Page 29 of The Maleficent Faerie
“True.” He smiles a little, offering no further explanation.
“So you’re going to let me attend the service with you, where I could potentially refill my magic—and you won’t collar me?” I hook an eyebrow at him.
“Precisely.”
“Your people don’t experience the Surge like mine do. Perhaps you think I won’t be able to refill my powers through your ritual.”
He shrugs. “We shall see. Do I get the rings or not?”
“Will you return them to me?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
I don’t understand what he’s doing. Perhaps he has gone mad. If so, I should take full advantage of that.
“Very well.” I tug at one of my rings, frowning when it doesn’t want to budge. Gritting my teeth, I pull harder.
The Void King watches me with keen interest. “Having trouble?”
“I—fuck.” I pull vainly at first one ring, then another.
“You haven’t tried to remove them before?”
“No.” My heart races, heat flushing over my skin. Why won’t they come off? “They must be too tight.”
He sets the collar and manacles down on a bench. “May I try?”
After yanking on the rings for a few more seconds, I give up and hold out my hand to him.
His fingers close around mine, claws grazing my skin. He tries to maneuver one of the rings, then another, but it’s no use. They’re stuck tight.
A bell begins to ring, deep and sonorous.
The Void King lifts his eyes to mine. “It seems we’re out of time. Come with me.” He grips my wrist and drags me along, out of the bathhouse, across the courtyard bathed in twilight, and up the steps of the chapel.
“Do not attempt to fight or flee,” he orders me under his breath as we cross the threshold. “If you do, there will be severe consequences.”
Two robed figures stand in the vestibule, holding silver bowls of incense which they wave before me and the King in a complex pattern. A dark, herbal smoke flows into my nostrils, unfamiliar and bitter at first, but the longer I inhale it, the more I crave another hit of the scent.
When the robed figures step back, the King leads me on, into a wide hall with soaring, arched ceilings. The windows are arched as well, each one divided into a thousand diamond-shaped panes. Candelabras stand between them, lighting the otherwise gloomy space. At the head of the sanctuary is an immense window of painted glass.
There are no benches, seats, or platforms. No place for a Priest or Priestess to stand. No instruments, no bursts of dazzling magic. The knights, clad in simple trousers and tunics, sit on thick rugs along with the Chapel’s residents and some other guests. They form a circle around the High Priestess who sits cross-legged on a large cushion.
Instead of moving to the innermost part of the circle, near the High Priestess, the King seats himself near the outer edge, letting his wings drape on the floor. He gestures for me to sit as well.
I don’t understand how worship can be conducted like this. How is one supposed to generate a Surge of magic without exciting the worshipers, ramping up their emotion to the necessary heights? Even in the small gatherings I’ve done with my mothers and their close friends, we’ve always had loud music and louder cries to the goddess—communal chants and dancing bodies swaying together.
In this blue-shadowed chapel, a delicate silence prevails.
Until one of the devotees begins to hum softly.
A few others join in, creating a layered harmony. No words, just quiet humming that echoes in the vast chamber.
“How can this produce a Surge?” I whisper.
“We do not scream for an external application of Eonnula’s power,” murmurs the King. “We believe that the goddess is already inside all of us, and we have only to link with other friends and worshipers to call Her forth and share Her power. Our worship is about an internal infusion of magic—the true magic we all possess. Sing if you like, or not at all. There is no compulsion to participate, no gaiety forced upon the sorrowful heart.”
“And this must be done in a chapel?”
