Page 24 of A Crown So Cursed
“I have not yet seen the Púca,” Gwendolyn complained.
“He comes and goes,” said Amergin.
“Alas,” complained Emrys. “We’ve not left Tech Duinn for more than two score years—ever since I took a blade to the back.”
“Oh, no!”
He turned to show Gwendolyn his wound, lifting his tunic, revealing a bare arse, and Gwendolyn flushed, even as she searched for the injury. She found it beneath his lowest rib, a scar that was unmistakably intended to impale the reins…but someone did a poor job. Clearly, they did not have Málik as a teacher.
“Drat!” she said.
“Drat, indeed,” grumbled Emrys. “You might think so long as they put up with this one—” He gestured toward Amergin. “They might have welcomed me eagerly.”
“Well, I do not bore them,” suggested Amergin, and Emrys shot him a baleful glare, lowering his tunic and covering his arse. “At any rate,” said Emrys. “They failed; and here I remain!”
“Thank the gods,” Gwendolyn said.
“Or someone, mayhap not the gods,” suggested Amergin. “I do not believe he engendered their support either.”
Emrys furrowed his wiry brow. “I only met the one!” he contended.
“And she scorned you,” Amergin said with a knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his old blue eyes. Gwendolyn watched the exchange with curiosity. These two, confined to their sanctum for more than two decades, had developed the rhythm of some who were wed.
“At any rate,” said Emrys. “Thereafter, Málik ensconced us here, certain our lives were at risk.”
“Particularly of late,” said Amergin darkly. “The Shadow Court has grown quite bold. So I’ve been told, at Lord Elric’s urging, they would like to reclaim the Druid villages, and oust our brethren.”
“Gods! No! What of Lir?” asked Gwendolyn. “Have you heard from him?”
Emrys’ eyes slanted sadly. “Not even once. After the portals were decommissioned, there was nothing for it but to trust they are well.” He sighed. “However, I am assured that all who remain Betwixt are hidden from both realms—no one can harm them in that place. And really, of all Fae, only Málik has the means to cross the Veil, and he will not—not even to visit the village.”
“He gave his word,” said Amergin soberly.
Gwendolyn furrowed her brow.
So Málik had the means to cross the Veil, but did not?
Then again, she never gave him a reason to return, so she could not blame him when he did not.
“What can you tell us of the mortal lands?”
“How does Trevena fare?”
“What of the Rot?”
“How go the tribes?”
The Druids’ questions came rapid fire, and Gwendolyn’s smile warmed as she considered her son. “My boy—Loc’s son—” She shrugged. “Sits upon my throne—his throne now. I gifted him my Kingslayer and left Claímh Solais as I found it when I came to this realm—embedded to the hilt in a stone near Trevena. Someday, someone worthy will find it and reclaim it, I am certain.”
The Druids both nodded soberly.
The Sword of Light, she understood, had its own purpose. It was never hers to keep, only to borrow. It belonged not to the Fae, nor to Kings simply for the wearing of a crown. Indeed, if there ever came a peasant with the heart of a king, it would ignite for a just cause. Its magic was ancient—older perhaps than the Fae themselves, its legacy one of justice, meant to empower those with the heart to wield it.
There was no wonder it was not her father’s to wield.
He was not The One.
“As for the Rot…once our people were reunited, it took little time for the Rot to correct itself—but my beloved Porth Pool never revived and thepiskiesnever returned.”
