nature to test boundaries to glean what he wished to know. And it appeared to Gwendolyn that what he most wished to know right now was how close she had grown to Málik. Málik certainly knew this as well. She only wished she were as adept as Málik at hiding her feelings.

Gwendolyn could not afford to be led astray by her woman’s heart. She still had much to prove. That they were still discussing a woman’s role in her konsel when there was a woman on the throne was proof enough her work was only beginning—especially if she intended to seize control of these lands.

And this she must do.

This she would do.

“We are through,” Gwendolyn said, rising from her seat at the table, taking another cue from her dead mother. “Ely will serve the konsel. And you, Caradoc, you will choose another appointee—be it man or woman. I care not which, so long as all agree upon the appointment. No. Please stay, Bryn,” she said, lifting a hand to stop him when he made to rise and follow. “In my absence, I intend for you to advise this decision.”

And with that, Gwendolyn abandoned the war room, moving about the war table and into the hall without a backward glance.

For all his insouciance, Málik rose too, moving hurriedly to close the door, and Gwendolyn said nothing, not really knowing what to say.

Málik said nothing, too, because this was now his way.

2

Eager to put the unpleasantness of the konsel behind her, Gwendolyn hurried through the corridor, intending to seek a moment’s respite in her mother’s chamber. It cost her more than she’d like to confess to stand her ground, and no matter that she had somehow asserted a voice of authority, her limbs were quaking. It wasn’t easy to rule over self-important men who would typically support another man, regardless of character, instead of a woman whose heart and intentions were true.

Of course, she was speaking of Loc more than Caradoc; but it galled her that Bryn—her own Shadow—would jest at her expense, and that Caradoc would tease at binding her with a torc.

And Málik, saying nothing, though perhaps by design and perhaps for the best. It wouldn’t serve to be defended by someone perceived to be her lover—not that he was. He was not, though, not by her choice. If Gwendolyn could have her way, she would make herself a widow, but not before facing Loc with a babe in her belly and Borlewen’s blade in her hand.

By now, Loc must have surely received the news that Trevena was lost to him and more, who had seized it. To make doubly certain he would learn of it, Gwendolyn had released a scout they’d arrested to carry her message—pity for the poor soul. Loc would receive his news without mercy, and the scout’s “reward” would depend upon Loc’s mood. Doubtless, her husband was too cold and too brutal to consider the life of one man any great loss. It wouldn’t matter how loyal he was; the man might, or might not, find himself without a head after delivering Gwendolyn’s message. And despite this, not delivering it wouldn’t be an option. At present, Loc and his brothers held the greater force in these lands. The messenger would never have one minute’s doubt his commander would prevail. Because, of course, Loc wasn’t a woman, and this was a man’s world.

The afternoon’s konsel meeting gave evidence to this, though at least Gwendolyn felt as though she had accomplished something. There was still much to be done before the morning’s departure, but she would rest easier knowing Ely would have a seat on that konsel.

Now, if only for one moment, she could pretend everything was as it was before the Feast of Blades—that she was still the same wide-eyed little girl stealing into her mother’s chamber only to catch a whiff of her sweet perfume. A heady mixture of lavender, rosemary, and pine, it lingered still on her furs, in her brush, and on her pillow.

Tears pricked at Gwendolyn’s eyes over the thought of her mother.

Her heart wept over the news of her father’s death, but her mother’s somehow affected her more deeply—for all the time they’d lost and all the opportunities they would no longer have.

By now, she had exhausted every option in her search for Queen Eseld and Demelza, her loyal maid. Gwendolyn had expended resources and soldiers Trevena could not spare, particularly when even bright-eyed Ely had lost hope. Their scouts looked high and low—east, west, north, and south. They found no sign of Queen Eseld, Demelza, or even Ely’s and Bryn’s mother, Lady Ruan, and rather than glean any hopeful news, they’d heard more heartbreaking tales.

In one report, Queen Eseld was gathering her dawnsio students to usher them to safety, only to be stabbed in the back by Innogen herself—that tale, told by the father of one of her mother’s students, gave Gwendolyn a painful punch to the belly, and she longed to ride to Loegria, find Innogen, and stab her through the heart.

Yet another story told of her mother casting her body over the King’s, shielding him from harm. Right there on the dais, in the great hall, where they’d supped so many times, Innogen’s second son, Kamber, ended Queen Eseld’s life with a blade through the heart—once again, in the back, bloody wretch!

Unfortunately, the latter of these stories was easiest to credit. While the dawnsio students were Queen Eseld’s greatest triumph, her love for the King was indisputable. Whatever affection she’d not provided for her wayward daughter, Gwendolyn never failed to spy in her mother’s eyes when she’d gazed at her father. That Prydein maiden who’d once arrived as a price for peace came to adore her husband and king, and the passion they’d shared had once filled Gwendolyn’s heart with hope for a love story of her own.

That was not to be.