Page 73 of The Maleficent Faerie
“It’s unfair,” I mutter against her cheek. “You and I—we have so little time.”
“We are a tragedy,” she agrees. “We don’t make sense.”
She tugs on my hair sharply, jerking my head back so she can press a hot kiss to my throat, right where she ripped into it once before. I gasp, shuddering against her as she lets her teeth graze my skin.
Pulling away is a monumental triumph, because all I want is to crush her against me and surge inside her again.
But I must prepare myself to fend off the Caennith attack.
Aura lets me go. But I feel her gaze, a sweet malevolence following me up to the peak of the Spindle, judging me and desiring me while I press Iyyo’s fingertip to the spiked tip and bind his body in place with thin black chains. His feet rest on a metal strip bracketed halfway up the Spindle. His arm remains uplifted, his finger pressed to the Spindle’s point, while blood begins to drip from that spot and trickle over the polished surface.
I carved the Spindle from emberwood hardened in white fire. It bears a glaze infused with my blood, sweat, and tears, linking it intrinsically to my body, soul, and mind. It’s taller than three Fae, thicker than my body, sleek and round in the middle and tapered to a dangerous point.
When I descend from the Spindle, I glance at Aura. She looks horrified at the sight of Iyyo, bound to the device, blood trailing from his finger. I rather expected her reaction, but it pains me nonetheless.
I will do what I must, whatever she thinks of me. But I can’t help saying, “Iyyo is willing to serve. He is under no obligation to offer himself.”
“If he’s doing this willingly, why are there chains?”
“The chains aren’t to restrain him. They’re to keep the Void from taking him.”
Her mouth forms a startled “O.”
I busy myself with the final preparations—the lighting of incense, the casting of the oils over the Wheel, the potion I always take before a Spinning, to prepare my body for channeling the Void Magic.
“All right there?” I call to Iyyo as I seat myself behind the Wheel.
“All right, my Lord!” he calls back.
“Does it hurt him?” Aura asks.
“No. They drink a potion before they serve me in this way. It softens any discomfort.”
She looks somewhat mollified, then anxious as she notices the increased violence of the wind spiraling around the tower.
“Stay still!” I call to her. “The Void is coming.”
I place my foot on the treadle and extend my fingers. Green light stabs from my claws, crackling over the Wheel, setting it in motion.
No matter how many times I do this, it always terrifies me. I sense the advance of the Dark, a sucking pull on my soul. I smell it, like the air before a storm—a crackle of bitterness, the aching sting of endless cold. Most of all, I feel its pressure on my skin—a slithering brush of shadow, a crawling lust for the vitality of my body and mind.
But I am the one in control. The Void is not exactly sentient, and though it shudders with raw power, it is a force of nature as well. This mechanism I have built is science and magic combined, a heretical device in the eyes of the Caennith, but marvelously effective here in Daenalla, where our religion does not interfere with the pursuit of scientific exploration.
I wish I could show Aura the technologies we’ve implemented in Daenalla’s central cities—the plans I’ve drawn up for more devices and mechanisms, once the war is finally over and I can devote more resources to invention.
But there is no time to show her any of it. Once I drive the Caennith forces away from Ru Gallamet, she’ll be taking Iyyo’s place on the Spindle.
The Void is nearer now. I glance over my shoulder to assure myself that Aura is well out of the way, behind me and the Wheel. She’s rooted to her spot in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the star-flecked emptiness beyond the tower, where a deeper darkness writhes and swells against the Nothing.
“You see it?” Despite my efforts, the strain of fear and awe tightens my voice.
“I see it.” Her voice filters faintly through the wind. The Void dislikes the consistency of this place, the breathable pocket of air around Ru Gallamet. It strives to disturb it as much as possible. If I allowed it, the Void would swallow the air and suffocate us all. But the magic I’ve woven around this mountain holds, as long as I reinforce it from time to time.
The Void swirls nearer, flinging out coils of impenetrable shadow, nosing closer to the tip of the Spindle. I redouble the magic surging out of me into the Wheel, and it spins faster, green light traveling along the mechanism, up the Spindle, flowing harmlessly over Iyyo, snaking all the way to the sharp point, where my servant’s finger is still pressed, still leaking blood.
I don’t have much magic left to spend. I used the remainder of my Void magic to shield my heart from the Caennith arrows’ poison—and the rest is pouring out onto the Wheel. But it doesn’t matter. In moments I will possess more power than I can use.
My Spindle sucks in the first tendrils of the Void—siphons them from the emptiness, winds them around itself. Shadows spiral along the machine, rushing past Iyyo as the Wheel pulls the darkness in, whips it around and around, its gears groaning. I press the treadle firmly, while one of my outstretched hands guides the Wheel and the other accepts the inbound flow of magic.
