Page 54 of The Huntsman's Heart
She’s quiet for a while. She might even be doing as I said. I try to quiet my own mind, but I’m too conscious of her. Eventually I give up for now. I open my eyes and watch her.
Her face has lost the frown and the tension of before. Now when her brows knit it’s because she’s heard something new, delved deeper into awareness of her surroundings.
When her face falls completely still, I let her sit like that a while. Then I say, “Now stay like that. Do not move. Do not worry if thoughts come into your mind. Just notice them and let them go.”
She’s on her own now. But if I know Guinevere, she will rise to this challenge, like she’s risen to every other. After a while I get out my oil and cloth and rub down my sword, working away any foreign objects or grime on the blade, working the oil across the surface slowly. I keep watch over the princess as I do, but she doesn’t move.
Finally I stash my weapon away and shut my own eyes, reaching my mind out for the things that make no sound. The silent dead things buried in the ground, the bodies freshly killed and decomposing on the earth.
The tiny body of a mouse lies close by, dropped by some predator or other, covered by fallen leaves and twigs. I call to it.
Shakily, the body rises and my mind fits inside.
It’s a strange feeling. A feeling of being at once inside my own body and outside it. Of being in two places at once. The mouse is unsteady on its feet. Inside the tiny rodent I have to work to keep my mind from skittering to dark places to hide. The mouse has no need to hide any longer, but instincts run deep.
Instead I send it scurrying to our glade, sniffing around the princess until she opens her eyes to look. Never squeamish, she stares in wonder as the tiny creature places a small paw on her leg to sniff her outstretched finger. I look up at her from the mouse’s body. Like this she looks enormous. Towering above me.
Then her brows knit together, and she looks over at me. “Did you see this?”
Trying to talk pulls me from the creature, and it drops to the ground as still and dead as it was when I found it.
Guinevere gasps. “What happened?” Then she looks closer. “It is dead.”
“A handy trick. One I can teach you if you keep practicing this.”
Her brows lift. “You did that?”
I nod. “You could too, I think.”
There’s a pause. It’s a quiet pause, but the tension has left her. The silence is comfortable. And if my mind wanders to dark places, it’s my fault for not resting. My hunger is too impatient to let me rest. Instead it roves where my hands long to explore, in restless motion over the pale, soft surface of her perfect skin. To the sweet wet place between her thighs that calls to me.
Why is it I could not stay hard when I took possession of her virgin body, but from the moment she took possession of me, I’ve found it hard to stay soft? Melantha stole more than my life and soul from me. I think she stole my manhood too. It seems she was right about one thing: all I’m good for now is to be used by a strong beautiful woman, taking nothing for myself. She miscalculated, though, assuming she would always be the strongest and fairest in the land.
Guinevere is more than her match. It’s not even a contest. The princess is far more beautiful than her stepmother ever was. And far more deadly if my instincts are correct.
Guinevere
Alaric insists on waiting through the entire day before we set off again. It’s infuriating when I’m longing to be done with this task so I can return to the castle where the tiny stone weight that sits between my breasts reminds me of what it feels like to be loved and cared for.
I must admit that after resting, as he calls it, I feel better than I have in weeks. My mind feels sharp but relaxed, as if it’s not working every moment to hold onto something I can’t quite grasp.
But after a few hours of this, I’m at the end of my patience. After half a day, I can no longer bear to sit in immovable silence. Standing and stretching, I wander aimlessly through the glen, poking at foliage with a boot, hunting in the undergrowth for signs of movement, anything to provide some interest.
Alaric doesn’t open his eyes, but his deep voice cuts across my restless motion. “If you are in the mood for a fight, you may as well stomp around announcing our presence to every wyrm and dire wolf in the Gloamwald.”
I snort. “I am hardly making much noise.” I wonder if I could take on a dire wolf now that I've had some practice with a sword.
“Rest. We will set off again at nightfall.”
“Why not leave now?”
Finally he opens his eyes, and the snap of cold blue is like a fresh morning frost. “If we are to be successful, you must listen to me.”
I sigh. I did promise, but I forgot how annoying he is. “I am done resting.”
He smirks. “Is that so? Perhaps you need stimulation.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you suggesting?”
