Page 12 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter Eight

T he Druids were eager to recount all that had transpired since abandoning the mortal lands.

Gwendolyn listened intently. She knew Emrys better than Amergin, but both had stood beside her against Locrinus, and both had lent their influence to win her grandfather’s favor.

They were her allies once, and now, in the Underlands, they would be again.

Amergin had already dwelt among the Fae, so his return was almost expected, as though he belonged here more than anywhere else.

But Emrys—Emrys had a brother he left behind, and Gwendolyn could sense the ache in him, the way it hollowed out his voice when he spoke.

Although he tried to hide it, Gwendolyn saw the cost etched on his face.

She understood it, that loss—how it gnawed at the soul.

Gwendolyn heard the sorrow and the longing for what had been left behind.

No one crossed into the Underlands without leaving something precious behind, but he seemed happy enough, as eager as Amergin to share his stories.

No doubt, Gwendolyn understood the sacrifices he had made, but if their purpose here was any indication of it, their decision had been for the best. Working together, they’d found a shared purpose in creating an academy for the trolls, who’d proven surprisingly eager pupils.

Apparently, the trolls had taken to their studies with enthusiasm. Gwendolyn nodded along. Though, truly, she could hardly imagine any troll doing aught but ripping things in twain or belching.

“Their progress has been most remarkable,” crowed Emrys, his careworn hands folding into the sleeves of his gray robe.

“Yestereve, Yavo plotted the trajectory required to hurl a boulder through our practice targets. Impressive indeed, though we’d hoped he would apply that knowledge to somewhat less destructive pursuits. ” A smile touched Gwendolyn’s lips.

The image of trolls bent over their lessons struck her as…incongruous. She tried to picture them hunched over their desks, with faces scrunched in concentration, but could not. She had only ever thought of them as witless, lawless creatures.

And no matter. If the Druids claimed success with them, who was she to doubt?

They also saw fit to enlighten her about Lirael and Lord Elric’s long-held quest to see his daughter seated upon the throne.

Some months ago, he had inspired the Shadow Court to issue an ultimatum to Málik that he should wed.

He had planned to announce the betrothal at the celebration she’d interrupted.

“Were you at the gala?” Gwendolyn asked, wondering if they’d witnessed the affair.

Emrys shook his head.

“We were not invited to the gala,” Amergin said. “It was the Púca who told us.”

“I have not yet seen the Púca,” Gwendolyn complained.

“He comes and goes,” said Amergin.

“Alas,” complained Emrys. “We’ve not left Tech Duinn for more than two score years—ever since I took a blade to the back.”

“Oh, no!”

He turned to show Gwendolyn his wound, lifting his tunic, revealing a bare arse, and Gwendolyn flushed, even as she searched for the injury.

She found it beneath his lowest rib, a scar that was unmistakably intended to impale the reins…

but someone did a poor job. Clearly, they did not have Málik as a teacher.

“Drat!” she said.

“Drat, indeed,” grumbled Emrys. “You might think so long as they put up with this one—” He gestured toward Amergin. “They might have welcomed me eagerly.”

“Well, I do not bore them,” suggested Amergin, and Emrys shot him a baleful glare, lowering his tunic and covering his arse. “At any rate,” said Emrys. “They failed; and here I remain!”

“Thank the gods,” Gwendolyn said.

“Or someone, mayhap not the gods,” suggested Amergin. “I do not believe he engendered their support either.”

Emrys furrowed his wiry brow. “I only met the one!” he contended.

“And she scorned you,” Amergin said with a knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his old blue eyes. Gwendolyn watched the exchange with curiosity. These two, confined to their sanctum for more than two decades, had developed the rhythm of some who were wed.

“At any rate,” said Emrys. “Thereafter, Málik ensconced us here, certain our lives were at risk.”

“Particularly of late,” said Amergin darkly. “The Shadow Court has grown quite bold. So I’ve been told, at Lord Elric’s urging, they would like to reclaim the Druid villages, and oust our brethren.”

“Gods! No! What of Lir?” asked Gwendolyn. “Have you heard from him?”

Emrys’ eyes slanted sadly. “Not even once. After the portals were decommissioned, there was nothing for it but to trust they are well.” He sighed.

“However, I am assured that all who remain Betwixt are hidden from both realms—no one can harm them in that place. And really, of all Fae, only Málik has the means to cross the Veil, and he will not—not even to visit the village.”

“He gave his word,” said Amergin soberly.

Gwendolyn furrowed her brow.

So Málik had the means to cross the Veil, but did not?

Then again, she never gave him a reason to return, so she could not blame him when he did not.

“What can you tell us of the mortal lands?”

“How does Trevena fare?”

“What of the Rot?”

“How go the tribes?”

The Druids’ questions came rapid fire, and Gwendolyn’s smile warmed as she considered her son.

“My boy—Loc’s son—” She shrugged. “Sits upon my throne—his throne now. I gifted him my Kingslayer and left Claímh Solais as I found it when I came to this realm—embedded to the hilt in a stone near Trevena. Someday, someone worthy will find it and reclaim it, I am certain.”

The Druids both nodded soberly.

The Sword of Light, she understood, had its own purpose.

It was never hers to keep, only to borrow.

It belonged not to the Fae, nor to Kings simply for the wearing of a crown.

Indeed, if there ever came a peasant with the heart of a king, it would ignite for a just cause.

Its magic was ancient—older perhaps than the Fae themselves, its legacy one of justice, meant to empower those with the heart to wield it.

There was no wonder it was not her father’s to wield.

He was not The One.

“As for the Rot…once our people were reunited, it took little time for the Rot to correct itself—but my beloved Porth Pool never revived and the piskies never returned.”

“Of course now, and we know why,” said Amergin, tugging at his beard. “I do not believe magic will ever return to the mortal lands.”

“What of Trevena?” pressed Emrys.

Gwendolyn lifted a shoulder. “The city fares well enough, but the port brings fewer and fewer merchants by the day.” She sighed. “But at least there is peace—for now.”

“Oh! And the Temple of the Dead has been completed at long last. The neighboring tribes send their priests to study, even as the dawnsio has revived. My mother is so pleased.”

“How does Queen Eseld fare?”

“Happily wed,” Gwendolyn revealed.

“Caradoc?”

Gwendolyn nodded.

“What of Baugh?”

“Gone, so I am told. He left Albanactus with the thanedom, and of course, while that one is far less offensive than his brother, Loc, he renamed the entire north after himself!”

“Alba,” said Amergin, testing the name as, once again, he tugged at his beard.

Gwendolyn nodded.

“Such hubris,” said Emrys. He then added, “One can only hope Loc’s son will not follow in his father’s boots.

” Gwendolyn shook her head adamantly, her gaze softening at the mention of her boy—no longer a boy, in truth.

“I worry more he will not find himself a worthy bride—someone who will complete him. Habren is everything a mother could ever hope for, and I worry about him, though I trust Bryn will guide him well, and Taryn will keep him safe.”

“Taryn?!” asked Emrys. “His Shadow?”

Gwendolyn nodded.

“A woman?!”

“How…democratic,” remarked Amergin.

“No more so than to kneel before a queen,” suggested Gwendolyn with a smile.

“Well, that is true,” said Amergin. “But you know history will scheme to negate your legacy? They will build statues to Corineus, and even to Gogmagog, but never you.”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “I do not need statues,” she avowed.

She was more than certain they spoke true, but she could hardly worry now about what people years from today might do.

“It matters not, dear friend. We know the truth, and as it should be, there will arise no good king to any throne who will not have the help of a good woman. This is our way—to support and nurture.”

She smiled wistfully. “Would that it could be different, and maybe someday?”

Emrys nodded solemnly, and Amergin did as well.

Just so, they carried on and on, speaking at length as though nary a day had passed between them.

It was as though, in fact, they were as they once were, because without a mirror to peer into, Gwendolyn could too easily believe no time had passed, when neither of these two old souls had aged a day since she saw them last.

Nearly two hours later, they were still chatting, now examining tomes.

“That one is quite extraordinary,” said Emrys, looking particularly satisfied that Gwendolyn had chosen it without his guidance. “It conforms to the reader,” he explained.

Amergin hurried to add, “It will tell you what you most wish to know—if it deems you worthy to know it.” He reached out, daring to finger it, brushing the cover, and Gwendolyn watched as the words on the vellum shifted, forming intricate patterns.

It was quite unlike the rest of the tomes, bearing a cover made of a shimmering material that Gwendolyn did not recognize.

“Dragon scales,” Amergin supplied, noting her expression.

“From the last of the Great Wyrms,” said Emrys, his voice carrying a note of reverence.

“Wyrms?” Málik had once referred to his father that way, and to himself as well. But Gwendolyn did not understand what it meant.

“The Ollphéisteanna,” explained Amergin. “Shapeshifters, to be sure. “Some are given to the oceans, some to the mountains, and others to the sky. The greatest among them was Caoránach, the mother of all Great Wyrms of éire.”

“How does this relate to Málik?”

“His father is the Wyrm’s son,” Emrys interjected.

“The tome was created by artisans who understood some knowledge requires...shall we say, sacrifice?” He exchanged a meaningful glance with Amergin before continuing. “This dragon—Caoránach—gave her scales…willingly.”

The words hung in the air between them, weighted with implications that Gwendolyn could not fully grasp. “When you—or, that is to say, your former self—left Tír na nóg, she gave the tome to her grandson…to be read on the event of his ascension.”

“Málik’s grandmother?”

Emrys nodded.

“Is she…?”

“Dead?” He nodded again. “Oh, yes.”

Gods. The act spoke of a love so profound it made Gwendolyn’s chest ache. “Why?”

“No one can say for certain,” said Amergin.

“But, so they tell me, she was banished to the depths of Loch Dearg, and when she tried to make an escape, it is said she carved the course of the River Sionainn as she slid towards the sea. There is speculation she was en route to see Manannán mac Lir, and that he himself took the book from her to keep it safe. Once the portals were closed, Manannán gave it to Málik, although what it conveyed to him, no one knows. The truth betwixt those pages is revealed only when the secrets are most needed.”

“So his grandmother wrote the book and my father knew of it?”

Both Druids nodded fervently.

Gwendolyn frowned. Though it wasn’t so much that she was upset by the disclosure. She already knew Manannán had kept things from her, but the revelation left her with even more questions. Clearly, Málik knew about the book, and he wanted her to read it.

“We should like to know what it says to you, but now we are short of time,” said Amergin before chastising Emrys. “This one can never hush his mouth! And now we’ve wasted too much time. He said, two bells before we should return you, and we’ve only moments to comply!”

In fact, there was no true censure in Amergin’s tone; it was clear these two old men had become close, teasing one another as easily as brothers…or lovers?

Whatever the case, Gwendolyn was pleased to note it, because she knew Emrys must be missing Lir—and, as for Lir, she hoped he, too, had found himself a bit of joy amidst his Druid brothers.

“Bring it,” demanded Emrys. And then, with a very concerned tilt of his head, he said, “Do you remember which tapestry you came through so you can return?”

Gwendolyn nodded, and Emrys crooked his finger, begging her to follow.

“There is another way to exit this library, as Málik did earlier. But it leads straight into the Shadow Court. We are much safer exiting the way you came,” he explained and then led her from the library, into the forest, and through the tapestry, then through a long, winding corridor.

“There are locations in that library that remain accessible to the court. There is a lobby for the elders to submit requests for tomes, and we have been tasked with their keeping.”

“This is not Málik’s most popular decision,” added Amergin. “But, as there have been many attempts to steal or manipulate the texts for personal gain, he felt it necessary.”

“The written word is both a treasure and a weapon,” added Emrys.

“Only depending on whose hands will hold it. But Málik also knows that knowledge must never be withheld. Hence, the elders have a concession to request certain tomes…under certain conditions—without gaining access to the library itself. However, there is an enchantment on that book,” he said.

“It can never be spoken of aloud, and this is why I was so pleased that you found it on your own. We worried about how best to present it.”

Gwendolyn listened as they strode, and finally, they reached a set of large, unwieldy oaken doors. On their approach, those doors flew wide, and Emrys gestured for her to step inside, but did not follow.