Page 6 of The Forgotten Prince

It was half the size of the berths normally afforded to a Shadow, but the beds belonging to her mother’s guards had recently been relocated to the garrison to provide bedding for Caradoc’s warriors. Caradoc had, of course, insisted, and Gwendolyn could find no reason to deny his request, when it made perfect sense to provide for the warriors who would defend this city. Her father’s army was much diminished, but now, joined by Caradoc’s warriors, the garrison was overflowing.

“Enough brooding!” she heard Demelza’s faraway voice demand of her, and Gwendolyn hitched her chin, turning and moving from the antechamber into her mother’s bower. Even in death, the maid would bedevil her! And it wasn’t remotely sane to wonder whose side she was on when Gwendolyn was only speaking to a memory.

Málik followed only so far as the door, and despite that Gwendolyn understood his given reasons for keeping himself apart, she didn’t like it.

With as much as they had endured together, he, more than anyone, was the one she was most inclined to seek during these moments of uncertainty. Taking a moment to strike the disappointment from her face, she turned to meet his gaze.

Gods.

Standing in the doorway, he was no less beautiful than he was the first moment she’d spied him—his silvery hair spilling over his broad shoulders. Only now… she knew what it felt like to tangle her fingers into that hair…

Soft, like silk.

He remained in the doorway, watching as Gwendolyn unsheathed her sword, then laid it down atop the bed before she sat to remove her boots. However, nothing he ever did was by half-measure—not even the simple act of observation. His presence filled this room, so it was impossible for Gwendolyn’s lungs to expand without encountering his essence—an earthy mixture of wood, smoke, sun… and something else unknown to her mind, but not to her heart.

Distracting herself from wayward thoughts, she brushed a finger over the flat of Kingslayer’s blade, where curious runes were inlaid.

This sword, along with the mithril, had been a gift from Esme during her kinder, gentler days. Even as her mithril was supposed to display extraordinary properties, so too should the sword. According to Esme, Kingslayer glowed blue in the presence of danger. But, like the mithril, which was purported to render the wearer unseeable by night, Gwendolyn had yet to witness any such marvel. She’d worn her mithril during the retaking of Trevena and though she had marched through these halls with nobody stopping her, that didn’t mean no one saw her. And still, the mithril presented a stunning regalia, and not even the much-coveted Sword of Light Málik had taken from her father’s treasury could surpass the beauty of Kingslayer.

But she needed Claímh Solais.

The Sword of Light was hers by right, and if she did not retrieve it, there would be no way to unite Pretania’s tribes. She could not even count on her own grandsire to follow her without that sword, and, in the meantime, Locrinus would continue to grow his armies. Regardless that she had Caradoc’s fealty, this would count for little in convincing the Iceni, Cantium, or Trinovantes. And, in fact, Caradoc’s friendship would do the opposite. It was only with the Sword of Light she had any chance of convincing Baugh to ally with her, and, if she could somehow convince him to raise his own sword to her cause, she might also win the Brigantes and Parisi. And finally, perhaps the Iceni, and with a little luck, Cantium and Trinovantes would follow.

With a sigh, she pushed the sword aside, returning her attention to her boot, plucking it off and then dropping it onto the floor.

Meanwhile, Málik kept his distance, his eyes following her every move, nothing escaping his notice. His gaze fell to the boot on the floor, then came back to her face, affixing there as Gwendolyn laid down her bare foot. And once again, like a bashful child, she was forced to avert her gaze, betrayed by her heart.

Her lips pursed because she loathed the way her heart raced in his proximity.

Only after she had gathered her composure did she dare look back, this time lifting her chin and holding his gaze, watching with wonder as his mercurial eyes softened to a wintry shade of blue. His mouth turned at one corner, scarcely concealing the fangs that to this day never failed to give Gwendolyn a shiver—not entirely with desire, truth be told. There was that about the Fae—an aura of danger and uncertainty that could never be dismissed, regardless of how much feeling lay between them. They were creatures born to inhabit the dark, evidenced by his luminous eyes and the keen, pointy ears, which could hear every sound in the darkness. Indeed, remembering the first time she’d traveled with him—the way his senses homed in on every movement in their path, like a beast of prey on the prowl—Gwendolyn wondered if they were always that way, or if their isolation deep in the bowels of the earth had somehow changed them.

She didn’t ask, though, and Málik said nothing.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn’s annoyance was not assuaged. “You claim proximity will be our undoing,” she argued. “How will you avoid this if we are meant to travel together? Or will you travel separately?”

The silver in his eyes glinted. “You mistook me, Banríon. It is not our proximity that endangers you—not precisely. It… is… complicated.”

Again, with the queen, so formal. The sound of it tugged at one corner of her mouth, dragging her lips into a frown.

Gwendolyn dropped the boot and flopped back onto the bed, lifting her gaze to the ceiling, trying not to think of all the complicated preparations that must still be imposed. Gods only knew she hadn’t time to nurse a wounded heart—wounded without cause, because she knew he cared for her. And yet, here she lay, dwelling upon a kiss that should have been forgotten, brooding over—what?

Málik’s decision to keep her at arm’s length.

Even after weeks of preparation, Trevena was not settled, and time was not Gwendolyn’s friend. Even now, Locrinus was marching across this isle, burning villages on his way to his precious Troia Nova. Once he arrived, it would be an easy task to defend his plundered city with the number of troops he had gathered—ten thousand, so she had been told.

Ten bloody thousand!

And this didn’t include soldiers sworn to his brothers—the ill-bred vipers!

On a good day, Gwendolyn might have… mayhap… four hundred, though not all were properly armed or trained for war. She hadn’t even a makeshift army—one that could face a major force. Only Trevena’s construction and placement on the Stone Isle made it possible to defend. And no matter how angry it made her, or how incensed—no matter how she boasted over the consequences of his actions—there would be no ousting Locrinus, nor defeating him, until she raised a bigger army.

That was why she must retrieve the Sword of Light, and then after, press north to conscript her grandfather’s army.

Without Baugh’s help, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

But that gave her other worries—for one, his willingness to support her.

Would he look beyond her yellow hair and storm-gray eyes to see the turn of her mother’s nose? Or the shape of her teeth when she smiled?