Page 49 of A Crown So Cursed
“Well now,” said Lord Elric. “Now that we are all here....”
Not everyone!Gwendolyn longed to shout, but if she raised her voice, she might weep.
“Let us proceed,” Elric Silvershade announced, his voice a smooth treacle of authority that hid the venom beneath.
The entire hall echoed his sentiment with murmurs of assent.
Gwendolyn’s gaze swept over the faces, finding no friend save Esme. No matter, she steadied herself, then spoke, her voice loud enough for all to hear. “I’ve come at your behest, Lord Ministers. You asked for proof of my birthright? So here! Witness my proof!”
Lirael, her eyes wild and sharp as splinters, barked a laugh. “How will you manage, Queenling? Will you sprout wings? Tear your flesh to show us the creature beneath?” Her laugh was a cackle, and Esme growled, ready to intervene. Gwendolyn lifted a staying hand as Esme scoffed her complaint to the Shadow Court. “They always think we are something we are not,” she said. “Mortals!”
The time was now, with or without Málik.
Gwendolyn understood that, so much as he loved her, Málik could not save her. She took the cloak from her arm and shook it out, its shimmer drawing a gasp from even the most jaded. She raised it high, the way she’d once lifted the Sword of Light, and let it unfurl in the strange, cold light. And then, without ceremony, she swung it over her shoulders, playing this gambit with full awareness of the stakes.
I am home,she thought.I want to be here. I am Curcog, but no less Gwendolyn, and I need not be anything but who I choose.
As the fabric poured over her like water, settling along Gwendolyn’s shoulders, the atmosphere of the room changed—tension though something else, as well.
On her body, the cloak had no color, instead reflecting every living hue. She pulled the cowl over her head, and the transformation began immediately.
She felt the cloak’s magic crawl over her flesh, rewriting her bones, and for a long frightening moment she hovered on the threshold between worlds—a child of Cornwall… the scion of the Fae… slayer of kings… and maker of peace.
Gwendolyn closed her eyes, accepting the consequences.
Cornwall would be lost to her.
Her son as well.
But she knew with every fiber of her being that this was where she belonged.
Her body altered subtly, but noticeably.
Her skin adopted a sheen like Cornish pearls.
Her ears lengthened to elegant points.
Her features sharpened, transforming.
And when she opened her eyes again, she saw the King’s Hall as though for the first time—colors sharper and the souls of her enemies and allies, all burning like cinders in a night field.
Gasps rippled through the court as the cloak revealed her true form.
Her hair, always golden, now shone like a mane of pure sunlight. Her eyes, once a stormy gray, flashed with quicksilver. The bones beneath her flesh hinted at a wilder ancestry—cheekbones cut from stone, lips that could speak either blessing or curse. But it was the aura surrounding her that staggered the assembly—the aura of a god.
And yes, it was true. She was Manannán mac Lir’s daughter—but also the daughter of Ethniu, who was daughter to Balor and the mother of Lugh.
The blood of the Ancients ran through her veins.
A tremble rolled through the halls, followed by Lord Elric’s suddenly pallid complexion, his eyes wide, as though seeing a shade.
Beside him, Lirael’s sneer faltered. She recoiled, her mask of arrogance slipping to reveal naked fear. “This is a trick!” she spat. “An illusion—no more! She cannot be Niamh of the Golden Hair! No! No! No!”
But she was!
Oh, she was!
And now Gwendolyn could prove it.
