Page 80 of The Maleficent Faerie
But something scratches at my mind. A duty. A purpose unfulfilled.
A promise.
I don’t know who I am, or where I am. There is too much raw magic to permit that level of self-awareness. But I am vaguely conscious that something besides me exists. Something I must protect. Something small and golden.
It takes form—the gleaming image of a tiny golden viper, hissing at me, its mouth wide, showing curved fangs. Adorable, savage, powerful and poisonous—and yet helpless. Because even as it strikes, it goes limp, the light fading from its eyes.
No.
I want it to stay whole and living.
A whisper through the screaming wind.You’d better save everyone. And you’d better be alive when I wake up, or I swear I’ll fucking kill you…
My awareness flares, bright as the sun, my mind lit up with purpose, fusing my consciousness to my body. I am myself again, and I have a reason for the magic surging through me.
Aura.
Her realm and mine.
I gather the Void, its violence thrumming through every sinew, every joint, every organ I possess. Tenacious, implacable, I match its will with mine. For all my moments of doubt, of self-hate, of despair, I am not weak. I have never been weak. If nothing else, my inner torment prepared me to withstandthis, because I have plunged myself down into the bowels of darkness and I have clawed my way out again, every time.
The Void has always lived within me, and I with it. And that is why it can never win. Because no matter how it howls and rages, I am stronger.
My will pulls the Void over the Spindle, through Aura’s blood, wraps it around the Wheel, sucks it into myself. My will forces the absorbed magic out of me again, this time with form, intent, and purpose. I am myself, but I am larger than myself, enshrouded in the starry emptiness, standing tall above Midunnel. I can see the great serpentine coil of the Void—the coil I am creating. It races along the Edge, along the borders of the realm. Around it goes, a solid wall crafted of darkness, a serpent chasing its tail in a neverending circle.
I keep pushing, pressing my will into it, using a variation of the spell I’ve used to keep Ru Gallamet from being swallowed up. This work is far bigger—alarming in its scope, but I refuse to let myself doubt, or dream of failure. I keep pushing and chanting, until a flutter in the magic makes me hesitate.
The Spindle is coated with Aura’s blood.
Too much blood.
How much time has passed between the moment she pricked her finger and now? I have no way of knowing.
Shit…
I send one last pulse of my energy and will into the barrier that now borders Midunnel. It will have to do. I can’t risk Aura’s life, and that flutter in the current of magic—it means her vitality is fading.
I let the rest of the Void go, let the Wheel spin to a stop as I race forward, waving my hand to release Aura’s chains. She falls backward, and with a wingbeat I spring up and catch her in my arms.
No need to bellow for the healer—Szazen is already there, waiting in the doorway of the tower. In fact, all my men seem to be crowded into the small space at the head of the stairs, and I glimpse a few of the servants behind them. My great working of the Void did not go unnoticed.
Szazen pries open Aura’s lips and pours a tonic between them. “Take her to your room, Sire. I’ll ensure that she’s healed.”
“She won’t wake.” My voice comes out as a throaty rasp—I must have been screaming during the ritual, though I don’t remember it. “I cursed her. She won’t wake—she won’t come back. A hundred years…”
“I understand, my Lord,” Szazen says gently. “Lay her in your chamber, and I’ll see that she’s resting safely. And then I should see to you.”
I don’t understand why they want to tend to me. I don’t understand until I’ve laid Aura down, and they’re caring for her, and I have a chance to look at myself in the full-length mirror near the bed.
My flesh has been carved open in dozens of places, and I’m missing great swaths of skin from my chest and limbs. My hair is gone, and my face—my face is a mask of glistening red tissue and white tendons. My nerves must have been seared away, because I don’t feel any pain. My eyeballs bulge strangely from their stripped sockets.
“I’m not healing,” I whisper. “The fuck?”
“You should lie down, Sire.” Ember’s deep voice, just behind me.
“My face.” Nausea spikes in my stomach, and I gag. “Szazen—Szazen, you can fix me. You can—you have to. But it doesn’t matter, of course—shematters. The realm matters—goddess, I look horrifying. Szazen, tell me Aura will be all right.”
“I’m replacing her blood now,” the healer says soothingly.
