Douglas Niles: The Puppet King

The Silvanesti’s eyes widened momentarily at the words, but his face quickly dropped back into its haughty scowl. “I have misjudged you badly if you yield to such a short-term inducement when I come to offer something much greater.”

The green dragon huffed, affecting an air of great boredom. “I have come. I have not killed you. Speak.”

The elf coughed—even that he did with casual elegance—and appeared to marshal his thoughts. Long pauses in conversation were nothing unusual to a dragon, so Aeren waited patiently.

“You realize that the Qualinesti elf, Porthios, has nearly succeeded in driving your kind from Silvanesti.” The word “Qualinesti” rolled off the elf’s tongue as if the very sound of it reeked of venom.

But Aeren was not prepared to concede this point. “My kind, as always, goes where it will. We are not driven anywhere we do not wish to go.”

The Silvanesti made a gesture of impatience. “You know what I mean—draconians, that sort. They survive nowhere else in the kingdom but this island in the delta.”

“Do not make the mistake, elf, of mixing draconians and dragons as the same ‘kind.’ I shall overlook your misstatement this once. Next time you are so careless, you will die and this meeting will be over.”

With an admirable display of self-control, the elf showed no more reaction than a tightening of his lips. “Very well. The creatures of the Dark Queen have been exiled from all of Silvanesti except for this island. You must be aware that Porthios soon plans to clean out this last outpost.”

“It is an obvious tactic,” the dragon allowed.

“There are elves in Silvanesti who would be willing to see your ki—that is, to see you and other green dragons, as well as such lackeys as you are inclined to allow, retain this small foothold in our kingdom. A peace offering, if you will... a testament to the end of war between dragonkind and the elves.”

“There are such elves... and you are one of them?” Aeren replied, intrigued in spite of himself. Of all the things he had speculated that this elf might want to discuss, the notion of a truce had not been one of them.

“It is the reason I have asked to meet you here.”

“And in return for your tolerance of our presence, you expect... what?”

“We expect that you will do Silvanesti a single favor—a great favor, it is true, but only one task. It is a thing that you will doubtless find satisfying on its own level.”

“Continue.”

“We want you to kill Porthios when he comes here, when he leads the elven army against you.”

Aeren snorted, unmindful of the chlorine gas that again wafted past the elf’s face. Despite the hasty raising of his silken robe, the Silvanesti coughed and gagged, stepping backward and wheezing in discomfort. And still the green dragon didn’t notice.

“You want me to slay the hero who has restored your realm to the elves?” he asked curiously.

“He is not a hero. He is a Qualinesti radical who threatens our future, every bit as much as the mad king Lorac Caladon threatened our past!”

“Qualinesti... Silvanesti.” Aeren had heard the terms, knew of the two nations, of course, but the distinction was vague in his mind. “Are you not both elves?”

“Bah!” The emissary’s tone was scornful. “I do not expect you to understand, but the Qualinesti are ill-bred upstarts, unmindful of tradition, uncaring of the racial purity that is the gods-given gift of our race! We have sculpted our realm into a garden of precise, controlled beauty! Qualinesti is a place where the trees are allowed to grow as they will, in disorder and chaos. It is full of deep, trackless groves, and like their trees, the people of the western realm are untamed, utterly lacking in the decency, the refined sensibilities and regal legacy of Silvanesti!”

“But this upstart Qualinesti has you worried?” asked Aeren, privately thinking that the forest of the western elves sounded like a very fine place indeed.

“If Porthios is allowed to live, there is a very real danger that he will seek to unite the two elven kingdoms, and then the hallmark of purity, the legacy we have to offer our children through centuries to come, will erode to the point of uselessness.”

Deep in thought, the green dragon lowered filmy membranes over the yellow, slitted orbs of his eyes. He could still see his surroundings and the elf, but the milky veil helped him to focus his mind, to consider all aspects of this proposed arrangement.

Truly he did not understand the elf’s fears. Green dragons cared little for the fate of their descendants and generally sought to destroy and steal from their ancestors, so the notion of a legacy for future generations meant nothing to him. Still, the relevance of the argument to his own decision came down to one thing: Was the elf lying?

He considered the request, tried to imagine all the reasons the elf would come to him with such a proposal. Was it a trick, an attempt to lull the dragon into complacency before the attack? Aeren decided the elf would know that tactic was unnecessary. They had won every campaign Porthios had led them on. Nor could he see a way for the elf to make personal gain from this meeting. Instead, the dragon’s intuition gave him a strong signal, and he decided that this elf was telling the truth. However mad the reasoning was from a dragon’s perspective, the very presence of the Silvanesti on this hilltop, and the extraordinary nature of his bargain, persuaded Aeren to accept the fellow’s sincerity.

The incentive, too, was powerful. Despite Aeren’s bluster about dragons going wherever they wanted, he had faced the armies of Porthios. He had seen his clan dragons, greens that once had numbered in scores, fall to lethal arrows, deadly lances, and potent elven magic. He knew the elf’s next campaign would be the last. The Silvanesti army would sweep this island as it had swept the rest of the realm, and the few green dragons remaining would either die here or be forced to migrate to new homes.

And that was not a prospect that appealed to Aeren. He liked verdant forest, he favored warm weather and thick vegetation. And even if this delta was a little too swampy for his taste, nowhere along this coast was he likely to find as hospitable a place for his lair.

He changed the tack of the conversation.

“You know that Porthios has fought and survived many campaigns. I know, too, that he has an able lieutenant who goes everywhere with him, and that this elf is the wielder of a deadly lance and is a master of magic. What makes you believe that, merely because you desire it, we will be able to kill Porthios when he makes his next attack?”

For the first time, he sensed the elf’s hesitation, the difficulty he was having with this bizarre meeting. Long heartbeats passed without a word, and then finally the elf drew a deep breath.

“As to the lieutenant, he is an elf called Samar, and we have a plan to remove him from the upcoming campaign.”

“What plan is this?”

“It is a distraction that will draw him away from Silvanesti, but the specifics are not your concern. Still, Samar is loyal to his queen—some say, excessively loyal—and it is this loyalty that will draw him away.”

“And as to Porthios?” asked the wyrm.

Once again there was a long pause.

“There are those among the Silvanesti who have agreed this is necessary. Therefore, we will provide you with information about the nature and the timing of his offensive. This information will make it possible for you to arrange a lethal ambush.”

Aeren’s eyelids popped open. This was indeed a singular offer!

“You realize, of course, that during such an ambush it is very difficult to slay with precision... that is, it is likely that more elves besides this general, Porthios, are likely to lose their lives.”