“You are too modest, my friend, and too gentle. There are lives that deserve to be expunged, just as there are crimes that must be punished.”
No one had ever accused the greatest warrior of the elves of being too gentle. No one but the Speaker of the Stars would presume to make such a charge.
“The Great Speaker is the final arbiter of justice,” Balif replied. “But take care, sire. Expunging lives can be habit-forming.”
There were audible gasps from the unseen lords. Everyone understood Balif’s meaning. Decades past, when the Silvanesti nation was still forming, Silvanos had ordered the destruction of the Brown Hoods, a sect of woodland wizards opposed to the Speaker’s assuming absolute power. Only one Brown Hood out of dozens survived the purge: Vedvedsica. He cast his lot with the Speaker against his forest colleagues, but in so doing, Vedvedsica swore allegiance not to Silvanos, but to Balif, his captor. Because Balif owed fealty to the Speaker, Vedvedsica was spared.
For a long time, nothing was said. Apparently deliberation was carried out in some fashion Balif could not hear, for at length the advocate declared, “The Night Chamber has reached a verdict.”
Who were they announcing it to? No one remained on the floor but Balif and the prisoner.
“It is the judgment of this tribunal that the prisoner shall be confined in the keep of Thonbec fortress for the balance of his life, however long that may be.”
Life in prison for an elf was no act of mercy. Confinement was more vindictive than execution.
“His writings on all matters shall be gathered and burned. The ashes shall be ground between two millstones and scattered over the sea.
“His name shall be excised from all documents, chronicles, and monuments. No trace of the blasphemous one will be allowed to remain.”
Balif bowed his head then lifted it slowly. “What of the fruit of his labors? What becomes of them?” he asked.
The advocate spoke carefully, as if listening to another voice the elf warrior could not hear. “All offenses against the gods shall be … removed.”
“Removed? Speak plainly! Or do you mean to execute innocents by euphemism?”
“You forget yourself, my lord! It is not your place to question the decisions of this tribunal.”
With an angry shake of his head, Balif said, “I do question! What will happen to them?”
The passage in the floor split wide, admitting an upward wedge of natural light. Four bronze-clad warriors marched up the steps and took up positions around the floating prisoner. In the bat of an eye, the confining light evaporated. Vedvedsica collapsed in a heap, wheezing. Fetters were snapped on his wrists and ankles. Two soldiers took him by the arms and dragged him to his feet. The other pair stood by with swords drawn.
The wizard’s head snapped around. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, but the highest one still burned, dim in the intrusive light from outside.
“I am not done!” Vedvedsica vowed as loudly as he could. “I am not done!”
It was then Balif realized that, immobile as he was, his former counselor had heard everything-his pleas, the verdict, and the Night Chamber’s judgment. Before he disappeared down the spiral stair, he had some words for his master.
“Weak reed! Pay the price of betrayal!” Vedvedsica cried. The guards hustled him out of sight.
The passage remained open. Balif looked from it to the place where the Speaker’s lamp had been. All was black above. He was alone in the chamber. Turning to the open exit, he descended the steps with a slow, measured tread.
He was not the last to leave. From behind a sweeping buttress, a single figure stirred. He carried a thick rectangle of polished wood on which he scribbled briskly with a slim, metal stylus. Streaks of light appeared briefly on the wood surface then faded away. Padding forward on soft sandals, the last one to leave the Night Chamber waited until Balif was gone before he started down the spiral stairs.
He was surprised to discover many hours had passed, a far longer interval than had seemed to transpire. It was dusk. The day was over.
Outside in the street, he inhaled the clean air of Silvanost. Glancing up, the dome of the Night Chamber was impossible to see. No one passing by had any inkling of what had occurred a hundred feet above them. That’s the way the Speaker of the Stars wanted it. The Night Chamber was his personal instrument.
Balif was walking away from the tower, head lowered in thought. Elves hailed the great warrior from left and right. Balif did not heed them. Ignoring his waiting coach, he walked home alone and on foot.
CHAPTER 2
Words
It was dusk when Balif reached home. The imposing pile of white marble, alabaster, and crystal had been built for the general at the Speaker’s order as a gift from the grateful nation for the general’s innumerable services. Done in the grand style of the city, the facade was all flutes and flying buttresses designed to make the house look as if it might take wing and fly at any moment. The villa was surrounded by a hedge of glass fronds made to look like the sea grasses of the Silvanesti coast. Forged in tempered glass by the best artisans in the city, the glass fronds bent and fluttered very realistically with every breeze. They were also a first-class defense. Anything trying to run through them would be cut to pieces by the delicate-looking but razor-sharp leaves.
A single torch burned outside the front door. The evening breeze tormented the flame, whipping it from one side to the other but never quite extinguishing it. Balif homed in on the torch like a moth.
The paved area before the ornate door was big enough to parade a company of infantry. A few stone benches dotted the expanse, finely carved out of the hardest purple porphyry, veined with red like blood vessels. The seats were splotched with lichen. Moss welled up between the seams of the pavement.
At the door Balif paused to look back over his shoulder. The plaza appeared empty, but the general surveyed it for a long time.
The great front door opened before Balif could grasp the brass knob. Waiting inside was Balif’s majordomo, Lofotan Brodelamath, impeccably turned out in his servant’s uniform. A soldier who had served more than half his long life with the general, Lofotan had followed Balif home when he retired. Balif did not ask him to come, nor did the old warrior request a position as the general’s servant. He simply came. It was his job, so long as he lived, to serve Balif.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“Hello.”
He stood with his hands over a polished copper bowl while Lofotan poured warm water over his hands. It was the homecoming ritual enacted in every elf home in the city, every day. In that evening’s case Balif called for a second rinse. His hands felt unusually soiled.
Lofotan did not ask about the day’s events. It was not his place. He did say, “My lord, there are two persons waiting to see you.”
Drying his hands on a snowy linen towel, Balif raised an arched brow. “Couriers or courtiers?”
“Neither, I should say. One has the look of a priestess. The other is a scribe.”
“I’ve not summoned either.” Discreetly checking the sash at his waist for the dirk concealed there, Balif crossed the dimly lit hall.
“In the morning hall, my lord.” Balif went to the room indicated.
Within, a single bank of oil lamps burned. While many in Silvanost relied on magical luminars to light their homes, Balif was old-fashioned enough to prefer flame. Seated in the circle of light by the lamp stand were two elves unknown to him. Hearing the general enter, the strangers got to their feet. A stylus and a writing board clattered to the floor.
As Lofotan said, the young female was dressed as a priestess, though without any badges or talismans indicating her temple. Her hair was long, dark and plainly cut. She had slim arms and long fingers but a curiously round face, not at all like the high-cheeked elf women of the city.
The other stranger was middle-aged with the blue-tinged hair of a western woodlander. His clothes were plain homespun with the green stripe of House Servitor work
ed in with the black cuffs of the scribal guild. Seeing his writing equipment on the floor, the visitor went down on both knees to retrieve it.
Balif approached. He said, “You don’t look like assassins.”
“Sir?” said the clerically dressed female.
He surveyed them with folded arms. “You didn’t come here to slay me, did you?”
The scribe stared blankly. Beside him the apparent priestess replied, “No, my lord! Why in the world would anyone want to harm you, my lord?”
At arm’s length, Balif paused, sizing up the strangers. “No reason. I make a poor jest. What are you called?”
“Mathani Arborelinex, at your service!” She bowed from the waist. The middle-aged scribe stiffly imitated her gesture. His black metal stylus hit the floor again.
“That’s a feast of a name,” Balif observed. “Are you known as Mathi to those with less time for the full treatment?”
“Yes, my lord, or Math, if you prefer.”
“Why are you here, Mathi?”
“The sisters of Quenesti Pah sent me from the Haven of the Lost, my lord.”
Balif understood. He was patron to several worthy causes, one of which was an orphanage run by priestesses of Quenesti Pah in the far west of Silvanesti. The Haven of the Lost was a refuge for victims of the almost constant border warfare between the elves and marauding bands of human nomads on the frontier. Anyone, from infants to adults, could find shelter there. After a certain age, residents of the haven were expected to support themselves.
“You are a ward of the temple?” Mathi bowed her head yes. “You are welcome. We shall discuss your case at dinner tonight.” Balif turned his penetrating eyes to the scribe.
“Who are you?”
“Treskan of Woodbec, my lord.”
“Why are you here?”
The scribe looked crestfallen. “I was told you required a scrivener-”
Balif turned away. “I can’t imagine who told you that. I have less than no need for a scribe. Good evening.”
He walked out, leaving the hall door ajar. Treskan was speechless, but Mathi followed Balif, saying, “My lord! Your servant says there is no one in the house but yourself, him, and a cook. Surely an important elf like yourself has need of a professional scribe?”
Balif laughed shortly. “Don’t confuse being well known with being important.” In the entry hall, Lofotan had been lurking by the door with a stout staff, gripped like a halberd. Seeing there was no trouble, he set it aside.
“My affairs these days are very simple. I do not need a scribe.”
The girl said to the scribe, “I am sorry.”
Treskan replied in a low tone, “Never mind. My hopes were not high. Now I shall have to relinquish my stylus to the guild.” Treskan started for the door.
Balif watched him go, staring at him until he reached the door. “Why will you have to relinquish the tool of your profession?” he asked, suddenly curious.
“I have been without employment too long. With this rejection, I shall lose my membership in the guild.”
“Try elsewhere in the city. Many households in Silvanost employ scribes.”
With a last clumsy bow, Treskan of Woodbec departed. Balif bade Mathi follow. They strolled across the soaring hall, footsteps echoing on the bare, polished walls.
Balif said calmly, “How long were you among humans?”
Mathi halted as if clubbed. “How did you know that, my lord?”
“Where were you captured?”
She looked somber. “In the west. Beyond the forest.”
Trailing behind, Lofotan said, “You were captured by the barbarians?” The girl nodded. “A slave?” She gave another nod.
Balif reached the far side of the monumental hall. “I would know more of this. You shall stay for now, as my guest. Lofotan, have an extra place set for dinner.”
Mathi went down on one knee. “May the goddess bless you, my lord!” She tried to kiss the general’s hand, but Balif was not having it. He ordered the girl to stand.
“Lofotan will find you quarters. Dinner will be at the eighth hour. Lofotan will fetch you then.”
Shadows were building fast. The interior hall had no windows to the outside, and it rapidly darkened as the sun set. The general of the armies of the Speaker of the Stars lit a lamp from a side table and, after a polite farewell, took his leave. Mathi watched the globe of light recede down a long hallway, finally disappearing around a corner.
It was only the seventh hour. She said to Lofotan, “What should I do until dinner?”
“Remain in your room. I will show you there now.”
Without another word, the old soldier lit a lamp of his own and gestured for the girl to follow. Lofotan started up a broad staircase in the center of the hall. When Mathi lagged behind, Lofotan sharply ordered her to keep up.
“This place is a maze, even in daylight. By night it’s a labyrinth not easily navigated.”
Mathi hopped up the steps. “Why is the house so dark and empty?” she said. She was whispering, but she wasn’t sure why.
“My lord is a great elf, but his needs and tastes are simple. This stone pile was urged upon him by the Speaker, but it is not the sort of place Lord Balif would choose to occupy.” At the top of the stairs, a yawning cavern of an upper hall opened before them. Lofotan’s lamp made little impression on the gloom.
“Once, two hundred servants lived and worked here. There were body servants and maids, grooms for the general’s horse and griffon, butlers and cooks and all their assistants. As the years passed, my lord found reasons to dismiss them one by one until only I and the cook remain.”
He led her down the mammoth corridor, flanked on either side by statues of marble and bronze. Some were in the stiff, archaic style of the era before Silvanos. More modern images, with features that changed with the light, unnerved Mathi as she passed by. The robes on the statues seemed to flow and flip in unfelt breezes. One elegant female figure tossed her head, mouth parted in silent mirth.
“How can you stand to walk here?” Mathi said, quavering.
“Ignore them. They’re only stone.”
At what seemed like an arbitrary point, the majordomo stopped. He pointed to a door. “You will sleep here. There’s a filling font in the antechamber. Whatever else you want, you must forgo or see to yourself.”
He turned to leave. “One other thing: don’t roam around-after dark. As I said, this place is a maze, and you may find unpleasant company.” Puzzled, Mathi asked him what he meant. “My lord sleeps in different parts of the house each night. If you disturb him, he may greet you with a blade in the ribs.”
Leaving the astonished girl alone in the dark, Lofotan returned to the stairs. His lamp faded until Mathi was submerged in the enormously dark house. Somewhere out of sight, a door slammed. Mathi darted inside the indicated door and shut it quickly.
Sunset streamed in the high windows. She was in a suite fit for a lord. Furniture stood around the main room in orderly ranks like disciplined soldiers, draped in ghostly white dust cloths. Mathi tugged her belt pouch around and dug out a small luminar. She spoke the illuminating word, simtha, and the crystal glowed to life.
As Lofotan promised, there was a font in the antechamber. A great conch shell had been set up as a basin. Arching over it was a golden tap shaped like a leaping dolphin. When Mathi touched it, water poured forth. She washed her hands, splashed more on her face, and drank a few handfuls before allowing the font to shut off.
She felt lost in such an enormous space. Holding the luminar by its silver handle, she walked through the great suite. Only the main room was furnished. The adjoining salons and bedchambers were empty, just frescoed walls and stone floors. She went back to the main room and pulled the cover off an elegant couch. Sitting in silence for a long time, Mathi nibbled the last of the rations she had brought from the country.
The sleeve rode up on her arm, revealing red scars. She tugged the homespun back over them. It was too soon to lo
ok at them. Worse reminders of her time in the forest still stung on her legs, but at least the long hem of her acolyte’s gown always covered them.
She set the luminar on the floor between her feet. It shone brightly, filling the space around her with hard, white light. Everything was going well, she kept reminding herself. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.
She dozed while sitting up on the couch. A loud click stirred but did not rouse her. It sounded again, and her sharp senses dragged her awake. She picked up the luminar, which had gone out. A vast tapestry of stars shone in the high windows. For a moment she heard nothing. A silhouette appeared, close to one of the glass panes. Whoever it was rapped gently for attention.
Slowly Mathi approached. At the last instant, she called the luminar to light. It blazed on, dazzling her and the mysterious figure outside. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Treskan the scribe crouched by the window, one arm thrown over his eyes.
Mathi extinguished the light. She tried to open the floor-length window, but the catch refused to turn. Putting all her weight and strength on the handle only bent the brass.
Treskan had dropped his arm when the light went out. He tried to open the window from the outside but could not. By silent gestures he indicated to Mathi she must turn away. She did, afraid he meant to break a pane. There was a quick, small flash of light. The latch squeaked, and the scribe entered.
“Why are you here?” she whispered.
“I had to come back. I will lose my job if I fail to attach myself to Lord Balif.”
Mathi slowly shut the window. Feeling the catch, she found there was no lock on it. So why did it resist opening, and how did Treskan get in?
“Will you speak to Lord Balif for me?” Treskan begged. “You’re having dinner with him, are you not?”
“Yes, and soon.” Mathi looked down at the shabby scribe. They had traveled most of the way from the west country together for mutual company and protection. He was an odd fellow, seemingly useless one moment and amazingly erudite the next. She wondered anew how he got the window open.
The Forest King aot-4 Page 2