Page 47 of A Crown So Cursed
Esme snorted, a sound that was oddly comforting in its familiarity. “Please! You willalwaysbe maddeningly you. But it might interest you to know how little any of it changed you as Gwendolyn. Now is your moment of truth, Gwendolyn.”
ChapterSixteen
Upon returning to the city, Gwendolyn and Esme entered through the city gates—the same gates Gwendolyn was once paraded through by a horde of rude Fae. Only this time, there were no witnesses to her abasement.
No Fae, fewpiskies, no trolls, no brownies—only the whisper of their footsteps echoing through a peaceful lane.
Their passage went unimpeded.
It was difficult to believe she was voluntarily marching herself to the King’s Hall, where so long ago they’d hung her from a gilded cage. But on this day, unlike that day, Gwendolyn would march proudly, with her head held high.
But she knew this should not be so easy.
The cloak on her arm lay as light as a breath, still heavy as a king’s ransom. She could feel its power thrumming, eager to be used, but for now, she held it close, cleaving to the last vestiges of her mortal self, strangely reticent to abandon her human form, now that she understood what was to come.
Every step toward the King’s Hall invited both hope and regret—for her mother, for Habren and Bryn, for Taryn, for Ely, and for a hundred thousand Cornish souls whose lives Gwendolyn had defended and shaped.
Gods knew, if Málik’s love was her soul’s true north, Cornwall had been her beating heart—a land rugged and wild, fierce as the sea that pounded its shores.
But she had willingly left and wanted more than anything to be with Málik—would the cloak understand?
She and Esme walked in silence, Esme’s gait filled with more confidence than Gwendolyn’s. Until they approached the massive doors of the King’s Hall, and Esme stopped, glancing at Gwendolyn, her expression sober. “Remember, whatever happens… you are not alone.” Her hand reached out to squeeze Gwendolyn’s once before releasing it.
Blood and bones.
If the central plaza felt abandoned, the King’s Hall was not. It was thick with creatures by the time they arrived. Word of Gwendolyn’s impending trial had already spread, and the court was clearly eager to witness a spectacle.
Whispers rose in tide:
“Is that her?”
“Where is the king?”
“Why is he not with her?”
“Is that Esme?!”
“Where has she been?”
“Is the king dead?”
Dead?!Gwendolyn threw Esme a glance filled with terror, horrified to think that they might have sent Málik into a trap. The mood of the Hall was that of a sepulcher. And despite that, she dared not falter, advancing with Esme falling a pace behind, her gaze registering a sea of hostile faces. And now, she noted the glitter of rings and signet blades… The subtle positioning of guards at strategic points along the hall’s perimeter. Every noble family stood arrayed in their colors—incarnadine, obsidian, venomous green—and Gwendolyn was struck at once by a sense of peril.
Beautiful, treacherous creatures, here, beauty was a blade honed for courtly war, and every smile a wolf’s grin. And Gwendolyn was the sacrificial lamb…
No one stepped forward to greet her.
No one barred her path.
Up on the dais, standing beside the Horned Throne, stood the entire Shadow Court, with Elric Silvershade and his daughter Lirael most prominent among them, their faces set in identical masks of cold anticipation.
Málik was not present, and his absence struck Gwendolyn harder than she might have expected. Where was he?
The trial was not supposed to be held until the morrow—or had they been gone so long? The Púca had once told her that time in the Underlands did not behave as it did in the mortal world.
Gwendolyn felt a stone settle in her stomach, cold and hard.
Was this a trap?
