Page 51 of The Queen's Huntsman
“And she was Lugh’s mother, too?”
Esme smiled. “Half-brother.”
It took little to determine that the brother she’d lain with must be Lugh, particularly by the twinkle in her eyes, but Gwendolyn didn’t actually want to know for certain.
“Cían was his sire,” she told Gwendolyn. “Mine is… someone else.” And that someone else, Gwendolyn surmised, must be the man who’d see her wed to Málik. With a little patience, she might actually discover everything she wished to know—precisely who was Málik?
About nearly everything else, Esme was a font of information, and Gwendolyn also learned a bit about the Lifer Pol Order. For one, she did not realize Lir was Emrys’ brother, as well as the youngest of the Order, though, in truth, he was not so young. His earthly days numbered six-hundred-ninety-nine, despite that he looked scarcely older than Gwendolyn.
The Lifer Pol Druids had now occupied the Fae village for nearly six-hundred-and-seventy-seven years, placing Lir’s age at about twenty-two when he crossed the Veil. But, unlike his brother, he’d not emerged from the village during the interim of their occupation, and this was why he still appeared so young, and conversely, his brother appeared to be twice his age or more. Simply by appearance, they could pass for grandfather and grandson, although in reality there were only three full years between them.
As for what lay between Esme and Málik, that was impossible to ascertain. Though whatever it was, it shouldn’t concern Gwendolyn. Already, Málik had apprised her that his heart was not hers to have, so she shouldn’t need to be told twice. And now that Gwendolyn had met Esme, she would be the last person to part them—even if she could, and she could not.
However, now was not the time to pore over matters of the heart. She had a job to do, and her thoughts must not be turned from it.
Those two might not actually be betrothed, but they still behaved like an old, wedded couple, bickering every time they spoke—or really, it was more Málik’s discontent. For whatever reason, he did not relish Esme’s presence among them, and regardless, he had no control over what the Faerie did or didn’t do. Esme was unaffected by his moods, answering his churlish tone with only dulcet words. Nothing appeared to ruffle her, although she seemed to be less than enthralled by Lir. Those two were like oil and water—both different and unwilling to conform.
Gwendolyn also discovered a curiosity.
Once, when Lir caught her staring at Esme’s ears, he explained that the pointier the ears were, the older the Fae. Thus, Esme was older than Málik, though by how much Lir couldn’t say.
Clearly,faekinddid not live by the same mores as mortals, although betimes neither did men. Urien was older than Gwendolyn by far. Only now she wondered if everything would have transpired so differently if Urien had lived…
As a wee one, she had so oft imagined herself married to a man more like her father—someone who would cherish his wife and his family. Her mother was her father’s consort in all ways, ruling by his side, and betimes even lifted above his heir. Yet, this was never something Gwendolyn begrudged, because she had always known she was meant to leave Trevena, and, until the day her father was called to his eternal rest, her mother should have had the people’s respect. Therefore, regardless of what Gwendolyn had felt about her mother, she’d respected Queen Eseld without fail. And she had so oft prayed that she, too, would wed a man whose love for her defied a nation.
Indeed, for a while, Gwendolyn had sorely lamented her impending marriage to Urien, only because he was so much older than she—he, who’d lived half his life before her birth. But even then, she had aspired to be a worthy helpmate, and she had vowed to please him. It was only after the choice of Locrinus was placed before her she’d dared to hope for more…
What a mistake that was.
She wondered about Kamber and Albanactus—were these two equally horrid as Loc? She decided they must be, and Loc had better watch his back, because even if Gwendolyn failed in her retribution, there was no love or respect in that family. If they could go along with killing one brother, regardless that he was only half their blood, they could betray another.
“You’ve been quiet,” suggested Málik, as he sidled up beside her. “A silver for your thoughts?”
Gwendolyn arched a brow. “So much?” she said, offering him a smile, reaching down to pat her mount’s neck, nervous in his presence though she couldn’t say why.
“Silver seems a pittance for all I’d give for peace,” he said.
So would she, in truth. “I didn’t realize we were quarreling,” she allowed, flicking a glance at the two riders trotting ahead, both so thoroughly engrossed in their own discourse they hadn’t spared a thought elsewhere for at least a full bell.
Apparently, Esme found it irksome that the Lifer Pol Druids all wore those ear sheaths. She considered it an insult, and utterly pretentious, though Lir attempted, in vain, to explain it was only meant with the greatest of admiration and respect. “You are mortals,” Esme said. “Do you wear them hoping the gods may forget and bestow you with immortality?”
Lir replied, “Have they not already?”
Esme flipped a hand dismissively.
“Somehow, we’ve endured these seven hundred years and more,” Lir persisted.
“Seven hundred and TWO,” Esme countered, and Gwendolyn could sense the roll of her eyes in the bored tone of her voice. “You mortals do count your years as you do coppers!”
Pursing her lips, Gwendolyn tried not to laugh.
“That,” Málik said, pointing at the pair ahead. “Is a quarrel. Still, I would like to see us cry peace.”
“I’d like that, too,” Gwendolyn confessed. It had been far too long since she had counted Málik among her close friends, and now she needed friends more than ever.
Up ahead, their companions continued their row.
“You merely exist,” Esme berated the young Druid. “Sitting about all day with your knobs in hands, rotting your brains with pookies, dreaming the lives of others—that is not living.”
