Page 47 of The Queen's Huntsman
But, nay, that wasn’t true, Gwendolyn wanted to say.
She would have welcomed both in her company. Bryn wanted nothing to do with Gwendolyn. He was still so furious about it all, and it was his idea to separate, not hers. Gwendolyn had only agreed because his eyes had begged her. “I did not leave you,” she insisted. “Blood and bones, Ely! I cannot find the means to free you! Who did this to you?”
“You did,” said Ely. “You did.”
“I would not!” Gwendolyn said, and then, frustrated with her inability to untie Ely’s bindings, she looked about the room, for the first time studying their environs. She didn’t recognize the place.
“Where are we?”
Ely buried her face in her crude blankets, weeping again, inconsolably.
“Oh, gods Ely!” Gwendolyn soothed. “Speak to me. Please. Where are we?”
Her eyes as black as the little girl’s from the market, Ely turned again and said, “I am where you sent me!” And suddenly, the walls rose about them—dirt walls. The ceiling vanished, leaving them under a thousand winking stars. Ely’s weeping persisted, but now there were more bodies on the bed, and the bed itself vanished, folding into itself, leaving Gwendolyn with the horrid impression they were lying in a mass grave.
When Ely’s weeping ceased abruptly, Gwendolyn feared she might be dead because the scent of death clogged her nostrils, making her gag and cough.
The bodies mounted, the mound growing higher and higher, and, instinctively, Gwendolyn fought to make her way out, grasping, groping, searching. Even as she ascended, more bodies rolled into the grave, knocking her backward, impeding her progress—more and more and more. Desperately, she clawed her way through rotting flesh and bones, leaving her with flesh beneath her nails, moving further and further from Ely. Her dear friend’s sobs were muffled by dirty rags and blankets and decomposing flesh.
Gods, oh gods!If she didn’t get out of here, she would die as well. But she couldn’t leave Ely. If she did, she could never face herself in the morning.
Somehow, she must find some way to save her.
More bodies rolled into the grave, and Gwendolyn’s heart beat painfully as she turned back, diving again, deeper, deeper, searching for warm flesh amid putrid corpses, guided only by Ely’s sobs, which grew louder and louder, until finally—at last! Gwendolyn reached down and found a familiar soft hand—Ely’s hand… it was so soft, without blisters…
Ely was so genteel, so lovely—everything Gwendolyn could never be.
Standing over her, her mother sighed with disgust, shaking her head and pinching her nose. “What for the love of the Goddess have you been doing, Gwendolyn? Blood and bloody bones, child, what will I do with you?”
Gwendolyn’s voice sounded faraway and small. “We were only playing, Mother,” she said, lowering her head with shame.
“With Bryn, no doubt? You don’t see Ely engaging in such vulgarity, do you? Will you never outgrow this shameful behavior? How will you be a respected queen if you’ll never behave like one?”
Gwendolyn shrugged.
“Where is Bryn?”
Gwendolyn shrugged again.
“Go, find him,” her mother demanded angrily. Then suddenly, her expression darkened, and she seized Gwendolyn by the arm, shaking fiercely. “Go, find him,” she said again. “Find him!”
Gwendolyn blinked,opening her eyes to discover Esme seated on the edge of her bed, with a cool, damp cloth pressed to Gwendolyn’s forehead, smoothing it over her brow.
Was it only a dream?
Esme’s smile was genuine, though her brows knit with concern. “You gave us a terrible fright,Banríon na bhfear.”
Gwendolyn tried to rise, but Esme shoved her back down, her eyes twinkling with good humor. “All is well, do not worry. We simply failed to consider the hob cake you consumed. There are properties within each that are much the same, and perhaps you ingested too much?”
She tilted her head in question, and Gwendolyn’s cheeks heated, remembering Málik’s warning about the hob cake. At once, she reached back to inspect her ears, and then breathed a sigh of relief when she found them unchanged.
Very amusing. Damnable creature!
“Where is he?” Gwendolyn asked, lifting an arm to inspect the loose gray robe she was now wearing. So big, it consumed her entirely, and—Gwendolyn pinched the sleeve, lifting it to her nostrils, sniffing. It was rancid, with too much sweat. Someone had undressed her, then dressed her again in atupik.
“I am sorry. It was not something we anticipated,” said Esme. “At home, we do not sleep with such trappings. But Málik insisted we not leave you unclothed, and that is all I could find.” She turned up her palm, making a disgusted face. “At any rate, he is waiting outside the door—precisely where he’s been since I banned him from your room. He was quite beside himself when you swooned.”
Gwendolyn’s brows knit. “I swooned?”
