Page 35 of A Crown So Cursed
I grin, but there should be no comfort in the jagged presentation of my porbeagle teeth. “So… your father—” I flick a glance at Lord Elric. “Will challenge me now?”
The coward will never. He is a neophyte—a long-to-be king. His hand never once turned a blade, nor can he force his will beyond the councils. His place is in the shadows. He would rule through his daughter, and without the means to compel me, a challenge to me is a death knell.
“Lirael!” he admonishes. “Enough!”
Too little.
Too late.
My attention shifts to Lord Elric. “You seem to have forgotten that I am the law of this land! I will forgive your impertinence… because I know… your wound is fresh? But I advise you to weigh your words carefully.” My question is directed at both, but my gaze remains fixed on Lord Elric’s.
Beside him, Lirael’s eyes dart about the hall—seeking allies, or perhaps gauging the depths of her folly. And yet, though her father’s voice may have halted her tirade, the ember of her cause glows hot within her eyes. “Well,” she says now, again lifting her goblet, dangling it between two fingers. “I propose,” she says too innocently. “That we allow your lover to decide. If the rumors be true, she needn’t fear. She needs but reveal herself here and now—and behold! If she cannot, she should be banished from this hall and this realm, never to return, on pain of death!” She spins to ask the nobles. “What say you all?”
Again, the court holds its breath, awaiting my response, and I am torn…
Between love and duty.
I cannot afford to alienate my court and keep the peace. But neither will I entertain or accept challenges from Silvershade’s poppet—or rescind my promise to Gwendolyn.
Neither will I allow her to be abused by the whims of this court.
With deliberate slowness, I set down my goblet. “You tread on perilous ground here, Young Dryad. Your mother should have advised you better… jealousy is unbecoming.”
The girl’s eyes flash over my rebuke, but she quickly composes herself, a too-sweet smile spreading across her features. “Oh, I assure you, it has naught to do with jealousy. I speak out of concern for this court and its… welfare.”
“Alas, the youngling speaks true,” muttered an aged Fae with silver hair, his voice spurring yet another torrent of whispers. Lord Maelon, one of the oldest, most respected members of the Shadow Court. His support of Lirael’s challenge makes my blood run cold because if he backs her, others will follow.
Indeed, his endorsement may even sway those who would otherwise remain neutral or side with me. Lirael’s confidence grows, and she presses on. “If she is Niamh, let her prove it. Now, here, under everyone’s scrutiny, and then we shall forgo the Rite of Blood.”
“No,” I say firmly. “Gwendolyn will not be subjected to petty tests!”
“She must!” Lord Maelon declares, standing, and the hall erupts into chaos.
“The Rite of Blood has been invoked!” says another minister, and one by one, each of the twelve Unseelie ministers arises from their seats, and their intention cannot be mistaken. The last to stand is Lord Elric himself. His obsidian eyes gleam with barely suppressed glee.
“Majesty,” he begins, inclining his head. “Whilst we acknowledge your authority, we must still uphold the law, ancient though it may be. My daughter, no matter her reasons, speaks true.” He clears his throat. “A mortal queen poses… shall we say, challenges?”
“I will not be defied,” I say firmly. Then I gesture to the crowd at large, pointing toward each minister. “Every one of you old fools swore fealty to me, and, unlike my father, I will hold you to your oaths.”
Lord Elric’s voice is smooth as silk but sharp as a blade. “Yes, Majesty. But please know, it is out of our shared loyalty that we must insist upon upholding this sacred law.” His obsidian eyes glint as he continues, “You, too, swore an oath when we lent you our armies to aid your… mortal queen. You gave us your word that you would separate our realms, and forsake all those lands held—including its queen.”
My jaw clenches as I fight to control the rage building inside me.
“You dare speak of oaths? I have upheld my end of our bargain. The portals remain closed!”
“And yet,” he counters, “Here stands a mortal in our hall, claiming the title of queen—our queen. One would argue this violates the spirit, if not the letter, of our bargain.” He stands tall and proud, his eyes sharp and calculating. The game of Queen’s Chess he began when he approached my dais earlier this day is now in full play and in view of all—a battle not of arms but wits, intended to trap me between duty and love, laws and promises. He knows I must abide by the court’s laws—no matter how ancient or ill-conceived they might be. And knowing that, the taste of fear appears on my tongue, a bitter reminder of the stakes at hand. Despite my irritation and anger, I know any wrong move on my part will seal Gwendolyn’s fate. The hall falls into a heavy silence, the tension palpable as every member of the court weighs the gravity of Lord Elric’s accusations and my gaze sweeps the gathered Fae.
“Surely, My King, you of all, must understand the gravity of this predicament?”
Gods damn him.
I cannot argue with his point.
When I remain silent, Lirael’s eyes glitter with triumph, and she turns to Gwendolyn. “The test is simple, my lady. You must only prove your Fae blood.”
At last, Gwendolyn speaks, but there is no fear in her voice. She asks carefully, “How does one prove one’s Fae blood?”
Lirael’s features twist into a sneer. “The answer is so simple, even a cretin mortal should be able to understand. You open a vein, you bleed,” she snarls. “As for the proof of one’s lineage…” She sneers. “Only one of our ilk can mend a wound cut by the ceremonial blade.”
