The Puppet King

by Doug Niles

  The banners of the infantry companies were bright, twenty colorful pennants held high, floating in the gentle breeze. They marked the Red-Tails, the Gray Foxes, the Cardinals, and the Silver Heads, and all the rest of the units that had fought under Porthios during the long, bloody years of the campaign. Together, they made up the Wildrunners, the army of Silvanesti that had been protectors of the kingdom for more than three thousand years.

  And those people who had lined the streets to see the triumphal parade, elves who were normally reserved, dignified, and quiet, let their joy show in unison. Cheers rocked the air, cries of adulation for the marshal and for the long file of his troops that followed. Horses of the four cavalry companies, their bridles shined to gleaming silver, pranced in tight formation. The griffon mounts of Tarqualan’s Qualinesti scouts, fierce fliers who had to be tightly reined on the ground, reared and snapped, their eagles’ beaks clapping loudly as they struggled and stalked along. And the Silvanesti throng cheered as lustily for their brother elves from the west as for the bold sons of their own realm.

  The column proceeded through the city of marble, passing between the lofty spires and graceful mansions. Gardens, formal and precise, flanked them on all sides, and fountains sprayed at the larger intersections. As the march continued, the troops relaxed and soon were cheering back at the enthusiastic crowds.

  Alone at the head of the column, Porthios rode on his proud griffon Stallyar, allowing the creature to set the pace for the march. He was the military governor of Silvanesti, commander of the Wildrunners, and had been accorded the exalted rank of marshal in the field. Garlands and blossoms flew from the crowd to land before the prancing animal, while maidens and elderly dames blew him kisses. Elven men of all ages saluted as he passed, their posture rigid and eyes bright with pride.

  Through it all, the hero of these throngs held his face high, his expression a careful mask of cool acceptance. He could not bring himself to acknowledge the crowd, to wave or to smile, for there were dark thoughts raging in his head, and it was all he could do to keep those grim emotions from marring his visage. He knew that this parade was good for his troops, as it was good for the elves of Silvanesti. Every year had seen another part of the realm reclaimed from the nightmare of Lorac Caladon’s madness, and every year brought more elves forth to cheer for the return of their realm.

  He felt sorry for his troops even as he loved them. He knew that he would call on them again, and in the near future. For three months they had campaigned against a nest of draconians and ogres, battled three treacherous green dragons, and finally cleared the Tarthalian Highland of its hateful denizens. Even now elven priests and naturalists of House Woodshaper were restoring the last of the diseased groves, bringing beauty back to a part of the realm that for more than thirty years had languished in the deepest depths of nightmare.

  But to Porthios, it was merely another part of an odious task that was now, finally, almost done. It was a task that had kept him from his wife for much of the past two decades, a separation that had become increasingly difficult, knowing that they were expecting their first child.

  Behind him came bold Samar, the great warrior-mage walking amid the company of House Woodshaper elves. He carried the long-shafted weapon that was his trademark, a footman’s dragonlance with which he had personally slain more than half a dozen dragons. Now this famed hero, champion of the Silvanesti queen and the marshal’s chief lieutenant, strolled along with the weapon upright, bowing and waving in response to nearly as many cheers as greeted Porthios himself.

  The parade curled around the marble-paved streets—no straight avenues in this elven capital!—and soon the marshal caught sight of Silvanost’s most stunning feature. The Tower of Stars rose from the center of the city, a spire nearly a thousand feet tall. The structure’s outer surface was a facade of brilliant white marble across most of its expanse, highlighted by crystal polished to a mirror sheen in others. Gems sparkled from the many window frames, and ornate battlements twirled gracefully outward from the lofty central spire. Several smaller spires jutted from the main structure, balanced as if by magic over the city so far below.

  Under the bright sunlight of this early spring afternoon, Porthios felt a chill, remembering that tower as he had first seen it some two decades earlier. It had been winter then, a bleak and chilly season made even more hateful by the madness that had corrupted the forest, the city, the very land itself. Abandoned by its elven population, the city of Silvanost had been a ghastly ruin of destructive vines, pavement-cracking thistles, and odious deformity that had extended throughout the buildings and streets.

  And nowhere had this blight been more obvious than on the Tower of Stars. That magnificent spire had withered and curled until it resembled a gnarled, weather-beaten tree trunk. It had been there that the task of rebuilding this land had begun by the magical restoration of horrific corruption. From that tower, the slow, painstaking process had expanded across all of Silvanesti, a campaign lasting thirty years until, a few days ago, it had reached the high, rugged territory at the farthest corner in the northeast of the kingdom. And soon it would extend to the south, where one final stronghold of corruption claimed a festering island at the terminus of the Thon-Thalas River.

  The balconies of the tower were now lined with lords and ladies of the Sinthal-Elish, the city’s ruling council. The males were clad in the white robes of their station, while the women wore gowns of silk that shimmered and dazzled in an array of bright colors. From there, too, the cheers rained down on Porthios and his army, though he couldn’t help noticing that the esteemed members of House Advocate, one of the oldest of the elven realm’s clans, were faint in their praise and haughty in their expression as they looked down upon this elf who, in their eyes, would always be an unworthy foreigner.

  Suddenly Porthios felt very tired. He was sick of the celebration, and he had a headache from the noise. His mind wrestled with age-old questions, problems that had plagued him all his life and still threatened to drag him down in despair.

  Why can’t they see the truth? We’re all elves—Qualinesti and Silvanesti. The future belongs to both of us! He thought about a secret that he shared with only Samar among all the elves in the city, the knowledge of a treaty that might change some of this, and he wished that he could tell them about it. With that thought came memories of his wife, and he felt the familiar pang. He missed her terribly.

  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 wer
e 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.

  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 w
as 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.