The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterThirty-Five

Gwendolyn opened her eyes, momentarily relieved to still be drawing breath, but then her belly roiled to find Málik gone, though she suspected he must have descended to ready the horses, and she calmed herself, knowing he wouldn’t have gone far.

He said he would not leave her, and she trusted him to do what he said.

Puffy white clouds sailed by on a watery firmament. Occasionally peering between them, a golden sun was busy at work, burning off the last traces of last night’s rain.

On the cliff side overhead, a grey and white peregrine falcon sat perched, discernible only for the stark white of its underbelly, because its wings were dark as the granite upon which it sat. It peered down at Gwendolyn with a curious tilt of its head, showing her the yellow of its beak and blinking down at her with piercing gold and black eyes.

If this had been a crow, she might have wept for fear of what was yet to come, for even as starlings were harbingers of spring, crows were harbingers of death. But crows and starlings aside, the falcon also had a message to bring, for this was the familiar of kings.

More than anything, Gwendolyn dreaded facing her father—not so much because she believed she had misbehaved, but because she would arrive today with grimmer news than any he had ever received since her paternal grandmother perished of yellow fever in a borough far away. With a party of ten, her father had gone to attend her funeral, and now, someone must return to see that her uncle and his family received a proper end, as well.

Someone would have to sift through those ashes and find their bones.

Someone would have to speak rites.

Someone would have to mourn them the way loved ones ought to be mourned—not left so their charred bones could be bleached by the sun, and dogs could fight over the remains.

Heart sore, Gwendolyn arose, seizing the grizzled blanket to follow Málik down. She exhaled a long breath when she spied him beside her mare, patting the soft, brown cheek.

For an instant, she watched, fascinated by the way he cajoled the beast, smoothing a hand across its brow, the gesture as tender and sweet as the one he’d offered her last night.

He peered up. Their gazes met and held. His normally pale eyes darkened to the shade of steel, and he averted his gaze. Thereafter, Málik was perfectly civil, but there was a new, underlying tension between them. Imagined or not, it held even polite words at bay.

The journey home was quick. Their arrival at the gates uncontested. The city was still and placid—all things as Gwendolyn left them. Only she was changed.

Evermore.

Saddle weary though she was, she sent Málik ahead to announce their arrival, needing a few minutes to gather her thoughts before facing her father, and meanwhile, she led both horses into the stable, blinking in surprise as she spied the horse with the multicolored pelt.

Had the guard escaped after the battle at Chysauster? Peering about to see if she could spy him, she wished now that Málik had remained so she could send him to check the barracks.

Particularly considering their trek through the tunnels, he certainly could have had plenty of time to arrive before them, but if he’d made it back, unharmed, with news of the attack on her uncle’s village, why then wasn’t her father mounting a search party to look for Gwendolyn?

The stable was still full of the army’s horses, the peace of the morning heavy in their morning routine. Neither had the sentries at the gates behaved any differently toward her than they would have if she’d returned from an afternoon jaunt. Their waves had been casual, even as her heart tripped madly. Curious, she thought, as she started away, but then, remembering the prunes in her satchel, she went back to retrieve them, fearing some groomsman might find them, and not wishing to see anyone else suffer on her account.

There were only a few remaining—not more than five. She stuffed them into the purse at her belt, and at once sought the King’s Hall, marching in wearing her tattered clothes only to discover her father in session with an audience—a farmer with his son, begging for the King to call upon the Llanrhos Druids. He claimed there were signs of locusts, and only the Druids could charm the birds into banishing their plague. Hearing this, Gwendolyn worried anew over the glen. Those locusts portended worse matters yet, and if the glen was plagued as well, it boded ill for her father… but even more for Cornwall.

Not wishing to interrupt, Gwendolyn skirted the perimeter of the tribunal, coming to one side of her father’s dais, not meaning to call his attention—not yet.

She wanted to speak to him privately, without an audience. At the moment, several aldermen were present, including Aldermans Aelwin and Eirwyn, and Mester Ciarán. Only there was something about the look in Alderman Aelwin’s eyes when he spied Gwendolyn—one of maybe surprise—that gave her a sudden epiphany. Suddenly, she changed her mind about speaking to her father alone and stepped into the tribunal.

“Gwendolyn!” exclaimed her father, no doubt shocked by the state of her dress. She was still dirty, bruised, her hair all in tangles, and her mother’s gown and hosen were rent.

“Forgive me, Father,” she blurted, turning to address the physician, removing a dried plum from her pocket. “Mester Ciarán,” she said, hitching her chin. “I must apologize for stealing your prunes.”

“Prunes?” he said, looking confused. He tilted his head like the peregrine. “What prunes, Highness?”

Gwendolyn handed the prune in her hand to Mester Ciarán, then took a few more out of her pocket, revealing them in her palm, smiling as she turned to offer one each to the aldermen present. Aelwin took one, if reluctantly so, and so did Alderman Eirwyn, again, disinclined.

“Ah! Well! You are most welcome to these,” said Ciarán, handing back the dried plum. “I must confess they give my belly a fright.”

Gwendolyn smiled, because she understood what he meant, but thankfully they didn’t affect her this way—not usually. Nor had she eaten enough after the initial ailment to repeat the offense she’d perpetrated upon Málik. Thankfully, her dosing was strong enough nowadays that the poison itself hadn’t affected her adversely—or at least not the way it had affected poor Owen. She was certain now that the bellyache she’d suffered after eating so many that first day was because of the poison.

Emboldened by the aldermen’s confusion, Gwendolyn placed one sweet fruit into her mouth, allowing her eyes to roll back in her head with absolute delight. All the while, she watched the physician’s expression for some sign that he understood what she was ingesting.

The man seemed oblivious, only perhaps confused about why the King’s daughter had interrupted their tribunal to rave about prunes—most especially looking as though she’d fought and lost a battle with soot-snorting dragons. “Delectable!” she said, swallowing.

“Gwendolyn?” her father said, sounding perturbed. “What goes here?”

However, Gwendolyn still needed proof. As yet, she didn’t have any. She understood what was intended and how, but the guilty party could be anyone, and until she determined who it was who’d poisoned these prunes, there was no chance to decipher the bigger mystery—why? Why, precisely was Bryok murdered. Certainly, Ia’s account had painted Aelwin in a very poor light. “Might you tell me where you procured these?” she asked Mester Ciarán, trying not to look at Aelwin, for the moment, daring to ignore her father.

The physician looked about the hall, perhaps a little uncomfortably, pulling at his beard, until his gaze settled on Alderman Aelwin. “Why, I believe I acquired them from Alderman Aelwin, though I did not have the heart to say I did not favor them, neither dried nor else wise. Alas, though I have prescribed them many times, because they are nature’s remedy, I am fortunate to have a strong constitution and I do not relish spending time in garderobes.”

“Oh, but they are so delicious!” Gwendolyn lamented. “I must have more,” she said, like a child seeking sweets. She turned to Alderman Aelwin. “Have you tried them, Alderman?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “I have, I have,” he said, fidgeting, and Gwendolyn smiled thinly. She turned for a moment to look at her father, and then back at the alderman. “Should I congratulate you yet?”

“For what, Highness?”

“I would presume, with Bryok’s death, you must have been promoted to the position of First Alderman. Yes?”

His face colored red. “Indeed, Highness, though this has not been made public as yet. I cannot claim the honor till after your nuptials. It has been agreed that nothing should distract from your… happy occasion,” he said, peering up at the figure now emerging into the hall.

“Go ahead,” she pressed, gesturing toward the prune, well aware that Málik had joined them.

“Oh, no!” the Alderman refused. “Please, Highness! I’ve eaten too many already!”

“Have you?”

“Indeed.”

“And where did you procure them, I wonder?”

“One of the southern merchants, I believe.”

“Which one.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember. Perhaps the latest shipment from Alkebulan?”

“Gwendolyn,” her father said, a frown in his tone.

“Father, I must insist the Alderman try one,” Gwendolyn persisted, without daring to look at her father. He would order her out of his hall, without listening to her story, and she would never disobey a direct command.

Málik paused beside her, arms crossed, and said, nodding at Aldermen Aelwin, “I believe your Princess commanded you to eat… so eat.”

The Alderman suddenly looked, for all the world, like a man who had eaten far too many prunes. The blood drained from his face, and he appeared as though he might retch.

“Gods,” said Alderman Eirwyn. “’Tis only a prune, man! Eat it already! If it means so much to the Princess, simply do it!” He himself lifted the fruit to his mouth and Gwendolyn slapped it from his hand before it could touch his waiting tongue. At that very instant, Alderman Aelwin must have realized she knew. He bolted. Málik moved swiftly to apprehend him.

Only then did Gwendolyn dare turn to her face her father, her King. Straightening her shoulders, feeling older than her years, she said, “Father, I have cause to believe this man has conspired in the death of your brother and his family.”

She nodded soberly as her father’s brows collided, and Gwendolyn added, “My attempted murder as well.”

“Aelwin?” her father said, sounding bemused.

“Lies, and more lies!” the Alderman shrieked as her father’s Elite Guard came forward to take him from Málik and arrest him. Even as he was dragged away, he continued to proclaim his innocence. But Gwendolyn was certain now. All evidence pointed to Alderman Aelwin. Now it was up to her father’s guards to wrest the truth from him—all of the truth.

Having heard the commotion, Queen Eseld swept into the hall. But though Gwendolyn braced herself to meet her mother’s wrath, it never came. Queen Eseld took one look at Gwendolyn and cried out, rushing forward to embrace her.

“Gwendolyn,” she said, “Oh, Gwendolyn!” But though Gwendolyn returned the embrace, reveling in the feel of her mother’s arms, she couldn’t allow herself to show any weakness—not here, not now, not yet. There was terrible news to be imparted, and more answers to be sought. Enough tears had been spent already. “Cunedda is dead,” Gwendolyn said. “Cut down by assassins. His daughters, and wife, as well.”

“Everyone… gone?” the King asked weakly.

“Yes, sire,” said Gwendolyn, grief clutching at her throat, clawing at her words. “Were it not for Málik, I, too, would be dead. He has served me well.”

A sober air embraced the hall. Queen Eseld ascended the dais, moving swiftly to the throne, beside her husband, setting a hand atop his ruby sleeve, and, not for the first time, but for the first time of consequence, Gwendolyn noted her father’s sunken cheeks and bent back.

His hand trembled as he lifted it to his mouth, clutching his face, as though to stifle a sob, but no sound came through his broken lips.

“Cunedda,” he said finally, wretchedly, for Cunedda, the youngest of his brothers, had been his indisputable favorite.

Moved beyond words, Gwendolyn knelt before her father’s throne, bowing her head, as much to hide the haze of tears as to show him her utmost respect.

It was a long, long, painful moment before she found her voice again, but when she did, she was quick to thank him for Málik’s service, and she revealed everything he had done… nearly everything. She told him about the battle at Chysauster. The misadventure in the fogous. The story Ia told about her husband and Alderman Aelwin. The prunes she’d discovered in Bryok’s home. The dead guard. Only despite that she knew he could see the evidence of it—her bandages—she did not speak of the wound at her thigh, nor the care with which Málik had tended her. Nor could she seem to form words to speak aloud everything Málik had revealed—the spherule, his birthright, the confessions he’d made. None of it seemed able to rise to her tongue. It was as though some spell were cast upon her to keep these words from ever being spoken aloud—curious, but this was a question for Málik… later. And suddenly remembering the pelted horse, she asked her father to search Ailwin’s home, and also for the guardsman.

“Do it,” said the King, pointing to one of his favorite Shadows.

It wasn’t long until the man returned, and as Gwendolyn suspected, there, in Aelwin’s chamber, they discovered irrefutable proof of his treachery—Gwendolyn’s missing torc.

Only this was not the proof she’d expected—rather, she thought they might find some trace of the poison, or evidence of his plot against the Treasury. But not this. Arrogant as he was, the torc lay revealed upon his table—left in plain sight whilst he’d hurried away to comply with a summons from the King. Much to her grief, there was no sign of Borlewen, only the necklace. No sign of the guard, either. Her father’s Shadow revealed the ill-begotten prize in the palm of both hands, nestled within a blood-soaked cloth, and Gwendolyn’s heart seized painfully—not merely over what this meant for her cousin, but for the return of her torc. A tumult of emotions warred within her—both dread and relief at once, only one more so than the other.

Without a word, she retrieved her torc, and then, with her heart as heavy as the torc, she fastened it to her chain, with barely a glance toward Málik, who averted his gaze.

No one caught the exchange, and Gwendolyn straightened, resolved, for she’d spoken the truth last night. Her fate was not her own. By her own words during the Promise Ceremony, she had sealed her own destiny. Last night’s kiss, wrong as it was, must remain in her memory, warming her heart when she was old and grey.

No one must ever learn of her secret, and she must hold it dear—for Málik’s sake and her own. Fae or not, her father would take his head.

Upon his throne, King Corineus sat, his Queen Consort by his side, his expression grim, his cheeks more hollow than his eyes. “Leave us!” he barked to all remaining witnesses, but he motioned for his Shadows to remain. And then he said to Gwendolyn, only with a tip of his head toward Málik, “Come.” With great effort, and the help of his Shadows, the King slid from his throne, and Gwendolyn feared he had grown so much worse since she’d left.

Had she failed him so?

As she’d failed Cunedda and her cousins?

The very first thing, as soon as she could, she must seek the Gwyddons, and she was glad the farmer and his son had already requested the Druids as well, because this would save her the trouble of asking.

Gods.

A lump of emotion stuck in Gwendolyn’s throat, and she longed so desperately to seek solace in Málik’s arms, but she followed dutifully where her father led.

To Gwendolyn’s surprise, he took them to the cliff side vault—the Royal Treasury.

Unlike so many other magnificent edifices in their city, which had been designed by the greatest of builders, this cave was merely a cave, like a sepulcher, ancient as the granite from which it was hewn. As a little girl, Gwendolyn had always marveled that so rich a treasure must be kept in such a humble place, with only a heavy stone to place before it.

The guards assigned to the shift moved to one side to shove the stone until there was a man-sized gap between the rocks. Her father reached for the torch beside the entrance and thrust it in before him to light their way into the vault.

When Gwendolyn hesitated, he turned to beckon her within. And Málik, too, much to Gwendolyn’s surprise.