The Forest King

CHAPTER 5

There was a clang from below. Half the light promptly vanished, throwing the expansive room into near darkness. Balif halted his advance. Looking back over one shoulder, he called out, “Was that you, Mara?”

“Yes, curse it! My cloak caught on the candelabra!”

More of the tree of candles went out, tilted as they were at too severe an angle. The princess of Silvanost struggled with guttering lights, hissing maledictions as the hot wax burned her fingers.

“Be still,” Balif said to his lover.

Mathi did not need to be cautioned; she was as still as she ever had been in her life. While Balif’s eyes had been averted, she used her fingers and toes to grip the stone wall behind her. Fortunately it was rough travertine, and she was able to pull herself up with the slightest of holds.

“Is anyone there?” Amaranthe called.

Balif did not answer. He glided through the deep shadows to the spot where Mathi had cowered. She had reached the ceiling and clung there, gazing down at the dim figure of Balif. The dagger gleamed dully.

He swept the air before him with the blade, to Mathi’s great relief. The general could not see her hiding above him. That’s why he struck out so blindly at the shadows.

“Mara, are you dressed?” She said she was. “Raise your cowl and go out to the hall. Wait for me there.”

In a swirl of silk, the Speaker’s sister departed. Balif backed to the rail, dagger held out point first.

“You have escaped with your life, for now. There will be another reckoning later.”

He put one leg over the rail then the other. Blade in his teeth, he leaped down to the floor. No more than a candle or two still burned. Mathi heard his bare feet cross the polished floor. Then the candles went out.

She let go, dropping hard on all fours. Time to move! Undoubtedly Balif would check the kitchen to see if everyone was there. Mathi had to be back before the general, or her lucky escape would be only temporary.

Fortune favored her again. When she emerged into the upper hall, she could hear Balif and Amaranthe arguing in hushed tones in the entrance hall. Smiling to herself, Mathi ran swiftly to the back stair and descended to the corridor outside the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the warm, oven-baked interior of Artyrith’s kitchen. The aristocratic cook was dead asleep, numbed by his Runo nectar. Treskan had rolled over at the table, still snoring softly. (Who knew elves snored?) She skirted the slumbering scribe and went over to the sink. She waved her hand under the slender copper spout, and a stream of cool water trickled out. Gratefully she flung it on her face. She discovered the vein in her neck was throbbing.

Lofotan was still gone. Mathi sat down at the table where she had been before. There was enough nectar left in Artyrith’s second bottle for her to fill her mouth. She swirled the bitter liquid around and spit it out. Gods, she hated the taste of alcohol.

The door opened. Mathi slumped forward, one eye cracked. Balif stood there, barefoot and bareheaded, dressed in a sky-colored silk robe. He surveyed the room, face hard. Mathi could see the pommel of his dagger peeking out of the waist of his gown.

He walked slowly around the kitchen. Standing over Artyrith, he sniffed loudly. Finding the cook unresponsive, he moved on to Treskan. He nudged the scribe. Treskan snorted, turned his head away, and kept snoring.

Using the scribe’s change of tune as an excuse, Mathi lifted her head, feigning great drowsiness. Inside her heart was racing.

“Ah, Mathani Arborelinex. Just the one I came to find.”

“Me, my lord? What do you require of me?”

He picked up the empty nectar bottle, read the wax seal stuck to the bottom, and set it down upright.

“Have you been out of this room tonight?”

“No, my lord.”

“Someone was loose in the house. I tried to catch her, but she eluded me.”

She gripped the table hard to keep from visibly trembling. Still, she managed to say, “‘She,’ my lord?”

“I had a fleeting glimpse of a feminine silhouette.” The general appeared genuinely puzzled. “After my attention was drawn away, the intruder vanished from a closed room.”

Balif drew the knot tight on his sash. “Where is Lofotan?” Mathi explained the majordomo’s absence-the Runo nectar and Artyrith’s prank.

Balif was not amused. “I see. I remind you again to stay in this room, Mathani. I am only just learning about your life. It would be a pity to end it just at this new beginning.”

The girl merely nodded. With supreme grace, Balif said good night. He must have found Lofotan passed out down the hall, for the former soldier returned a short time later, white faced. Mathi greeted him with a cup of cool water. Strong nectar dried the throat.

Lofotan accepted the cup and swallowed the water swiftly. Eyeing the unconscious cook, his expression was murderous.

“You saw our lord?” Mathi asked innocently. Lofotan admitted he had. Though she hadn’t heard a single voice raised in anger, it was easy to imagine the dressing-down Balif had given his old comrade for deserting his post. Whatever he said, it had cut Lofotan to the core. The stalwart old warrior was badly shaken.

“You bore up well,” he said.

“I had only a sip.”

“It’s as well Lord Posturemuch is out,” Lofotan declared. “Else I would call him out to the field of honor for what he did!”

“Why pick on him? He’s no match for you,” Mathi offered.

Lofotan set down his cup, eying her. “That braggart, that proud, overweening imbecile, that …” He struggled for another insult and settled for, “That cook is also one of the most dangerous blades in Silvanost, believe it or not. If the time ever comes for us to fight, it will not be a light matter.”

Treskan groaned and stirred. Mathi filled a cup of cool water and set it by the scribe’s elbow.

Dawn arrived with a crash.

From the clang of metal and loud shouts, the girl’s first thought was that a battle was in progress. She opened her eyes. She was lying on one of the kitchen side counters, her head pillowed by a sack of flour. The luminars, which had all gone out once she and Lofotan stopped talking, were glowing brightly. Blinking, she sat up.

Artyrith, red faced, was tossing pots and pans into a wicker pannier. Another basket, already brimming with provisions, stood beside it.

“This is no way to travel!” he exclaimed. “Go now! Do this! Do that! How can I create decent meals under such conditions?”

“Who says your meals are decent?”

Mathi spied Lofotan by the door. He was dressed for the road-cloak, leather pteryges, and a finely wrought breastplate, carefully etched to soften its hard bronze sheen. A sword dangled from his left hip, and a war dagger from his right. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.

Artyrith still wore his wrinkled robes from the previous night. His hair was askew, and his face bore more distress than simply feeling harried. Ruined by Runo indeed. Seeing Lofotan’s insolent pose, he made an unpleasant suggestion to the majordomo. For once the usually dour Lofotan laughed.

“How about you? Are you ready to go, scribe?” he asked.

Treskan, very bleary, had only the clothes on his back, and said so.

“Go to the hall upstairs and wait upon our lord.”

Tired and stiff from her sojourn atop the kitchen counter, Mathi followed the scribe. They found Balif in the entry hall, dressed almost exactly like Lofotan. His armor was a little finer, but otherwise his kit was the same. Despite all the digging in crates and juggling of armaments, the pile of equipment Balif and his party were taking was very small-two panniers per elf, an easy load for a sturdy packhorse.

“Greetings, my lord,” Treskan said. “What do you require?”

“I require you to spell correctly and tell the truth,” he replied. When the scribe reacted with a blink and a stare, Balif hoisted a pair of loaded panniers onto his shoulder.

“Take these out and put them on the chestnut mare,” he said. “You do know about horses?”

He shifted the bags to Treskan, who grunted an affirmative. Knees bowed under the weight, the scribe shuffled to the monumental front doors. Only the postern was ajar, but he couldn’t fit through it with the panniers. Grasping the gigantic gilded latch, Treskan hauled the sixteen-foot-high bronze door open.

“Face the honor!”

The salute, shouted just a yard from Treskan, caused him to flinch and lose his burden. The loaded panniers crashed to the ground.

In the plaza before Balif’s mansion, six companies of warriors were drawn up in block formation. At the command, everyone raised his sword or spear to his face in salute. When they realized they were honoring the general’s clumsy scribe, the weapons fell with a musical clatter.

Strong hands boosted Treskan to his feet. Farolenu and another officer he didn’t know stood him on his feet.

Mathi peeked out the door. “Great E’li, what’s all this?”

“We’re here to escort the general,” said Farolenu. It sounded reasonable when he said it, but Mathi smelled the truth. Six companies of infantry would discourage the sort of popular parade that followed Balif to the Tower of the Stars.

Single warriors held the reins of five riding horses and five pack animals. With the help of some soldiers, Treskan got the panniers on the chestnut mare.

Lofotan emerged from the house. More careful, Farolenu waited until he saw who was coming before he ordered another salute. The veteran clasped hands with Farolenu.

Lofotan looked up at the sky. “A good day for travel.”

“The Speaker so ordered it,” Farolenu replied. “No rain to spoil the general’s departure.” From her humble place at the door, Mathi could not tell if they were jesting or not.

Complaining loudly, Artyrith appeared. No trews or breastplates for him. He wore a very stylish city-cut kilt and sleeveless tunic, topped by a bright scarlet cloak draped over one shoulder and pinned under the opposite arm. Standing on the steps with the imposing facade of Balif’s villa behind him, he looked more like the lord of the manor than his master.

Seeing the array of soldiery drawn up before him, Artyrith uttered a single pithy oath. The officers, Lofotan included, regarded him with supreme distaste.

Hatless, while Treskan, Lofotan, and Balif wore flat-topped, wide-brimmed travelers’ hats, Artyrith strode down the steps to the line of horses. He chose the best one, a dappled gray, and was about to mount him when Lofotan caught him by the elbow.

“Not that one. That is the general’s.”

The tall roan was the majordomo’s. That left the three ponies for the cook, the scribe, and the girl. Sniffing at the indignity of having to ride a short-legged nag, Artyrith chose the paint and swung nimbly into the saddle. Treskan stood by the dusty brown pony without complaint. He was an unsteady rider at best. At least with a beast such as that he didn’t have so far to fall.

Lofotan beckoned Mathi to take the last pony. She came on warily. Three paces away, the horses began to shift and snort. The pony left for Mathi rolled its eyes as she drew near.

“I warned my lord that animals do not like me,” Mathi said, backing away.

“Nonsense,” said Lofotan, dismounting. “The silly beast is just skittish.”

The silly beast was indeed skittish, and no amount of coaxing or handling by the expert Lofotan would calm it down. It began to look as though Mathi would be left behind or worse, have to walk.

Balif emerged, tying on his flat hat. Farolenu barked the command, and six hundred warriors snapped to attention, clacking their bronze greaves together as they stood straight as spears. The general of all the Speaker’s armies regarded his old comrades with a critical eye.

Farolenu stepped forward. “My lord! I wish I was going with you!”

“No, you don’t. It’s going to be terribly dull. Riding, camping, sleeping in the cold and the rain-no adventures, I fear.”

Farolenu was unconvinced. He knew his general too well. Where Balif went, things happened.

“I don’t understand why a suitable escort was not ordered,” Farolenu said. “The commander of all the Speaker’s armies deserves more company than one old soldier, an effete cook, a clumsy wordsmith, and a bumpkin.”

The cook retorted, “Your voice carries exceedingly well, my lord!”

“And your ears are keen,” Balif replied. “Fear not, my friend. I have the companions I deserve and wish.”

He glanced at the sky. The summer sun was well up. Widely spaced, bright white clouds drifted along. There was perfume in the air-the scent of all the flowers in the neighboring gardens.

“Time to go.”

“There is a problem, my lord,” said Lofotan. Balif queried him with a look. His majordomo explained how the pony left for Mathi to ride would not allow her on its back.

“So?” Balif patted the sturdy animal’s neck. He ducked under its low neck, running a practiced hand over the animal’s dusty hide. “Seems like a sound enough creature. Come here, girl.”

Mathi, loitering at a discreet distance, approached slowly. The ponies-not just hers-began to quiver and shuffle their hooves.

Balif removed his wide-brimmed hat and used it to cover the pony’s eyes. With a nod, he let Mathi know she should try to mount again. Holding the saddle pommel in both hands, she clambered rather clumsily onto the animal’s back. The pony pranced a little forward and back but did not buck.

“We need blinders; that’s all. Something in our girl’s complexion disturbs the beast.”

Lofotan went inside the villa and returned a short while later with a set of blinders, gray from long disuse. They were fitted to the pony’s head. Balif tied his hat on once more and gave Mathi her pony’s reins.

“Be kind,” he said. “Often we don’t know who we are carrying.”

His remark puzzled everyone, but at last the party was ready. Lofotan held Balif’s horse while he mounted. He wrapped the reins around his left hand and wheeled the animal around. Trotting back, he watched as Farolenu’s soldiers lashed the baggage panniers in place, looped the packhorses’ reins together, and gave them to the last rider in line, Mathi.

“Mind the reins,” Balif said. “We’ll be on short rations for sure if you lose those horses.” To her own surprise, the girl found herself promising to guard the animals’ leads with her life. What was it about the general that inspired such compliance? Mathi felt she would do anything the general asked. It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling, the urge to obey.

Without fanfare, Balif assumed the lead of his little party. He signaled his people to follow him and set out down the avenue at a slow trot. Lofotan was on his right, and Artyrith trailed straight behind. Treskan came next, his writing board and leather cylinders of parchment banging against his legs. Mathi urged her animal forward, but the pony was reluctant. The gap between her and the scribe widened. Farolenu circled back, asking what the problem was.

“The blighted beast won’t go!”

“Really?” Farolenu smacked the horse’s rump, sending it lurching after the others. Jerked into motion, the packhorses followed with their ears laid back and teeth bared.

Farolenu barked, “Companies! By the order, quick march!”

One by one the infantry broke formation and marched after the balky pack animals. When the last one left the square, silence fell over the great house of Balif.

Balif reached the main eastbound thoroughfare in Silvanost, called the White Strand. It ran straight as an arrow to the E’li Gate in the ring of fortifications surrounding the city. Along the way the streets were strangely empty. Bands of warriors in fours and sixes stood on every corner, bracing to attention as the general went by, but no ordinary Silvanesti could be seen. Silvanos was not having a repeat of the previous day’s triumphal parade.

There was one vehicle drawn up at the edge of the White Strand. It was a closed coach, finely made but devoid of any decoration, talisman, or heraldry. The gleaming pearl-gray coach was pulled by four horses of the same hue, perfectly matched. No one sat on the driver’s box. As Balif rode out onto the broad avenue, he passed the coach. Taking the brim in his hand, he doffed his hat to the coach. Curtains drawn across the windows never stirred.

Seeing the exchange, Mathi urged her balky mount to go faster. Drawing abreast of Artyrith, she said, “What was that about? Who do you think was in that coach?”

Looking straight ahead, the cook replied, “What coach?”

Lofotan also ignored the vehicle. Treskan frankly stared at it until the marching ranks of Farolenu’s elves entered the street. Once Balif was far down the way, a liveried driver appeared from behind the conveyance. He climbed onto the box, cracked his whip, and drove the mysterious coach away.

Then it struck her: Amaranthe. She had come to say good-bye after all.

Nothing else of note happened along the way to the E’li Gate. The massive panels were standing open. Pennants of the House of Silvanos whipped from the towers above the gate. Balif rode through, stopped, and turned his horse around. Lofotan and Artyrith did the same, keeping the same positions behind their leader. With the pack animals between them, Treskan and Mathi couldn’t manage such a tidy maneuver. They settled for clearing out of the way, pushing the pack train to the ditch on the north side of the road.

Farolenu halted his troops inside the gate. Alone he walked through to the general. He gave his hand. “My lord, I want you to know I have written to the outposts at Free Winds, Greenfield, and Tanjanost, advising them of your coming. They will render any assistance you need.”

“This was not Silvanos’s order, was it?” Balif asked. He gripped his old comrade’s hand firmly.

Farolenu said nothing. When Balif released his hand, the one-time metalsmith saluted as old soldiers do, placing his palm over his heart. “The gods bless you, Balif of the Plains.”

“Thank you, my friend. Somehow I doubt they will.”

He left the puzzled Farolenu and rode away, spurring his horse to a canter. The others hurried after him. Ahead lay the ferry station and the broad Thon-Thalas. The ferry crew was standing by. Their craft was a broad, flat-bottomed barge with three steering boards and a pole mast supporting a white lateen sail. There was much talk in the city of training giant turtles to tow barges back and forth across the Thon-Thalas, but so far that had not been done.

Balif’s party boarded the empty ferry. Normally that time of day would find a sizable crowd filing aboard, but there was no one else in the station. Lofotan queried the crew about it. Nervously, they avowed no knowledge, but it was plain the Speaker wanted Balif’s departure made as quiet as possible.

The horses were secured, and the baggage stowed. Sitting on the rows of benches in the bluff bow, Mathi watched with interest as the sailors cast off. The sail went up, and the steering oars were turned by practiced hands. Mathi asked why there were three oars instead of just one.

“The Thalas is wide and deep,” Lofotan explained. “Though the surface is placid, there is a terrific undertow from the city all the way down to the sea. It takes more than one rudder to steady a craft on this river.”

Balif removed his hat and let the river wind tussle his pale hair. “In the Dream Days, the people who dwelt by the river called it ‘Thon-Flaxis,’ which means Drowning River in the old tongue.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It was common for the river tribes to use the river as a way of solving disputes.”

Sensing a story, Treskan unlimbered his writing equipment. Artyrith, feet propped up on the bench in front of him, idly asked how it was done.

“Two elves with a conflict or an affair of honor could ask for a trial by water. Each would enter the Thon-Thalas from the opposite bank and swim to the other side. If one drowned, the survivor was judged to have won his case. If they both drowned, the subject of their dispute was taken away from both clans and given to a disinterested party.”

“And if both survived?” Mathi wondered.

“There is no record of that ever happening,” said Balif.

“Our ancestors must have been savages to employ such practices.” Artyrith sniffed.

Balif replaced his hat. With great dignity, he withdrew to the stern of the barge, where he gazed at the city slowly diminishing in the distance.

“Fool,” said Lofotan in a low voice. “Don’t you ever govern your tongue?”

“What have I said?” asked the cook innocently.

“Did you not know our lord offered to swim the Thon-Thalas as proof of his innocence in the recent scandal? The Speaker forbade it, but our lord was sincere. He would have undergone the ordeal had the Speaker agreed.”

Shamed, Artyrith looked away and said nothing. Mathi made her way aft to where the general stood, one foot propped on the stern post.

“My lord, don’t be so troubled. I’m sure our mission will succeed,” she ventured.

“Perhaps it will. Stranger things have happened.”

He continued to watch the city shrink to the horizon. Mathi tried to say something encouraging. How dangerous could their mission be? They weren’t expected to fight off an invasion with just five elves, merely find out what was going on.

“Our mission means nothing,” Balif said. “Any subaltern with half a mind could do it. What troubles me is quite different.”

Grateful for the opening, Mathi asked what the general had on his mind.

“I cannot escape the feeling this is the last time I shall see Silvanost,” he replied somberly. “And all who dwell here.”