Page 45 of The Queen's Huntsman
Twice in the space of a single day Gwendolyn had been called lovely—and, indeed, she feltmorethan lovely. Dressed in Esme’s black mithril and leathers, with a sturdy pair of matching boots, she felt…invincible.
For too long in her life so much of her self-worth had been tied to her face, but she would no longer allow herself to be judged based on this thing she had no power over.
Her face might well be lovely to some, hideous to others, but Gwendolyn could no longer take joy in such provisional flattery, hoping to be judged as a woman of merit, simply because of the way one viewed her countenance.
And yet, she understood a queen should not go about looking like a “dirty little waif.” Nor would her unruly appearance engender confidence, so she dared to wear this gift of Esme’s with joy, and dared to walk tall and proud, reassured that she was a good person, a great horsewoman, and a more than adequate warrior. No matter what Loc thought of her, no matter what anyone thought of her, she had worth. Even so, the breath caught in her breast when Málik turned to meet her gaze as she entered the Druid’s feast hall. A hush fell over the room and hisicebourneeyes swirled with emotions Gwendolyn couldn’t read—surprise, but not precisely.
Wonderment, perhaps?
At once, he rose to greet her, and once he did, the Druids all resumed their discourse, whispering feverishly amidst themselves, as though there were some great mystery they must decipher.
Esme excused herself as Málik approached, kissing Gwendolyn ever so gently on the cheek, and then gliding away as gracefully as she had appeared.
Gwendolyn felt… oddly bereft without the Faerie’s presence at her side, missing her at once, though she scarcely knew her. She wondered if her feelings for all Fae would be so strong—and if so, perhaps she was truly ensorcelled. And yet, never did her heart beat so furiously as it did this minute, at Málik’s approach.
“It suits you,” he said silkily, taking her hand, gesturing to her tunic, and when her heart pounced against the cage of her ribs, she knew irrefutably that what she felt for him was not the same thing she felt for anyone else…
This was…different.
“Thank you,” Gwendolyn said, swallowing despite herself, flicking a glance at Esme, and wondering if Esme resented this attention to her rival. But it didn’t appear so. Esme was, as Gwendolyn wished to be—composed and assured.
“Locrinus will not know you when he sees you,” Málik suggested, placing his hand on the small of Gwendolyn’s back and compelling her toward the table. The shock of his touch sent a bolt of lightning up her spine. “Especially since he may not see you.” He chuckled darkly, murmuring into her ear. “Black mithril has the most delightful effect of concealing its wearer by night.”
“Oh?” said Gwendolyn, turning to blink into his eyes, her heart tripping as she did. “Esme did not tell me that…” She smiled nervously. “But she told me a few other interesting tales today, some about you.”
His mood darkened at once. “Yes, I’m certain,” he allowed. And there was a note of displeasure to his voice, though Gwendolyn didn’t believe he cared one whit for what was said, only for who said it. There was that about Málik that dismissed anything except for what he himself deemed of import.
Once arrived at the table, Málik settled her between himself and the elder Druid she’d met earlier this day—or at least she thought it was the same day. This place… it had the most disconcerting effect of giving one a sense of timelessness and only a vague sense of place. Truly, she did not know where they were—lost in theAetherfor all she knew.
“As I said,Banríon… we have prepared a feast in your honor,” announced the elder Druid as Gwendolyn took her seat beside him—not in a chair, on the floor, with legs crossed. Fortunately, Gwendolyn’s tunic gave when it should, allowing her to sit without embarrassing herself.
Also, much to her surprise, this table was round, instead of long, and the only other face she recognized was Esme’s.
Málik’s ‘lover’ sat on the other side of the table, her gaze now and again returning to Gwendolyn or Málik, but elsewise she sat conversing genially with men Gwendolyn had once believed to be mean and churlish on their best days, murderous on their worst.
Nothing was as once she’d conceived.
Emrys handed Gwendolyn a fluffy pastry meant to be eaten along with the main course, which was yet to arrive, he explained.
“You must forgive me in advance,” he told her, then chortled. “I cannot be held accountable for the fare. We do not oft have guests, and the first time for you may be rude.”
Rude?Did he mean meager?
Gwendolyn frowned, not entirely certain of his meaning.
She set down her bit of pastry and smiled reassuringly. Much to the contrary, it wouldn’t matter how mean his fare. She would be eternally grateful for the Druid’s hospitality, and, at this point, any supper would be delectable. The pastry alone looked scrumptious, and she was already salivating merely over the scent. Gods only knew, after eating little more than cold gruel for so many months, she would be delighted by anything warm, regardless of the taste.
The scent of the cony Málik made her still simmered in her memory, like manna from heaven. Quite easily, she could forgive even a bad cook, and nothing could be as bad as what they’d served her in the Loegrian palace. Really and truly, it was enough that they’d welcomed her so warmly, and that they had offered her a seat at their table—like any well-respected man.
“Art comfortable?” Málik asked.
Gwendolyn nodded and then leaned to whisper in his ear. “Quite, but I’ve never had the pleasure of sitting at a table without chairs.”
“You’ll be glad enough to be seated on your arse,” he said with a wink.
“Hmm,” she said, wondering at his answer. It was strange, to be sure, yet no stranger than the unveiling of the main course. A giant kettle had been placed in the center of the table, and when the lid came off, a great puff of smoke arose from the pot.
Emrys rose quickly, lifting a ladle, and then began scooping portions into each of the bowls, then passing them around, beginning with Gwendolyn’s.
