Page 21 of A Crown So Cursed
“Where are we going?” she asked. They’d been wandering for what felt like hours—too long for it to be mere leisure—and at first, Gwendolyn had thought he simply meant to show her the grounds, as one might a guest who’d only just arrived. But after all that had transpired since her arrival, and their conversation just now, she doubted he had time for idle strolls. “It’s a surprise,” he said.
A surprise? What sort of surprise could he possibly have prepared? There was no way he could have anticipated Gwendolyn’s arrival—nothing in his manner in the hall suggested he’d known. Still, she trusted him, and so she followed without protest as he led her through the garden’s end, through yet another door, and then into a maze of corridors where the air was thick with the scent of stone and the soft flutter of gossamer curtains, their edges stirring in some unseen breeze.
At last, he stopped before a tapestry—a moonlit forest, all silver and blue shadows—and, without warning, stepped straight into the woven scene, pulling Gwendolyn after him.
ChapterSeven
Gwendolyn gasped, breath catching in her throat, as the world shifted and she stood amidst a copse of silver birches, the ground dappled with morning light.
For a moment, she could only stare, dumbstruck, at the woods that surrounded her—so real, so vivid, she half expected to hear the distant call of a Cornish dove. It was as though she had been sent back to the tranquil wilds of eastern Cornwall.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the nearest tree, fingertips grazing the bark. It was cool, and rough, and utterly indistinguishable from the birch woods she remembered as a child—before the blood, before the loss, before the wedding that was a massacre.
“How is this possible?” she whispered as she stood there, uncertain, heart pounding, unwilling to move for fear that the vision might shatter.
But the woods did not fade. The trees remained, and the morning light crept over her skin, gentle as a mother’s touch.
Málik’s eyes glinted with mirth. “Regrettably, it is only a glamour—an illusion. Like that time you believed I’d turned you into a tree.”
Yes. That.
Gwendolyn remembered, and the memory made her shudder, because that day had nearly been her last. Locrinus’ men had been so close in pursuit—so close she could still feel the frantic thudding of her heart as she’d darted through the trees, desperate to escape. She’d nearly been recaptured, and if not for Málik’s intervention, she would have been. Even now, the recollection of those moments left her weak at the knees.
“But this feels so real,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper as she turned in a slow circle, taking in the beauty of their surroundings.
He gestured to the tapestry. “Every thread—every color—holds some echo of the living world. The memory of sunlight, the scent of moss, the hush of wind. That is what you see, and why it seems so real.”
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
He watched her with a crooked, fang-toothed smile, linking both hands behind his back, evidently pleased with her reaction. “This grove exists in the natural world—somewhere near Bodmin, if you must know.”
“Bodmin,” Gwendolyn whispered, a fresh wave of homesickness washing over her, although she knew that wasn’t Málik’s intention. Those moors had been one of her favorite places to ride—wild and windswept, where she could forget the weight of her crown and simply be.
“Alas, Bodmin, too, has changed, though I miss it,” she said, nostalgia tightening her voice as she reached out again, this time to study the leaves. “There’s a part of me that feels...torn,” she confessed, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. She wished to be here—truly. Yet she couldn’t ignore the grief she felt over having left Habren and Bryn behind—and, really, everything she had built.
Málik’s features softened as he closed the distance between them. “I understand,” he murmured, reaching to brush away a tear that traced the curve of her cheek. “The bond between land and sovereign is not so easily severed… not by time, nor by distance.”
Gwendolyn shook her head, wiping another tear with the back of her hand. “It’s not simply the land,” she insisted, her voice raw.
He hesitated as though weighing his words, and his gaze lingered on her, gentle, searching. “No,” he agreed quietly. “It never is.”
With a flourish of Málik’s hand, the forest transformed into an unfamiliar glade where golden poplars loomed and silver flowers bloomed bright against the twilight.
“This one mayhap not so bittersweet…Hyperborea,” he said. “But I doubt you remember.” He watched her face closely, and Gwendolyn shook her head.
“What of this one?” he asked, waving his hand yet again, grinning as crystalline water cascaded from somewhere into a clear, beautiful pond.
“Porth Pool?” Gwendolyn whispered with awe.
He nodded. “Before the Rot, and, truly, before Trevena was itself a glimmer in your father’s eye.”
Gwendolyn turned up the palms of her hands. She could actuallyfeelthe cool droplets as they splashed her arms and face. “Here, the line between illusion and reality is...like a waking dream,” he suggested as she bent to disturb the water, watching as ripples spread from her fingertips.
“So you can create anything?”
“Within reason,” he allowed, moving behind her as she stood again, and his presence made her pulse quicken. “Alas, even here, certain truths remain immutable. Death. Love…”
His hands settled atop Gwendolyn’s shoulders, and she dared to lean back against him, closing her eyes—it had been, oh, so long. “If the location within is altered, does this reflect upon the tapestry as well?” she inquired as his arms encircled her waist.
