Page 4 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)
Chapter Two
J ust as predicted, a portal appeared along the horizon, its rim all but lost in the blush of sunlight, so that for a moment, it seemed nothing more than a trick of the clouds—a mere shimmer, pale and fleeting.
Crossing her arms against the cool, brisk wind, Gwendolyn inhaled a salt-laden breath, anticipation tickling at her belly like a thousand piskie wings.
How desperately she longed to see him!
To reach out.
Touch him.
Trace the sharp contours of his face…
Throughout these twenty-two years, she had met no one who could make her feel the way he did. No one who could set her blood afire. No one consumed her thoughts as completely as did Málik from the moment their eyes met across the courtyard in Trevena.
Remembering, she closed her eyes…
He was so damned arrogant—so full of himself, so insufferably haughty, and perhaps it was all the worse because Gwendolyn had loved him from the very first, despite that he’d barely spared her a glance.
To her, he was no less than a god—every hair atop his head utterly divine.
But to him? She had been—at least so she’d believed—a burdensome task, foisted upon him by her father.
The humiliation of it still burned in her chest. How furious she had been when her father demoted Bryn and assigned Málik in his stead.
She’d sworn to show Málik no mercy, and yet, repeatedly, he’d bested her on the court, putting her flat on her back and leaving her a sweaty, unhappy mess—not that her misery could be blamed solely on the sparring.
Even now, her pulse quickened as she recalled the way his lithe body moved, so graceful and sure, his bastard sword flickering like quicksilver beneath the afternoon sun.
Even when she’d tried to convince herself she despised him—loathed him—she had been utterly captivated by the power and beauty of his form…
And all the while, she burned to defeat him.
To prove herself worthy of his notice.
To force him—if only for a moment—to see her.
It wasn’t until much later that she’d learned the truth of his feelings, and even now, she remembered the shock in his icebourne eyes as he watched the snips of her hair tumble like golden leaves into her lap… eyes wide with mortification over what it revealed…
True love— the kind that transcends all.
And yet so much had happened since that day, and Gwendolyn feared the time they had spent apart. But she dared to hope…
Did he long for her as she did for him?
That day—so long ago now, it seemed another life—on the blood-soaked fields outside Lundinium, she had so much wished for him to turn, just once.
To look back. And if he had—if he’d so much as glanced over his shoulder—she would have gone after him.
Gods, she would have run. Crown be damned.
Aisling be damned. But he never did. He rode away, and with him, took a piece of Gwendolyn’s heart.
The memory of his back, his broad shoulders shrinking into the mist, haunted her even now—like a wound that never healed.
Perhaps in some secret place, she had longed to rip off her father’s crown and chase after him, to let the world burn for all she cared.
But queens did not chase lovers.
Not even be they kings.
So she had stood there, watching him go.
Alas…twenty-two years was a long time, and her face was no longer given to the bloom of youth.
Her golden curls were not so bright and bore a few strands of gray.
Her face was beginning to reveal lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and for all that she had lived, the wide-eyed wonder of her youth had long-since faded, replaced by a more thoughtful gaze.
Would he still find her lovely, as he’d once claimed?
Gwendolyn was not so vain, but she knew age would not have touched his face, and she wished so much that she could turn back time. Closing her eyes, she allowed the salt mist to spray her face as she whispered a fervent prayer to every god who would listen.
Please, please…do not let him forget me.
Gwendolyn no longer knew what she believed.
So much of what she had learned though experience, gave lie to the Awenydds’ tales .
And no matter that she herself had spent some time in the Underlands, the years now left her uncertain.
Were it not for the cloak she wore and the Sword of Light she gave to Habren, she would have had nothing to prove her time in the Underlands was not simply a fevered dream.
Absently, her fingers stroked the threads of the Orb Weaver’s cloak, remembering the day Arachne had given it to her.
The spider woman’s obsidian eyes had glittered with knowing as she’d pressed the coat into Gwendolyn’s hands—a cloak meant to shield her true form from the Fae king’s sight, and now she wondered…
Would it soften her age?
Would it allow him to see her as she once was? Or perhaps, would it reveal the truth of the years that had passed, the lines etched by worry and longing more than any physical aging?
The portal before her shimmered more vibrantly now, its edges blurring with the colors of dawn.
A storm was brewing, and Manannán had already warned her that if they did not reach the portal in time, it would be another turning of the season before it would open again, but not to the place she most wished to go.
Four times every year, those portals appeared, each time to a different realm—once to the Isle of Mona, another to the Underlands, another to Hyperborea, and the ultimate time to the Lands of Eternal Winter.
But though Manannán could command the portals, he could never pass through them himself.
That was his curse. They were his to command, but never to traverse.
So he claimed, and so it was—every god held that power, or so they believed. Yet whether they themselves were welcome on the far side of the Veil was not for them to decide. That, he said, depended upon the hearts of those who dwelt within. The judgment belonged to them alone.
The sound of Manannán’s voice startled her from her reverie.
“We haven’t much time,” he said, approaching. “Art ready?”
“I am,” Gwendolyn replied, spinning to face him.
Theirs was a fledgling relationship, born of her desire to see Málik, but, to Gwendolyn’s surprise, Manannán was not what she had once supposed. A sea god he might be, but here and now, standing alongside her, she found his heart in his eyes.
He was simply an old man—one she’d been parted from for too long.
“You must beware,” he said, worry clouding his tone. “The path you’ve set upon is not without perils. And, as I’ve said, Gwendolyn, I can only carry you to the threshold. Once you disembark, I will have no means to defend you, nor even to retrieve you… not without help.”
“I understand,” she said, resolved, and the old man sighed.
His voice was gruff with disguised emotion. “Remember your lessons! The Fae are overly capricious, with politiks more twisted than a wych elm!”
She did not doubt his warning, but she laughed at the finger he wagged. “There is no danger I would not face… for him,” she reassured.
During her time Below, Gwendolyn had encountered more than a few foes. But none so chilling as the denizens of the Fae Court themselves, whose unsparing gazes she would not soon forget.
At no point had she felt welcome in that vipers’ nest, and she bore no illusions they would be pleased with her return.
No doubt. Were they to have it their way, she would find herself in another gilded cage.
And no matter—her gaze returned to the shimmering portal—she would brave anything for the promise of Málik’s arms.
Manannán’s voice, when he spoke, was heavy with regret. “There is also this to consider… after all the years we’ve spent apart, your decision also means you and I may never meet again.”
At this, a pang of sorrow pierced Gwendolyn, sharp and sudden.
During the short time they’d spent together, she cherished his wisdom and gentle guidance.
For all the brevity of their acquaintance, she treasured his wisdom, the gentle cadence of his guidance, and the comfort of his presence.
The months spent waiting for the portal’s return had passed in long, meandering conversations—about the Fae rebellion, about his place among the gods, about his exile from the Underlands.
He told her everything, it seemed, except anything about herself, and always with the same excuse: that he was forbidden to speak of her life before Trevena.
It surprised her, then, to learn that the one to whom he was sworn was Gwendolyn herself.
She could not forgive the oath she’d forced upon him, unwittingly or not, as his daughter.
Worse still, she had bound him never to seek her, and the duty he bore was not merely loyalty, but a transaction—one that bound him beyond even a god’s decree.
Whatever it was he kept from her, he believed it would endanger her in the Underlands.
And so, she was left with only questions, and the ache of knowing that, by her own hand, she might have lost him forever.
“Does Málik know about this thing you will not speak of?” she’d asked him.
Silence was his response, and again when she’d inquired about Esme. His silence had been heavy, almost pregnant with unspoken words.
“There are things beyond even my reach, Child,” he’d said at last, his voice subdued, edged with regret. Manannán was nothing like her mortal father, but Gwendolyn cared for him just the same, and the thought of never seeing him again genuinely aggrieved her.