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 #118 - Fey'ted Thrones VII

Fey'ted Thrones - VII

King Alhendra was uncomfortable on his throne in Tir'dal. He would never say as much to the lackeys that came by asking for favors or the ambassadors trying to turn his mind from war, but the truth was that the Golden Throne was tall and hard, and the weakness of a cushion or backrest could not be tolerated.

“No, Ambassador,” he said flatly, looking down at the fawning man below. “We will accept none of your terms. Full surrender or death are your only options.” He had known there was going to be resistance from the other Kingdoms of men, but could not believe how short-sighted many of their rulers were being. A number had come under his banner easily enough, realizing he was their best chance at a final victory over the Fey realm, but half again that number sought to strike out on their own now that one Throne sat unoccupied. He had hoped to make his way into the land of the Fey sooner, but for the moment he would have to content himself with weakening their borders while he brought the other Kingdoms under his rule.

The green-haired man lifted his head from the carpet as if to speak, but Alhendra gestured to the guards at his side and the Ambassador was quickly removed. He had given an audience, as requested, and stated terms. Now, the petty kinglets and lords had two choices: acceptance or death.

As the doors closed behind his guest, Pyulon snaked out of the shadows. He hated the little Fey, but had known since their first meeting that the weasal was the key to final victory. It was Pyulon's knowledge that had given him the ability to directly attack the Fey realm, and the creature had been the one to lead Alhandro astray.

Thoughts of his brother caused him a momentary stab of pain, this time from his head instead of his back. They had seen each other only twice in their lifetimes, and the second had involved a horrible betrayal. He had to admit that he would have liked to know the other half of himself, but couldn't take the chance Alhandro had been infected by the moral do-goodery of their mother. She was a kind woman, and he had loved her for that, but her worldview was hopelessly naïve. Those with power were meant to wield it, not sit on their hands and protect that which did not require defense. He had known the necessary steps to take from the moment he learned the purpose of the Thrones, and Pyulon had been there to assist him.

Still, the Fey was foul as the day was long.

“My king,” Pyulon whispered, his voice low, “was that altogether wise? What if the Kingdoms of men band against you? Might that not be a war you do not wish to fight?”

Alhendra regarded his adviser coldly. “Only if the weapons you have made for me do not work as intended. You have led me to believe that they are far superior than anything the realm above has to offer. Are you now telling me that was a lie?”

Pyulon hesitated; to speak a lie in front of the King was death, and Alhendra was confident that the weapons delivered would do their job. The Fey simply needed to be put in his place.

“I...no, my King. It was no lie. They will work as they should, and they will deliver you victory. I merely wonder if such a battle could be avoided – perhaps through further negotiation -”

“No!” He cut the Fey off. “That will not happen. My terms have been issued, my conditions declared. Surrender or death are their choices, and they must make those choices now. If the next missives from any of the kings are anything but offers of full acceptance of my rule, we march the army to war.”

Alhendra could see the guards stiffen with pride. The forces of both Tir'dal and Dirlat were his to command, and together comprised the largest army in the known world. Even an alliance among the other nations could not stand against them under the best of circumstances, and his men would be using weapons never before seen outside of the realm of Fey.

“Of course, my King,” Pyulon said, bowing deeply, “I am your humble servant. May I be excused? I must see to our preparations.”

Waving a dismissive hand, he let the Fey go. The man was as humble as the throne was soft, and served only because the Thrones required one of Alhendra's blood to operate. Pyulon still had not divined their secret, but assured his King that he was getting close.

Alhendra relaxed his back for a moment, sinking into a slouch and letting the pain recede. All that was left now was waiting – waiting to see what the kings would decide and what the battle would bring.

A sudden thought occurred and he straightened. The truly forward-thinking man moved when no one expected him to, and in ways no one could predict. He could wait for the arrival of messengers from other nations, but the kings might delay or seek to mislead him with promises of capitulation that became drawn-out negotiation, and Pyulon would push for that the moment he saw an opening.

An attack, however – coordinated such that it would completely decimate one of the waffling kingdoms – would secure his place as a power to be reckoned with. The army could get some much-needed field practice, and under pressure from such a foe, any allies his target might have would quickly scatter.

Standing, he strode to the map in the corner of the room, closed his eyes and jabbed a finger forward.

“Guards!” He called, and they came running. “Inform the general staff that the army is to march in three days. We ride to attack Galtara – the world shall know the might of its true master!”

Grins on their faces, the two armored men dashed into the hallway.

- D

Story #84 - Fey'ted Thrones VI

Fey'ted Thrones - VI

Alhandro sat back heavily in his chair. War? Had he heard the Mystral correctly? His mother had told him that they Fey could be implacable adversaries, but the last time they had taken arms against anything but their own kind was eons ago.

“War, Mystral?” He asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. He had been prepared to rule both Silver and Gold as long as was required, but war had never been discussed as a likely event during the time of his occupancy. The treaty kept the borders of both his realms safe and so long as obligations to the Fey were honored and promises kept, stability should have been the result. “Are things really so dire? Could my brother truly be so threatening?”

Lomir's small eyes darkened and he leaned forward, face drawn. “They could not be more serious, Your Majesty.”

There was a tap at the door and Lomir looked up, then called for the visitor to enter. A winged Fey slipped into the room, head down, and stepped quickly around the desk to present Lomir with a crisp parchment. After a nod of thanks, Lomir motioned for his servant to leave.

“As I thought, Your Majesty,” he said, holding out the parchment for Alhandro's inspection, “your brother has already begun the attack. Slithus heard the first volleys when he came for you in Dirlat.”

He didn't take the paper; Lomir had no reason to lie, not after breaking the agreement to bring him here in defiance of the other Fey, and if the words on the paper were no more than fabrications, he would never know it. Best to take the air Fey at his word and move on.

“I find that concerning, Mystral, but it still seems to plant the matter firmly in my lap. Alhendra was attacking in our realm when we left. Return me to Tir'dal and I will raise an army to deal with my wayward brother.” He said it with more confidence than he felt; his brother and Pyulon must have been in planning for years to execute such a coup and he would likely find a great deal of opposition in Tir'dal from both the Guard and the army.

“I cannot do that, Your Majesty,” the Mystral said, and Alhandro felt his cheeks color. No one spoke that way to a king! “Were I to let you go, you would surely be killed within hours of reaching your city, and you will be needed in the battle to come. Again, I invoke the clause.”

He shook his head. “I see no reason for such haste. You claim an attack on your realm has come at the urgings of my brother's minion, but I see no evidence of that here. I trust you insofar as I must be protected for you to retain your position, but belief without proof is a luxury no king can afford.”

Lomir was silent for a moment, studying him over clasped hands, and finally the older being smiled. “Your mother has taught you well, young King, and while I would wish that you could simply take my truth as such, you are right to question. Come with me and I will show you.”

He rose and motioned for Alhandro to do the same, then clapped his hands sharply. The door to the chamber opened and two winged guards bustled in, one taking up a station behind Alhandro and the first remaining at the opening.

“If you would, please,” Lomir said, motioning forward, and the Fey fell in behind the first guard, leaving space for Alhandro to do the same behind him, and the little group moved out into the hallway.

The Mystral's home was quite large; in ten minutes Alhandro was taken aback by sweeping terraces, vaulted ceilings and the view of a garden made up of flying, interconnected bridges. His palace in Tir'dal had been well-appointed, but this was an entirely new level of luxury.

Finally, they arrived at a round room paneled in dark wood, smaller than many of the others they had passed. It held no windows and the only light came from a softly glowing green orb in its center which rested on a dark metal pedestal.

“Leave us,” Lomir said shortly, and the guards bowed deeply and retreated, closing the door behind them.

“Do you know what this is, Your Majesty?”

Alhandro shook his head; it was a scrying stone of some kind, but much larger than any he had ever seen. There were many types, each with their own purpose, and he would rather have this one's function explained than try to guess.

“It is a window, and opening into your world, one that lets us ensure that what is being done above does not impact what goes on below. Observe.” Lomir moved forward, placing both hands on the sides of the stone and taking a deep breath. On the side of the room opposite their entry, the wall shimmered and disappeared, to be replaced with a section of highway that Alhandro was all too familiar with.

The road into Dirlat.

On each side of the roadway were machines of war – great, hulking things with massive arrows and heavy rocks used to break down city walls. He had never commanded troops, but his mother had insisted he at least learn the basics of military strategy.

As he watched, he saw one of the machines draw back, ropes straining as its tension was brought to bear, and then release a massive boulder, which arced up and then crashed hard into the dirt below. A slight vibration ran through the floor of the room – an artifact of the magic, perhaps?

“I don't understand,” he began, “why are they attacking a lone stretch of road? Practice? Are they unsure of how to use their equipment?”

Another boulder flew and there was a second impact, this time rumbling the entire room. Though the large rock had done little to the ground aside from gouge out at small hole, Alhandro noticed it was glowing softly, as if responding to something nearby.

“By the Thrones!” He cursed. “That it, isn't it? You truly are below!”

Lomir let his hands fall from the stone and the scene faded, and he turned to face Alhandro. “Yes, Your Majesty, and if we do not do something soon, your brother will rule here as well.”

- 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 #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

Story #7 - Fey'ted Thrones

Fey'ted Thrones

“Summer and ten both Fey and Fen will arise and speak on their own. Swiftly and well and before the last Bell, two princes must each seize a throne.”

- Fey Warning of Mistros

Prince Alhandro vi Renthal was two weeks from his twentieth birthday. All around the city of Tal'dir mages scurried, ministers planned and scribes began new epics to capture the event of the decade.

Alhandro, for his part, sat with his head down on his Throne, picking at his redmail breastplate. Some of the links had begun to warp and he found it soothing to try and fix them, one by one. That, and it kept his mind off of certain things he'd rather not think about.

Tal'dir was an easy city to manage; the minsters took care of the administrate details and the mages knew how to keep the Fey creatures satisfied. Alhandro enjoyed the best of everything – he had been well trained in magic, management and man-to-man combat – but he knew it would all be over soon.

The first ten years of his life had been lived in abject misery; the ruler of a foul swap that had no more to recommended it than that it was necessary, and until he was eight years old, he'd had no idea why he occupied the stinking throne of Dirlat. As with so many endeavors undertaken by royalty, his role was one of maintaining a peace rather than forging a new one – of following tradition rather than marking his own path.

On his tenth birthday Wat, his closest adviser and only friend, ushered in a young man who looked distinctly familiar; a face Alhandro saw everyday in his cracked washbasin mirror. Alhendra, they called him, and he had a spoiled twist to his lips, a set to his stance that spoke of doing little for himself.

Words were spoken, Thrones exchanged and he was whisked away to Tal'dir.

Now it was all coming to an end.

“Your highness!” Viecroy Pyulon's voice cut through his considerations and he brought his head up slowly. Better to make the Viceroy think he had not startled him.

Pyulon was a weasel of a man, literally. Agreements with the Fey meant that at least one-tenth of the city's administrative populace had to be of magical stock, and that included the use of enhanced animals such as the Viceroy. Alhandro found it hard to look at him; although he walked on two legs, his face was too pinched, ears too large and his beady eyes always seemed to hold the reflection of clinking gold coins when he looked at his liege, as if Alhandro was a commodity to be bought and sold.

Prince Alhandro sighed. In a very real way, he was, and on a market he had no control over.

“Yes, Viceroy?” He looked to the side of the little mansal's face. Staring at those eyes wasn't something he could do for long.

“Preparations for the Exchange are nearly complete. I trust you know the words?” His voice was thin, reedy. Mother had been very clear that killing the Viceroy by accident or royal decree was out of the question as it would upset the Fey, something they could ill afford.

He smiled and the Viceroy frowned, misunderstanding the reaction. For ten years he had been alone, but it had taken his mother only two days to break his hardended adolscent shell and from then until the end of her life they were inseparable. The Viceroy lived simply because Alhandro loved his mother; Fey creatures be damned!

Turning back the mansal, Alhandro spoke with authority. “Of course, Viceroy. I stand ready, and do not appreciate your lack of faith.” In truth, the words were buried somewhere in his chambers; he knew they were different than the ones he had been required to speak at Dirlat but hadn't bothered to look at them yet. He would get to it.

“I hope so,” Pyulon was three steps closer to the Throne; when had that happened? “A missed word could plunge us into war.”

Alhandro stood quickly, sweeping his cape off of the Throne and striding down from the dais, forcing the Viceroy to jump out of the way or be bowled over. “I will be in my chambers, preparing for the ritual, Viceory,” distant irritation was best, here, “do not bother me again until we leave.”

Had Alhandro seen it, the oily smile on Pyulon's face would likely have resulted in the need for a new Viceroy, promise to his mother notwithstanding.

***

The throne room of Dirlat was just as he remembered it – dank and poorly lit, with strains of black fungus creeping down three of the four walls. The Throne itself pulsed with a subtle silver glow just as its twin did with gold and it was the only clean object in the room.

His brother looked worse for wear. While Alhendra's clothes were as fine as his own, the other man's face was drawn, his eyes sunken and hair lank. Dirlat was swampland through and through, something most Fey creatures favored, but it did not suit even half-humans well.

There was no embrace, no exchanging of goodwill. They were brothers in name and biology only – a requirement of the treaty, nothing more.

The Viceroy gestured in his direction and he spoke clearly, the words coming easily to mind.

“Throne of Wind, Seat of Stone, neither do I call my own. Distant power, both estranged, our compact is rearranged.”

There was a crisp silence as his words fell, one he could not recall from a decade ago. He had repeated the words as they were written.

But something was wrong.

Alhendra smiled and the Viceroy moved quickly to his side.

“Guards!” Alhendra boomed in a voice twin to his own, “seize him! He has broken the treaty, and I claim both thrones as my own!”

Anger, silence. Blackness.

- D