Page 15 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)
Chapter Eleven
D ressed and waiting, Gwendolyn paced the king’s chamber, the hem of her gown swirling furiously about her ankles.
Every passing moment heightened her anticipation of the evening to come.
Intuitively, she understood the feast was no simple gathering, nor, in truth, a welcome.
She had little doubt Málik intended it to solidify her position as his bride, and yet, despite the return of her memories, she was not Curcog; she was still Gwendolyn.
Again, she stopped before the mirror—a polished obsidian stone that reflected her image with terrifying perfection. No pointy ears, no porbeagle teeth.
And yet…something in her bearing had shifted.
The way she held her shoulders?
The tilt of her chin?
The glint of knowing in her eyes?
She was both Gwendolyn and Curcog at once…both warriors in their own right, and tonight she would leverage both to fight for what was hers—not wielding a sword as she had once done upon the battlefield, but rather, with her presence and poise.
Who, if anyone, would champion her cause?
Málik, she knew, but he was only one against so many, and if the Shadow Court mutinied against him, where would that leave them both?
Worrying her lip, she lamented the marked absence of fangs as she inspected the gown she had chosen.
It fit as though it had been tailored to her form, hugging her every curve and falling in elegant, graceful folds that shimmered with every movement.
Her hair, arranged in intricate braids, was interwoven with tiny silver beads that caught the light.
The image she presented was every bit the queen, so why did she feel an impostor—a child, once more, only hoping for her mother’s nod of approval?
Deep breaths did little to calm her racing heart.
Turning from the mirror, she heard the knock on the door, and froze.
Málik would hardly knock, would he?
Steeling her nerves, Gwendolyn moved hesitantly toward the door, her heart skipping a beat as she pulled it open. It was not Málik.
There stood two guards.
One taller and more imposing, stepped forward, bowing his head slightly. “The feast awaits, my queen,” he announced with formality, his voice echoing in the spacious chamber.
“Where is…the king?”
“We’ve been tasked with delivering you,” said the guard.
Why did he make it sound as though she were meant to be served, not a guest of honor?
The guards waited, silent and unmoving, clad in what she presumed was Málik’s own livery—a deep, midnight green, almost black in the torchlight.
Each man gripped a spear, its haft wrapped in the glimmer of dragon-scale, and their watchful eyes glinted beneath the fanged shadows of their dragon helms. Gwendolyn trusted they were allies, not foes, only because Málik had said so himself: No soul could enter Tech Duinn without his express leave.
It was impossible, he’d sworn, and she believed him.
Her heart tangled itself into knots as she moved to retrieve her cloak, the one she’d chosen for the evening.
Her hands trembled, but she flung it about her shoulders with practiced grace.
It hardly mattered whether Málik was at her side, she told herself.
He had given his word, and here, in this place, his word was law.
Gwendolyn lifted her chin, nodded once to the guards, and followed them from the chamber, her every step measured and deliberate. She would not falter, not here, not now.
This was her court as much as it was his!
Wasn’t that what he’d said?
Wasn’t this what the book revealed?
The certainty of it settled over her as inexorably as the cloak of thorns she’d chosen to wear—a garment as wickedly lovely as it was cruel, every needle-point digging into her flesh.
The fabric itself was blood red with intricate black embroidery resembling thorny vines, and black pearl thorns that glinted against the torchlight.
Given the choice between that and another softer, less punitive garment, Gwendolyn had chosen the cloak deliberately, not only because the wardrobe produced it, but because it was a thing of dark beauty, matched only by its cruelty.
Everything in this court was that way—even its denizens—beautiful and vicious.
If Gwendolyn must endure pain, let it be of her own choosing.
And yet only as the weight of it bore down upon her and the thorns pressed into her shoulders, did she fully grasp the lesson the cloak meant to convey: she must be stronger, more unyielding, than her fragile human form suggested.
She drew the cloak tighter, feeling every sharp sting, and set her jaw, certain that this was her time to prove she belonged. She would not be cowed.
She would not allow pain to defeat her. If she must bleed, so be it—she would bleed and endure, and let them see her do it.
She would outlast them all.
Stand tall.
Back straight.
Face them with courage, Gwendolyn demanded of herself as the guards, in their gleaming gold armor, led her through the maze of corridors.
She had never been one for elaborate gowns or finery—nor jewels for that matter—preferring instead the practicality of her battle leathers.
Yet tonight, she understood: the impression she made would be as vital as any weapon in her arsenal.
She needed to be seen—not as an afterthought, nor as a mere consort, but as the king’s equal, his chosen partner, and his queen.
Queen Eseld had impressed this lesson upon her from the cradle: to be a queen, one must first be perceived as a queen.
Her mother had known it by instinct, and though Gwendolyn herself had not truly stepped into Queen Eseld’s shoes, she took her example from that young Prydein princess who had come, so long ago, to be her father’s bride.
To win Cornwall, Gwendolyn had needed her sword. But to win the Fae, she must embody the regality she’d never fully embraced.
Tonight, she would.
The dress was a marvel—deep emerald silk, masterfully wrought, every inch alive with silver embroidery so intricate that the threads caught the light, setting the whole gown aglow with a shimmer of elegance.
It put Gwendolyn in mind of a midnight forest: subtle, yes, but quietly rich, self-assured in its simplicity.
The bodice plunged daringly, lending the dress a boldness that was neither vulgar nor desperate, but regal, as though daring any soul to challenge the right of its wearer to rule.
It was not merely a queen’s dress; it was a declaration, a standard unfurled for all to see.
Both gown and cloak swept the stone floors behind her, trailing like rivers of silk.
Past ornate doors and beneath arches of ancient stone that whispered of royal secrets, the guards ushered her forward. Until at long last, they neared the Feast Hall.
Two immense doors appeared before her, so tall and wide, it seemed they should admit giants.
Each bore a dragon, slumbering, etched into the wood with such skill that the creatures appeared to draw breath, their sinuous bodies curled across the panels.
In the wavering torchlight, the dragons’ scales shimmered, catching every flicker and throwing it back in dazzling, shifting patterns—so lifelike that, for a moment, she half-expected them to yawn and unfurl, stretching claws and wings in the gloom.
Inexplicably, Gwendolyn’s nerves settled at the sight, and she smiled.
Her mother had been so keen to unite the “dragon banners,” thinking the dragon would be Loc. It was Málik all along…and this, at last, was the fulfillment of her prophecy.
The sound of music and laughter drifted towards them as the guards rushed ahead, shoving open the heavy doors, and Gwendolyn was momentarily blinded by the light of a thousand Faerie Flames.
Head high.
Chin up, she told herself.
Once more, she smoothed the folds of her gown—her heart fluttering like a trapped sparrow—and drew in a sharp breath, forcing herself to remember who she was. Not merely Gwendolyn of Cornwall, Queen of Men, but the Fae king’s bride.
Wasn’t that what the tome revealed?
Not that it mattered, not here, not now, with her pulse hammering in her ears and her hands trembling as she stilled the fabric. She must not falter.
She straightened her back, fingers lingering at her waist, and let the surety of the words in the dragon-scaled book settle over her like a mantle.
One last time, she gathered herself, smoothing the gown until every pleat lay perfectly, and lifted her chin. Whatever awaited her in the hall, she would face it as the true queen—and as the Fae king’s bride.
Giving a nod to her guards, Gwendolyn marched into the Hall with all the quiet authority she could muster. The hall fell silent at once, and a sea of faces, familiar and foreign, turned to gawp—some mayhap with curiosity, others with thinly veiled suspicion, still others with overt contempt.
The shift from revelry to stillness felt like the tightening of a noose, but, armored in her gown and cloak, Gwendolyn met their gazes with unflinching resolve.
She straightened her shoulders as she sought Málik and found him seated at the High Table.
Their eyes met and held.
And then he gifted her with a smile that stole her breath—a smile so filled with love and longing that it made her knees falter. He stood then, his every gesture measured as he descended from the dais to greet her, neither his gaze nor his smile wavering.
They met below the dais, and he extended his hand, his fingers brushing hers with a gentleness that sent a quiver down her spine. “You are…resplendent,” he said, his gaze inspecting the emerald silk…and then lower…to the valley between her breasts—a liberty he had never dared.
Indeed, Gwendolyn had worn nothing so daring in all her life, and she thrilled at his attention. The pale-blue flames in his eyes ignited an answering heat deep within her.
For the longest moment, they stood in silence, and then he lifted his gaze to her shoulders, admiring the cloak.