Page 8 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter Five

M ortified, Lirael fled the King’s Hall.

She was so utterly furious tears would not come. But then, it was not her heart that had been summarily crushed—simply her pride.

She darted through the corridors, every step echoing her fury, her breath heavy with indignation as she wove her way through the labyrinthine palace.

All her years of careful planning reduced to this!

Her father’s voice, persistent but distant, called to her, but she dared ignore him, hurrying her pace.

Her silken gown, made to dazzle, now tore about her legs as her heels clicked against the old stone floor.

She muttered an oath over the indignity of it all, and pressed forward, unswerving, until at last, she reached her private quarters, bursting inside, and slamming the door.

Only then did she turn, her blue eyes glinting like blades against the half-light of her chamber.

She was incandescent with unspent rage as she waited for her father.

But she didn’t have to wait long. He opened the door without bothering to knock, his imposing figure silhouetted against the flickering light of the corridor.

Knowing enough not to speak with the door open, she intended to wait for him to enter and close the door, but her blue eyes smoldered with rage, her ire equal to her confusion, and she couldn’t wait. “He chose her over me?!”

For a moment, Lord Elric said nothing—no apologies, no reassurances—and her voice trembled with barely contained rage. “A mortal, father! She took what is mine!”

She knew Málik did not love her. But neither did she covet his love.

She wanted the Horned Crown and the legacy it would bring.

She wanted what her father wanted—to see their blood rule at last. She turned to pace; her torn skirts tangling about her legs.

Her beautiful new dress was ruined—all the careful detailing lost in her hurried escape.

“How could you stand by and do nothing!” she whined, once again turning on her father.

Lord Elric’s answering smile grew thin. Only Lirael ever dared take that tone with him—not even her mother dared.

Their family had risen from the lowest echelons of Fae nobility through Lord Elric’s cunning and patience.

At last, he held sway with many of the highborn, including the ministers of the Shadow Court, whose patience with the mortal kingdom had long since waned.

He was not a man to be tested, and despite that, she persisted.

“Why did you say nothing whilst that filthy beast stole my crown? You said those portals were closed? How is it possible for her to breach our realm so easily? How, father! I don’t understand!”

Lord Elric stood considering, still saying nothing as he stepped into Lirael’s bower, then gently closed the door behind him. It sealed with a soft click. “Patience has never been your virtue,” he said with a frown. “This...development...whilst most unexpected, is not unwelcome.”

“How can you say such a thing?! I am supposed to be queen— me ! Not her!”

“Do you believe I will allow carefully laid plans to be thwarted so easily, Lirael?”

Still petulant, she shook her head. “It’s too late!” she contended. “He’s already announced their betrothal. What can you do?” she asked.

Still, a flicker of hope had ignited within her at the familiar glint in her father’s eyes. She knew him well. Already, he was weaving the threads of a new scheme.

“ She is mortal. That will never satisfy the Court’s demand for an heir. They will tolerate many things, Lirael, but not a mortal queen. That is a bridge too far.”

Lirael’s breath caught in her throat. “Do you mean to overthrow him?”

Lord Elric chuckled darkly, a sound that sent shivers even down his daughter’s spine. “That would be... inelegant . No, Daughter. We will play the game with finesse, and once we are through, you will not only have your crown, but I will have my way with the mortal lands.”

Lirael lifted the tail of her gown, wringing it into a knot as she listened.

“Your Dragon King is young and impulsive,” he allowed.

“His persistence with that mortal only proves as much.” Lirael nodded, because a hundred years was like a day to her kindred.

Against mortal years, Málik’s age could hardly be construed as young, but he was certainly younger than Aengus óg when Aengus took the throne.

And meanwhile, her father and his ilk had been around since The Year of the Awakening.

If he said the elders would never accept a mortal bride, it must be true. Lord Elric paced, his steps measured.

“The court will be divided,” he said, scheming aloud. “We will use her arrival to our advantage. It will be the wedge we need to drive discord.”

“But you cannot arrest her,” Lirael said, and frowned, not entirely satisfied. “You saw what he did. He took her straight into Tech Duinn, and there shall keep her, as he has the Druids.”

The king’s private quarters had been doubly warded since Aengus’ day. Once inside Tech Duinn, there was no one who could reach them who did not have Málik’s permission to enter, and he had very loyal guards who would allow no one within an arm’s length of his person.

This was why there had not yet been an attempt on his life, when half the Shadow Court’s ministers disagreed with his politiks .

Even those fool Druids were protected despite having objectors within the King’s own circles.

His rule was absolute, regardless of her father’s machinations, and he had been working for years now to undermine Málik’s authority, with little progress.

And they had been so close to breaching Tech Duinn—so close.

Once inside, Málik’s days would have been numbered.

Lord Elric ceased pacing and turned to Lirael, his features tightening into a mask of determination.

“I will begin with whispers in all the right ears,” her father continued.

“It will be simple to plant seeds of doubt about her true intentions.” He shrugged then.

“Who can say for certain? Has she come for love, or does she seek to usurp this kingdom, as she did her poor, dear husband’s? ”

Lirael’s brows twitched. “The one called Locrinus?” Even she had heard the tales of that cruel human beast. If anyone had deserved a blade to the heart, it would be him.

Her father ignored her. “I intend to remind the Fair Folk it was she who took Aengus’ head—to what end? To steal a relic that should have been rightfully ours?”

Lirael thrilled at his words. “And what should I do?”

He grinned then, revealing a perfect row of porbeagle teeth, sharp as knife blades. “Quite simply, you challenge the mortal’s lineage and her worthiness to stand as our queen.”

Lirael’s pale brows collided. “But…what will that do? Málik doesn’t care, or he’d have sent her away.”

“Think, Lirael,” he urged. “The Fae Court has laws…ancient and binding. Not even a king may circumvent them…”

“The Rite of Blood,” Lirael said, and her father nodded.

“Precisely, clever girl.”

Lirael’s eyes flashed with malicious satisfaction, following her father’s plan.

The Rite of Blood was an archaic law, seldom used, but binding even so.

Once a challenge was issued, Gwendolyn must prove her Fae lineage or forfeit any claim to the throne.

However, she would not simply find herself excluded from wearing the Horned Crown, she would be imprisoned for the rest of her days, or banished to the mortal realm—and this time, the Shadow Court would invoke words to keep her from reentering. But there was a flaw in his plan…

“Málik is king…surely he?—”

“Will have no choice but to comply,” her father asserted. “Once invoked, the Rite must be satisfied. If he does not allow its due course, he will himself be found in contempt.”

Lirael smiled, then frowned. Really, it would be a brilliant plan, except that she remembered the rumors about Gwendolyn’s birth.

It was bandied about that she was a changeling—stolen from the Fae and placed as a human child.

If there was even a shred of truth in that, this could present a dangerous possibility.

If Gwendolyn could prove her ancestral connection, however tenuous, the Rite of Blood would not work as they hoped.

Such a revelation could even bolster her claim, tying her more firmly to Málik, and even placing herself above him. “What of Gwendolyn?”

“Rumors are not proof,” he said, having expected her question. “Manifestation or blood is what the Rite demands.” His eyes gleamed with dark amusement as he dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Did you see a Fae queen when you looked at her?” He shook his head. “Not I!”

“So… even if she once had Fae blood, she may not be able to prove it?”

“Well,” her father said, dissembling. “She could …but the burden of proof will lie with her,” he said. “And she will not have any opportunity to confer with the elders until the trial convenes. Until then, she will find herself…detained.”

Again, he smiled, and the sight of his grin gave even Lirael a shudder. “We all know how those trolls run that prison—a mortal could easily meet her demise. Moreover, that prison,” he reminded her, “unlike Tech Duinn, is not warded.”

That was true. It was why the Druids held court in their library, expecting even the trolls to attend them there—imagine anyone trying to educate those rude beasts. She wished a horde of piskies would gnaw off their toes—if one could find their toes amidst all that gnarly hair.

Lirael could barely contain her excitement now as she imagined the scene unfold—Gwendolyn, broken, chastened, as the court denounced her love as an abomination.

They would take her away in irons, and thereafter, Lirael would stand triumphant at Málik’s side—or not, if he was dead—with the Horned Crown atop her head. “When do we begin?” she asked, delighted.

“Tonight,” he said, his grin expanding. “I am not without manners,” he suggested. “A welcome feast will be the perfect occasion…for an arrest.”

Scarcely able to contain her glee, Lirael clapped—yet another party, and another pretty dress to be worn, only this time, it would end in her favor.

Curse that hideous mortal once and for all!