Page 53 of The Queen's Huntsman
Gwendolyn filed these things away to mull over later. “So he gave his boat, his horse and his sword to Lugh?”
“He did, but the only reason that mucky traitor offered anything was to ensure he’d have visitors. He, too, was exiled after our banishment, you see. Forbidden to enter our Fae realms. It served the bastard right since he’s the one whose tricky tongue saw us banished beneath the hills.” She rolled her eyes. “The boat he gave Lugh was self-navigating, and the horse can traverse both land and sea, so you tell me whether he had an ulterior motive. But then, of course, when Lugh never visited, he claimed all these gifts were lent, and insisted Lugh return them.”
“But he didn’t?” Gwendolyn surmised.
Gods or nay, Esme made them sound as petty as men. But Gwendolyn knew a few aldermen who’d behaved that way, doing nothing for anyone unless it served them first.
“Why should we?” Esme said. “Enbarr is quite the stallion. So long as he lives, he’ll continue to fill our stables and his progeny may not be so blessed, but they are remarkable, even so. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would,” said Gwendolyn, her thoughts returning to Málik’s sword. “So is Málik's sword Faerie forged?”
Esme peered up the hill. “Merely blessed, though it’s quite handy. I’m sure you’ll agree.” She sucked at her teeth, then lapped at her lips. “With that blade to one’s throat,” she revealed. “No man can tell a lie.” She smiled then, adding, “Nor woman.”
“Really?” Gwendolyn said, and she could think of a few people she’d like to use it on, including Málik, despite that he claimed he could not lie. As far as she saw it, a lie of omission was still a lie. “So how did he acquire that sword if it was gifted to Lugh?”
Esme lifted a brow, her lips turning crooked. “That, too, will be a question for Málik.” She inclined her head in his direction. “Why don’t you go ask him?”
And just like that, their discourse was done.
Gwendolyn frowned. Esme seemed intent upon sending her off to Málik for questions. But as curious as she was—immensely so—she was not curious enough to go pulling at Málik’s coattails. Particularly when she knew he would be disinclined to answer—and so soon after their truce, she didn’t wish to be annoyed with him. Thus, that question, along with a multitude of others, could wait for some other day.
Bored perhaps, because she didn’t get the response from Gwendolyn she was seeking, Esme abandoned Sheahan to drink, turning her attention to Daithi.
Meanwhile, Gwendolyn returned Aisling to her post near their campsite, leaving her to graze along with Lorcan. And, knowing intuitively that Esme would prefer to handle her own mount, she went in search of Lir to help him forage.
“She’s maddening,” the Druid complained. “I know not how you bear her!”
“Esme?”
The “young” Druid nodded, his lips pursing with what Gwendolyn presumed was irritation.
“She has her moments,” Gwendolyn allowed. “What are we searching for?”
“Cobnuts,” Lir said, and Gwendolyn immediately set about to helping him locate a few.
At home, their cook often served cobnuts with a hen and bacon stew, but Gwendolyn liked them best crushed and baked with honey bread and summer fruit, topped with fresh cream.
Ely’s favorite way to eat them was roasted, with nothing on them at all, and tonight, they would have no choice but to roast them or eat them raw.
Unbidden, the memory of Ely in the dream accosted her, bound and weeping, and Gwendolyn had the most overwhelming desire to take Aisling and rush to her defense.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Later that evening, once their bellies were satisfied, everyone huddled about a dwindling campfire to discuss the morrow’s plans.
Málik’s Faerie flame bounced about the campsite, like a curious kitten, exploring and Gwendolyn supposed it was no strange thing to Lir, because the Druid scarcely noticed, merely swatting it away without thinking when it came too close to his face.
As for Málik, Gwendolyn noted that, regardless of how annoyed he appeared to be with Esme, he chose a seat close to her, both resting atop a fallen log. Gwendolyn told herself it was only because the ground was so wet, but a niggle of jealousy pricked her. Shrugging it off—because she must—she told them about her dreams. “What do you believe it means?” she asked.
“Some dreams are merely dreams,” Málik suggested. It was the first he’d spoken since returning from the hunt.
“That I do not believe,” said Lir, with his usual flair for discourse. “If you are attuned to them, even the most inconsiderable dreams will have much to say.” He lifted a cobnut, attempting to crack it between his teeth and failing. “I like these better roasted,” he complained.
“Indeed? And perhaps you brought a pan to roast with?” suggested Esme, a little too sweetly. “Or mayhap you might like to hold them over the flame with your sweet little mortal fingers?”
The Druid gave her a narrow-eyed glance, and Gwendolyn suppressed a smile. “I believe that, too, Lir,” she said. “My Demelza used to caution me to remember the lessons of my dreams.”
“What is a Demelza?” inquired Esme.
