Page 36 of The Queen's Huntsman
It didn’t matter.
She didn’t need him, she told herself.
She didn’t need anyone!
And yet even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t true. She needed help more than ever.
Pride battled with reason, and reason won. Without her father to back her, without her beloved city, without the king’s army… who was she? Indeed, for all her bold talk, she was powerless to do aught more than rage against the Fates.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to beg him to come. By the time she had walked less than thirty feet, he was already by her side, though he said nothing, and neither did Gwendolyn. Still, his eyes flashed with a quality she’d never noted before—pity?
It brought a fierce new sting to her eyes.
I know what you want,he’d said.I cannot give it.
And he knew what she wanted… because he’d plundered her thoughts like a thief. Even now, her cheeks burned uncomfortably over his confession, and even as a seedling of something like hope fluttered to life within her belly over the knowledge he’d gone seeking retribution, she imagined crushing it beneath her feet before it could gain a foothold.
There was strength in fury, and she could not afford to be weak.
No matter how heartfelt he’d meant it, saying he would kill a man on her behalf only meant he cared for her welfare, but caring for her welfare was not the same as love.
He’d once told her he was both summoned and sent. Gwendolyn understood now that it was her father, not her mother, who’d summoned him to Trevena—not to train the king’s warriors, as was first presumed. He’d come, not for the honest employment, but to retrieve a treasure that sat undisclosed in her father’s vault—Claímh Solais.
And that was another thing that infuriated her. No oneeverbothered to give her a chance to see if that sword would burn for her. The instant her father gave it to him, Málik took it away—far from her. And far more than the fact that he’d left her in the first place, she resented that most of all—that neither her father nor Málik had ever believed her worthy of that sword. Like Cornwall’s crown and throne, it should have passed to Gwendolyn, buthetook it without regret.
But that was the reason Cornwall’s crown had fallen to an Outlander—a man, because a woman could not rise to the task.
But she could! And she would!
As for Málik, he’d made her promises he’d not kept—not only as her Shadow, but as her friend. The vow he took to serve her was not an oath to be made lightly. His duties as a Shadow could not be forsworn. Therefore, he was bound to her still.
Woman, or nay, she would and must hold him to his pledge, and yet, even now, reaching into her pouch to retrieve the last bite of her wafer, she tried to summon the nerve to send him away.
After all, why should she trust him? His return to her was only because of some mysterious sense of duty he’d not yet disclosed, and Gwendolyn knew that, too, because he’d said so, and so he said, he could not lie. But she must not release him, not now. Whatever his reason for returning, she could not do this on her own, and she would not cut off her nose to spite her face.
Alas, for all the broken promises, the one that upset her most… was the one he’d made to her when they were alone under the stars, when he’d said he would never leave her. Now, every time she thought of that moment… the way he’d held her… the way he’d touched her… the fact that she’d dared to trust him… the way she’d…
Gods! You do not love him,she told herself.
But that lie weighed heavier than the burden on her back—her duty to her people, the responsibility she bore to Pretania. It was enough to keep her mood perpetually sour.
All day long, she studiously avoided Málik’s gaze, embarrassed by all the dreams she’d unwillingly shared.
At some point, she fell behind and let him take the lead. She followed simply because… as he’d pointed out, there was nowhere else to go. She was a queen without a country or crown!
By midday, her belly was growling fiercely, and her feet grew heavy. Still, she persevered.
With the last of her wafer consumed, the final bite was nearly her undoing, because it tasted too much like Málik’s lips, and she refused to ask him for more.
Pressing at her lips in remembrance, she stared at his back, admiring the cut of his shoulders and hips. He carried his sword on his back so effortlessly, as though it were nothing but a dagger. Lean as he was, his presence filled these woods, larger than life. He was as at ease on his two legs as he was on a horse, and somehow, after two grueling days of travel, he was hardly worse for the effort. Meanwhile, Gwendolyn was fagged.
There were many views about the Fae. Some believed they were akin to gods. Others claimed they never existed at all, and were simply tall tales, meant to frighten wee children into behaving. Still others believed they existed but were long gone, and theirrásmustn’t be any different from mortal men. After all, they were so soundly defeated by Gwendolyn’s own kinsmen—men with no godly gifts or graces. How inconceivable was it to believe there could be kings who could replace entire limbs with new ones made of silver? Or that ships could sail upon storm clouds?
This was what the Mester had taught Gwendolyn in her lessons.
They were simply tall tales, and her Prophecy was a story told to rekindle the wonder in her people. Her father had been of this mind, too, though he’d rarely spoken his thoughts aloud, because, to do so, was to disparage her mother, and her tale about Gwendolyn’s crib-side visitation.
Only Demelza claimed it was all true, even if she wouldn’t say too much about the encounter at her mother’s behest. She’d enlightened Gwendolyn regardless, with bedtime stories intended to counter the Mester’s dismissals, which to Gwendolyn had seemed far more plausible. Even so, some small part of her had entertained the tales as truth—because, of course, onemustbelieve in some measure of fancy to believe one could be blessed by Fae. Still, Gwendolyn had entertained doubts, and ultimately, all her sense of wonder was lost long before her hair turned out to be nothing more than hair under Loc’s snicking blade. She’d watched those curls fall into her lap with so much trepidation and dismay, and yet a little voice deep down had whispered, “I knew it! I knew it!” Even as Locrinus had called her a liar.
