Page 17 of A Crown So Cursed
“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. “Shecould…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 ofpiskieswould 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!
ChapterSix
Tech 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 isyourname for them, notours.”
Yours. Not ours.Gwendolyn bristled, bothered, although she didn’t know precisely why. It wasn’t so much his use of those words,oursandyours, but after her dubious welcome, she didn’t relish that he, too, saw her asother. 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, familiarthough…not really.
