Page 16 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

He stepped back then, and the crooked smile that turned his lips gave Gwendolyn’s heart a flutter. For a moment, she couldn’t speak or breathe.

The King’s Hall, with so many watchful eyes, dissolved into shadow. There was only Málik and Gwendolyn…and the warmth of his hand still clasping hers.

The intensity of his gaze held her transfixed.

“You chose well,” he whispered. “The gown suits you.”

Her gaze fixed upon a golden locket he wore about his neck…

a reliquary the likes of which some priests wore in the Temple of the Dead.

Gwendolyn had never noticed it previously, but it was impossible to miss now.

It gleamed as though newly polished, and noting the direction of her gaze, he smiled once more, and reached out, taking her by the hand, kissing it tenderly, before bowing, and if there was a message intended in his actions, it was this: Gwendolyn must be honored.

By the king, no less.

The gesture was lost to none.

He then captured her arm, looping it with his, before escorting her up the stairs. And once upon the dais, he led her straight to the King’s Table, offering her the conspicuously vacant seat by his side. But before Gwendolyn could seat herself, he raised his voice to address the assembled.

“Lords and ladies,” he began, his tone commanding silence.

With his free hand, he lifted, then raised his goblet. “A toast to our queen,” he demanded, and, as Gwendolyn watched, every hand lifted along the length of every table.

With a tremulous hand, she found and lifted hers as well, the cool silver trembling against her palm.

“All Hail the Queen!” declared a few.

Others followed with mumbled praise.

It was something , at least—even if their commends were given grudgingly. But Gwendolyn could feel every pair of narrowed eyes, even as she did the thorns beneath her cloak.

It was going to be a long night…

Once everyone had drunk, Gwendolyn stole a sip of the sweet, heady wine, and was wholly unprepared for the taste of it.

Like stars exploding, a burst of flavor ignited upon her tongue—rich and complex, unlike any wine she had ever tasted.

Its warmth spread swiftly through her, and she felt a strange mix of exhilaration and calm.

Hadn’t someone once warned her—Lir, perhaps—that mortals should never eat or drink Fae fare?

But this was pleasant, not unlike Hob cake.

Another sip sent more heat creeping through her veins, along with an abiding tranquility that softened the edges of her anxiety.

And now, despite that the court’s attention remained fixed upon her—all those thinly veiled smiles—she met them with a steady gaze. “To me!” she dared say aloud, and hiccupped.

Beside her, Málik chuckled as, one by one, more toasts were followed by the clinking of goblets and eventually, the hall returned to its normal ambience and the harp resumed as well.

Feeling less stressed, Gwendolyn took her seat, wondering why he had not sent her a pint of that wine while leaving her to dress.

All was well.

She was well.

But why shouldn’t she be with Málik at her side?

As the feast unfolded, Gwendolyn allowed herself to relax into the evening. Peering about the room, she took in the lavish decorations and the bountiful feast laid out, and hiccupped again.

“I believe you’ve had enough…for now,” Málik said with a gleam in his eyes. Reaching out, he slid the goblet from her fingers, setting it down.

Gwendolyn’s cheeks burned, but nothing could diminish her smile—not even the sight of Lirael Silvershade seated beside her bird-beaked mother.

“I would ask what’s in that,” she said, laughing. “But I expect you to reply with the same maddening ambiguity as you did over Hob cake!”

She hiccupped again, and Málik chortled again, his laughter like music to Gwendolyn’s ears.

“That,” he explained, “is one of the finest vintages from the Eternal Vigne—the vineyard of Zeus himself. Fit only for such an occasion.” He whispered low now, “It graces every table this eve. But take care. Its magic is subtle but potent.”

“Too potent for mortals?” Gwendolyn dared to ask, a tinge of melancholy tainting her mirth. Still, her smile returned when Málik reached out to brush a stray curl from her face, then kissed her cheek.

“All you need ever remember,” he said softly, “is that you are as much of this world as you are of Cornwall.” His tone was light, but his eyes were sober.

“My arrival has unsettled so many. Emrys showed me what they did to him.”

He lifted a brow. “Showed you?”

Gwendolyn lifted her shoulder, nodding. “He also said they have not left Tech Duinn for years. Until the guards arrived, I feared this might also be my fate.”

“They will learn to embrace you,” Málik reassured, and Gwendolyn sighed.

Despite the return of her memory, she could hardly expect anyone to accept her so readily, and neither could she tell them all she knew—not even Málik realized as yet.

This moment didn’t feel like the proper time to speak of such a revelation—not with a thousand eyes trained upon them.

So, with a breath drawn deep, she steadied herself against the inevitable trials of the evening and attempted to enjoy the feast. It wasn’t difficult, especially with the help of the wine.

Forsooth . It was difficult not to find some joy when her senses were assaulted by a cavalcade of tastes and scents. Every dish that passed beneath her nose was more enticing than the last, and despite her earlier reservations, she sampled a few bites. The flavors were exquisite.

Throughout the evening, Málik remained attentive, his hand finding hers beneath the table—a far different partner at this table than she had known before.

Indeed, during their previous time together, she could only recall one occasion they had shared plates, or even dined at the same table—in her uncle’s house.

There, for the very first time, Gwendolyn had wondered what sort of partner he would be…

and even dared wonder how the Fae made love—a titillating lesson she’d learned for herself whilst in the Druid village.

The Fae were magnificent lovers—very well-endowed and deliciously corporeal, but there was a fusion of body and spirit that heightened every sensation. Even now, Gwendolyn found herself eager for another…reunion, and a blush warmed her cheeks.

Catching her gaze, Málik gave her a knowing smile.

Meanwhile, beneath the table, he squeezed her hand.

That’s how they spent the evening…with playful exchanges.

As the feasting dwindled, the music softened, turning the “night sky” above into a velvet darkness, pin-pricked with starlight so that the entire Hall shimmered. Every so often, Málik leaned in, his words meant for her ears alone—a private jest, or some sly observation.

“That one,” he murmured, tilting his chin toward a willowy Fae with hair like spun gold, “is Lady Síofra. She once challenged me to a duel to the death over a slight to her nose.”

Gwendolyn’s lips twitched. “Did you?”

“Slight her nose?” His mouth curved, dark with mischief. “I may have,” he confessed, eyes alight. “I think I suggested it preceded her into rooms by a full breath.”

Laughter bubbled up from Gwendolyn’s belly—a sound she had not made in far too long. It startled her how easily it came.

“She is someone you should know. I warrant she’ll be your dearest friend,” he said, and then he looked her over, then again at Lady Síofra, who lifted her glass in greeting, her smile genuine and bright.

Málik watched her. “A divination?” she asked, but he only shrugged.

“I simply wondered if you had any memory of her,” he said, and Gwendolyn glanced again at the noble Fae, who smiled once more, as though she already knew something Gwendolyn did not.

Gwendolyn shook her head.

Clearly, not all her memories had returned, and a veil of disappointment shrouded the evening.

Thereafter, she studied the courtiers—every one—trying to discern who would be friend, and who would be foe.

Repeatedly, her gaze returned to Lirael Silvershade, whose bright eyes were colder than a winter storm as she sat watching the dais.

Foe, she thought.

Decidedly foe.

In truth, Gwendolyn did not doubt for an instant that if she crossed paths with Lirael in some unlit corridor, the woman would not hesitate to run her through.

There was a certain coldness about her—something that sent a shiver down Gwendolyn’s spine, and brought to mind Loc’s mistress, Estrildis.

Estrildis, who had once delighted in Gwendolyn’s pain, and tortured her for endless months in Loegria.

Even now, as Gwendolyn recalled that time, the memory of it clung to her skin like a bruise that would never fade.

But this time, it was Gwendolyn in a position of honor, and she would not cow to Lirael’s disdain.

Every line on the girl’s beautiful face, every scoff concealed poorly behind a sip of wine, and each whisper she shared with her mother and father was perhaps a broadcast of hostility meant for Gwendolyn to perceive.

But the new queen of this Fae Court wouldn’t succumb to intimidation.

Not tonight.

She endeavored to ignore the girl as more servers appeared, bearing even more trays laden with delicacies the likes of which Gwendolyn had never seen—bright-colored fruits and pastries that puffed steam like miniature volcanos.

Her curiosity piqued, she selected a small bite of fruit from the passing tray as an elder Fae leaned about to speak around her partner, presenting a question to Gwendolyn.

“Tell me…Gwendolyn…how do you find Tír na nóg?”

Startled at first to be addressed so openly, Gwendolyn blinked, peering up at Málik to find his eyes mercurial—saying nothing, only observing.

A test?

“Quite lovely!” Gwendolyn replied.

The Fae woman’s eyes glinted with amusement—at Gwendolyn’s expense?

Indeed.

Her lips curled into a sneer. “Of course,” she agreed. “ Your home must seem quite dull in comparison.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it intended to be polite. Her meaning was lost to none, but Gwendolyn knew better than to speak in defense of her mortal lands—not here, not now.

She also knew that angering these creatures would never serve her in the end, so she searched for precisely the right response. Lifting her chin, she allowed, “I would argue each realm possesses its own splendor,” she said diplomatically. “But this is now my home.”

The woman said nothing, and Gwendolyn glanced up at Málik to find amusement dancing in his icebourne eyes. “Well played,” he said low.

A tenuous smile played at the corners of Gwendolyn’s mouth. “I learned to spar from the best,” she allowed, then whispered, “Esme” lest he assume the compliment for himself.

He laughed, and Gwendolyn reached for his thigh beneath the table, squeezing gently—but, oh, the feel, so…hard…sent her pulse skittering. It was not quite what she intended or expected, but again, the familiarity between them was lost to none.

“Careful,” he teased. “You will tempt a beast…”

The air between them sizzled with promise, and Gwendolyn’s breath caught.

“Perhaps that is my intent,” she whispered, and gave him a playful wink.

No longer was she the same innocent who’d once trembled over the thought of placing her virgin lips to the same goblet his lips had touched—nay, indeed.

Moreover…she had been too long without a lover—without him, and she had no intention of ever wasting another moment.

Emboldened by the wine, she slid back her hand and said.

“I am quite famished…” And she was, but not for food.

Somehow, as it was the first time she’d visited this place, hunger was not a thing to be borne. Food was consumed only for pleasure.

A low rumble bubbled from Málik’s chest, and a slow smile spread across his face.

Gwendolyn recognized the look of desire and thrilled.

“Perhaps we should retire?” he murmured for her ears alone, his voice thick with lust, and Gwendolyn squirmed in her seat. Briefly, she considered kissing him here and now, but the moment was thwarted.

“Majesty,” interjected yet another courtier, this time addressing Málik, “Won’t you regale us with the tale of how you and Lady Gwendolyn first met?”

As his partner had, the Fae lord had not used Gwendolyn’s title—neither her new one, nor old—but, by now, she was accustomed to such insults. There was a time not too long past that her own people had been reluctant to address her as sovereign, despite that she’d earned it.

“It must be quite the story…to tempt a mortal into our hall.”

This lord bared his porbeagle teeth, and a hush fell over the room.

The music faded, the air suddenly sharpened as Lirael Silvershade rose from her seat, raking her chair back, seizing the opportunity.

Tall and lithe, draped in a gown of midnight blue, the girl’s eyes glittered with barely concealed malice. Her gaze fixed upon Gwendolyn as she addressed the dais, and now, having captured everyone’s attention, she raised her goblet belatedly.

“Yes, Majesty,” she purred, her voice dripping with false dulcet. “Please do…regale us…How did you come to meet your sweet mortal bride?”

Gwendolyn felt it, the prickle of a thousand eyes, cold and bright and hungry, waiting for her to falter.

But this was Málik’s story to tell, not hers.

She wondered for a moment if he would answer—if he would tell them some sweet tale simply to placate them, or if he would seize the moment to assert his authority, to define their narrative in terms that none could question. Or even if he might reveal the truth of their bond.

But that was not what they wanted to hear. He knew, as she knew, they wanted a spectacle. They wanted to see Gwendolyn squirm. And so she braced herself, as she always did, for whatever would come next.

Beside her, Málik’s eyes burned with an unseen fire, surveying the hall—every courtier, every attendant—before returning to the expectant face of Lirael Silvershade.