Story #139 - Fey'ted Thrones VIII

Fey'ted Thrones VIII

The Fey in front of him made him uncomfortable, but so did those marching beside and behind him. Alhandro knew his position in their center to was to protect him from unwanted attack, but the feeling of being trapped was making it difficult to breathe.

None of them had been anything but polite to him, but none had gone any further. He wasn't sure what Lomir had said to the other Fey to get them to agree to this plan – he hadn't been permitted to attend the meeting – but it was clear that there was some division on the issue.

Earth Fey were notably absent from the group as it marched, though Water, Fire and Air were all represented. He had never seen Fey in full battle armor before, and he had to admit that the sight was stunning. There was no uniformity as one might find in an army of his people, but instead sweeping shoulder plates, massive helms and cruel-looking weapons that seemed a matter of personal preference and significance rather than derived from a standard form.

The Fey were substantially different than his own people in that regard; as half-King, he had been expected to make many decisions that would affect hundreds or even thousands of people, all without the aid of a council or equal. Pyulon had been poor advice at the best of times, but he had still spoken to his Fey adviser on occasion out of desperation more than anything else.

What he had learned in his short time in the Fey realm was that their structure was much more egalitarian than what he was used to. Lomir was called Mystral, which, by his actions, equated to first among equals. The older Air Fey could not make major decisions for the entire group without convening a meeting first, and even then had mentioned to Alhandro that getting others to agree – especially the Earth Fey- was a difficult task.

He stepped quickly to the side to avoid the barbed spike-tip of a Water Fey to his right. The near miss hadn't been intentional; there were simply so many of them jammed on to the path that accidents were bound to happen.

The path the used – calling it a road did not suit its nature – was thin, smooth and flat. Alhandrao had seen no stones or grass along its length and while there were trees on either side of it which passed by at regular intervals, their gait was leisurely for an army on the move. He had asked Lomir about it the last time he had seen the Fey, but his answer had been cryptic.

“Distance is no bar to us. Desire, however, limits our speed,” Lomir had said, and would not speak of it again when asked.

He sighed. Lomir had become increasingly distant over the last few days of marching, and while Alhnadro could understand why, it did not change the fact that it left him alone once again. That loneliness was something he was used to, but the elder Fey had been intelligent and kind, and he found himself wishing for someone to speak to. Lomir bore the burden of bringing him here without the permission of the others, and it appeared that he now had to make sacrifices to keep the others of his kind happy.

“That's an impressive weapon you have, good Fey,” he said to the swirling liquid mass beside him. It was banal, but he needed something to take his mind off of the war his brother intended to start, something to distract him from the conflict that was coming.

A watery head swiveled on its rippling body. “Thank you.” The voice was shard-like, each word seeming to come from multiple speakers, which together formed a subtle harmony.

“How is you carry no weapons, half-King?” The Fey asked, and Alhandro spread his hands.

“My training lies in the sword, which was taken from me on my capture. Other weapons I have less familiarity with,” he dropped his voice, “and I hardly need something else to set me apart in your realm.”

The was a sound of rippling water that he took a moment to identify as a laughter.

“I am Rusthis. My people were displeased at your appearance here, but I knew such a thing must happen eventually.” He hefted his polearm above his swirling head. “The traitor king will pay, as will the slimy Fey who helped him.”

Alhandro knew Rusthis spoke of Pyulon, and there was an underlying concern there. None of the Earth Fey had accompanied them, and there was real worry that they would choose to join the traitor in the realm above. A war between the Fey had not happened in centuries, but was not unprecedented.

“Halt!” A voice called from the front of the group, and the line came to a ragged stop.

Above them, Lomir and two winged guards flew, each in a set of burnished golden armor. There could be no question of who was in charge when the feathered Mystral was present, but he seemed unwilling to use that power for fear that others would take it away from him. It was a shame; Lomir could accomplish much more if he simply gave in to the position and power he had been assigned.

“We have arrived!” Lomir cried out. “We wait until nightfall, and make the crossing. Each is responsible for their own arrival in the other world, and each must understand the risks in doing so.” He swept low to the crowd. “Many of you have never left our realm, and with good reason – not all we do has logical consequence above. Use discretion, use sensibility, and do not allow yourselves to become provoked. The traitor and his minion will be arriving soon with their armies, and we must be prepared to engage them. Galtara will not fall so easily as was thought.”

- D

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

Story #26 - Fey'Ted Thrones IV

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

Story #12 - Fey'ted Thrones II

Fey'ted Thrones -II

The Hall was louder than he had heard it in recent memory, and for his kind that meant the span of several centuries. The Fey grunted, they wailed; they screamed noises too low and too high for the human ear to catch, but in truth all they were really doing was wasting time.

Nothing could be done.

He had said as much, several times, but as the leader of a Council of equals his voice had only limited strength. The model had worked for eons, but then the Fey had not been tested in as many, so perhaps a flaw in the method was not surprising.

Holding up one thin hand, Mystral Lomir quieted the assembled throng. By law and custom, all Fey gatherings were open for the low to the high and the great to the small, but few cared to attend. It was no surprise that Alhendra’s treachery brought the masses to the Gathering, nor that Pyulon had helped the young human in his attempt to secure power. Several of the Land Fey had been taking on the traits of humans for far too long, something the Council should have had a closer eye on for centuries.

He sighed as he waited for silence. Another scream would just add to the confusion, and though his feathered chest could produce a sound piercing enough to fell the mightiest Hulcon, he would prefer not to use it on his own brethren.

Lomir kept his beak snapped shut, rocking back and forth on both small legs and simply waited them out. As the last quieted he stepped forward again to the podium and raised his voice.

“I am no more a supporter of these actions than any of you,” he cast his gaze across the Hall, along benches over-filled with those of the Land Fey and across past the beating wings of the Sky. To his right, Water Fey bubbled in their viewing pool, and Fire Fey churned behind their protective bubble. All elements were represented; all were displeased but the traditions had been followed. The treaty had been honored.

He said as much, bringing a chorus of jeers from the crowd but he pressed on, determined to drive home the point.

“The human has been named traitor and no friend to the Fey as has his accomplice, Pyulon,” his voice carried authority easily, but without joy to speak the words. There was a rumble from those assembled; an approval.

To his left, a complement of mansals shifted in their seats; they did not like the scrutiny Pyulon’s treachery had cast on their House, but in truth it simply brought out what had been hidden in many Fey - the fear of their union with the Humans.

“But they did not act alone! Dirlat itself, from shore to spike, is bolstered by their supporters,” there was another rumble, subdued and uncertain. All knew that both Fey and Human had joined with Alhendra and his tame mansal, many from great Houses and with lineage reaching back to the Forming. Now, they were here to raise their discontent, to show the Fey could be roused out of its slumber when the time came but they did not realize that their awakening came too late.

“Alhandro erred. The words were provided to him by Pyulon, it is true, but he spoke them as Prince, as an instrument of the accord. They cannot be taken back, their impact cannot be lessened. His error granted Alhendra the right to seize both Silver and Gold as his own and though a traitor, his station prevents action and he has extended his protection to all those under his banner.”

Splash, burn, groan, buffet; the houses railed their displeasure but there was little to be done. Alhendra had manipulated the treaty for his own purposes, but in such a way that left little avenue for the Council to act.

A semblance of calm settled once again and Lomir glanced to the other Mystrals, who nodded. All expect Chubol, of course; the Wryn could be stubborn about the simplest of proposals and was not about to agree with the Council even on a matter of such importance.

He heaved a great sigh and continued; this would not be well received.

“Until further instruction, the Council has decreed that all Fey/Human relations are to be terminated, all contacts severed. With luck, young Alhendra will see the error of his ways – we will use every diplomatic avenue available to use in order to send a message to the supposed King of Gold and Silver, the boy who would seek to stand astride the worlds.”

The hall erupted as he expected and he stepped down, heart heavy. It was quite possible that this would mean the end of the compact, the end of a peace brokered as the race of Men rose and the Fey were driven back, a peace that had held for six hundred years.

Moving quickly ahead of the other members of the Council, Lomir found the Land Fey he sought and pulled the small Reptilor into a darkened corner.

“Slithus,” his voice was urgent, “I have need of your talents once again.” The mottled brown head nodded slowly in response.

“No questions. Same arrangement. I need leverage. I need advantage. I need Alhandro – free him for me and bring him here,” he spoke quickly; the others were coming and he couldn’t be seen with such a Fey in public, but the Reptilor remained motionless, slit eyes still and wide.

“Yes, by Silver! Here!” Slithus was one of the best, but such a thing was unheard of, even for a Prince of the compact. The realm of Fey was well-guarded and with good reason – humans would be too tempted here.

Lomir was taking a risk, he knew, but no other option presented itself. Pyulon had forced his hand; not unexpectedly, just earlier than he was anticipating. Alhandro was old enough that he would understand, old enough that he might be useful.

A brother betrayed could prove a potent ally.


- D