Page 44 of Arise the Queen
Gwendolyn wanted Bryn to be happy.
She could never give him what he’d once desired of her, and so it appeared, he no longer coveted that, so that was good.However, she must insist upon his fealty, and this meant that, no matter what his association with Esme, he could not place her above Gwendolyn. However, this would be a tricky dilemma. She knew Bryn to be an honorable man. She could not be entirely certain he would do as she had and choose duty over love.
But Gwendolyn still had a trick or two up her sleeves. Already, she had determined she could not keep him as her Shadow. He might well have spent his life in training to defend her, but Gwendolyn needed him to rise above this station. At the earliest opportunity, she meant to promote him as captain and mester at arms, advancing him to the same position his father once held in her father’s army. No doubt, this gave Gwendolyn some trepidation, but in her heart of hearts, she trusted Bryn would never betray her, as Talwyn had her father.
Only Aisling remained unsaddled, so Gwendolyn thanked the stable hand for his service, giving him a pat on the arm instead of a copper as she would have done for the stableboy in Trevena. She sent him to care for another mount, eager to see to Aisling herself. Alas, she had no money to give him. In so many ways, Gwendolyn was a pauper queen, but at least it would be one less task the young Druid needed to perform. Her father taught her that a horse would serve her best if she was the one to care for it, including the shoveling of its stall, and she believed him. Throughout her own experiences, she’d had the greatest joy to know and love two exemplary horses. One lived to be fifteen, and the last mare she’d raised—not counting the wedding gift Loc gave her, then rescinded—was only four when she’d lost him in Chysauster. That sweet horse was completely in sync with Gwendolyn, recognizing her every command. She only hoped that someday, Aisling, for all her breeding, would be half as gifted as that mare.
Shoving her mother’s gown and her mithril into Aisling’s saddlebag, she shrugged the harness from her back and laid itaside, then found a boar’s bristle brush, and took it to Aisling’s flank, brushing her well.
The animal shimmied with pleasure, and Gwendolyn smiled, calmed by the task. It would be a long, long ride, and she wished to make certain Aisling was primed for the journey. And meanwhile, the occupation gave her much-needed respite from her thoughts. Her relationship with her horse was entirely uncomplicated. Aisling would grow to know her, and if she treated her with love and care, she would grow to trust and love Gwendolyn as well. It wasn’t without effort, but there was no chance this gorgeous beast would ever lie to her…
Or seek to murder her.
At the very least, Málik owed her an apology forthat, and Gwendolyn would not soften till she received one. If she could not demand Málik’s respect, how could she demand anyone else’s?
Including her own.
Stroke by stroke, she calmed herself, waiting for Bryn and Lir to arrive, and by the time Bryn wandered down from the village, she was adequately soothed. He came stumbling in, rubbing his forehead with one palm, complaining.
“I am a dead man,” he groaned, and Gwendolyn arched her brow, trying not to snicker at his expression of misery.
In the end, she took pity on him and sent him down to the stream to bathe before seeing to his mount. A dip in the Mersey’s cool waters would invigorate him, even if it would do nothing for the ache in his head.
Perhaps if Lir wasn’t too hung over himself, he might spare some Zingiber and chamomile to heal him.
20
It wasn’t long after Bryn left Lir came stumbling into the stables. As awful as he appeared, Gwendolyn took pity on him, too, and gave him leave to remain with his Druid brothers. She was heartily relieved when he refused.
He was an accomplished healer, and they would surely have need of him before the campaign was over. But, more than that, Gwendolyn had also grown accustomed to his smiling face. His mood was ever a constant, even when hers was not, and she sorely needed his temperament amidst so much uncertainty. She told him about Bryn, sent him to tend to their crapulousness, and when he returned, he insisted upon tending to his own mount. He stood beside Gwendolyn, mimicking her ministrations, awkward at first, but learning by watching her.
It was only then that Gwendolyn realized how little opportunity these Druids must have had to learn what she would consider mundane tasks. His time in the Druid village must have sheltered him from so much of everyday life.
“Did you never leave the Druid village before joining me?” she asked curiously.
“Never,” he said, his tone bright despite the injury he’d done himself last night.
“What made you learn the art of healing, then, when your village defies even death?”
“Merely because we do not age does not mean we do not die,” he allowed. “You see how close my brother came, and it was not thesprigganswhat got him.”
“True,” Gwendolyn relented, with a grimace over the memory of thesprigganattack. And no matter that it had not been the spriggans themselves, it had been their poison—a dart filled with it, though, as yet, no one knew who’d shot him. Gwendolyn once believed Harri was responsible, wanting to dispose of Emrys for his own political gain.
Lir eyed her curiously. “As you well know, even the Fae are not immune to death.” Oh, yes. Gwendolyn knew. Of course she knew!
Even now, it was not her own life’s end that troubled her.
They would face trials ahead, and Málik was not unsusceptible. How would she feel if something happened to him before they had the chance to make amends? Worse yet, what if they never made amends? What if his heart was lost to her now and evermore? “I was told the Fae had eight lives. What do you know of this?”
More to the point, Gwendolyn now wondered whether Aengus could return, and Lir must have sensed her question, because his answer both relieved and saddened her. “They do, but there are ways to slay them so they cannot… return.”
Gwendolyn nodded, understanding. “Remove the head,” she said low, and then she wondered darkly what retribution she would earn from the gods for the life of a divine creature.
“Remove the head,” he agreed. “So long as they remain whole, their bodies may regenerate… to a point.”
“So then…” She wondered aloud. “It is not definitively eight lives?”
Lir shrugged, sweeping his brush over Sheahan’s flank, and Gwendolyn frowned, because Málik had never actually told her how many lives he’d spent…
