Page 42 of The Queen's Huntsman
They lingered in silence for a while, and then Esme returned to the subject of Estrildis, her tone far more sober. “I must ask you, Gwendolyn. Given the chance, what would you do with that child?”
Thechild?
Oh! Notherchild. She’d meant Loc’s child and heir.
But then it was difficult to concentrate on a good answer because Esme reached out to bounce one of Gwendolyn’s breasts in her hand, testing it as though it were the most natural thing to do, and Gwendolyn gasped with surprise. “I-I don’t know!” she confessed. “I’ve never considered it.” In fact, aside from what it would mean to her own child to have a scheming stepbrother so like his father, she had tried not to think of Habren much at all—mostly because to consider Estrildis as a mother confused Gwendolyn. It made Estrildis seem… a normal woman, but she was not.
Neither was she kind, and Gwendolyn had a difficult time imagining her treating any child with any great affection.
Habren was less than two, Gwendolyn believed, which meant Loc had taken up with his mistress quite some time before their Promise Ceremony, wherein he, too, had promised himself to Gwendolyn. How could she have been so naïve?
And Brutus… he’d stood by and watched his son forswear himself, knowing Estrildis awaited him at home, his grandson as well.
As for Innogen… she’d certainly embraced Gwendolyn on her wedding day, kissing her cheeks so easily, when all along, she’d had another “daughter” at home, one who’d already born her a grandson.
But it was not Habren’s fault that his father was a liar, a thief and a murderer and his mother was a bitter, greedy wretch—nor that his grandmother was a scheming witch.
It was not his fault, and yet, his presence imperiled Gwendolyn.
His mother might be many distasteful things, but she was no common whore. She was a well-born daughter to a well-respected king, or so Innogen had been quick to reveal. In time, with Gwendolyn stripped of her crown and her power, the tribes could come to accept Estrildis as their queen… and, in turn, her son as the natural heir.
Still, Gwendolyn could not imagine herself murdering a babe, not even to save her throne.
“Well,” prompted the Faerie. “You should… consider it. A woman’s heart is her true fate. So much as we might like to believe elsewise, even with a prophesy, one’s destiny is not entirely predetermined. There are many possibilities, not just one. What we believe with our hearts may come to pass merely because we make it so. Do you understand what I am saying, Gwendolyn?”
“Yes… I believe so,” Gwendolyn said, but like Emrys, and ofttimes Málik, Esme, too, spoke in confusing riddles, flitting from one topic to the next. It was difficult to follow their conversation, even as she found difficulty processing these environs. “You are saying the gods might favor a man, but ’tis a man’s… or a woman’s… turn of mind that will decide her fate?”
“Precisely,” said Esme, with a smile in her voice as she encouraged Gwendolyn into the bath.
Gwendolyn needn’t any coercion. She slid into the tub, considering Esme’s words, and much to her surprise, she found the tub so much deeper than should have been possible.
Shocked, she peered outside the tub’s rim, and Esme laughed. “You will find the unexpected here,” she said. “I told you, this place defies the world as you know it. But there is no place in this realm or the next, where you will be closer to the truth of creation.”
Gwendolyn peered up at the Faerie with a sense of marvel, but then, overcome by the deliciousness of the bath, she laid back to wallow. The water felt utterly delicious—impossibly warm, as though it were newly filled with buckets of water straight from a simmering cauldron.
Esme continued. “I must also caution you not to listen to wizened old men. When you think like a child, your imagination is free. Everything is possible. The trick is to know when to use your child’s eye, and when to see with your woman’s heart.”
Gwendolyn wanted to respond with something wise, but all thoughts fled from her mind. Sinking deeper into the water, she dared to relax, contented enough to listen to Esme chatter, and the things Gwendolyn learned were nothing short of remarkable, each new thing more fantastical than the one revealed before.
For one, Gwendolyn learned that this order of Druids only aged when they ventured beyond the Veil. Here, they were frozen in time. It was only when they descended into the woodlands or ventured down for one of their ceremonies in service to men that their aging recommenced. Emrys was the eldest of the entire lot, and Esme placed his age around seven-hundred and two.
She also learned that this order of Druids were envoys, slipping easily between realms. To preserve their affinity for this ability, they remained highly attuned to the natural world. The Danann referred to them as Children of the Greenwood, despite that their combined ages would span the annals of time. They were by no means young, and still the wonder in their eyes, despite the elder druid’s proclamation, was akin to that of a child’s.
Conversely, Gwendolyn felt she was born an old soul. Throughout the years, she’d come to doubt all she’d ever been taught as a child—all the bedtime stories Demelza used to tell.
Eventually, as she grew into her womanhood, she’d become skeptical of everything, until, after a while, she’d even struggled to believe in her own prophecy.
But why shouldn’t she doubt the prophecy?
There had never been one tangible thing to grasp at—not even her own reflection in the mirror. What she saw was ultimately the same to her, always, and even when she’d suspected others saw something different, she could never quite glean what that was.
Really and truly, even suspecting that her own mother saw only the accursed child—that her heart prevented her from seeing any beauty in Gwendolyn at all—whatshe actually saw was a mystery to Gwendolyn. And now, it would always be so.
There was nothing Gwendolyn could do to change that truth, and no matter that she’d always longed to be closer to her mother, Queen Eseld died virtually a stranger. Some part of Gwendolyn mourned this, as no doubt she mourned her father, yet so much as she had wept during those first few weeks after learning of their fates, she was now benumbed by the loss.
Strangely, it was only whilst she was in Málik’s presence… the two of them alone… that she felt safe enough to be her truest self… vulnerable betimes, angry betimes… mostly herself.
And yet, she really didn’t wish to explore any of the questions that arose with this revelation—especially in the presence of this woman he was embroiled with.
