The Winged Crown

Finrael rolled a rare gold coin over his knuckles and back again.

This coin was special to him, made for him by master craftsmen at the behest of Her Majesty. Etched on one side, the Queen’s profile; on the other, a ferret standing on his back paws, snout in the air, as if scenting prey. After five years, it still made him smile. It was a measure of how Queen Tarrin regarded him: with admiration, pride and no small amount of amusement. Ferrets were, after all, cunning, sly creatures who could wheedle their way through the smallest of gaps. They were savage, too, but not adverse to a good, solid bribe.

Just like him, he chuckled. He wondered if the Queen knew he’d recognise what she was trying to say? Wondered if, even now, she was grinning herself at the thought of him demanding an explanation from her messenger.

He lifted his eyes to the messenger, sitting across from him in this very private booth and put the coin in his money pouch; the one he kept hidden at his waist. Kenro was a trim, fit man, with a pointed black beard, clean-shaven cheeks, slicked back hair, and deep blue eyes that watched Finrael’s every movement. He appeared at ease with his surroundings, but Finrael knew the picture of unstudied grace was faked.

The Bowman’s Arms was Finrael’s turf in this small town, hamlet really, with it’s dirt streets and grubby two dozen thatch-roofed cottages. It was nice here, regardless of the poverty-stricken appearance. Behind those ill-fitting wooden doors lay hidden wealth. The people of this town - and others like it - were his. The residents worked for him, lived for him and died for him. In return, he gave them a percentage of his profits, enabling them to live in fine comfort, if only on the inside of their domiciles.

This man, though, leaning back against the scarred wooden booth, dressed as if he wanted the peasants to know how wealthy he was, had no idea that every single inhabitant of this hamlet had more money than he did. Tarrin should have known better than to send a fop like Kenro. He’d been here a turning of the glass without once mentioning his mission.

“For the last time: What does the Queen wish of me?” Finrael asked with aggrieved patience.

Kenro waved a negligent hand. “It is a small matter, really. It won’t take more than a couple of hours of your time.”

“Of which, you’ve taken up more than I’m willing to part with.” He stood, turned away and nodded to one of his henchmen. The hulk known as Bando approached with lumbering slowness that belied his intelligence. Many a fool had underestimated Fin’s bodyguard to their detriment.

He heard the thud of metal hitting wood and glanced down at the table. Kenro had tossed a coin down. Fin felt the blood leave his face. He lifted his hand and waved Bando off as he stared at the money, although ‘money’ was a misnomer. This coin was old, tarnished to a deep golden colour as if dirt had been rubbed into the surface to stain it with a darkness no amount of rubbing could erase. He knew this piece, knew its’ legend. He thought it destroyed or lost. And now it had returned.

Without taking his eyes off it, he slowly sat, reached out to touch it, but kept his finger just above the surface.

“The Winged Crown.” He breathed.

“She thought you might recognise it.” Kenro smirked and Fin slowly lifted his gaze so the man would not mistake how close he’d come to death. The smirk faded and Kenro swallowed. “Er… I mean…” He took a hasty swallow of his ale and licked his lips, looked away to the few other patrons in the Arms.

Fin stared down at the dark gold. A pair of wings faced him. A man’s profile against the tabletop. He knew this because he’d held this coin in his hand once before: when he’d helped Tarrin take the throne from her paranoid, insanely brutal mother. And that had nearly ended in disaster.

He’d been given the coin in exchange for guarding a merchant’s train through a corner of the neighbouring country, Tro. He’d thought the coin pretty, interesting, and played with it. But then, he’d helped the Princess Tarrin against assassins and court intrigue to ascend to the throne of Freyus. At every turn it seemed they’d be murdered. Every plan he made dissolved into disarray.

And then, one morning, he left the crown sitting on the window sill after he’d shown it to Tarrin. That day had gone well, and those after, too, until he recalled the coin and remembered where he’d left it. Once in his hand again, danger surrounded them and he knew the coin was cursed. He’d thrown it from the tower into the forest below. How had it come to be in Kenro’s possession? Into Tarrin’s possession?

Fin touched the pad of his finger to the face of the coin. A subtle buzz ran up his finger and into his hand before he withdrew. The coin knew him and he suppressed a shudder.

“Where did the Queen get this?” He asked and raised his eyes to the man.

Kenro shrugged. “She gave it to me to give to you as a measure of her urgency.”

“And what does Her Majesty want me to do?”

Kenro abandoned his relaxed stance and leaned forward. “You know of the prophecy, Finrael, you know the consequences if it comes true. She charges you with stopping that prophecy.”

Fin shook his head. Silly bitch. Didn’t she know that prophecies always came true? Never in history had one failed, no matter what people did to try to change it. “No.” He said.

“Yes.” Kenro hissed, earning him another glare. He didn’t back down, however and Fin gave him points for courage. “There is no one else to do this. You: the worst of the worst, a killer, a thief, a pimp and standover man. You, a mobster, for the gods’ sake, have the skills to do this!”

“There are others to can do this, Kenro, and you know it.”

Kenro leaned closer. “Darik and his army are massing at the border. You know him. You could easily slip in and kill him.”

Fin felt his lips twist. Yes, he knew Darik. He used to run with the boy in the wilds of Tro before Darik was sent to military school. “You mean Darik thinks the prophecy is about him?”

Kenro nodded and quoted the prophecy. “The Queendom of Lath shall fall. From the west comes a man with a body of armour and lust for power in his heart. He will throw down the bastion of women with blood and fire. Nevermore shall women rule, for what remains is only servitude to the conqueror.” He said quietly.

Fin curled his lip. “Tarrin has closed off every border, armed every man; reinforced every citadel. Darik will fail, as his father did before him, and his father before him.” Finrael said. “What makes you think this time is any different?”

“The Queen seems disturbed. There is something different about this impending assault.” Kenro replied. “This coin,” he tapped the tarnished surface, “frightened her enough to send it to you.” He shook his head. “The prophecy is not so old as to be forgotten. I remember my great grandfather speaking of it in hushed tones, and heard it from his own great grandfather. Everything that is happening now, has happened before. Who’s to say this time, the Kingdom of Tro won’t succeed?”

“Do you remember the rest of the prophecy?” Fin asked. “That the offender in the prophecy was an outcast?”

“Darik thinks he’s the one because his father tossed him out for failing school. To Morik, that was unconscionable given that Darik was the first in centuries to fail.” Kenro replied.

“Oh, boy.” Finrael narrowed his eyes. “Does the Queen not see this a Morik’s way of forcing the prophecy? That everything Morik and Darik have done is to fit in with the prophecy?”

Kenro shook his head. “I don’t know what the Queen is thinking; I’m only her messenger.”

“For a smart woman, she can be remarkably dumb sometimes.” Fin leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table top. Tarrin, he thought, was not as well versed in prophecy reading as she should be.

He eyed Tarrin’s man. “Does Darik have an heir yet?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then think on this: if I kill Darik, there will be a battle for the throne of Tro. Whoever wins will be an outsider and probably have the same attitude towards the prophecy as Darik and his father. It will not stop the prophecy, nor even delay it. It might even play into the prophecy. Have you or she thought of that? These prophecies are always vague for that very reason. You can put whatever interpretation on it as you like. If one man fails, then you can say, ‘oh, so it wasn’t him after all.’ Then you get to wait for the next mutt who thinks the prophecy is about him. It will not stop. Not now, not a hundred or a thousand years from now.”

Kenro shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to say. I know what you say is true. But the Queen wants this. She feels it’s the only way to ensure peace in our time. It will take years for Tro to stabilise if left without a legitmate heir. You have to do this!”

“Just in case.” Fin said drolly.

“Yes, just in case.”

Fin shook his head again. Bloody prophecies: always turning up at inopportune moments. He had business to attend to, now Tarrin wanted him to run off and murder his childhood friend who – through his father’s urgings - thought he was destined to be king of the world.

But. The coin. It knew him. Surely that meant something? Maybe it was just old magic that filled it, kept it and the prophecy alive. Hmmm, there’s a thought.

“Return to the Queen. Tell her she’ll have her answer before dawn.” He made a shooing motion and Kenro rose, uncertainty on his face. “Leave now or I’ll have you thrown out.”

Kenro nodded, drained his tankard and walked out.

“Bando!” He called and the giant of a man strolled over.

“Sir?”
“I’ve got something for you to do. Some… research.”

***

Fin read through what Bando had found for him and smiled.

“It was remarkably easy to find the information, sir.” Bando said quietly.

“Indeed, you have my thanks. Now, sit in the corner and write down everything you see happens next.” Fin instructed.

Bando bowed and found a shadowed corner of the blacksmiths forge to hide in. Fin watched as the big man settled himself with parchment and quill. Bando cleared his throat and eased into a still position. If you weren’t looking directly at him, you might not see him at all. Good.

Fin turned his attention to the next part of his plan.

The fire was hot, the crucible ready and Fin dropped the coin in. The metal began to soften, sank into the contours of the cup. The wings held their shape for a moment then dissolved.

It seemed a shame to destroy something of antiquity, but then sometimes, things of antiquity were not what they seemed.

Fin stepped back as the metal began to spark and smoke.

A column of smoke drifted up, but it wasn’t ordinary smoke. This held a shape that coalesced into a man dressed in robes. The smoke thickened until almost solid and Finrael could see the features of a white bearded man in black robes.

“Bastard son of a whore!” The spectre spat.

“Ah, the late and unlamented wizard, Jastro.” Finrael smiled benignly. “Thought you could manipulate events, huh?”

“How did you know?” The shape shimmered then firmed.

“Sheer bloody arrogance on your part, wizard, the buzz of magic in the coin and a good deal of research. You were looking for the right man to fulfil your plan of destroying Lath, as Lath once destroyed you. If I’d gone to kill Darik you would have found that man.”

“I thought it could have been you. You’re nothing but filth for what you do to your own people. If anyone could rid this world of the bitch queens, it would have been you. You could have ruled this world. Killed Darik and taken both kingdoms. Now…”

“Now that you will shortly be truly dead, the prophecy has no sway. It is now nothing more than a poem, a poor one at that, written by you to forment mischief.” Fin tilted his head and chuckled. “Fancy that? Your fear-ridden prophecy has now been reduced to simple literature.”

“You said prophecies always come true. What makes you think this one is any different?” The shade sneered.

Fin shrugged. “I don’t. I believe what I said. But you and I both know it wasn’t a prophecy, but the rantings and threats of an old man thwarted by the first Queen of Lath, the Witch Queen, I believe. Someone picked it up and the coin you’d magicked yourself into and thought ‘gosh, a prophecy!’ And history did the rest, or will be once another story is spread across the land; one that begins with a cursed coin and ends with the cleansing of that coin.”

The wizard snarled and began to fade.

“One more thing before you take off for hell, wizard. I may be a mobster, the filth of the earth, a killer, thief and the gods know what else. But.” Fin held up a finger. “And it’s a big one. The current bitch queen? She’s my wife. We rule Lath together: her, as the face of respectability, and me, as the face of the underworld. Together we make Lath great: Two sides of the coin creating a balance and filling the needs of all citizens, not just the law abiding. Your so-called ‘prophecy’ was never going to be fulfilled in Tarrin’s or my lifetime because she doesn’t rule on her own. You might want to think about during eternity.”

The wizard was still gaping at him as the smoke dissipated and fragmented into the night.

“Get all that?” Fin turned to his henchman. Bando nodded as he finished the last sentence. “Great. Now you can spread that story.”

Fin turned to the west and stared out into the night through the open doors of the forge. “Let’s hope the news gets through in time.” He murmured.

“Aye.” Bando agreed and packed up his tools, strode away with a purpose.

All Fin could do now was wait. Bando would do his best. He was a storyteller, not just a friend and body guard to Fin – Fin didn’t need one, but it was expected that a mobster would have one – and he would make sure as many people knew about tonight’s happenings.

He would soon know if Bando succeeded: the watch fires of Lath would remain unlit and Darik and his army would depart. If Bando failed, the warning flares would be lit, sending explosions into the sky and Darik was on his way to fulfil the wizard’s plan.

He and Tarrin would have to make other plans if that happened, but for now he’d keep his own watch. He used tongs to lift the crucible off the fire. In the bottom was a puddle of gold. He tipped it into the cool water, eased back from the rising steam and spitting water, waited for the gold to cool before collecting it. He’d sell it for a handsome profit.

***

It was a week before he saw the distant glow of the fires in the blackness.

© Jaye Patrick 2005