Page 48 of A Crown So Cursed
Was Esme a part of it?
Málik, as well?
Nay, it couldn’t be so.
Gwendolyn couldn’t bear that thought, but even as the Fae realm shifted time’s flow, the mood of its denizens shifted more capriciously.
How many times had she wondered about Málik and Esme’s loyalty…
But how many times had they proven their love?
As the weight of unease tightened around Gwendolyn, Esme leaned close and said, with a smile that was far too…amused? “They are ready to eat you alive, sister.”
“Well, I hope it chokes them,” Gwendolyn returned, never taking her eyes from the dais.
“They’ve wasted no time,” said Esme. “Elric, the bastard.”
A bell tolled somewhere, its note so low it vibrated to the marrow of Gwendolyn’s bones. She continued forward with measured, deliberate steps, her pulse thrumming in her ears like a war drum, and catching sight of her, a steward rushed forward, with livery black as night—the Shadow Court?
He lifted his voice to address the hall: “Presenting herself for trial… Gwendolyn of Cornwall, Queen of Men, Consort to our King, His Majesty, Málik Danann!”
A susurration swept the assembled; no one bowed. Instead, the crowd squealed, and pressed closer. Meanwhile, on the dais, Lirael’s lips parted into a sneer.
“How charming. She arrives dressed as a peasant expecting to rule.”
Gwendolyn glowered at her. She’d been given no time to return to her bower to trade her travel attire for an appropriate gown. Esme insisted she wear something warm but serviceable—olive wool and undyed linen, scarcely fit for a queen. Against the glitter of gems and silks adorning the gathered nobility, Gwendolyn’s costume made her look more a shepherdess than a queen. But she didn’t need gems or gold.
Undaunted, she straightened her spine, lifting her chin, and silence descended, every creature’s attention fixed upon her as she moved purposefully toward the dais.
Lord Elric turned. “Welcome!” he said. “I’m so pleased to see you are not so indisposed as our king would suggest. Such courage you have, to come unescorted to our court of justice. But I hope you brought something more than a mortal’s pride to vindicate yourself.”
Gwendolyn wanted more than anything to do what she did last time—draw her blade, slice that fool’s head from his shoulders, but she’d come unarmed.
Esme did not, however. Her sister drew a blade, then pointed it directly at Lord Elric, a promise in her emerald gaze. “Choose your words well, High Lord Minister,” she said. “Lest your tongue need trimming!”
Elric regarded the challenge with lazy amusement, inclining his head slightly, then flicking his gaze to the council. “The prodigal daughter returns,” he said. “She who would abandon the court in its hour of need to champion a mortal queen.”
“Our laws are not prone to sentiment,” declared a member of the Shadow Court, a pallid senior whose robes shimmered like a trout in moonlit water.
Lord Maelon concurred and said, “Hear, hear!”
But then, he surprised Gwendolyn by adding, “It is the burden of the accused to demonstrate her claim before the eyes of all. However, Lord Elric, we shall mind our words until that time—” He shot Esme a warning glare. “As well as our blades.”
“Oh, please! Let the trial commence!” Lirael exclaimed, her beauty hardened and cruel. She raised a white-gloved hand, and a hush rippled outward from the dais, stilling every motion.
“Already, she behaves as though she is queen—even without the crown,” said Esme angrily. But Gwendolyn said nothing, well aware of all eyes upon her.
She steadied her breath, ignoring the derisive laughter bubbling up from the pit of the court, and clutching the Cloak of Visibility close to her breast, she advanced through the ranks, intending to take her place on the King’s Dais. By the eyes of Lugh! She would not don this cloak in the thick of it all, lest her change not be witnessed and her testimony be forsworn. More than anything, she wished to be standing next to Málik when she revealed her true self, but whether he was there in body, he was here in spirit. Her steps were measured, her very demeanor a challenge to the court’s scorn.
She heard Esme whisper behind her, “Stay sharp, sister.” And her courage nearly faltered.
“Easy for you to say,” Gwendolyn returned. “You’re the one holding a blade.”
“Yes, well, if I had given you one,” Esme returned. “You’d be dead by now. So thank me for that later.”
A single attendant appeared at the foot of the dais—this one dressed in Málik’s deep-green livery, and Gwendolyn recognized him as one of the guards who had led her to the feast. He escorted Gwendolyn the rest of the way up the steps, the hush of the hall so complete that even her heartbeat seemed a trespass, and all the while, her gaze sought Málik.Where could he be?
At the apex, Lirael’s pale blue eyes scoured her, not so much a muscle twitching to betray the delight she took in Gwendolyn’s predicament.
