Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

Porthios looked at the two elves flanking Konnal. Each was a huge, strapping warrior and held his axe as if he knew how to use it—and was more than willing to use it right now. He couldn’t resist a goad.

“Did you only bring two of them? Not very careful, for a cautious politician such as yourself.”

“Two will be enough,” Konnal declared grimly.

“What did he promise you?” Porthios asked the question of the axemen in a tone of idle curiosity. “Jewels? Whores? What’s the price for assassinating an elven prince?”

There was no answer, though the pair of warriors stiffened visibly.

“Your names will go down in history, you know. Did he tell you that? Of course, you might think you’ll be heroes—certainly this craven being, this so-called governor, would want you to think that. But in the end, Astinus Lorekeeper will write the truth. You will be known assassins, murders, wretches...”

Konnal drew a deep breath. “There is the paper. Sign it and live. I give you the night to consider. Tomorrow I shall demand an answer, and I assure you that my tactics will not be so gentle.”

The dragon looked puzzled. “Why didn’t he just kill Porthios right then? A dragon would have done so.”

Samar turned to the younger elf. “Do you know why?”

“He did not dare to take the political risk. Konnal was, and still is, based on a very treacherous foundation of support.”

Samar nodded. “So he wanted that confession. It would give him legitimacy.”

“And you—did Rashas really have you imprisoned and sentenced to die?” asked the dragon.

“For a short time. I had good help—a mage of black magic and Tanis Half-Elven helped me to escape. It was the three of us who rescued the queen and made our way out of Qualinesti.”

“But you did not return to rescue Porthios?” stated Aerensianic.

“That was our plan,” Samar declared, “but we could not proceed—my queen’s pregnancy was too far advanced. Indeed, we had barely passed the borders of Qualinesti before her labor began...”

Porthios found himself pacing slowly around the large room. He knew beyond doubt that he faced assassination on the morrow. He would never sign the shameful confession, and Konnal couldn’t afford to let him live. Yet despite his bluster to Konnal, he did not have an actual plan of escape. Given time, he could have come up with something, but events were moving faster than his own ability to control them. Therefore, it seemed a certainty that Konnal would have him killed.

He found the prospect depressing and spiritually draining, though, surprisingly enough, he wasn’t frightened. He thought of Alhana and missed her more poignantly than ever before. Wondering about the baby, he tried to guess if his child would be a boy or a girl. His despair darkened at the awareness that he would never know.

Still aimless, he drifted from the doors onto his balcony. The autumn chill was bracing, invigorating, and he started to think about trying to live. Escape... He needed a plan.

The ground was eight hundred feet below, and the sides of the tower were sheer marble. There was no way to climb down. He needed time to think, to contact his allies outside the city, but his time was running out.

Below him, Silvanost was a vast, ghostly white vista. The pure marble and crystal of myriad structures absorbed the starlight, softly reflecting upward. Even the gardens had their sources of brightness, as phosphorescent waters trilled from small fountains and blossoms of luminous flowers glowed and shimmered in precise, artistic patterns.

It should have been a soothing vista, but it had the opposite effect on Porthios. He found himself pacing the length of his balcony, wishing for wings. The ground below seemed an unattainable goal, distant and aloof. The shifting patterns of brightness and starglow taunted him even as he scorned them for the false quietude they portrayed.

Silvanost was a hateful city, he suddenly saw, and it was emblematic of this whole benighted nation. These elves hid behind a facade of grace and mastery, but it was merely a shell for prejudice and arrogance that had been nurtured beyond reason for more than three thousand years.

He laughed bitterly at an image that flew into his mind: He should hurl himself from this height and smash himself against the city as a last, futile gesture of his scorn. No doubt several haughty Silvanesti would be physically sickened by the sight of his corpse. But the notion instantly faded, and not from any impulse of self-preservation. Instead, he pictured the young workers of House Gardener, elves he had known and befriended over the last two decades. They would find his body, and they would be affected by the horrible sight for the rest of their lives.

It was odd, he thought, how when he looked at the city as a whole, all he saw was a blanket of oppression and self-righteous blindness. Yet when he thought of these elves as individuals, as commoners like his servant Allatarn or the hard-working gardeners, nobles such as Dolphius and Aleaha, they were good and decent people. Not so very different from Qualinesti, if he was truly honest with himself.

“Then why do we work so hard to hurt, to kill each other?” he whispered, feeling his voice swept away into the vastness of the sky. He leaned forward, laying his head on the rail, too tired to do anything else.

Silver shimmered in the night, a flash of movement beyond the balcony, and at first he thought the starglow had swelled into a flare of brightness. But then the motion solidified, and he saw a griffon gliding past, wings spread and motionless.

“Stallyar!” he gasped, his voice loud in the vast silence of the night.

Once again thoughts of escape, of freedom, rose within him. He watched in joy as the magnificent creature reached the edge of the balcony, used eagle talons to grasp the rim of the wall, then land his full weight on the powerful, feline rear legs. Soundlessly the griffon laid his wings flat, easily slipping over the wall to crouch on the ledge. Bright yellow eyes, reflecting more than starlight, fixed upon the stunned elf’s face.

And then Porthios rushed forward, wrapping his arms around the feathered neck, feeling the gentle beak over his shoulder, nudging and scratching his back. He allowed himself a moment of profound emotion, trembling, feeling stinging moisture in his eyes. “How did you know, old friend? How did you know to come for me?”

Only when he opened his eyes did Porthios see movement beyond Stallyar. Another griffon came to rest on the balcony, and this one had a rider. The prisoner came around the side of his faithful steed, then paused as he saw that the newcomer was bearded. He carried no sword, though the ends of a bow and arrows jutted over his shoulder.

Porthios halted in shock, momentarily speechless as he recognized the griffon rider.

“Hello, Prince,” said Tanis, his voice as level as his gaze.

Not “my prince,” Porthios reflected... not from the husband of his sister, the grown man who had been tormented and scorned by royal Qualinesti as a lad.

“Hello, Half-elf,” he replied. He felt a rising wave of anger but forced himself to bite it back. There were too many questions, too much urgency, for him to yield to old rivalries. Yet he had to wonder, why Tanis?

“I bring word of your wife,” the half-elf said by way of answer.

“What about her? Did you see her? How is she? Where—? ” His old prejudice was forgotten as the elf’s mind instantly focused on impending news.

Looking around at the wide, silent view, Tanis nodded toward the doors behind Porthios. “Hadn’t we better go inside?”

“Yes, but be quiet. There are guards.”