Page 71 of The Cornish Princess
For one, he claimed thelyn yeynquoit near Land’s End was a portal stone—like the one that stood southeast of Fowey Moor. He claimed it was used to travel betwixt realms.
“Gods, nay!” argued her uncle, burping very loudly after gulping down an entire tankard of ale. “That is a nursemaid’s tale, meant to frighten wee children. The truth is far less fantastic. Rather, ’tis meant to place bodies atop as leavings for the carrion—a gesture…of—” He burped again— “Gratitude to our gods… for the lending of life.” He slammed down his tankard, then lifted it again to show his maid, requesting more. “All to dust,” he said. “To dust we go again!”
To this argument, Málik merely shrugged and said, “Ah, well, what do I know?” Though he sent Gwendolyn a conspiratorial glance, and the tiniest trace of a smile.
Naturally, Gwendolyn was eager to learn more. All the questions she’d ever longed to ask of his kind now resurfaced and vied for play on her tongue. And yet, for all she knew, he was teasing her for sport—notfaeat all, and not remotely sober.
Gwendolyn’s gaze shifted between her uncle and Málik—comparing them side by side. Was she the only one who saw him differently? Did they not note his pointed ears and sharp teeth and thinkfae? Or his pale complexion and silvery hair, oricebourneeyes?
As far as Gwendolyn could tell, her uncle didn’t appear to be treating him any differently than he would any other man, nor did he take Málik’s tales as truth.
Shifting his gaze from her uncle, Málik caught Gwendolyn staring again, and she averted her gaze, embarrassed now, wondering if she’d only imagined somefaerelation—though shame on him for telling such tales.
Danann, they called him, it could be in jest.
What if none of it was ever meant to be taken as truth?
Indeed, what if the stories were only meant to be cautionary, as her uncle claimed, and her crib-side visitation only the fevered ramblings of a drunken maid?
Certainly, Gwendolyn had never known Demelza nor her mother to imbibe, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t.
Gwendolyn had never considered herself to be different, except by virtue of her royal blood, and there was nothing—truly nothing—about her condition that gave any truth to the Goldenchild Prophecy, except for the tales told by her mother and maid.
Her appearance was simply not proof. One person’s notion of beauty was not another’s. Some people treated her one way, others treated her another, and the person she spied in the mirror was neither beautiful nor hideous. She was only Gwendolyn—with breasts too small, hips too wide, mouth a little too full, and eyes neither green nor blue. Instead, they were the dullest shade of grey—the color of a storm by twilight.
Feeling maudlin this evening, Gwendolyn peered down into her cup, drained of mead, and considered pouring herself another. But nay, the beverage was too strong.
She glanced once more at Málik and, this time, found him watching her instead, his pale blue eyes all too knowing.
Where once she’d spied condemnation, she now saw something else… something warm and sweet… something dangerous and deep.
But this could not be entertained. She was already bound to Prince Loc. That would not change. Ever since the day she was born, her future was writ in blood by Málik’s own kind—else those he claimed were his kin, by the appellation he chose.
Straightening her shoulders, Gwendolyn offered him a tremulous smile, then rose, excusing herself, and made for her bed, feeling flushed and drained as her cup.Too much mead. Too much frolic. Too much laughter. Too much… everything.
None of this would serve her on the morrow when she must, at long last, leave and return to her true life—and despite this, before climbing into bed, she dared to remove the heavy chain from about her neck, and set it gingerly on a bedside table.
If only for tonight, she would like to be free of the reminder.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to yield to duty. Tonight, she only wished to be Gwen… cousin to Borlewen, Jenefer, and Briallen. Friend to Málik.
But the following morning,she didn’t reach for the torc.
One more day, she decided—one more day.
The time was at hand to prepare for her nuptials and remaining here—no matter how pleasant the diversion—would do her little good. She was already bound—promised by her own word and free will.
And yet… at least… at the very least… she could keep the memory of this time close to her heart. So, for now, she left the torc where it lay on the table, unwilling to don it again so soon. No one questioned her about her bare neck when she arrived to break her fast, and when Borlewen found the necklace upon rising, and tried it on, coming out of the room to reveal it about her throat, Gwendolyn smiled, and said, “It looks beautiful on you.”
Borlewen struck a pose. “Verily?”
Gwendolyn nodded. “Indeed.” And when her cousin made to remove it from her neck, Gwendolyn lifted a hand to compel her, and said, “Nay, please. Wear it awhile. I shall have worn it more than enough by my dying days.”
“Oh!” said Borlewen, twirling happily. “I am a princess! Promised to a great and mighty prince!” Gwendolyn laughed softly.
Indeed, it was a lovely torc—shinier than the torc of her house. Yet the sapphire eyes of its serpents glittered with vengeance, and Gwendolyn found the look of it disturbing. At least for the time being, she was content enough to let Borlewen pretend.
Later that night, after supping, whilst they were seated outside by a bonfire—a nightly occurrence in these parts—Gwendolyn found herself alone with Málik.
