The Lioness

Blessed in our king. Kerian knew the senator, in whose household she had been a servant for years. She knew the wily old elf’s way of thinking. Blessed in our king, our malleable puppet king. Rashas might well think so, for early in his rule Gilthas had not made a reputation for himself as a strong-willed leader. Plagued by ill health in his childhood, in his youth he’d been haunted by the chill uncertainty that he could not ever be a son worthy of parents who had fought so bravely during the War of the Lance. Who could live up to the legacy of Princess Laurana, the Golden General? What son could stand free of the legend of the storied Hero of the Lance, Tanis Half-Elven? Early in his rule, Gilthas had, indeed, been a puppet king.

There came a time when he had stopped being the young man who brooded over uncertainties and filled up pages of parchment with grim poetry. In truth, he still composed his darkly moody poems. Kerian did not much care for these. For all but she and the Queen Mother he wore the persona of a young man who vacillated between a kind of depression and the vapidity of a spoiled royal son. To the two women who loved him and knew him best, however, Gilthas was more. Uncertainty still dogged him, and nightmare haunted his sleep, dark dreams that to the young king sometimes seemed like terrible prophecy, but these no longer debilitated him, these he fought to rise above.

There is the courage of the sword and the courage of the heart and soul. Gilthas had discovered the latter and for this Kerian loved him.

A lot of what Rashas thought he knew about his king was false, and a lot about his king Rashas didn’t know at all. He did not know that a young Kagonesti woman in his service was beloved of the king. He did not know that much of what his servant heard made its way to Gilthas, dross to be sifted for grain. Rashas did not know—and if Gilthas and Kerian were careful, he would never know—that now and then, at a critical juncture, Gilthas found himself with just the kernel of information necessary to put him in a stronger position to bargain with his Senate than that august body might have expected.

In the last few years he’d put two governors into power in the eastern provinces, and these governors awaited their chance to prove themselves loyal. He’d granted favors to certain lords and ladies, knowing favors would be returned if needed. He hoped today to have another choice of his installed. He intended to set up the young Lord Firemane in the lord’s late mother’s position as governor of a northern province. Rashas had been, if not hoping for the old woman’s death, ready to install a governor with no familial and sentimental ties to the royal family. Such positions were not hereditary among elves, but Gilthas was prepared to point out—correctly—that no other man or woman had the wealth or the personal regard among the people of that far province to rule well. There could be no other choice but young Firemane unless the senate was willing to fund the installation of an outsider. In these dragon-days, with so much tribute going to Beryl, few senators would be eager to underwrite a problematic candidate.

Wily as Rashas, Gilthas played a dangerous game. He pretended to dance to the will of his senate, a senate ruled by Rashas, while working in the shadows to help his mother in her struggle to free the elf homeland from the Dark Knights and dragon dominion.

Outside the bedchamber, Planchet’s voice threaded among the others, the king’s body servant calling the household to order. The Queen Mother, he told them, would not be joining the king for breakfast.

“Take the place setting away,” Planchet said, following his command with a brisk clap of his hands.

Silent now for the sake of those outside, Kerian glanced at her lover.

“Mother received dispatches late last night.”

Kerian raised an eyebrow, and Gilthas crooked a lean smile. “A note, delivered late while you slept, my love. She’ll make her excuses and not attend the procession or the Senate session.”

“The treaty?”

Gilthas nodded. Perhaps the dispatches were a packet of letters from Abanasinia, perhaps from one of the Plains-folk leaders; perhaps some word at last from the dwarves of Thorbardin, a sign that the High King and his thanes did, at last, thaw toward the idea of making a pact with the elves.