Page 33 of The Queen's Huntsman
“I’m going to whittle,” she told the orb.
It blinked at her, then scurried away as she approached and Gwendolyn unsheathed Borlewen’s knife to cut herself a length of wood, then sat with her back against the tree.
Without being asked, the Faerie flame sidled close again, lifting itself to a position over her head and there it remained, providing ample light to whittle by.
Slowly, methodically, while Gwendolyn sat conversing with an animated blue flame, she carved out the tip of an arrow, fashioned the way her father once taught her.
“Ash is not the best wood,” she explained. “But it will do.”
Her father’s preference was yew because it outlasted all other woods. But also because the yew’s poison did not die when the tree died. This was why her father’s army so oft used a tincture made from the yew sap on their arrows. If the poison pierced the skin, it was quickly absorbed, and if the arrow didn’t do the job on its own, the poison would ensure they’d not live to see the morn.
There were bones in the woods near Trevena… some claimed to be the bones of hapless travelers, but some were clearly wounded soldiers who’d crawled into the cool shelter of the woods to die. Gwendolyn imagined them with their brows burning with fever, their knees to their bellies, and mouths agape with silent screams. No one ever dared touch those bones; because it was bad luck to do so. Taking morbid pleasure in the thought of Locrinus dying that way, Gwendolyn imagined herself with a bow, taking aim…Hewouldn’t be grinning so easily if he had a yew arrow through the heart, would he?
Inspecting the newly carved tip, she ran her fingers across the length of wood, feeling for knobs. “The trick,” she said, glancing up at the Faerie flame. “Is to find a piece as straight as possible.” Eventually, she would shave the bark and bend it over the heat of a flame, to straighten it, then fire-harden the point. Even though her fletching skills were far from the best, she could still do it well enough to serve a purpose.
This mightn’t be magic, but the discipline took years to develop, and before his death, her father was still trying to work at his. So often in the quiet moments, she would find him there in his chambers, whittling at wood…
She laid back, shoving the memory away, knowing she shouldn’t dwell on a past she couldn’t change.
Peering into the woods, she wondered when Málik would return, and then, eyeing the Faerie flame, she remembered the wafer in her pouch—hob cake, Málik had called it, but that told her little more than how it was made, not what it was. At home, the cake they’d served to break the fast was also hob cake—made in a flat pan—though it certainly didn’t have the same qualities.
Craving it even now, Gwendolyn refrained from stealing another bite, wondering idly why the gods turned against the Tuatha’ans. Had they also betrayed their conservatorship? Was this why Málik had returned now? To right some wrong committed by his people?
To make sure that Gwendolyn didn’t make the same mistakes?
He certainly hadn’t come to return her father’s sword, she thought bitterly. And judging by his unsociable behavior, he hadn’t returned for her…
She glanced again into the woods and wondered why he wouldn’t tell her where he was going. Why couldn’t she go with him?
So many questions marched through her head, with so many riddles to be solved.
There was so much to do in order to see her father’s legacy restored… and despite that she spoke so boldly in anger, Gwendolyn didn’t know where to begin.
Right now, the only thing keeping her from falling into a squashy little puddle was… the one person who couldn’t seem to abide her.
At last, when he returned, he did so without an explanation and Gwendolyn didn’t bother asking where he’d gone. If he didn’t wish to tell her, so be it.
Flicking her the briefest of glances, he divested himself of his shoulder harness, laying down his sword. Then, without a word, he slid down the tree opposite her, and closed his eyes—if not to rest, then perhaps so he wouldn’t have to look at her.
His Faerie flame moved closer to him, and Gwendolyn whispered beneath her breath, “Traitor.” It made a sputtering sound like a hissing kitten, then ignored her now as well.
Beneath its light, Málik’s face took on a bluish hue. He reached back to pluck a black ribbon from his hair and drew his locks over one shoulder like a fount of pale silk.
Gwendolyn watched him, and, for the first time, it occurred to her how much longer his hair was than hers—something else he’d not yet bothered to mention, and mayhap that rankled her as well? On the one hand, she didn’t want him to notice her hair.
On the other… she longed… so much… to have him see her—well and truly see her—to understand how much she’d endured…. to draw her into his arms and say, “Don’t fret, Gwendolyn. All will be well.” But he did not. Annoyed that he could so easily dismiss her, afraid she couldn’t sleep with so much hob cake in her belly, she lifted the arrow she’d begun to carve, and once more whittled furiously, first shaving away the worst of the notches, then peeling away the bark.
“Gwendolyn,” he said, after a while, his tone too much like a complaint. “Please rest,” he said. “We’ve a grueling day on the morrow.”
No oneknew this more than Gwendolyn did, and if she could sleep she would, but shecouldn’t. Her senses were still reeling, and her heart beat too fast.
Blood and bones!Somehow, they must be done with these strained relations, and if she did not make the effort, he might never.
“I’m not sleepy,” she said.
“I wonder why.”
There was no need to voice the reason because she sensed he knew. Only now was the perfect opportunity to find out what it was she’d been nibbling on all day long.
