Page 2 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter One

S ome claim misery loves company.

I assure you; it does not.

It is a nasty little slug that feeds upon the soul, draining it of all hope and life until naught remains but an empty husk.

That’s me, surrounded by my feckless court—a kingdom of courtiers who will revel to see me fall. And this will be the night my hope withers and dies.

Every pointy-eared, fang-toothed noble in attendance awaits with bated breath, whispering behind brightly painted lips—all the while whirling and twirling to this gladsome melody that has no bloody hope of ever lifting my disagreeable mood.

The music swells again, and I retrieve the self-replenishing goblet from the table at my side, hoisting it to my lips, then chugging an endless draught.

“ That won’t help,” admonishes the Púca.

I answer with a snarl.

As always, the creature speaks true, but that, too, is maddening when I already know that no amount of wine will dull this ache in my heart, regardless of how many times I turn the cup.

But at least it gives my mouth something to do besides yawn.

“I am aware,” I mutter beneath my breath, then set down the goblet with a thud. Leaning forward, I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the onset of a headache that no magic or medicine will cure. “Why are you still here?” I add irascibly.

“Like it or not, I promised to look after you.”

My voice itself is a snarl. “Promised whom?”

“Esme,” says the Púca, and I mumble an oath.

“Her,” I say, the word an epithet by its tenor alone.

We’ve gone round and round about my long-lost sister , and I weary of asking what the creature knows only to have him shift his form every time he means to avoid answering my questions.

If he were not the last of his kind, I would murder him where he lies and be done with his infuriating evasions. “I take it you speak to her?”

He says nothing, only flicks his tail.

“Does she intend to grace us with her presence any day soon?”

In all these years, Esme has not shown her face once.

And neither did she remain in Trevena—I know because I have my spies.

The Fae can no longer traverse the Veil, but there are ways and means for a king to keep his ears to the ground, supernatural and otherwise. An intricate network of whisperers keeps me informed of events that might sway the already precarious balance of this court.

And yet, of Esme, there is naught but silence—a silence more telling than a thousand spies’ reports. Again, the Púca flicks his tail. “I am not your sister’s keeper.”

“For the last time, she is not my sister!”

“I am not enjoying your mood.”

“So what?”

“Should I take my leave?”

“Please do,” I say. Somewhere far from here, I think, but won’t say it aloud.

Because at the pith of it all, I am alone, and if the Púca should abandon me, I would find myself with one less friend—a commodity I am quickly running out of, in a realm where alliances are as thin as the Veil itself.

More to the point, he, she—whatever it is today—is the creature I most trust.

What irony is that?

He’s also the most changeable in this land.

Inexplicably, he remains by my side, and I should be grateful for it, but I am too miserable to appreciate aught. Sliding deeper into the Horned Throne, my eyes scrutinize the glittering throng, anticipating betrayal at every turn.

Will I see mutiny if I tarry too long?

Oh, how I despise the machinations!

The ease with which allegiances shift.

And yet, my deepest enmity is reserved for myself.

I am a shadow of the creature I once was—no longer her Shadow, but that is doubtless a role I would resume, only to be at her side. Instead, I am a poor excuse for a king—one who cannot even command loyalty from his subjects, save through fear.

And yes…they should fear me, for I have never been more on the verge of becoming my worst self—a monster, in truth, a creature who craves only chaos and ruin…simply to feel.

My hand reaches for the chain about my neck—the one bearing the sliver of Gwendolyn’s locks. It would be so easy to give in, to allow the darkness to consume me. But even as the temptation gnaws at my soul, I know I will never succumb—for her sake, not mine.

Gwendolyn always saw the best in me, even when I could not, and my heart is not so dead that I will allow the worst of my kind to assume this throne.

The Fae are lovely, feckless creatures, and there are many among my kind who are not pleased only to see the Fae and mortal worlds divided.

They would defy even the gods to destroy humankind.

And though I confess there are a few amidst the mortals I would gladly see ended, the Shadow Court’s wrath would begin with her … .

Because she dared murder one Fae king…

And steal another’s heart.

Mine .

Releasing the chain, I reach for my cup again and seize another bracing mouthful. The goblet refills anew—a parody of plenty for a king who cannot drink enough.

I slam another down hard, splashing crimson on my tunic, and let my gaze prowl the hall…

my gaze drawn to one creature in particular, who bears a striking resemblance to her father…

save for the hair. Standing beside her dark-haired mother, Lirael Silvershade is a vision to behold, with hair like spun gold, and skin as silky as a dew-kissed rose.

But her tresses lack Gwendolyn’s golden fire.

And her eyes are too narrow and guarded.

No matter, she is the bride my Shadow Court would have me take, and every muscle in my body recoils at the notion.

This is naught but a politikal exercise to placate the vultures circling my throne.

With a snort of disgust, I avert my gaze from the mind-numbing sea of color spinning before my eyes—a magnificent display of intemperance that never fails to bore me.

The sight summons forth a yawn so vast I fear I may swallow the room.

I am jaded, perhaps, and worn, but the weight of this crown has never been so burdensome, nor the weight of my duties ever more suffocating.

The Púca studies me with his cat- sidhe eyes reflecting the Faerie Flames—entirely too knowing.

Discomfited, I turn away to contemplate the newest tapestry adorning the west wall—a gift from my Shadow Court.

But unlike the other tapestries gracing this throne-room, that one was not woven by Arachne, nor was it meant to be a fond remembrance of our time in the mortal lands.

Rather, it is intended to remind their mortal-loving king of the wonders men were so quick to destroy.

One after another, the gallery shifts from one marvel of architecture to another…

A tower lifting unto the heavens.

The pyramids of Al-?a?rā? al-Kubrā.

The Hanging Gardens of Bāb-ilim…

In the end, there may be some truth in their complaints. Mortals are destructive in their ignorance and greed, but also capable of creating beauty and wonder.

Gwendolyn is by far the best of them—far better than I—and though the thought does not lessen the burden I carry, it brings a flicker of warmth to my cold heart.

Alas, she dwells beyond my reach, in a realm where I cannot follow, severed by more than just distance, and it pains me to consider she may never again walk these halls.

The Púca curses profusely, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I turn to meet the High Lord Minister’s gaze, and a matching string of oaths rises to my lips. I swallow the words, returning the goblet to its perch, quite certain that my future father-in-law’s hearing is as good, if not better, than mine.

Sadly, Lord Elric’s familiarity is a testament to his standing in this court; and this is an audacity I must begrudgingly allow.

Stopping before the dais, he casts one glance at the Púca, and though he says nothing about the creature at my side, I sense his condemnation.

It spews from his very pores. It matters not that the Púca’s breed is rare.

To the denizens of this court, his ilk is no more tolerable than a human or a troll. “Majesty,” he says.

I lean forward, but otherwise do not respond. Still, I offer my undivided attention.

At my side, the Púca tucks his whiskered face between two paws.

“Do you not find this celebration to your liking?” the High Lord Minister asks, his impatience curling about the corners of his diplomacy.

Lord Elric’s time in this court harkens back to a time when Nuada of the Silver Arm first sat upon the Horned Throne, and I know Elric, himself, had a hand in his fall…

whispering to the Court of his imperfections, turning our kindred against him, Seelie and Unseelie alike.

There is only one thing that keeps him from withdrawing his support…

and that is the possibility of his daughter’s ascension to the vacant seat at my side.

“Define enjoyment,” I retort, and the elder smiles thinly.

Between us, an insult lies, and I wonder if it will rise to his tongue.

“For some,” he expounds, his tone patronizing, though veiled enough to befit the decorum of our exchange. “It seems the concept of enjoyment remains but a fleeting notion, forever out of reach, as one yearns for things that cannot be?”

And there it is.

Fomorian blackguard .

My fists clench at the barb beneath his words. We both know of whom and what he speaks. “I have no patience for riddles, Lord Elric.”

“Of course not,” he allows. “But as you must know, Majesty, the court grows weary…”

I peer at the dancers to find no evidence of that, but his lips twist into another form of a smile, this one more akin to a smirk, and he says, “As does my daughter.”

“She is not the only contender,” I remind him, my voice as cold as the chill of my empty bed.

The High Lord Minister’s cheeks stain crimson. With his lips pursed, he peers down at his shoes, sliding his long-clawed fingers behind his back. “Yes, well… forgive me, Majesty.”

And then, his smile sharpens, a blade honed on centuries of courtly intrigue. “She is not. But the question remains, Lord King, how long will you allow this indecision to fester?”