The Forgotten Prince (The Goldenchild Prophecy Book 3) by Tanya Anne Crosby

Author:Tanya Anne Crosby [Crosby, Tanya Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oliver Heber Books
Published: 2023-07-24T18:30:00+00:00

19

Gwendolyn’s arms ached, and her heart hurt—which one worse, was impossible to say. They didn’t go far before stopping for the evening. But having gone as far as they physically could, Gwendolyn was certain no distance could take her far enough from the savaged village. And judging by the sullen expressions she faced when she dismounted, she wasn’t the only one unable to forget the day’s carnage.

They found a secluded spot near a small bourne, and no one spoke a word as everyone, except Bryn, went straight for the stream to wash.

Bryn stayed to dig a pit for their campfire.

One year ago, if someone had told Gwendolyn she would spend the better part of an afternoon gathering bodies for a pyre—thanks to the husband she’d wedded but never bedded—she’d have judged them mad.

Then again, one year ago, she was still a silly little girl, incensed by everything her parents did and said, looking for any cause to defy them, too naïve to realize how difficult life could be.

Perhaps even to the day she and Bryn were swimming in Porth Pool. Wincing, she pulled at her shoulder to ease the ache. What she wouldn’t give for a soak in those warm, healing waters!

The stench of death permeated even her clothes.

But far, far worse than any filth or physical discomfort, the memory of that poor child haunted her still—that dear, sweet babe and his mother.

“Monsters,” she whispered.

Some might call Málik and Esme monsters, but despite Esme’s foul temper, Gwendolyn knew she hid a mountain of sorrow for those villagers. She might never confess it, but Gwendolyn could see it in her eyes. Even now, as Esme stood, splashing water onto her face, she did so with a ferocity of temper that betrayed her grief. And then suddenly, Esme froze, sensing Gwendolyn’s regard. She turned and sent Gwendolyn a look of fierce imputation that forced her to look away.

It was not that Gwendolyn felt guilty for having forced her company to deal with the dead—she did not. But she suspected Esme was struggling with something, and Gwendolyn wanted to give her as much privacy to deal with it as was possible.

In the meantime, she had her own aching body and mind to tend to.

Ash blackened her hands and charred flesh was wedged beneath her nails. She would gladly strip bare, but for the lowering temperature. And neither had she a proper change of attire. As disgusted as she was with her state of disrepair, worrying about it was pointless. That little brown mud-stain she’d acquired near Porth Pool was the least of her defilement. Sadly, she would have to wait until they arrived at the Druid village for a simple change of clothing. Neither could she afford to sleep in wet attire, so she washed as best she could, and resigned herself to live with the rest.

Tired and ready for bed, she returned to camp in time to watch Málik retrieve the flint from his saddlebag. Without a word, he kindled a fire in the pit Bryn had dug, before departing to hunt for supper.

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