Page 23 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter Fifteen

N ot cozy—this was an understatement.

This was the Underland Gwendolyn remembered—dark and dank, with winding paths going every which way, and large, black spiders the length of her arm dangling from stalactites.

The scent was less rot and more mineral, with a backdraft of wet iron and rank mushroom, so unlike the sweet gardens within the city proper.

They had exited Tech Duinn through another of those living tapestries, this one depicting a place that was hardly appealing—a red, glowing lake of fire set against a backdrop of charred stone enshrouded by clouds of ash.

The moment Gwendolyn laid eyes upon it, she had been certain that once through, she would choke on the smell of sulfur and scorched earth, but there was only this long, endless corridor, walls slick with beads of moisture, and veins of iron and quartz reflecting faintly, like the eyes of waiting predators.

Esme seemed to know the way, and Gwendolyn followed in silence, freezing in her boots when they unexpectedly encountered a Fae guard.

Undaunted, Esme moved to greet him, giving him something. He nodded, then stepped aside to allow passage, and Esme returned.

“Do you trust him?” Gwendolyn asked, worried. For this to work, they could not allow themselves to be caught.

“I do,” said Esme. “He loathes Lord Elric.”

“Why?”

“Because he once dared to woo that fool daughter of his, and for that, Elric lopped off the points of his ears.” Gwendolyn winced, reaching out to touch her own phantom points.

“What did you give him?”

“A vial of mad honey made by giant bees in the Himālaya. It produces visions, a bit like pookies.”

“Hmm,” was all Gwendolyn said. Thereafter, they descended by stairwell deep into the caves below the city, and the further they descended, the colder it grew.

Gwendolyn’s breath coalesced before her, and her eyes strained against the dimming light.

On Esme’s insistence, she had opted for a coat, but now wished she were draped in heavy fur, and only belatedly remembered how badly she’d longed for her father’s cloak the last time she was here.

This was yet another disappointing bit of proof of how very mortal she was. For her part, Esme seemed perfectly content in her vellum-thin garb. She moved along; her steps sure and silent, a stark contrast to Gwendolyn’s cautious tread.

It would hardly suit her—or anyone—if she broke her mortal bones. “The cold does not bother you?” she asked, her voice bouncing off the cavern walls.

Esme glanced over her shoulder with a smile sharp as the stalactites. “Nope,” she said. “I spent more time in these warrens than a mole rat in its burrow.”

Gwendolyn pulled her coat tighter about herself; the fabric was scarcely sufficient against the biting cold.

The constant drip of water echoed persistently as they moved deeper into the labyrinthine passageways, her boots slipping occasionally on the slick stones.

She kept one hand trailing along the rough wall for balance, her thoughts drifting to Arachne—the spider-woman who had both aided and perplexed her in equal measure.

Perhaps sensing her disquiet, Esme slowed the pace to allow Gwendolyn to catch up. And thereafter, they traveled together, speaking at length of Trevena and Bryn…

“He was heartbroken when you left,” Gwendolyn provided.

“Not for long, I vow.” Esme’s tone was mordant, mayhap revealing more hurt than she was comfortable allowing. “He always had such a fascination with Taryn—or, rather, she with him.”

A moment of contemplative silence passed between them.

“Or perhaps it was his life as a Shadow. Though Bryn always welcomed her attention.”

“So you left out of jealousy?”

“Gods, no!” Esme cackled, the sound echoing eerily through the chilly cavern. “I left because it was not my place to stay, Gwendolyn. I was not born for that realm. My home is here—and I do mean here . So much as my kindred yearn for a return to the homelands, I remember why we left.”

She pursed her lips, the half-light flickering across her aquiline features. “In truth, I could not bear the thought of loving a mortal, only to lose him in a few short years.”

Truth. Gwendolyn sensed that was her true reason—and for the first time, she dared to consider if that was also the reason Málik did not stay to be with her.

Here, she would defy age, even as a mortal, as did Emrys and Amergin, but there in the mortal lands, he would have stood by, watching Gwendolyn die—for wasn’t that the journey for every human?

From the moment they were born, they were destined to die.

For so long, Gwendolyn had believed Esme selfish and cruel to leave Bryn with no explanations, but now she considered her sister was a kinder soul than she herself could ever be.

“Was there anything you did not reveal about Málik’s father I should know?”

“No,” said Esme. “This is not his story, Gwendolyn. It is yours and Málik’s. It is ours. Whatever the Dark One’s reason for leaving, it has little to do with us, and it is not our way to pry.”

Gwendolyn knew that was true. Demelza, her mother’s maid, was right about this: The Fae were not forthcoming—not even when relations were close.

“You still haven’t revealed your plan.”

“It’s very simple,” said Esme. “We’re going to see Arachne.”

“Arachne?!”

“Indeed.”

“Why?”

She turned to smile at Gwendolyn now. “To ask her for a new cloak.”

“A new cloak? Why would I need another?” Gwendolyn’s brow furrowed as she maneuvered through a narrow passageway. “Art certain you know where we are going?” She didn’t remember any of these passages. But Esme’s pace didn’t falter, her gaze fixed ahead.

“The cloak she wove for you before concealed your true nature, yes? Well, this time, we intend to ask her to weave one that reveals you instead.”

“And yes,” she concluded. “I know where we are.”

“Is that possible?”

Esme’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Everything is possible with Arachne’s weaving.”

“Will she do it? She?—”

“She had to call the guards, Gwendolyn. If she had not, she would have sealed her own fate. It was always the plan to hand you over to Aengus without a fight. You cannot have imagined we would ever allow you to march into that hall wielding demands and a sword?”

Gwendolyn sighed. “But if that was ‘the plan’ all along, why didn’t you save me the trouble and hand me over from the beginning, instead of leaving me to ferret my way through this wilderness of stone?”

“Everything happened as it should,” Esme avowed, moving with feline grace from step to step, from ledge to ledge, and path to path. “At any rate, if Arachne knows what is good for her, she’ll do as we ask. No good will ever come to her if Elric seizes the throne.”

“Is that possible?”

“Yes. Why do you think I sought Málik’s father so relentlessly? Your lover was out of his mind, without direction. Meanwhile, Elric was busy wooing the Shadow Court. I returned with Málik, but he did not realize. I was here only a few days before I realized something must be done about Elric.”

“Twenty-two years is a long time to be gone,” Gwendolyn allowed.

“In mortal years,” Esme said. “But at any rate, it took me a long time to find him, and then a longer time to convince him to even speak to me. Elric holds some dark secret over the Banished Wyrm, and whatever it is, he did not wish for Málik to learn it.”

“What do you think it could be?”

“I don’t know,” said Esme. “Everyone has secrets,” she allowed.

“His father should be the one to choose whether to share his. We’re almost there,” she said, as the path curved around a bend, then abruptly ended in another slick, uneven stairwell—this one, thankfully shorter.

Esme took the lead, descending quickly, and Gwendolyn noted the air perfumed with the scent of something sweet— what was that?

“Where are we? What is that smell?”

“It is the path to the Old City,” Esme explained. “No one ever uses it anymore. However, the way to Arachne’s lair is shorter this way, and no one will consider you might know the way, much less how to navigate these corridors. And… the smell… it’s from a plant only found at these depths.”

They continued their descent; the light dimming as they moved deeper underground. The air grew cooler, but somehow sweeter with the scent.

“Arachne uses it as bait.”

Gwendolyn thought about the pile of bones she’d spied in Arachne’s lair and shuddered—not because of the chill.

She also remembered the sickeningly sweet scent of the Rot and wondered if this could be the same.

What travelers wandered so deep into the Underlands?

She thought of knockers and miners and wondered what role knockers played in the miners’ disappearances. And was this where they ended?

And more specifically, in Arachne’s pile of bones?

Their banter faded as the path before them grew more precarious, and Gwendolyn feared they would meander for days, when the spider’s lair suddenly appeared.

She knew it for the massive, silvery webs that covered the entrance, the glimmering strands catching the light and refracting it in mesmerizing patterns.

“Art ready?” Esme whispered.

“Yes,” Gwendolyn said nervously.

But really, was she?

“Very well. Let us go visit our eight-legged friend.”

The instant Gwendolyn and Esme crossed the threshold of her lair, Arachne skittered from the shadows, her eyes glinting not with malice, but with an unexpected warmth.

“Welcome, Daughter of Two Realms! Welcome!” she said.

“Once again, I’ve been expecting you.” Her countenance was beautiful as ever, with her long black hair and eyes heavily painted with kohl.

Despite that, as lovely as she was, she was a terrifying blend of human and arachnid, with six woolly legs and two human arms protruding from human shoulders.

She moved to hug Gwendolyn and, as alarming as the thought might have once been, Gwendolyn not only allowed the embrace, but returned it.

“I am sorry for betraying you to Aengus,” said Arachne, as she squeezed, hard—so hard that Gwendolyn feared she would pop!

“No need,” said Gwendolyn, with a heartfelt sigh. “I understand.” If all things were connected, it applied no less to circumstance. She was beginning to understand every piece of this vast puzzle. Even Arachne’s betrayal had been an act of kindness.

Esme cleared her throat impatiently. “As touching as this reunion may be, time is of the essence. We need your help, Arachne.”

Releasing Gwendolyn, Arachne stepped back to appraise Gwendolyn with keen, dark eyes. “I know,” she replied, gesturing for them to follow into her lair. “You need a new cloak.”

“Can you provide it?” Gwendolyn asked.

“Of course, Child,” Arachne said, in very much the same tone Demelza had so often used to address her.

“However, you must use it carefully. Once you decide what you want, simply place the cloak about your shoulders. But you must be certain what you want, because you can lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to the cloak.”

“What will it cost me?”

Arachne’s answering cackle echoed through the cavern.

“Cost you? Child, the question isn’t what it will cost , but what you will gain—or lose.

Art prepared for the Court to see you as you are?

Can you deny your mortal lands, forsake your beloved Cornwall?

The cloak will know, and make no mistake, whatever it decides, that is who you will be. ”

Arachne’s many-jointed fingers danced through the air, gesturing wildly, and then she stopped to retrieve a length of cloth that lay upon a stool.

“Here,” she said, holding up the cloak. She paused before handing it over. “But be warned… and be prepared.”

“She is,” Esme asserted. “Give her the cloak. Really, Arachne, must you make every presentation so dramatic?”

“Would you begrudge me?” said Arachne, and Esme shook her head. Arachne smiled.

Nervous now, Gwendolyn’s blue-gray eyes met Arachne’s black ones, and then her sister’s green ones, searching. “How can you be so certain I am ready?”

A wry smile tugged at Esme’s lips. “Because you possess something we never had—a warm, beating heart. And this is your strength, Gwendolyn, not your weakness.”

Her expression softened. “Besides… you have me.”

“The Shadow Court will underestimate you,” predicted Arachne. “Use it to your advantage.” And then, at last, she handed Gwendolyn the cloak.

Unlike Arachne’s first gift, and more like the tapestries, there was nothing common to this cloak. The air hummed with magic, and the pearlescent fabric rippled like liquid starlight, casting prismatic reflections across the walls of the lair.

Gwendolyn’s fingers trembled as she reached out to touch the shimmering fabric, marveling over its incredible design. It felt cool to the touch, like water made solid. “Breathtaking,” she whispered, and all her fears were momentarily assuaged in the presence of such beauty.

Esme whistled. “Well, if that doesn’t make the court take notice, I don’t know what will.”

Arachne released the cloak, and Gwendolyn said gratefully, “How can I ever thank you?”

“For what, Child?”

“For this gift… for your wisdom… for your friendship… it means more than words can express.”

“You will thank me by facing that viper of a court with your head high, Gwendolyn. Show them the strength that lies in being one’s true self…

and then, later…” She grinned. “If it pleases you, perhaps you may loosen the terms of my exile. No doubt, I prefer to remain here—this place is more to my liking. Yet I do so crave the court now and again, and I may even return to weaving tapestries.”

Gwendolyn nodded. “Consider it done.”

“How far we have come,” Arachne purred, her silken hair shining against the golden light of her cavern, as she stepped back to allow Gwendolyn to leave with the gift of her cloak. Clutching it to her breast, Gwendolyn gave a nod to Esme.

“Art ready?” asked Esme.

Gwendolyn nodded again, but as they turned to leave, she turned once more to the spider-woman. “Thank you,” she said warmly.

“Art welcome,” Arachne said, and thereafter, Gwendolyn and Esme took their leave, hoping to be back before Málik came looking.

“You know,” said Esme after they had departed, her tone uncharacteristically sober, “I will stand by you, no matter what happens in that cesspool of a court.”

Gwendolyn felt a surge of affection for her half-sister. “I know,” she said with certainty, because she did. Through everything, Esme had been there for her… the first to stand in her defense—even against Málik when the occasion demanded.

“Art nervous?”

“I am,” Gwendolyn admitted. “I am only wondering… if I will still be...me.”

Esme snorted, a sound that was oddly comforting in its familiarity. “Please! You will always be maddeningly you. But it might interest you to know how little any of it changed you as Gwendolyn. Now is your moment of truth, Gwendolyn.”