Arise the Queen

Book 4: The Goldenchild Prophecy

by Tanya Anne Crosby

Genres: Historical Fantasy; Fantasy Romance; Romantic Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

"An epic story... Tanya breathes life into this timeless tale of love and betrayal, blurring the lines of fantasy and history. —Jeff Wheeler, Wall Street Journal bestselling author

Betrayed by the one she most trusts, Gwendolyn must find a way to face the Fae King alone… and end victorious. But in order to do that she must remember what she has forgotten—a destiny preordained by The Fates. But the odds are rising against her and even The Fates appear to favor a cruel king, whose very reign began with the end of everything she holds dear.

Arise the Queen is the exciting conclusion of the Goldenchild Prophecy.

“Tanya Anne Crosby created a world I never want to leave. This was the series she was born to write. I am ravenous for the next installment! — USA Today Bestselling Author Kerrigan Byrne

“I've just been inside the mind of a genius. Tanya Anne Crosby is in a class by herself. She creates gorgeous worlds where fact and fiction blend to create a stunning epic. Utterly brilliant.” — USA Today Bestselling Author Kathryn Le Veque

"A breathtaking true tale with a touch of Celtic magic, brought to life by a soul-stirring storyteller." — New York Times Bestselling Author Glynnis Campbell

“The Cornish Princess is not simply a romantic fantasy. There is nothing simple about it. The characters are complex and do not divulge their thoughts or purpose easily. Crosby has created a balanced, multifaceted genre, one where history’s battle cry is tangible while fingers of fable and fantasy pull and tug the unwary.” — Whiskey & Wit Book Reviews

“Exquisite, lyrical, powerful, and haunting, The Cornish Princess is a heroine for the ages. Gwendolyn of Cornwall’s epic journey from the Golden Child of Prophecy to that of a warrior and defender of her people will remain in your heart long after you finish the last page.” — Kimberly Cates, USA Today Bestselling Author

“Holy Cow! This is one of my all-time favorite books I have read this year! Tanya Anne Crosby's storytelling ability is absolutely magical and this twisted ending definitely put my stomach in knots that made me totally gasp! An absolute masterpiece!” — Purple Tulip Book Reviews

"A bit of Fae magic, a bit of Arthurian aura... wrap around a nugget of British history that has almost disappeared into the mist of time, to give start to an interesting series that promises to be a classic." — IndianaHapppyTraveler

 

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Release date: October 15, 2024

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 316

Sample

ONE

The bright blue of Málik’s eyes shrank to pinpricks of light as Gwendolyn continued to twist through the air, falling, flailing—until, at long last, she landed with a thud, disoriented, the end of her journey like that time when, as a wee girl, she went whirling, twirling through a field of sunflowers.

Spinning, spinning, everything wildly adrift—nothing substantial, until unexpectedly… there it was… solid ground… and the abruptness of the impact made her belly roil.

Closing her eyes against a wave of nausea, she lay still, trying to regain her bearings, disoriented and confused, her mind floundering to make sense of what happened.

One minute she was there…

With Málik.

The next…

She was here?

But where was here?

The air was cool and damp, the scent loamy.

Groaning, she fumbled around, encountering…

Pebbles?

Soil?

Her nails scraped against hard stone, and the sack tangled about her fingers was a painful reminder that this was no dream. Gwendolyn was alive, judging by the pang that manifested itself between her shoulder blades—but well was another matter.

Her heart shattered.

“Bloody. Rotten. Elf!” she spat, fighting yet another wave of nausea as she opened her eyes, blinking to find herself surrounded by stars… but nay… not stars…

Piskies.

Their presence transformed this gloom, and with their luminous little wings, they fluttered through the air, creating fitful patterns.

Clearly displeased.

Gwendolyn groaned and tried to rise.

“That is not a pleasant word,” said an undetermined voice.

Gwendolyn blinked, her eyes adjusting to the piskie light.

The Púca?

Somehow, despite knowing his language was not hers, she understood every word he spoke. She blinked against the moving shadows, fighting yet another wave of nausea. It was a good thing she’d not yet broken her fast, or she’d be wearing her victuals right now, and that fact, along with the tone of the creature’s voice, soured her mood as miserably as her belly.

“It is widely regarded as a slur,” explained the creature, who now sat in repose atop a nearby boulder. “You could easily find yourself without a head in the wrong company,” he said calmly. “I’d have a care with that tongue.”

“I have every right to be angry,” Gwendolyn apprised the odd little creature.

Because she did. She hadn’t expected for Málik to shove her through that bloody portal, and that she had been planning to leave him did not, at this instant, merit her confession.

“For your own good,” said the creature. “You needn’t be testy.”

“What is for my own good?” Gwendolyn asked. “This? Where am I anyway?”

Ignoring her now, the Púca rolled to one side, lifting one long, furry leg to lap indecorously at the inside of his thigh… as a cat would do. Its long, pink tongue stretched unnaturally, making quick work of his task.

And then, all the while it continued to groom itself, it began to hum—that same

tune Gwendolyn recalled from the Druid’s Hall. Only this time when he introduced the words, she understood every one…

A babe was bequeathed by two Fae,

Two gifts, and a lie they say.

One younger, one elder,

One wiser, one skelder,

Then, sniggering, stole away.

“Danger!” shrieked the piskies, as they quickly scattered, taking Gwendolyn’s meager light along with them, abandoning her to the darkness.

The Púca stopped singing and Gwendolyn’s spine tingled with dread at the reverberating sound of heavy footfalls. Unsheathing her Kingslayer, she drew it out onto her lap only to find that the runic inscriptions on the blade were glowing… blue.

“Trolls!” hissed the cat-sidhe.

 

TWO

 

Hide!”

“Where?”

No sooner had the Púca spoken when he shifted form—like a polypous, bearing semblance to the obsidian stone that permeated the grotto. Answering her with silence now, he flattened himself parchment-thin over the boulder, then hugged the stone close as two small, hirsute creatures came sauntering into view.

Gwendolyn’s heart skipped at the sight of them.

These were trolls?

Blood and bloody bones.

She lay splattered along their path, with nowhere to go, and not entirely certain she hadn’t actually broken a bone, judging by yet another pang that materialized between her arse cheeks.

Apparently, Málik didn’t intend to join her.

As he once had in her uncle’s fogous, she’d half expected for him to materialize, and light his Faerie flame.

But no.

Gwendolyn sat unmoving, gaping at her sword glowing blue, the reality of her situation accosting her like a rude, malodorous belch.

No time for tears.

No time for regrets.

And no thanks to Málik, she was lost, undefended and alone, except for this damnable Púca, whose fealty she had yet to discern.

And clearly, he did not intend to defend her.

Indeed, his purpose thus far appeared to be only to present himself as the deamhan on her shoulders—scolding her at will.

Gods knew, Gwendolyn didn’t need him to explain that elf wasn’t proper. She wasn’t intending to be proper! Never during the entire time she had known Málik had she been more furious with him.

Ugly and foul, the trolls came marching straight toward Gwendolyn, their snips and snarls filling the grotto, and the closer they came, the brighter the glow of her sword, until she feared the luminesce would give her away.

Trolls, really? Gwendolyn had always imagined them to be giants. They were so oft depicted as large, brutish, grotesque beings—and grotesque they were, brutish as well, but these two were anything but large.

In fact, the tallest of the two was scarcely taller than Gwendolyn. To her mind, they appeared to be more like blighted Fae, which was to say there was still something about them that proclaimed them as Fae, despite their corrupted forms. Both had the same pointed ears and porbeagle teeth as Esme. But whereas Esme’s open-mouthed grin could stop a man’s heart from beating, it would be impossible for either of these two beasts to hide their gobs full of teeth.

Fortunately, neither troll appeared to notice Gwendolyn—thanks to her mithril?

In his present form, the Púca was no help at all.

Oblivious to Gwendolyn’s presence, the trolls continued to argue feverishly, but Gwendolyn couldn’t make out a word they spoke until they stopped an arm’s length from where she sat—so close that if the smallest of the two only retreated a long step backward, he would surely meet the edge of her blade.

Breathe, she commanded herself. Breathe!

Swallowing the knot of fear that bobbed into her throat, Gwendolyn fought the most overwhelming urge to bolt, not daring even to draw back her sword, if only to make certain it wasn’t met by a clumsy, oversized troll foot. The last thing she wanted for one of these creatures

to do was to trip over the sword.

“We wants her,” growled the smaller of the two, but then, for all his boldness, he shrank back from his companion’s spittle-filled growl.

Warm slime sprayed Gwendolyn’s cheek, but she daren’t swipe it away, nor even twitch her nose over the terrible smell. Gods. For all that their height had surprised her, they smelled precisely as she’d imagined they should. Never in her life had she smelled the like—except for the one time she and Bryn ferreted away that crate of oysters to the Dragon’s Lair, only to forget about the bloody thing, and return later to find it reeked. These two smelled like that.

“It my idea to search here,” complained the smaller troll and his companion gave him a long-suffering scowl.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn weighed her options…

If she rose, slowly… she could back away… find shelter… behind a boulder stone, although there were none in sight so large as to effectively conceal her… none except for the one the Púca was using now.

However, the path between them was narrow, and if Gwendolyn intended to join him on the other side of this grotto, she would have to slip between these trolls, and even as she contemplated that possibility, the larger of the two pounced, and the pair erupted into a blur of limbs, moving quicker than Gwendolyn might have imagined two hairy blobs could move. Hissing, snarling, claws swiping at the air, they managed to sidestep the sword, and Gwendolyn as well. But they didn’t stop till blood spiced the air, and then the smaller of the two retreated, petting his arm and whimpering. “’Tis true what they say about Yavo—Yavo be selfish!” he complained, and then suddenly, his mood changed, and he emitted what Gwendolyn surmised to be a squeal of delight, forgetting his wound as he lifted a long-clawed finger. “We know!” he said gleefully. “We know! Rip ’er in twain!” He poked his blood-stained claw at his partner, then turned it to his own breast. “We get half!” he said, chortling. “We both get half!”

But for all his enthusiasm, the proposal failed to rouse his companion.

“If we rip the girl in twain, she’ll be dead as your pea-sized brain,” said the larger troll, whom Gwendolyn now presumed must be Yavo. “He said alive, so we take her to Manannán alive!”

Manannán?

Gwendolyn blinked,

recognizing the name of the Sea God. Without a doubt, she understood these trolls must be speaking of her, but why should they wish to drag her before Manannán? Confused, she furrowed her brow—no less befuddled for the fact that she somehow understood everything these creatures were saying as well.

“But… the King wants her, too,” maintained the smaller troll. “He will pay!”

“We will take her to Manannán!” growled Yavo. “If you argue, I put my blade in your belly.” To emphasize this threat, he laid a hand over a small, but nasty-looking dirk that lay nestled within his belt sheathe, and thereafter, both trolls stood facing one another, neither prepared to capitulate.

For a long while, silence permeated the grotto, punctuated only by the nearby dripping of water from the ceiling.

Drip.

Drop.

Gwendolyn was certain that if these two fought again, she would be caught in the middle. She couldn’t imagine being so fortunate as to escape the fray twice.

Sweat dampened her palms as she cast a prayerful glance at the Púca, who lay still as stone. Only this time, he cracked an eyelid, revealing a shining, black pupil. He said nothing and closed the eye again. Still, there was no mistaking the warning gleam in his eye. Without words, he’d urged Gwendolyn to remain silent, though she hadn’t any need to be warned. With her legs twisted beneath her, she would find Yavo’s dirk in her belly long before she could even think to rise. Better to sit and wait despite fearing the quiet would betray the pounding of her heart.

“Understood?” pressed Yavo.

“Understood,” relented the smaller troll. And then, to Gwendolyn’s utmost relief, both creatures left off with the disputation and turned to saunter away, continuing along their journey, with the runty one grumbling behind. “Nothing for Razi! Always Yavo! Selfish, selfish Yavo!”

He sounded on the verge of tears, and how ludicrous it was that Gwendolyn should feel the least bit for this creature despite comprehending that the girl he longed to “rip in twain” was her.

Blood and bones.

This must be a dream, she thought—it must be!

A dream would explain so much—for one, that odd, preternatural quality to this air, a cold, damp mist that tickled Gwendolyn’s memory

even as it tickled her nose. Remember! Málik had begged. But for the life her, she still hadn’t the first clue what it was she was supposed to recall.

Only to be certain she wasn’t dreaming, Gwendolyn pinched the tender flesh of her inner wrist—hard. Then, again, even harder the second time, gritting her teeth when it brought a sting to her eyes. It did not feel like a dream.

But then she had a brief, hopeful thought.

Had the Druids fed her pookies?

More than anything, she wished she were still abed—never rose to search for Esme, never filled her sack with victuals, never encountered Málik on the way back to her bower. But, no, so it seemed, this was not the case. Gwendolyn squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again to find herself in the same spot. So now what?

Considering the answer to that question, Gwendolyn waited as the trolls made their way through the grotto, taking their sweet time as they meandered along a sloping path toward yet another passage from whence emitted an odd ruby light. The Púca, too, remained silent and still, though the instant the quarrelsome pair entered the red-tinted arch, he shifted his form into that of the cat-sidhe, and bounded down from the boulder, demanding she follow.

Much too belatedly Gwendolyn wiped the troll spittle from her face, peering back at the arched tunnel, then back down at her sword, thinking how close she’d come to… what?

As far as she could tell, it sounded as though they were searching for her on behalf of Manannán, but why?

What stake had the Sea God in Gwendolyn’s quest?

The Sword of Light was not Manannán’s, and if Manannán knew she’d come to fetch Claímh Solais, he must also know that Gwendolyn was no longer in possession of it, so what business would he have with her?

“Well!” said the Púca, reappearing before her with arms akimbo. “Art coming, Stupid Girl?”

Gwendolyn frowned. Harnessing patience, she inhaled a long breath, and then held it as long as she could before blowing it out. “I am not a stupid girl,” she said.

“I know who you

 are. Do you know who you are?”

What game did he play? Gwendolyn had no tolerance for riddles this morning and less for this rude little creature.

“Well, then,” she said. “If you know who I am, then you must know my name is not Stupid Girl. It is Gwendolyn.”

“Is it?” he returned with a coy tilt of his head.

“Yes. It. Is,” Gwendolyn affirmed, though she wondered why she bothered when she still didn’t know this creature’s purpose. Never in her life had any one creature annoyed her so thoroughly—not even Málik.

And speaking of Málik…

“Did he send you?”

“Who?”

“Málik!”

He didn’t answer. “Come, now!” he said instead. “Hurry! Hurry, now! We haven’t all day!” And he stood, tapping his paw, waiting for Gwendolyn to find her feet.

Alas, Gwendolyn was slow to move.

For one, no one in her life had ever spoken to her so disrespectfully—none save her enemies. How dare Málik saddle her with such a discourteous beast! Not even Demelza would have dared tap her foot in such a blatant show of impatience.

And no matter, Gwendolyn didn’t intend to argue when arguing would serve no purpose. She did not choose this path, nor did she choose this Púca to be her guide—if, indeed, that was what he was mean to be. For all she knew, the vexing little creature would march her straight to her doom, and still she had no choice but to trust that Málik had sent him in good faith.

By now, the trolls’ voices had ebbed, and the blue in Gwendolyn’s sword had faded, so she returned Kingslayer to its scabbard, turning her attention to the small of her back, rubbing with two fingers. Alas, if a bruise was all the injury she had received after falling through that portal, and after facing trolls, she should count her blessings.

Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to ease the ache in her heart.

If Gwendolyn had once believed that hateful look Loc gave her on their wedding night was the image that would haunt her for the rest of her days, it was overshadowed by her last glimpse into Málik’s face—eyes full of sorrow and regret, but still, he’d let her go.

“Where now?” she asked, resigned.

“You wish to see the King,” the Púca said. “We go see the King, but first we

 seek the Lady.”

Gwendolyn hadn’t actually asked to see anyone, but pointing that out when it was indeed her greatest desire was pointless. “What lady?”

“She who dwells in silk and shadow,” explained the Púca, and his answer made Gwendolyn roll her eyes.

Did no Fae ever speak plainly?

She tried once more. “Who is the lady?”

To answer the question, the Púca shifted this form into that shrieking, three-headed bard and then opened all three of his mouths to sing…

Gwendolyn lifted a hand to stop him. “Nay! Please… nay,” she begged, and when his black eyes narrowed with disapproval, she inclined her head toward the ruby-lit passage and whispered, “Those trolls will hear.”

Of course, that wasn’t the reason, and the Púca must have gleaned as much because he spun about with a huff—to Gwendolyn’s utmost relief.

Vexed though he might be, she couldn’t stand here listening to all three bloody bard heads, every one singing a different tune. For all that was good and holy, it was scarcely bearable when she couldn’t understand what he was saying; now that she could, it would be intolerable.

And yet, how was it possible she understood the First Tongue?

Gwendolyn didn’t know anyone who could speak Gaelg—Málik perhaps, though

he’d never done so in her presence, although he did once interpret the Púca’s song.

“We are late,” apprised the Púca, reforming himself as the cat-sidhe. He gave her a withering glance, then bounded away, muttering something snippy beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like: “Stupid is as stupid does!”

Gwendolyn lifted her brow, ...