The Puppet King Page 10
“You say this,” Konnal retorted with maddening calm, “but do you deny the existence of the Unified Nations of the Three Races treaty?”
Now the silence was absolute, and Porthios had no idea what to say. He could not deny that he knew about the treaty. He and Alhana had been negotiating the pact with representatives of dwarven Thorbardin and human Solamnia for more than year. Nor could he claim that the treaty wasn’t a secret, for the two elves had known that there would be elements in both elven realms who would fiercely resist the notion of such an agreement.
But the pause was growing, and he was acutely conscious of the need to say something even as his mind reeled with the knowledge that Konnal had somehow learned of the document, and that the general’s words right now stood a good chance of dashing into ruin all the carefully laid plans and negotiations of the past year.
“That treaty holds promise of peace and safety for the future of all elvenkind.” Porthios spoke slowly and carefully, hoping against all fear that his calm demeanor would help the Silvanesti to see reason. “It has been negotiated for many months, with the full knowledge of elven leadership as well as with elements of the dwarven and human realms. When the terms have been established, the document will of course be submitted for study and ratification by the Sinthal-Elish and the Senate of Qualinesti!”
“And there’s the catch, esteemed listeners,” Konnal cried before the echoes of the marshal’s words had begun to fade. “The ruling councils of two elven nations, linked, locked under one treaty. Well, I have seen the terms of this document—much to the displeasure of our Qualinesti prince, I assure you all—and I can tell you that there is a key component Porthios Solostaran has neglected to mention!”
All ears were hanging on his every word, and now Konnal took the time to relish his pause. Finally he finished with his damning accusation:
“This treaty calls for nothing less than the merging of our august body with that of the upstarts to the west. It makes Silvanesti, my honored listeners, nothing less than a subject territory, a mere colony of Qualinesti.”
“That’s not true!” Porthios shouted, but now his voice was swamped in a massive tide of outrage. Elves were on their feet, stools knocked over, fists waving, foam-speckled lips decrying this foul treachery. Even Dolphius was gaping in shock, while many of the nobles and ladies were surging toward the rostrum, eyes wild, tempers flaring beyond all vestige of control.
The drumlike pounding of the vast bronzed doors somehow cut through the chaos in the chamber, and Porthios looked up in surprise to see scores of elves charging into the chamber. They wore leather jerkins and carried bows and arrows with missiles nocked onto the strings, drawn back and ready to shoot. The room fell into stunned silence as fully two hundred armed warriors poured through the door and arrayed themselves on the outer ring atop the deep well of the senate chamber.
It was with a mixture of shock and relief that Porthios recognized Tarqualan, his Qualinesti captain. These were his elves, the deadly archers who had flown griffons into battle and now marched to the marshal’s aid on a different kind of battlefield.
“There’s the proof!” Konnal cried, his voice shrill and frenzied. If he was afraid of the archers, he gave no sign. “Armed Qualinesti in the Hall of Balif, the audience chamber of our capital city. I rue the darkness of this bleak day.”
One of the archers raised his bow, his silvery arrowhead fixed on the general’s breast. Konnal sneered, then pulled his robe aside in what even Porthios had to admit was a magnificent gesture of contempt. “Shoot me if you will. You cannot, either with arrows or words, slay the legacy and future of a magnificent elven nation!”
“Hold!” Porthios cried as the archer’s taut fingers showed that he was fully prepared to take the general up on his challenge. “There will be no blood shed in this chamber!”
For a moment, he feared the Qualinesti would shoot anyway, and with a clarity that astounded him, Porthios saw into the future, realized what effect that arrow would have on the peoples of the two elven nations.
It would be the beginning of another Kinslayer War, another conflict the equal of that epic and ultimately tragic struggle. Occurring nearly twenty-five centuries ago, that violent strife had first divided elvenkind in the days of Kith-Kanan and Sithas, the twin sons of the Silvanesti king. It had led to the sundering of the nation, to the creation of Qualinesti as a separate realm. The scars of that war lingered still today, though it had been Porthios and Alhana’s sincere hope that the treaty of the three races would have begun the long process of healing at last.
Now, clearly, those hopes were dashed. Porthios felt a stab of gratitude for the loyalty of Tarqualan and his elves. They had risked much, he knew, to invade this chamber. He even wondered if they had saved his life. Certainly the elves here, during the last seconds before the Qualinesti’s entrance, had been enraged to the point where murder had become a definite possibility.
“So, Prince of Qualinesti?” It was Konnal again, mocking him with his words. “Is this your will? Shall it be war?”
From the mutterings in the great hall, Porthios knew that a great many of these Silvanesti hoped that the answer would be in the affirmative. Perhaps he made his decision in order to spite those hopes, though in truth he knew it couldn’t do that even if he tried. Rather, he had the power right now to influence the futures of the elven peoples.
And he couldn’t doom that future.
“Tarqualan, I thank you for your courageous assistance, but I must ask that you put up your weapons. The matters under debate here will be resolved through reason and discussion, despite the attempts of some to bring about a frenzy.” He tried to freeze Konnal with an icy glare, but the general, in the full flush of his victory, merely smiled with that haughty condescension that brought Porthios’s blood to a boil again. Only with great difficulty did he control his temper.
“I bid you to take your men to your camp … and there to wait for word from me. You will offer no harm to Silvanesti, of course. We must show that these inflammatory remarks have no basis in fact. However, neither will you allow General Konnal or any of his lackeys to disrupt your camp and your right to stay there. That is, defend yourselves with such force as you deem necessary.”
The Qualinesti captain looked miserably unhappy. He had relaxed the tension on his bow, but the arrow was still ready, and Porthios knew it wouldn’t take much to cause the bold warrior to shoot any one of these Silvanesti right through the heart. The marshal drew a deep breath and held up both of his hands.
“Please, my good warrior, I beg you to consider the good of both our peoples. We have both spent many years fighting to remove one nightmare from Silvanesti. The cost has been high, and too much has been lost for us to replace that scourge with another. There will not—there cannot—be another Kinslayer War.”
“Very well, my lord marshal,” Tarqualan said stiffly. “But rest assured that we will be waiting and will pay careful attention to events in the city.”
“I understand … and again, I thank you.”
The archers marched out of the chamber. Through the open doors, Porthios caught sight of fluttering, white-feathered wings and knew that the griffon-riding Qualinesti would follow his orders. Safe in their camp, they would be watchful and ready, and he hoped their presence would help restrain the Silvanesti from any truly rash behavior.
As to events within this chamber, and in the city as a whole, he would have to see what happened.
“You stand charged of a high crime, Prince,” declared Konnal smugly. Porthios noted that he was no longer using the Silvanesti-appointed rank of marshal. “And it must be insisted that you be placed in a secure location until those charges can be examined.”
Porthios felt again the rising of his outrage, but there had been too much rage already expended in this chamber. He would not add fuel to those fires.
“I look forward to an honest examination of those charges,” he said agreeably. “And until then, General, I shall c
onsider myself your prisoner.”
“A treaty?” The dragon was quizzical. “That was the source of the traitor’s hatred, the thing that would mean the doom of Porthios?”
“Indeed,” replied the elder elf. “That was Konnal’s great charge, the accusation that brought Porthios to imprisonment.”
“But … but why?”
“You’d have to be an elf to understand,” declared the younger of the pair.
“And even then,” said his companion, “it is a tale with twists and turns aplenty, a story that makes itself hard to believe.…”
A Gilded Cage
Chapter Seven
Konnal declared that Porthios would be incarcerated in one of the upper chambers of the Tower of Stars. Since his accuser already held the keys to that sanctified spire, the marshal was immediately marched there under an escort of armed Silvanesti, though Konnal took care to select the guards from the city garrison troops. Porthios was not surprised to see that none of his Wildrunners were allowed anywhere near the detail.
They marched him through the city streets, the same winding lanes that had been the scenes for many of his triumphal returns. Now those avenues were lined with hostile faces, including many elves who jeered or cursed him. Here and there he saw a friendly or pitying face, but he dared not acknowledge these loyal elves. He suspected that, in days to come, such sympathies could cost decent citizens their freedom, property, or more. Instead, Porthios took pride in maintaining a contemptuously aloof manner, refusing to show any reaction to the constant vituperation.
At the base of the tower, Konnal made a great show of withdrawing the Keys of Quinarost from his pouch. He opened the door, then led his prisoner through the quiet Sinthal-Elish chamber to the stairway. They climbed for many minutes, stopping frequently to catch their breath, until at last they halted before a golden door. This was unlocked by one of the guards.
“In here,” Konnal ordered with a peremptory wave of his hand. “You will be comfortable, at least until we decide what to do with you.”
Porthios passed through, and the metal door slammed shut behind him.
Only then did he start to think about the choice he had made and the predicament he was in. Alhana! His pride had prevented him from fleeing this city, even when Tarqualan would have rescued him. But now he realized that his decision might have cost him any chance of seeing his wife, of witnessing the birth of his child.
Still, he had to face his accusers, to show them that he was right! In a trial, his wisdom, his patience would surely prevail. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he had done the proper thing, that it had been smart not to yield to the promise of Tarqualan’s violence. Indeed, Alhana would have wanted, expected, such restraint of him. In the end, he would make her proud.
But he was forced to admit that the Unified Nations of the Three Races treaty was doomed. His wife had worked so hard on the pact, with the help of his sister Laurana and her half-elf husband. Now that word had leaked, Porthios knew that the Silvanesti would never accept the terms of the prospective agreement. As far as these elves were concerned, the treaty was dead.
Surprisingly, he found himself wondering what Tanis Half-Elven would have suggested. He had never been friendly with the man—indeed, when they were youngsters, Porthios had gleefully joined in the cruel teasing that had forever marked Tanis as an outcast from his mother’s land of Qualinesti. The prince had even scorned his sister for her choice of “that mixed-race bastard” as her husband. But somehow, over the years, he had been forced to see the strengths that lay so subtly beneath his brother-in-law’s skin. Now he almost wished that Tanis were here, that he could ask the half elf’s advice or merely share the quiet competence of his presence.
Yet that was just one more thing he couldn’t change. With a sigh, Porthios decided instead to take stock of his surroundings, and he immediately noticed that his accommodations were in fact quite comfortable. The chambers were spacious and included a sleeping room with a huge bed, a mattress of soft down draped with a canopy of bright silk. He had a large sitting room, a balcony with a splendid view across nearly two-thirds of the horizon, a good-sized dining room with windows looking across the other directions, and a private cooking chamber. The only structure anywhere around that was higher than his prison was the main summit of the tower, which rose another hundred feet overhead. From his complex of apartments, he could look out of any of several windows and take in the vista of Silvanost in all four directions, observing almost all corners of the island city sprawling across the landscape eight hundred feet below.
He crossed back through the main room, went to the door, and was not surprised to see that it was locked. Porthios knocked loudly, and it opened.
A pair of burly Silvanesti axemen stood beyond the outer door to the apartments, maintaining constant vigilance and presenting uncompromisingly stern aspects. Inevitably the guards were veterans of House Protector, but Porthios noted that neither of them had served him during the recent campaigns to restore Silvanesti. Obviously General Konnal was not taking the chance of assigning to guard duty an elf who might have conflicting loyalties. Furthermore, the tower’s top chamber was accessible only by a single flight of stairs, and Porthios had no doubt that there were more guards waiting at the bottom of the tower.
Not that I would try to escape, he argued to himself during one of his many hours of solitude. After all, didn’t I come here willingly? Didn’t I stop Tarqualan when he would have used violence to free me? Still, his reasoning rang hollow as he looked out at the city turning to the bright shades of autumn. He wondered how soon his baby would be born … and how was Alhana faring?
He settled into a comfortable chair, somehow drifting off into a sleep so deep that he was surprised when the door opened to reveal one of his guards.
“A visitor,” the elf said coldly, stepping back to reveal General Bandial. That venerable warrior wept to see his old commander so mistreated, tears pouring from the elf’s one good eye until an embarrassed Porthios bade him to please control his emotions.
“How can they do this to you?” moaned Bandial. “Don’t they understand what you’ve done for them … for us all?”
“At this point, I think Konnal has them more concerned about what I’ll do to them in the future. But what did he have to say after he had me locked up here?”
“Funny thing, that,” Bandial admitted. “Konnal left the city again right after you were brought here. No one knows where he’s gone, though there’s a rumor he traveled all the way to Palanthas!”
Porthios shook his head. “That makes no sense at all. Not that I miss the arrogant wretch. I could use a few more days to calm myself down. It wouldn’t do any good to throttle him, not with his bullyboys standing outside my door.”
“D’you want me to take care of those fellows?” growled the loyal general. “I could bring a few veterans of the Second Division with me next time.…”
Porthios chuckled, a dry sound more bitter than humorous. “Tempting as it is, I have to ask you not to. I’ve gone this far without resorting to violence against my own kind. No, it’s best to let this matter play out in the senate.”
Bandial looked as if he didn’t exactly agree with that sentiment, but he said nothing.
“What of Tarqualan and the Qualinesti? Have they been left alone?” Porthios worried about the two hundred griffon riders from his own nation. They weren’t as numerous as a Silvanesti army, but with their fierce fliers, they were highly mobile, and he had convinced himself that they would be able to take care of themselves.
“As much as could be expected. The Sinthal-Elish has discontinued food shipments to their camp, but with their griffons, they of course have no trouble taking all the deer they can eat. Konnal posted several companies of Silvanesti to keep an eye on them, but there hasn’t been any trouble.”
“Good—and I say that more for the sake of the Silvanesti than Tarqualan’s bunch. I daresay it wouldn’t take much to set him off.”
“That means a lot to me, old friend.”
The two old warriors talked for a little while longer, but in the end, Bandial left without persuading Porthios to try to escape.
And in all truth, as his old comrade made his farewells, Porthios was not disappointed to be left alone with his thoughts, his brooding. He found himself remembering many things, with thoughts of his wife growing strong among the tangle of his feelings. How had he let so many years pass during which he’d viewed their marriage as a cold alliance? Now that affection had blossomed between them, now that the miracle of a child was before them, he feared that he’d wasted too much time.
He worried about her status in Qualinesti, wished for some word from Alhana or Samar. With autumn advancing, he knew that her pregnancy was well advanced. The baby would be born in another month or two, maybe even sooner. But still the west was silent.
Several more days passed, and the Prince of Qualinesti finally got some clue as to his accuser’s whereabouts when General Konnal came to visit him, accompanied by an elf in the regal white robes of a Qualinesti senator.
“Rashas!” snarled Porthios, immediately recognizing the pinched features of the elf who had long led the most conservative faction of the Thalas-Enthia, the senate of Qualinesti. This body had long been opposed to a merger between the nations; indeed, it had been in resistance to the Thalas-Enthia where Alhana and Porthios had first found common cause.
“I see you are learning some of the virtues of elven cooperation,” the haughty noble said with a sneer. “This is the end of your foolish dream. Ironic, isn’t it, that you meet the same fate here that your wife has met in your own homeland?”