Page 7 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter Four

R esplendent in black, dressed in attire that hinted at the import of this occasion, Málik stood atop the King’s Dais, the Horned Crown perched upon his brow.

And seeing him there, Gwendolyn was seized by a terrible sense of déjà vu with the courtiers crowding the hall, attired in the most lavish of finery, their silks and jewels glittering beneath the torchlight.

She could not look away from Málik.

There was a question in his eyes—his blink one of surprise. But then, just as swiftly, the shock in his gaze hardened into something altogether inscrutable, and her belly plunged.

It was as though the air itself thickened; the moment stretching taut between them, and Gwendolyn could not help but wonder what he saw when he looked at her now, clothed in her mother’s wedding gown and the battered cloak given to her by Arachne.

She braced herself, heart pounding, as she waited for whatever would come next.

Was he displeased at seeing her after so long?

Had she misjudged their bond?

Let her heart lead her into folly?

Gwendolyn stood unsure of herself.

Uncertain what to say next.

Uncertain what to do.

Between them stood his courtiers, caught mid-motion like terrible, beautiful statues, their faces a study in shock.

But the moment they registered who had dared interrupt their revels, the change was swift and ugly: lips peeled back to show porbeagle teeth, anger drawing their mouths tight, eyes narrowing with naked loathing.

For a heartbeat, the air thickened with their hatred, and not one of them bothered to hide it—not from him, nor from each other.

Clearly, she had interrupted some grand affair. The hush that fell was suffocating, but—she swallowed—she was here now, and she would not be moved until she had said what she came to say.

No matter how many eyes turned to her, no matter how the courtiers bristled at her intrusion, Gwendolyn set her jaw and stood her ground.

The air was thick with expectation, and for a moment, she almost faltered, but she forced herself to breathe.

It was not as though she could vanish, nor would she wish to.

Let them glare. Let them whisper behind their jeweled hands.

She would not be cowed by their disdain.

Her heart thudded in her chest, but she would endure their scrutiny, their little barbs and jests, until her purpose was fulfilled.

If she must stand, alone, before the assembled court, then so be it.

She would not yield—not now, not ever. She lifted her chin, refusing to betray her nerves.

Here, she would stay, and she would speak, even if it cost Gwendolyn her life.

Only then, when her message was delivered, would she allow herself to go.

Not before.

Already, she’d given up too much.

It was too late to turn back.

Her father made it known that he could not return before the turning of the season; and therefore, if Málik turned her away, Gwendolyn would have nowhere to go.

Gods. The thought of wandering those dark, endless passages gave her a chill, but she did not allow anyone to see her fear. Lifting her chin, she met Málik’s gaze, her fingers curling into fists as she took another steadying breath, her heart hammering painfully.

Gods knew she needed to say something—explain her presence—but her voice was lost.

And really, she hadn’t intended to speak her heart in front of so many witnesses…

Or with so many glares fixed upon her.

Twenty-two years…

He was not the same—and yet…he was. The years had hardened him. She could tell by the steel in his jaw. He was breathtakingly beautiful, and she begged him with her eyes to know why she’d come.

She loved him—purely, desperately, and without reservation.

Another blink, and his expression softened, the icy gaze thawing a fraction.

What was she doing?

Gwendolyn could not have said, Only that when Málik’s lips parted—when words failed him and he stood, silent and stricken—a voice somewhere deep within her commanded her to go to him.

Before she could think, her feet were moving, boots striking the stone floor with a sharp, ringing echo.

Courtiers parted for her, a glittering sea of silks and jewels, their indignant whispers prickling at her back.

She ignored them all, her eyes fixed on Málik, and when the guards—alerted by her approach—reached for the hilts of their swords, she did not slow, nor did she falter.

Let them try to stop her.

As a matter of habit, her own hand sought the cold steel of her blade; but having arrived unarmed, it slid helplessly to her side and she kept moving, even as her mind spun remembrances of the last time she’d presented herself before this court—another day, before another Fae king.

That day, as today, the hall had been filled with lords and ladies with painted faces and glittering attire.

Málik had stood upon that very dais, near to where he stood right now, and the ache of his betrayal—the mind-numbing fear over what she thought he might do—now conspired to make pudding of her knees.

Gods knew the love in his eyes had been so apparent then.

And despite that, duty-bound to his court, he would have taken her head.

“ Would you have done it? ” she’d once asked him.

“ Yes,” he’d whispered.

And Gwendolyn knew it was true; he would have sliced her head from her shoulders, even if the act would shatter his soul, and knowing that, she felt her heart break anew the closer she drew, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe.

Her dread became a living thing, coiling itself about her throat like a serpent, constricting her breath.

This time, there was no prospect of retrieving any sword.

This time, she stood alone.

The Fae hissed violently among themselves, their gazes darting betwixt their king and the mortal who’d once more dared to show herself before their court.

And this time, Gwendolyn was completely defenseless—without even a proper defense for her heart. But should Málik forsake her, he might as well take her head, for without him, the future was as gray as the winter skies over Fowey Moor.

A tall, willowy Fae suddenly stepped in front of Gwendolyn, impeding her progress—an older creature with eyes like shards of diamonds. “How are you here?” she asked, her words sharp as the dagger in her pretty jeweled belt.

Beside her stood an elder male, and a young female with eyes so bright a blue they were luminescent against her pale skin.

All three of their gazes were trained upon Gwendolyn, their expressions a unified mask of disdain. But Gwendolyn wanted no trouble.

Still, she knew it would not suit her to back down, and neither would she implicate Manannán—not that the Fae could do aught to a god, but if she poisoned them against her father, she might truly never see him again.

“My explanations are the king’s alone to hear,” she said, emboldened, because, no matter how he felt about her, Málik would never allow her to be persecuted without giving her a chance to defend herself. To be sure, she cast a glance at the dais to find him watching her curiously.

“Now,” she said, turning to the courtier again. “Let me pass.”

When that failed to impress, Gwendolyn drew herself up to her full height and said, “Or would you like to hand me a blade?” Gods knew she had no desire to provoke the Fae, but she understood instinctively that they would never respect a mortal who cowered.

She wanted it clear: she had come unarmed, but she would not yield.

The lady’s eyes narrowed.

Well… lady was the fairest description.

The creature standing before her was hardly human, and “woman” did not quite suit her. Black of hair, her eyes were also dark and piercing. She laid her hand upon the hilt of her dagger, and smiled, and the tension in the air thickened, palpable as a Cornish mist.

Another heartbeat of silence passed.

And then another.

And finally—as though a levee burst—the lady stepped back, and the hall erupted into babel.

One glance at the dais revealed Málik’s half-smile, and then, at last, his voice cut through the caterwauling like a scythe through silk. “Silence!”

The whispers quieted at once.

All eyes turned to the king, awaiting his decree.

So did Gwendolyn’s, her nerves frayed.

“Come,” he said, crooking a finger at her, and without another word to the courtier, Gwendolyn bolted past her, hurrying toward the dais.

“Mother! Father! Stop her!”

At Gwendolyn’s back, the cacophony swelled, a tempest of shock and indignation; and still she hurried toward Málik, her eyes never leaving his.

“Come,” he said again once she’d ascended the stairs, and he waited patiently until she joined him, then another moment to be sure no one would follow. And without another word, he pushed Gwendolyn through a billowing partition, away from prying eyes.

The moment they were alone, he turned to face her, drawing Gwendolyn into his arms, holding her close, his body trembling even as did hers—so achingly familiar.

“Málik,” she breathed.

“You’ve come!”

Overwhelmed by emotion, Gwendolyn could only nod, words failing her entirely. How long she had prayed for this moment—how fervently she had longed to be in his arms.

And here she was.

“How? The portals?—”

“I know,” she said.

“The last time?—”

“I know,” Gwendolyn interrupted again, guessing at what he would say before he could say it, and her heart swelled with a bittersweet ache, remembering every occasion he’d begged her to go away with him…

the first time on the promontory on the return from Chysauster, then again on the ramparts in Trevena, and one last time on the fields before Lundinium.

To every occasion, she had replied: “ No. ”

“ Mo ghrá ,” he whispered— my love.

And the sound of those two beauteous words filled Gwendolyn’s eyes with tears.

Unable to resist, she clung to him, inhaling his scent—that all-too familiar blend of male spice that was uniquely his. It filled her senses, spurred memories of stolen moments and whispered promises—promises broken only by circumstance, but never forgotten.

“Without you, the years have been an endless winter,” he said hoarsely.

“I...” She drew back, searching his face. “I was afraid?—”

“Never,” he swore, and his eyes glinted with tears.

Even after all these years, the bond was strong enough for them to know each other’s sentiments, and his voice softened as he reasoned with her.

“Have I not said, Gwendolyn…you’ve been my weakness for a hundred thousand years? What are twenty-two measly years against the eternity of my love for you?”

His hands framed her face, the touch feather-light, his fingers tracing the lines that time had etched into her skin. “Stop,” she protested. “I’ve…grown…old.”

“No,” he breathed. “Art perfect,” he said, and his gentle words reassured her, even as the cacophony outside slid through the veil concealing them.

She dared to lean into his touch.

How many nights had she lain awake, aching for this?

The feel of his body against hers?

And now, here she was, precisely where she most wished to be, and she would not allow vanity to steal her moment. “I’ve missed you,” she confessed, her hands lifting to trace the contours of his still-perfect face. “Not one day passed that I did not think of you.”

His hand seized hers, dragging it down, pressing it against the beat of his heart.

“Nor I you,” he said, whispering her name again—an invocation, a prayer.

He pulled her closer as though he could merge their bodies into one, and Gwendolyn reveled in the strength of him, and in the seclusion of this alcove, their embrace was fierce.

Years of longing poured into every moment.

Even now, uncertain of what the next moment would bring, she clutched at the fabric of his tunic, terrified he might vanish if she dared release him.

“I feared I would never see you again,” she whispered against his chest.

His arms tightened about her reassuringly. “And I you,” he confessed. But then he chuckled, squeezing again, this time more gently. “Oh, but what an entrance you made!”

Gwendolyn laughed.

“Not a moment too soon!”

Beyond the alcove, the court was a boiling pot of bellows. The din beyond their sanctuary rose, voices of dissent reverberating even into the alcove, and Gwendolyn grimaced.

“I see time has not softened their disdain for me?”

It wasn’t a question; the evidence was plain to see.

“We’ve faced insurmountable odds before,” he said, kissing her forehead.

Gwendolyn smiled wanly. “Now what? It appears…we’ve sparked a new rebellion.”

“Not I,” he said with a bit of that old mordacity coloring his tone. But then he peered down at her, a perfectly wicked smile tugging at the corners of his beautiful lips.

“What are you thinking?” she whispered.

He did not hesitate. “I am thinking we should give them what they demand. Tonight, you will emerge from this alcove—no longer a queen of men, but my bride.”

Gwendolyn’s heart thudded, a wild, unsteady rhythm. “Now?!”

He regarded her, his eyes softening, though his jaw remained set. “Do you think waiting will make a difference?”

She shook her head, and something in his expression shifted—tenderness mixed with resolve, as though some long-held burden had slipped from his shoulders at last. “Let us seize this moment,” he said, and squeezed her hand. “If you will have me?”

“I will!” The words left her lips before she could summon any protest. He caught her hand, swift and sure, and pulled her along behind him. Her pulse hammered against the cage of her ribs as they stepped out once more, into a sea of hostile faces.

Málik’s steady presence at her side was a balm, lending her strength she hadn’t realized she still possessed. But then, without warning, he lifted their joined hands. His voice rang out—clear, commanding, impossible to ignore.

“Behold! You asked for a queen! I present to you, Gwendolyn calon gadarn!”

Bold heart? She blinked at the sobriquet, then smiled, even as the court erupted into a storm of protest. In the tumult, she caught sight of the young Fae noblewoman—the one whose mother had barred her way to the dais.

The girl’s eyes burned with venomous fury, her lips curling into a sneer.

She glared at Gwendolyn for a long, simmering moment, then spun on her heel and bolted from the hall.