Page 10 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

She was pleased to hear him say so, but it was easy for him to say.

It was not truly her court; it was his. Changeling though she might have been, now she was mortal—as breakable and blood-bound as Locrinus, doomed to bleed and die as easily as any other.

No amount of wishing could make it otherwise.

Even Málik seemed uncertain, yet still he repeated, “Our court. You are my queen, even as I am your king, and they will learn to embrace you, or face my wrath.”

Gwendolyn’s heart fluttered at the steel in his voice—a threat, barely veiled, laced through every word.

It was a delicate reminder of who he was.

But he sighed again, the sound heavy, as though it pained him. “Alas, we all share the same malady. Our lives may be long, but our memories are as short as a mortal’s. I know this, and you know this, but without Esme, it’s our word against theirs.”

Gwendolyn thought, not for the first time, how much simpler things might be if she could only shift her form, as the Púca did, and return herself to her former likeness.

“Alas… some of us have no memory at all—for certain things.”

This was her greatest lament. She had no inkling of her former life, and today, of all days, Gwendolyn was reminded acutely of this. But if he understood her complaint, he gave no sign.

The silence between them stretched, and Gwendolyn wondered if he simply did not know what to say. She could not remember what she had lost, and that somehow made the absence of it all the more keen. It hurt, this not-knowing, this emptiness where her past should have been.

But she would not beg him for comfort.

Not now.

Instead, she turned her face away to hide the prick of tears.

Still, he said nothing.

And so, the moment passed, and Gwendolyn let it go.

Together, they continued to navigate the garden's winding paths.

“As you must know, Esme did not remain in Trevena,” she offered.

“She was gone with the portals.” And now, though not for the first time, Gwendolyn wondered what business had taken her sister so far from everything she’d ever held dear—most notably Bryn, and the rebellion she’d waged so long.

Gwendolyn had only assumed Esme had returned to the City of Light, but clearly she had not.

“I know,” said Málik, perhaps misreading her tone. “But please do not worry; you’ll be safe here until I can assign you a proper Shadow. As much as Aengus was despised, those wards served him well…” He fixed her with a long look, arching a brow. “Until you.”

Gwendolyn stiffened at the implication, her lips thinning.

“Well, I did not come to slay him,” she protested.

So much of this had never been discussed previously—mostly because she had never found the right moment to broach it.

After returning from the Underlands, she and Málik spent the better part of their journey north at odds—until arriving in Skerrabra.

Thereafter, only one thing had occupied everyone’s mind… vanquishing Locrinus.

“I came prepared to bend the knee,” she said.

Málik nodded. “There’s no love lost betwixt my ilk and humankind. As generous as your proposal might have seemed—and it was—Aengus would not have accepted it, Gwendolyn.”

“Pity,” she allowed. “I would like to have known the great Poet King.” A swarm of piskies flew past, offering a momentary distraction from the weight of her unspoken thoughts.

“So…the entire premises are warded?”

“Yes. The earliest construction of Tech Duinn was not so elaborate,” he said. “Only a small bower where Balor could lay his head without fear of waking with a blade to his throat. It was my father who expanded the premises and the wards, and thereafter, Aengus, who made it so…”

“Glamorous?” Gwendolyn suggested.

He smiled. “Aha! You remember him,” he said, and Gwendolyn had every sense that he meant it quite pointedly—as though she had known him very well in her former life, though she still could recall little—only that he was the reason she’d fled.

“So Balor was Nuada’s successor?”

“Yes,” said Málik, “But it should have been my father. After Nuada lost his hand, and the Shadow Court seduced Balor into betrayal, it was Balor who took the crown. My father—he plotted with Aengus to return the line of succession to its rightful course, but… something happened between them. Something changed. From that day, Aengus was never the same. When my father took the throne, Aengus plotted against him, weaving me into his schemes as well—a fact I perhaps regret, although I am uncertain I would have chosen my father’s side, even if I could have. ”

“I see,” said Gwendolyn, hungry for knowledge.

She knew only this much: Málik had been loyal to Aengus. Although if Esme was to be believed, it was not by choice. And now, Gwendolyn sensed there was more to the tale—layers of it, buried deep, perhaps even unknown to Málik himself.

“What put them at odds?” she asked.

Málik shrugged, a world-weary gesture. “I believe it had more to do with the balance of power than the circumstances of our exile, although that is the story told and retold.”

She stared at him, waiting. “Explain.”

He fixed her with a pointed look, as though measuring how much truth she could bear.

“After the Ending Battle with the Sons of Míl, we did not come here to find the Underlands unoccupied. It was teeming with creatures, and none at peace. Trolls, spriggans, korreds—all vying for dominion. Our arrival turned the tide for the trolls.”

“So the trolls are our allies?” she asked, uncertain, the words tasting strange on her tongue.

“Our?” he echoed, with a smile that was half shadow and half challenge, and for a moment, Gwendolyn couldn’t find her answer.

“Most,” he allowed, when she did not reply at once. “Not all. When we first arrived, we took up near the Lake of Fire. That Slemish area was predominantly theirs—hard won, so I am told. On the other hand, this area we are now settled in belonged to the Púcas—creatures friendlier to our plight.”

“By plight, you mean the exile?” Gwendolyn asked.

Málik nodded, silent for a moment, as though measuring the weight of her question.

“Our decision to relocate returned the Slemish lands to the trolls. They wanted it—always have—and by then, we were all weary of the constant tremors.”

“And the relocation was your father’s suggestion?”

He hesitated, the pause stretching long enough that Gwendolyn wondered if he might not answer.

But at last, he spoke. “No. My father never wished to leave the Lake of Fire, nor the adamantine to be mined there. He was the one who drove us from Hyperborea to seek the precious alloy—fevered, obsessed, he turned the whole of your mortal lands into a pit of mines, desperate to find the promised ore. In truth, it was a blessing for our kindred to be exiled, and to find it here.”

Our, he’d said, and the word brought a smile to Gwendolyn’s lips.

“It was Aengus who bartered the deal with the Púcas, offering them protection in return for this land.” He exhaled, the sound drawn from deep within. “That is why I sided with Aengus over my father. I never condoned the taking of those lands. That was the root of all our troubles.”

“What became of the Púcas?” she asked.

Málik shrugged, the gesture heavy with old sorrow. “A volatile illness ran its course—left the Púcas unable to shift form. That was their doom. One by one, they were hunted and slain by spriggans.”

Gwendolyn looked up at him, brow arched. “And yet, you once told me spriggans did not exist?”

“I did.” His mouth quirked, almost a smile, but not quite.

“No doubt to placate you. But it wasn’t a lie—spriggans were believed extinct.

They haven’t been seen here for millennia.

Once the Púcas were gone, so were the spriggans.

I do not know where Aengus found the army he sent to the Druid village. ”

A shiver ran through her at the memory—Devil’s Walking Sticks, bristling with thorns, fierce and merciless. Not Fae, she thought, but something older, wilder—a race born of the world’s primal bones. The thought of seeing one again made her skin crawl.

“So… what is her name?”

“Who?”

“ She who would like to be queen?”

“Lirael,” he said without feeling. “Silvershade. Her father is my High Lord Minister, and by now, I warrant he’s taken his grievances to the Shadow Court.”

“For his daughter’s sake?”

“For his own. To be clear, if he could have wrested my throne for himself, he would have done it. He does not have so many confederates as he believes—merely enough to make my life difficult. His daughter was the only chance he had to gain support of both the Seelie and Unseelie Courts.”

“Can he prevent us from wedding?”

Málik stopped abruptly, turning to face Gwendolyn, his expression sober.

“No,” he said. “As I’ve said, words are binding.

Vows even more so. I’ve already declared my intention, and I meant it with every fiber of my being.

There is no one but you, Gwendolyn. There has never been anyone but you, and I will love you equally in any form you bear.

” His hand lifted to her cheek. “I love you,” he said, and put to rest any fear she had over his regrets.

There was such heartfelt emotion swirling in the depths of his silver gaze.

How could she ever doubt? Gwendolyn felt the warmth of Málik’s palm against her cheek, and the world seemed to narrow, its focus sharpening to this single, intimate touch.

His words, resonant with commitment, echoed within her, stirring a tempest of emotions she’d struggled to keep quiet.

Her heart thumped wildly within her breast.

Málik smiled, a faint upturn of his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “There is only one way to end our union,” he reassured. “It is to finish me…or you. This is why I must entreat you to remain within Tech Duinn…unless you are with me…or my guards.”

The surrounding gardens suddenly seemed less enchanting. But her fingers sought Málik’s, threading through them as though to anchor herself against the storm she sensed gathering. “I will be vigilant,” she whispered, and he drew her close.

“My father warned me about your Shadow Court,” she said. “He told me they would never accept a human and Fae union.”

“It is true,” he said. “But come!” And then he took her by the hand, pulling her along.

“Where are we going?” she asked. They’d been wandering for what felt like hours—too long for it to be mere leisure—and at first, Gwendolyn had thought he simply meant to show her the grounds, as one might a guest who’d only just arrived.

But after all that had transpired since her arrival, and their conversation just now, she doubted he had time for idle strolls. “It’s a surprise,” he said.

A surprise? What sort of surprise could he possibly have prepared?

There was no way he could have anticipated Gwendolyn’s arrival—nothing in his manner in the hall suggested he’d known.

Still, she trusted him, and so she followed without protest as he led her through the garden’s end, through yet another door, and then into a maze of corridors where the air was thick with the scent of stone and the soft flutter of gossamer curtains, their edges stirring in some unseen breeze.

At last, he stopped before a tapestry—a moonlit forest, all silver and blue shadows—and, without warning, stepped straight into the woven scene, pulling Gwendolyn after him.