Page 5 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)
She met his gaze now, her blue eyes awash with tears, and reached out to clasp his hands in her own.
“Words can never express my gratitude for everything you have done…for all you will do. But I need to go.” In fact, standing on the precipice of her old life and the possibilities of a new one, Gwendolyn felt a strange mix of fear and exhilaration.
No doubt, it would be a dangerous quest, navigating the intrigues of the Fae Court—a den of creatures impetuous enough to destroy her on a whim, but she was resolute.
“Promise me you’ll take care,” she implored, her voice thick with emotion.
Manannán nodded, his voice failing him. He released her hand, reaching up to brush at her cloak. “Then you must take care,” he said finally, tears hazing his eyes.
Her greatest test, he then assured, would lie within the Unseelie Court, whose members stood for traditions that were against Gwendolyn’s very existence. They would not turn a blind eye to a human and Fae union, and no matter what Gwendolyn was in her past life, she was still a mortal.
“Dark and manipulative, with loyalties woven from grievances more than love and honor, the Shadow Court will oppose you from the moment you arrive,” he said. “They will watch you with daggers drawn, prepared to strike at any sign of weakness.”
“Then I will not be weak,” she swore.
They would not find her a simpering miss—not when, as a youth, and a woman, Gwendolyn had defeated all of Pretania’s rebels, along with the Usurper she’d married, to shape a nation.
And any danger she would face Below would be inconsequential in the face of her greatest desire of all—to see Málik again, to hold him, to tell him she loved him still.
Three times he had begged her to go away with him, and three times she had denied him. His face after refusing him the last time would haunt Gwendolyn till the day she died—mayhap sooner than later if she placed herself at odds with the Shadow Court.
And still Manannán persisted, a note of melancholy in his voice. “The daughter of a god may have any man in all four kingdoms. Art certain, Gwendolyn?”
Her answer was swift. “More than ever.”
A long moment of silence unfurled between them.
Manannán mac Lir attempted to speak, but words again failed him, and a sting of tears needled at Gwendolyn’s eyes—no less sharp for the knowledge that she, too, would soon abandon everything and everyone she had ever known.
All her friends, all her allies… even her son, and Cornwall, too.
The thought of it hollowed her, but she held her tongue.
Her father regarded her with a sober, searching gaze—his ancient eyes reflecting the gray tumult of the sea itself.
He said nothing, but Gwendolyn understood well enough what she was asking of him: to relinquish any hope of mending the bond with his estranged daughter.
It was no small thing. She managed a wistful smile, her lips trembling.
“May I convey your greetings to the Púca?”
His old eyes crinkled at the corners. “Please do. Tell that curious little beast hello when you see him—and you will, sooner than me!”
It was a complaint, to be sure, though he did not voice it as such. Instead, he flashed a bright, wolfish smile. “Come along then!”
Gwendolyn’s heart leapt—then stuck, quivering, in her throat as he seized her hand and drew her after him, down the narrow path to the lonely spit of beach, where he kept his precious boat: Sguaba Tuinne —The Wave Sweeper.
Infamous it was, though in truth, only an old coracle—a mean little barque, all wickerwork and blackened bitumen, as though any amount of pitch could keep such a vessel from leaking.
To even think of braving the sea in that wicked little bowl was madness.
Yet she had come with him from Cornwall to the Isle of Man in it, and knew better than most what the coracle could endure.
It was stronger than it looked. Its oars were mere ornament—tokens for the uninitiated.
The boat was enchanted, attuned to its master’s thoughts, and would turn or speed or slow at the merest whim.
The ocean itself bent to Manannán’s whispers, and the little boat obeyed.
As Gwendolyn stepped into the boat, the vessel rocked gently beneath her feet, and she quickly settled herself onto a wooden bench in the back, her fingers curling about the boat’s edges as Manannán pushed the skiff into the surf.
Waves lapped at the gunwales, and when they were far enough out, Manannán jumped in and took his seat, his gnarled, old hands grasping the oars that would help navigate them safely across the Minch and through the Veil between worlds.
“One last time for us,” he said with a wry smile, and together in silence, they traversed the roiling deep, the sky a somber blanket of smoke, and the air crisp with the scent of the sea.
Manannán applied the oars in sync with the ocean, every stroke a verse in a poem only he understood. As they rowed out across the waves, with the wind whipping through her hair, Gwendolyn’s heart pounded with anticipation and a bit of fear.
Above, the sky became a churning mass of blustering clouds, but beneath the brewing chaos, Manannán whistled as he rowed, his every stroke sending the small skiff rolling over the waves like a feather in a tempest. Their destination lay at the heart of the sea, and as they approached the portal, the winds grew.
Gwendolyn glanced back one last time at the receding shoreline, feeling for the first time the true magnitude of her decision.
If she dared cross through, she would never again set eyes on her sweet son…
Nor Bryn.
Nor Taryn.
Nor Ely.
The weight of this truth pulled at her heart, but the image of Málik brought with it a new flood of longing as the air crackled with magic.
Thunder.
Lighting.
The sound raised the little hairs on Gwendolyn’s arms.
“Hold!” Manannán cried over the roar. “Hold!”
Like a rag doll, the tiny skiff was tossed by the fury of the ocean. Still, her father’s arms remained steady as he shouldered against their force. “We are merely tested,” he said with a grin, and Gwendolyn seized the edges of the boat as the world itself rocked, then spun.
She really wasn’t sure.
At long last, the moment of truth—when the magic of her father’s enchanted vessel would test the boundaries of the Fae and mortal realms…even against his raging sea.
Every push, every mighty swell was like a battle cry between warring worlds, guarding against trespassers. But for all their fury, nothing could hold back Manannán mac Lir, whose feat of strength was unmatched amidst gods, old and new.
The world burst into a prism of color as they plunged through the portal, and Gwendolyn clung to Sguaba Tuinne , her knuckles turning white. She felt a familiar surge, a pulse so formidable it tugged at her soul…and then…
Silence.