Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

The arched bridges that framed the city were silvery threads against the sky, so fine that they might have been gossamer webbing, yet he knew them to be strong structures, made of elven steel and each capable of supporting a great weight. Trees were everywhere, and if their leafy crowns were a little parched and browned, that was no different than the surrounding forests—or, indeed, from anywhere else on the continent that sweltered under the oppression of this brutally hot, dry summer.

On the surface, this was the same elven city he had first glimpsed a year before, the halcyon place he had dreamed about all his life, had run away from home to visit. He had been welcomed here, and then imprisoned... threatened, and then raised to the highest office in the land, at least in name. Now heat shimmered from the landscape, and the sun blazed down from a sky that was only pale blue but lacked the hint of even a single wisp of cloud.

Gilthas fondled the medallion he wore over his breast, the golden disk that lay beside the Sunstone on its own chain. He thought about what that medallion was supposed to signify—the Speaker of the Sun! What could be more exalted? It was a title greater than king, loftier than any emperor.

And yet when it was wrapped around him, it was only a hollow shell.

At first he had been Rashas’s puppet. Now he was a mere figurehead enforcing the rule of Lord Salladac. When would he get the chance—when would he find the courage—to be his own master?

He heard the shy knock at the door and knew that he was about to encounter the one bright spot in his life.

“Come in,” he called, and Kerianseray entered. She held the neatly pressed folds of his Speaker’s costume.

“Is my lord ready—that is, are you ready to don your robes?” The slave woman’s voice was a musical charm in the room, and she blushed as she corrected the form of address that had been ingrained since her childhood.

“I suppose I am,” Gilthas sighed. “At least this is going to be a small meeting. Only Rashas and a few senators, plus Lord Salladac, are going to be there.”

Kerian said nothing as she laid his robe on the table and went to get the golden brushes that she used on his long hair. He flopped down onto the couch, then looked up as she returned.

“Has there been any word from... from the forest? Do you know if he will agree to see me?”

She shrugged, a tiny gesture. “I have heard nothing yet. I will tell you as soon as I know, of course.”

“Yes... thank you,” he said, feeling as if he had been chastised for being an impetuous youth. Of course she would tell him!

For a time he relaxed, eyes closed, letting her brush his hair. He relished the feel of the stiff bristles against his scalp, but even more pleasant was the touch of her fingers as they stroked through his golden locks, occasionally coming into contact with his skin. Each time they did, it was as though he felt an electric spark, and he tingled with a pleasure that he tried to conceal but felt certain that she must sense. How could she not feel an emotion that was so strong, so consuming, that sometimes it threatened to burst into real fire?

When she was finished, he rose, lifting his arms so that she could slide his robe onto him. His hands, still upraised, were extended over each of her shoulders, and impulsively he lowered them, letting his fingers come to rest against the soft silk of her gown.

She froze, drawing an almost inaudible gasp. He didn’t move, though it felt as though his whole body was vibrating, buzzing like the wings of a bee or a hummingbird. Slowly she drew a breath. Her eyes were lowered, fixed upon his chest even though he looked searchingly into her face. Her mouth was slightly open, and he quivered at the sight of her tongue as it slipped forth just long enough to wet her lips.

He wanted desperately to kiss her, and he sensed in her stillness a willingness to accept his own lips against hers. Time stopped. Even his heart seemed not to beat as he yearned, longed, lusted for a further caress. Still her eyes remained lowered demurely, and he felt the thundering of his own pulse—or was it hers?—pounding in his ears.

But gradually, reluctantly, he knew that he couldn’t pull her closer, couldn’t move his mouth to hers. His exhalation was ragged as he dropped his arms, then turned slightly to allow her to pull his belt around him. Momentarily she looked up before once again lowering her eyes, and the look he saw in her face struck him deeply. Her emotions were powerful, shining from her eyes like bright sunlight, and for that second, they blazed into him, furious and unabashed.

Yet he couldn’t read them, couldn’t see what she was feeling. Was she hurt? Angry at his presumptuous embrace? Or was that scorn he saw there? Did she mock his cowardice, his hesitancy? Miserably he turned his back, analyzing that look over and over but failing to come to any closer understanding of what the woman was feeling.

She cinched the sash around his waist and then knelt to tie his golden sandals. Not once did her face rise to him. Instead, she pulled the straps and laced the bindings with firm, businesslike tugs. When at last he was dressed, she bowed deeply and took two steps back.

“Does my lord Speaker require anything else?” she asked, addressing the floor.

“Not now... Kerian...” He spoke to her, but his voice trailed off as still she wouldn’t lift her face to meet his gaze. “Thank you... thanks for listening. For... everything,” he concluded lamely.

“As you wish,” she said. Finally she looked at him, but she had managed to wipe all trace of that blazing emotion from her gaze. Her eyes were dispassionate, her face devoid of any expression save dignified respect. “If there is nothing further...?”

“Of course. You may go,” he said.

He felt his knees shaking as she closed the door behind her. He put both hands upon the table and leaned there for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to understand the passions that were coming over him. By Paladine, by all the gods, he knew that he wanted her, craved her in a manner that was as sudden and frightening as it was irresistible and all-consuming. Perhaps that feeling had lingered in his subconscious over the past weeks and months, but never had it burst into open flame as it did this morning.

Guilt and confusion wracked him. She was a slave , bidden to do his will! And yet she was his master in ways he couldn’t understand. Merely that flash of heat in her eyes had practically brought him to his knees. And now that she was gone, it was as though the room was colder, darker. The emptiness of his life surrounded him, and he almost called her back, summoning her into the room so that he could bask in the warmth of her presence.

But duty called, and so he trudged like a zombie to the lower floors of his house, where he fell into step with the honor guard of the four Qualinesti warriors who had been waiting there to escort him to the Tower of the Sun. Once there, he found Rashas and a few senators in the council chamber, awaiting the arrival of the Speaker and Lord Salladac.

“Are you ill?” asked the leader of the Thalas-Enthia, peering suspiciously into Gilthas’s face. “You look pale. Did you eat something disagreeable?”

“I must have done so,” the Speaker replied, ashamed that his feelings were so clearly displayed to these elves who really meant so little to him. “Give me a moment. I’m sure it will pass.”

“Slave!” barked Rashas, summoning one of the attendants from the side of the round council chamber. “Bring the Speaker a stool and some water!”

Though he didn’t want to admit it, Gilthas was grateful for the seat. His legs were still trembling, weakened by the wave of emotion. A few sips of cool springwater helped to restore him, however, and he looked around the chamber, identifying the dozen or so nobles who were attending this conference with their new conqueror. Idly, Gilthas was surprised to note that Guilderhand wasn’t present. The spy had made a point of attaching himself to everything involving the city’s new rulers.