Page 50 of A Crown So Cursed
That was the sobriquet her father gave her when she came to be Aengus’ ward. No one knew her as Curcog, but Málik. She spread her arms; the cloak somehow billowing in the still air. “No trick, Lirael. This is who I am, and who I choose to be.” She turned her gaze to the members of the Shadow Court, and again to the curtains behind the dais—seeking Málik. She could feel their bond simmering through her veins as the court’s mutters grew into a cacophony of disbelief and awe, getting stronger and stronger by the moment as he approached.
Lirael’s challenge, so venomously poised, now faltered against the inevitable truth. No longer could anyone deny her Fae ancestry, but she needed them to understand something more… because she suddenly knew what Esme had meant about her warm, beating heart. Her warm, beatingmortalheart.
Arachne was mistaken. She was not merely a Daughter of Two Realms, as the spider woman had implied. She was the Daughter of Three!
All her memories came flooding back—everything.
“I will not forsake my birth, nor any right. I am Fae by blood, but human as well.”
The goddess part was theirs to behold by the golden glow that emanated from her flesh, so bright it illuminated the entire room and all who stood in her presence.
She peered at Esme to see that her sister was smiling—her half-sister, who had so oft risked her life, and who gave up her own claim to the Fae throne to keep Gwendolyn safe. Turning now, she faced the court again.
“I come to you with open arms and a heart that knows the love of many realms. If you will, let this be the dawn of a new age. There are too many who would see our worlds remain ever divided—who believe strength lies in purity and tradition. But I say unto you, with surety, that strength is in love, in hope, and the future we make!”
Her words hung in the air, surprising even herself, gathering energy, swelling to every corner of the hall. One by one, Gwendolyn spied the reactions play across the room—for some, fear and for others, hope.
The old lords of the Shadow Court conferred in harsh whispers, their calculations already shifting. Elric Silvershade smiled, a serpent’s grin, and then clapped.
“Beautifully spoken, lady. But words are not enough. Where is your king? Has he abandoned you already? Or have you disposed of him to usurp his place?”
Another hush fell, then a commotion from the crowd, but Gwendolyn said nothing, feeling Málik’s presence so strong that she knew he would appear any moment. Lord Elric was only desperate and too stupid to realize he had already lost.
At last, Gwendolyn peered up to see the curtain part, and there he stood! Málik, his hair wild, his eyes burning with desperation, but his gaze filled with relief at the sight of her and he halted abruptly to gaze at her… as she was.
Almost bashfully, Gwendolyn lifted a hand to the peak of her ear to find the point, and she smiled… with a mouth full of porbeagle teeth.
The silence that followed seemed to last an eternity.
Gwendolyn feared she would come undone—she had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. As powerful as she had felt only a moment before, she was nothing if he did not love her in this new form. His eyes traversed the contours of her transformed face, his expression unreadable. The tension within the hall remained palpable, the air thick with anticipation and unspoken questions. His arrival was both a salvation and a trial in itself. And then, suddenly, he moved, his strides measured but urgent.
“My love!” he exclaimed.
“Málik!” Gwendolyn sobbed, and in that interminable moment before he reached her, before he touched her, the air between them thrummed with the intensity of their bond. Ever so gingerly, he cupped her face in two hands, his touch worshipful. And then he kissed her, deeply and fiercely, as though to proclaim his allegiance before the eyes of all. Their lips parted with the sweet taste of tears mixed with joy, and for a heartbeat, all worlds twinned in that hall.
Gwendolyn felt herself suffused with a joy so fierce it scarcely distinguished itself from pain.
No one moved to intervene.
All eyes remained upon them, and for that one tiny moment, they were two souls, flawed and whole, united before gods and creatures alike. But as no true Faerie’s tale will ever unfold without treachery, Gwendolyn’s moment of glory was shattered by an ear-piercing squeal.
The first to move was Lirael, her face twisting with ugly rage. She snatched up a ceremonial dagger from the dais—the one meant to cut Gwendolyn’s flesh to test her blood—and flung it, point-first, at Gwendolyn’s breast.
Time slowed.
Gwendolyn saw every detail in motion—the flick of Lirael’s wrist, the whorls of the blade.
Esme was faster. Her sister moved like the wind, intercepting Lirael’s blade with the flat of her palm. Blood sprayed, and a collective gasp rose. But Esme stood grinning through the pain, holding the ceremonial knife aloft, still embedded in her palm.
“Pathetic throw,” she jeered. “Next time, why don’t you try aiming for my heart? It’s harder to miss than yours, heartless bitch!”
She then turned to Gwendolyn and whispered. “This one is going to hurt, damn it. It’s difficult to heal a wound from this blade.”
Horrified, Gwendolyn stood watching as Lirael wailed and her father stared at the floor, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.
Old Lord Maelon said: “The Rite is done. We are satisfied. The court will abide.” And then he followed his declaration with, “Guards! Arrest Lirael Silvershade!”
At once, two black-liveried guards converged upon the dais, seizing Lirael by her arms—the very support she had intended to use against Gwendolyn turning against her. She fought them, her heels clattering wildly across the floor as she struggled.
