Page 39 of The Queen's Huntsman
The Druid village was concealed by the surrounding woodlands, their dwellings hidden high atop the trees, where men would never think to look.
There was an initial climb up a rope ladder, which was drawn up as soon as they reached the landing, then a series of ramps winding throughout the twisting boughs of trees—a network so vast and so complex that Gwendolyn walked along, mouth agape.
As they ascended higher into the village, she stayed close to Málik, grateful when every so oft, he would squeeze her hand, because for all their welcome reception, the air itself was… odd… unearthly. Sometimes Gwendolyn saw nothing at all in the mist, save for a billowing fog. Sometimes, she saw half-clad men seated along nearby bridges. Cross-legged, hands on their knees, they bared the artwork on their bellies, all wearing expressions as naked as their forms. Gwendolyn had a sense they were praying, though she couldn’t tell.
“Fly-agaric,” Málik explained, bending to whisper into her ear. “Flesh of the Gods.”
Gwendolyn peered up in confusion.
“Balgan-buachair,” he tried again, and when she still shook her head, he said, “Pookies.”
“Ohhhh,” she said, remembering that sometimes the Druids used mushrooms and herbs to provide their visions. In fact, the Llanrhos Order never once visited Trevena without paying a lengthy visit to the Yew, under which no normal man could remain for longer than half a bell without finding himself surrounded bypiskiesand a terrible headache to follow that persisted for days. However, mushrooms would explain the expressions of these men she encountered, and Gwendolyn suddenly understood why visitations might be frowned upon. Gods knew these men were not in any condition to defend themselves.
One by one, their escorts fell away, perhaps returning to their various tasks, until only one remained, and this one led them all the way to the top of the largest of all the tree dwellings, wherein they discovered an elderly Druid, dressed in white, like his peers, though he sat atop a small dais, grinning widely as they entered.
Returning the old man’s smile, Málik released Gwendolyn’s hand, bounding forward to fall upon one knee, then finding and lifting the veiny old hand, kissing the back of it deferentially.
“Prionsabail!” greeted the Druid. “You are a sight for sore, old eyes.”
“Máistir Emrys,” said Málik, and the Druid’s face broke into a wider grin.
Quicker than a spider clambering across his net, he caught both of Málik’s hands in his own, patting them with great affection. Gwendolyn didn’t believe he moved like a man of advanced years.
“I’m so pleased to see you have returned,” he said, and then the old grey eyes drifted beyond his shoulder to Gwendolyn. “With a guest, so it seems…”
Málik turned to extend a hand, beckoning Gwendolyn forward. “I am certain she is no mystery to you, but allow me to introduce Gwendolyn of Cornwall, heir to these isles.”
“Welcome!” said the elder man exuberantly, and the smile he gave her was genuine, but it still raised the tiny hairs on the back of Gwendolyn’s neck. “I am so pleased you’ve found your way.”
Gwendolyn knit her brows. She hadn’t, really. She’d naturally followed where Málik led, but she nodded jerkily, wondering now if that had been a mistake.
Returning his gaze to Málik, speaking in a tongue Gwendolyn did not understand, they conversed for a moment, until Málik gave him a single nod. Suddenly, both again turned to address her—and why did she suddenly feel like the prey in a spider’s trap?
“I confess we expected you,Banríon. To celebrate, we’ve prepared… a special fare.”
He inclined his head toward Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn tilted Málik a questioning glance, remembering that he, too, had called her this name once.
“Queen,” he explained. “In the tongue of my kindred.”
Queen.Gwendolyn blinked. Clearly, these Druids still held some manner of communion with the Tuatha’ans? But how was that possible when they were banished behind the Veil?
The elder Druid released Málik’s hand, reaching now for Gwendolyn’s, then patting it in turn. “Welcome!” he said again, giving her a jovial wink. “Welcome, welcome!”
And then another voice hailed from across the room… a woman’s voice, and Málik’s gaze shot up. “Welcome,” she said silkily, and a growl erupted from Málik’s throat, the sound so feral that Gwendolyn started.
ChapterSeventeen
She was extraordinary.
Perhaps the loveliest creature Gwendolyn had ever beheld—until she smiled, revealing teeth that were sharper than Málik’s.
Danann.
She was Danann.
On her back, she carried another bastard sword, as Málik did, and as it was with him, the weapon settled there, like a natural limb, only waiting to be used, and otherwise forgotten.
Her gaze settled upon Málik, and Gwendolyn couldn’t help but note the look they shared—one she intuitively understood, despite that she didn’t know their story.
