“We’re going to take the army down the river, I presume?” Cantal-Silaster asked.
The marshal nodded. “My Qualinesti will fly on their griffons, of course, but we’ll have no need of cavalry on the island, so I figure that the bulk of the troops will land on the upstream shore. We’ll make it a thorough sweep and gather around that low hill we noted down in the south.”
“I think your estimate of a month might even prove generous,” observed Aleaha. “From the few tracks we saw, there won’t be many draconians. I’m surprised, though, that we didn’t see any sign of ogres.”
“Me, too, though I admit that I’m grateful for the fact. And you saw no sign of goblins? Nor of dragons?”
The scout shook her head. “We Kirath went over the place as thoroughly as possible, though we had to be careful. There are, after all, plenty of draconians there.”
“I would have thought that place would be irresistible to green dragons,” Samar said. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
“No, naturally not. Still, there’s something strange about this whole operation.” Porthios couldn’t hide his misgivings. “I’m more glad than I want to admit that foolishness about only going down there with half an army was so quickly overruled. I have to admit, I was also a little surprised by the support I got.”
Samar grinned. “I keep telling you, most of Silvanesti is behind you. These elves recognize all the good things you’ve done, and the fact that you’re from the west doesn’t make any difference to them. Those are very old grudges you’re worrying about.”
“The trouble with our people, my friend, is that they have long, long memories. And even if most of Silvanesti is for me, those who oppose me include some very influential people among their numbers.”
“That, sadly, is true,” Cantal-Silaster noted. “Still, you have many allies, even among those of us in the Sinthal-Elish.”
“What word from Princess Alhana?” asked Samar, dipping a honey-smeared piece of bread on his plate to sop up the last morsels of the dinner.
Porthios shrugged. “None... and truth to tell, that lack has me a little concerned.”
“Surely you would have heard from her if there were problems...” The warrior-mage shook his head, embarrassed. “That is, with the baby, I mean.”
“I would have to think so, but I know the Qualinesti. They’re my own people,” the marshal said grimly. “There are some of them—Senator Rashas and the rest of the Thalas-Enthia, for example—who are as distrustful of her as Silvanesti like General Konnal are of me.”
Samar glowered across the table. “Old habits die hard. It grieves me now to remember my own rudeness when first you came to help us.”
Porthios laughed finally, his mood lightening. “I think you did everything you could to provoke me into a duel. But I couldn’t accept. You probably would have killed me!”
Samar’s own chuckle was rueful. “At the time, none of us could see why Alhana agreed to wed you. And furthermore, I think every male Silvanesti was a little bit in love with her—myself included.” With a faint grimace, the warrior looked down at his plate, averting his gaze from the marshal.
“With good reason,” Porthios agreed, taking little note of his companion’s awkward pause. Instead, he was wondering, Why did it take me so long to figure out her worth?
Cantal-Silaster spoke. “But we can all see it now: a child born to you both will offer a promise for the future that the elven nations haven’t known since the Kinslayer War. Why doesn’t the rest of Silvanesti recognize that?”
“I think because they have hated the Qualinesti for so long, they can’t imagine life without that hatred. And for generations, we elves have been raised to believe that change is dangerous, something to be feared.”
“But, still,” Aleaha noted, “there are those among us who can see the way toward change... who recognize your worth. And not just warriors like Samar, or the scouts of my own Kirath, who have served with you and know what kind of man you are. Senator Dolphius, for example, is firmly in your camp.”
“You’re right about that, but for every one like Dolphius, it seems that there are two or three Konnals.”
“And you think Alhana is meeting the same kind of resistance in Qualinost?” Samar pressed, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his deep concern.
“I know it. Though she has spent more than half of the last thirty years there, she is still viewed as an outcast, an interloper, by many. They might not be the majority, but with Rashas and other conservative senators among their number, they wield a lot of influence.”
“Even now, when she carries your child... the child who could grow up to become Speaker of the Sun and Stars?”
“That’s exactly what they don’t want to happen, and that, my friend, is why I’m worried.”
Further discussion was interrupted by the sounds of commotion from the outer courtyard. Servants shouted, and they heard the unmistakable keening cry of a griffon, followed by a moan of pain.
“Who’s there?” demanded Porthios as he and his guests bolted from the dining room into the courtyard of the Garden of Astarin. Though it was surrounded by a verdant hedge, the yard was open to the sky, and there was indeed a griffon there. The creature’s haunches were streaked with blood, and its flanks shook like bellows as it tried to regain its breath. It was saddled, but there was no rider in sight.
“My lord!” cried Allatarn. The servant was on the far side of the griffon, and Porthios raced over to find him standing over a motionless, bleeding figure. The griffon eyed him warily but seemed to realize that he meant the fellow no harm.
“Who are you?” asked Porthios, kneeling, seeing an elf whose shallow breathing indicated that he still lived, though barely. The stub of a broken arrow protruded from his flank, and the marshal suspected that this wound was the source of the blood that had streaked the griffon’s sides.
“My... my name is Daringflight,” said the wounded elf. “My lord... I am a loyal Qualinesti, your faithful servant...” His back arched in sudden pain, and Daringflight gritted his teeth, breathing harshly through his mouth.
“Of course. I know you,” Porthios declared calmly, recognizing the man through the fear that was suddenly surging in his gut. “Now, gather your strength for a moment, then speak.”
Daringflight groaned, still trying to speak.
“Rest now. Don’t injure yourself further. Allatarn, fetch the healer!”
“She’s already been sent for, lord.”
“Urgent... Lady Alhana...” gasped Daringflight, drawing all of Porthios’s attention into tight focus. He heard Samar gasp behind him.
“What is it? What word of my queen?” he asked, fearing the answer.
“She is taken... Captured by the Qualinesti and held in the house of Senator Rashas. They did not want you to know... Tried to kill me when I left to bring you word.”
“That bastard!” snarled Porthios, his tone furious. He knew and hated Rashas. Leader of the Thalas-Enthia, he was a Qualinesti as utterly opposed to change and unity as were the reactionary Silvanesti such as Konnal. He turned back to Daringflight, his concern for his wife overriding his consciousness of the man’s wound. “Has she been harmed? Have they mistreated her?”
Daringflight shook his head. “She is treated well... called a ‘guest,’ in fact. But she is not allowed to leave, nor to send or receive messages.”
“Did she send you?” asked Porthios
Again the wounded elf shook his head. “I came on my own... It’s important that you know, my lord. There are others, too, who hate what Rashas is doing... who despise the way he wants to close our land against all contact with the rest of the world.”