Solomon's Exile

by James Maxstadt

  It was black, and cold. He ran, looking for the dancers, but they were gone. The trees, the fountain, the music, the shapes, and especially the warm hand that had been in his. All of it was lost.

  Solomon woke with a gasp, his cheeks wet with the tears that he had been crying. He lay on the ground, not daring to move as the effects of the dream slipped away.

  He knew that it was true dreaming. He had been in that place of trees and music. And there had been someone who had held his hand, and danced with him. The sense of loss was as keen as it had been in the alley, and it tore at him.

  Gazing through the darkness at the tree above him, he knew that he couldn’t stay here either. The park was pleasant, and the trees were nice, but they weren’t home. They couldn’t replace what he had lost, whatever it was, and he needed to move on.

  There would be no more sleep tonight. He still felt fatigued, as if he had worked hard all day, rather than having sat under a tree. It was from the dream, and he hoped that walking would bring him release. With nothing to gather, he set out across the park, hoping to be well out of the city by daybreak.

  As he walked, he listened to the sounds of the night. There was little noise from the city beyond the park, although there was some. Vehicles still moved, and occasionally there was a cough or a snippet of laughter as late-nighters went about their business. Here in the park, it was silent. No one stirred, and there was no hint of animals moving around.

  Other homeless people shared the park with him, but they were all sleeping, wrapped in rags, or papers, or sprawled out on a bench. Solomon passed them, but felt no kinship with any of them. Whatever he had been, wherever he had come from, it wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here long enough to make friends or enemies with any of the other unfortunates he passed.

  He noticed a shadow moving, following him at a distance, off to the side. Stopping, he peered through the darkness and saw the figure stop, sit on its haunches and wait. When he moved again, the figure rose and kept pace. Finally, he stopped again, turned and approached it.

  The Hound sat and waited for him. It showed no sign of aggression, or of the injury that Solomon had inflicted on it during the day. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth as it watched him approach.

  “Are you hunting me now?” Solomon asked it.

  The dog didn’t answer. Solomon would have been surprised if it did.

  “Well, come on then,” he said, and started away again.

  The dog fell in at his heels and padded along behind him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Florian, of the Whispering Pines, strode to his estate, seemingly serene to all who saw him, but fuming on the inside. Despite his best attempts, and against all reason, Jamshir of the Glittering Birches, the current monarch of the Greenweald, had decreed that Solomon be merely exiled, rather than executed. It was inconceivable, and done, Florian was certain, only to spite him. A fact that made him sad considering their one-time friendship.

  But, it would not, could not, stand. He would take matters into his own hands, and Solomon would pay for what he had done. His failure of duty was unforgiveable, but Jamshir didn’t seem to mind the agony that had been dealt to Florian.

  His mood contrasted sharply with the environment through which he walked. As he neared the grounds of his home, the pines that his House revered grew dominant over all other trees. The air was thick with their scent, which usually calmed Florian, but today had no such effect. Walking on the soft carpet of their fallen needles muffled what would otherwise be heavy footsteps, uncharacteristic for one of the Folk. Of a race who valued grace as a way of life, Florian was out of sync with the world around him today.

  He was tall and slim, as were all the Folk, and dressed in a long flowing robe of dark green, to match the needles on the evergreens around him. The color was unique to House Whispering Pines, and no others could wear it, as he could never don the silver hue of the Glittering Birches, or the somber gray of the Towering Oaks. To do so would bring dishonor to his house.

  Nothing seemed to calm Florian’s ire on this day. He wondered if anything ever would. He stalked through the shaped gates that marked the entrance to his estate, and continued on the path that led to the doors of his house. The fountain that sparkled and splashed, providing a refreshing mist to cool one on a hot summer's day, drew no interest from him, nor did the fish that swam in the pool beneath. Walking through his extensive gardens was a joy that Florian indulged in regularly, but today, as with all else, it didn’t even register in his mind.

  Servants, also clad in dark green, but less fine, clothing, opened the door to him as he approached. The entire house was shaped from the living pines. They had offered themselves in his House’s service, and were revered for it. No tree was ever cut in the Greenweald. Instead, they were shaped to the desire of the Folk, but only with their own permission. Fallen branches or entire trees were gathered and given places of honor, used only with permission of the still living trees.

  No one was sure why the trees would agree to serve the Folk as they did. Some thought it was because the Folk provided care, or kept them from being harvested by others outside of the Greenweald. Some thought it was because the trees could sense what had happened to their kind in other places, such as the wretched earth to which Solomon was exiled, and were fearful of the same things happening here. And yet others said that as long-lived as the Folk were, they were here and gone quickly in the life of the trees, so they served at their own whim, and with amusement.

  Whatever the reason, the relationship between the Folk and the trees had been honored for centuries, and it worked well. Even the most radical among the Folk had no desire to see that facet of their society changed.

  Once inside his house, Florian dropped the carefully maintained façade that he had worn since leaving Jamshir’s palace. His face grew dark, his fists clenched and tears started from his eyes. The servants glanced at each other and quickly walked from the room, knowing that to stay and see their master in such a state would be embarrassing to him, and possibly dangerous to them.

  Florian stormed across the floor of the entry hall and entered his refuge. This was his library, his sanctuary. He valued the natural world as much as any of the Folk, but he also had a great love for poetry, tales, and folklore. He read science, and the history of how they had come to be in the Greenweald, and the first of them to commune with the trees. If he was not found in his gardens, then chances were Florian would be found here, amongst his precious books.

  He closed the doors behind him, slumped back against them and allowed his rage and frustration to come out. The howl that he unleashed was heard throughout his house, and those in attendance looked at one another in shock, and then continued on with their affairs, pretending not to have heard it.

  After his shameful scream of despair, Florian stumbled to his favorite chair and fell into it. It was of pine, of course, and shaped from a single large piece of trunk from a fallen tree ages ago. Soft cushions covered the seat and the back, and he sank into them, allowing the tears to fall from his eyes unchecked. It was all that he knew how to do to honor Celia, his precious daughter.

  Sometime later there was a knock at the doors, and they were opened before Florian could reply. Thaddeus entered, glanced over at him, and moved to a side board, where he poured a pale, yellow liquid from a crystal decanter into two glasses. He brought one to Florian, handed it to him, and then sat in a chair across from him.

  “I don’t want any,” Florian said, holding the glass out to Thaddeus.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, you do. Drink up, it will help.”

  Florian looked down at the glass in his hand, but made no move to drink from it.

  “It won’t. Nothing will. She is gone forever, Thaddeus. And he walks free.”

  “Mmm. I don’t know that I would say that he walks free exactly. Can you imagine being banished from the Greenweald? I think I’d rather be executed. I don’t know that Jamshir did him any favors.”

 
; “I want him dead. I don’t care where he walks, he walks, and she no longer does. How is that just in any world?”

  “Perhaps it’s not, but it is the reality of it. Jamshir has made his ruling and at this point, it’s done. Solomon is gone.”

  Florian threw back his drink in one swig, causing Thaddeus to raise his eyebrows, but he stood and refilled their glasses without comment.

  “There is one option,” he said, handing one of the glasses back to Florian.

  “And what’s that?”

  “The Hounds. You could dispatch a Hunting Hound after him.”

  Florian sipped his drink and considered. “Yes, I could, couldn’t I? But…if Jamshir was to hear of it…”

  “He wouldn’t. The Master of the Hounds holds no great love for the Glittering Birches, or any other House for that matter.”

  “Then why would he give us a Hound?”

  “Because,” Thaddeus replied, “there is one thing that he does have great love for. Money. We pay him well, and no one will ever be the wiser.”

  Florian considered, leaning back in his chair and regarding the other.

  “Yes,” he said again. “You’re right. You will arrange it, Thaddeus. First thing in the morning.”

  Thaddeus was taken aback. Dealing with the Master of the Hounds was distasteful, and he had assumed the task would be assigned to some lesser noble.

  “Oh, come now Florian,” he began, “surely there’s someone else who…”

  “You, Thaddeus,” Florian interrupted. “Cousin or not, you still answer to me as Head of House. You will do this, as commanded.”

  Thaddeus could only sigh. “Yes, cousin. Of course.”

  The next morning, Thaddeus walked through less cultured forest, one of the areas in the Greenweald that was claimed by no House. It was safe, as far as things went, with only the occasional wild animal encounter, which held no fear for him. Despite being a member of House Whispering Pines, and not one of the more martial houses like Towering Oaks, he was a competent swordsman, an even more accomplished mage, and at this point would almost relish a foe to fight. Anything to take his mind off the task ahead of him.

  But his trip was uneventful, and before noon he arrived at the Master of the Hound’s compound. He could smell it before it was even in sight, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Why the place wasn’t kept cleaner was beyond him, but then again, this was a person who chose to live isolated from all others, with no company save that of his numerous dogs.

  The compound came into sight as Thaddeus came around a curve in the path, and into a large clearing in the trees. There was a stone hut in the middle of the clearing, itself an oddity in the Greenweald. Spaced haphazardly around the clearing were several kennels, some with dogs leashed to them, some with fences of old tree branches woven together. Thaddeus didn’t know if the Master had been granted those branches by the trees, or if he had taken them, in defiance of established mores.

  Large, gray or black mutts, with mangy fur and long jaws were everywhere, lying in the dusty, brown, dirt that covered the clearing, or roaming where they would. Several of them watched him approach and began barking and howling, while three others silently raced forward.

  Thaddeus considered drawing his sword, but realized that no matter how good he thought he was, it wasn’t going to be good enough to make a difference here. Instead, as the lead dog neared, he stopped walking and held his hands up to shoulder height, palms out.

  “Master of the Hounds!” he called out, directing his voice toward the stone hut. “Come out and call off your dogs! We have business to discuss!”

  There was no movement from inside the structure, but the dogs didn’t attack. They didn’t move off and let him advance any further either, but stood in front of him, growling menacingly if he tried to step forward. The others scattered around the clearing stopped barking, but most stood at attention, ears and eyes pointed in his direction.

  He had almost given up when a curtain that was hung in the doorway to the hut moved aside, and the Master of the Hounds came out. Thaddeus thought of the Master as a he, but in truth, he didn’t really know. The figure was tall and slim, as was expected of one of the Folk, but wore a robe with a deep hood that hid its face. Its voice, when it spoke, was a husky whisper that could have been that of a man, or an old woman, or even someone trying to conceal their gender. There was no telling. The robe that they wore matched the rest of the clearing. It was filthy, with poorly patched areas, and abundant snags and worn areas. Thaddeus couldn’t even tell what color it had once been.

  The Master of the Hounds approached, slowly shuffling along. Two of the dogs guarding Thaddeus ran to him, settling into a sedate walk beside him at a motion of his hand. The largest dog stayed in front of Thaddeus, showing no sign of moving off.

  “Master of the Hounds,” Thaddeus began again. “I come on behalf of my master, Florian of House Whispering Pines. He instructs me to purchase a Hunting Hound, to be sent in pursuit of an enemy of our House.”

  The Master stopped a few feet away from Thaddeus. “Why would I send one of my beauties to that wretched earth after a disgraced soldier?”

  “So you are aware of the punishment meted out by Jamshir yesterday. Then surely you know the anguish that this ruling has caused Florian.”

  “I care not for the anguish of anyone, lest of all that fool you call master. I ask you again, and for the final time…why should I send one of my precious beauties to a place from which they may not return.”

  “Because of this,” he said, and reaching into his tunic, he removed a leather bag, tied with a cord. It clinked softly as he tossed it at the Master’s feet. “There. There’s enough silver in that pouch to buy all of your mongrels. It should more than suffice to purchase one.”

  The Master made no move to pick up the pouch. There was a sniffing noise from inside the hood, and he turned and whistled.

  Far off, at the edge of the clearing, a dog lifted its head, looked in their direction, and came running. When it reached the Master, it stood before him. Thaddeus could see that it was slimmer and shorter than most of the other dogs gathered. It had the look of a runt of the litter, who had been dominated by the others in the pack. The dog in front of Thaddeus growled, and the newly arrived one shrank back.

  “This is the one that I will spare,” the Master said. “Worthless for most purposes, like your master Florian. Take it. Do with it what you would.”

  The Master made a hand signal to the dog, who cowered, and slunk to Thaddeus with its ears back and its tail tucked between its legs. Then he turned without another word and shuffled back to the stone hut, the other dogs following. Finally, when he was inside and the curtain drawn back over the opening, the dog in front of Thaddeus turned and walked away as well.

  Thaddeus looked down at the hound at his side, and grimaced.

  “The runt of the litter. I hope you’re tougher than you look, cur.”

  He brought the Hound back to Whispering Pines, where it didn’t look so scrawny without the rest of the dogs to be compared to. He said nothing to Florian about the cost, the fact that it was a runt, or the Master’s disparaging comments.

  “So?” Florian said. “Now what? How do we get it to go kill Solomon?”

  Thaddeus realized that he hadn’t asked about that. But how hard could it really be? This was a Hunting Hound, it was born and bred to do the job.

  “I believe we simply have it smell something that belonged to Solomon and it will go find him. It’s what they do, isn’t it?”

  “How should I know? This was your idea. Now make it work.” Florian glanced once more at the dog, and walked off.

  After some thought, Thaddeus left the dog in the care of a servant, and returned to his chambers. Little did Florian, or anyone, know, but Thaddeus had collected an assortment of items that he thought he might find useful at some point. These included relics or writings from the other houses, samples of hair, or clothing that had been discarded, or misplaced. Anything that ma
y give him more knowledge, or could be used in a spell, he kept.

  He found a small item from one of the Towering Oaks soldiers. It was a broken arrow head that was left near an archery butt. It spoke to his skill at subterfuge that Thaddeus had been able to even come near a Towering Oaks training center.

  After that, he opened a locked chest and rummaged through the contents. A moment later, he pulled out a piece of paper. It was brightly colored and slick to the touch. The writing on it was indecipherable to him, but showed horrible, square, buildings, soaring into the sky with no sense of harmony with the world around them. Humans were everywhere, swarming like insects feasting on a fallen log. He shuddered when he looked at this artifact of earth, glad that he never had to return there again.

  He took the arrow head and the paper, and returned to the Hound, relieving the quaking servant. He called the dog to him.

  “This is the House of your quarry. He is called Solomon.”

  The Hound looked at Thaddeus as if it could understand what was being said. It sniffed at the arrow head, but showed no indication of starting the hunt there and then.

  “Good,” Thaddeus said. “Now…this is where he is…”

  The Hound sniffed at the paper too, and moved as if it had the scent already.

  “Go!” Thaddeus commanded, and the dog took off like a shot from a bow.

  Its barks rang out through the forest, but started to fade too quickly to simply be from distance. Thaddeus smiled. The Hunting Hound was doing its job, and Solomon would be caught completely unaware, and unprepared for it.

  CHAPTER 3

  The upside of living way out in the country was the privacy, and Lacy loved that aspect of it. She could walk from her house, across the yard to the above ground pool, buck naked if she chose, and no one would ever be the wiser. Not that she did so, but she could if she wanted to, and that was the point. She relished that, and loved to be alone with her thoughts, and watching the deer that walked through her yard, or the hawks circling overhead.