Page 55 of The Queen's Huntsman
It was the arrow Gwendolyn had been carving before their arrival at the Druid village… except… now it was complete… with all the proper fletching.
She blinked at the sight of it.
During her argument with Málik, she’d cast it away, and when she awoke the following morning, his disclosure was still the only thing on her mind. She’d completely forgotten about this.
Did he return last night to search for it?
Nay, because he would have needed time to work on the shaft and create the fletching. Somehow, he must have gone after it that morning before Gwendolyn awoke, or else he’d retrieved it the night of their argument after she fell asleep.
Had he kept it all this time, working to perfect it?
Lifting the arrow to inspect it, Gwendolyn found it perfectly straight now, with no evidence of having been cured over a flame. The tip was fashioned as her father would have done. Intrinsically perfect, except… she didn’t have a quiver, nor a bow—not any longer.
Later she would, she vowed, as she folded her blanket, placing the shaft in the middle before the final roll to keep it secure behind her saddle.
This wasn’t precisely a gift—not when she was the one who’d thought to create it. But it felt like one, because Málik had thought well enough to retrieve it, and then, evidently, took some time to create the fletching—no easy task. It was thoughtful of him, Gwendolyn thought, even if it was useless for the time being. Later, she would thank him for it, and perhaps this was his way of making amends? For herself, she desperately wished to find some way to restore their friendship—if not back to where it was before wedding Locrinus, then as close as they could come.
It was entirely possible he was still put out with her for refusing his offer to go away with him, but so it seemed, they were both wronged, because, considering Esme, he never should have asked her. And yet, regardless of their recent discord, he was still the one Gwendolyn trusted most—even more than Bryn, he was also the one she felt inclined to lean upon. In fact, she thought back to her parting with Bryn in the glade. Regardless that she’d understood his reasons for leaving, and it saddened her he’d wished to go, if that had been Málik, she would have been lost. That he was here with her now—whatever the circumstances—gave her hope.
They hadn’t gone fardown the riverbank when suddenly Málik stole Gwendolyn’s reins, leading her into the adjacent woods, straight back to that oak where he’d discovered her. But Gwendolyn’s breath caught at what she found there. Directly beside the oak lay a newly dug grave, and atop the grave lay Beryan’s shield and sword.
Málik.
He had done this.
When?
Last night?
Swallowing the lump that rose to choke away her breath, she slid down from her mount, and then fell upon her knees by the old warrior’s grave, tears swimming in her eyes. She couldn’t look at Málik for fear that he would see the naked emotions she couldn’t hide.
He must have dragged Beryan out of the river, then buried him…
For her?
Certainly not for Beryan, because he didn’t know this man.
Poor, sweet Beryan.
Placing her hand atop the freshly turned soil, she finally cast a backward glance, grateful beyond words. Despite that, for the longest moment, words continued to fail her… neither did she trust her eyes to remain dry, so she averted her gaze again, reaching out to brush her fingers across the flat of Beryan’s sword.
This gesture, like the arrow, was quietly done, with no pomp or ceremony. Simply knowing how she’d felt, Málik applied himself to the task, and even now, remained mounted and silent, allowing Gwendolyn time to grieve. She knew without it being told that he didn’t even expect her thanks, though she would give it, regardless.
Gods.
He was confusing beyond words.
She sensed he cared for her immensely, but his words never expressed this. And neither was this the same as a tender glance, or a warm embrace… certainly not the same as a kiss… Still, it betrayed some deeper affection… sentiments that words alone could not express.
With a heartfelt sigh, she buried her fingers into the cool, damp soil, closing her eyes, whispering a fervent prayer for this man whose life was lost in defense of her.
No one spoke. No one rushed her. But she knew they could not linger, and when Gwendolyn was finished with her devotions, she turned and said, “Thank you, Málik. This is a kindness I did not expect.” He hitched his chin at her, and she added, “I am only surprised they did not take his sword.” The shield was clearly ruined—broken in two, so she understood why they’d left that behind. Alas, though, he never even wielded it, so quickly did Loc and his men fall upon them. It was all they could do to ride.
“It was beneath him,” Málik explained. “They would not have seen it without moving the body, and clearly, they were in too much of a hurry to bother.”
There was no sign of either of their horses, Gwendolyn noted, and no corpse for the dog, but she knew they had been here. Somehow, Málik must have also disposed of them, but she daren’t ask how. If he could call upon the forest to embrace her as he had, he could certainly call upon the earth to inter them—or perhaps he’d cast a glamour to conceal them from her eyes, so she wouldn’t have to see them. A courtesy she hadn’t the means to repay—not yet.
But she would…
