Page 3 of A Crown So Cursed
And steal another’s heart.
Mine.
Releasing the chain, I reach for my cup again and seize another bracing mouthful. The goblet refills anew—a parody of plenty for a king who cannot drink enough.
I slam another down hard, splashing crimson on my tunic, and let my gaze prowl the hall…my gaze drawn to one creature in particular, who bears a striking resemblance to her father…save for the hair. Standing beside her dark-haired mother, Lirael Silvershade is a vision to behold, with hair like spun gold, and skin as silky as a dew-kissed rose.
But her tresses lack Gwendolyn’s golden fire.
And her eyes are too narrow and guarded.
No matter, she is the bride my Shadow Court would have me take, and every muscle in my body recoils at the notion. This is naught but a politikal exercise to placate the vultures circling my throne. With a snort of disgust, I avert my gaze from the mind-numbing sea of color spinning before my eyes—a magnificent display of intemperance that never fails to bore me.
The sight summons forth a yawn so vast I fear I may swallow the room.
I am jaded, perhaps, and worn, but the weight of this crown has never been so burdensome, nor the weight of my duties ever more suffocating.
The Púca studies me with his cat-sidheeyes reflecting the Faerie Flames—entirely too knowing. Discomfited, I turn away to contemplate the newest tapestry adorning the west wall—agiftfrom my Shadow Court. But unlike the other tapestries gracing this throne-room, that one was not woven by Arachne, nor was it meant to be a fond remembrance of our time in the mortal lands. Rather, it is intended to remind their mortal-loving king of the wonders men were so quick to destroy. One after another, the gallery shifts from one marvel of architecture to another…
A tower lifting unto the heavens.
The pyramids of Al-?a?ra? al-Kubra.
The Hanging Gardens of Bab-ilim…
In the end, there may be some truth in their complaints. Mortals are destructive in their ignorance and greed, but also capable of creating beauty and wonder.
Gwendolyn is by far the best of them—far better than I—and though the thought does not lessen the burden I carry, it brings a flicker of warmth to my cold heart. Alas, she dwells beyond my reach, in a realm where I cannot follow, severed by more than just distance, and it pains me to consider she may never again walk these halls.
The Púca curses profusely, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I turn to meet the High Lord Minister’s gaze, and a matching string of oaths rises to my lips. I swallow the words, returning the goblet to its perch, quite certain that my future father-in-law’s hearing is as good, if not better, than mine.
Sadly, Lord Elric’s familiarity is a testament to his standing in this court; and this is an audacity I must begrudgingly allow.
Stopping before the dais, he casts one glance at the Púca, and though he says nothing about the creature at my side, I sense his condemnation. It spews from his very pores. It matters not that the Púca’s breed is rare. To the denizens of this court, his ilk is no more tolerable than a human or a troll. “Majesty,” he says.
I lean forward, but otherwise do not respond. Still, I offer my undivided attention.
At my side, the Púca tucks his whiskered face between two paws.
“Do you not find this celebration to your liking?” the High Lord Minister asks, his impatience curling about the corners of his diplomacy. Lord Elric’s time in this court harkens back to a time when Nuada of the Silver Arm first sat upon the Horned Throne, and I know Elric, himself, had a hand in his fall… whispering to the Court of his imperfections, turning our kindred against him, Seelie and Unseelie alike. There is only one thing that keeps him from withdrawing his support… and that is the possibility of his daughter’s ascension to the vacant seat at my side.
“Define enjoyment,” I retort, and the elder smiles thinly.
Between us, an insult lies, and I wonder if it will rise to his tongue.
“For some,” he expounds, his tone patronizing, though veiled enough to befit the decorum of our exchange. “It seems the concept of enjoyment remains but a fleeting notion, forever out of reach, as one yearns for things that cannot be?”
And there it is.
Fomorian blackguard.
My fists clench at the barb beneath his words. We both know of whom and what he speaks. “I have no patience for riddles, Lord Elric.”
“Of course not,” he allows. “But as you must know, Majesty, the court grows weary…”
I peer at the dancers to find no evidence of that, but his lips twist into another form of a smile, this one more akin to a smirk, and he says, “As does my daughter.”
