The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterThirty-One
The blue flame was already burning brightly when Gwendolyn awoke. Sadly, there was no warmth for the flame to impart.
“Feel better?” Málik asked.
“I do,” she confessed, although, as familiar as she lay in his arms, she didn’t stir. Here again, he was warm, and it was cold here beneath the dark, damp earth.
Her heart hurt, her leg hurt, and her brain recoiled against thought.
He caressed her arm with two fingers, tickling her softly, and Gwendolyn could feel small prickles of power and warmth even through the sleeve of her gown, like tiny little bolts of lightning. “Your gown is rent,” he said, when he discovered a tear.
Hearing this brought another sting to Gwendolyn’s eyes. What did a simple tear matter when she was covered in the blood of loved ones and enemies? And yet, this was her mother’s dress—the only gown she’d ever cherished. If she had to learn to use needle and thread, she would mend it if it was the last thing she ever did. But it was sweet he would notice and care. Her emotions were in tumult, and she had to swallow hard around her words.
“I wonder if ’tis night or day,” she said.
“I don’t know. But you’ve slept a good long while.”
“And you?”
As near as they were, she felt him shake his head. “Did you recognize any of those men?”
“Nay,” she said, turning her face up to peer into Málik’s pale blue eyes. She averted her gaze and stared at the earthen wall, swallowing hard. At some point, the stone had disappeared, and here there was only dimpled clay. A beetle crawled out of a small hole and shook its wings at her. From somewhere along the shaft behind them came the squeaking of another bat.
“Do you think anyone survived?”
“No,” he said honestly, and the whispered word blew hot against Gwendolyn’s ear.
Once again, her throat constricted. But she understood that weeping wouldn’t help anyone right now—most especially not them. What was done was done, and the only thing that might have made a difference would have been if she’d remained in Trevena—as Málik had once suggested she should. Barring that, there was no more she could have done.
Gwendolyn was to blame.
For everything.
Three guards she’d brought with her to Chysauster. Only one would return—the one she hadn’t even thought she’d cared for… the only one she now felt safe with.
“I fear there’s no way out,” she said.
“Shhh… there is naught to fear.”
“How can you know?”
“I simply do.”
“How?” Gwendolyn persisted, as she slid out of his arms.
The sapphire glow of his faerie light illuminated his face, giving it a cool hue. Its fire danced in his eyes, enhancing the blue, making it appear as though they burned, as well.
“Watch,” he said, and Gwendolyn did—only not the flame as he’d bade. She tried but couldn’t avert her gaze from Málik’s luminescent face.
Suddenly, there was another blue light, bouncing about, and he caught it and tossed it like a ball, toward the far end of the tunnel, where it swelled, its glowing blue tendrils standing on end, like strands of hair blowing in the wind.
“A breeze?” she whispered, aghast.
He nodded, and when he smiled, he gave her another glimpse of the sharp, pointy teeth behind his lips. Gwendolyn had the sudden, unimaginable thought that he could be the spriggan children feared—a nightmare by night that vanished by day.
“Let me look at your leg again,” he demanded.
Gwendolyn sat, shifting positions to give him access to her leg. Carefully he unwrapped the strip of leather—a poor means to soak up blood, but thankfully it was no longer bleeding. The wound had already crusted.
“It could have been worse,” he said. “We’ll need to clean it as soon as we can. We’ll find a stream as soon as we’re out.”
Gwendolyn smiled, exhausted. “What?” she teased. “Can’t you produce water, too?”
“All things are born of the Aether. I merely… cajole them.”
On some strange level, that made sense. “So it’s true?”
“What’s true?”
“You’re fae.”
She knew he was but needed to hear him say so with his own two lips.
“Fae is your people’s word,” he said. “Not mine. I am Danann.”
From the beginning, he had styled himself Danann, and Gwendolyn had but chosen not to believe it. Rather, she had felt justified in calling him Sidhe—or even elf when she was so furious with him—but never once had she truly stopped to consider the consequences of this truth. His rás was the oldest rás in all the lands.
Had her father known of his affiliation?
What about her mother?
If so, it cast his presence in Trevena under a whole new light.
Repeatedly he had said he was summoned or sent—no doubt by her parents—and something told Gwendolyn it might have been her mother.
“I cannot wait to tell Ely what I’ve learned.”
Málik lifted his gaze, peering through his lashes, his eyes suddenly hard. “You shall tell no one,” he said, and then he finished wrapping her wound and once more tested the edges of his bandage. Without understanding why, she nodded obediently.
“They were after Borlewen,” she said.
“The question is why?”
“Because she was wearing my torc.”
He lifted a brow. “Indeed, but what I want to know is why they were seeking you.”
“Why do you believe?”
“I hesitate to say.”
“Why?”
“Because the answer is one you’ll not wish to hear.”
Curious, Gwendolyn persisted. “Do you believe they discovered my mission to speak with Ia?”
“Perhaps.” He stood now and drew Gwendolyn up. “Can you walk?” he asked, and Gwendolyn nodded, letting him help her to her feet. “Stay close,” he said, moving ahead, and Gwendolyn followed, wondering how she could do anything but. There was nowhere else to go, and even if death itself lay ahead, she’d never turn back.