The Puppet King

by Doug Niles

“Gilthas didn’t know that!” Alhana, pushing herself awkwardly to a sitting position, spoke with surprising vehemence.

  Porthios turned to his wife in anger and astonishment, but something in her direct gaze caused him to hold his temper in check. “You spoke with him about the matter?”

  Alhana smiled, albeit a thin and bitter expression. “We were held prisoner in the same room for a time, until Rashas decided that I was a bad influence on him.”

  “What—what was he like?” For the first time, Porthios found himself thinking about his nephew in more than just superficial terms. “Why would he take the throne from me under those circumstances?”

  “For much the same reason you gave up the medallion,” Alhana explained gently. “He, too, knew of the arrow pointed at my heart. He is terribly young, not as wise as either you or I could wish. But I believe, my husband, that he has a good heart.”

  “I still say it would be madness to meet him!” Porthios declared, groping for the strength of will that had stiffened his resolve when first he had heard this harebrained idea.

  “You can always take precautions,” his wife noted. “Choose the place of the meeting yourself. Place plenty of guards around it.”

  “And what if he has a company of Dark Knights follow him to the rendezvous. Do you want to risk another ambush?”

  “What about sending a griffon for him?” Alhana countered with maddening logic. “No one on foot or even horseback could follow, and if a dragon appears, you can cancel the meeting—even, if he betrays you, send the boy to his death,” she added harshly.

  “Boy?” asked Porthios. “This is the Speaker of the Sun, the ruler of Qualinesti, we’re talking about!”

  “And he’s also the son of your sister and her husband, Tanis Half-Elven, in case you’ve forgotten. I think you should see him!”

  “All right—all right!” Porthios snapped. He turned to Dallatar. “I’ll see him as soon as you can arrange a rendezvous.”

  He was irritated at allowing himself to be persuaded, frustrated by this enforced isolation in the wilderness, galled by his dependence on others.

  Even so, he was surprised by his certainty that, however reluctantly, he had made the right decision.

  “And so the blues left you alone after you breathed in the face of one of them?” Silvanoshei asked.

  “For a time, yes,” Aeren replied. “I knew they would be back eventually, however.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  The great serpent snorted in disdain. “I watched and I waited. I was ready to fight for my lair. But they were busy with the elves—and besides, along this shore the eating was very good.”

  Qualinost Enchained

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gilthas looked out from the upper floor of his house, studying the city sprawled across the landscape. He was purposely looking south and west, away from the Tower of the Sun. He saw the domed hill where the Hall of Audience lay under the open sky, and from his vantage on the third floor, he could even catch a glimpse through the treetops of the mosaic tiles of the great map, the detailed relief depiction of the nation and its surroundings that had been scribed right into the floor of the hall.

  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 the
n 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.

  The drink and the chance to catch his breath did their work, and Gilthas felt ready to fulfill his ceremonial role by the time Lord Salladac, escorted by two of his armored knights, was shown into the chamber.

  As the men entered, Gilthas hastily rose so he could stand with the senators, anxious that the human conqueror see no sign of his weakness. But it seemed as though Lord Salladac took little notice of the elves who were here. Instead, he strode to the rostrum and seated himself upon the lone stool, the perch that Gilthas had just vacated. The lord’s bearlike features were creased by a scowl that made him seem fierce and vaguely beastlike.

  “How did your campaign in the west fare?” Rashas asked solicitously. “Surely you were able to destroy the outlaw camp.”

  “Aye … what there was of it, we trampled into the ground. Smashed the huts and burned the few wretched belongings they had there,” growled Salladac. Still, he did not sound like a soldier who had won a great victory.

  “Did you capture Porthios?” Gilthas asked, trying to keep his voice level. He knew that this had been one of Salladac’s major objectives, though Kerian had convinced him that the elven prince would not be taken easily.

  “The bastard got away, with most of his elves,” declared the lord. “It’s like the forest swallowed them up—and then spit out my brutes when they tried to follow!”

  “Surely with his camp destroyed and his followers scattered to the four winds, you have drastically curtailed his operations,” Rashas said smoothly.

  “That we have,” the lord of the Dark Knights admitted. “And we butchered a few of the wretches, those who weren’t fast enough to disappear.”

  “Then it must be called a victory,” Rashas replied. “Know that we elves of Qualinost are grateful to you for cleaning out the pests that dared to dwell in our midst.”

  “You should be,” the lord retorted. “But the work’s not done yet. Still, I’ll have to wait a few weeks to finish it.”

  “It won’t be long before the rest of the rebels are brought to heel,” Rashas declared. “Perhaps we will even have some useful information for you soon.”

  Gilthas narrowed his eyes and looked at the elder senator, whose face was creased by a faint, private smile. The younger elf remembered how Palthainon had previously betrayed the position of Porthios’s camp. Now he wondered what Rashas meant and made a mental note to try to find out.

  “You have other business more pressing?” Gilthas wondered, speaking to the human lord.

  “I’m staying here, but my dragons are off to Silvanesti tomorrow,” the lord replied.

  “Why are they going?” asked the Speaker.

  “They’re needed to assist in a campaign. The eastern elves have not proven to be as reasonable as you Qualinesti, and my colleagues anticipate a rather brutal campaign. Unfortunate, too. You know, you elves of the Thalas-Enthia are really a credit to civilization in the way you saw the practical solution here.”

  Gilthas flushed, deeply ashamed at the comparison. The other elves, he saw, nodded pleasantly, as if honestly pleased by the compliment. Couldn’t they see? Were they really so shameless to believe that it was better to surrender to a powerful master than to even make a pretense of prideful resistance? Trying to conceal his own disgust, Gilthas allowed himself to be grateful that Porthios had escaped the lord’s attack. He hoped that the rebel leader would contact him soon, would agree to meeting the Speaker who wore the medallion that Porthios once had claimed as his own.

  Lord Salladac made his departure, leaving the elves to conclude matters of the city’s governance among themselves. They discussed matters of food allocation, since though there were not that many knights living in the city garrison, the humans showed a capacity to eat far more than any individual elf.

  “We should at least be glad that he marched those damn brutes out of here,” a senator called Hortensal said, grimacing at the requirement that he give a valuable granary over to the Dark Knights.

  “And the dragons,” said another, smug because his holdings were in crystal and glass, for which the humans had thus far shown little interest. “Imagine how much they would eat if we had to take care of them.”

  “Let them eat rebels,” Rashas said bitterly. “Porthios has been a thorn in our side long enough!”

  “You mentioned that you might have information for Lord Salladac soon,” Gilthas said casually. “What did you mean by that?”

  Rashas looked at the young Speaker sharply. “That’s a private matter, but it may prove that Porthios is not as clever, his movements not as mysterious, as he might think.”

  “May he rot in the Abyss!” declared one of the senators, a merchant who had lost a small fortune when the bandits had plundered an incoming caravan of steel coins.

  “So we should pray,” Rashas continued, his unblinking stare fixed upon Gilthas. “And let us remember that discussions in this chamber are the private matters of the elven state. They are not to be repeated, nor even speculated upon, beyond these walls.”


  Gilthas knew that he was being warned, and the thought was vaguely pleasing. He shrugged, adapting an air of unconcern. “Of course,” he said agreeably. Still, he could not bring himself to join in the chorus of general condemnation that echoed from the elves who were still talking about Porthios.

  “And what about Silvanesti?” Rashas asked. “Doesn’t it seem foolish that they will subject themselves to a war without hope of victory?”

  “They won’t have a chance against the dragons,” said Hortensal, with a dismissive shrug. “They were too stupid to follow our example, to realize the futility of resistance.”

  Gilthas grimaced at the words—he couldn’t recall the Qualinesti offering any resistance at all—but he decided to hold his tongue. Instead, it was Rashas who spoke.

  “At least the Silvanesti will be busy with war. They will have no time to meddle in our affairs.”

  “And thus the sanctity of elven purity is preserved!” cried Hortensal, with every appearance of enthusiasm.

  “Indeed. Sometimes the greatest gifts come disguised in the most mysterious fashion,” Rashas agreed.

  Gilthas swam long strokes in the clear pool outside the Speaker’s house. For an hour, he cut through the water, back and forth, alternately churning and gliding until he was exhausted. Then he went inside and had a bath in water so hot that it all but scalded his skin. When he got out of the tub, two matronly slaves toweled him with rough enthusiasm, so much so that it seemed as though they scraped away a whole layer of his skin.

  Even so, he still felt unclean.

  He went to his study, where he closed the door and, despite the late afternoon sun streaming in through the open window, lit an oil lantern and settled in a corner chair. He had a leather-bound tome in his hands, a volume he had recently discovered in the library of this great house. The book was entitled The Vingaard Campaign, and had been scribed by the renowned historian Foryth Teel, assistant to Astinus Lorekeeper himself.

  More significant to Gilthas, it was a story about his mother. The events described in the book had occured only thirty years ago. Foryth Teel wrote a story of war, of a remarkable series of offensive battles during which the Knights of Solamnia had liberated the lands of Northern Ansalon, the territories that had over previous years been crushed under the heel of the dragon highlords.