Page 17 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter Twelve

N ow it begins.

All night, I have watched the High Lord Minister’s viperous tongue drip poison through my court—every word laced with dissent and betrayal. The taste of his duplicity is bitter on my tongue, and I curse beneath my breath as his daughter—his lovely, loathsome minion—abandons her seat.

At my side, Gwendolyn tenses, the line of her jaw taut as a drawn bowstring, but there is only so much I can do to shield her.

This court must not perceive my affection as weakness.

The choices I make tonight will dictate whether she is fated to live out her days sequestered with the Druids, or as a free member of this court.

So much as I love her—so much as I long to hold her close—I will not keep her prisoner, nor will I watch her die with a knife pressed to the reins.

No, tonight must mark a change, for better or for worse.

Gwendolyn’s fingers tighten about my thigh, but the gesture is not flirtatious. I find her hand beneath the table, and squeeze, a silent promise that whatever storms may break tonight, my commitment to her is unyielding.

And then, I turn to catch Lirael’s eye.

She approaches the dais with practiced grace, her every step a performance.

Of course, it is.

This is what that harpy was bred to do—what a vision she is, too, a would-be queen worthy of the Fae, a beautiful nightmare in twilight hues. Her gown shimmers like midnight rain, every clap of her heel a warning of the storm to come. She is the very embodiment of elegance and deadly intention.

Behind her, Lord Elric watches with the patience of a spider who has at last felt the tremor of prey in his web.

“My king,” Lirael says, spinning with her goblet in hand—her inflection on the word my so pointed it could draw blood.

I brace myself for a dose of her father’s poison. It comes, as I knew it would, her voice sour as bitter grapes. “Esteemed members of our court—” The word our , too, is stressed, accompanied by a baleful glance toward Gwendolyn. “I stand before you now to address a matter of import.”

A growl rumbles in my chest. “What matter so urgent it weighs upon you to interrupt my queen’s feast?” I will not allow her to seize the moment. I know my words may seem cruel, when only hours ago Lirael had hoped to become my bride, but I need her to understand the finality of my decision…

Gwendolyn will be queen.

Gwendolyn is my love.

Lirael is not.

“A matter of law,” she replies coolly, her eyes glittering as she turns to face the courtiers, not me, and I recognize the malice veiled beneath her siren’s lilt.

Across the hall, the attendees shift in their seats as she pauses, milking the silence for all it’s worth.

“I mean to invoke the Rite of Blood,” she announces, her words hanging in the air like a drawn blade—a challenge, unmistakable. I know this law—an archaic convention from times past. But if even one of my Shadow Court supports it, I will be bound to its demands.

“The presence of a mortal at our King’s table, whilst… charming—” She says the word with false affection. “Threatens the surety of our realm…”

Anger smolders in my gut.

Gods know. If I speak—if I rise—I will rip the tongue from her mouth and consume it myself.

I reach for my goblet—not to lift it, but to steady myself. My grip tightens upon the stem, the metal cold beneath my fingertips as her voice, icily calm, continues, every word coached by her father.

“Did we not agree to keep our lands separate?” she says. “How can we be sure there will not arrive… more?”

Mortals.

Since the Ending Battle with the sons of Míl, my kindred have blamed humankind for their banishment to the Underlands.

To be sure, Amergin had a hand in that judgment, but it was my father who gave him the power to decide.

Most of the denizens of my court remember…

but not Lirael. She’s a youngling compared to most. Not yet born when we were exiled from mortal lands, she has, no doubt, heard those tales from her father.

Her gaze sweeps the hall, blue eyes alight with a mix of righteousness and disdain.

Her words themselves were a poison—not deadly, but sowing doubt and fear.

With brows drawn together as though she were a guileless philosopher pondering the mysteries of life, she asks, “Please tell us… what assurances have we now that her kind will not overrun this city? How do we preserve our sovereignty?”

A murmur of agreement ripples throughout the crowd, and I feel Gwendolyn’s grip tighten on my leg—a silent plea for support, or perhaps a brace against this storm.

I long to speak, but do not.

Lirael has already presented her challenge.

Nothing I can do or say will change the course of that. But if I murder her where she stands… there will be a new rebellion, forged by the groundswell of her blood.

The hall swells with nods and murmurs, and an undercurrent of unrest ripples throughout.

“Furthermore,” she continues, emboldened now, her voice gathering strength with her purpose.

“The law is clear…” Her bright blue eyes shine with triumph.

“Even if these things are found to be without merit… only one of our blood may stand as queen. It is not simply a matter of choice or tradition. It is the law, which sustains us. You may choose to wed a commoner…” Her voice drips with malice, and her eyes gleam.

“But you will not choose a mortal bride!”

Collectively, a gasp sweeps the hall.

Every eye in the hall shifts toward me.

No one has ever spoken to me so insolently in front of my court—not even Esme. Yet Lirael’s audacity does not surprise me. Her father’s voice speaks through her, and bitterness coats my tongue as I realize how deeply Lord Elric’s betrayal runs.

At my side, Gwendolyn remains stoic, her eyes fixed upon Lirael, her face a mask of calm despite the turmoil I sense within her.

But Lirael’s disputation, directed at me, is the perfect excuse to intervene, and I rise, my voice slicing through the whispers like a blade.

“You dare apprise me of what I may or may not do?”

Lirael shrugs. “Not I,” she says coyly. “The law.”

Silence settles over the assembly like a death shroud. But though hers is an affront that cannot go unanswered, my response must be measured. “You speak too easily of laws forgotten before you were a pup in your cradle,” I say, a wave of fury rising from my entrails.

Gwendolyn’s fingers pinch my leathers.

There is so much I would have told her if I could. But as Manannán is bound, so too am I. I can speak no words that will unveil our past, and if she cannot do so, then I am bound to silence.

My eyes flash with warning, but Lirael remains undaunted.

Her posture straightens, indignation clear in her tone.

“Ancient or not, those laws remain binding, do they not?” Her chin lifts.

“My age matters not when our laws are written upon the stones from which this realm was built.” And then she adds, with a glance at Lord Elric, “Anyway, my father is far older than you…”

I grin, but there should be no comfort in the jagged presentation of my porbeagle teeth. “So… your father—” I flick a glance at Lord Elric. “Will challenge me now?”

The coward will never. He is a neophyte—a long-to-be king. His hand never once turned a blade, nor can he force his will beyond the councils. His place is in the shadows. He would rule through his daughter, and without the means to compel me, a challenge to me is a death knell.

“Lirael!” he admonishes. “Enough!”

Too little.

Too late.

My attention shifts to Lord Elric. “You seem to have forgotten that I am the law of this land! I will forgive your impertinence… because I know… your wound is fresh? But I advise you to weigh your words carefully.” My question is directed at both, but my gaze remains fixed on Lord Elric’s.

Beside him, Lirael’s eyes dart about the hall—seeking allies, or perhaps gauging the depths of her folly.

And yet, though her father’s voice may have halted her tirade, the ember of her cause glows hot within her eyes.

“Well,” she says now, again lifting her goblet, dangling it between two fingers.

“I propose,” she says too innocently. “That we allow your lover to decide. If the rumors be true, she needn’t fear.

She needs but reveal herself here and now—and behold!

If she cannot, she should be banished from this hall and this realm, never to return, on pain of death!

” She spins to ask the nobles. “What say you all?”

Again, the court holds its breath, awaiting my response, and I am torn…

Between love and duty.

I cannot afford to alienate my court and keep the peace. But neither will I entertain or accept challenges from Silvershade’s poppet—or rescind my promise to Gwendolyn.

Neither will I allow her to be abused by the whims of this court.

With deliberate slowness, I set down my goblet. “You tread on perilous ground here, Young Dryad. Your mother should have advised you better… jealousy is unbecoming.”

The girl’s eyes flash over my rebuke, but she quickly composes herself, a too-sweet smile spreading across her features. “Oh, I assure you, it has naught to do with jealousy. I speak out of concern for this court and its… welfare.”

“Alas, the youngling speaks true,” muttered an aged Fae with silver hair, his voice spurring yet another torrent of whispers.

Lord Maelon, one of the oldest, most respected members of the Shadow Court.

His support of Lirael’s challenge makes my blood run cold because if he backs her, others will follow.

Indeed, his endorsement may even sway those who would otherwise remain neutral or side with me. Lirael’s confidence grows, and she presses on. “If she is Niamh, let her prove it. Now, here, under everyone’s scrutiny, and then we shall forgo the Rite of Blood.”

“No,” I say firmly. “Gwendolyn will not be subjected to petty tests!”

“She must!” Lord Maelon declares, standing, and the hall erupts into chaos.