Page 34 of A Crown So Cursed
A growl rumbles in my chest. “What matter so urgent it weighs upon you to interrupt my queen’s feast?” I will not allow her to seize the moment. I know my words may seem cruel, when only hours ago Lirael had hoped to become my bride, but I need her to understand the finality of my decision…
Gwendolyn will be queen.
Gwendolyn is my love.
Lirael is not.
“A matter of law,” she replies coolly, her eyes glittering as she turns to face the courtiers, not me, and I recognize the malice veiled beneath her siren’s lilt.
Across the hall, the attendees shift in their seats as she pauses, milking the silence for all it’s worth.
“I mean to invoke the Rite of Blood,” she announces, her words hanging in the air like a drawn blade—a challenge, unmistakable. I know this law—an archaic convention from times past. But if even one of my Shadow Court supports it, I will be bound to its demands.
“The presence of a mortal at our King’s table, whilst… charming—” She says the word with false affection. “Threatens the surety of our realm…”
Anger smolders in my gut.
Gods know. If I speak—if I rise—I will rip the tongue from her mouth and consume it myself.
I reach for my goblet—not to lift it, but to steady myself. My grip tightens upon the stem, the metal cold beneath my fingertips as her voice, icily calm, continues, every word coached by her father.
“Did we not agree to keep our lands separate?” she says. “How can we be sure there will not arrive… more?”
Mortals.
Since the Ending Battle with the sons of Míl, my kindred have blamed humankind for their banishment to the Underlands. To be sure, Amergin had a hand in that judgment, but it was my father who gave him the power to decide. Most of the denizens of my court remember… but not Lirael. She’s a youngling compared to most. Not yet born when we were exiled from mortal lands, she has, no doubt, heard those tales from her father.
Her gaze sweeps the hall, blue eyes alight with a mix of righteousness and disdain. Her words themselves were a poison—not deadly, but sowing doubt and fear. With brows drawn together as though she were a guileless philosopher pondering the mysteries of life, she asks, “Please tell us… what assurances have we now that her kind will not overrun this city? How do we preserve our sovereignty?”
A murmur of agreement ripples throughout the crowd, and I feel Gwendolyn’s grip tighten on my leg—a silent plea for support, or perhaps a brace against this storm.
I long to speak, but do not.
Lirael has already presented her challenge.
Nothing I can do or say will change the course of that. But if I murder her where she stands… there will be a new rebellion, forged by the groundswell of her blood.
The hall swells with nods and murmurs, and an undercurrent of unrest ripples throughout.
“Furthermore,” she continues, emboldened now, her voice gathering strength with her purpose. “The law is clear…” Her bright blue eyes shine with triumph. “Even if these things are found to be without merit… only one of our blood may stand as queen. It is not simply a matter of choice or tradition. It is the law, which sustains us. You may choose to wed a commoner…” Her voice drips with malice, and her eyes gleam. “But you will not choose a mortal bride!”
Collectively, a gasp sweeps the hall.
Every eye in the hall shifts toward me.
No one has ever spoken to me so insolently in front of my court—not even Esme. Yet Lirael’s audacity does not surprise me. Her father’s voice speaks through her, and bitterness coats my tongue as I realize how deeply Lord Elric’s betrayal runs.
At my side, Gwendolyn remains stoic, her eyes fixed upon Lirael, her face a mask of calm despite the turmoil I sense within her. But Lirael’s disputation, directed at me, is the perfect excuse to intervene, and I rise, my voice slicing through the whispers like a blade. “You dare apprise me of what I may or may not do?”
Lirael shrugs. “Not I,” she says coyly. “The law.”
Silence settles over the assembly like a death shroud. But though hers is an affront that cannot go unanswered, my response must be measured. “You speak too easily of laws forgotten before you were a pup in your cradle,” I say, a wave of fury rising from my entrails.
Gwendolyn’s fingers pinch my leathers.
There is so much I would have told her if I could. But as Manannán is bound, so too am I. I can speak no words that will unveil our past, and if she cannot do so, then I am bound to silence.
My eyes flash with warning, but Lirael remains undaunted. Her posture straightens, indignation clear in her tone. “Ancient or not, those laws remain binding, do they not?” Her chin lifts. “My age matters not when our laws are written upon the stones from which this realm was built.” And then she adds, with a glance at Lord Elric, “Anyway, my father is far older than you…”
