Page 18 of A Crown So Cursed
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 apiskie.”
“Piskiesdislike garlic?”
He smiled. “Conclusively. Even more than trolls disdainpiskies.”
“Well…” Gwendolyn said, laughing softly now. “That shows how muchIknow!”
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 becauseshewas 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.
