Story #19 - Fey'ted Thrones III

Fey'ted Thrones - III

The air was heavy with a slick, musty wetness that threatened to overpower him. He’d endured it before but now he could barely find the strength to breathe it in, let alone rise and…what? Pace around the cell again?

Alhandro sighed. He should have known that Pyulon was planning something, but the mansal’s scheming face always looked that way, as if he was about to cheat you out of your last coin or sell you something he didn’t really own.

Coming back to Dirlat had been unavoidable, but the plan had been to do so as Prince of Silver Throne, not like some common criminal stuffed into a hole so deep even the rats wouldn’t bother. Alhendra was King now, or near enough; he’d been granted that right once Alhandro spoke the words in error.

Though his mother had tried hard to teach him he’d retained little knowledge of the Fey and their convoluted system of rules and treaties. They were powerful - he knew that much - powerful and suspicious of humankind. Each of the Fey Houses believed that humans were in some measure responsible for their declining numbers and were afraid of the rampant growth of the non-magical world.

Alhandro didn’t understand the intricacies of it, but his diluted Fey heritage gave him the ability to claim both Silver and Gold.

“Two, separate and safe. One, broken and protected,” the creed he’d heard since childhood rang in his head and he whispered it into the pale lichen light. Something about the Thrones kept Fey and Human from each other’s throats, kept their worlds distinct.

Thudding his head against the stone wall he felt a rising sense of panic mixed with a healthy dose of failure. He’d done little during his time in Tir’dal to recommend him as a ruler; but he’d told himself it was because he was a caretaker only. His father and grandfather had died before fifty winters had come and gone, sick and aging though they should have seen half again that age.

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad. Allowances had been made for one ruler in the treaty, if not the Fey would have coming howling up from the Nether by now. Alhendra might be greedy and foolish but that did not mean he was evil, not truly. A small spark of hope flared – maybe his mistakes were not as glaring as he’d feared.

The smell struck him again harder than before, and he was reminded of surroundings. There was a clang and the access port on the door was pulled back and a plate containing watery gruel and crust of bread were shoved through.

Not bothering to stand he reached for it, but as his fingers closed around the plate edge a thunderous crash sounded, bringing a hail of stones from the ceiling and tipping the food from his hands. Thin brownish liquid sprayed across the dirt floor and the bread crust flipped into a corner. Moments later, he heard a skittering sound from the dark.

He’d had been wrong. Even here, the rats would bother.

…

Getting into Dirlat had been no problem for Slithus; the muddy ground and dreary skies perfectly suited his kind. Land Fey had been welcome here, once; some said it was from spike itself they were birthed.

Slithus had no idea if that was true or not and didn’t really care – he had a job to do and would see it done as soon as possible. Lomir was generous and likely more clever than he looked; the Mystral did not question how Slithus achieved results so quickly and was wise enough to keep his distance.

A score of dead humans littered his trail into the city, thought it bore little relation to a direct route. This was one of the things Lomir was smart enough not to ask about – his actions were a violation of the Treaty, but knowledge unknown was knowledge denied. Clearly, this assignment had been of the highest value to the Mystral for him to risk them being seen in the Hall together.

Another guardsman fell to his fangs; whatever the poor fool was supposed to be guarding would probably be better off without him.

A sinuous smile came to his wide mouth. Of course the human had no chance to sense his approach, but the pink fleshing could have at least made it look as though he was doing something other than staring blankly into the distance.

He glanced at the body as the swept past. It held the same wide-eyed expression as it had when he’d attacked; a result of the paralytic venom in his veins. Soon enough one of the fool beasts would raise an alarm, but by that time he’d be away with his prize.

The clanking of metal alerted him to a band of guards that seemed more attentive than the last and he slunk into the shadows. Within moments his skin had faded to near-black, a holdover from the first Fey divide. With a face and form that marked them as predators, his kind was among the most feared of Houses, owing largely to years of misconception. Still, such a reputation could be effective when required.

Slipping easily behind the guards he made his way to the lower floors of the dungeon. Humans were predictable creatures and this Alhendra more than most. He feared what his brother represented and would keep him as far from the Throne as possible.

A detonation sounded behind him, slowing him as he slid quickly around falling stones. The false King wasted no time, it seemed, in beginning his assault. Lomir had known the truth of this; diplomatic sanctions were merely a distraction. Slithus and his target held the true chance of the Fey.

Moments only brought him to the door he sought; a thing of human steel set in carved rock. The decision of legs over powerful unibody had been contentious for the House, but it now provided him the power he needed to easily tear the barrier from its hold.

Pale human eyes met his jeweled own as he stepped forward. Lomir’s gamble might yet pay off.


- D