Page 50 of The Queen's Huntsman
“Considering the prophecy?”
Gwendolyn nodded.
“I see… and did she tell you any other such tales?” She flitted her hand between them. “Perhaps the story of your crib-side visitation?”
Startled by the question, Gwendolyn slid the Faerie a curious glance. Her visitation wasn’t a secret. Anyone who knew Gwendolyn knew of it, but she had never actually discussed it with anyone, much less a true-blood Fae—not even Málik, truth be told.
“Yet I wonder,” continued Esme, without waiting for Gwendolyn’s answer. “Perhaps she felt it vital you believe her story?”
“Story?”
Esme’s brows lifted. “Indeed. Wasn’t she the one who came upon the Fae in your nursery? She and your mother?”
Gwendolyn blinked, then nodded.
Once again, none of this was undisclosed, but Esme was the first ever to speak of it so boldly—that she was also Fae, gave Gwendolyn a vague feeling of… not quite unease… nor was it quite foreboding, but there was something about the look in Esme’s eyes that made her wonder… And yet, in truth, it should be far stranger that no one ever spoke of it, because in part, this was what had led Gwendolyn to doubt her prophecy. Stories told in whispers were too often gossip or lies.
“You know… Balor was my grandsire,” the Faerie disclosed.
Gwendolyn’s brow furrowed.Her Grandfather?Time, as she was coming to understand, was a malleable experience; even so, Balor’s death would seem to have been so long ago. “When did he die?”
The Faerie’s eyes glinted sharply, then turned a bright shade of blue. “Quite some time ago,” she said, though she didn’t elaborate, and then her gaze slid to Málik, riding ahead, conversing with Lir. The two were quite the pair—Málik with his silver hair and lithesome form, Lir with his hair black as midnight, and shoulders wide enough to rival the breadth of his horse.
What Gwendolyn truly wished to know was how old Málik was—or rather, that was not the thing shemostwished to know, but it was something she’d asked him repeatedly, and for which she’d not yet received a proper answer. “How old is Málik?” she dared, and the Faerie lifted a brow, turning to tilt Gwendolyn a curious glance, her eyes still sparkling, though now a mix of green and blue, like the Dragon’s Bay in spring.
“Ask me anything,” Esme said, after a moment. “I’ve no secrets, you’ll learn. But that isnotmy story to tell. If you would know it, Gwendolyn, ask him.” She hitched her chin ahead at Málik’s back, and her lips turned ever so slightly at one corner. “However, I will share one thing I know you are eager to learn…”
Gwendolyn’s heart jumped, knowing intuitively what it was Esme meant to share. The question had hovered on her tongue from the moment Emrys had proclaimed them lovers.
“He isnotmy intended, despite that our fathers would like to see it so. You may put your thoughts at ease over that.”
So they werenotbetrothed. A powerful sense of relief rushed through Gwendolyn, despite that she was compelled to deny it. She shook her head, but when she did so, so did Esme.
“No,” said the Faerie, lifting a finger to her lips. “You cannot deny it, Banríon.” She leaned closer, somehow bridging the distance between them as she whispered. “I smell desire.”
Again, Gwendolyn opened her mouth to repudiate the claim, but it was true, and when she closed it again, Esme laughed, returning her attention to the pair ahead. “If you ask me, you two would be better served to be done with it—clear your heads for the task ahead. Nothing is quite so distracting as lust,” she declared. “Alas, do not fret, Gwendolyn, I’ll not speak of it again, andhisobstinance will surely rival yours.”
In all her years, Gwendolyn had met no one like Esme. She was a study in contradictions. Sometimes chatty and warm, other times as stubbornly aloof as Málik.
Sometimes she was painfully amusing, other times achingly mortifying.
Sometimes coy and clever, other times sweet and soft.
Sometimes she made Gwendolyn blush hotly, pouncing on her weaknesses with the prowess of a wolf scenting blood.
Other times she made Gwendolyn feel as if there was no one more important than she was, catering to her every need.
From one moment to the next, there was no telling what version of Esme you might face, and despite that, the more she came to know the Faerie, the more Gwendolyn trusted her.
At least she was honest, even in her recalcitrance. And yet, as closed-mouthed as she was about Málik, she had no such reservations over talking about anything or anyone else.
Quite literally.
Gwendolyn learned every dark secret about every Faerie in existence, save Málik. Esme had no qualms even recounting her own sins—which were a multitude, judging by the small sampling of stories she’d already shared.
She’d once lain with a brother, and also claimed to be the one who blinded Balor in one eye, hurling a dagger into it for an insult to her mother. “So, your mother was Balor’s daughter?” Gwendolyn asked, trying to follow.
“Ethniu,” Esme revealed.
