Page 8 of A Crown So Cursed
Gwendolyn’s heart leapt—then stuck, quivering, in her throat as he seized her hand and drew her after him, down the narrow path to the lonely spit of beach, where he kept his precious boat:Sguaba Tuinne—The Wave Sweeper. Infamous it was, though in truth, only an old coracle—a mean little barque, all wickerwork and blackened bitumen, as though any amount of pitch could keep such a vessel from leaking. To even think of braving the sea in that wicked little bowl was madness. Yet she had come with him from Cornwall to the Isle of Man in it, and knew better than most what the coracle could endure. It was stronger than it looked. Its oars were mere ornament—tokens for the uninitiated. The boat was enchanted, attuned to its master’s thoughts, and would turn or speed or slow at the merest whim. The ocean itself bent to Manannán’s whispers, and the little boat obeyed.
As Gwendolyn stepped into the boat, the vessel rocked gently beneath her feet, and she quickly settled herself onto a wooden bench in the back, her fingers curling about the boat’s edges as Manannán pushed the skiff into the surf. Waves lapped at the gunwales, and when they were far enough out, Manannán jumped in and took his seat, his gnarled, old hands grasping the oars that would help navigate them safely across the Minch and through the Veil between worlds.
“One last time for us,” he said with a wry smile, and together in silence, they traversed the roiling deep, the sky a somber blanket of smoke, and the air crisp with the scent of the sea.
Manannán applied the oars in sync with the ocean, every stroke a verse in a poem only he understood. As they rowed out across the waves, with the wind whipping through her hair, Gwendolyn’s heart pounded with anticipation and a bit of fear.
Above, the sky became a churning mass of blustering clouds, but beneath the brewing chaos, Manannán whistled as he rowed, his every stroke sending the small skiff rolling over the waves like a feather in a tempest. Their destination lay at the heart of the sea, and as they approached the portal, the winds grew. Gwendolyn glanced back one last time at the receding shoreline, feeling for the first time the true magnitude of her decision.
If she dared cross through, she would never again set eyes on her sweet son…
Nor Bryn.
Nor Taryn.
Nor Ely.
The weight of this truth pulled at her heart, but the image of Málik brought with it a new flood of longing as the air crackled with magic.
Thunder.
Lighting.
The sound raised the little hairs on Gwendolyn’s arms.
“Hold!” Manannán cried over the roar. “Hold!”
Like a rag doll, the tiny skiff was tossed by the fury of the ocean. Still, her father’s arms remained steady as he shouldered against their force. “We are merely tested,” he said with a grin, and Gwendolyn seized the edges of the boat as the world itself rocked, then spun.
She really wasn’t sure.
At long last, the moment of truth—when the magic of her father’s enchanted vessel would test the boundaries of the Fae and mortal realms…even against his raging sea.
Every push, every mighty swell was like a battle cry between warring worlds, guarding against trespassers. But for all their fury, nothing could hold back Manannán mac Lir, whose feat of strength was unmatched amidst gods, old and new.
The world burst into a prism of color as they plunged through the portal, and Gwendolyn clung toSguaba Tuinne, her knuckles turning white. She felt a familiar surge, a pulse so formidable it tugged at her soul…and then…
Silence.
ChapterThree
Bedecked for the occasion, every aspect of the King’s Hall has been artfully designed to mirror a world my kind has been denied.
Portieres billow with an unseen breeze, fronds of green spill over the edges of urns, their twisting roots escaping across the floor, as though the woodlands sought to reclaim this space from which it had been so long banished.
Most maddening of all is that wretched ceiling—a living masterpiece accurately depicting the cycles of day and night, complete with sunrises and sunsets painted in every shade of its creation. Some hours ago, I commanded that cycle’s disruption, declaring that, for the remainder of these “festivities,” it should remain a never-ending length of night…
Dark and joyless.
Like my mood.
And if anyone should wonder how long the Fae can dance… my last count before commanding those cycles to end numbered eight-thousand, thirty…
One.
For.
Every.
