“Why do you call the general a convict?” Mathi asked.
“Because death or exile hangs over his head like a sword. Have you not heard?”
“I’ve not been in Silvanost long, my lord.”
Having his pretensions polished made Artyrith beam. “Of course. You are a hopeless provincial.” She must have frowned, for the handsome cook explained, “No offense, my dear. One is either from Silvanost or not.”
So far the distinction did not seem much of an honor to Mathi. She saw Artyrith start to dump a pan full of broken glass and golden-red powder in a waste bin. Mathi objected. Why not sieve it, filtering out the bits of glass?
Artyrith was delighted. “Trust a practical peasant to know how to squeeze a coin!”
He placed a large copper bowl on the table and laid a slightly smaller sieve of the same metal on top of it. Dumping the spilled powder in the sieve, he noted with satisfaction that it passed through, leaving slivers of glass behind.
“Tell me about Lord Balif,” Mathi said. “I know the songs they sing about his courage and generalship. Who is the real one I owe my rescue to?”
The cook tapped the sieve to speed the powder through. “Ah, the general. No one is so talked about in Silvanost as our lord! Time was Balif was the second most powerful person in the kingdom, and without doubt the most respected. But something happened to change all that. It was that rogue, Vedvedsica.”
Artyrith’s voice dropped when he said the name, as if he feared invoking the magician by speaking his name too loudly.
“I have heard the name, but I know little of him,” Mathi said.
“He’s a blackguard of the first order. By attaching himself to Lord Balif, he gained much prestige. He lorded it over everyone for a very long time, and then he fell, blackening the name of his great patron when he toppled.”
Vedvedsica was a woodland wizard, once one of the leaders of a coalition of wild, self-taught mages known as the Brown Hoods, from the homespun robes they wore, Artyrith explained. When Silvanos Goldeneye was extending his rule over the elves of the wildwood, the Brown Hoods were his most serious opponents. The mages had their own candidate for Speaker of the Stars: Balif Thraxenath, hereditary clan chief of the Greenrunners. For a while it looked like civil war was brewing, but Vedvedsica performed a powerful augury ceremony for Balif to divine his future. After seeing what was in store for him, Balif willingly submitted to Silvanos and publicly proclaimed him Speaker. After that Silvanos had no serious opposition.
“What became of the Brown Hoods?” said Mathi. “Surely all of them didn’t follow Vedvedsica and Balif?”
“They didn’t. Once he was in power, Silvanos organized a quiet campaign to destroy the woodland magicians. Some were slain. Others were thrown in prison, while others were exiled to rocky islands in the southern sea. Vedvedsica organized the purge for Silvanos.”
Mathi sat down at Artyrith’s feet, folding her legs beneath her. By dropping a few more “my lords” to the talkative cook, she easily extracted the rest of the story.
Artyrith said, “Vedvedsica seemed unassailable then. He served Silvanos, and at the same time remained General Balif’s personal counselor. He put his magical skills to work for both of them. When their goals clashed, Vedvedsica’s intervention meant success for the one he chose to side with.”
The last of the spilled powder was in the sieve. Artyrith thrust the broom at Mathi. Only then did she recognize the head was made of feathers—hundreds of tiny, gray feathers embedded in a bar of solid bronze. How was such a thing made? And for common household use too!
Mathi asked Artyrith what brought the mage down from the height of power.
“No one knows but those involved. It is a capital crime to speak of it.” Artyrith drew a narrow finger through the salvaged spice powder. “What I have heard is this: Vedvedsica embarked on a personal scheme of a blasphemous nature. He duped our lord into aiding his work. When he was caught, he tried to buy his way out of punishment by offering the Speaker the head of the illustrious general, our master. The Speaker has never been comfortable with our lord. He’s too honest and too popular. He pretended to agree with Vedvedsica’s proposal then put the mage on trial for his life.”
Mathi all but dropped the broom. “That’s monstrous!”
“Your word, country girl, not mine.”
The conversation finally seemed to spook the loquacious cook. He suddenly professed to be extremely busy and shooed Mathi out of the kitchen. Head abuzz with new facts, she made her way back to the front hall. There she found Lofotan removing a cloak and wide-brimmed hat.
“What are you doing here? Where is our lord?” Mathi had to admit she had lost Balif in the crowd outside the Tower of the Stars. The old soldier did not appear concerned. When Mathi told him about the Speaker’s command that Balif investigate the infiltration of the east by foreign interlopers, the majordomo was elated.
“Good!” he said. “It’s about time we quit this wretched city! You cannot trust anyone here.”
Mathi said the general was ordered to leave at first light.
“It shall be done! You will help, girl. The clumsy scribe too.”
“My name is Mathi,” she replied. “The scribe’s name is Treskan. They’re not hard names to remember.”
Lofotan ignored her. He bustled in and out of rooms, collecting garments from chests and flinging them into the girl’s arms. When Mathi was staggering under the burden, Lofotan led her to a small room under the grand stairway. Neatly racked along the walls were swords, bows, quivers of arrows, javelins, and light lances. Lofotan spent some time examining the blades, checking them for straightness and their edges for nicks. He had selected three when he asked Mathi to come forward. Struggling under an armload of clothing, the girl tried to comply.
“Oh, drop all that.”
Mathi heaved the garments on the floor.
“Are you right-handed? Hold out your arm.” Bewildered, she did so. Lofotan laid a slim elf sword against her outstretched arm. “How can you have long limbs and such a short reach?”
Not understanding the question, Mathi let the observation pass. “What are you doing?”
“Measuring you for a sword.”
“I’m no warrior!”
Lofotan took a too-lengthy blade away and tried a stubbier one. “Maybe so but you can defend yourself if needed, can’t you? A party of five armed elves stands a better chance in the wilderness than a party of four.”
“Five?” asked Mathi.
“My lord’s cook is no stranger to the blade. The scribbler, though blessed with five thumbs on each hand, is sturdy enough to bear a blade.”
The shortest sword in the armory fit Mathi’s reach. Lofotan was looking for a shirt of mail for her when muffled chiming filled the empty mansion. He stood stock still, listening.
“Someone’s at the door.” Mathi understood by then that visitors were not common at Balif’s abode. Lofotan hurried out. Mathi was at his heels, still carrying the short sword by the scabbard.
Lofotan opened the small postern set in the monumental door. There stood Balif. He was not alone. A draped figure stood close by in the starlight, hidden from view by a heavy cloak.
“My lord?” Lofotan was taken aback.
“I have a visitor I wish to entertain in private. Everyone in the house will withdraw to the kitchen.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Seeing they were in the midst of preparations from the coming trip, Balif said, “Keep that sword, Captain. Fetch the scribe. Go with him and the girl Mathi to Artyrith’s domain. All of you must remain in the kitchen until I give you leave to come out.”
He reached through the postern, taking Lofotan by the wrist. “You will slay whoever tries to leave the kitchen without my permission.”
“Yes, my lord. What if we have another intruder?”
He let go. “I am armed,” was Balif’s terse reply.
Lofotan took the short sword from Mathi and saluted with it. “It shall
be done, my lord.”
He herded the girl to the passage downstairs. Mathi looked back over her shoulder several times. All she saw was a draped figure entering the house. Balif shut the door. Mathi had the distinct impression the visitor was female, but she could not make out her face.
Artyrith feigned outrage when he heard Balif’s orders. Lofotan told him why they were imposing on the prickly cook.
“Ah!” said the handsome young chef. “She pays a final call?”
“Still your tongue, fool, or I’ll still it for you permanently.”
Artyrith might have snapped back at the blunt threat, but the sword in Lofotan’s hand discouraged discussion. He went back to rolling bread dough.
Lofotan went out and quickly returned with Treskan. The scribe stumbled along, all the time writing on his board with his black metal stylus. Mathi asked what he was writing about.
“Events of the day,” he said, not looking up from his work. “I am still describing Balif’s march to the Tower of the Stars.” Absorbed by his work, he didn’t notice Artyrith peering over his shoulder until a gout of flour dusted his instrument.
“What kind of writing is that?”
Treskan turned the board over so the cook couldn’t see it. “It is called ‘record-hand.’ It allows us scribes to record full words in just a few strokes of the stylus.”
“Ingenious.”
Artyrith returned to his pots and pans. Lofotan sat grimly in front of the kitchen door, arms folded across his chest. The bare sword lay on his knees.
Darkness crept into the kitchen. Mathi helped start luminars around the room. When Artyrith had the meal ready, no word had come from Balif. Lofotan wouldn’t let anyone out to see if their lord required dinner. With an expressive shrug, Artyrith offered the fine repast to Mathi, Treskan, and the majordomo. They ate the large, golden-green, squashlike vegetable, carved to resemble a capon. Artyrith had stuffed it with nuts and berries, seasoned with the same bright orange spice he’d salvaged from the broken jar that afternoon. Mathi ate slowly, wary of bits of glass. The food was excellent. Artyrith had a splendid nectar to wash down the imitation bird. It was light as water, with a slightly acidic tang. The nectar vanished on the tongue like dew off early-morning grass.
“Wonderful,” Treskan declared. “My lord, you are an artist.”
“You have an educated palate to match your writing skills,” Artyrith said, beaming. “Would that our lord shared your taste.”
“He doesn’t like your food?”
The chef shrugged. “Who knows? He never says he does or does not.”
Mathi drank only water. Artyrith tried to fill her cup with nectar, but she refused it.
“You do not take spirits?” he said, holding out the slim, brown bottle.
“Not even mead,” she replied. “My people sold honey to meadmakers, but I do not drink such things.”
Lofotan ate in silence. He downed glass after glass of nectar until the bottle was dry. Artyrith grandly opened another. The old soldier put a hand over his cup.
“No more,” he said. “I have duties to perform.”
“Fear not, my two-legged griffon. This Runo vintage is lighter than a sea-maid’s kiss. We could down a bottle each and feel nothing more than gentle warmth.” Lofotan was unconvinced.
The cook filled Treskan’s glass not for the first time.
“See, the rustic scribe is not afraid. Are you?”
Treskan drained the cup in one long gulp. He seemed quite unfazed by it.
“That’s the way! This isn’t mere drink; it’s medicine for the gullet!” Artyrith refilled his cup and Treskan’s. Seeing the pretentious cook and awkward scribe outdrinking him wounded Lofotan’s pride. He shoved his silver cup forward.
Artyrith gave Mathi a secret wink. He filled Lofotan’s cup to the rim.
By the strong aroma, the girl could tell how potent the nectar was. It had an airy taste, but the rosy glow in her companions’ cheeks hinted at hidden strength. Sure enough, by the time the second bottle of Runo nectar was finished, Lofotan flushed from collar to crown.
He lurched to his feet. His sword swung in a wide arc. Mathi had to throw herself out of its way.
“I must go,” the majordomo said in clipped tones. “Where is—?”
“Down the hall two doors, on the right.” Artyrith’s brilliant green eyes were glowing from within. Watching Lofotan walk unsteadily to the door, he all but laughed.
“Pompous old fool,” he said, slurring. “Another bottle and I’ll have him under the table.” He held up the empty nectar bottle and kissed the dusty glass. “Better elves than him have succumbed to this vintage! ‘Ruined by Runo,’ that’s what my grandsire, the great Lord Mistravan, used to say.”
He meant to set the brown bottle on the edge of the table, but he missed and sent it crashing to the floor. Artyrith stooped to pick up the shards. Letting out a sigh, he toppled on his side and lay still. Mathi circled around and found the cook passed out, lying on the floor with his hand draped across a chair. Across the table, Treskan had his head down, snoring.
Mathi swept up the broken bottle. Artyrith was out for a while. She waited. When Lofotan did not return, she crept out into the hall and listened. All was still. She went to the water closet two doors down and knocked softly. There was no response.
Lofotan had made it inside but had fallen into nectar-padded sleep. With sudden elation Mathi realized that she was free of all constraints. Her curiosity, inflamed by hours of enforced confinement, erupted full force. Who was Balif’s mysterious visitor? She knew the general’s first and only wife, Alsalla, had been dead for thirty years. Was Balif saying farewell to a secret lover, or was something more mysterious afoot?
Screwing up her courage, she removed her sandals. The priestesses at the Haven of the Lost had given them to her, but Mathi was never comfortable in them. Hiking up her clerical gown, Mathi tiptoed upstairs to the main hall. She didn’t have to search far to find Balif. Light spilled from under a closed door on the ground floor, betraying the general’s presence. It was the morning salon, where Mathi had cooled her heels that first day, waiting for Balif to return. She was in there long enough to remember the layout of the room. There was a balcony along the south wall of the salon, accessible from the second floor. Mathi eased upstairs. She found the door to the balcony and slowly pushed down the handle. The jeweled tumblers inside the door lock worked soundlessly. Mathi went down on all fours and crept in.
The balcony was more than ten feet wide, with a waist-high railing. Light streamed up from an array of oil lamps. Mathi wished there had been furniture in the balcony to hide behind, but it was barren. She slid toward the rail on her belly, feeling as if she were casting a shadow twenty feet high behind her. Carefully she approached the rail.
She heard voices. The elf speaking had a low, throaty voice, female but strong.
“—cannot believe it. He must be sending you away to save your life, not to harm you.”
Balif replied in his distinctive voice: “So you say. I have my doubts.”
“If he wanted you dead, you would never have left the Night Chamber,” his unseen companion insisted.
“Your brother is more subtle than that.”
Mathi almost choked on her own breath. Brother? Balif’s secret companion was the Speaker’s sister?
She did not hear part of what was said next. All she made out was “—your chance to win back the Speaker’s favor.”
“Who wants his favor? I enjoyed it for more than a century, and the lies of a convicted criminal were enough to lose it in one day.”
They were directly below her, beneath the overhang of the balcony. Mathi imagined they were at a table dining or seated on some of the few couches remaining in the mansion. She was startled to see Balif emerge from under the balcony wearing nothing. Mathi froze, realizing that she was intruding on a private moment indeed.
Balif went to a delicate amphora perched beside a silver lamp stand made in the form of a mi
mosa tree. He poured a measure from the vessel. The liquid was dark, not nectar.
“Do you want more?” he asked. The lady said yes. Balif pointedly did not serve her, but held out the amphora for her to help herself.
The mystery guest entered Mathi’s sight, decorously draped in a bit of silk sheet. It was the elder of the two women Mathi had glimpsed at the Tower of the Stars. So she was Silvanos’s sister, the Divine Votress of the Greenwood? Her name, she knew from common knowledge, was Amaranthe. Silvanos had made her Divine Votress, the highest of high priestesses in the land. The Divine Votress was an ancient office usually held by a very old female. Everyone knew Silvanos elevated Amaranthe to the sacred office to prevent her from marrying anyone. There was no one in all of Silvanesti the Speaker deemed worthy of such a close link to the royal family. Imprisoning his sister in the office was typical of the Speaker’s ruthlessness. Since she’d had no choice but to accept the office, Amaranthe evidently did not consider her vow of chastity binding.
She filled her cup and said, “Do as Silvanos commands. In a year or two, the scandal around Vedvedsica will die down, and he will find reason to recall you. Then we shall be together again.”
“And if he doesn’t recall me? Would you leave Silvanost? Could you live in some remote province, far from the city, to be with me?”
There was no hesitation in her answer. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Not even if I wed you before all the world?”
It was a bold offer. For a Divine Votress to marry was unheard of. For a member of Silvanos’s family to marry without his permission would cause a scandal greater than the one driving Balif out of Silvanost.
“I can’t,” Amaranthe repeated with less assurance.
“Can’t. Won’t. The words are different, but the result is the same. I mean less to you than your place near the throne.”
“Don’t play the wounded hero with me! You know how things stand. You know who has the power.”
The Forest King Page 6