Page 27 of The Queen's Huntsman
“That is not precisely what happened,” he said, but then he did not explain, and Gwendolyn watched as he poked at the cony with a finger, testing its doneness.
“What then?” she pressed. Still he answered with silence.
Gwendolyn sighed. Knowing him as she did—that he would tell her only when he was good and ready—she shrugged off his cloak, setting it aside. “Thank you for this,” she said, gesturing to the cloak. “You needn’t have gone without for me.”
“Keep it,” he said, turning away. “As you must know, I do not feel the cold as you do.”
She had already surmised as much. “Still another way we are different,” she pointed out.
But then she wondered: Was it only one winter past that he’d arrived in Trevena wearing summer clothes during winter? Indeed, it was.
So much had transpired since then—most of it disastrous. But she would never forget the sight he’d presented, cantering in through those gates, his hair free and billowing with his cloak.
Wistfully, Gwendolyn’s thoughts returned to that moment on the ramparts, standing beside Demelza and Ely. “Who is he?” she’d asked.
“No one for you to be concerned over,” came Demelza’s curt response.
But Ely was quick to disclose all she knew. “He’s an Elf!” she’d said in a sing-song tone, pleased with the gossip. “My father says he has come to enthrall our King, and we’d best take care.”
“Bah!” said Demelza. “If you leave them be, and stay out of their way, they’ll leave you in peace.” But that wasn’t precisely true, because Gwendolyn had done nothing to warrant their visitation at her crib side. She was only a babe then, and neither her mother nor Demelza had summoned those creatures. They’d come of their own accord, with their gift of a prophecy, and a stupid blessing that felt more like a curse.
She could not say with any good faith that she knew what everyone saw when they looked at her, but the most obvious consequence of her “gift” was that people treated her differently depending on how they viewed her countenance.
“Salt,” Ely had then said, undeterred by Demelza’s rebuke. “Salt or a necklace of marigolds will ward them away.” And yet it wasn’t long thereafter that Ely had changed her mind about him. Instead of wearing marigolds, she had followed him about with a daisy in her hair, like a love-sick pup. And truly, Ely’s affection for him had perhaps been the first blow to their friendship—the first, not the last. Because hewasenthralling, Gwendolyn soon discovered. In truth, he may not have beguiled her father, but he certainly had her. There was something about the swirling depths of his silvery eyes that always made Gwendolyn forget herself… as she did now.
Catching herself staring, she continued to repair herself while he removed a bit of cony from the skewer, offering the first piece to Gwendolyn. She grasped it, her mouth watering even before she had the chance to taste it. But then, once she did, she was famished for more. “Delicious!” she confessed, pleased to see that he was tearing more bites and placing them on a strip of cloth.
They shared a look, and Gwendolyn licked her fingers, not meaning to behave like a starved animal, but she couldn’t help herself. The instant he handed over the napkin, she shoved everything into her gob, the taste and scent so unimaginably satisfying.
For all these months, she had existed on only gruel. At supper the evening past, she’d hardly eaten a bite, so disgusted was she by Loc. And later, she’d been too excited, and then nervous to worry about food. This morning, however, she was so ravenous she could eat an entire stag.
And that was yet another thing she was grateful for this morn—that Málik knew how to cook, because Gwendolyn never learned how. The most she’d ever attempted was to drop two eggs in a pot of boiling water after watching her aunt do the same. But she never even had the chance to discover if her efforts proved edible, because that was the day those men had tracked them to Ia’s farm. Interrupted from the task, she and Málik had battled for their lives, then departed without ever seeing to their bellies. For all Gwendolyn knew, those eggs were still sitting in that same pot, though she hoped not because that would mean Ia and her parents never returned. That possibility dulled her appetite, though not enough to keep her from eating every bite offered. When it was gone, she blinked in surprise, only belatedly realizing that Málik never ate. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not at the moment,” he said, and Gwendolyn considered the fact that she’d never actually seen him eat. Not truly. Not even during their time in Chysauster, although he did join them to sup. Very distinctly, she recalled he drank from her cup, only to tease her, but never once did he take a bite from their shared trencher. “Don’t tell me you only eat berries?” she joked.
His eyes narrowed to slits of gray smoke. “Do these appear to be the denticulation of one inclined to berries?” He bared one tooth, the look in his eyes wholly feral—quite at odds with his actions as he sat serenely, declining the feast he’d made.
He added, “You’d be wise to note there are few occasions when the goddess’ creatures are made without regard to need, Gwendolyn. If you see claws… or fangs…” His silver eyes glinted, his pupils dilating as a hunter’s would when focusing on prey. “You should run.”
Gwendolyn tilted him a questioning glance, jesting. “Should I now?”
He shrugged. “That would depend…”
“On what?”
He smiled lazily. “Do you wish to find yourself my morning feast?”
Gwendolyn blinked, uncertain of his meaning, sensing there was something forbidden and carnal in the jest. “Are we talking about food?” she dared to ask.
“Perhaps,” he said, his grin spreading slowly, revealing two gleaming rows of sharp white teeth… with the canines sharper than the rest.
Why had she never wondered about this before?
It made sense, though. Why was any creature born with fangs if not meant to use them? Simply because hisráswas said to exist in harmony with nature did not mean they did not have their place in its hierarchy—as hunters. Wolves were nature’s beasts, but they would gladly sup on a man’s flesh and bones. More than ever, Málik was a mystery to her, and clearly disinclined to alter this truth. However, there was something she needed to know, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask. “Where did you take my father’s sword?”
“Home… where it belongs.”
Gwendolyn lifted both brows. “Home?”
