Page 19 of A Crown So Cursed
She was pleased to hear him say so, but it was easy for him to say. It was not truly her court; it was his. Changeling though she might have been, now she was mortal—as breakable and blood-bound as Locrinus, doomed to bleed and die as easily as any other. No amount of wishing could make it otherwise.
Even Málik seemed uncertain, yet still he repeated, “Our court. You are my queen, even as I am your king, and they will learn to embrace you, or face my wrath.”
Gwendolyn’s heart fluttered at the steel in his voice—a threat, barely veiled, laced through every word.
It was a delicate reminder of who he was.
But he sighed again, the sound heavy, as though it pained him. “Alas, we all share the same malady. Our lives may be long, but our memories are as short as a mortal’s. I know this, and you know this, but without Esme, it’s our word against theirs.”
Gwendolyn thought, not for the first time, how much simpler things might be if she could only shift her form, as the Púca did, and return herself to her former likeness.
“Alas… some of us have no memory at all—for certain things.”
This was her greatest lament. She had no inkling of her former life, and today, of all days, Gwendolyn was reminded acutely of this. But if he understood her complaint, he gave no sign.
The silence between them stretched, and Gwendolyn wondered if he simply did not know what to say. She could not remember what she had lost, and that somehow made the absence of it all the more keen. It hurt, this not-knowing, this emptiness where her past should have been.
But she would not beg him for comfort.
Not now.
Instead, she turned her face away to hide the prick of tears.
Still, he said nothing.
And so, the moment passed, and Gwendolyn let it go.
Together, they continued to navigate the garden's winding paths.
“As you must know, Esme did not remain in Trevena,” she offered. “She was gone with the portals.” And now, though not for the first time, Gwendolyn wondered what business had taken her sister so far from everything she’d ever held dear—most notably Bryn, and the rebellion she’d waged so long. Gwendolyn had only assumed Esme had returned to the City of Light, but clearly she had not.
“I know,” said Málik, perhaps misreading her tone. “But please do not worry; you’ll be safe here until I can assign you a proper Shadow. As much as Aengus was despised, those wards served him well…” He fixed her with a long look, arching a brow. “Until you.”
Gwendolyn stiffened at the implication, her lips thinning. “Well, I did not come to slay him,” she protested. So much of this had never been discussed previously—mostly because she had never found the right moment to broach it. After returning from the Underlands, she and Málik spent the better part of their journey north at odds—until arriving in Skerrabra. Thereafter, only one thing had occupied everyone’s mind…vanquishing Locrinus.
“I came prepared to bend the knee,” she said.
Málik nodded. “There’s no love lost betwixt my ilk and humankind. As generous as your proposal might have seemed—and it was—Aengus would not have accepted it, Gwendolyn.”
“Pity,” she allowed. “I would like to have known the great Poet King.” A swarm ofpiskiesflew past, offering a momentary distraction from the weight of her unspoken thoughts.
“So…the entire premises are warded?”
“Yes. The earliest construction of Tech Duinn was not so elaborate,” he said. “Only a small bower where Balor could lay his head without fear of waking with a blade to his throat. It was my father who expanded the premises and the wards, and thereafter, Aengus, who made it so…”
“Glamorous?” Gwendolyn suggested.
He smiled. “Aha! You remember him,” he said, and Gwendolyn had every sense that he meant it quite pointedly—as though she had known him very well in her former life, though she still could recall little—only that he was the reason she’d fled.
“So Balor was Nuada’s successor?”
“Yes,” said Málik, “But it should have been my father. After Nuada lost his hand, and the Shadow Court seduced Balor into betrayal, it was Balor who took the crown. My father—he plotted with Aengus to return the line of succession to its rightful course, but… something happened between them. Something changed. From that day, Aengus was never the same. When my father took the throne, Aengus plotted against him, weaving me into his schemes as well—a fact I perhaps regret, although I am uncertain I would have chosen my father’s side, even if I could have.”
“I see,” said Gwendolyn, hungry for knowledge.
She knew only this much: Málik had been loyal to Aengus. Although if Esme was to be believed, it was not by choice. And now, Gwendolyn sensed there was more to the tale—layers of it, buried deep, perhaps even unknown to Málik himself.
“What put them at odds?” she asked.
