The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

  Honors

  A voice called out to her. For a brief moment, she thought she was back in the forest, but Lofotan’s gruff voice reminded her where she was.

  “Up, girl. The sun may still sleep, but we who serve our lord must rise.”

  Mathi sat up, stiff in strange places. The cunning couch, designed to be wonderful to look at, was not so wonderful to sleep on.

  “Good morning?”

  “The day begins. Come,” urged Lofotan.

  “Is there water? I’m dry.”

  “In the font.”

  Lofotan was dressed in a spotless military tunic and kilt and heavy sandals. He wore an officer’s woven silver band around his forehead. No trace of the previous night’s blood remained, though the gash on his neck was still visible. Mathi padded behind him, pausing at the bowl for a hasty gulp of water.

  “You have a light tread,” the old soldier remarked. “Were you born in the wildwood?”

  Mathi explained her quietness by saying she’d had to step quietly around her human captors. If she disturbed them or drew unwanted attention to herself, she was usually beaten for it.

  “Savages.”

  He led her deeper into the house to Treskan’s room. The scribe proved harder to rouse. Lofotan’s battlefield bark hardly moved him, so the old warrior grasped Treskan by the shirt-front and shook him. The scribe awoke with limbs thrashing. Lofotan stepped back, out of reach. Treskan subsided after a brief struggle with himself.

  “Arise, scribbler. My lord must be served.” Eyes clenched and mouth agape in a mighty yawn, Treskan followed.

  The house was still cloaked in darkness. Unlike the dead hour when the beastly invader was caught, the predawn tingled with change. There was newness in the air. Early-morning flowers were open, releasing their scent to the rising sun. Shadows buried by the profound black of night slowly took on form again as the faintest rays of daylight penetrated the gloomy villa.

  On the ground floor at the extreme rear of Balif’s grand residence was the domestic area. The kitchen, sized to accommodate the vast house, was lit by a few slender wax tapers. Pots banged and clattered. Holding forth in one corner of the enormous room was Balif’s cook, the only other soul who dwelled in the house. His name, Lofotan said, was Mistravan Artyrith.

  “Lord Artyrith,” corrected the cook. He was younger than Lofotan, with fashionably long hair looped behind his prominent, pointed ears. The living embodiment of the Silvanost look, Artyrith had the angular features and pale hair and eyes considered handsome in the city.

  Surprised by his claim to nobility, Mathi looked to the majordomo for confirmation.

  “My lord’s cook has delusions. Pay them no heed,” said Lofotan dryly.

  “Delusions? Who is heir to the ancestral estate of the Artyriths? Whose grandsire was chamberlain to the Speaker of the Stars before he was Speaker?” demanded the cook.

  “If you can find an estate to be heir to, why don’t you go there?”

  “It exists! My enemies have taken it over, my enemies—” At that point Lofotan made a gesture with his hand indicating he considered the cook insane.

  It was plain the two often sparred over Artyrith’s airs. Mathi said, “I am honored to meet you, my lord.”

  The cook smiled, showing impressive white teeth. He was quite striking in a rakish way, the sort of elf young females found charming but their parents found alarming.

  “It’s welcome to have another elf of good breeding around. Lately the halls have been too crowded by big heads and large mouths,” he said. Lofotan gave him a warning look that set the cook grinning even more widely.

  “Which of you is my new apprentice?”

  “I am a scribe,” Treskan said flatly and yawned again.

  “What about you, dear child?” he said, favoring Mathi with an incandescent smile.

  “I don’t know, my lord. I could be. I am a ward of the Haven of the Lost—”

  His smile vanished. To Lofotan he protested, “I was promised help! I’ve waited a long time!”

  “You have longer to wait,” the majordomo replied. “Is our lord’s breakfast ready?”

  Glaring, Artyrith filled a wheeled cart with white porcelain platters. On each platter he placed a single item—a perfectly peeled peach, pitted and quartered; a pyramid-shaped roll, still steaming from the oven; a puree of wild berries in a gossamer-thin silver shell. By each of those treasures, he placed a utensil. They were gold, blown in a molten state like glass until they were light as air and almost transparent. Mathi and Treskan had never seen such metal-work. The scribe picked up a spoon, marveling at its artistry. Artyrith snatched it from him and replaced it on the cart with great precision.

  Last the cook set a weighty urn of spring water on the lower shelf of the cart. That was Balif’s morning meal, typical for a well-born Silvanesti. The fare was beautifully prepared and presented but extremely simple.

  “Take it away,” the cook said. “If my lord wishes more bread, I have it, but that is the only peach. I can get more from the market after sunrise.”

  Lofotan took hold of the cart rail. He ordered Mathi and the scribe to follow him. They found Balif in the east salon, sitting on a stone bench before a breathtaking bank of windows. The first rays of the sun were just hitting the panes. Mathi stopped at the doorway, staring. She’d never seen such a room. In plan the salon was serpentine, a great outward curve of the wall being balanced by a sweeping inward curve. The outer wall was glass from a low sill to the ceiling. Intended as an indoor garden, the salon was empty save for a few stone benches and what Mathi took to be pedestals where statues once stood.

  Lofotan pushed past the gawking Treskan and Mathi. Balif was seated facing the windows, his eyes closed. At the sound of the cart’s wheels, he turned his head and opened his eyes.

  “Good morning.” He glanced at the door where the newcomers were still marveling. “Still with us, I see. I half imagined you two would flee after our little adventure last night.”

  “Still here,” Lofotan said. He arranged Balif’s breakfast on the stone slab beside him. Mathi slowly approached, marveling at the architecture. She stumbled over a high stone tile on her way to the general.

  “Though empty, this place has its hazards. Be careful,” Balif said.

  “I’ve never seen such a magnificent room!” said Treskan, trailing the girl.

  “It was designed by the same architect who built the palace of the Speaker. He always claimed that it was better than anything else he ever built.” Balif looked to the windows. “Like many masterpieces, this one exacts a price of its owner. This room is uninhabitable once the sun comes up. All the glass traps the heat, turning the room into a furnace. The exotic greenery planted here at the Speaker’s order quickly withered. Tapestries and carpets faded then turned to powder under the glare. The only thing that endures in this room is stone.”

  It was already warm, and the sun was barely up. Mathi easily imagined the place was like a fiery crucible at midday. Treskan asked why the general didn’t shade the windows? It would take acres of velvet to mask the enormous panes, but at least the room would livable.

  “I prefer it this way.” Little beads of sweat stood out on his high forehead. “Sit down, child. Break your fast.”

  Mathi was so startled by his invitation that she looked to Lofotan. The dour majordomo, standing behind his general, gave her a stern look whose meaning was inescapable.

  “Thank you, no, my lord. It is more proper that I stand.”

  A flicker of amusement flashed over Balif’s face. “Suit yourself.”

  He ate the peach with swift, silent efficiency. When it was dispatched, he asked Lofotan what his day’s duties were.

  “My lord has no demands on his time today,” was the reply. Treskan, stylus and writing board under his arm, looked crestfallen. The second elf of the realm, and Balif had no duties to perform?

  Balif shrugged. “Just as well. If I had to sit through another military parade or inspect troops
or griffons, I think I would rebel.”

  The creeping sun hit the windows full-on. A blaze like fire flashed across row upon row of polished panes, mirrored and magnified. Balif’s morning sojourn in the sunrise salon was over. The elves quit the room.

  “Such is my life in total,” he said as they strolled down the refreshingly cool, dark corridor outside. “A brief moment of glory in the sun then retreat into the shadows.”

  As the elves crossed the entry hall, loud chiming filled the air. The front doors were made of bell-quality bronze. Someone was knocking for admittance.

  “See who it is, Mathi.”

  Puzzled to be doing Lofotan’s job, Mathi bowed and went to the front door. Halfway there it occurred to her that if it was another attempt on the general’s life, she was walking directly into harm’s way. All of a sudden the floor seemed to cling to her feet. Slowly she reached out to the ornate door handle.

  The doors clanged again, a pleasant but loud tone amplified by the great vacant hall behind them. Lofotan and Balif stood side by side, poised to fight or flee. Treskan, still rumpled from his uneasy night, peered between them.

  Mathi struggled momentarily with the unfamiliar door handle then tugged the panel open. Though the metal-sheathed door easily weighed a ton, it swung easily inward. Mathi’s pulse quickened when she saw a company of soldiers arrayed outside. An officer in brightly gilded armor raised a sheathed sword, pommel first, in salute.

  “Greetings to the most excellent lord Balif, High General of the Realm, Protector of the Nation, and most loyal servant of our Great Speaker, Silvanos!”

  “Hello,” was all Mathi could think to say.

  “I bear this message for your master.” He presented the girl with a golden scroll case, exquisitely embossed with sun symbols and the glyphic monogram of Silvanos Goldeneye.

  “I will convey this to the general,” Mathi promised.

  Under the glittering helmet brow, the officer’s eyes were as cold and sharp as icicles. “I am to wait for a reply.”

  Mathi shut the door. When she turned around, she found Lofotan and Balif on either side of the closed door, swords in their hands. She was so rattled that she dropped the royal message case.

  “Steady on,” Lofotan chided, stooping to retrieve the tube. He and Balif returned their blades to their scabbards. “Assassins, as a rule, don’t arrive bearing messages.”

  By some unseen hinge, the tube opened along its length. Within, a gold-colored sheet of parchment unrolled itself in Lofotan’s hands. Balif asked what it said.

  Peering over the old warrior’s shoulder, Treskan scanned the message. “You are commanded to the royal residence at once,” he said.

  “Does it say ‘residence’?”

  Treskan looked again. “Why yes, my lord. Not the royal palace, but residence.”

  Lofotan said, “What does it mean, my lord?”

  Balif unbuckled his sword belt and gave it to his old comrade-in-arms. “The Speaker grows more subtle every day. Maybe he has some empty new honor to bestow. Maybe I will be arrested. Who but the gods can say? If I do not return, take the treasure I have hidden—you know where it is, Lofotan—and leave Silvanost at once. Don’t try to find me or help me.”

  “My lord, I—” Lofotan began. Balif silenced him with a stern glance. “Yes, my lord. I’ll pay off Artyrith and go, as you say.”

  “Our association may be brief,” he told Mathi, taking her hand gently. “Perhaps we will meet again.”

  Balif asked how many soldiers were waiting outside. Mathi, whose eyes were quick, knew exactly.

  “Thirty-six, my lord.”

  “An honor company. How kind of the Speaker.”

  His hand on the door, Balif said to Treskan, “Come along, scribe. There may be work for you.”

  Lofotan protested. If anyone were to accompany the general, it ought to have been him. Balif firmly ordered him to stay at the house.

  “No one else knows where everything is. Our late-night visitor must be disposed of too. Stay, Captain. Come, scribe.”

  Before the general opened the door, Lofotan said, “My lord, are you dressed to be received by the Speaker?”

  Balif was wearing the same clothes he wore to the Night Chamber the previous day. “Whatever fate Silvanos has for me I can meet as I am.” He smiled. Mathi observed the great general had an easy smile and used it often. “Guard the gates, Captain. I shall return soon or not at all.”

  He threw open the door and strode out. The honor guard, idling on the weedy terrace, snapped to attention. Watching through the open door, Mathi had never heard arms click into place so quickly. Thirty-six elves in the immaculate livery of the Speaker of the Stars stood in rigid order, two parallel lines facing each other. Their officer, no less attentive, faced Balif.

  “My lord! Good morning!”

  “It is a good morning.” Balif’s tone was relaxed, but every fiber of his being was alert. He stepped down from the doorway, tugging on pale doeskin gloves. “This is my personal scribe, Treskan. He will be accompanying me.”

  “My orders were to bring you alone, my lord,” said the officer.

  “And my orders are that Treskan shall come. Do you dispute them?”

  The officer opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it. He raised his sword hilt to his face in acknowledgment, turned on one heel, and snapped orders to his waiting troops. As Balif crossed the terrace to the street, thirty-six blades thrust skyward. The hiss of so much bronze being bared made Mathi flinch.

  “My lord!” she called, stepping through the door. Balif paused and looked back. “My lord, allow me to come!”

  He made no reply, so Mathi ran to meet him and Treskan. The guards’ commander protested anew. Enjoying the officious elf’s predicament, Balif agreed to let Mathi accompany him.

  “My lord, this is a serious breach of protocol!” said the officer.

  “Yes,” said Balif, not smiling.

  Any other noble lord of Silvanost would have entered a fine carriage and ridden off to the Speaker’s palace with the honor guard following on foot. Balif disdained such airs. He remarked to Mathi that he had at one time been provided with a silver-chased carriage of the finest make, drawn by four matched white horses. He rode in it once then gave the horses to deserving soldiers of his army. The carriage went into storage and had not seen the light of day since. Ever since, he had walked where he needed to go. If his destination were far, he would hire a common carter to carry him.

  Five steps behind Balif, Treskan made careful note of what he heard. The day had just begun, and already he had much to write about in his chronicle.

  The square on which Balif’s grand house stood was fronted by three other imposing homes. When Balif reached the street, he chose to walk down the center of the lane, trailed by Mathi, Treskan, and the glittering honor guard. Gardeners and other servants working on the neighboring estates stopped their work and bowed as Balif passed. He walked serenely on, paying the honor no special heed.

  At the end of the lane, he reached a busier thoroughfare, the Sunpath. That street led into one of the great byways of Silvanost, the circular street known as the Star Way. Everything in Silvanost was natural, Mathi noticed. As she walked behind General Balif, she got her first full view of the elf capital. Beneath her feet the paving stones were natural river stones, taken from the Thon-Thalas and fitted together with astonishing accuracy. Stones large and small nestled together with such unity that one could not be pried out without lifting a half dozen others surrounding it. Each stone was a different pastel color. Mixed together, the effect was very pleasing, like a well-made carpet of living rock.

  On either side of the street were shade trees and flowering shrubs, guided by elf hands into living colonnades. Spread beneath them were hand-laid strands of white river sand. The people of Silvanost passed back and forth on their daily affairs. Beyond the shaded footpaths were the gardens of individual homes. From them rose phalanxes of fiery orange lilies, scarlet roses on
thorny ropes of green, and golden daisies the size of warriors’ shields. All the flowers were not outsized, though. That would be too garish. The Silvanesti also loved miniature blossoms. Hyacinths and cyclamens, shrunk to the size of jewels, made carpets of color on many lawns.

  Farther back from the street were the houses of Silvanost. The residents of the Sunpath were mostly artisans who worked in trades supervised by House Artisan. There the skill of the elves in manipulating wood and stone was well displayed. Mathi saw houses formed from living tree trunks, conglomerations of native boulders, and even some woven from leafy vines. The effect was not as primitive as it might sound. The elves loved vertical forms, and each home thrust skyward with exuberance. A glance might mislead a visitor into thinking a house was made of cut marble, but no chisel ever touched a Silvanesti home. Through natural magic and secret art, the people of Silvanost had learned how to shape natural substances into any form they desired. Only careful study could reveal that a lovely green townhouse was actually made of live ivy. A tower that resembled cut glass from afar might, close up, turn out to be polished quartz, the crystals mined and assembled like logs.

  Not long after entering the Sunpath, the crowds lining the route began to multiply. Gardeners went to fetch their masters and mistresses. Artisans left their tools. Elf children—who seemed scarce to Mathi, compared to the children of a nomad tribe—came running from under bowers and arbors. Everyone wanted to see the celebrated general.

  For his part Balif kept his course resolutely ahead. At times he acknowledged a familiar face with the slightest of nods, but the acclaim of the growing crowd he ignored. Mathi looked back. Stretching behind them, the street was filled with curious, excited elves. They crowded the honor guard, jostling the rear ranks until the soldiers started elbowing them back. The proud residents of Silvanost did not take kindly to such treatment. They shoved back. Before the procession dissolved into a riot, Balif halted.

  He walked back among the guards, who had likewise halted. Ignoring their captain, he parted their ranks until he reached the rear of the company. There some angry elves stood apart, loudly complaining about their treatment at the hands of the Speaker’s soldiers.