Story #7 - Fey'ted Thrones

Fey'ted Thrones

“Summer and ten both Fey and Fen will arise and speak on their own. Swiftly and well and before the last Bell, two princes must each seize a throne.”

- Fey Warning of Mistros

Prince Alhandro vi Renthal was two weeks from his twentieth birthday. All around the city of Tal'dir mages scurried, ministers planned and scribes began new epics to capture the event of the decade.

Alhandro, for his part, sat with his head down on his Throne, picking at his redmail breastplate. Some of the links had begun to warp and he found it soothing to try and fix them, one by one. That, and it kept his mind off of certain things he'd rather not think about.

Tal'dir was an easy city to manage; the minsters took care of the administrate details and the mages knew how to keep the Fey creatures satisfied. Alhandro enjoyed the best of everything – he had been well trained in magic, management and man-to-man combat – but he knew it would all be over soon.

The first ten years of his life had been lived in abject misery; the ruler of a foul swap that had no more to recommended it than that it was necessary, and until he was eight years old, he'd had no idea why he occupied the stinking throne of Dirlat. As with so many endeavors undertaken by royalty, his role was one of maintaining a peace rather than forging a new one – of following tradition rather than marking his own path.

On his tenth birthday Wat, his closest adviser and only friend, ushered in a young man who looked distinctly familiar; a face Alhandro saw everyday in his cracked washbasin mirror. Alhendra, they called him, and he had a spoiled twist to his lips, a set to his stance that spoke of doing little for himself.

Words were spoken, Thrones exchanged and he was whisked away to Tal'dir.

Now it was all coming to an end.

“Your highness!” Viecroy Pyulon's voice cut through his considerations and he brought his head up slowly. Better to make the Viceroy think he had not startled him.

Pyulon was a weasel of a man, literally. Agreements with the Fey meant that at least one-tenth of the city's administrative populace had to be of magical stock, and that included the use of enhanced animals such as the Viceroy. Alhandro found it hard to look at him; although he walked on two legs, his face was too pinched, ears too large and his beady eyes always seemed to hold the reflection of clinking gold coins when he looked at his liege, as if Alhandro was a commodity to be bought and sold.

Prince Alhandro sighed. In a very real way, he was, and on a market he had no control over.

“Yes, Viceroy?” He looked to the side of the little mansal's face. Staring at those eyes wasn't something he could do for long.

“Preparations for the Exchange are nearly complete. I trust you know the words?” His voice was thin, reedy. Mother had been very clear that killing the Viceroy by accident or royal decree was out of the question as it would upset the Fey, something they could ill afford.

He smiled and the Viceroy frowned, misunderstanding the reaction. For ten years he had been alone, but it had taken his mother only two days to break his hardended adolscent shell and from then until the end of her life they were inseparable. The Viceroy lived simply because Alhandro loved his mother; Fey creatures be damned!

Turning back the mansal, Alhandro spoke with authority. “Of course, Viceroy. I stand ready, and do not appreciate your lack of faith.” In truth, the words were buried somewhere in his chambers; he knew they were different than the ones he had been required to speak at Dirlat but hadn't bothered to look at them yet. He would get to it.

“I hope so,” Pyulon was three steps closer to the Throne; when had that happened? “A missed word could plunge us into war.”

Alhandro stood quickly, sweeping his cape off of the Throne and striding down from the dais, forcing the Viceroy to jump out of the way or be bowled over. “I will be in my chambers, preparing for the ritual, Viceory,” distant irritation was best, here, “do not bother me again until we leave.”

Had Alhandro seen it, the oily smile on Pyulon's face would likely have resulted in the need for a new Viceroy, promise to his mother notwithstanding.

***

The throne room of Dirlat was just as he remembered it – dank and poorly lit, with strains of black fungus creeping down three of the four walls. The Throne itself pulsed with a subtle silver glow just as its twin did with gold and it was the only clean object in the room.

His brother looked worse for wear. While Alhendra's clothes were as fine as his own, the other man's face was drawn, his eyes sunken and hair lank. Dirlat was swampland through and through, something most Fey creatures favored, but it did not suit even half-humans well.

There was no embrace, no exchanging of goodwill. They were brothers in name and biology only – a requirement of the treaty, nothing more.

The Viceroy gestured in his direction and he spoke clearly, the words coming easily to mind.

“Throne of Wind, Seat of Stone, neither do I call my own. Distant power, both estranged, our compact is rearranged.”

There was a crisp silence as his words fell, one he could not recall from a decade ago. He had repeated the words as they were written.

But something was wrong.

Alhendra smiled and the Viceroy moved quickly to his side.

“Guards!” Alhendra boomed in a voice twin to his own, “seize him! He has broken the treaty, and I claim both thrones as my own!”

Anger, silence. Blackness.

- D