Fey'ted Thrones – IV
Alhandro didn't trust the Snake, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Slithus had appeared unexpectedly in the night, tearing his cell door from its hinges as if it were no more than a minor inconvenience. Without subtlety or ceremony the Fey had heaved Alhandro onto his back and stalked out of the city.
His speed had been incredible, squat legs churning as they ran through the muggy streets of Dirlat, but the prince was certain he had seen more than a few dead guardsmen on the way out. Slithus had killed men – good men, men doing their duty – simply to find Alhandro.
At first he thought it a ransom attempt. With his brother in control of both Gold and Silver, his life would be worth something to any number of the Fey houses. He hadn't been able to glean exactly what Alhendra was planning but if the rumblings in the city this evening were any indication, it had already begun.
Mother had spoken little of Alhendra during their years together, saying only that he was “far more like his father” than Alhandro. Her tone was clear enough; she had never been able to forge the kind of bond with her first son as she had with her second. Alhandro was glad of that, though knowing more about the kind of man his brother was and would become would have proven very useful. His father had died while he'd been shivering away in Dirlat; he had little from which to draw conclusions about Alhendra's next move.
It wasn't until the Fey finally set him down miles outside of town that he learned the true reason for his rescue.
“Lomir?” He had been startled to hear of the Mystral's involvement, but Slithus only nodded at his question. He had met Lomir a number of times during his reign in Tir'dal and the Mystral of the Fey had always been both efficient and to the point. Air Fey were known for their loyalty and dedication to a single purpose, both traits Lomir had shown in spades. Impulsiveness was also said to run in their nature, but Lomir had been as predictable and stuffy as they came.
He'd hated Pyulon, though. Perhaps that had been a better indication of his character than any other.
Alhandro had done his best to get more information out of the Snake but if he knew any more about what Lomir wanted he appeared to have no intention of sharing it. Hunkering down into the grass that first night, Slithus had simply closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, leaving the young prince with two choices: the ground or a large tree nearby. Unsure of his balance after his recent captivity, Alhandro chose the ground, wrapping the tattered remnants of his gold and red cloak around him. A week ago, it had been a symbol of his office, of the great duty he held, his responsibility to the people. It had become instead a poor substitute for a blanket, thin and devoid of meaning.
Now they walked together, their destination unclear but each unhappy in the other's presence. Slithus had tried to sling Alhandro over his shoulder again but the Prince refused, jaw set and stance open. He would fight, if necessary, to use his own feet, and likely the thought of bringing a beaten and bruised former Prince to the Mystral stayed the Fey's hand.
Alhandro glanced at the Snake in front of him, its lithe form slipping over rocks and tree branches as if they were no more than air. Weak from hunger and aching from a week on a stone floor, Alhandro seemed to find every stone underfoot, every branch slapping at his thighs. Slithus wouldn't say where they were heading, when they would get there or when he would stop moving again. The Thrice-cursed Fey wouldn't say anything!
He was a crown prince, a man of responsibility and action. He would not let some two-bit dirt dragging Fey best him, even in such a simple contest of wills. Hurrying to catch up he misjudged the distance over a large rock in the trail and caught his right foot, arms windmilling as he plummeted forward. The needled forest floor took him full in the face, tiny spikes jamming into his lips and nose. He could go no farther.
“We're here.” The Fey's voice was quiet, each word seeming to slide into the next and Alhandro had to repeat it several times to himself before he caught the meaning. Struggling to his feet, he glanced around, only to find a clearing identical to hundreds they had already passed through.
“We're where?” He had little of a Prince in him and more of a man, or so said his mother. Still, he managed to sound cold and distant, a better asking his servant why his wine was not properly chilled.
Slithus' eye slits narrowed just a hair and Alhandro took a step back. The thing was a killer, through and through.
“Here,” it whispered, and weaved its stubby arms in a complex pattern. Around them the forest seemed to melt away, sky slipping downward to drip azure lines over the softening trees. Before long a pool of color swirled at his feet, the forest in front and sky above replaced with a stark gray wall that had no depth, no form.
Underneath him the colors came to a single point, no larger than the tip of his finger and paused, their swirling mass hesitating for just a moment.
With a speed so abrupt it should have carried sound the colors swirled out, dashing up and around him, past and through him. He spun, dazed. He cried out, confused. Finally, he shut his eyes and waited. Better a blind Prince than a coward.
“Prince Alhandro?” A new voice asked - a deep, resonant voice he'd heard before. “I am Mystral Lomir. Welcome to the realm of Fey.”
Alhandro opened his eyes slowly, trying to make it seem as though he'd closed them only by choice. Impossibilities met his sight.
- D
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