Page 6 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter Three

B edecked for the occasion, every aspect of the King’s Hall has been artfully designed to mirror a world my kind has been denied.

Portieres billow with an unseen breeze, fronds of green spill over the edges of urns, their twisting roots escaping across the floor, as though the woodlands sought to reclaim this space from which it had been so long banished.

Most maddening of all is that wretched ceiling—a living masterpiece accurately depicting the cycles of day and night, complete with sunrises and sunsets painted in every shade of its creation.

Some hours ago, I commanded that cycle’s disruption, declaring that, for the remainder of these “festivities,” it should remain a never-ending length of night…

Dark and joyless.

Like my mood.

And if anyone should wonder how long the Fae can dance… my last count before commanding those cycles to end numbered eight-thousand, thirty…

One.

For.

Every.

Mortal.

Day.

I.

Have.

Borne.

Without.

Her.

More than twenty-two years have passed since I last glimpsed Gwendolyn’s face, and still the pain of our parting hasn’t dulled one gob. It has simply transformed, reshaping itself into this cancerous sorrow that spreads through my veins with every beat of my immortal heart.

How old is she now?

Forty-one? Two?

Her life will pass in the blink of an eye, and regardless, I will love her at seventy, her blue eyes dulled by age, and even into the grave, when there is naught left but bones.

And make no mistake, I would crawl into that tomb, and there remain if I could.

Do you think I would not?

If so, then you have forgotten I am a monster—a sordid creature only saved by the heart that now beats only for her.

No empyreal decree nor courtly machination can steer the course of a love so deep, so all-consuming, it does not recognize the passing of decades, but grows stronger with each passing day.

If I could command it so, I would halt time’s relentless march, keeping her vibrant and fierce, with laughter that could light the darkest corners of any realm.

But I cannot.

And I have already put off this decision for too long.

Lirael’s eyes brighten as I shove my arse out of the throne.

Joy?

Triumph?

I curse silently, imagining the machinations to come.

She is her father’s daughter, after all, and whilst she might have presented a facade of gentility to this court, I know that gleam in her eyes—a blinding, diamond-hard ambition that outshines any jewel in this hall.

But this is a malady that consumes us all.

We are Fae, and greed is the marrow of our bones, the root of our banishment, the silent architect of every wound we have ever caused or suffered.

We are not creatures of harmony; we are the children of acquisitiveness, grown monstrous in our exile, forever denied the world we crave.

I see myself in Lirael’s ambition, and in that cruel reflection I recognize every ancestor who ever lived, every offspring who will ever be born. Without Gwendolyn, I am simply another link in the same unbreakable chain.

My legs grow heavy with the gravity of my decision, and the court’s attention shifts.

Every eye now turns to me. Every face—painted in the cold light of a false moon—betrays a singular, primal anticipation.

With leaden steps, I move to the edge of the dais, then pause, my gaze drifting across the assembled.

And for all anyone knows, I have paused merely to allow the import of this moment to settle, but it is to still my beating heart.

I will speak the words, then die a little, even as Lirael smiles.

My hands clench and unclench at my sides as I dare to meet Lord Elric’s gaze.

Gods know. If there were any hope for joy—any at all apart from my beloved—I would choose a bride other than Lord Elric’s simpering daughter.

But even as I consider this, I know I will not.

If I cannot have Gwendolyn, a union with Lirael will serve its purpose, even if thereafter, I will become a puppet king.

I will command the military, and matters of High Law, but what I eat, how I eat it, where I eat it, and with whom shall be dictated by her .

She will be the master of my demesne, and I, her unwilling slave—a huntsman again, only this time for an unworthy queen.

Choking down my bitterness, I begin. “Ladies...lords of this court...” My smile is tight, insincere. “As you all know...this occasion is long overdue...”

My regard turns to Lirael, standing tall in her costume of silks, so confident in her victory. Unflinching, her eyes meet mine as the rest of the court draws a breath.

My answering smile is forced, and the words taste like ash in my mouth, “The realm has too long been without an heir,” I add, flicking a glance toward Lord Elric and the odious smirk that carves its way across his visage is as intolerable to me as his politiks .

I yearn to wipe it off his face. A few bawdy jokes filter to my ears, but I’ve no impetus to laugh.

There is no humor here, and nothing appealing about the thought of bedding Lirael Silvershade.

Nothing about her stirs my passion

I do not thrill over the thought of progeny borne of her womb.

The weight of the moment is lost to no one.

“I have…at last…chosen… your queen.”

Theirs, not mine. I pause, drawing a breath to steel myself for the words to come…

words that will forever seal my fate. Indeed, if for us words are binding, vows are indissoluble.

Once betrothed, our destinies will be inextricably bound, and the only thing that may free me is death—hers or mine.

The only reason I am free to choose again is that, by making herself a changeling, Gwendolyn broke our bond.

It matters not that I’ve shared with her my essence.

As a mortal, she will never be my soulmate, no matter how much I wish it.

Anticipation churns through the air like a storm on the verge of breaking.

The court waits in silence, eager to devour my words.

Even the Faerie Flames freeze in their dance.

“I choose?—”

The doors to the hall burst wide with a resounding smash, and a collective gasp reverberates through the gathered.

My head whips about.

I feel her before I see her.

Gwendolyn.

Standing in the entrance of my hall, her presence commands the attention of every creature within, including mine—most decidedly mine.

Blink , I command myself.

Can it be?

Gods. Nay…

The jolt of seeing her again after so long strikes me like a bolt of lightning, leaving me momentarily mute, and my mind a tempest of emotions.

Lovely as ever, she stands poised at the threshold, her fiery tresses cascading about her shoulders like a torrent of fire. Her gray eyes sparkle with a touch of defiance, and her gaze finds me, provoking a surge of emotions so powerful I stagger slightly where I stand.

But in the space of that eternal moment, as our eyes meet, my heart pounds, and my blood sings. She smiles, and the sight of it robs me of my breath.

Dressed plainly compared to the denizens of my court, the lack of ornamentation only serves to enhance her natural beauty. Her eyes, stormy as ever, but driven, scan the gathered nobility, holding everyone—including me—enthralled.

“Pardon,” she says.

No one replies.

Not even me.

At long last, she has come, and I am as inept as a babe, unable to speak, even to reassure her, or even to greet her.

“I…seek…an audience…with…your king,” she says haltingly, speaking at large to my court, while her gaze is fixed on mine. All eyes turn to me, awaiting my response—to oust her from this hall, no doubt. But there is one thing I know as surely as I breathe… I will not.

“Approach,” I say, then wince, because I am a mindless cretin—undone by the mere sight of her. My voice, when it escapes, is harsher than it needs to be to cover my awkwardness.

She lifts her chin, at once complying, crossing the hall, parting my courtiers like the queen she is, and I can’t help but grin—the first genuine expression of joy in all the years since we parted.

The court hums, the sound rising like a tide of discontent. I pay them no heed, all my attention focused on this woman who’d once dared stand up, not only to me and that foolish mortal she’d once wed, but to Aengus as well.

Indeed, the last time she stood in this very hall, Aengus’ head found itself at my feet…and now she advances with the same fearless resolve. Every step echoes across the polished stone floor, resonating within my body, and returning a measure of life to my once-dead heart.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It hurts to breathe, but the ache feels like a sweet torture as it renews sensations long forgotten.

Her proximity, the very air that swirls around her, is intoxicating, and with every step she takes toward me, the world seems to right itself after long being askew.

My courtiers whisper among themselves, their voices a cacophony of indignation…

“It cannot be!”

“That’s her!”

“Banríon na bhfear!”

“Why is she here?”

And so on, and so on…

A tide of protests rises as they recognize her—older now, with a measure of wisdom etched into those once-youthful features. There is newfound maturity in her carriage. But her fire remains.

“Kingslayer!” someone shouts, and my guards advance.

I lift a hand, commanding them to a halt.

At once, they obey, placing hands upon the hilts of their swords, ready to draw at my command.

Again, I will not.

If Gwendolyn came to me now with sword in hand, commanding me to kneel, I would lay myself prostrate at her feet.

Lirael stiffens as she passes, a mask of fury settling over her delicate features, her too-blue eyes narrowing to slits as she watches Gwendolyn with barely concealed malice.

Lord Elric stiffens, too, his smug expression dissolving into one of surprise, then contempt, and he leans into his daughter to administer words of prudence.

It is still my court; one word from me would see them arrested. For all his power and influence, he does not yet possess my crown.

Gwendolyn never hesitates in her stride, and I’d have flown down those bloody stairs to sweep her into my arms, but I suddenly fear I’ve lost my mind.

What else might explain her presence here when the portals are idle?

Surely this is a dream? But if it is, I should never wake…

And then I scent her…the evidence of our bond—as real and true as the blood that courses through my veins.

I once warned her that our mating would mark her as mine, and there it is, like the lingering refrain of a half-remembered melody I cannot will away, no matter how I try. The shape and substance of it floods my senses, sweet as blood oranges at high summer.

It is not a mere human memory, nor the feeble chemistry of mortals.

It is a living thing, the ancient magic of our kindred, a thread woven deeper than conscious thought.

And though I know the bond should have faded after all these years—should have withered like so much neglected vine, it thrums with life and I am overwhelmed by it, nearly brought to my knees by its relentless certainty.

The crown, my Shadow Court, the bitter eyes of every peer and pretender—none of it matters beside this echoing pulse. I cannot remember if I ever felt so alive…or so vulnerable.

The court, for all its pride, senses it too.

Some shrink back as though burned.

Others lean in with a kind of hungry awe.

Her eyes hold mine—a myriad of emotions swirling within their depths.

Two thoughts assault my brain at once—one of relief, and one of dread…for chaos is what she brings today, even if she comes in peace.

For a moment, the entire world holds its breath.

The whispers of my court fade away.

All I see is her—the one who haunts my dreams.

And the sight of her fills me with a wild, reckless hope.