Page 12 of The Maleficent Faerie
This time the cheer is slightly louder, but not by much. In Caennith, there would already be songs and dancing, people screaming their joy and leaping for sheer delight at such a victory. I’ve heard that the Daenalla are a sour, somber nation. I suppose I’m witnessing that sobriety first-hand.
Fitzell beckons to Andras. “I’m going to set a triple watch around the camp,” she tells him in a low voice. “We have stolen their princess, and it will not go unanswered for long. I will escort the King to the physik. Get someone to help you with the Princess, and take her to the King’s tent. Shackle her—hand, foot, and throat. Take no chances.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies.
“I mean it, Andras. Do not underestimate her.” Fitzell looks up at me, where I sit quietly on the horse. The keen appraisal in her eyes unsettles me.
Any moment now, my glamour will begin to fade. First my wings will become perceptible to touch, and then they’ll be fully visible. My ear-tips will reappear, and my hair will revert from gold to blue.
Once the Daenalla realize I’m not the Princess—if they don’t kill me immediately—the bargaining can begin. I’ll tell them who I really am, and they can send a ransom demand to my mothers.
Or, if I get some time alone in the King’s tent, perhaps I can reinforce the glamour and keep up the ruse a little longer.
Andras and a powerfully-built female knight escort me to the King’s enormous black tent. It’s propped up by at least two dozen posts, and gold flags fly from its peaks. But despite its size, the interior is sparsely furnished.
The two knights chain me by the neck to one of the thick supporting posts of the tent. My wrists are shackled in front of me, and my feet are shackled too, with a bit more chain between them. Another chain runs from the shackle on my right ankle back to a metal band around the post.
I’m not sure what metal my shackles are made of, but they’re worn smooth along the inside, not rough or sharp. Something to be thankful for, I suppose. Midunnel is a realm of limited resources, in which mines are scarce and metal is precious. Fortunately, the allergy to iron that seems to have plagued my Fae ancestors in the home realm did not travel with us to Midunnel. Perhaps Eonnula saw fit to cure us of it when she crafted this new world.
The knights give me a little water, then leave me alone in the tent. I try to sit down; but the metal collar around my neck stops me. The chain is too short for rest—I must remain standing.
Sighing, I close my eyes and focus on my magic.
When I was very young, my mothers told me that my power is centered in my palms. Unusual for a Fae, perhaps, but then again, I was an unusual child, born of three women.
I press my hands together, palms and fingers aligned, just as they taught me, while I form the intent in my mind—the goal of the magic I want to perform. Power flows from my hands, up through my arms, solidifying in my heart before rising into my brain, the center of thought and purpose.
Once I feel the magic in my mind, I can work with it.
Murmuring the stanzas of the incantation, I lay another glamour over my wings first, ensuring they’ll stay invisible and intangible. Then I focus on my hair color—a much easier glamour, and it lasts longer. Next I shift my attention to my ears, planning to conceal the sharp tips—but a violent pinching sensation in my chest stops me. My fingers twitch as I strain, seeking my magic—but I barely feel the flow of power. There’s only a trickle left.
Shit.
My mothers were supposed to arrive at the summer palace for a visit tomorrow, and we had planned to do a gathering then. They would have helped me refill my power. When I went to the Festival, I expected to enjoy the benefits of the Surge; but that didn’t happen, and now I’m nearly empty. If I keep pushing, if I force it, I’ll end up like the Void King—feverish and helpless. I’ve never let my magic drain that low before, and I’m not about to over-exert myself now, in the camp of my enemies.
With my magic this low, I can’t use it to fight back against the Daenalla. And I won’t be able to place any more glamours. When this one wears off, I’ll be discovered.
Experimentally I pull on my chains for a while, but they’re secure—no weaknesses anywhere that I can detect. My strength won’t help me here. All I can do is wait.
Sometime later, voices sound at the entrance to the tent. Fitzell and a slim Fae with tiny antlers wrestle the Void King and his wings through the tent flap and propel him toward the bed. He’s still wearing his dark pants, but they’ve taken off the pauldron and the leather chestpiece, as well as his boots. Fitzell is carrying the staff with the green stone, which she props against a post. I left the staff in the clearing near the Void King’s body, when I decided to run instead of slitting his throat. Perhaps I should have tried to use its magic, but I could sense nothing from it. Maybe it only responds to him.
The Void King’s cheeks bear a hectic flush, and his long black hair, damp with sweat, clings to his shoulders and back. I have the strangest urge to gather up that ebony hair and bundle it into a knot, so it’s off his neck.
He’s reeling, frowning, dizzily pushing away Fitzell and his other knight.
“You need to lie down, Your Majesty,” Fitzell persists. “The restorative tonic should take effect soon. Once the fever breaks and you’ve gotten some sleep, we can ride to the Hellevan Chapel and conduct worship to refill your power.”
Thank the goddess. Maybe I’ll be able to refill my magic there, too. Not that it will do me much good at that point—they’ll know I’m Fae by then, and they’ll probably place a binding collar around my neck to prevent me from casting spells or glamours.
The tent flap bursts open, and an ebony-skinned man with broad features and glassy green wings strides in. “It has begun,” he says tersely to Fitzell. “We just received word that a squadron of Caennith soldiers has moved out beyond the wall. They’re attacking one of our garrisons.”
“Fuck.” Fitzell presses her fingertips to her brow. “I thought we’d have a little more time. They haven’t sent a message? Asked for a ransom?”
“No.” The green-winged man shakes his head. “They know he won’t give her back. No use asking. They’ll try to take her by force.”
Fitzell nods. “This is a warning, a show of strength. Once the King mobilizes more of his army, their attacks will begin in earnest. No doubt they already have runners searching the woods. Our garrisons are well-fortified, but reinforcements couldn’t hurt. I’ll send the orders at once. As soon as the King’s fever breaks and he takes a few hours’ sleep, he can take a few knights and ride for the Chapel, and from there to Ru Gallamet. Come, Della.”
Della, the slim antlered Fae, has just succeeded in making the Void King lie down on the bed. She arranges his wings on either side of him and tucks a thick pillow behind his neck, propping him up to allow space for his curved horns. She looks at him doubtfully, then glances at me. “Captain, is it all right to leave the prisoner in here with him?”
