A Queen Comes to Power: An Heir Comes to Rise Book 2

by C. C. Peñaranda

  Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Reylan as he told the story, and Nik could feel the fear around the room.

  The general continued. “They could have won. With human blood in their system, they could take out an army even outnumbered five to one. But word of the carnage got to Salenhaven, and amid fears it wouldn’t stop with Ungardia, they joined the cause. Together, two great continents wiped out the dark fae for good.”

  Faythe didn’t waste any time in saying, “So, how the rutting damn does such a thing rise from the dead?”

  It wasn’t what Nik thought was happening—or Faythe for that matter, as it seemed merely a comment made out of fear and disbelief for what could really be at large.

  “They were created once; maybe they were again and some of the outcomes didn’t quite go to plan.” Reylan let the explanation linger. The creature in the cave was far beyond any human or fae recognition. And now, it was beginning to make sense that it was perhaps the product of an experiment gone wrong, too savage for purpose.

  “You say the Spirits were needed to create you and them…” Faythe’s eyes flashed to Nik. “We need to get that box open—now.”

  He understood, as she had told him it was possible to summon the Spirit of Life with her ruin and the Riscillius without the need to be in the temple. Nik took the few strides over to the table while Marlowe and Jakon frowned at him in question. Placing the small box in front of the blacksmith, he said, “Faythe thought you might know what these mean. They might offer a clue as to how to open it.”

  Marlowe took the box in her hands and flipped it around in curiosity.

  Faythe added, “The temple ruin is inside.”

  Marlowe’s brow curved, and she pored over the box with more scrutiny. Wordlessly, she stood, going over to a tall bookcase in the corner. Every pair of eyes in the room stalked her movement in anticipation.

  Nik glanced around the cottage, scattered with open volumes on every possible surface. Most people would glimpse the blacksmith and fear her for the deadly blades she could craft from blunt steel. Nik knew the real weapons that made her a force to be reckoned with were the books she absorbed, the knowledge she tucked away in every corner of her arsenal. Words, when crafted artfully, could cut deeper than any blade and imprint on one’s soul for eternity. To inspire or to torment—that depended on the will of the speaker.

  Finding the tome she was searching for, Marlowe came back with it, not taking a seat as she thumped the heavy book onto the table. They all stood in silence, letting the rustle of old, stiff paper fill the room as they observed Marlowe filtering haphazardly through the pages.

  In front of him, Nik noticed Tauria clasping her hands together tight to keep from trembling. His stomach dropped at the sight, at the thought of her fear. Before he could stop himself, he put a hand on her shoulder in quiet comfort. It was a relief when she didn’t immediately shrug him off. Instead, she shot him a quick smile in gratitude. After everything she’d been through, he always thought of her as the bravest and most resilient fae he knew.

  “I knew I’d seen the likeness before!” Marlowe’s voice snapped him from his thoughts, and his heart thundered as she sounded confident she’d cracked the code. Nik really had to admire the brilliance of the human and the convenience of her gift.

  Reylan stepped closer, coming to stand behind Faythe as they all leaned in to glimpse what caught the blacksmith’s attention.

  “It appears to be a Blood Box.”

  Across the aged, yellow pages were several delicate drawings depicting the same marks etched into the wood of the box. Marlowe was deep in concentration as she slid into her seat, eyes scanning over the information with a look that glazed her eyes.

  “What in the rutting damn is a Blood Box?” Faythe asked.

  Marlowe inhaled deeply as she peeled her face from the pages. “It’s exactly what you’d expect it to be: a container sealed with the blood of its owner,” she explained. “And this appears to be a spell to accompany it, both to seal and undo. It’s worded in the old language, blood magick in its most basic form. If mastered, the symbols could be etched onto bigger containers for one with enough power to bind the spell on a larger scale.”

  Nik soaked in the blacksmith’s knowledge, tucking it away in the depths of his own internal trove of useful information. He knew very little of spell magick as it was a highly outdated practice reserved for the ancient fae mages who crafted words to call on the weak, diluted power some harbored that never translated into a proper ability. Over time, the practice of such spells had become insignificant and forgotten about the more the abilities manifested. Blood magick in particular was highly frowned upon and even outlawed in some territories long before the kingdoms were established as they were now.

  “So, if the owner happens to be the King of High Farrow…” Faythe trailed off.

  Marlowe nodded grimly. “You’ll need his blood to open it.”

  She straightened in her seat. “Well then, who’s up for challenging the king to a duel?” she asked around sarcastically before huffing in defeat.

  “Nobody has to.”

  Everyone’s eyes shot to the general as he spoke, and when Nik did too, he recoiled, catching Reylan looking directly at him.

  “We already have his blood.”

  Nik realized what he was implying immediately. It was a genius thought, and one he should have had first. Yet it was still perhaps a long shot.

  Marlowe followed Reylan’s gaze to him. “You’re not the pure blood source, but it might recognize you as his kin.”

  Nik took a long breath, reaching for the dagger at his side. He curled his hand around the sharp blade but paused. His heart raced, and a selfish part of him prayed his blood wouldn’t open the box, if only so he might hold onto the small shred of hope his father had no knowledge of the temple ruin and didn’t seek its power for unlawful political gain.

  He ground his teeth at the thought and pulled the dagger from his palm, slicing through it with a quick lick of pain. Before the drops of his blood could fall, he walked around the small table and held his closed palm over the wooden box. Then he clenched his fist and watched three drops fall across the delicate circular marking on its surface.

  At the same time, Marlowe began to quietly recite the words on the page with near perfect eloquence. Nik knew some words from old teachings, but not enough to decipher the whole phrase. He wondered if Marlowe found it intriguing to learn the old language, or if she had simply picked up on the pronunciation through her various readings.

  She finished her last words in barely a whisper. Nik’s wound had already clotted to stop the blood flow. He stepped back.

  Then they all waited in painful silence.

  Each tick of the clock on the mantel rang in his ears, and everyone’s breathing turned shallow.

  Nothing happened.

  Then the centerpiece lit up like a glowing seal. Those around the table sat back as the circle suddenly caved inward an inch and spun halfway, fixing the symbol upside down instead. There was a dull click, and then nothing.

  Nobody immediately moved to touch the box. Nik heard Faythe’s heart the loudest, and she was the first to reach out both hands toward it. The suspense was torture as they all waited for her to test it. Her small fingers gripped the top edges, and when she lifted upward, the top slab came away from the rest of the container. She looked to him, only briefly, as she believed both their souls were bound to the lost ruin inside. Nik gave her a small nod of encouragement, and she returned her focus to the box, removing the lid and setting it aside.

  Then he felt it. Waves of ethereal power emitting a faint hum from within. There was no doubt they had found the Spirit’s ruin.

  It was confirmed in image when Faythe reached in and pulled the broken slab from its wooden cage. She sucked in a sharp breath as she weighed it in one hand. “Gods above…” she muttered, eyes transfixed on the thick gray arrow slate marked with Aurialis’s symbol on its point.

  “What does it f
eel like?” he questioned. It radiated power to where he stood, and he could only imagine what it felt like within her grasp.

  She didn’t look at him as she said, “It’s like…it’s like a current of pure energy through every vein in my body. I feel…powerful.” Faythe breathed the last word as she held her eyes to it, completely hypnotized by whatever unearthly power was embedded in the stone.

  Reylan leaned over her and took the ruin from her hands, placing it quickly on the table in front. Faythe seemed to snap out of a dream and looked to him wide-eyed, as if returning to her own senses instead of whatever Spirit’s power channeled into her from the ruin.

  “In the wrong hands…” The general trailed off. He didn’t have to finish his sentence as everyone in the room arrived at the same conclusion having seen the effects it had on someone as good-hearted as Faythe.

  Marlowe reached across the table. Jakon jerked to stop her from picking up the ruin, but he wasn’t quick enough, and the blacksmith held up the stone in curiosity.

  “It certainly radiates spiritual power, but I don’t feel any altering effects,” she pondered out loud, admiring it from all angles.

  Jakon added, “I don’t feel anything.”

  Nik frowned inquisitively. “We can only assume it’s either because you’re human or don’t have an ability. Marlowe is linked to the Spirits, being an oracle, but her gift isn’t anything that can be heightened or changed physically.”

  Faythe chimed in, “I’m human, and the king doesn’t have an ability. What would he want with it if he can’t wield its power?”

  Both valid points. Then he remembered.

  “You’re half-fae.”

  Faythe cast a quick glance behind her, and he realized the general didn’t know that piece of information about her. Yet he didn’t appear the least bit surprised by the revelation.

  Reylan instead looked mildly confused, stating, “I thought you didn’t know who your father was.”

  Faythe shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t. But the Spirit of Life seems to think he was a Nightwalker. Explains my ability,” she said quickly.

  Nik’s brow twitched, feeling there was perhaps something missing from the story she was yet to disclose. It didn’t feel right to probe in that moment.

  The general dropped his eyes from her oddly and said nothing else.

  “Speaking of the entity herself, I think she has a lot of explaining to do.” Faythe bounded to her feet before anyone could protest. She drew Lumarias from her hip and paused for a moment, looking to no one in particular to help ease her nerves.

  Everyone stood in a disorganized circle around the pool of light by the window. Reylan moved to stand by Faythe. Nik was grateful as he felt compelled to stay by Tauria while she stood in nervous anticipation. Everyone was on edge, and he longed for the confrontation to be over and done with.

  Marlowe came forward with the ruin, placing it gently on the ground in the center of the sunlight. Faythe took a deep breath before she steadied the sword between both palms. It would not be new to her to see the Goddess of the Sun, but everyone else in the small room stood in utter silence, knowing the impossible was about to appear before them.

  When Faythe connected the light shining through the Riscillius to the ruin, a searing flash of light had everyone stepping back and wincing. Then it dimmed, and from it appeared a tall, ethereal beauty with the purest white hair. Nik was struck by the glowing form that faced Faythe.

  He wasn’t alone. Everyone except Faythe stood gawking at the spiritual Goddess as if they didn’t really believe Faythe wasn’t insane all this time until they experienced it for themselves.

  “Hello, Faythe.” Aurialis spoke first, her voice like a soothing symphony. Then the Spirit glanced around at the rest of them. “Only darkness and light remains,” she observed. What it meant, he was too dumbstruck to question.

  Faythe didn’t appear at all impressed by the Spirit’s presence. She had seen her twice before, but Nik didn’t think he would ever get used to the physical manifestation of Aurialis.

  “What do you know of the dark fae? Is that the evil in Ungardia you’re so afraid of?” She skipped all pleasantries to jump straight to the point.

  Aurialis’s expression turned grave. “They are an accessory, yes.”

  Nik shuddered at the confirmation of their fears. The dark fae had returned. But if there was something else, something worse, they should be more afraid of… Terror shook his body.

  The Spirit continued. “They are a great weapon, but not all have turned hearts. They will bring darkness, and they will bring salvation.”

  The contradictions seemed to confuse everyone as brows furrowed around the circle of friends. Faythe looked close to losing her short temper, and he prayed for them all in that moment.

  “If you didn’t help make them, who did?” she pressed.

  It was odd to see human emotions on a Spirit, but a pained look crossed Aurialis’s features as she said, “My sister, Dakodas.” It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; there were only two remaining Goddesses, and it made sense it would be the Spirit of Death behind such a ploy. The shock came with her next words. “But she acts with the desires of another.”

  Faythe was quick to question, “The King of High Farrow?”

  A pain stabbed Nik’s chest at the mention of his father. He held his breath until the Spirit answered. At the shake of her head, he almost relaxed.

  “He is but another puppet.” She turned to him, and Nik blanched as Aurialis addressed him directly. “It was not your father who locked away my ruin in a place where it could not be stumbled upon.”

  His blood pounded.

  “It was your mother.”

  Nik could have collapsed with the weight of the words—of the mention of his long passed gentle mother. He felt a warm hand take his, and he didn’t have to look to know it was Tauria who offered him comfort. The only sign of gratitude he could give back was a slight squeeze as he couldn’t tear his eyes off the glowing form.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Faythe said impatiently.

  The Spirit turned back to her. “For you to understand, I must start at the beginning, at least before the Great Battles.”

  Nobody spoke out to object though they knew they were in for a long story and a lot of emotion to absorb at once. At least, Nik felt so, as both his parents seemed tied to it.

  Aurialis raised her chin as she began her tale. “Over a hundred years of your time ago, the High Farrow king journeyed to Rhyenelle with his most trusted advisor and Captain of the Guard.”

  Nik cast a glance to Faythe at the mention of Captain Varis. Her eyes twitched in a wince, but she remained impassive and attentive.

  “He was guided to the Riscillius that had laid untouched in the castle of Rhyenelle for centuries, just as I guided Marlowe to it in High Farrow.”

  The blacksmith didn’t appear in the least bit surprised, and he supposed she might have already been aware of it. Nik became nauseatingly aware that perhaps nothing was left to chance anymore.

  “With it, he was also compelled to make the expedition to the Niltain Isles, to—”

  “Dakodas’s temple,” Marlowe cut in with a breath of disbelief.

  The Spirit nodded grimly. “He used the Riscillius just as you did, Faythe, and summoned my sister with its power.” Aurialis paused, and the shift on her face indicated the story was about to take a dark turn. “She is powerful, and in the time she was released before them, she took away the color in their eyes to bend their will to the command of another. It brought about the dawn of the Great Battles. With High Farrow at his mercy and with no one to suspect him, the king was used to deploy and delay armies to give Valgard more opportunity to conquer. They succeeded in taking the kingdoms of Dalrune and Fenstead, but they could not stand against the might of Rhyenelle who extended their reach to protect Olmstone too. So, they retreated their forces, but the war was far from over. Ever since, they have been growing their army to a far more deadly c
apacity.

  “You asked about the dark fae, and you are right to hold fear, for the High Lord Mordecai lives once again. He holds dominion over Valgard, but he has thus far been successful at remaining hidden.”

  A creeping chill wove through every one of the gathered friends, piercing their hearts with trepidation. No one could have predicted the height of what they were up against—the impossible, the inconceivable, and the damning, foreboding doom that lurked right at their borders. Nik was too struck with stupor to even feel relief that his father’s wicked actions over the decades, his hatred and malice, his lack of mercy…were never him. Not truly.

  It suddenly all made sense. He knew the king was once a better male. Yet it didn’t bring him any comfort.

  Nik dared to ask, “Did my mother know?”

  Aurialis turned to him once again and gave a solemn nod that brought the world down upon him. “The queen found out through the very escape passages that led you to my ruin. Coming across the knowledge by spying into the king’s council chamber, she stole the Riscillius to come to me. She took my ruin and planned to summon me in front of the king so I might reverse the damage that was done.”

  “She never got that far,” Faythe interjected quietly.

  The Spirit shook her head. “She had very specific instructions on where the ruin was to be hidden should she fail to carry out her plan. She confided in one young human, her most trusted friend and handmaiden…your grandmother, Faythe.”

  Nik glanced to Faythe on instinct. Her eyes were wide at the knowledge.

  “Which is how the Riscillius came to be in your mother’s possession. Your grandmother fled to Rhyenelle with it to get the stone far from the king’s reach. The Kingdom of the Phoenix was where your mother was born.”

  Faythe looked shell-shocked, and Nik had to admit, the fact her mother wasn’t born in High Farrow was an unexpected blow. If it held any significance, he couldn’t be sure.

  “The temple ruins possess great power on their own, but it is the joining of the three that makes up the Tripartite that must never come to pass in the wrong hands.”