Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

It was with a mixture of shock and relief that Porthios recognized Tarqualan, his Qualinesti captain. These were his elves, the deadly archers who had flown griffons into battle and now marched to the marshal’s aid on a different kind of battlefield.

“There’s the proof!” Konnal cried, his voice shrill and frenzied. If he was afraid of the archers, he gave no sign. “Armed Qualinesti in the Hall of Balif, the audience chamber of our capital city. I rue the darkness of this bleak day.”

One of the archers raised his bow, his silvery arrowhead fixed on the general’s breast. Konnal sneered, then pulled his robe aside in what even Porthios had to admit was a magnificent gesture of contempt. “Shoot me if you will. You cannot, either with arrows or words, slay the legacy and future of a magnificent elven nation!”

“Hold!” Porthios cried as the archer’s taut fingers showed that he was fully prepared to take the general up on his challenge. “There will be no blood shed in this chamber!”

For a moment, he feared the Qualinesti would shoot anyway, and with a clarity that astounded him, Porthios saw into the future, realized what effect that arrow would have on the peoples of the two elven nations.

It would be the beginning of another Kinslayer War, another conflict the equal of that epic and ultimately tragic struggle. Occurring nearly twenty-five centuries ago, that violent strife had first divided elvenkind in the days of Kith-Kanan and Sithas, the twin sons of the Silvanesti king. It had led to the sundering of the nation, to the creation of Qualinesti as a separate realm. The scars of that war lingered still today, though it had been Porthios and Alhana’s sincere hope that the treaty of the three races would have begun the long process of healing at last.

Now, clearly, those hopes were dashed. Porthios felt a stab of gratitude for the loyalty of Tarqualan and his elves. They had risked much, he knew, to invade this chamber. He even wondered if they had saved his life. Certainly the elves here, during the last seconds before the Qualinesti’s entrance, had been enraged to the point where murder had become a definite possibility.

“So, Prince of Qualinesti?” It was Konnal again, mocking him with his words. “Is this your will? Shall it be war?”

From the mutterings in the great hall, Porthios knew that a great many of these Silvanesti hoped that the answer would be in the affirmative. Perhaps he made his decision in order to spite those hopes, though in truth he knew it couldn’t do that even if he tried. Rather, he had the power right now to influence the futures of the elven peoples.

And he couldn’t doom that future.

“Tarqualan, I thank you for your courageous assistance, but I must ask that you put up your weapons. The matters under debate here will be resolved through reason and discussion, despite the attempts of some to bring about a frenzy.” He tried to freeze Konnal with an icy glare, but the general, in the full flush of his victory, merely smiled with that haughty condescension that brought Porthios’s blood to a boil again. Only with great difficulty did he control his temper.

“I bid you to take your men to your camp... and there to wait for word from me. You will offer no harm to Silvanesti, of course. We must show that these inflammatory remarks have no basis in fact. However, neither will you allow General Konnal or any of his lackeys to disrupt your camp and your right to stay there. That is, defend yourselves with such force as you deem necessary.”

The Qualinesti captain looked miserably unhappy. He had relaxed the tension on his bow, but the arrow was still ready, and Porthios knew it wouldn’t take much to cause the bold warrior to shoot any one of these Silvanesti right through the heart. The marshal drew a deep breath and held up both of his hands.

“Please, my good warrior, I beg you to consider the good of both our peoples. We have both spent many years fighting to remove one nightmare from Silvanesti. The cost has been high, and too much has been lost for us to replace that scourge with another. There will not—there cannot —be another Kinslayer War.”

“Very well, my lord marshal,” Tarqualan said stiffly. “But rest assured that we will be waiting and will pay careful attention to events in the city.”

“I understand... and again, I thank you.”

The archers marched out of the chamber. Through the open doors, Porthios caught sight of fluttering, white-feathered wings and knew that the griffon-riding Qualinesti would follow his orders. Safe in their camp, they would be watchful and ready, and he hoped their presence would help restrain the Silvanesti from any truly rash behavior.

As to events within this chamber, and in the city as a whole, he would have to see what happened.

“You stand charged of a high crime, Prince,” declared Konnal smugly. Porthios noted that he was no longer using the Silvanesti-appointed rank of marshal. “And it must be insisted that you be placed in a secure location until those charges can be examined.”

Porthios felt again the rising of his outrage, but there had been too much rage already expended in this chamber. He would not add fuel to those fires.

“I look forward to an honest examination of those charges,” he said agreeably. “And until then, General, I shall consider myself your prisoner.”

“A treaty?” The dragon was quizzical. “That was the source of the traitor’s hatred, the thing that would mean the doom of Porthios?”

“Indeed,” replied the elder elf. “That was Konnal’s great charge, the accusation that brought Porthios to imprisonment.”

“But... but why?”

“You’d have to be an elf to understand,” declared the younger of the pair.

“And even then,” said his companion, “it is a tale with twists and turns aplenty, a story that makes itself hard to believe...”

Konnal declared that Porthios would be incarcerated in one of the upper chambers of the Tower of Stars. Since his accuser already held the keys to that sanctified spire, the marshal was immediately marched there under an escort of armed Silvanesti, though Konnal took care to select the guards from the city garrison troops. Porthios was not surprised to see that none of his Wildrunners were allowed anywhere near the detail.

They marched him through the city streets, the same winding lanes that had been the scenes for many of his triumphal returns. Now those avenues were lined with hostile faces, including many elves who jeered or cursed him. Here and there he saw a friendly or pitying face, but he dared not acknowledge these loyal elves. He suspected that, in days to come, such sympathies could cost decent citizens their freedom, property, or more. Instead, Porthios took pride in maintaining a contemptuously aloof manner, refusing to show any reaction to the constant vituperation.

At the base of the tower, Konnal made a great show of withdrawing the Keys of Quinarost from his pouch. He opened the door, then led his prisoner through the quiet Sinthal-Elish chamber to the stairway. They climbed for many minutes, stopping frequently to catch their breath, until at last they halted before a golden door. This was unlocked by one of the guards.

“In here,” Konnal ordered with a peremptory wave of his hand. “You will be comfortable, at least until we decide what to do with you.”

Porthios passed through, and the metal door slammed shut behind him.

Only then did he start to think about the choice he had made and the predicament he was in. Alhana! His pride had prevented him from fleeing this city, even when Tarqualan would have rescued him. But now he realized that his decision might have cost him any chance of seeing his wife, of witnessing the birth of his child.