Page 63 of The Queen's Huntsman
In like fashion, Trevena had prepared for every circumstance, save one. Her grandfather had built that city on a stone isle, attached to the mainland by the narrowest of bridges. It was protected on all sides by natural defenses, and still he had erected two inner-city walls, just in case men escaped their archers. Towers were also appointed at intervals, not merely overlooking the harbor and bridge—the two most vulnerable locations—but the cliff side, as well, in case they were attacked by men who could scale those cliffs. There were a multitude of precautions in place, and this, despite that her people had been so long at peace… but those defenses had meant nothing in the end. They were infiltrated; the city overtaken by Loc’s treachery. They’d found a peaceful way in through those gates and vanquished Trevena from within.
She needed to be prepared. She needed to practice every chance she got, even during their travels. And she must remain prepared, and if she was not, she would fail—not only Ely and Bryn, but Trevena as well.
And yet, right now, at this moment, she loathedhewas right yet again—loathed even more that she had so swiftly turned her thoughts from the bite of his sword to the bite of his teeth.
Gods.As much as she would like to believe her heart had hardened against him… and much as she wished to honor his ties to Esme… she was too easily undone despite her best intentions.
Tomorrow, she swore she would keep her wits about her. And in the meantime, she would be good for little if she didn’t get some rest…
Blinking against the dark night, she suddenly realized there was no sign of Málik’s Faerie flame. It was gone.
The only visible light came from slivers of moonlight where it sluiced through the canopy of trees. Once again, she had been too distracted to notice, and Málik and Esme were gone.
Were they out there…together? Embracing? Kissing?
Gwendolyn daren’t confess how much that notion aggrieved her.
Without intending to, she rose to search the camp, blade in hand. Lir was still sound asleep under his woolen blanket. The fire hadn’t been kindled in hours. Burnt to embers, it faded against the chill of the night. But, suddenly, she heard a snap, and the distant murmur of voices, and instinctively, Gwendolyn slid behind an oak to listen…
The voices came closer and her brow furrowed. It didn’t sound like Málik and Esme… nor was it the sound of lovers coupling… or even arguing.
She turned to peer at the horses and found them prancing nervously.
Gwendolyn moved swiftly to where Lir slept, shaking him awake, grateful at least that her tilt with Málik had left her sleeping so lightly. She pressed her free hand over his mouth to keep him from speaking. His sleepy gaze met hers, focusing on her face, and Gwendolyn lifted a finger to her lips, then tugged him up, urging him to his feet, and shoving him behind her.
If she was so unready, Lir wouldn’t last long.
As best as she could, she would defend him until she could not, and hopefully, Málik and Esme would cease their cavorting and return to help defend them. “Shhh,” she said, but then she blinked, spying Málik’s silver hair glinting beneath his Faerie fire.
Esme came quick at his heels—no sword drawn, despite that they were followed by men on horseback. Confused, but no longer alarmed, Gwendolyn exhaled a breath she’d not realized she’d held as the thicket parted to reveal visitors—three strangers, traveling with four horses, one saddle empty, one dragging a litter. Málik was the first to step into the glade, followed by Esme, and then came the lead rider behind them. But it wasn’t until Gwendolyn moved closer that she realized it was a young woman in the saddle—her red hair thickly plaited.
“I come seeking my father,” she announced. “In return, I have brought you a son of Trevena.”
“Father?” Gwendolyn asked, confused.
The woman lifted her chin, her dark eyes glinting against a shaft of moonlight.
Esme turned to Málik, and Málik fixed his gaze upon Gwendolyn.
“My name is Taryn,” announced the stranger. “In my litter I’ve Bryn Durotriges.”
It was only then that Gwendolyn’s gaze found Jago’s, recognizing him from her rescue party. And then, slowly, her gaze fell upon the litter strapped to his mount.
ChapterThirty
They settled near the fire, rekindling it to keep Bryn warm.
As they spoke, Lir tended his wounds—the most critical being a blood-and-filth-encrusted gash below his ribs. His body was feverish, yet his lungs were strong—evidenced by the wail he emitted when Lir dug into the wound to extract a bit of detritus. The blow had missed vital organs, but there was bruising at the temple where the backside of a war hammer had pummeled his head. This was perhaps the injury Lir felt certain was keeping him insensate.
Taryn explained that, as yet he’d not opened his eyes, and Gwendolyn sat dutifully on one side of Bryn’s litter, clutching his cold hand, fearing he might not make it through the night.
Seated by the fire, next to a man called Ives, Jago tugged up a weed, rendering it in two, his fury and grief both notable in the tic of his jaw. “They attacked as we were evacuating the women and children,” he said.
Loc.So quickly he’d moved upon Durotriges.
He must have gone straight from the search for Gwendolyn to take his fury out on the people he deemed responsible for her escape. That, else he had dispatched a part of his army straight to the village while he pursued his search for her. Either way, Gwendolyn wondered if Queen Innogen cared that he’d undermined her efforts. After all, why attack a village that was already promised?
“Of course they would,” interjected Taryn, casting an angry glance at Jago. “We should have begun the process long before Adwen surrendered our village!”
