Page 91 of The Queen's Huntsman
Gwendolyn swallowed with some difficulty, her spine snapping straight. With every word, she hardened her resolve.
“It was only a matter of time before your father succumbed to his illness—weeks, perhaps mere days—and then it would be Brutus or Locrinus with you by his side. I chose you,” he said. “Don’t you see, Majesty? My choice was you! He told me you would never be harmed?”
The last sounded more like a question, and this told her that even he had had some doubt. And still he’d left her to that viper. Her jaw worked as she listened to his confession. With tears stinging her eyes, she climbed out of the reservoir and bounded to the floor, her hand moving to Borlewen’s dagger. And then, she focused on a single word… “He?”
Yestin took a defensive step backward, his gaze fixed upon Gwendolyn, not Málik, though Málik’s blade flashed menacingly against a bit of torch light that slipped in through the open door. “I am sorry,” he said. “Hemade me do it.”
“He?” Gwendolyn said once more, certain that whoeverhewas, the man must have had great sway—not only with Yestin, but the palace at large.
“Yestin!” called a male voice, and then they were no longer alone. A red-cloaked figure came rushing through the door, discarding his cloak, and even as his fingers moved to his breeches, seeking his laces, he quickly assessed the situation and froze.
It happened so swiftly thereafter. Málik rushed across the chamber to dispatch the red-cloaked guard, slicing the man’s throat before he had time to draw his sword. The gurgle he made as the blade withdrew from his flesh was amplified in the empty chamber.
The yowl that followed was Yestin’s, imbued with sorrow. Her father’s steward fell to his knees as Málik turned, wiping his dagger against his leather tunic, and said. “What should I do with him… Majesty?”
Gwendolyn could not allow herself to be moved by pity, and yet, she was. Clearly, these two men were lovers, but somehow, she did not sense that the “he”Yestin spoke of was this man who now lay in a puddle of red. This man was nobody.
Right now, she didn’t have time to interrogate Yestin.
“Bind him here for now.” It had been more than three months since news had left this city. Even so, she harbored some hope that he might know what became of her mother and Demelza.
“I have questions for later, but you may shut his mouth permanently if he doesn’t cease sniveling. Just keep him quiet.” She left Málik to do what he must, trusting him to know what that should be.
There was no time to lose.
Soon enough, the guards would grow bored with the dancers. They would find themselves a dark corner to satiate their lust, and thereafter, the dancers would hold little appeal—at least not until the morning, when they would be allowed entrance.
Hoping to the gods that her tunic would conceal her presence, she made short work of the distance to the hidden postern, feeling better when she raised no alarms. Once there, she climbed behind the stack of bricks, and then used Borlewen’s blade to pry open the lock. Once it clicked, she drew open the door, relieved to see Caradoc’s face.
“At last!” he said. “There’s as much room on that cliff side as there is in the crack of my arse!” he complained.
Gwendolyn arched a brow as he entered, unwilling to discuss the dimensions of his arse crack. “All ascended without issue?” she asked, not immediately seeing Bryn’s face.
“Aye,” he confirmed, handing Gwendolyn her sword. “Your boy brings up the rear.”
“Good,” Gwendolyn said, turning. “Then remember your promise,” she warned.
“And you remember yours,” returned Caradoc, and without waiting for the men to file in after him, he went straight toward the courtyard, intending to secure the towers.
ChapterForty-Three
He.
Some inkling of suspicion reared, but Gwendolyn refused to believe it.
Eager to know if she was right, she didn’t wait for Bryn or Málik.
Leaving Caradoc and his men to ascend to dispatch the sentries, knowing they could manage well enough without her, she made her way straight toward the palace.
The entire city was dark, with very few torches lit against the night. It was clear to Gwendolyn that Locrinus had already stripped this city of its stores, leaving them with so little and no impetus to replace what his armies consumed.
Selfish, self-serving boor.
Her blade thirsted for his blood, but she knew intuitively he wasn’t here.
Someone else would pay in his stead… until she could find him and plunge Borlewen’s dagger into his heart—not in his back, as he would do to her.
More than anything, Gwendolyn longed to watch the light leave his eyes as he died, and to have him know it was she who had taken his life—as he had stolen hers.
