The Forest King

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Who are you, that our griffons regard you as an enemy?”

  The smile melted on Mathi’s face.

  “My name is—”

  “Mathani Arborelinex. Yes, I know. But who are you?”

  The Silvanesti knew her name? That was perplexing. Mathi explained that she had been in the wilderness many days, hobnobbing with centaurs, humans, and kender. No doubt they all rubbed off on her a bit.

  The griffon rider unbuckled his chin strap and removed his helmet. A mass of blond hair emerged, and with a face she knew well.

  “Mistravan Artyrith! How can it be you?”

  “Lord Artyrith,” he said loftily. “Recently restored to my proper titles and property by the Speaker of the Stars.”

  Mathi congratulated the former cook. “You made it back to Silvanost?”

  Artyrith perched his helmet on the pommel of his sky saddle. “I did. My report to the Speaker convinced him to send an expeditionary force. Even now we are driving the savages from the woodland below.”

  More revelations followed. Artyrith had caught the Speaker’s favor with his dramatic return to Silvanost. News of the nomad incursion, along with the failure of Govenor Dolanath to protect the eastern province, resulted in Dolanath’s dismissal. Who was now governor of the east? Mistravan Artyrith, once more Lord Artyrith. Mathi didn’t know if she should laugh or weep.

  The defenders of the hilltop came streaming down to meet the griffon riders. The Silvanesti remained aloof, not getting down or mingling with the centaurs or kender.

  “Where is the general?” Artyrith asked. Kender braved the ferocious griffon and closed around him, patting the skittish beast and the rider’s legs with equal enthusiasm.

  “The general is, well—”

  “The general is dead.”

  Lofotan was last down the hill. He was covered with cuts, bruises, and grime, but he walked proudly, gripping his well-used bow.

  “What? Are you certain?” said Artyrith.

  “He fought the chief of the nomads in single combat and won, but subsequently died of his wounds.”

  No one present—not the Longwalker or his kender, Zakki, the remaining centaurs, Treskan, or Mathi contradicted Lofotan’s bold lie.

  “I have orders from the Speaker himself to bring General Balif back to Silvanost,” Artyrith said, annoyed. “May I see the body?”

  Lofotan nodded. He bid Lord Artyrith dismount and follow him. Lord Artyrith handed off his long lance to a flanking rider and got down. Admiring kender crowded around, but Artyrith’s severe expression convinced them to keep clear. Holding the edges of his cape, the new governor of the east parted through the crowd imperiously. Mathi fell in behind him. She was worried. What was Lofotan thinking? It was one thing to lie to the Speaker’s emissary, but what body could he possibly show Artyrith?

  Elegant in his flying silks, Artyrith was still overshadowed by the taller, taciturn Lofotan. They faced each other for what seemed like a very long time until Artyrith cleared his throat and said, “Lead on, captain.”

  Lofotan held out his arm. “This way, my lord.”

  Oh the irony of the last two words! Treskan and Mathi exchanged knowing glances. Did Artyrith relish them, or was he wise enough to sense the threat in Lofotan’s tone?

  The elf led them over the battlefield, through the line of stakes to where Balif had fallen. Mathi’s cloak was where he left it. A lumpy shape lay covered, until a stray breeze lifted a corner. Mathi saw nothing but a pile of dirt underneath. Where was the general?

  Lofotan went on. He led Artyrith to the very summit of the bluff overlooking the river. With one foot on the edge he pointed dramatically to the green water below.

  “We dropped the body off here,” he said.

  “You threw the general’s body in the river?”

  “We had to. We were besieged, and the remains were corrupting. He died valiantly, but he was not himself.”

  He let that veiled reference hang in the air. Artyrith looked down at the river.

  “When did he die?” he said.

  “Yesterday, about sundown.”

  “I’ll have to search the river and both banks,” Artyrith said. “The Great Speaker would expect nothing less.”

  He turned away irritably in a swirl of silk. Mathi queried the captain with an upraised eyebrow, but Lofotan ignored her, falling in step behind his one-time underling.

  When they returned to the hillside, a large contingent of the Silvanesti army was mustered there. The nomads were fleeing, the officers reported. Artyrith ordered them pursued.

  “Harry them out of the country,” he said. “Whatever goods or chattels they abandon are to be taken and made the property of the Speaker. Any camps or settlements you find must be burned to the ground. This is the will of Silvanos Golden-Eye, Speaker of the Stars.”

  The officers scattered to their companies to carry out the severe orders. While Artyrith conferred with the other griffon riders about what areas to patrol, Mathi sidled up to Lofotan.

  “What really happened to Balif?” she whispered.

  “He’s gone. What more do you need to know?”

  Lofotan explained another reason why Artyrith had come. The Speaker had learned from Artyrith that the general had been transformed into a beast by Vedvedsica’s curse. Silvanesti law did not differentiate between those who willingly trafficked in sorcery and those who were accursed. On the pretext of protecting elven society from the abomination Balif had become, Silvanos had ordered the arrest of Balif. Trial, imprisonment, and death would surely follow.

  Silvanos had a long memory. He could never forget a good number of his subjects had once preferred Balif as their ruler to him. Silvanos had made it his duty to remove the accursed Balif from respectable society. His popular rival would disappear forever.

  “Surely the Speaker is not so ruthless?” Mathi said, aghast.

  “I credit him for being merciful,” Lofotan replied. “If he were truly ruthless, he would put the general on display in a public square in Silvanost, chained to a post. That would ruin the name of Balif forever.”

  Lofotan walked away, mixing into the crowd of kender until he was eventually lost from sight. Mathi, shaken by the hard rules of elven society, watched him go and pondered her next move. Her mission was over, finished. Her brethren, wherever they were, had nothing left to avenge. When the time was right, she would slip away and join them. The children of Vedvedsica still had secret enclaves in the western forest. There, with vigilance and luck, they might pass their lives hidden from Silvanesti persecution.

  One problem remained. She should not have cared, but it mattered to her was where Balif had gone. The general’s disappearance was still a mystery. In the space of a few thoughts Mathi decided she was not leaving until she discovered Balif’s true fate.

  Someone cleared their throat decorously behind her. Mathi turned. There a fresh-faced elf, wearing the finest silk robes and a circlet of ivy on his head, held a polished silver tray out to the scribe. On it lay a gilded card.

  Mathi understood the card was for her. She picked it up. At once crimson letters appeared, hovering a hair’s breadth off the otherwise blank rectangle. Judging by its weight, the card was solid gold.

  Summons, it said. Mathi asked the messenger what it meant.

  “You are summoned to the August Presence,” he replied. “Two hours past sundown.”

  “Whose presence?”

  “The name of a great person is not idly spoken before foreigners and savages.”

  It sounded stuffy, if intriguing. “All right. Where will I go?”

  The messenger stepped aside. “You will come with me now.”

  Mathi pointed skyward. “It’s a long time till sunset. Are we going so far?”

  “The journey is not far, but you must be prepared if you are to enter the presence of a very August Person. Come, if you please.”

  Mathi had the distinct feeling it would be very bad indeed to refuse the invitation. With an entire arm
y to back it up, such an invitation was a command, not a request.

  She preceeded the messenger. All the time her mind was racing ahead. Who was she going to see? Some high lord of Silvanost? A high priest? Or could it be the Speaker of the Stars himself?

  CHAPTER 20

  Lovers

  Mathi was led to the shore of the Thon-Haddaras. A white boat lay anchored in the stream. The hull gleamed white and smooth, with a high prow and a round stern. A light pole mast was bare of sail, but a dozen long sweeps poked through the gunwales. Running from the deck down to the muddy bank was a narrow white gangplank. It seemed too narrow to ascend, but the elf messenger went up heel to toe without breaking stride. Mathi followed more deliberately, holding out her arms to keep her balance.

  When she reached the deck the plank was drawn back on board and the rowers backed off the mud. In the shadow of the prow she was startled to see Treskan. The scribe had his writing equipment and bags of documents heaped around his feet. From his expression it was clear he was as surprised to see Mathi as she was to see him. Further aft, the coxswain held an elegantly carved tiller. At his command the boat swung in a half circle and rowed smoothly downstream.

  As they traveled, Mathi and Treskan heard how Artyrith’s army of forty thousand had entered the eastern province from the sea, marching up the east and west banks of the Thon-Haddaras, while another twenty-five thousand followed their route overland to Free Winds to cut the nomads’ road. It was hard to imagine so many elves had passed that way. The dense, low-lying woods were undisturbed, but that was the elves’ way. Treskan said one hundred thousand elves could pass through a forest and cause less disruption to the surroundings that fifty humans. The human way was to push through obstacles. Elves slipped by, doing less damage than a summer rain.

  After describing the arrival of the army, the Silvanesti messenger fell silent. They rowed downstream a long time without a word being spoken. Late in the afternoon the lazy green stream changed into blue sea as the river abruptly widened into a fine deepwater bay. Ahead lay a great fleet of ships, arrayed in a crescent formation. Aside from a few lighters crawling across the sea, the ships were all at rest, sails furled and oars run in.

  A strong onshore breeze hit the little boat, almost bringing it to a stop. The rowers dug in, pulling for the largest ship in the center of the formation. Most of the vessels were round-bellied argosies that had borne troops and supplies from Silvanost. A few swift galleots, bristling with warriors, ringed the slow sailing ships. In the center of the flotilla was a large, boxy vessel with a gleaming white hull. Gilded banners fluttered from the masts. Mathi and Treskan’s boat made unerringly for the flagship, coasting to a stop alongside amidships. Mathi expected a ladder to be lowered—the flagship’s deck was a good ten feet above them—but instead the rowers shipped their oars and everyone waited. A squeaking, bumping sound drew Mathi’s attention overhead. Creeping over the side of the flagship came a heavy wooden boom. Bright bronze chains dangled from the tip. When they were close enough, the coxswain and the messenger secured the hooks at the end of each length of chain to massive rings affixed to the boat’s deck.

  Mathi stared at the boom. Surely they were not going to—

  “Haul away!” called the coxswain. These were the first words Mathi had heard him say since coming aboard.

  There was a loud clanking from above. Slack went out of the chains, then the boat began to rise. Treskan and Mathi rushed to either side of the rail and looked over. Already they were out of the water, which was streaming down the boat’s hull in torrents. They rose a good ten feet until the boat’s rail was level with the flagship’s. The boom slowly retracted, bringing the small craft tight against the flagship’s side. Ropes were passed back and forth, tying each to the other. Then the messenger raised the hinged rail and stepped onto the great ship’s broad deck.

  “Come,” he said to his guests.

  The deck was like a city street. There were lanes on either side, and the center was crowded with buildings built exactly like houses or shops on land. They looked just like the stone structures common to Silvanost, but in passing Mathi touched a spiral column and discovered it was wood, made to look like stone.

  Mathi and Treskan were led forward into a one of the two-story deckhouses. An elderly elf with white hair down to his shoulders eyed them once inside.

  “The guests,” he said disapprovingly. “What a sight you are. Well, the first thing to be done is make you clean. Get off those filthy rags at once.”

  Treskan fingered his collar. “Must I?”

  “You cannot enter the August Presence of our patron looking and smelling as you do.”

  “I cannot,” Mathi protested. “I am a maiden, a ward of Quenesti Pah. I cannot disrobe in the presence of males!”

  Treskan had similar reasons for modesty. Under his clothes his elf diguise had worn thin. The nomads mistook him for a half-elf. If he stripped now, the Silvanesti would certainly arrest him.

  The white-haired elf sighed. “Quarters suitable for your chastity will be provided. As for you, scribe—”

  “I thank you, excellency, for the opportunity to cleanse myself! I have been too long without the simplest methods of hygiene. But—I must also undress and bathe alone,” Treskan said, feigning relief. The elderly elf haughtily asked why. He said, “I was a prisoner of the nomads. I am ashamed of the scars I earned at their hands.”

  His appeal against ugliness worked. The white-haired elf showed him a shallow terra-cotta tub he could stand in, and the tall ewers of spring water he could wash with. He then led Mathi a few doors down to an identical room, also equipped with a washtub. Then he left.

  When she was alone, Mathi carefully undressed. It was a strange and frightening bath. She lived in dread that someone would burst in and her deception would be revealed. In the past weeks on the trail, her perfect elvishness had faded. Downy hair ran down her back and across the tops of her legs and arms. Whatever ‘August Person’ she was being taken to, they were obviously too pure to endure the company of one of the brethren. If she was exposed here, she would pay for her blasphemy with her life.

  No one broke in, so she quickly dressed in the clean robes provided. She struck a small brass bell when she was done, and the elderly courtier returned with soft leather sandals and a white leather headband for her hair. Dressed and dried, Mathi stood for inspection.

  “Your face is pleasant, but your carriage is quite awkward,” the white-maned elf declared. “Too awkward for august company, but—” He sighed. “It is ordered, so it must be done.”

  He held up a finger. “First rule, do not speak unless prompted to do so. Secondly, keep your eyes averted from the August One except when addressing her. Thirdly, tell no one of what you hear or say here. Is that understood?”

  Mathi caught the telltale ‘her.’ She had an idea at last who she was going to see.

  She was led aft to the center of the ship. Treskan joined her, escorted by another genteel courtier. They were guided to a broad staircase that led down into the interior of the great vessel. Armed soldiers stood at key points. They raised their swords in salute when Mathi’s guide passed. At the top of the stairs the old elf adjusted his headband, smoothed his robe, and started down. Riddled with curiosity, Treskan and Mathi followed close on his heels.

  The deck they descended to was covered with soft carpets. Luminars in copper brackets lighted the between decks almost like daylight. Interior partitions below deck seemed to be made of gossamer silk. Shadows cast by luminars on the other side moved silently to and fro. Voices in the scantest whispers marked the visitors’ progress.

  A younger elf with an elaborate head of ringlets thrust his head through the curtains. He and the guide exchanged hushed words. Curls glanced at Mathi and Treskan skeptically.

  “Very well,” he said. “Come.”

  Attendants swept back the sheer hangings, allowing them to enter. The room beyond was open and well lit, though the furnishings were more suited
to a palace than a ship. Two young elves were playing lyres together. Small white finches flitted around, alighting in the branches of small cherry trees growing in hefty buckets of soil. Incense smoldered in cone-shaped censers. A score of elves were present, rather lost in the great open space. Everyone was clustered around a tall elf woman of middle years, not beautiful but quite striking in a commanding sort of way. Mathi recognized her at once, but she was careful not to show it. Their hostess was Amaranthe, sister of the Speaker of the Stars.

  A ripple of murmurs spread around the room when Mathi and Treskan entered. Mathi knew she and her companion were uncouth by elf standards, but she was determined to be a dignified as any Silvanesti. Treskan frankly stared at everything. If his studious attention marked him as a boor, he could live with the elves’ disdain.

  “Come forward,” said Amaranthe.

  They did, keeping their eyes off her as they approached. The carpet was marked with broad red stripes, a helpful feature. Mathi counted stripes as they advanced. A warrior in gilded armor stopped them with an outstretched arm. Twenty-six stripes from the door, she reckoned.

  “You are the girl known as Mathani Arborelinex, are you not?”

  “I am, lady.”

  “The August One is properly addressed as ‘Highness,’” Curls said stiffly.

  “I am Mathani Arborelinex, Highness. Forgive my manners. I have not lived long in civilized society.”

  “The other is the one called Treskan?” He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “You were personal scribe to General Balif, they tell me,” Amaranthe said. Her voice was warm and strong, hinting at both an iron will and personal passion.

  “I have that honor, Highness.”

  “Have? You are still in his employ? I am told he has departed …”

  Mathi glanced up. Her appearance was refined, but simple. She wore far less jewelry and gilded silk than those around her. What was more, Mathi clearly saw the furrows in her forehead. She was concerned. She still loved Balif.