Page 29 of The Queen's Huntsman
Moreover, it was late morning when Loc’s men first gave chase, and twilight when Málik released her from his enchantment. Meanwhile, it seemed only minutes had passed, but she’d lost an entire day, emerging from his—whatever it was—famished and prepared to devour anything that crossed her path.
Unfortunately, at this moment, her strength was quickly diminishing, and her state of mind as well. The only thing she knew for certain was how sorely she missed her horse.
“Where are we going?” she asked when she could bear it no longer.
“You said north.”
“I did, but you seem to have a particular destination in mind,” she suggested.
Because he did. She did not miss his sure steps, nor his attention to the path. But Gwendolyn didn’t recognize these parts. And truly, though she didn’t wish to complain, she felt as though Málik was punishing her somehow—perhaps to illustrate how spoiled she was.
But she wasn’t. Despite those long hours of practice in her room, she wasn’t so hale as he was. And no matter, she kept walking, refusing to concede, reassuring herself that whatever manner of toil she must survive during these days at large it would only strengthen her body and soul.
Ahead of her, Málik stubbornly gave her his back, his mood growing darker with every step they took, and Gwendolyn had to restrain herself from leaping at his back and pummeling him soundly. Somehow, he brought out the worst in her, even now.
Yet she would not give him the satisfaction of her anger, and therefore, they journeyed most of the day in silence, encountering not a soul along the way, until the woods grew dark and still.
Eventually, they crossed into what appeared to be the beginnings of the northern pine woods—a vast expanse of woodlands that some claimed ambled all the way to the North Sea.
Here there were fewer oaks and elms and more of those great northern pines—trees that grew to enormous heights, in defiance of soil and weather.
It was said those pines were as defiant as the northern people, and Gwendolyn could easily believe it. Despite that, the land here was drier and the soil less rich, the trees were still hardy, growing tall enough to blot the sun.
This brought to mind her mother’s people, said to live amidst this shifting landscape, where the tribes were as changeable as the land. No matter that the southern folk referred to them as a confederacy, those northern tribes were actually many tribes—seven, whose kings were known to her father as thanes. But those thanes ruled only the largest of the northern provinces, and for every known thane, there were seven more whose names were as yet unknown.
This was the reason her grandfather always claimed the Prydein would forever remain unconquered, subservient to no one. The most anyone could ever hope for was to form an alliance with one of the larger tribes, and then pray that, by virtue of the respect this tribe engendered, it would facilitate relations with the others. But despite her father’s marriage to Gwendolyn’s mother, though it changed some aspects of their dealings with the northern tribes, it never made them closer. They were still not allies. They were not even friendly. And though she had kinfolk amidst the largest of the Prydein tribes, they were as much a mystery to her as was Málik.
The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if going north was the right thing to do, or even if her mother’s people would bother to aid her.
After all, why should they? For her mother’s sake? A woman who’d not once returned to her birthland after her espousal?
Neither had her grandparents ever inquired about their long-lost daughter or granddaughter. More than nineteen years Gwendolyn had been in this world, and through all those years, she never once recalled an inquiry from her grandparents.
She frowned now. For all she knew, she was well and truly alone—entirely so now that Bryn and Ely had abandoned her. All she had left was Málik, who could no longer abide her. Whatever transpired during the time they’d spent apart, he no longer felt the same about her.
She felt it in her bones.
“I’ve not heard those dogs in quite some time,” Gwendolyn said, spent with the silence, wearied of the discord and growing tired of endlessly marching.
“With a bit of luck, my flame will lead them astray.”
Naturally, Málik didn’t bother to turn to see if she was keeping up. He merely assumed she could. “You sent it away?”
Gwendolyn remembered how it behaved in her uncle’sfogous, like Yestin’s loyal hound. Clearly, those wisps had a will of their own.
Her belly grumbled again and Málik must have heard it, because he turned to hand her a wafer. Gwendolyn grasped it at once. “Thank you!” she said, eagerly tearing a bite, then swallowing, shocked to find it settled so quickly.
In fact, she was prepared to take another, but stopped midway to her mouth to inspect the curious wafer. It appeared to have so little substance, so light and airy it melted against her tongue, but the moment she swallowed it, she couldn’t imagine putting another bite into her mouth. Her hunger wasn’t simply appeased; she felt as though she’d eaten an entire brick of clay!
What was more, she’d eaten it so swiftly, but she imagined it tasted like a pudding in cowcumbers, made with the most flavorful of baby cowcumbers, in a buttery broth of pork… stewed with sultanas and cloves. This was her favorite dish as a child.
After another moment, she was no longer so tired and her eyes felt as though she could see more keenly. What was more, her legs felt as though they were light as feathers, and more—as if she could march another hundred leagues. “What is this?”
“Hob cake, I told you,” he said. “Don’t eat too much. A nibble will do.”
Gwendolyn peered down at the cake in her hand. “Hob cake?” she whispered with wonder and then bristled when she heard Málik’s answering chuckle.
ChapterTwelve
