Page 29 of A Crown So Cursed
One taller and more imposing, stepped forward, bowing his head slightly. “The feast awaits, my queen,” he announced with formality, his voice echoing in the spacious chamber.
“Where is…the king?”
“We’ve been tasked with delivering you,” said the guard.
Why did he make it sound as though she were meant to be served, not a guest of honor?
The guards waited, silent and unmoving, clad in what she presumed was Málik’s own livery—a deep, midnight green, almost black in the torchlight. Each man gripped a spear, its haft wrapped in the glimmer of dragon-scale, and their watchful eyes glinted beneath the fanged shadows of their dragon helms. Gwendolyn trusted they were allies, not foes, only because Málik had said so himself: No soul could enter Tech Duinn without his express leave. It was impossible, he’d sworn, and she believed him.
Her heart tangled itself into knots as she moved to retrieve her cloak, the one she’d chosen for the evening. Her hands trembled, but she flung it about her shoulders with practiced grace. It hardly mattered whether Málik was at her side, she told herself. He had given his word, and here, in this place, his word was law.
Gwendolyn lifted her chin, nodded once to the guards, and followed them from the chamber, her every step measured and deliberate. She would not falter, not here, not now.
This was her court as much as it was his!
Wasn’t that what he’d said?
Wasn’t this what the book revealed?
The certainty of it settled over her as inexorably as the cloak of thorns she’d chosen to wear—a garment as wickedly lovely as it was cruel, every needle-point digging into her flesh.
The fabric itself was blood red with intricate black embroidery resembling thorny vines, and black pearl thorns that glinted against the torchlight. Given the choice between that and another softer, less punitive garment, Gwendolyn had chosen the cloak deliberately, not only because the wardrobe produced it, but because it was a thing of dark beauty, matched only by its cruelty.
Everything in this court was that way—even its denizens—beautiful and vicious.
If Gwendolyn must endure pain, let it be of her own choosing. And yet only as the weight of it bore down upon her and the thorns pressed into her shoulders, did she fully grasp the lesson the cloak meant to convey: she must be stronger, more unyielding, than her fragile human form suggested. She drew the cloak tighter, feeling every sharp sting, and set her jaw, certain that this was her time to prove she belonged. She would not be cowed.
She would not allow pain to defeat her. If she must bleed, so be it—she would bleed and endure, and let them see her do it.
She would outlast them all.
Stand tall.
Back straight.
Face them with courage, Gwendolyn demanded of herself as the guards, in their gleaming gold armor, led her through the maze of corridors.
She had never been one for elaborate gowns or finery—nor jewels for that matter—preferring instead the practicality of her battle leathers. Yet tonight, she understood: the impression she made would be as vital as any weapon in her arsenal. She needed to be seen—not as an afterthought, nor as a mere consort, but as the king’s equal, his chosen partner, and his queen.
Queen Eseld had impressed this lesson upon her from the cradle: to be a queen, one must first be perceived as a queen. Her mother had known it by instinct, and though Gwendolyn herself had not truly stepped into Queen Eseld’s shoes, she took her example from that young Prydein princess who had come, so long ago, to be her father’s bride.
To win Cornwall, Gwendolyn had needed her sword. But to win the Fae, she must embody the regality she’d never fully embraced.
Tonight, she would.
The dress was a marvel—deep emerald silk, masterfully wrought, every inch alive with silver embroidery so intricate that the threads caught the light, setting the whole gown aglow with a shimmer of elegance. It put Gwendolyn in mind of a midnight forest: subtle, yes, but quietly rich, self-assured in its simplicity. The bodice plunged daringly, lending the dress a boldness that was neither vulgar nor desperate, but regal, as though daring any soul to challenge the right of its wearer to rule. It was not merely a queen’s dress; it was a declaration, a standard unfurled for all to see.
Both gown and cloak swept the stone floors behind her, trailing like rivers of silk.
Past ornate doors and beneath arches of ancient stone that whispered of royal secrets, the guards ushered her forward. Until at long last, they neared the Feast Hall.
Two immense doors appeared before her, so tall and wide, it seemed they should admit giants. Each bore a dragon, slumbering, etched into the wood with such skill that the creatures appeared to draw breath, their sinuous bodies curled across the panels. In the wavering torchlight, the dragons’ scales shimmered, catching every flicker and throwing it back in dazzling, shifting patterns—so lifelike that, for a moment, she half-expected them to yawn and unfurl, stretching claws and wings in the gloom.
Inexplicably, Gwendolyn’s nerves settled at the sight, and she smiled.
Her mother had been so keen to unite the “dragon banners,” thinking the dragon would be Loc. It was Málik all along…and this, at last, was the fulfillment of her prophecy.
The sound of music and laughter drifted towards them as the guards rushed ahead, shoving open the heavy doors, and Gwendolyn was momentarily blinded by the light of a thousand Faerie Flames.
