Page 8 of The Forgotten Prince

The high window revealed pearly light.

Gods. Gwendolyn loathed when he was right, and he was right too oft. She had been overtired and in need of rest. And judging by the heaviness of her limbs, she’d settled so profoundly into slumber she’d slept throughout the night. Only now that she was awake, she found herself reluctant to rise.

Forsooth.

Lir wasn’t the only one fascinated by the Fae.

All her life, Gwendolyn had heard wondrous tales of the Fae, and now that she was meant to see their world for herself, she was on tenterhooks.

The journey Below was not one meant to be made for leisure. She would descend with purpose, and if Esme’s father refused to relinquish her sword, she would take it perforce. But neither would she face the Fae king with any great force. She would make her demands with only his foster son and his wayward daughter at her side. Only considering Esme was supposedly also his favored daughter—no matter what her sworn affinity—when the moment of truth arrived, Gwendolyn couldn’t be certain Esme would take Gwendolyn’s side against her father and king.

All things considered, it didn’t sound promising.

And neither did it help her mood at all to awaken and find herself alone—again.

Not that anyone would loiter whilst she slept. That would be unseemly, and Málik was too decorous for an Elf—yes, Elf. Knowing what she now knew, she no longer considered that word so profane. When speaking with Gwendolyn, Esme only ever referred to herself this way, and never as Fae.

To be entirely correct, they were Danann, although Gwendolyn now understood that to call oneself Danann came with certain political leanings, which was to say any who called themselves by this name were loyal to the old king. Although it wasn’t a crime against the laws of their kindred to call themselves by the name of their forebears, Esme’s sire was the first half-blood king to rule the Fae realm. And purely because no one deposed him, he’d been their leader now for more than two thousand years. However, like Locrinus, he’d stolen his crown through subterfuge and treachery, and there was a rebellion rising against his reign.

Fae was the appellation the “new” Fae king preferred, and despite that there were still too many Danann to decry their ilk, he favored those who called themselves by his chosen name. Málik refused. The Fae appellation embodied everything he opposed—and, most notably, the Fae Usurper, who’d not only stolen his father’s crown, but who banished the rightful Tuatha’an heir, to gods knew where. This was the only reason Málik had so oft corrected Gwendolyn when she’d used the Fae appellation instead of Danann. To his mind, he was Danann, not Fae. But though he favored Danann because he was Danann, he was an Elf by creed.

Elf—or white being—was the name once given to his ilk by mortal men who’d intended the epithet as a profanity. But these days, it held a deeper meaning for the Tuatha’an rebels who waged a secret war against the Fae king. So, Gwendolyn had learned, Elf was also the name given to the insurgents by the Fae king to denigrate their love for mortal men. But the rebels had embraced this epithet, imbuing the name with the strength of their convictions because, yes, they were lovers of men. The only reason Málik avoided using it was because he would see them victorious, and for him to champion their cause would be to end them.

Meanwhile, as her father’s favored daughter, Esme was an officer in this revolution, operating without his suspicion. So then, was Málik right? Was she her father’s spy, as he sometimes claimed?

It made one wonder. Why would Esme oppose the father who favored her… for Málik? Was she lying when she claimed she didn’t love him? Or, like Locrinus, would she turn her coat and betray them all?

It wasn’t enough that Gwendolyn had to worry about leaving Caradoc with the keys to her city—sooner than later now that the sun had risen—or ferreting out Loc’s traitors; Esme’s demeanor made her second guess the Faerie’s motives. And now she found herself worrying too oft that she would be walking with eyes wide open into Fae rebellion.

Already this morning, she felt something like angry bees buzzing about her middle over the prospect. As though it were a daily ration, worry settled in her belly, heavy like a brick of ore, and growing heavier when she heard the peal of bells.

Time to go.

It was Málik’s suggestion to leave at the cock’s first crow, instead of creeping away in the middle of the night. It was essential, so he’d said, that her people witness a strong, confident queen, passing her keys to her next in command. And perhaps this was sage advice. But right now, as too oft she did, Gwendolyn felt like an impostor in her father’s shoes—a child merely playing at being a queen.

And sometimes… when her heart beat too fast for her breast, and her eyes stung with tears for all that was lost… in those disquieting moments she felt…

Vulnerable.

Uncertain.

Lost.

Alone.

But she wasn’t alone, she reassured herself—even if Málik seemed so determined to avoid intimacy. He was still her huntsman, and with him by her side, she knew she could bear all the rest. Blowing a soft sigh across her lips, Gwendolyn slid a hand over the cold sheets… where no one slept. But of course, he would not sleep here. Even if he hadn’t another reason, Málik was too honorable to besmirch her reputation, no matter that she no longer cared what anyone thought.

Or rather, she did care, but as it was, she had sunk to ignoble depths in the eyes of so many. Many who didn’t know her still believed she had plotted with Locrinus to supplant her father. And some who knew the truth—that she did not conspire with Loc, that he’d kept her like a prisoner in his palace, a pawn for his political machinations—considered her weak. A woman discarded by the Usurper.

Unworthy of sovereignty.

Unfit for the seat her father unwillingly vacated.

Unfortunately, reputation alone would not lift her—or her people—from this abyss. That would take work. With a weary groan, she hauled herself up from the bed. She had no need to call out to ask who occupied the antechamber this morning. She knew it would be Bryn. She rose, dressing mindfully, hoping to convey a certain image—one that Caradoc and his people, and her own, would respect. She chose her black mithril, along with her mother’s soft black leathers. Her hair had grown a bit, and though she’d considered having Esme shave it, ultimately, she’d decided against it. It was easier to wear a crown when one had hair to keep it secure. Retrieving her boots from the end of the bed where she’d left them, she returned them to her feet and then laced them. Next, she settled the gold-leaf crown Esme had made upon her brow, and thereafter, tossed her father’s bloodstained cloak about her shoulders, securing it with his dragon brooch.

There was no Demelza to launder the furs, nor servants to spare. She herself had applied a bit of limewater to the stains, but that had only turned them purple. So, she left them… to serve as a reminder.

At long last, she retrieved Borlewen’s blade and her Kingslayer before opening the door to face Bryn. She found him seated atop Demelza’s old cot, dressed, with his boots on, his black hair neatly combed, and his black fur cloak resting at his side.