The Dark Queen (The Dark Queens Book 5) (3 page)

The moment the iron had clapped down, she’d felt it—the burn and sizzle of the loss of her magic. The violence of losing it had driven her straight to her knees in horror and distress, only to hear the witch’s dulcet voice proclaim that none would ever rule this kingdom beside her son, but she.

Fable had made the mistake of telling George. And the warm, caring, kindhearted man she’d fallen in love with back in the Glen had merely looked at her, patted her head and shambled off as though he’d not heard her. It was then that Fable finally understood why her husband never removed the thin, delicate iron chain around his neck.

By the time it had finally dawned on Fable that the witch had full possession of George as well, it had been far too late for her to do anything about it.

Fable was as helpless as a human and too far away from Seren to alert her parents to her newfound horrors. The witch, clever as she was, and knowing exactly who Fable was, had even made it impossible for her to call on her own grandmother and grandfather, who could have surely come to her aid had they only known.

But the moment Fable had opened her mouth to scream out their names, her molars had clicked shut, and her tongue had swollen to twice its size, making her fear she’d suffocate on her own tongue.

That was when she fully understand the power Brunhilda wielded; the witch had thought of everything.

Feeling hopeless and lost, she stood and walked slowly toward the only window in the tower staring out at the beautiful blue sky, watching the fanciful flight of a sparrow sail past and wishing with all her heart and mind that she’d never left Seren.

That she could roll time back and never come here.

Planting her hand on the stone, Fable rested her forehead against the cold, and unyielding gray stone, pretending for a moment that she rested her head on the chest of her lover and that he held her back, reassuring her that all would be well again.

But there was no lover. Not even George. Not after the night of the wedding. He’d never touched her again. Never kissed her again. And rarely spoke more than two words to her.

Her solace in this whole miserable place was two. Her mirror. And George’s little girl by his first wife—Snow White.

“Mirror,” she said softly.

Immediately she felt the prickle of the mirror’s power roll to life as it washed against her back. Brunhilda had been thorough in her torture of Fable; the witch had allowed Fable to keep her mirror. Which should have been a great act of kindness, but was, in fact, the very worst sort of torture there was. When she grew really heartsick and desperate, she’d ask Mirror to show her Seren, her family. It was a blade to the heart to see them all so happy, smiling and laughing and having the time of their lives, no doubt resting securely in the knowledge that Fable was too. To see them, but not to hear them, not to talk with them, or beg them to come and snatch her away from this misery, it was a form of torment far worse than almost anything else the witch could have devised.

“Yes, my queen,” he said in that deeply pitched voice that somehow always reminded Fable of the deep waters of home.

Twirling on her heel, she stared at her final gift from her grandfather.

No doubt as a joke, grandfather had crafted the image within to resemble that of Uriah. Fable hadn’t been too fond of that aspect at first, but now she found that even a false connection to her brother had become a lifeline to her sanity.

Bottomless blue eyes stared at her quizzically. “My queen?” he asked again.

And her heart clenched all over again at the image of her brother. So strong and virile and handsome with his electrifying blue hair framing his face and his masculine jaw, in coloration he looked nothing like her parents, but in features he took after father completely.

It was her Uriah in many ways; only Mirror lacked the rascally twinkle in his eyes that showed her brother was perpetually up to no good.

“It seems we are trapped in the tower again,” she said softly.

He looked around. At times, it still amazed her how sentient the mirror was. How aware and thoughtful.

“True,” he finally said, “though considering I am always trapped, I do not find my new surroundings to be much different.”

His grin was commiserating.

She sighed, then chuckled softly and hugged the robe tight around her. The tower was always damp and far too cold for her. Seren’s waters were deep and warm. Ironic, she’d never given much thought to the beauty of her world until she’d come to the place she’d always known would make her “happy.”

Fable was not happy now. And she feared she might never be happy again.

“No, I guess it wouldn’t. What am I to do? Each time we are locked away, the days grow longer and more taxing. I cannot sit up here for hours upon a day eating nothing but bonbons and watching birds fly by; I would go mad. I know I would.”

Mirror cocked his head, staring at her a long moment before asking, “What would you like to do?”

She blinked, not exactly sure herself. Fable had come here with very little thought in mind other than making the king fall deliriously in love with her and living happily ever after.

Wasn’t that how the stories went?

The lovers met. The lovers loved. The lovers stayed gloriously, forever, and eternally happy? What a stupid fool she’d been to think any man could ever become the sole source of her happiness.

Mother had often warned Fable not to keep her head in the clouds, but she’d just known that someday too her own prince would come. That they’d rule their kingdom justly and with a sound and fair hand. That they’d be beloved by their people and children.

In the eight months since her marriage Fable had been alone with George only once, and even then things had been rushed and hurried, after that, she’d been nothing more than a title to him. Dolled up and paraded out before the masses to be gawked and stared at by all other noblemen and women.

The only time Fable was truly happy were the rare and stolen moments she got to share with Snow. But even the little princess was kept under tight supervision by the witch.

It was like the entire castle was under Brunhilda’s spell, but none of them knew it. And then in one of those rare flashbacks, where her mind suddenly recalled a memory it hadn’t in ages, the image of the guardsman who’d taken her mirror came sharply to mind.

“Where is Charles!” she asked, voice rising with the thought of salvation.

Uriah Mirror, far more unflappable than Uriah her brother, said without missing a beat, “King George’s guardsman was unable to follow his liege this morning, he recently broke his arm and—”

She held up her hand. “I do not care what’s happened to him, only that he is here on the premises.”

“Yes, my queen, he is.”

Wetting her lips, an idea suddenly came to her. She’d never tried this before, but her grandfather’s magick was powerful. Powerful enough that when Brunhilda tried to strip the man from the mirror she could not.

For so long having Mirror in her room was a constant reminder of all that she’d lost. But through the weeks and months that had followed she’d begun to learn that Mirror was so much more than merely a two-way device that allowed her to talk with her family. Mirror was smart, and above all, loyal. All she knew was that she was grateful now more than ever for him.

“Mirror,” she said softly, “I wonder, can you travel between looking glasses?”

He blinked, as though startled. Then looked at her with wide, rounded eyes. “Why yes, it seems that I can, my queen.”

She grinned, feeling more positive and excited about this than she had about anything since arriving in the above.

“Go to him then and deliver a message—”

“My queen, if I may.”

She lifted a brow.

“There is a secret tunnel into here.”

“What! Where?” She turned; ready to run far from here. She could leave the castle grounds, find a lake and call for her father. She could be hom—

Mirror shook his head, a look of distress pinching his features. “I am sorry, my queen, to have caused you such excitement only to have to be the bearer of bad news now.”

Immediately her heart plummeted to her knees and a scream wedged tight in her throat, to have been given a glimpse of freedom only to have it dashed, it was all she could do to remain standing and not crumble to the floor.

Squaring her shoulders, remembering the words of her mother, she shook off the disappointment as best she could.

“What is it, Mirror?”

“You cannot leave, my queen. The witch has spelled the tunnel, should you pass through it, you would surely die.”

“What?” She shook her head, knowing she’d heard wrong. It was near to impossible to die in Kingdom, only by weapon or magick...

“You would die, Fable,” he repeated.

Her jaw dropped, and her ears thundered with the beat of her racing pulse. Grasping hold of the edge of her robe, she shuffled back toward the edge of the bed, landing with a soft thud onto the mattress and staring at the walls in dawning horror.

“Are you sure? How do you know this?”

He remained perfectly still as he said, “She carted me up here hours before she had you locked away. I saw her weave the spell. I can only assume she allowed me to witness what she’d done to torment you with an avenue of escape you could never possibly use.”

Fable’s jaw dropped. That the witch should do such a thing spoke volumes as to just how evil, and wicked she was. The witch had sent her off on a fool’s errand yesterday morning, begging Fable to run into town and fetch her a basket of golden apples from the vendor at the marketplace because only those golden apples were the very best with which to make the King’s favorite pie.

She’d thought the request an odd one, considering there were servants to handle such chores, but she’d been happy enough to get away from the depressive castle for a few hours. Like a fool she’d happily agreed to the task, all the while Brunhilda had been weaving an enchantment meant to keep Fable locked away.

“But...but...when George returns surely, he will—”

“I do not think she means you to ever leave.”

Pain lanced through her heart like a thorn ripping through her flesh.

“But...but...” Were the only words she could seem to stutter. “He wouldn’t allow it, surely.”

Why did her tongue feel so numb of a sudden and her head so dizzy?

There was too much noise, too many questions bombarding her consciousness to get any one of them out. The room was suddenly spinning out of focus. George was under Brunhilda’s spell, surely if there were someway to rip the necklace off him Fable could reach him, the real him and alert him to what the witch was doing. There was still hope.

Right?

She must have spoken her words aloud, because Mirror said, “The chance is slim, but yes, my queen, there is always hope. If only you had a fairy godmother.”

Being a natural born denizen of the under meant Fable was never given a godmother. But she’d never needed one. Her magic was strong and powerful, and if she should fail, then there was always her father’s, grandmother’s, or grandfather’s to back her up.

She’d always been protected, cherished.

Loved.

A wretched sound suddenly filtered through the room. The sound like that of a dying animal, only there was no animal dying, the sound came from deep inside of her as the hopelessness and emptiness of her future rolled out before her.

To never leave this tower.

To never know her magic again.

To never know love.

To always remain alone.

Alone.

Unwanted.

And unloved.

“Oh, my gods...” She rested her cold fingertips against her blazing hot cheeks.

“Look at me,” Mirror spoke to her in a tone he’d never taken with her before.

She wiped at her tears, looking up at him.

“Remember who you are.”

Frowning, she shook her head. “I know who I am.”

“No!” He said with authority. “Remember who you are. Whose you are. You are the daughter of The King. You are the Queen of Shadows and Night, shackled or not; you are powerful and mighty. Mightier than that evil witch down there. It is why she’s chained you, Fable. It is why she’s locked you away. To control what she could not otherwise. Do not forget yourself.”

Fable hadn’t realized she’d been walking toward the mirror until suddenly her hands were pressed against her
brother’s
face. “Why do you care? You’re just a mirror, you’re—”

His eyes flashed with thunder and lightning, and ephemeral blue smoke coiled around his striking features. “I am so much more than that. I am a sliver of your grandfather’s soul. Meaning, I care for you deeply, my queen. I love you as he does. You are not alone, thought it might feel so.”

“What?” She could hardly swallow her throat felt so tight. “He...he, did what?”

Grandfather had spelled a sliver of his soul into the mirror? It made sense now why Brunhilda had not known the depths of Mirror’s powers. No witch—no matter how powerful—was stronger than the will of a god.

“I know what that witch has done, my queen. And someday, it will not matter. For you will be mightier than she, even with your shackle on,” Mirror said gently.

A different kind of emotion pounded through her veins then, fear, but also apprehension. Mirror had never spoken to her this way before. With such force and authority behind it.

And she believed him.

“You can free me from here? If you’re part of my grandfather, surely you’re powerful enough to break this enchantment.” She lifted her wrist.

“No, not I, Fable.” He shook his head sadly. “But you. You are young, but someday you won’t be. Someday you’ll know who you really are.”

“And who am I?”

His grin was so heartachingly similar to her brother’s that she forgot he wasn’t. Fingers twitching against the cool glass surface, she could almost feel his soft skin and imagine his arms wrapping around her for a much-needed embrace.

“You are the Queen of Darkness. Now, let me go find the guardsman, for he bears a tale worth hearing.”

Mirror was gone for so long that day shifted into night, and the emotional high she’d experienced after his pep talk began to wan with the setting sun. By the time he finally returned she was sure she’d remain forever alone. Forgotten and doomed to live out her near eternity in isolation.