Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

Finally the long procession curled along the quarter of House Protector, where most of the military elves dwelled. Here the troops dispersed, Samar making his way to the marshal’s side as Porthios stood before the gates of the Palace of Quinari and the warrior made ready to turn toward his own home.

“Another splendid campaign, my lord,” he said, clasping the marshal’s hand.

“Thanks to you and all the rest. Now go and get some well-deserved rest.”

Finally mustering a wave for the crowd that was gathered around his royal residence, Porthios passed through the gates, which quickly, smoothly closed to mask the sounds and sights of the city. In the courtyard, he was greeted by a dozen servants, all sincerely overjoyed to see him return. His steward, Allatarn, led him into the marbled anteroom and informed him that a bath was already drawn, awaiting his pleasure.

“Thank you... in a moment,” Porthios replied. “First I need a few moments of rest and reflection.”

Porthios shrugged out of his leather cuirass, and Allatarn helped him out of his boots. With a golden goblet of wine in his hand, Porthios slumped into a chair, unmindful of his faithful servant’s discreet withdrawal.

This ancient palace was his residence, but it could never be his home. As with every part of this realm, he felt like he didn’t belong here. Sometimes he viewed himself as a conqueror, at other times an unwelcome guest... but never as a true citizen of Silvanesti.

And why should he? For the thousandth time, he thought of the arrogance, of the hidebound tradition and mindless fealty to house name and noble status that were the twin hallmarks of this, the oldest continually surviving nation on Krynn. Even as he risked his life to restore their land, as he slept on the ground, ventured through nightmare-racked forests, battled draconians and ogres in their name, the Silvanesti elves consistently viewed him as one who wasn’t good enough to rule them. He could help them, he could even give them sound advice, but he could never be of them.

Not, if he was really truthful with himself, that he wanted to be. His mind drifted back to the pastoral woodlands of Qualinesti, the trees that were somehow more vibrant, more fragrant and more beautiful than the ancient and hallowed, the regimented trunks of this eastern realm. He remembered the Tower of the Sun, the place where he really was a king, and—though the Tower of Stars was far older—he savored the opinion that the great spire in Silvanost was but a pale and lifeless imitation of the crystalline obelisk that was the dominant feature of Qualinost. Touching the medallion that he wore over his heart, he thought of the office that disk symbolized. Speaker of the Sun, exalted master of Qualinesti, it meant that he was revered by his people there. As military governor here, he would never be more than a caretaker. Instead, he looked forward to the day when he could go home and stay there.

It’s ironic, he thought, that his wife—who was a queen in this place—should be working so hard in Qualinesti while he labored here. They were each, of course, embarked on important tasks. Alhana Starbreeze, together with trusted allies that included Porthios’s sister and his half-elf brother-in-law, was striving to bring about a treaty among the Unified Nations of the Three Races. At first Porthios had been a reluctant observer to that treaty process, but lately he had come to see the pact as offering the best hope for a peaceful future across Krynn.

“Allatarn... I would have more wine,” Porthios said, and the servant was there in an instant to refill his glass. The warrior noticed the emblem on the bottle, the diamantine star that was the sigil of his wife’s family. The vintage was good, he thought idly, but his mind drifted inexorably toward deeper concerns.

“Tell me, has there been any word from Lady Alhana?” asked the general, swirling the blood-colored liquid around the bowl of the golden goblet.

“No, my lord. The last letter was the missive that arrived before you embarked on your recent campaign.” The servant’s face was neutral, save for a tightening around the corners of his mouth.

“I see. Leave the bottle, if you please.”

With a formal bow, Allatarn withdrew to leave his master alone with his thoughts.

Restless now, Porthios rose from the chair to pace the study, the silken hose on his feet gliding soundlessly across the slate flagstones of the floor. For a few minutes, he stared out at the Garden of Astarin, beautiful and precisely ordered. The place was a work of art, he knew, but he couldn’t help thinking that it was merely sterile.

His mind drifted further, and he thought of the golden elven princess, the bride he had accepted so unwillingly... and he reflected on how his feelings had changed over the decades of their marriage. She, like himself, had come to the bond out of a sense of duty. Alhana was a Silvanesti princess and only daughter of Lorac Caladon, the promise of her people’s future. Porthios, one of three children of Qualinesti’s Speaker of the Sun, was the acknowledged heir to the leadership of his own homeland.

In so many ways, the marriage of Alhana and Porthios had been a bond of great promise to both elven realms—especially now that his wife had become pregnant. Each an heir to a throne, between them they created a hope of bonding the two elven realms, a hope with a greater chance of success than anything since the Kinslayer War had torn a bloody gap between the kingdoms more than two thousand years before. With the promise of a baby on the horizon, there was at last concrete hope of a ruler who could begin to unite the two tradition-bound nations of elvenkind.

The memory of Alhana’s pregnancy brought a new quickening of Porthios’s concern. How was she? How fared the unborn child? And why hadn’t she written to him? Her work on the treaty was important, but surely she would take time to rest, to care for herself! For the first years of their marriage they had pursued separate lives, each dedicated to the cause of elven unification, though not so terribly dedicated to each other. Finally there had come respect between them, and then a measure of affection—not passion, not love, certainly, but enough warmth to bring about the promise of a child. But now there was ominous silence from the west.

Porthios turned on his heel, unconsciously pacing faster as he remembered the circumstances of their separation. Since he had been tied down by matters in Silvanesti, she had gone in his name to see to matters in his own homeland of Qualinesti. At the time, it had seemed like an eminently sensible solution. After all, if they hoped to install their child as a uniter of the two nations, then it was only natural that the peoples of Qualinesti have a chance to see Alhana among them much as the Silvanesti had become used to the presence of Porthios here in their own capital.

Of course, Alhana had help. In particular, Tanis Half-Elven, who was married to Porthios’s sister, was a staunch ally, but because of his mixed lineage, he was unable to work effectively in the elven kingdom. Instead, he served as a liaison between Alhana and the humans who lived all around Qualinesti. For a long time, Porthios had been suspicious of the half-elf’s motives, but grudgingly had come to trust him as a benign influence and a man with the wisdom to see what was best for the world. Still, the negotiations had remained secret for the most part. The senate of Qualinesti, like the Sinthal-Elish of Silvanesti, was a close-minded body, certain to be resistant toward any substantial change.

Now Alhana had been gone for nearly two seasons. He had one letter from her, received four months ago, in which she had declared that she missed him and that she found things in Qualinesti “strange.” This in itself was not surprising, but he had expected more information to follow.