Page 24 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)
Chapter Sixteen
U pon returning to the city, Gwendolyn and Esme entered through the city gates—the same gates Gwendolyn was once paraded through by a horde of rude Fae. Only this time, there were no witnesses to her abasement.
No Fae, few piskies , no trolls, no brownies—only the whisper of their footsteps echoing through a peaceful lane.
Their passage went unimpeded.
It was difficult to believe she was voluntarily marching herself to the King’s Hall, where so long ago they’d hung her from a gilded cage. But on this day, unlike that day, Gwendolyn would march proudly, with her head held high.
But she knew this should not be so easy.
The cloak on her arm lay as light as a breath, still heavy as a king’s ransom.
She could feel its power thrumming, eager to be used, but for now, she held it close, cleaving to the last vestiges of her mortal self, strangely reticent to abandon her human form, now that she understood what was to come.
Every step toward the King’s Hall invited both hope and regret—for her mother, for Habren and Bryn, for Taryn, for Ely, and for a hundred thousand Cornish souls whose lives Gwendolyn had defended and shaped.
Gods knew, if Málik’s love was her soul’s true north, Cornwall had been her beating heart—a land rugged and wild, fierce as the sea that pounded its shores.
But she had willingly left and wanted more than anything to be with Málik—would the cloak understand?
She and Esme walked in silence, Esme’s gait filled with more confidence than Gwendolyn’s.
Until they approached the massive doors of the King’s Hall, and Esme stopped, glancing at Gwendolyn, her expression sober.
“Remember, whatever happens… you are not alone.” Her hand reached out to squeeze Gwendolyn’s once before releasing it.
Blood and bones.
If the central plaza felt abandoned, the King’s Hall was not. It was thick with creatures by the time they arrived. Word of Gwendolyn’s impending trial had already spread, and the court was clearly eager to witness a spectacle.
Whispers rose in tide:
“Is that her?”
“Where is the king?”
“Why is he not with her?”
“Is that Esme?!”
“Where has she been?”
“Is the king dead?”
Dead?! Gwendolyn threw Esme a glance filled with terror, horrified to think that they might have sent Málik into a trap.
The mood of the Hall was that of a sepulcher.
And despite that, she dared not falter, advancing with Esme falling a pace behind, her gaze registering a sea of hostile faces.
And now, she noted the glitter of rings and signet blades…
The subtle positioning of guards at strategic points along the hall’s perimeter.
Every noble family stood arrayed in their colors—incarnadine, obsidian, venomous green—and Gwendolyn was struck at once by a sense of peril.
Beautiful, treacherous creatures, here, beauty was a blade honed for courtly war, and every smile a wolf’s grin. And Gwendolyn was the sacrificial lamb…
No one stepped forward to greet her.
No one barred her path.
Up on the dais, standing beside the Horned Throne, stood the entire Shadow Court, with Elric Silvershade and his daughter Lirael most prominent among them, their faces set in identical masks of cold anticipation.
Málik was not present, and his absence struck Gwendolyn harder than she might have expected. Where was he?
The trial was not supposed to be held until the morrow—or had they been gone so long? The Púca had once told her that time in the Underlands did not behave as it did in the mortal world.
Gwendolyn felt a stone settle in her stomach, cold and hard.
Was this a trap?
Was Esme a part of it?
Málik, as well?
Nay, it couldn’t be so.
Gwendolyn couldn’t bear that thought, but even as the Fae realm shifted time’s flow, the mood of its denizens shifted more capriciously.
How many times had she wondered about Málik and Esme’s loyalty…
But how many times had they proven their love?
As the weight of unease tightened around Gwendolyn, Esme leaned close and said, with a smile that was far too… amused ? “They are ready to eat you alive, sister.”
“Well, I hope it chokes them,” Gwendolyn returned, never taking her eyes from the dais.
“They’ve wasted no time,” said Esme. “Elric, the bastard.”
A bell tolled somewhere, its note so low it vibrated to the marrow of Gwendolyn’s bones. She continued forward with measured, deliberate steps, her pulse thrumming in her ears like a war drum, and catching sight of her, a steward rushed forward, with livery black as night—the Shadow Court?
He lifted his voice to address the hall: “Presenting herself for trial… Gwendolyn of Cornwall, Queen of Men, Consort to our King, His Majesty, Málik Danann!”
A susurration swept the assembled; no one bowed. Instead, the crowd squealed, and pressed closer. Meanwhile, on the dais, Lirael’s lips parted into a sneer.
“How charming. She arrives dressed as a peasant expecting to rule.”
Gwendolyn glowered at her. She’d been given no time to return to her bower to trade her travel attire for an appropriate gown.
Esme insisted she wear something warm but serviceable—olive wool and undyed linen, scarcely fit for a queen.
Against the glitter of gems and silks adorning the gathered nobility, Gwendolyn’s costume made her look more a shepherdess than a queen. But she didn’t need gems or gold.
Undaunted, she straightened her spine, lifting her chin, and silence descended, every creature’s attention fixed upon her as she moved purposefully toward the dais.
Lord Elric turned. “Welcome!” he said. “I’m so pleased to see you are not so indisposed as our king would suggest. Such courage you have, to come unescorted to our court of justice. But I hope you brought something more than a mortal’s pride to vindicate yourself.”
Gwendolyn wanted more than anything to do what she did last time—draw her blade, slice that fool’s head from his shoulders, but she’d come unarmed.
Esme did not, however. Her sister drew a blade, then pointed it directly at Lord Elric, a promise in her emerald gaze. “Choose your words well, High Lord Minister,” she said. “Lest your tongue need trimming!”
Elric regarded the challenge with lazy amusement, inclining his head slightly, then flicking his gaze to the council. “The prodigal daughter returns,” he said. “She who would abandon the court in its hour of need to champion a mortal queen.”
“Our laws are not prone to sentiment,” declared a member of the Shadow Court, a pallid senior whose robes shimmered like a trout in moonlit water.
Lord Maelon concurred and said, “Hear, hear!”
But then, he surprised Gwendolyn by adding, “It is the burden of the accused to demonstrate her claim before the eyes of all. However, Lord Elric, we shall mind our words until that time—” He shot Esme a warning glare. “As well as our blades.”
“Oh, please! Let the trial commence!” Lirael exclaimed, her beauty hardened and cruel. She raised a white-gloved hand, and a hush rippled outward from the dais, stilling every motion.
“Already, she behaves as though she is queen—even without the crown,” said Esme angrily. But Gwendolyn said nothing, well aware of all eyes upon her.
She steadied her breath, ignoring the derisive laughter bubbling up from the pit of the court, and clutching the Cloak of Visibility close to her breast, she advanced through the ranks, intending to take her place on the King’s Dais.
By the eyes of Lugh! She would not don this cloak in the thick of it all, lest her change not be witnessed and her testimony be forsworn.
More than anything, she wished to be standing next to Málik when she revealed her true self, but whether he was there in body, he was here in spirit.
Her steps were measured, her very demeanor a challenge to the court’s scorn.
She heard Esme whisper behind her, “Stay sharp, sister.” And her courage nearly faltered.
“Easy for you to say,” Gwendolyn returned. “You’re the one holding a blade.”
“Yes, well, if I had given you one,” Esme returned. “You’d be dead by now. So thank me for that later.”
A single attendant appeared at the foot of the dais—this one dressed in Málik’s deep-green livery, and Gwendolyn recognized him as one of the guards who had led her to the feast. He escorted Gwendolyn the rest of the way up the steps, the hush of the hall so complete that even her heartbeat seemed a trespass, and all the while, her gaze sought Málik. Where could he be?
At the apex, Lirael’s pale blue eyes scoured her, not so much a muscle twitching to betray the delight she took in Gwendolyn’s predicament.
“Well now,” said Lord Elric. “Now that we are all here....”
Not everyone! Gwendolyn longed to shout, but if she raised her voice, she might weep.
“Let us proceed,” Elric Silvershade announced, his voice a smooth treacle of authority that hid the venom beneath.
The entire hall echoed his sentiment with murmurs of assent.
Gwendolyn’s gaze swept over the faces, finding no friend save Esme. No matter, she steadied herself, then spoke, her voice loud enough for all to hear. “I’ve come at your behest, Lord Ministers. You asked for proof of my birthright? So here! Witness my proof!”
Lirael, her eyes wild and sharp as splinters, barked a laugh.
“How will you manage, Queenling? Will you sprout wings? Tear your flesh to show us the creature beneath?” Her laugh was a cackle, and Esme growled, ready to intervene.
Gwendolyn lifted a staying hand as Esme scoffed her complaint to the Shadow Court.
“They always think we are something we are not,” she said. “Mortals!”
The time was now, with or without Málik.