Page 9 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter Six

T ech Duinn, they called it—the king’s private sanctum, so named by the Fae Court and by Málik himself, after his own father.

The House of the Dark One. It lay at the city’s heart, a borough carved from black basalt and granite, a fortress within the palace, and a sanctuary besides.

The name alone suggested a gloom to rival the City of Light itself, but there was nothing dark at all about the whitewashed halls of Tech Duinn.

It was vast and splendid, with galleries and gardens, its walls rising stark and pale against the shadowed stone, protecting not only the king’s quarters but a universe of wonders within.

And in those gardens—cool and shaded, far from the city’s brightness—strange flowers bloomed, heedless of the sun or season. They thrived in the deep shadows where sunlight never touched, growing wild and beautiful in defiance of the world above.

It was like nothing Gwendolyn had ever seen.

But this was the oddest thing: During her first visit to the City of Light, she’d had no chance to visit any location but the King’s Hall; and there, only perforce.

Yet this inner palace—these corridors and chambers—felt inexplicably familiar to her, the way it once felt to wield the Sword of Light.

It was an odd sensation, unsettling and yet… known. As though some part of her already belonged here, or had wandered these halls before. Strange, yes, but familiar all the same.

Much as Gwendolyn loathed to confess it, she had never truly felt at home in the palace at Trevena—not as a child, nor in all the years since.

Little doubt it was her home—the only one she’d ever known—but she had so often blamed her mother for the awkwardness that clung to her there.

Now, amid the hush and serenity of Tech Duinn, she felt an unmistakable sense of belonging.

How strange, after all, that even knowing her Fae roots, she had not believed them until this very moment.

She realized then, all at once, how ill-suited she had been for the world of her upbringing.

She had always been the outsider, even within her own walls, and she had spent so long searching for some fault in her mother as an explanation.

But here, with only the soft light and the gentle quiet for company, there was no denying it—she belonged here.

The sensation was at once foreign and familiar, as though her soul had always yearned for this and only now recognized it.

She wondered if, in some strange way, she had always known it, and if that was why the palace at Trevena had never felt quite right. Perhaps it was never her mother’s fault, but simply the truth of her blood, and the truth of who she was.

She let the feeling settle over her, unsure whether to weep or to laugh. For the first time in her life, she felt as though she might finally understand herself.

Málik, walking at her side, remained silent and watchful, his presence as much a part of this netherworld palace as the bedrock from which it was formed.

Occasionally, his hand brushed hers, but he did not guide her otherwise, seemingly content to allow the garden itself to do the work of seduction—and seduce her it did.

As they walked along, Faerie Flames danced along the meandering paths—a thousand wisps of light flickering like candles in the wind, yet never extinguished.

Here and there, strange insects whirred, with wings that refracted the dim light; and in the deeper alcoves, Gwendolyn glimpsed faces—eyes blinking—from inside the knotty boles of unfamiliar trees.

“Korreds,” Málik said, noting the direction of her gaze.

“What are they?”

“Fae,” he said, shrugging. “Tiny, but shy. They traveled with us from Hyperborea. They bear the most remarkable knowledge of minerals and stone. It was their expertise that found us the adamantine—and, back in the day, when we occupied the mortal lands, it was they who located the copper so abundant throughout Cornwall.”

Gwendolyn tilted him a glance. “So, we have the korreds to thank for our wheals?”

Málik gave her a nod and a half smile. “Something like that. Although I’m certain they never meant to leave their work for your mortal-kind. In their world, they are better known as knockers. But that is your name for them, not ours .”

Yours. Not ours. Gwendolyn bristled, bothered, although she didn’t know precisely why.

It wasn’t so much his use of those words, ours and yours , but after her dubious welcome, she didn’t relish that he, too, saw her as other .

It was something she had not considered, even knowing she would have the Shadow Court to contend with.

She simply never painted Málik with the same brush.

“This is…lovely,” she said, shrugging it off as she swept a hand along an intricately carved stone balustrade, admiring the patterns inlaid.

Again, familiar though…not really.

Except…

Pausing, she traced the outline of a rune—a knot of lines that reminded her of the symbols embroidered on her mother’s wedding gown.

“Wards,” Málik offered, and she furrowed her brow.

“For protection,” he explained. “Enchantments, if you will. Some installed by Balor, others by my father, and…Aengus.” He glanced at her and sent her a playful wink. “They are like garlic to a piskie.”

“ Piskies dislike garlic?”

He smiled. “Conclusively. Even more than trolls disdain piskies .”

“Well…” Gwendolyn said, laughing softly now. “That shows how much I know!”

Indeed, she thought. There was so much knowledge she lacked—never once did it occur to her that those symbols could be magic. The tunic he had worn in the mortal lands was covered with the same runes, and yet, today, his robes were free of them.

His gaze followed hers to his vestments. “A gesture of faith,” he explained. “For the event of my betrothal,” he said, and Gwendolyn inhaled a sharp breath.

“Oh,” she said, when she could speak beyond the knot in her throat. But now so much made sense—the young noble Fae who’d fled the hall, and the elder who’d barred her way.

“And then you arrived,” he said, offering Gwendolyn another playful wink.

He had been so pleased to see her, but she wondered now if he regretted his decision to wed her. There was no doubt that their reunion had caused a bit of a stir. “I could go,” she suggested, with a plaintive lilt to her voice.

His voice held a measure of humor. “We have gaols and I am not averse to using them,” he said, letting the veiled threat dangle, as though testing to see how she would respond.

“But you wouldn’t?”

“Or perhaps I would,” he said with a smile, trying to sound serious, but Gwendolyn knew him too well. He would never resort to keeping her a prisoner. If ever he had been tempted to undermine her free will, he’d have spirited her away before her wedding to Loc. But he did not.

More’s the pity.

“Alas,” she said, though she had no regrets.

Really, she wasn’t sad to know she had interrupted his betrothal, and, in truth, thanked the Fates for intervening.

How could she bear it to be stuck here, watching Málik with another woman—or another Fae?

And that, too, was loathsome—knowing that she had lost him because she was no longer Fae.

And then forced to remain whilst he built his life without her.

In truth, she had never once considered these things—only that he might not still love her as she loved him, never that he would have wed another.

She imagined the awkward dinners, the silent glances exchanged over her head, voices whispering in languages she half understood but could never claim as her own.

There was a lull in their conversation as they continued to stroll through the gardens.

Gwendolyn peered up to find him watching her, his eyes sparkling with a strange mixture of humor and regret. “You know I would not. Even so, you might come to think of Tech Duinn as your prison, Gwendolyn. These past years have been…a trial.”

He exhaled wearily. “I have loyalists—men and women who would die to defend my rule. But much has changed since Esme’s rebellion. She was Aengus’ true heir, and some claim she left in protest of my ascension.” He whispered it, as though the words themselves might turn to knives.

“But that is ludicrous,” Gwendolyn said, grateful for the shift in topic, however slight. “We both know she doesn’t want the crown.” She almost smiled, remembering Esme’s disdain for such things, but the memory soured before it could bloom.

He shrugged, a motion so small it might have been mistaken for a shiver.

“Ah, but she never said so—not exactly. And though we Fair Folk are blessed with many gifts—and you once accused me of knowing your mind—that is not among them. Her silence after the battle at the River Stour left many believing she had fled in protest.”

Gwendolyn frowned, searching her memory. “Wasn’t she the first to kneel when they crowned you?”

“Oh, she was,” he agreed, his gaze going distant. “But now, there are some who question even that. I’ve heard it said she knelt out of grief, mourning the loss of her father’s crown.” He almost smiled, but there was no humor in it.

Gwendolyn snorted, unable to help herself. “Of course. Because that is precisely how Esme should respond to any slight. Gods, I have never seen her act with anything but forthrightness. If she wanted the crown, she would have made it known—loudly, and with no room for doubt.”

He said nothing, but Gwendolyn could see the truth of it in the lines around his mouth. The silence that followed was heavy, but at least it was honest.

She lowered her gaze, worried, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“Málik… what if your court refuses to accept me?”

“Our court,” he corrected, and Gwendolyn shook her head.