Page 69 of The Queen's Huntsman
“True,” he said. “That is true. But the same should go for you,” he argued.
And then he added, “But it was more than that, I must confess. When you returned from Chysauster, I saw you were so changed. I sensed the reason…. beyond the loss of your kin.” He glanced at Málik. “I must confess, it wrecked my heart.”
Gwendolyn’s own heart ached over his full-hearted admission. She knew how difficult it was for him to say so much. He had never been entirely forthcoming, and she had too often pressed him to no avail. “I am sorry for that, Bryn. Truly. You must know I’d never wish to cause you grief.”
“I know,” he said.
But it wasn’t enough simply to know. Gwendolyn wanted him to understand that it was not her true choice—if only things had been different, if she were simply a girl, and he a boy… but they were not. Their roles in this life were cast in stone upon their births—at least regarding whom they must wed, or not. Still, it wasn’t fair because, as her Shadow, Bryn had been forced to relinquish any chance for a family, devoting himself entirely to her. From the moment he took his vows, he was fated to watch as she loved another.
But at least now he wouldn’t have to. One of them should be happy, and perhaps that would be one of the first things Gwendolyn would change when she could. Perhaps a Shadow needn’t commit himself so fully if he wasn’t serving alone? Like the aldermen with the Treasury, perhaps they could serve in shifts? But this would mean there would be a lack of intimacy and trust, and that could be a problem, in truth. Simply consider Locrinus with his guards—none of them ever the same guard, none of them loyal beyond the gold in their pockets.
Still, there must be some way to accomplish this so that a Shadow mustn’t be fated to live a loveless life… She wanted Bryn to have choices—to choose his own life, and perhaps a wife. If she could ease his heart, she would do so, though she couldn’t offer him her heart.
That was already taken, much to Gwendolyn’s dismay.
She sighed, casting a glance ahead, her eyes daring to note the contours of Málik’s back… the sword that couldn’t hide the lean, but well-muscled cut of his shoulders.
All too easily, he had set her aside, and it hurt. “You must know… if I were truly master of my own heart,” she told Bryn, “I’d never give it tohim.”
Gwendolyn didn’t have to explain who. He knew.
Bryn, too, peered over at Málik.
About a half a bell ago, Esme had ridden up beside him and he and his Faerie counterpart now rode side by side, although while Esme seemed intent upon giving him a taste of her thoughts, he continued in silence, ignoring her, every once in a while peering back to meet Gwendolyn’s gaze. But that was all. He’d had so little to say to her since Bryn’s return, and Gwendolyn wondered if he was jealous—wondered, too, if he’d awoken during the night to find her kissing Bryn…
The very thought of that brought a new sting to her cheeks.
Bryn nodded. “I can well imagine you wouldn’t offer him your heart. He’s—”
“Youliked him well enough,” Gwendolyn interjected quickly, before he could speak against Málik, not really understanding why she should care what he said or thought about him—it would all be true. Málik was not an easy one to love… even so, Gwendolyn did.
“I did like him,” Bryn offered. “Idolike him,” he amended quickly. “But he’s a difficult one to know.” Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. That was putting it mildly.
“What is with those two, anyway?”
Gwendolyn peered again at Bryn. “Esme?” He nodded and Gwendolyn sighed, lifting her shoulder. “How should I know?”
Esme had certainly had plenty enough to say when they were in the Druid village and some on the ride out, but little enough since. Indeed, it was much as though she were two people, and she had not seen theotherEsme in quite some time.
“She seems…”
“Fierce,” Gwendolyn finished, knowing what he would say only by the look on his face. She knew him only too well. “She is. Quite. And still she is a conundrum because she is thoughtful and patient, as well.” She sighed again. “It is she who dressed and armed me,” Gwendolyn revealed.
Bryn gave her another close look, once again examining her vestments. His eyes skipped past her breasts and Gwendolyn smiled knowingly, sensing his unease. “No one ever accused me of having womanly curves, but this armor molds itself to my form.”
She wiggled a bit, as though to loosen it, but no matter how she moved, the garment adjusted itself to accommodate. It was as though she wore a second skin, and the only thing loose was her wild, unkempt hair.
“It’s quite… interesting,” he said.
“Black mithril,” Gwendolyn apprised him. “Woven, not forged.”
“How is that possible?”
Gwendolyn shrugged. “Fae magic?”
“Whatever the case, I’ve seen nothing like it.”
Except, of course, for the one Esme wore. Like Gwendolyn’s, Esme’s was fitted to her person, except Gwendolyn’s armor was black, and hers was a shade of green that reminded Gwendolyn of the patina on her mother’s Prydein jewels—at least today. The first time she’d noticed the garment on her, it had been a shade of buckskin, and the next, a deep forest green.
