Page 58 of The Queen's Huntsman
“Nay. She didn’t have to,” Gwendolyn said, sensing she must have hit close to the mark because his expression changed, and he cast Esme a narrow-eyed glance.
“She’s really quite beautiful,” Gwendolyn allowed, and meant it, though it wasn’t said with the most charitable spirit.
“That she is,” he said.
Gwendolyn straightened her spine. “You would be blessed to have her by your side.”
“Would I?”
Gods.She knew what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop herself, even knowing that such manipulations, subtle or elsewise, would never work with Málik. He was far too clever, and yet all she really wanted was to hear him deny his affection for Esme.
“She is, indeed, quite lovely,” he agreed.
Her traitorous eyes burned to hear the sincerity in his words, but she fought her tears, refusing to dishonor herself any more than she had already.
“And yet,” he said, vacillating. “Do not allow her ostensive good nature to fool you, Gwendolyn. She’s as dangerous as a viper, and just as swift in her vengeance.”
Gwendolyn turned to look at him to find that all traces of his smile had vanished. “Is she?”
He nodded before hitching his chin at the riders ahead. “Mark my words. Lir will learn his place in good time… unless he somehow weasels his way into her good graces—and perhaps he will. She has a soft spot for the young ones.”
Gwendolyn steeled herself for his answer. “Art jealous?”
“Me?” He laughed quickly, the sound bitter, his lips settling once more into some semblance of a smile. “What do you believe, Gwendolyn?”
“I think you are insufferable,” she said. And he was. “But I should thank you for the gift of my arrow before I am compelled not to because of your delightful wit.”
“You are welcome,” he said, smiling, but not with his mouth. She could see the twinkle in his eyes.
“And for Beryan,” she added, peering down at the longsword strapped to his saddle. “Thank you mostly for that. He was a good man.”
Málik's gaze sought and found hers, held it, his eyes softening to a pale shade of winter. “I did not know him,” he said. “And yet… anyone who fought to defend you merits my gratitude and service.”
“Thank… you,” Gwendolyn said awkwardly, but her fingers tightened on her reins as firmly as did her resolve. She was pleased by their truce, but she could not afford to allow herself to soften any more.
Your greatest love must be this land, Emrys had said.Your joy begot by its stewardship.He was right. She must not allow herself to be distracted by Málik anymore than she was.
1 In book one, Gwendolyn met a young child walking with her mother. They were on the way to the market to sell morels. Gwendolyn gave her a gold coin.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
With less than three bells of sunlight remaining, they halted to water the horses. Weary and peckish, Gwendolyn dismounted and slumped to her knees next to a dwindlingbourne.
She still had some hob cake in her pouch, but knowing they meant to stop early, she was saving her appetite for supper, and the hob cake and salted meats for tomorrow’s travels. Only now, enervated and tetchy, she was rethinking the wisdom of that decision.
Not trusting the stalebournewater for consumption, she splashed a bit on her face, unsettled to find the temperature was warmer than her heated flesh.
Unfortunately, despite that the black mithril was perfectly fitted for her body, it also absorbed the sun’s rays, trapping too much heat beneath the armor, making her sweat profusely and robbing her of energy so much that she considered taking a small bite of her hob cake. She’d had none since her three-day nap and was wary of it now.
Turning to find Lir marching her way, she decided that he, too, was worse for the wear, his face mottled, his dark hair dripping with sweat.
Gwendolyn felt terrible for him, certain that his role as a healer and seven hundred years in seclusion had ill-prepared him for the discomfort of travel in the heat of Pretania’s summers.
However, on the bright side, he must be quite well accustomed to an empty belly, judging by that pookie broth they’d fed her at supper.
Peering down into the water at her own reflection, she grimaced at her disheveled appearance. It wasn’t so much that she cared for her own sake. Though perhaps she’d been too hasty to dismiss her appearance if she intended to win any favors. None of those tribes would care to follow a weakling child, and though she wasn’t a child any longer, that wasn’t apparent simply at a glance. Even though her curls had grown so much since Locrinus butchered them, her hair was still too short and uneven. Even with her recent bath, it was unruly, making her look like a dirty little boy.
Red-faced and clearly spent, Lir walked past her through the shallow stream with his horse in tow, only to kneel on the opposite bank, facing Gwendolyn, leaving Sheahan to drink by his side. Over the course of the day, Esme had worn him out.
