Page 9 of The Forgotten Prince

The Crone was slow to pass this year—not yet warm enough to go without a coat, but every day the wind blew warmer.

He grinned at her. “Any longer and I thought to go find Málik and send him in to wake you,” he said with his usual insouciance.

Gwendolyn gave him a pointed look. “Since when do you fear waking me?”

He laughed, the sound like a scoff. “Fear?” he said. “Nay, Gwendolyn. But I have never known anyone to guard her sleep as you do.”

“Did,” she said. It had been a long time since she’d lingered abed. And still Bryn persisted.

“Someday, there will be bards who sing of a sleeping beauty who could not be roused, save by true love’s kiss.”

Gwendolyn gave up her pique, allowing herself to be amused. “Would not, or could not?”

“Does it matter?”

“Indeed, it does,” Gwendolyn assured, with a half-smile. “If she’ll not be roused, perhaps ‘tis because she awaits her lover with intent.” She winked. “If she cannot be roused, perhaps she is bespelled or poisoned, and the cure will be her lover’s kiss.”

He grinned. “Clearly, ‘would not’ applies here.”

Still half smiling, Gwendolyn lifted a brow.

Little did he realize Málik was not her lover. Far be it from the truth. In all her life, Gwendolyn had been kissed only thrice—once by Bryn by mistake, and twice by Málik, though not since the night on the ramparts.

“He is not my lover,” she said, though in her heart this was a lie. Perhaps not in deed, but he was in spirit. And, in her own mind, Gwendolyn had imagined herself wrapped in his arms. More than anything she envied Elowyn, who even now must be lying abed with her husband’s fingers tangled through her lovely locks. But though the thought gave Gwendolyn a prick of envy, it assuredly was not because she begrudged Ely her joy.

She did not.

It was simply that, last Maytide, Gwendolyn had sorely hoped for this life to be her own—even if the man she’d promised to wed was not the man her heart desired. Regardless, she had intended to make Loc a good wife, and she had longed to know joy in his arms—giving birth to a love that would grow and grow, gifting them with children, and ultimately uniting their lands.

“As you say,” Bryn offered, though he clearly didn’t believe her—not by the dubious tilt of his head.

Or if he did, Gwendolyn detected a hint of bitterness in the glint of his eyes. No matter what he said, some part of his own heart must still be aching from her rejection, even as hers ached over Málik’s. She recognized the shadow behind his eyes and vowed to never again be so blind to his pain. After all, he was still a fellow, with a heart too easily broken. Mending it would take time, she realized. But she wasn’t about to tempt him again. Thus, if he must tell himself she and Málik were lovers, so be it.

Better to change the subject.

“Has the konsel settled upon the Twelve?” She adjusted the cloak and her brooch, hoping to present it correctly. She was nervous but daren’t confess it, lest she fall into a heap onto the floor and never rise again. “I hope Lir’s announcement did not send them into another frenzy.”

“Only for a while,” Bryn allowed, rising from the cot. He dragged up his cloak to toss it over his shoulders. “But do not fret, My Queen. They settled the matter at last.”

My Queen.

Those words, regardless of Bryn’s feeling for her, never sounded quite the same as they did from Málik’s lips. Nor was she accustomed to Bryn’s recent sense of propriety—and, truly, like the jest he’d made at her expense in the war room, she now wondered if he sometimes referred to her this way as a matter of provocation. “Whom did they choose?”

“One of Caradoc’s generals,” Bryn said, laughing ruefully. “The bastard insisted, and, after much discourse, everyone agreed, if only to settle his ire over the ‘host of women now serving on his konsel.’”

He said this last, mimicking Caradoc’s voice—an accurate impression.

Gwendolyn lifted both brows. “His konsel?”

Bryn shrugged. “For the time being, you must allow it.”

“Goddess, save us all,” Gwendolyn said, agitated, though she knew Bryn was right. And regardless, the notion did not settle well in her already restless belly. She gave Bryn a frown, without intending to. “Speaking of Málik, where is he?” she pressed, trying to sound casual.

Bryn’s vexing grin returned. “Oh, then… were we speaking of Málik?” Gwendolyn glowered at him, and he said, “If you must know, the last I saw of him, he was with Esme, preparing the horses.”

Of course he was!

Another prick of envy assailed Gwendolyn. All the gods knew, so much as both had proclaimed their dislike for one another, Esme and Málik were always together, whispering like lovers.