Page 49 of The Queen's Huntsman
“East,” Gwendolyn said. “That is all I know right now.”
I am where you sent me, Ely had said in her dream. Bryn had been quite adamant that they should not return to Durotriges, and knowing what Gwendolyn knew now, she understood why, though perhaps danger awaited them in the east as well?
If Gwendolyn could, she would intercept them before they presented themselves to the Iceni. Unfortunately, as it was, they’d already lost a good three days here in the Druid village, and even before then, they were two days removed from their parting in the glade.
They had at least a sennight'sworth of travel to catch Ely and Bryn, but the Iceni village lay deep in the southeast—a good sixty leagues or more. Esme reassured Gwendolyn that, given time, their Fae horses could catch them. Considering this, Gwendolyn led her mare to the fore.
Sometimes in life, one must know when to defer to others, but this was not one of those times. If she would be queen, she must lead, and no longer could she afford to defer even to Málik.
Gwendolyn had trained the entirety of her life for this moment, and right now, all those things she’d worried about so incessantly only yesterday seemed of so little import. If she would spend the rest of her days as a widowed queen, then she would gladly accept this fate, if only she could return peace to this land, and her people.
There was only one thing she knew with certainty this morn: Locrinus must be defeated. She didn’t know how, or when, but that was her charge. And regardless, to accomplish this, she would need good men and women to ride by her side—Bryn, for one.
Her gaze slid to Málik, who now stood checking the cinch of his mount, adjusting the larger saddle and fittings.
She was glad he was with her, and in the aftermath of hisglamour, they were bonded in a way they were not before. Gwendolyn couldn’t say that she could read his mind, nor could she glean anything from his thoughts, but instead of abandoning her when he’d discovered her insecurities, and all her frailties, he’d remained by her side, regardless of his affiliation with Esme—whatever that entailed. He was not her Shadow. Bryn was her Shadow. Málik was something more but defining this was impossible. Life was no longer so simple. Matters were complicated and grown infinitely more so after this visit to the Druid village.
Her gaze shifted to Esme, taking in her regal bearing and manner of dress. She wore no crown, but she didn’t need one to proclaim her supremacy. It was quietly stated, ingrained in her very being, every movement and gesture. Esme was not a woman accustomed to taking commands from any man, and Gwendolyn wasn’t certain she was prepared to take orders even from a queen, no matter how helpful she seemed, or how obliging she might be. She was a bit like pine liquor—heady and warm in small doses, exhilarating going down one’s throat, but set the bottle too close to a flame, and it would explode, kindling a blaze nearly impossible to put out.
Dressed in a tunic similar to Gwendolyn’s, hers was now a deep forest green, bearing something like scales that reminded Gwendolyn of a serpent’s skin—slightly iridescent to match her skin. Málik had said Gwendolyn’s mithril would conceal her by night, but Esme’s attire would seem to blend itself against the environs, changing colors as quickly as did her eyes.
For his part, Málik wore his usual black tunic and leathers—as simple and supple as the leather of their saddle trappings, giving Gwendolyn a shocking eyeful every time she dared to look his way. It was… unbearably revealing. And… there were things she noticed this morning that she daren’t before—such as the way his leathers molded themselves to his sinew, rolling across the landscape of his body like a sheet of liquid night.
As for the Druid, he’d shed his white robes for this journey; he now wore undyed leathers in the fashion of a Shadow. He’d also eschewed the ear sheathes at Esme’s request, and Gwendolyn noted an underlying current ofsomethingbetween those two.
Unrequited mayhap, the young Druid admired Esme, though if Esme shared his regard, she had a strange way of showing it—with a tongue as biting as Gwendolyn had ever heard. Yet, as unpredictable as their fellowship was—for all of them, not simply Esme and the Druid—Gwendolyn sensed a fidelity to her cause. In short, she didn’t know if any of them would be in accord with one another—not even Gwendolyn and Málik—but she knew they would be steadfast and loyal. For good or ill, the quest to save Pretania must begin.
Once she was ready to ride, Gwendolyn hoisted herself into the saddle, pleased to discover that, just as she’d anticipated, her new tunic didn’t impede her movements. Reveling in the feel of strong horseflesh between her thighs, she gave the signal to move out.
“Welcome back,Banríon,”said Málik with a slow, dazzling grin. “How I’ve missed the fire in your eyes.”
“Have you?” Gwendolyn asked with a lifted brow.
“Indeed I have,” he said, winking as he tossed her an apple.
ChapterTwenty-Three
By midmorning, they’d ridden beyond the point when they should have stopped to rest. Still, Esme insisted they continue, pushing the horses beyond the normal endurance.
Fleet of foot and nimble, their horses galloped on silent hooves, hardly winded no matter how swiftly they flew. Like Esme herself, it was as though they glided over the woodland terrain, veering more swiftly, more sharply, more intuitively than any horse Gwendolyn had ever had the pleasure of riding.
Pleased with the mare’s performance, Gwendolyn leaned forward to tangle her fingers through the long, soft mane, then slowed, riding for a moment, simply listening to the horse’s even breath against the snapping of twigs beneath her hooves.
“They’ll never be winded,” Esme insisted, reaching over to pat her own mare’s neck. “These are superior to mortal breeds.”
Gwendolyn’s gaze snapped up in surprise. “She’s not mortal?”
Esme tilted her head one way, then the other, vacillating. “Well,” she said. “Let us say that even gods are not truly immortal, Gwendolyn. Age will not defeat us, but a good spear will do it.”
Gwendolyn understood Málik was… older… but immortality was not a concept she understood—particularly now, when so many people she knew and loved had already gone from her life. Still, she thought of him as invincible, and the very thought that something could happen to him left her unsettled.
“Only ask Nuada,” suggested Esme. “Though I promise you he’s as dead as dead can be.”
“Nuada of the silver hand?” Gwendolyn surmised. The king who grew himself a new limb so he could be made king again, but then was murdered by Balor of the Evil Eye. “I’ve heard that tale,” she confessed. “My mother’s maid used to recount these stories to me when I was young.”
The Faerie’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps at bedtime to frighten you into remaining abed?”
Gwendolyn laughed softly. “Not precisely. You see, I had a Mester who was far too cynical to believe in my Prophecy. I suppose she told them because she felt it was important I should hear them.”
