Page 13 of A Crown So Cursed
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 beforetheircourt.
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…ladywas 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.
