A Thief's Game

As Tholien entered Queen Hyanna’s chambers, the elves attending to her halted their whispering. Tholien was not surprised. Ever since he was a boy he’d been accustomed to entering rooms and the conversation trickling away.

When you’re the only elf in a few millennia to be ungifted in magic you become a topic of gossip. And when you also happen to be born in the year of Naphia’s comet – marking you as a candidate for the throne – that sparks even more mumblings. Then when, to everyone’s disbelief, you’re the candidate selected to be the next king, you know your name will be dancing on every elf’s tongue in the citadel.

Tholien approached the queen’s bedside and took her fingers in his. As he dipped his head to kiss her hand, he couldn’t help but notice how cold her skin had grown since morning dawned.

The elven queen’s eyes fluttered open.

“Tholien,” the queen whispered. “It’s almost time.”

“I know, my queen. But I’m not ready,” Tholien said, his voice trembling.

“You remember what I said to you the night I revealed that Vormen had chosen you to be the next king?” she asked.

Tholien nodded. “That the path forward is not a straight one.”

“Indeed, and your wayward journey begins tonight,” the queen declared. “When the light of the Myrin Stars is extinguished, every elf in the citadel will know that I am gone. The traitors will not hesitate to act.”

Tholien’s chest began to tighten. He’d known the elves of Nephtaria would never accept an invalid as king. The outrage at the queen’s announcement of who her successor would be had been overwhelming. Even Tholien’s father, Lord Tharin, had insisted there must be some mistake. The queen had silenced the dissenters, or at least forced them into secret grumblings. But once she was gone, there would be no one to protect him. He had no friends and no magic.

“I pray to Vormen that in the end I do not fail you,” Tholien declared.

She smiled at him, “Your duty is not to me. It is to the very elves who will betray you. It is to the kingdom that rejects you now, but will one day come to see how much they need you. I will join Vormen’s glad company and keep watch over you in the dark days to come. And now Tholien, son of Tharin, you must go.”

Tholien stood and bowed. He lingered and watched as the queen’s eyes closed, aware that they might never open again.

With uncertain steps he made his way to the Hall of the Elders. He wasn’t foolish enough to truly expect that his father or either of the other two lords of the elven council would support him. Even so, his only hope would be for one of the elders to enforce Queen’s Hyanna’s decree.

But when he entered the hall not one of the three lords was present. There was only Arolas sitting at a tarias table, eyes fixed on the doors like a fox watching a rabbit’s hole.

Arolas was also the son of an elven lord and had been one of the other candidates for the elven throne. And he just happened to be the elf who exacted the most pleasure from ridiculing Tholien.

Arolas gestured to the seat across from him at the tarias table. “Care for a game, Tholien? I dare say you can play even if you have to move the pieces with your fingers.”

“Is this really the time for games?” Tholien asked. “The queen is passing beyond.”

“And we will mourn her when she’s gone, won’t we? While we usher in a new era under King Tholien, the disgraceful.” Arolas sneered. “Come and join me, unless you’re a coward.”

Tholien strode forward. He felt a cold prickle on the back of his neck. Surely he was walking into a trap.

“White or black?” Arolas asked.

“White,” Tholien declared without pause.

Arolas raised an eyebrow and with a twirl of his finger rotated the checkered tarias board. “Moving first will not give you any winning advantage, as in all other areas you are woefully outmatched.”

Tholien turned his attention to the glistening white pieces all standing at attention in their two perfect rows, ready for battle. He wished he was as resolute and that he had so many comrades at his sides. He took one of his uilskuiken pieces, beautifully crafted to resemble the noble bird, and moved it forward two squares into the center of the board.

Arolas merely stared at one of his uilskuikens and it surged forward, propelled by magic. A flurry of moves ensued as they maneuvered their black and white pieces, contesting for routes to the opposing color’s unicorn.

For a moment Tholien seemed to gain the upperhand as his uilskuikens had fenced in Arolas’s dragon while his griffin and frostfang had cut off the escape routes. But even with it penned in, Tholien couldn’t manage to capture the black dragon and the tide of the game changed. A few moments later, Arolas had outwitted Tholien and secured a path to victory.

Arolas smiled wickedly as he knocked Tholien’s white unicorn off the board. The game was over and Tholien had lost.

“As I said,” Arolas began, “woefully outmatched. And that is why you will never be our king. The elves deserve someone strong, someone powerful as their ruler. They deserve me.”

Suddenly Arolas’s smirk vanished from view as the room went dark. The Myrin Stars had gone out. Queen Hyanna was dead.

Tholien felt constriction around his wrists and heard the click of manacles snapping closed. Footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Tholien stood and tried to run for the door, but strong hands grabbed both of his arms. Then a gag was forced into his mouth.

A warm breath wafted against his cheek. Then Arolas whispered in his ear, “I have taken your unicorn and now, Tholien, I am going to steal your throne.”