“This is not the fault of Porthios!” interjected another voice. For a moment, the noise in the hall settled to a rumble as the esteemed personage of Aleaha Takmarin stood and spoke. “If you must lay blame, then call out the name of myself and my Kirath scouts! We looked over the island, and we failed to spot the ambush.”
“But Porthios was in charge!” shouted another anonymous voice, and the bold scout was shouted down by more elves joining in a chorus of condemnation.
“We’re all elves—can’t you see that?” demanded Porthios sharply. He shouted in the forceful voice that had carried across a score of battlefields, but even so, the rising swell of noise almost drowned his words in a force of outrage and recrimination.
“Death to the Qualinesti scum!”
“Exile to the traitor!”
More cries, a disjointed volley of rare invective and hateful vituperation, came from all over the hall. Porthios glared at Konnal, who sat calmly on his stool, saying nothing, but expressing his smug satisfaction in a sneer he returned to the marshal. When he realized that he wished he had his sword, Porthios recognized that his own temper was fraying far beyond the boundaries of self-control.
“Elves of Silvanesti, listen to me!”
Somehow Lord Dolphius’s voice penetrated the angry crowd, and once again the shouts subsided to a murmured undercurrent. Dolphius, who sat near the front of the Sinthal-Elish, took three strides forward to climb onto the first steps of the rostrum. He turned to address the crowd, first sweeping a hand in an elegant gesture that seemed to encompass every elf in the crowded chamber.
“My people... my esteemed elves... let us remember who we are. Should we trample over dignity and heritage like a mob of enraged humans? I think not.”
With a slight inclination of his head, Dolphius acknowledged the presence of Konnal, high on the side of the chamber. “Our general has made some charges... highly inflammatory charges, it is true. But they are just that: accusations. We are not a lynch mob, nor would it serve us any purpose to allow justice to be short-changed by an explosion of rage that belittles us even more than it does the target of our anger.”
Dolphius took a breath, and the throng waited for him to continue. “The charge of treason is not one to be leveled lightly. I, for one, do not believe that charge—not for a minute, not for a single heartbeat. I, for one, remember the sacrifices that Porthios of House Solostaran has made during the course of the last thirty years, of the work that he has led... that he has followed through to its most bitter conclusion. Yes, my elves, this... ‘Qualinesti’”—he said the term with a perfect sense of mockery, a scorn that belittled the pretentiousness of those Silvanesti who would use the word as an insult—“deserves credit for the restoration of Silvanesti. I do not think, nor should any rational elf think, that he would have worked so hard only to plot base treachery at the conclusion of his labors.”
Konnal’s sneer had turned from Porthios to Dolphius, and, watching that haughty expression, the marshal felt a grim foreboding, a sense that this meeting had not heard the last of the general’s charges.
“I do not suggest,” the senator continued, in a tone of utmost rationality, “that we merely dismiss the charges. They must be examined, debated with thought and foresight, considered with dutiful care. Indeed, there are other charges—tales of missing dragonlances, and of faulty intelligence—that deserve scrutiny as well. But this is not the time, nor is the Tower of Stars the place, for such a trial. I urge you, elves of the Sinthal-Elish, not to act with haste but to consider with wisdom the weighty matter that has been placed before you today.”
The hall was mostly silent as Dolphius returned to his seat, but then all eyes turned to the side as Konnal once more rose to his feet. His manner was sorrowful, his expression full of regret, as he began to speak.
“Our esteemed senator is correct. This gathering is not the suitable venue for consideration of such charges. It grieves me, therefore, to declare that circumstances leave me no choice. But under the glare of my erstwhile colleagues’ pleas for reason, I must now reveal that there is more to my accusation than I was at first prepared to reveal.”
Even Porthios was curious, and though he knew he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear, he waited in silence with all the other elves to hear what Konnal said next.
“I have proof, noble elves, that Porthios Solostaran has engaged in the negotiation of a treaty that is a betrayal of our sovereignty, a relinquishment of our heritage, and a seditious mortgaging of the futures of our children and their children.”
“That’s a lie!” snarled the marshal. “You are a liar, Konnal, and yours are the words that reek of treachery!”
“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.