The Doppelgänger Queen: The Silver Fox Series, #1

Dedication

This book is dedicated to those who we’ve lost to the

pandemic, war, and internal strife.

May we shine a light on their names.

Foreword

From K.M. Rice

When I first encountered this novel in its early stages, I felt as if I had slipped into a world with tremendous breadth that felt familiar and strange at the same time. Fitzwater has constructed such a complex yet charming web of a society that, as fantastical as it seems, I feel I have been to before. Perhaps in a dream. Or perhaps Fitzwater has crafted a tale that seemingly does the near impossible in this day and age: The Doppelgänger Queen has carved itself its rightful place as its own realized vision for a mature audience while harkening back to the comfortingly familiar folklore and themes many of us first encountered in childhood. This blend takes the reader on a journey that is part mystery, part tragedy, and part action/adventure, woven together by the gravitas of the human heart. I am thankful that this manuscript once came across my desk, for I find myself recalling scenes and passages, even years later, as they were brought to life with such vivid, cinematic detail that the story has a life of its own. Every author hopes that their work will leave such an impression and linger in some way, and Fitzwater’s tale of love, deception, corruption, and redemption does just that. What you hold in your hands is an entry into an engrossing tale, and I hope that, like me, you will turn the page. And the next. And the next.

Act I

"There’s no weight in gold worth

more than a pure soul."

~Mother Superior Justiania,

783 After Ascension

Chapter 1

M’THEALQUILÔK

East of the wind-whipped dunes of the Iounese desert, lost in the jungles of Angloria, far in the ruinous depths of M’thealquilôk, under suffocating silt and haunted halls—a light. Quivering. Timid. Clinging to life against the oppressive dark. Illuminating four grim faces steeling to meet t heir fate.

Call it, Ruth, Aramis, the one holding the light, whispered. His silver eyes burned fiercely in the flickering shadows.

The tome is the key, whispered their company leader, gilded in splint mail, her tongue thick with a northern accent. It is the source of Tellezard’s power. If we can get it out of his hands, we can defeat him.

And you expect me to do a wee bit of lightnin’? The third, Joel, furrowed his brows, distorting the swirling woad on his face.

No, we need your wind. We’ll distract the villain while Aramis will go up top for the grab. Once we have it in our sights, we give the signal.

Hail the Dawn? queried the last, Rhyllae, priestess of the Morning Lord and sister to all friendly folk, her curls contained in a golden shawl.

Ruth nodded. When you hear that, Aramis, you jump. Joel, you catch him and fly him at the necromancer. Tellezard won’t know what hit him. Once the tome is plucked, we make our escape.

The silence was as stifling as the hall they were in.

Ye sure you don’t want me to do an itty, bitty lightnin’? asked Joel.

Not with these bombs, you don’t, Aramis said, the handmade cigarette dangling from his lip. Gingerly, he touched the flame to the paper as he spoke. Rudderbangers are for underwater. Once out of the water, any spark can set them off.

Bah, Rhyllae can put you back together, right?

The sister hardly stirred, save to give Aramis a look. Her brows pinched together.

Aramis sighed, smoke hissing from his lips. I’ll be fine. This isn’t my first.

Which one? Joel jested.

Aramis rubbed his neck as he turned his gaze to the arched ceiling above, the ancient fresco still as stunning as the day it was made. Seventeen for the bombs, three for the jump.

Three?

Ruth hissed for them all to be silent as she put her hand on Gleamwood’s scabbard. It was a side hall, after all. There were no doors to run to. No alcoves or pillars to hide them. Joel had first wondered if this was the makings of the Ancients, humans who had once dominated the entire globe, due to its arched precision. But Aramis, ever the historian, explained it was once called the Hall of Peace. Elves and dwarves signed the treaty to inherit the Earth as one, which still stood to that very day, thus they commemorated the event with this hall. The Ancients would’ve used a different material, such as metal or cinder blocks, and had gravitated to rigid rectangles. The natural stone ceiling was curved, so the fresco encompassed all who passed through as equals. If only they could see it in better times.

All clear, Rhyllae said after a few heartbeats. They could always depend on her elven heritage.

Right. No fire. No sparks. Hail the Dawn, jump, catch. Ruth pointed at Rhyllae, Aramis, and Joel respectfully. Grab the tome or die trying.

All nodded save for one.

The smoldering end of the cigarette blazed up to Aramis’s lips before he spat out the words, Fuck that.

Aramis, Rhyllae scolded.

I didn’t free myself from Bazzuuport so I could die in this hellhole. He flicked the spent roll. There’s an old chute the builders used during the building’s construction. Once I get it open, tome or not, we get out of here.

But the ghouls!

Hell, Aramis, he can raze this entire city. Joel jutted his palms out, barely keeping his voice down. The world would be doomed if we left it in Tellezard’s hands.

Aramis covered the flame so it wouldn’t go out. We have the Jessenters. Ruth, I know it’s not the Djinnasi, but they can help fight this.

Ruth cupped her chin and bowed her head in thought. Aramis held his breath. He knew the rebel fighters were spread thin throughout the entire Iounese desert, fighting to end the tyranny of their overlords. Surely they could convince their colonel, Korzha, to lend some of the troops to them. If not, then the treasure should persuade him.

My sisters and mothers will. Rhyllae put her fist out in the middle. For Bagheera.

Aye, for Tamira and a pint back home. Joel slapped his hand on top of hers.

Aramis’s grizzled expression softened into a smile for the first time since they had started this venture. His gloved hand covered the two. For Amaveriel and the free people.

For the good of the realm. Ruth grasped with both hands. Come what may, we will end him.

They made their pact. They snuffed the flame, but not the fire within.

The grand hall. A humble title for what it contained. 15,000 feet of gigantic statues lined abreast. Their regal heads soared to the vaulted stone ceiling as they stood attention in the all-consuming darkness. A testament to the engineering prowess of the elves.

Lo, high above on one such head, a light. Dangling upside down from a slender cord, Aramis inched down like a silkworm from the vaulted ceiling. No guide wires. No safety nets. Bare rope and bare skin was all he needed. A feat that would be too intimidating to most humans or elves. But Aramis was no human, though he might look like it, he was a jhasin. A being constructed by the Djinnasi lords by magic and sin, as the saying goes. Dexterous and durable, they can withstand immense punishment and still perform incredible feats of acrobatics. All for the Djinnasi lords’ sickening nighttime pleasures. To add to this pleasure, every jhasin lights up in the dark, he included. Though, his is of an older making, and only his eyes light up in a silver pall.

Aramis allowed his illuminating eyes to guide him to a safe purchase. He slipped on his special mask, concealing the silver light his eyes bore while allowing him the vision to see. There he waited among the monarchs, enveloped in the vast veil of slumber known as oblivion.

Whatever foul terrors lurking in the shadows witnessing him, Aramis secured all the rudderbangers in the air shafts enclosed above. He strung their fuses together into a singular cord. One strike and all would come crashing down.

What a shame, Aramis thought as he peered into the velvet dark. His inner historian would be amiss to have this place buried again, never to be discovered until the next unfortunate soul stumbled by.

Before him, across the void, was a carved statue of an elven face. Through all his memories of precious vellums, he never knew who was staring back at him there, in queenly judgment, majestic lips closed with elven secrets, keeper of history, never born to the light of day.

Would he have such a face when the time comes? A silent mask lost in the shifting sands of time? Or would he disappear as the Ancients did three thousand years ago, their skyward towers of glass fallen by avarice and vice? If these were to be his last words to a slumbering god, then it should be with illumination. He produced the flickering flame with a matchstick and cupped it close to him. His breath shuddered as the flame danced. As he bent down for his silent prayer, Aramis froze. From the corner of his eye, the light caught a shape on the wall.

It took his entire will to push the scream back down his throat.

It was a ghoul. A creature of the dead awakened by Tellezard’s cruel magic. Like the rest of the mindless hordes known as inmorti, but with an insatiable hunger that drives them into reckless abandon. Clinging to the bare stone like a cicada ready to molt its flesh. The ghoul’s head craned backward in an inhumane manner.

And it was not alone.

Aramis dared to raise the tiny flame closer and found the entire wall lined with millions of the dreadful creatures. All of them were crouching in wait with their eye upon him, rasping in anticipation. Had he ever drawn near the wall earlier, he would’ve lost his courage.

A cry pierced the walls surrounding him. In a flash, he enveloped the matchstick in his gloved hand.

Rhyllae?

Then he heard a dark cackle emit from far below.

Tellezard.

His assumption was confirmed as the hoarse voice mocked, It seems that your Morning Lord is not as strong as your faith, priestess. Perhaps there is another worthier of your devotion?

There… There is no light greater than the Morning Lord, Rhyllae cried out.

Aramis readied himself by the fuse. This was all part of their plan, after all. Have themselves captured by these goons. Keep the necromancer gloating. Once the tome was in sight…

Not even your Silver Fox? Tellezard posed the question.

The Silver Fox. A moniker the free people had given to Aramis long ago when he was the shepherd of the desert, a hero worthy of their praise. It wasn’t the question itself that gave him pause, though. It was her silence. How can he—a delinquent through and through—be brighter than their god?

Why can’t she answer the question?

As if she heard his thought, Rhyllae’s voice cracked, He’s … dead. You killed him.

Aramis grimaced. Even he could tell the deception fell flat before Tellezard’s cackle echoed to the ceiling.

No, you elven mutt. But soon, the Fox will be.

It was decided in his mind. Signal or no; it ends here.

Aramis’s fingers fumbled in the rough-hewn leather and found only one matchstick left. Crouching at the fuse line, he sparked the match. The flame licked the frayed end, struggling to catch from the suffocating throne room.

Then he sucked in his breath as he looked up before him.

A pair of eyes hovered before him. Dull. Clouded. Dead. Trailing his hand movement with hateful ticks. A foul voice disturbed the air, speaking in a tongue he couldn’t understand. As the flame dimmed, the evil eyes grew brighter.

And closer.

Aramis reached for his twin daggers. But it was too late. The ghoul slammed into his chest, knocking Aramis flat on his back. Spittle flew from its inhumane maw as it raked his black linen shirt with its bony claws.

Grabbing the ghoul’s throat, Aramis gave himself enough distance to reach for his dagger. With a flick of his wrist, he slid it into its armpit. A death sentence for any living man. Yet that was not his aim, for this was no living being. With the twist of his knife, he popped the arm out of the joint. Then he locked the leg, grabbed the arm, and rolled the ghoul to his right in one fluid motion. Now vertical, Aramis stabbed his dagger into the base of the skull, wiggling the knife until those dingy eyes stopped twitching. Its face melted back to its original death mask: a frozen scream of terror.

A shudder roiled over his spine. Easing himself from the still corpse, he glanced at the fuse line. Still there, though the blackened ends were free of any flame.

A clatter of steel rang out from below as Rhyllae’s song Hail the Dawn echoed down the hall.

Aramis crawled on his hands and knees to the frayed line. He banged the two grit pads together. With every spark, his heart leaped. Sweat trickled down his brows before the cloth wicked it away. Bones popped from the wall as the ghouls shuddered from their stasis. They, too, hail.

Light, damn you. Light, he said through gritted teeth.

At last, the tender flame licked the end, then sped off toward the dark void above. A smile and a half-hearted laugh were all the celebration Aramis could give. Springing to his feet, he dashed to the edge and freed his sweaty brow of the mask. A globe of silver light enveloped his head and shoulders as it streamed from his eyes.

It’s lit, came Joel’s voice.

Then Aramis saw it. One by one, balls of flame appeared, encircling his compatriot, as well as the pack of ghouls. They broke off and circled around as hyenas would with a lone lion. Gleamwood, Ruth’s trusted sword, met them in a flash. To and fro she moved as if dancing, parrying and ending their vicious hunger. Joel, in the meantime, crouched low to the ground, whirling his arms in circular motions.

A violet arc of lightning streamed from the right. Aramis could see the foul necromancer’s contorted face in that chilling moment. Fortunately, the lightning crashed and showered over an invisible shield. Steadfast at the break was Rhyllae, the song still on her lips.

Then came a warble of a different sort. Hissing. Snarling. Groaning. Rising from below like a snake. In Aramis’s silver pall, the abominations slunk down from the wall. Ridges of their scapulas rose and fell with each step as they stalked toward the floor.

He couldn’t afford to wait for Joel’s good time.

With that thought, Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and launched himself. Flipping backward into a somersault before twisting himself into a spear, he clasped his palms tightly below his head, piercing the self-made wind rushing over his form. It took everything he had to not lose himself to fear as he braced for the worst.

By Lune’s pointy tits, I lost him! cried Joel.

Aramis! Open your eyes, Aramis! cried out Rhyllae, the last word a shriek of desperation.

At last, his eyes flew open, straining against the stinging wind—a silver meteor falling to earth. Only the ghouls were able to keep flight. One decided to leap off of their fellow toward Aramis. Thankfully, he squeezed himself into a ball, and the ghouls grazed past him.

Then he felt an incredible pull toward the earth below. The protocol would have him wait for the light of day to meet another officer. His incantation whispered in the very wind that caressed and carried Aramis into the magical vortex.

Everything sped past Aramis as he flew over their heads. Lady Ruth’s hair looked like a flame on a thatch. Glints of light from her armor shone like stars. Rhyllae’s saffron hijab whipped off her head, sailing with Aramis until it hit Joel’s tattooed head.

In a blink, Tellezard was in his sights. His leprotic maw gaped as Aramis zoomed toward him. Aramis moved to bring his daggers to bear, but the wind carried him too quickly. His shoulder slammed into the necromancer’s chest. Try as he may, Aramis couldn’t stab the slippery devil as they rolled on the floor.

They came apart, and Aramis rolled down the throne hall, carrying with him the prized possession: Tellezard’s tome. He had separated the flesh-bound book from its master.

Aramis. Rhyllae came over, tugging on his arm to help him stand. Hurry before they swarm.

A deafening boom shook them to their bones, forcing them to cling together as chunks of limestone fell from above. The bombs were meant for the vents, not the structural frame of this impressive room.

That … shouldn’t be happening…

We have to get them out of here! Aramis shouted so he could hear himself over the groaning of stone. He knew he could have whispered with Rhyllae’s sensitive hearing.

As the ancient world collapsed around them, they raced back down the hall with the book in tow. Beams of light pierced through the dark corridor. Sand and silt mingled with the falling archaic stones. As they drew near, they saw Lady Ruth standing tall. Tellezard was pinned to the floor with Gleamwood through his chest. Joel covered her back with razor-sharp winds, slicing through any ghouls that came near.

The necromancer spotted the oncoming duo. He reached out with his gnarled, diseased finger, and the floor cracked before him, splitting toward them with incredible speed. Aramis thought his eyes were playing tricks; it seemed shadows flew from the unmade seam.

Rhyllae stepped in front of Aramis, forcing him to halt in his tracks. She mouthed another prayer against her two fingers before she stretched her arms wide. The crack bifurcated and encompassed them, creating a rough-hewn circle.

The island of stone shifted as the next blast sounded, causing them to fall to their knees. The vile tome slipped from his arms, opening to a series of arcane text written in blood. Its pages glowed with an eerie light.

Keep the book away from him. He’s trying to teleport out of here! Joel cried out.

Then let us go and be done with it! Aramis shouted.

Then his heart sank.

A ghoul launched at the Mynx’s backside. Bringing him down hard to the ground. His arms jerked up and down as more joined the feast.

Joel! Rhyllae cried, scrambling to stand.

Another bang sounded over their heads. Without a second thought, Aramis grabbed her by the waist and held her back. Boulders crashed before them, blocking their path.

Ruth, Aramis cried to out their captain. Get out of there!

No! came her thick northern accent. They call upon me. My mothers. My sisters. They bid me to take my place. I shall go to Valhalla, free.

A distinct snap within the earth sounded. The structure groaned in protest, vibrating through their bones as the floor rolled in waves. It was too late to leave.

In a futile effort, Aramis swept Rhyllae underneath him to shield her from the destruction he had wrought. Stones bounced off of his spine as they embraced. Her words of last rites shuddered in his ear as he rocked her in his arms.

I’m sorry, Vanessa. I won’t be coming home this time.

Then he saw it through the sandy haze. The glowing tome slid across the floor. Without forethought, Aramis slapped his hand against the chartreuse page. All he could remember next was the smell of sandalwood in Rhyllae’s hair as mists engulfed them whole.

Chapter 2

CHANGING OF THE GUARD

The low-hanging mists from the sea parted around Tavian Korzha’s riding boots and the hem of his duster. His long legs allowed him to speed through the slumbering alleyways of Amaveriel without notice in the long hour of the night. There would be no sleep for him. Not with what he had read from Mariam’s letter. He had come to the city as quick as his ship could against the wind.

A quick jog down a bend of stairs, and at last, he made it to his destination—a simple hovel of a door, sunken in the earth. At the other end of the alley, the market street was aglow from lanterns.

Two men jumped to their feet, one with a mop of copper hair and a pocked face. The other was a nervous, twitchy fellow with dark, curly hair. Both wore red sashes on their waists. Korzha knew them to be Jessenters under Captain Basil, Falçion, and Mudhi.

Passwo— Falçion started to say as he brought his halberd to bear.

Tiki-bikini, Korzha’s crisp northern voice cut through the air.

Without breaking his stride, he entered the base. The elders granted the rebels an ancient lava flow, a natural wonder lurking under the very streets where merchants hawked their wares. Twisting and turning in convoluted networks, it gave any intruder a dizzying orientation. If only they had such steel-trap security at the Karatow Mountains.

Colonel, sir, Mudhi piped up, bringing a torch to bear. We weren’t expecting you to be back so soon.

Clearly, you weren’t expecting anything at all. Where are the men and women?

Asleep, if they’re not at the Iron Lady.

The Iron Lady, at a time like this? Korzha whirled on the back of his heels.

Mudhi flinched from his steely blue gaze, which the locals considered unnatural. Then again, not all were kind to foreigners like him.

It’s three turns of the hour before dawn, Mudhi managed to squeak out of his throat.

With no night watch?

Well, there’s Falçion and me, um, sir.

Korzha gave the man a good, long, measured look. He heard how well the people spoke of him. Mudhi Nazir was part of a company that helped secure the Gallileah’s eastern aqueducts, a lifeline for this coastal desert town. But most knew he lacked the bones in his spine when they were assailed by dwarven raiders immediately afterward. Some would argue—Captain Basil included—that it was wise to run to the city watch for backup. But Mudhi never journeyed back to join them. Even a yellow dog would have the gall to bite back with the strength of a pack. Throughout his military career, Korzha could discern a coward in their ranks. And there was one standing right before him.

Where’s Captain Basil? I need to speak with him, Korzha asked as he took off his long scarf, his blood too hot for such protection.

Office, came a squeak. Then Mudhi cleared his throat. In his office, sir.

Shoving his scarf in Mudhi’s arms, Korzha took the torch and walked down a flight of stairs, quickly striding over the bottom three. All the while, Mudhi scrambled to keep up with the lanky foreigner, scarf trailing on the floor.

At first, Aramis thought he would splatter on the timeworn floor, but then he heard Joel’s voice. Their ranks were a manner of favoritism, not based on merit, after all. To accost a fellow officer would be the same as accosting the general himself. But this was not the time for such pleasantries. His worst fears, that what the Sunset mother had said was true, were fast becoming a reality. The Jessenters in the Karatow Mountains, a small chain in the Gallileahs, were gone. It could only mean they were compromised. Part of him regretted discussing trade negotiations with the president of the Pirate Federation.

At last, they came to a wooden door fitted in a circular arch with a singular plaque bolted to the side.

Capt. El’Mureed Basil

I apologize, but he did tell me he didn’t want to be disturbed, Mudhi said.

That will be all, Nazir.

Korzha then, with his left hand, twisted the knob and pushed the door open. As it swung open, he froze in horror.

There, strung high up toward the ceiling, was Basil himself. His entire cavity as exposed as a gutted boar. His face was purple, his entrails wrapped around his neck, hung by an unlit floating oil lamp, rotating freely behind his blood-soaked desk and papers.

As you can see, he’s all tied up. Mudhi chuckled darkly.

It was all a façade!

Korzha reached for his sword, Silver Star, at his right hip. But the fiend stopped him before he could unsheathe it.

With incredible strength, Mudhi wrenched Korzha’s right arm high up as he body-slammed the colonel against the door. The force of the impact knocked the scabbard off its hooks, and the torch was snuffed out completely. Try as he may, Korzha couldn’t shake Mudhi off.

Why, Colonel, I didn’t know you danced, Mudhi articulated next to his ear, spit dribbling down his neck. Let’s cut a rug, shall we?

Mudhi shifted his body weight as if to move them into the room, which was all Korzha needed. He pushed against the threshold with his long legs, causing them both to fall.

Korzha rolled free. His back slammed against the wooden desk behind him. He found the Silver Star in the dark and pulled it out of its scabbard. The metal rang a continuous pure note, one of the few surviving singing blades.

Clearly disadvantaged, Korzha scrambled onto the desk for higher ground. Snaking up the slimy intestinal cord, he managed to find the floating vessel. Then, with one quick stroke, freed Basil from his tether as he held on to the lamp.

Oh, Korzhy. Have you ever danced with the devil under Lune’s pale light? The voice appeared to morph and change with every word. I have. It was a pleasure and a delight to revel in Hellfire’s fright.

Revel in this!

Into the void, Korzha threw the lamp before him. A startled yelp came forth, then a clatter of metal against stone.

Is that the best you can do? He could hear the sneering with every syllable.

Korzha smirked and spoke in his native tongue, "Ilumina."

The blue flame from the lamp’s spout spread from the puddle, then onto the villain. In short order, all became a roaring fire. In the fiery glow, he saw Mudhi madly flailing his arms to put out the flames, to no avail.

Before he could bring his sword to bear, the coward ran, a plume of fire trailing in his wake, lighting the halls before vanishing from his sight. Taking a reprieve, the Töskan sheathed his weapon.

Remarkably, Falçion, with another Jessenter, came bounding in a short time later. Their mouths hung open as they took in the room, the flames dying.

It was Nazir. Find him and bring him to me.

Why would he… We’ll find him. Falçion saluted and commanded, Wake everyone up. Get the watch if you can. Shake the whole city down. I’ll secure the perimeter. Go!

Watching them run, sounding the alarm with every step of the way, Korzha wondered, Why, indeed.

The assassin was not expecting him to enter the room. Perhaps there was a reason to kill a low-ranking officer like Basil. Korzha scoured the papers on the desk, then the ones scattered on the floor. All were dispatch notices and supply requests, with no inkling of valuable information worth killing over. As the flames simmered down, he found nothing of significance—most of them stained by Basil’s blood or burned by the blaze.

Kneeling, he pinched the bridge of his nose at a loss. The fire was now a single flame. Its flickering light made the shadows dance from the ceiling to the walls and to Basil himself. His fist was clenched tightly in his rigid pose—only the one.

This odd detail stirred the officer from his thoughts. Coming to his side, Korzha eased Basil’s fingers apart and was rewarded with a torn note.

Your service was commendable, Captain.

As he read the slip of parchment, his stomach sank. It came from the dwarves, spirit guardians of stone, who combed the battlefield. Over and over again, his eyes took in the baffling news. It wasn’t the devastation wreaked upon the land or the estimated dead—it was the names of the deceased, no one was spared.

Falçion returned. We’ve locked it down, Colonel Korzha.

Slow and steady, Korzha stood and crossed the room. Handing him the note as he passed.

It’s General, now.

The smoldering light caved to the oppressive dark and withered away.

The sunlight filtered through the tall canopy leaves, dancing in his silver eyes. The