Chapter 27

27

T he fog persisted until they crossed into Selgovae lands. There, Gwendolyn noticed an immediate change in the forest. The towering evergreens appeared to stretch towards the sky as though reaching for the gods, the entire forest shifting and swaying, as though alive and aware of their presence. The air itself thick with a sense of age and wisdom. It was as though these very trees had been standing since the beginning of time—ancient guardians watching every step they took.

Wild lands, her father had once called them, but Gwendolyn knew even he had never ventured this far north.

Their destination now was the village of Skerrabra, as far to the north as the isle of Pretania would allow. It was there her grandfather's kinfolk had made their homes for more than two thousand years.

For her part, Gwendolyn knew very little of the place—oddments in passing from Demelza, who'd never actually visited the village herself. She knew what she knew only from the things her mother had revealed as a girl freshly arrived in the city. Dark-eyed, dark-haired, Queen Eseld had arrived in Cornwall at a tender age, and at once shed whatever "savage" influence she was born to, embracing her position as queen consort. And, in doing so, she had ceased to speak of the place where she was born and the parents who'd so easily cast her away. And once this decision was made, she'd never once looked back, even as her own parents had washed their hands of the daughter they'd offered as a sacrifice for peace.

No one knew whence Baugh's kinfolk had come before alighting in Skerrabra, only that his tribe was among the First Men who'd settled the isle. Although Málik and his ilk would have Gwendolyn believe that they—and she—were offspring of the Fomorians, a race of Ancients descended from Ham, the cursed, she didn't know that for certain. He'd claimed her Prydein kin were Danann, only mated with the sons of Míl, but even the Awenydds or Gwyddons could not say for certain , despi te that they oft sang of the Fomorians.

Gwendolyn remembered one song about Balor, the smitor, who'd murdered the first Tuatha'an king. Portrayed as a large, hideous ogre, with one enormous eye in the center of his forehead, it was said that when he was a boy, he'd peered into a cauldron brewing a Fae potion, and that the fumes caused him to grow a death-dealing eye, which he then intended to use to destroy the Tuatha Dé Danann. However, before he could wield that eye against any but King Núada, his own grandson, Lugh, son of Ethniu, daughter of Balor—and incidentally, mother to Esme—rose to smite him.

Yet another song claimed the Giant Gogmagog, who was slain by her father on the cliffs above the River Dart, was Fomorian, as well. He, too, was large and hideous, as they were all said to be. And yet, if Queen Eseld's beauty was any proof of this ancient lineage—or Esme's—they must also have been lovely folk, for her mother's beauty was well renowned, simply different from southern-born women.

And perhaps that was the reason her mother had adored Ely so much—because Ely, in Queen Eseld's estimation, was beauty incarnate. Whilst Gwendolyn shared her golden countenance, Ely's delicate coloring was far removed from the race of giants of her mother's relation, and by virtue of this, Gwendolyn's, as well. Ely's hair was soft and straight, whilst Gwendolyn's was coarse and wild. Ely's nose was petite, upturned, whilst Gwendolyn's was wide and large. Ely's hips were broad enough to bear healthy babes, but they were narrower than Gwendolyn's. And whilst Ely's skin always appeared to glow with a creamy perfection, Gwendolyn's was wont to darken beneath the sun, and her nose and cheeks were oft sprayed with freckles. And, finally, although Gwendolyn was taller and sturdier than Ely, Ely was blessed with a woman's breasts, and Gwendolyn could scarcely fill her own hands. Indeed, Gwendolyn had always felt herself a much paler version of her mother, but to Gwendolyn, Queen Eseld's beauty was unparalleled.

Despite Gwendolyn's golden countenance, would Baugh recognize his blood? Or would he see the changeling, as her mother once had?

Not for the first time, her belly twitched with nerves. She was growing eager, no doubt, but she was apprehensive as well.

Would Baugh send her packing? Deny her birthright?

The sword in her scabbard gave some reassurance, but would it be proof enough for Baugh? Emrys claimed it would not.

At this very moment, the sword lay still and unremarkable, wrapped mindfully within a bundle of tattered cloth. She still had yet to test it in this mortal realm, and she was fearful to try. After all, Kingslayer did not glow blue beyond the Druid village, nor did her mithril hold any magic beyond its beauty. What if she came all this way, and then, after all, the sword defied her?

At some point, she must take it aside and test it, before drawing it in Baugh's presence—and she would, of course, because she must be sure, but she was hardly immune to fear. If Baugh did not support her, she might as well go lay down her arms and prepare to die, because even with Baugh by her side, she was not guaranteed a victory—not when Locrinus had already amassed such a powerful army.

He now had all four tribes of Westwalas, and he'd taken Durotriges per force. The Catuvellauni were diminished beyond saving. And so, it appeared, the Brigantes may have joined him as well. As for the remaining tribes? They were fiercely independent, and even during the best of times, reluctant to ally with Cornwall. It was only her mother's efforts with the dawnsio that had ever given them any sense of coalition.

Tempted now to reach down and touch the sword where its bindings left it bare, she only hesitated for Aisling's sake. She would not brand this poor beast only to try a sword…

"A copper for your thoughts," Bryn said, jarring Gwendolyn from her musings. At once, her lips twisted ruefully, remembering another such offer, from Málik, although he had been offering silver. She lifted her brow. "Has my worth fallen so much?"

"Wha—"

"Never mind," she snapped, realizing Bryn could not possibly understand the inquiry, nor did she wish to explain. However, she wasn't about to let the turncoat off so easily. Except by night, when he crept so silently onto his pallet beside her, he spent most of his time with Málik, and as ever, his eyes held secrets he seemed neither willing nor capable of revealing.

"Were you ever going to tell me about Esme?"