Page 23 of The Queen's Huntsman
Dressed in a white tunic and a bright golden cloak without her spew, he looked as though he’d never broken a sweat. If Gwendolyn had been free to do so, she would have stabbed him through the heart.
Dismounting, he came over to inspect the tree where the hound barked,touchingGwendolyn—his hands testing, grasping, probing. Despite that, somehow, he couldn’t see… nor feel her.How could it be?
“What in the name of the gods is wrong with that witless hound?” he asked. “Have you starved the animals so long they’ve gone daft? Where are the rest?”
“The dogs?” The one with the dog lifted his chin. “We lost four, Majesty.”
Loc turned to peer back at Beryan’s fallen mount. He sighed. “I see you lost the girl as well…”
The girl. Not the Queen.Clearly, he would not have his warriors consider her that way. The men all peered anxiously at one another while the dog at Gwendolyn’s feet continued to whine and sniff, then bark. “We’re… not… certain, Majesty,” said the man standing beside his dog.
Loc’s brows collided, his amber eyes sharp as knives. “What do you mean you’re uncertain?” He peered up from the dog to address the man speaking. “Her companion lies in that river. Her horse, too. I’m told you followed her afoot into these woods. Now you claim you don’t know where she is?”
At his feet, the dog growled, teething Gwendolyn’s leathers and swiftly but coolly, Loc unsheathed his sword, then skewered the animal through. “Worthless beast!” he complained, then turned away from Gwendolyn, perhaps to consider her fallen horse.
“Is the horse’s leg broken?” he asked, and Gwendolyn fought the burn of tears—for the poor wretched beast lying at her feet, for Beryan’s mount and her own. For Beryan most of all.
“Aye, Majesty.”
“Go on, then. Put it down,” he commanded, re-sheathing his blade. “She won’t be needing it. She’s outlived her usefulness to me.” He chortled then, and even as he did so, Gwendolyn understood his meaning. Just as she’d suspected all along, he never intended to return her to the palace. He’d meant to see her dead.Today. Now. Like the hound at her feet.
In her fist, her cousin’s dagger seared into her palm. She wanted so much to wield it, to thrust it into Loc’s throat, see his blood spew. Never in her life had she been more aware of the feel of metal against her flesh and she raged against the restraints holding her back.
She could end this here and now—if onlyhewould release her.
Let me go!she thought in vain.Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!
The words would not form on her tongue. Whatever binding constrained her arms, also held her tongue. She was a ghost to these men, without form or voice, and yet, she was so painfully close—close enough to plunge Borlewen’s blade into the tender flesh of Loc’s belly.
I will kill you,she tried to say.I will cut out your tongue! I will shave your head in kind for the treatment you gave me! I will nail you on a cross of wood before Trevena’s gates, with small wooden picks to force your eyes wide, so you can see all you have lost, and then I will call upon the Druids to summon crows to pluck out your eyes!
“You!” said Loc, unmoved—though of course, he couldn’t hear her. He pointed to a pair of men who stood idle together. “Search northeast. As for the rest of you,” he said, gesturing to the rest of his troops. “Scatter and move along. Turn every stone you find. If you locate her, leave her to me. I mean to put an end to these Cornish vermin once and for all.”
And with that, he turned to remount his horse, leaving Gwendolyn to stare after him, her eyes burning with fury and shivering as much with rage as with fear.
Before departing,Loc’s soldiers climbed into the trees, searching the vicinity as though their lives depended upon it, because they did. And then, at last, as twilight returned to kiss the forest with a soft, rosy glow, the cage of vines surrounding Gwendolyn receded.
In a matter of seconds—the same way he’d produced his Faerie flame—all returned to its usual form and Gwendolyn was no longer a tree, Málik no longer embracing her.
With a yelp of surprise, still holding Borlewen’s blade, Gwendolyn tumbled free of his arms, tripping over the now cold carcass of the poor hound.
“What was that?” she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet.
Dear gods.It was him. It was truly him! And he looked so utterly magnificent in a tunic the color of night. His silver hair took on a pink hue against the dusky light, and hisicebourneeyes were as bright as the flame now hovering beside him. In the half-light, his skin was translucent. His ears were still unmistakably pointy, his teeth uncommonly sharp. And even so, the sight of him made Gwendolyn’s heart trip painfully. To her, he was the most beautiful, most wonderful, most welcome sight in all the world.
“That,” he said with his usual mordancy, “was a narrow escape.” And then he smiled, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You can thank me now,” he said.
“Thank you!” Gwendolyn’s brows lifted. “You should have let me kill him!” she railed. “Why did you not release me?” She lifted Borlewen’s blade to show him, but he shrugged. “Bastard!” she spat, and she wasn’t sure if she meant Loc or Málik—perhaps both! Gwendolyn had never felt more ambivalent. On the one hand, she longed to rush into his arms, bury her face against his sinewy chest and weep. On the other, she wanted to see him flat on his belly, with his much too-handsome face pressed into the rotting bracken, her boot planted atop his back, and a blade kissing his nape. It would serve him right after abandoning her for so long—leaving her to wonder for months and months if he would ever return. Indeed, he’d been gone so long that she’d forbidden herself to think of him, lest her heart shatter to pieces, beyond repair. And still… here he was, and her throat constricted at the sight of him, even as her hand tightened on Borlewen’s blade.
Calm. Smug. Superior.
He looked so stunning, and it was all Gwendolyn could do not to fly at him, pummel his chest.Forsooth!As grateful as she was for his timely intervention, she was also entirely furious with him—not to mention relieved.
Shaking her head to hide the sting of tears, she slid Borlewen’s dagger back into its sheathe, giving him a baleful glare.
Above him, his Faerie light shimmied about his head, the edges feathering with the cool evening breeze, scattering tendrils of white and blue light.
“What I meant was,” she said, a bit more calmly, gesturing at the tree—a tree, which, by the by, looked precisely like any other tree. “What wasthat?”
