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 #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