Page 91 of The Cornish Princess
“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, “Myattempted 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 thefogous. 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.
