Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [78]
But she made no attempt to work magic, and old Bronwyn was watching her like a cat at a mousehole. Not only Bronwyn but also Gynath and just about every other woman that had been involved in thwarting the queen the last time.
It was not Anna Morgause that caused any difficulty; it was Gwenhwyfach, and that was merely petty. Gwen managed to avoid everything but feelings of irritation, and if had only been that, the visit might have been inconsequential enough.
Except for Medraut. It was absurd that a five-year-old child should trouble Gwen—yet trouble her he did.
Gwen had disliked him as an infant, and in her opinion, five years had not improved him. He was simply nothing like a normal child. He was thin, preternaturally agile; he looked more like an adult who had somehow been shrunk to a miniature size than like a child. He didn’t play with other children. He didn’t play at all. He was either somewhere doing secret things or . . . well, not underfoot exactly, but always there, nonetheless. His mother seemed to allow him to go where he wished and do as he pleased without supervision. And for some reason, he decided that what he wanted was to attach himself to Gwen.
He followed her about as much as he could, always watching her; he’d have followed her everywhere if she hadn’t figured out that there were places he wasn’t welcome, like the stable and the practice grounds. Horses disliked him, as did dogs, and a small child was forbidden from being on the practice grounds; it was too dangerous. There, at least, she could escape him.
She could not account for how he made her feel, since no one else seemed to have that strong a reaction to him. She couldn’t help herself. With his smooth cap of black hair, his thin little face, and those flat gray eyes that seemed to be looking for secrets, he made her skin crawl.
She couldn’t escape him at meals, though, nor any other place where he knew she was supposed to be serving as page or squire. He never said anything to her, never interrupted her. He would simply be there, tucked into a corner, staying out of the way. And he just kept staring at her.
That is, that was what he did right up to the point where the queen’s party was due to leave. That night, as she was serving the men and had gone to refill her ale jug, she felt a grip on her elbow and looked down into his flat gray eyes.
“I am going to marry you,” he announced. A command. A princely command, from a prince to a servant. It was not the way a normal child would have said such a thing, with the silly baby-love some little boys got with a pretty woman, or in the manner of a joke, or even as if it were something he had overheard his mother discussing and was parroting. It was . . . imperious. It sounded as if it was something he had decided for himself without any coaching from Anna Morgause. And he spoke the words as if he, and they, were very, very certain. It made her skin crawl.
She stared at him, then laughed uneasily. She decided that the best way to deal with him was to treat him as . . . well . . . a child. Even if he wasn’t acting like one. “Go away, infant,” she replied, with a lift of her lip. “Or I will tell your mama that you have gotten into the mead, and you are making up lies and silly tales. You are too young to think of marriage, and even if you were not, I am not for your marrying.”
She pushed past him and went back to her serving . . . but she could not help the strange chill that went up her back. The relief she felt when they were all gone on their way was so intense it seemed to brighten everything around her for days.
The next time she saw him, he was ten, and the years had not changed him, except to make him taller and even more uncanny. At ten, he was a full two heads taller than any other child his age—and he seemed more like a miniature man than a boy. He was Gwenhwyfach