Page 95 of The Queen's Huntsman
It would be impossible to inventory the dead. Even if their bodies could still be recognizable after so many weeks, all the cadavers were cast into the bay, to be consumed by porbeagles and threshers.
As for the alderman who’d murdered Bryok, there was no sign of him here, and Gwendolyn was certain he, too, had fled. Perhaps he’d outlived his usefulness?
She heard footfalls behind her, but didn’t bother to turn, recognizing the gait.
After a moment, Málik sidled up beside her, lifting an arm over her shoulders, though for the longest moment, he said nothing, daring to enjoy the quiet before the coming storm…
For truly, that’s what this was.
A maelstrom raging on the horizon—a rain of blood and ash.
Indeed, all that had transpired here would be nothing compared to what was still to come…
“Your mother’s chambers are being prepared for you,” Málik said. “I should sleep in your antechamber.”
Gwendolyn wanted him to be closer, but couldn’t demand it. So much as she loathed the thought, she was still Locrinus’ wife, and so, much as she knew the Lifer Pol Druids would favor her, there was still the Llanrhos Order to consider, and theAwenydds and Gwyddonsas well. None of these were factions Gwendolyn could afford to alienate if she wanted their support in her bid for the crown, and, truly, it wouldn’t matter that her marriage to Locrinus was not consummated, she stood in front of those authorities, not once, but twice to give her assent. They would expect her to honor her vows until Locrinus was dead—but how inane that they would not have cared if she’d taken lovers discreetly as she ruled by his side… Or that Loc himself could share his quarters with a mistress and her child. But still they would judge Gwendolyn by her every action merely because she was a woman who dared to seize the crown for herself. This was a man’s world… yet not for long, she vowed.
“I suppose Caradoc gave my bower to his daughters?” she asked.
“So I’m told,” Málik confirmed.
Gwendolyn sighed, hugging herself tighter, cupping her elbows.
Málik perhaps mistook her sigh. “As you have said, ’tis but a temporary measure. Caradoc will surely keep his word.”
Gwendolyn was certain of it as well—in part because Taryn would see to it. In her absence, she had insisted Taryn must share in Trevena’s governance. It was the least she could do to ensure that the Durotrigan refugees’ needs were met. Not all of them had agreed to be ruled by Caradoc, and Gwendolyn would not force them to return to their homesteads if they preferred to remain in Trevena.
Before traveling north, she also intended to award her mother’s chamber to Ely and to Kelan. But, in fact, aside from making certain her most beloved were cared for, Gwendolyn wasn’t too concerned about who made use of what, nor what remained upon her return. However, there was something bothering her…
She turned to look into Málik’s face… his silvery eyes darker in the shadows. He slid a hand to her shoulder, and for a moment, there it remained, the gesture sweet and tender. “Did you speak to Bryn?” she asked.
He nodded, dropping the hand to his side. “He means to ride north with us. Lir as well… but…”
“But?”
“I have concerns…”
“I know,” she said, anticipating his words, because it was on her mind as well. “You fear we’ll not be able to convince Baugh to ride south under our banners despite that we have promised as much to Caradoc?”
Málik nodded again. “He might be your grandsire, but too long he has divorced himself from these southern tribes. He’ll not be swayed to your cause merely because his blood flows through your veins. And yet I’m certain you knew that.”
It was Gwendolyn’s turn to nod, and she cast her eyes down, worried. “I did fear as much,” she confessed. “And yet I mean to give him another consideration. Innogen confessed his brother intends to ride north again. I mean to promise our support.”
“Even so, he might not be swayed,” Málik warned, and Gwendolyn knew he spoke true. Baugh was a man unto himself. He had repeatedly rejected even the notion of a Prydein confederacy, and had accepted his role as their leader with much reluctance, preferring to remain unencumbered by duty to any but his own tribe. He’d agreed to give a daughter to Cornwall only grudgingly—grudgingly enough so that in all of Gwendolyn’s nineteen years, he’d never once cared to inquire over his granddaughter, even despite honoring the treaties he’d made with her father. Nor had he once sought news of his own daughter, leaving her to live her life alone amidst strangers.
He might be king in the north, but he was a mystery as well—one that her father and her mother had discouraged Gwendolyn from ever resolving—why she did not know.
Crickets chirped. An owl hooted. Somewhere in the distance, a fox screamed, seeking his mate.
Gwendolyn could tell there was something more Málik wished to say, but he was oddly reluctant to speak.
Foreboding hovered like a storm cloud between them, and the silence continued to stretch, leaving Gwendolyn with a sick feeling in the pit of her belly. “Speak,” she begged, and he blew out a sigh fraught with tension.
“There is more I must tell you… but… I do not know how you will receive it.”
Gwendolyn gave him a wan smile. “There’s one way to find out, though if you mean to tell me you intend to leave again, I’ll not allow it.”
His lips turned slightly at one corner. “How will you stop me?”
