Page 30 of The Maleficent Faerie
“It can happen anywhere, but the strongest power comes when we quiet ourselves in a sacred place, under the guidance of those fully devoted to the goddess. Now please… sit.”
I gather the purple skirts of my gown in both hands and arrange them over my knees as I sit cross-legged beside him.
The singing swells gradually, phrases slipping from the lips of the worshipers, new harmonies introduced in layers of deep bass, rich alto, honeyed tenor, and faint, high soprano. A smooth baritone enters the song, gliding through the rising melody, following its own path in an exquisite flow of notes.
That beautiful voice is coming from the man beside me, who sits with his horned head bowed, his wings relaxed, and his eyes closed.
I could leap up now and run for the door. The robed figures in the vestibule could not stop me. I could take a horse and flee.
Or I could attack the King. I could seize the flaming sunburst medallion from his belt and slice his throat with its sharply pointed rays. I’d cut deeply this time—far deeper than I did with my teeth. If I wound him badly enough, he won’t be able to heal.
But such an attack would be sacrilege. Because in this candlelit chapel, in this everchanging river of quiet song, I feel the presence of Eonnula, just as I felt her presence at the Lifegiving Festival… except instead of frenzied joy and impassioned glee, peace reigns here, flooding the sore, ravaged places of my heart.
The music enters me through the jagged seams of my inner self. Its soothing flow reveals all the parts of me that are wrong, more clearly than ever before—glowing along the seams of the anger that’s been splitting my heart for more years than I’ve let myself acknowledge.
I am deeply, wretchedly angry. And I don’t know why.
I have no reason to be this angry. I’ve had a good life, a better life than many. Loved by Dawn, by my mothers. Favorite of the King and Queen. I’m respected among the Caennith, or so my mothers tell me, even though Dawn and I rarely appear in public. I’ve had training, tutoring—a high-level education. I’m Fae, gifted with magic and wings.
And yet…
Something inside me is wrong. Disconnected, misshapen. The energy circulating through me sharpens that certainty so painfully that I gasp, tears pooling in my eyes.
Self-conscious, I keep my head bowed, but I look up through my lashes at some of the others in the room. At least three of them are crying quietly, and Kyan is kneeling with his forehead pressed to the rugs, sobbing openly while Andras grips his shoulder.
“The goddess is found in sorrow as well as joy,” murmurs the King, his voice blending seamlessly with the song.
He turns his head, the candlelight gleaming on his four sharp horns. I meet his gaze, my breath hitching with a sob, tears escaping my eyes.
“Here you can be afraid,” he says softly. “You can be angry, and wretched, and so discouraged you want to die. And still you are accepted, and still you are fed. And still you are loved.”
I bite back a sob. I’m cracking open inside—I’m breaking—the pieces I’ve pushed together and held so firmly intact—they are unsealing, falling apart.
“Sometimes I need to be reminded,” he murmurs.
“Reminded of what?” I whisper.
“That I am enough. Even when I’m not.”
There is no Surge. No crashing wave of magic experienced all at once, no orgasmic blaze of power or delight. Each person in the room seems to be refilled at a different moment, to experience it in a different way. Some gasp audibly, others simply close their eyes, features softening with an expression of supreme peace. A number of the Fae begin to glow visibly, like the Caennith Fae after a surge. When Reehan’s skin turns luminous, he rolls his neck and shoulders, nods to the others, and gets up, leaving the chapel with a bounce in his step. Andras and Kyan leave together, their fingers interlaced, one limned in blue light, the other in silver.
One after another, the worshipers slip out, leaving the song thinner, but no less beautiful.
When there are only a few people left in the chapel, the Void King begins to glow.
A haze of green light hovers over his skin and flickers along his horns, while green flames ignite among his black feathers.
Slowly he turns to me, his dark eyes transformed into pits of green fire.
My breath catches.
It’s only for a moment, and then he’s back to normal, as if he has reined in or absorbed the fresh power.
The green glow reminded me briefly of his staff. I haven’t seen it since we went to the bath-house. Perhaps he left it in whatever chamber has been given to him for the night. No one brought weapons into the chapel, so perhaps there’s a rule about such things.
The Void King doesn’t move, not even when the last threads of the song fade and everyone else has left the chapel; and only I remain beside him, silent and contemplative.
The High Priestess is the last to go. As she passes by us, her eyes lock briefly with mine. They’re no longer cold—instead, there’s a flash of pity, of eagerness, of interest. The change in her demeanor confuses me. I haven’t spoken to her or seen her since we first arrived. What could have changed her opinion of me so drastically?
