The Queen, The Mirror, and The Creation (Fated Chronicles Book 5)

by Humphrey Quinn

  Ivan and Sebastien came up alongside her. Nona wasn't far behind.

  "You know," started Ivan, "it wasn't a win, and it wasn't a loss. But for better or for worse, it's done. And now, we move forward."

  Which was a grim retelling of the events of that night.

  Juliska had weakened Fazendiin and in doing so, not only saved her son, but given them all a chance. If only to prove to Fazendiin, and Meghan too, that he wasn't as in control as he believed—and that was a heck of a win. Meghan needed to remember that, more than the bitter side of the night. Her father could be bested. She had a chance to overthrow him.

  "I need to strike. Soon." Meghan waited for the inevitable arguments, but they didn't come.

  "You might not be wrong about that. Your father might never be as vulnerable as he is right now," agreed Sebastien.

  "However, he does have an army to protect him." Ivan was right too.

  What to do?

  What to do?

  What to do?

  The need for the right answer squeezed hard, corkscrewing her heart. If only there was a way for her to do this on her own, and not drag anyone else into the mess. If only she got hurt, she could live with that.

  But for today, they needed to bury the dead.

  She joined the rest in the last boat to leave the island to return home—a few of Nashua's scouts remained behind—those with animal shifts gifted with flight—to keep watch in case anything happened that needed to be reported.

  There wasn't even enough time to get comfortable or somehow infuse herself around Sebastien and forget this day—what she wanted more than anything—and they were popping out onto the river behind the other boats, already arrived back in Tunkapog lands.

  A mass gathering was taking place. A somber one, in which friends and family learned exactly who Juliska's Scratchers really were, and came to claim their dead.

  It was no less bittersweet than their win that night.

  CHAPTER 30

  The boats had emptied. The crowd moved on. No one noticed a gentle rocking and a shimmer of movement as some hidden presence gently got into one of the boats.

  "Gotcha."

  Ardon's smile was hidden. Blended in with her background. She'd been hiding out in Tunkapog lands for over a day. Sneaking around. Learning all she could—she hadn't managed to sneak out with them when they'd gone to fight. But that had worked to her advantage—fewer people around to potentially catch her snooping. She admitted, upon their return with so many dead, she wondered how bad the battle had gone. But then smirked—we're immortal. Can't have done that much damage.

  She'd gotten the idea while on the island reporting to KarNavan. She'd caught one of their scouts scouring the place and it had hit her—follow him home. So stupid really. And too easy. She'd been going about tracking them all wrong. There wasn't even any magic required. She'd followed, and slipped into his boat and floated right in.

  When she was certain the coast was clear she used a silent spell that sent the boat gently floating back through the doorway of hanging branches, and as hoped, she landed right back onto the island. She nestled the boat in a small cove, covered it, so it could not be seen, and magicked it out of sight from the scouts flying overhead.

  It was almost too easy. Or she was just that good at her job.

  She lifted an arm and pressed behind her ear. A new gift—a tattoo—given when she'd taken the oath of loyalty to Fazendiin—the thing that bound them to him and gave her immortality. It also gave her instant access to his estate—well, not all of it. But it's how they entered the gates.

  She was surprised no one met her. Typically, there were guards on duty. And then she heard the shouts and chaos up near the main house. A most unusual sound here at the Grosvenor's estate. She marched her way up and stormed inside only to find a mass of Striper's huddled, murmuring, waiting. Someone saw her and nodded in the direction where all the chaos was coming from.

  Her steps slowed when she saw KarNavan and a few others assisting Jurekai Fazendiin. What the heck happened? The guy was immortal and powerful, but at this moment, had the features of an almost defeated and half-dead, man.

  They were trying to lie him down on a couch but the Grosvenor groaned and snarled and batted them away miserably.

  Ardon might have succeeded in her task of finding the Tunkapog, but it appeared the confrontation on the island did not fare as well. KarNavan saw her and motioned for her to enter.

  "What happened?" she mouthed silently before her legs froze mid-step. Eyes wide. "Wh—where are your stripes?" Her eyes darted around the room. Each of them. All the same. No stripes.

  "Colin Jacoby happened," Fazendiin grumbled out miserably. Along with his dead mother—unrest her damn soul!

  "I—I don't understand."

  KarNavan's face hardened. "We were in the middle of the battle and then…" he reached up and stroked his pale, very much human skin. "He—removed it."

  "Wh-what?" she gurgled out, horrified by the very prospect. How was that even possible? Her arm involuntarily flew up to her own neck, where her own stripes still lined proudly.

  "We lost our ability," KarNavan spoke, humiliation heavy in the admittance.

  No more blending in. Hiding. They were stripped of the gift they'd gotten so many long years ago.

  "How?" Ardon pushed out of her lungs. "How?"

  Fazendiin sat himself up and attempted to straighten himself. "I very much plan to find out. Amongst other things."

  He was not going to admit to being bested by a teenage boy!

  Ardon tossed KarNavan a rigid scowl.

  This deal was getting dirtier by the minute. They were still powerful, still immortal, but now, only a select few, like Ardon, who hadn't been within Colin Jacoby's radar, still possessed the gift that made them so unique. The things that made their talents worth something. And most certainly gave them an advantage—one they no longer possessed.

  Old Basil, the caretaker, came limping in—talk about near death. The guy was about to croak any day now. He carried a tray which one of the Striper guard had to take from him and carry for him, or he'd have dropped it.

  "Feed it to him," the old man ordered. And they obeyed. After all, he was the only guy the Grosvenor had ever trusted all his long years, and, they needed him to live, or they did not! Talk about your deals gone bad fast.

  It was soup. They thought. It was the stinkiest, most grotesque looking concoction they'd ever laid eyes on, or smelled. Fazendiin didn't question, only took the bowl and gave no regard to the contents and sucked them down like his life depended on it. Which meant, so did theirs. And for all they knew, it did.

  Fazendiin finished and dropped the bowl. He didn't have the strength to stand yet. But the old man simply nodded, collected the bowl, and left. The Grosvenor raised his hand for silence and the room went quiet.

  "First—do not doubt my recovery." Hard not to when he barely had the strength to say it. The warning gaze he shot off to the Striper leader claimed, don't go getting any ideas, you will lose. "Second—where are my prisoners?" he aimed directly at KarNavan. "Did I not give you the Mazuruk Stones to weaken them?"

  "Yes, My Lord. You did."

  "Then why are there no prisoners?"

  "They didn't work," KarNavan revealed.

  "That's impossible."

  "However, the truth. The Stones did not work. Our attackers were not affected by the Stone's power."

  If Fazendiin's jaw ground any harder or tighter, he was going to destroy his own teeth. Tonight, was a heavy blow. Oh, he'd hit back with full speed and full power and they'd not know what the hell hit them. But his immortal offspring were turning out to be more hassle than they were worth. Something wasn't adding up. He'd missed something. Something vital.

  So, they've figured out some way to block the power of the Stones.

  Unexpected.

  Most unexpected.

  And next to what had happened to him on the island, just as bad. Juliska had weakened him. A lo
t. It would take days to fully recover. Days, it appeared, he did not have. He had to reorganize, and do it fast.

  "The Immortality Stone will be moved," he stated in a choppy order a moment later. "And it will have a twenty-four seven guard. It is never to be left unattended."

  "Yes, My Lord. I'll see it done."

  "Remember, your lives depend on that Stone too."

  KarNavan nodded to two guardsmen who left immediately to begin moving the Stone. "Anything else, My Lord?"

  "My Queen's body, place it on her bed. I will take care of the rest, later."

  His intention—if his son returned, he'd force the Projector's magic back inside of him and make him bring his Queen back to life. He'd shroud her in protection and not make the same mistakes.

  His eyes lifted, in deeply unamused determination.

  "Help me to my feet," he ground out.

  Ardon cocked a brow and motioned that she'd handle it. Once the Grosvenor was on two legs he took a moment to smooth out his clothes, and regain some measure of composure.

  "My Lord, if I may—I do have news to—better, the mood?"

  "Go on," he sighed roughly.

  "I tracked them. Found out where they're hiding. And like you suspected, they are on Tunkapog lands. We might not be able to use the Stones to defeat them. But I know where they are, and I can take an army there." She let herself grin, but reservedly so.

  "That is—that is well done." And a needed win.

  "Do you wish us to attack?" questioned KarNavan.

  "Not yet. I need to—take care of a few things. Guard the Stone. No one leaves the estate until I return."

  They nodded their understanding and watched the man attempt not to hobble his way out of the room and up the stairs.

  KarNavan gave Ardon a clipped shake of his head. Yes, he had a few things to discuss, but now was not the time. He was liking this deal a little less with each passing hour. You'd think gaining and keeping immortality would be a little easier!

  He barked out some orders, hoping he hadn't gotten them all into a mess he couldn't get them out of. Siding with Fazendiin had been the sure thing. Now, he might be depending on his daughter to save them all.

  CHAPTER 31

  Fazendiin reached his bedroom, shut the door, and slumped down to the floor. It had taken everything he had just to reach this point. He had no time to waste. He needed to get to his Mage Mirrors—the connection to his future selves, and see what exactly had gone wrong.

  The future was a fickle thing. Always changing, always in flux. But he'd controlled so much of that flux—and yet here he was, not even capable of standing up, with his Queen dead, and Juliska dead. The Scratchers dead. His son's hormonal outbursts messing with his plans. And an army who had no true loyalty to him other than, they preferred to live—and who'd also been stripped of their gift as well.

  He clambered his way over to the full-length mirror. Now, to get inside.

  How pathetic he was. Limping along like some decrepit, powerless nothing.

  He crawled his way inside to empty mirrors. He called out for his future selves. No one came. Had it gotten this messed up? How? What had he done wrong?

  "Are-are you there?" the coarse, old voice snaked out from one of the mirrors. His future self from twenty years—but he looked more like another hundred.

  His current time self, plodded his way toward the mirror, managing to plunk down into his chair.

  "It's not too late," the older version expressed. "You must do exactly what I say. There can be no detour."

  "What happened?"

  "Colin Jacoby. His magic… what we did to him… his magic is unstable, which makes the future, unstable. Or—" and it hurt him to admit it—"we missed something. Have been tricked. Misled."

  Fazendiin had wondered what the outcome of such a long gestation period would be. And now he was reaping the benefits of that ill-founded curiosity. And he'd had the same thoughts himself—he'd missed some vital thing.

  "What must I do to correct this? What does Grace say? She must have something useful!"

  His future self, started in, and he soaked up every word as gospel. His body might be battered, and his mind craving some clarity, and time, but he was not giving up. Not now. Not after hundreds of years of sacrifice and planning.

  "To end this war for good, you must make the new Stone. It is the only way. Make the Stone, return magic, harvest the magic."

  "Done." He cringed. Not done. "I need our daughter." The word slid off his tongue like grit.

  "We also have a son."

  Current day Fazendiin stared at the nearly broken man in the mirror. "You're telling me to give up our son?" He was pissed at him. Had even cracked about doing such a thing, but he still held out hope the hormonal teen would return and take up his rightful place. Even if he had to beat the weakness out of the stupid boy.

  "If you can't use our daughter, there is no other way. Grace sees that the Stone must be made. You cannot use the other one, the Projector. The magic would become too powerful for us to control."

  "We raised our son to be the face of our new world. Are you telling me we wasted our time?"

  "No. But you must be prepared to sacrifice him if we are to see our world, born."

  "Done." Not a moment's hesitation. If it came down to success or failure, his son's sacrifice was nothing to him. He'd find another face to serve him if he had to. What a waste of time though, all those years of training the boy!

  He breathed a little easier. The soup/potion Basil had fed him was giving him some of his strength back. His conversation over, he ambled out into his bedroom.

  It was time to make a move.

  A big one.

  One that would reaffirm that he was not down for the count, and still very much in control.

  His daughter and her band of malcontents would find out they were no match for him. They'd caught him off guard once. They'd not do it again.

  A new plan was already forming.

  He'd re-infect his son with the Projector's magic that he'd so stupidly removed from himself. He'd have his son restore the life of his Queen—definitely possible, as she hadn't died in any form a personal sacrifice. And if it came to it, he'd take the magic out and use his son to create the new Stone.

  Fazendiin hobbled along, a raw, energized grin settling on his face and bringing new energy into his old, wrecked bones.

  They'd never expect what he did next.

  He ambled his way back down the stairs, determined. He barked for KarNavan who came running like an obedient pet. Ardon at his heels.

  "Change of plans. Get the army inside the main house. One of you follow me. If in fifteen minutes' time someone is not inside the main house, well, they're going to have a rather long journey ahead."

  KarNavan and Ardon passed a befuddled expression but she scurried to obey the order while the lead Striper—sans stripes—followed the Grosvenor. They marched downward, deep into a cellar. Marching, marching, deeper and deeper. The stair spiraled down and down and down—a seemingly never ending staircase.

  Definitely magic at work here, thought KarNavan. And no way he'd ever find his way in or out without the Grosvenor's help, as when he looked above him, that same cellar never moved in distance. He shuddered, but followed down the stairs that never ended, and never seemed to go, anywhere.

  Fazendiin was slower than usual, but his gait was determined nonetheless. Adrenaline kicked in, giving him temporary strength.

  And they arrived. The last stair landing them on a flat, long, dimly lit stone corridor with a single wooden door at the far distant end. The Striper followed without question—he had to admit he was curious to see what secrets lie hidden in the depths. He made to scurry past and open the door for the Grosvenor but was stopped.

  "Won't open for you."

  Of course it wouldn't. The Grosvenor trusted no one. And with good reason, smirked the Striper. It was unsettling, though, seeing the immortal's brow sweating with subtle hints of desperation.r />
  The door swung open with a creak and they stepped inside. Lanterns popped to life as if silently ordered to do so. To say the room was vast, would be a frivolous understatement. It went on, and on, and on, much farther than the eye could see. Shelves upon shelves upon shelves, high and low, stacked with jars.

  No, not just jars.

  Potion bottles.

  Magic...

  "Holy—" KarNavan breathed out in the shock of what he was seeing. Hundreds upon hundreds of years' worth of stored magic. How was this, in itself, not enough for the Grosvenor? The amount of it was—staggering. Almost incomprehensible. A priceless collection.

  A thin smile cracked on Fazendiin's lips. His true power, making a strong statement.

  "My rainy-day playground. Plan B. Whatever you'd like to call it."

  "You can call me—impressed." And the Striper was.

  "This magic belongs to me. Only me. It only obeys my orders. Some of it might be hundreds of years old, but it's as strong as the day I stored it."

  "Of course, My Lord."

  "You were doubting me, weren't you?"

  "No." He gave a curt headshake. "Not doubting. But I'd like to keep my immortality, as I'm sure, would you."

  "We won't be losing anything else of value, anytime soon." Fazendiin moved through the shelves searching for the specific jar he needed. "We win this war, and I'll make sure you get your stripes back."

  That was a heck of a promise. And posed a potential new problem if his daughter came through—although, if they managed to come out of this with their immortality intact, and all this power under their control—that might be win enough to screw the idea of getting their stripes back.

  They meandered through the rows, Fazendiin searching for something.

  "I have to ask," began KarNavan. "Why wait? If you have this much magic at your disposal already—why wait? Why this plan to use your daughter to create this new Stone? Why not use this power—this magic—already collected?"

  Fazendiin stopped and breathed out irritably. The Striper was waiting for the blow off—he'd overstepped his boundaries.