Douglas Niles: The Puppet King

In the early years, of course, he would have had no such expectations. Indeed, he had once thought of her as his “Ice Princess,” a prized possession that was important to him politically, but who bore little significance in the day-to-day functioning of his life. There had been neither hatred nor resentment in this reality—in fact, he knew that she had felt pretty much the same way about him.

Yet somehow, as the years had passed and they began to know each other, some of that ice had begun to thaw. At first there had come a certain sense of kinship, an awareness that each of them was a prisoner of birth and had gone to marriage from a sense of duty, nothing more. He had learned that Alhana had loved a man—a human, ironically—during the days of the War of the Lance. That man, a famed Knight of Solamnia, had died a hero, and there were times when his wife still grieved for him.

Porthios could track his own feelings for his wife by remembering the changes in his reaction to that grief. At first he had been mystified, wondering how a mere human could have captured this proud elf woman’s heart. Then, as he became more conscious of his own prerogatives, he had grown resentful. How could she feel such pain over the loss of this man, when she barely seemed to muster any interest whatsoever in Porthios, a splendid elven prince?

For a time, he had even been jealous, and it was then that he realized that he was beginning to care for her. He had resolved to try to understand her, and that had formed the seed of true affection between them. He had learned—from many sources, for the knight’s exploits were legendary—about Sturm Brightblade, and he admitted his own respect for the warrior’s death, standing alone upon a fortress rampart to face a powerful blue dragon and its masked rider. And finally he had realized that he would never replace Sturm Brightblade in Alhana’s memories, but that there was room for him and those memories in her life. He began to see the things about Sturm that Alhana had admired, and instead of begrudging that admiration, he began to show her subtly some of the same features about himself.

Porthios had always been a warrior, an elf who understood that force sometimes provided the most effective means of resolving a dispute. He was smart, quick, and strong, but perhaps even more importantly, he had learned that he possessed a natural instinct in battle. He could see what an enemy’s course of action was likely to be, and he readily perceived the steps he should take with his own forces—first, to encourage the enemy to behave in the way that Porthios desired, and second, to strike him in such a way that his will and ability to fight were shattered with the sudden violence that so often broke the morale of an army and sent its troops to rout, its commanders seeking terms of surrender.

He thought of the day she had told him she was pregnant. Her own trepidation had been obvious, but he knew her well enough to see that she was especially worried about his reaction. And Porthios, from some well of emotion he had not even realized he possessed, had thrown back his head and laughed with pure, contagious joy. He had hugged his wife of thirty years, held her like a bride, and she had shared his joy and his laughter. For a few minutes, the world beyond themselves had ceased to exist, and they savored an embrace that bound them together just as they both hoped their child would be able to bind the two disparate nations of elvenkind.

But why hadn’t she written?

Porthios’s further pondering of that disturbing question were interrupted as Allatarn hesitantly knocked on the door to his study.

“Yes?” asked the marshal curtly, deciding against another glass of wine. He put the goblet on the table and turned to the portal.

“General Konnal is here to see you, sir. He says it is a matter of some urgency.”

Rethinking his decision, Porthios poured himself another glass of the splendid wine. “Send him in,” he said sourly. Out of a sense of duty, he reached for another vessel and poured a drink for his guest.

“Your Lordship... congratulations on your victory,” declared Konnal, striding through the door as if he owned the house.

“Thank you, General.” Porthios replied, suspecting that the elf’s pleasantries were merely an initial salvo designed to put him off his guard.

The two elves stood only a few paces apart, but neither made any effort to initiate the ceremonial kiss that would normally formalize a greeting between two such colleagues. Ungraciously, conscious of the stiffness of his manner, the host gestured his guest to a chair, then offered him the glass of wine before settling into his own seat.

Porthios found himself sizing up the general, who was his own age, and—if not for the Qualinesti Speaker’s presence—would doubtless still have been leading the Silvanesti army on its campaigns against the nightmare that had so long scourged the realm. Konnal was much beloved by the nobility and the senate of Silvanost, but his face and hands betrayed none of the hardness of soldiering, the grim weathering that had etched lines around Porthios’s mouth, toughened his fingers and palms with rough callus. For ten years he had led the Wildrunners, but his leadership had resulted in significant disasters, including the decimation of the nation’s griffon riders. Now Konnal’s generalship consisted of recruiting troops, of garbing them in splendid uniforms and equipping them with gleaming armor and sharp blades, and then of training them to march in precise file and drill.

“I have the Keys of Quinarost,” the general said, handing over the ring of golden icons that gave access to the Tower of the Stars.

“Thank you. I will keep them until I leave again on the next campaign,” Porthios replied.

“It is true, then... the Tarthalian Highland is reclaimed?” asked General Konnal.

“There are some matters for the foresthealers to attend, but, yes, the last of the dragons and their minions have been expelled from that part of the elven lands.” Porthios took some small pleasure in his geographical terminology. He had long made it known that he envisioned all the domain of the elves as one great land, not two eternally divided nations.

“Your troops made quite a parade of their return. Was that really necessary?” Konnal’s tone was just short of insolence.

“Stallyar had a strained wing, or I would have flown him in victory circles low over the city,” Porthios replied with a straight face. The savage griffon, loyal flier who answered to the elven warrior’s will, was well known to the people of Silvanost.

Konnal sighed, as if he were dismayed but not really surprised by the Qualinesti’s display of humor. “I thought we had agreed that demonstrations of a martial nature were to be curtailed now that the populace has, for the most part, accepted that our land has been reclaimed from the nightmare.”

Porthios felt his temper slipping but held on to his self-control with a powerful effort of will. “You will recall, General, that it was your suggestion that such demonstrations should be abolished. I never agreed to any part of it. Furthermore, these elves have fought bravely, under difficult conditions, and they were doing nothing more than returning to their homes for a brief interval preceding the next campaign. Surely you don’t expect that I would have them slink into the city after dark, like fugitives seeking to avoid notice?”

“The fact is, you know how the people get stirred up by these displays. They cheer themselves hoarse, and then they are surprised to learn that there is one more battle to fight. There’s always one more battle to fight!”

Porthios was feeling very tired, and his fatigue shortened his patience as much as Konnal’s words. “Ah, but this time we might be finished after one more battle. I trust that even you can see the truth of that!”