Story #48 - Fey'ted Thrones V

Fey'ted Thrones - V

It wasn't that the Fey realm was particularly intimidating; rather that things seemed to operate in a way Alhandro was wholly unfamiliar with. He did his best to follow behind Mystral Lomir without so much as a glance to the sides or back they way they had come but it was proving an increasingly difficult task as the minutes rolled by.

The once-king's hair was flattened to his head as an air fey dove from the sky above them, silvery wings beating furiously as it came. From the look of him, the Mystral himself was of the air so it was no surprise that he would be escorted by those of his own kind. Alhandro knew little of the Fey's politics but his mother had seen to his basic instruction, as was required – he understood there were four major types and had least a basic notion of how they functioned as a unit.

He also knew that they did not deal with humans unless it was absolutely necessary. Searching his memory, he could not recall a single story in which a human had been taken to the land of Fey, even as a prisoner. The situation must be dire indeed for the Mystral himself to take a hand; Alhandro had been offended, angered by his brother's actions but hardly considered them such a threat that the Fey would become involved.

The snake had disappeared somewhere along the way, he noticed as they crossed over a low bridge. In fact, it appeared that he, Lomir and two winged guards were the only living things in site. Paths crisscrossed here and there across a twisting, painted landscape but he could make no sense of the direction they were headed; it didn't appear to be toward a building or with a singular purpose in mind.

Lomir spoke, not bothering to turn, and Alhandro moved forward to catch the Mystral's words. “These are dire times indeed, young King. What your brother has done is more than an affront to your dignity; it threatens both our worlds.”

“And Pyulon?” His brother had erred, but he hardly knew the man. His adviser, meanwhile, had led him nose-first down the path that to this outcome, and that rankled.

Lomir's eyes went hard and Alhandro could see the tufted ears on his head lay flat against his feathered scalp. “That one will be dealt with. The earth Fey have a bone to pick with him when he is returned to us.” The Mystral picked up his pace, leading the small group down yet another series of branching and interconnecting paths. Where was he headed?

“Official visitors must always be brought immediately to court,” his mother's voice sounded in his head “or the nobles will be suspicious. Unofficial visitors must be kept wholly secret.”

“They don't know I'm here, do they?” He came to an abrupt stop on the path and planted on hand one his hip. “The Council. You brought me here without their permission. Why?”

Five more long strides and the Mystral finally turned. “You are wise, young King, more so that I would have thought for one of your age and of your – disposition.”

“I'm young, certainly, but human? Only part, Mystral, and that's what gave me the right to Gold and Silver. Now, let us dispense with this act and you tell me what it is you want.”

“Forceful,” mother had said, “but not aggressive. True power comes from the wielder, not the weapon.”

“Very well. Accompany me to my chambers.” The Fey raised a hand and one of the guardians dropped from above, catching the King's shoulders in two sets of firm claws. Up it went, away from the ground and into the swirling sky above the shining forest, climbing until only smoky tendrils of color could be seen below.

Alhandro closed his eyes; he had been prepared for many things after his return to the throne of Dirlat, but this had not been among them.

The return of solidity under his boots told him it was safe to open his eyes once again, revealing a large open-roofed room. Behind him, the Mystral and his other guardian came winging in, settling lightly on the ground. Both Alhandro's transport and the second guard made for a small door to his right; Lomir motioned him to a larger door near the end of the chamber.

“Welcome to my home, young King,” Lomir said, stepping forward, “come with me.”

Alhandro did not argue; mother's voice, as always, provided sage advice. “A man rules in his own home, do well to treat him as such unless absolutely necessary.”

From the little he could see as they walked through dark wood corridors, the Mystral's home was well-appointed but not lavish; furnishing and tapestries were of a high quality but lacked the gaudiness had seen in the homes of so many nobles in Tir'dal.

Not surprisingly, Lomir led him to a small study lined with books of every size and judging by the jumbling of words on their spines, every language. The history he knew taught that scholars rarely rose to power but when they did they tended to be efficient and reasonable rulers.

“Sit, please,” Lomir said, gesturing to a large oaken chair in front of a vine-carved desk, and Alhandro did so. Fatigue from both his capture and his rescue was beginning to wear on him.

The Fey took the chair opposite and regarded him with glinting jeweled eyes. “I will be blunt, your Majesty. None of the others save Slithus know you are here; they would likely remove me from my position as First if they knew, but this is a time of great urgency. Your brother has launched an attack on our realm at the urgings of Pyluon and we must respond.” There was something more; a plan behind words, action readied behind talk.

“The treaty specifies a meeting face to face, which I have engineered,” Lomir swept a hand in Alhandro's direction, “and I now invoke the clause. I demand, as required, that you lead our peoples to war.”

- D