Page 44 of The Queen's Huntsman
“Black mithril,” revealed Esme. “Woven by Arachne, a student of Athena’s, the very finest of weavers. But her tale is not such a joyful one. She hung herself. This is the last thing she ever wove.”
Gwendolyn was horrified. “She hung herself?”
“Indeed,” said Esme. “Alas, if only that were the last of her torment. Athena turned her into a spider, but now, at least, she still weaves.”
“That is…”
“Monstrous, yes, I know, but at least it should please her to know that her finest of works will be worn by the Queen of Pretania.”
Gwendolyn shook her head. “I may be queen, but queen of nothing,” she said bitterly.
Esme tilted her a look of admonishment. “You must realize self-pity is unbecoming.”
However, the instant the words were spoken, her smile returned, and she commenced to dressing Gwendolyn again, pulling the black tunic over her head and settling it down over Gwendolyn’s form. However, unlike the first time Gwendolyn tried on her mother’s stiff Prydein gown, this one seemed only for a moment too large, then of its accord, it melded itself against her form, settling itself over Gwendolyn’s breasts as though it were made only for her. The leathers did the same, even though were not made of the same cloth, but a type of buckskin so soft that it felt likeboge. Remarkably, once Gwendolyn was dressed, she still felt as though she were nude—much how that hob cake settled in her belly, there but not there. After a moment, the bodice fitted snugly to her form and somehow hardened like steel, while the rest of the tunic adjusted in all the right places, giving her ample room to move about… to wield a sword if she must.
To fight.
Gwendolyn wiggled her arms with the realization.
Forsooth.She had never in her life worn something so… mutable.
She tried moving every which way, and no matter what she did, the material stretched to accommodate, leaving her free to move how she pleased. She couldn’t help herself. Grinning, she spun about in wonder.
Esme laughed and said, “I’ve also brought you a sword, though it is not the one you might hope for. Would you like to see it?”
Gwendolyn nodded at once.
ChapterNineteen
Esme led her out of the bathhouse, and then down one of the many suspension bridges, turning this way and that, onto another, and then yet another, taking her up and down so many corridors that Gwendolyn would surely have been lost without her guidance.
Inconceivably, this was a sprawling village. Mist curled about the area, creeping along the walkways, stealing into every dwelling. Gwendolyn didn’t remember climbing so high on their ascent, but she had the sense now that she was high, high amidst the clouds. And yet, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t spy the ground even when they traversed the bridges.
Eventually, they arrived at yet another chamber. This one boasted only a simple bed, on a wooden dais, piled high with furs. And though it wasn’t at all like the luxurious bower she’d once occupied in Trevena, it was still nicer than any room in Loc’s palace, and quite sumptuous for this strange woodland palace.
The chamber walls were made of a substance Gwendolyn didn’t recognize, shimmering in shades of green. Although it wasn’t actually transparent, it was gossamer like spider silk, and still it somehow sustained her weight when she leaned into it.
Like the mist itself, it was there, but not there, nothing corporeal.
But though Gwendolyn couldn’t see any of the trees from her room, and her room had no windows, she had every sense of being surrounded by boughs, lush with leaves, with light spilling into the chamber and a gentle breeze lifting the smallest wisp of her curls. It was magical.
Esme moved straight to the bed, where a sword lay nestled amidst the soft, white furs. She lifted it up, turning to display it atop her hands.
“Pure Adamantine,” she said. “Undiluted by any alloy from the realms of men. Forged in the fires of Mount Slemish. This was the same sword once gifted to Helen of Troy… or Helen of Argos, as she was known before the war. Lovely though she was, she was not to be trusted.”
“Helen?” Gwendolyn whispered, thinking it mustn’t be a coincidence that Helen was Trojan and so was Loc.
“The sword itself may not be destroyed, but a single drop of Adamantine will strengthen all alloys, even those of this realm, and…” She tilted Gwendolyn a look. “As you may have guessed, this is the source of your Loegrian Steel.” She sighed wistfully. “However,thisweapon is sacred. Not quite as precious as the Sword of Light, but I hope you’ll be pleased with it, regardless. It is designed as you would like it… in the style of Málik’s sword.”
Had Málik told her how much Gwendolyn liked his sword? That she’d wanted one designed like it? It would stand to reason he must have because somehow Esme knew it.
“Use it wisely. Use it well.” Gently, she laid it upon Gwendolyn’s upturned hands and Gwendolyn gasped with surprise over the feel of it—so light, she could scarcely believe it was metal.
All along the flat of the blade, there were runic inscriptions inlaid, glittering impossibly, like miniscule diamonds. But this sword was lighter than the one Málik used. That one, lovely as it was, was heavier and less shiny.
Esme brushed a finger along the glyphs, and they glowed, as though infused with fire. “Kingslayer,” she whispered. “Appropriate, don’t you think?”
ChapterTwenty
