Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

Chapter Ten

I’m planning to make an early start next day. As the Elves rise late I should be able to examine the scene of the crime without interruption. Unfortunately, after securing another bottle of wine from Camith, I find myself swapping war stories with him late into the night and by the time I wake the sun is overhead and the morning is gone.

“I did not wish to disturb you,” says Camith as I struggle through for a late breakfast. “I know that Turanians are conscientious about their morning prayers.”

“Yes, it often holds me back,” I admit, and settle down to a loaf or two, washed down with the juice of some Avulan fruit I can’t put a name to.

I ask Camith if he knows Gorith-ar-Del.

“I know of him. I don’t believe we have ever spoken. He’s a maker of longbows and lives on the west of the island, where the trees are suitable for his craft.”

“Can you think of any reason why he might be skulking round the Hesuni Tree, looking unfriendly?”

Camith can’t. He’s never heard anything disreputable about Gorith although he is aware of the trouble his relatives found themselves in when they visited Turai.

“I’ve been wondering about this Hesuni Tree, Camith. Just supposing it wasn’t Elith who damaged it, and also supposing it wasn’t just some random act of vandalism, which seems unlikely, what motive might any other Elf have for doing it? I mean, who could gain from it?”

“No one.”

“Are you sure? Makri tells me that not only are all the Avulans connected to it in some way, but the Tree Priests can actually communicate with it.”

“In a way,” agrees Camith. “Though the communication is not what you would have with another Elf. More a sense of the life around the Tree, I believe.”

“What if something dubious was going on on Avula? Might the Tree be able to tell the Tree Priests about it?”

This makes Camith smile. “I do not think so. It’s not that sort of communication.” He looks serious. “Yet there is a relationship. Perhaps the Tree Priest might learn some things that were beyond the ken of other Elves.”

“Which might be motive for someone to try and kill it. Bumping off a witness, so to speak.”

Makri is sceptical. “You can’t get a witness statement from a Hesuni Tree, Thraxas. You’re grasping at straws here.”

“Okay, I’m grasping at straws. But last summer I found myself in conversation with dolphins in Turai, so I’m keeping an open mind about a talking tree. What about this other branch of the family I heard about? The rival claimants to the position of Tree Priest?”

This makes Camith uncomfortable. “There is a rival claimant, Hith-ar-Key. The dispute over the succession goes back some centuries. I believe that their claim is weak but it is not something that would be much discussed, apart from in the Council of Elders.”

“Why not?”

“Any dispute over the Priesthood is calanith to everyone except the Elders and the priestly families. It is up to them to sort it out and no other Elf would interfere or even refer to the matter.”

I’m already getting the impression that far too many things on Avula are calanith, which might turn out to be awkward, given the Deputy Consul’s strict admonition not to rub up against any Elvish taboos the wrong way. I let the subject drop.

Makri is eager to set off.

“I haven’t seen the Tree Palace yet. Look, I painted my toenails again.”

“Lady Yestar will be thrilled. Are you planning on wearing that tunic?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“The same as with everything else you wear. It doesn’t cover enough of you. Haven’t you noticed that the Elf women cover their legs? Couldn’t you borrow some demure Elf clothes?”

“I think not,” says Makri, sagely. “As the philosopher Samanatius says, ‘Never try to pretend to be someone else.’ ”

“I don’t trust Samanatius.”

“Why not? You’ve never heard him speak.”

“He teaches for free, doesn’t he? If he was any good he’d charge admission.”

Makri shakes her head. “Thraxas, you take ignorance to new depths. Anyway, Yestar would probably be disappointed if I turned up looking like an Elf. Isuas will have told her what a Barbarian I am.”

As if to emphasise the point, Makri has her twin swords strapped to her back. I instruct her not to unsheathe the Orcish blade under any circumstances. The dark metal is instantly recognisable and waving an Orcish weapon around is liable to get us run off the island.

Camith sees us off. “You notice how he was yawning all through breakfast?” I ask Makri.

“Still bored by your war stories, no doubt.”

“Camith was not bored by my war stories. Rather, he was honoured to have such a distinguished soldier under his roof. If we hadn’t stood firm in Turai, there would have been no stopping the Orcs. They’d have been down here with the war ships, dragons at the ready. The Elvish Isles might well have fallen. Really, when you think about it, these Elves owe me for protecting them.”

“I thought the Elves came to your rescue?”

“They helped. I expect we’d have managed anyway. But the point I was trying to make before you started interrupting was that Camith was yawning having presumably had a bad night’s sleep. More nightmares, I imagine. So when we get in the vicinity of the Hesuni Tree, keep a look-out for anything that might be affecting it enough to make it start sending out bad feelings to the Elves.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve no idea. Just look. You’re well versed in Elvish lore, you might spot something I’d miss.”

We set off across the walkways towards the Palace. Even at this elevation the vegetation is dense, with vines tangled over the tops of the trees. There are few places where the ground is visible and such small clearings as we cross are covered with flowering bushes. There are plenty of butterflies and small birds that make a lot of noise, and occasionally a monkey swings over to examine us before disappearing back into the forest. Makri studies them with interest but I’ve never been fond of monkeys.

Above our heads the sky is blue. Although this is the winter season on Avula it’s still warm and pleasant, in contrast to the icy misery of Turai, far away to the north.

“Poor Gurd, he’ll be as cold as a frozen pixie right now. Of course as a northern Barbarian he doesn’t feel it as much as a civilised man like myself.”

We pass over the tournament field. Some young Elves are practising for the big event. Camith had laughed when we mentioned that Isuas had asked Makri for fighting lessons. Isuas is not unpopular among the Avulans, but her lack of physical prowess is something of a standing joke among them.

“But Kalith has four strong sons and three hearty daughters,” Camith pointed out. “No one minds that his eighth child is a weakling. I believe that Lady Yestar encourages him to take her on his voyages in an effort to harden her, but from what I saw of her yesterday it has had little effect.”

Along the way we pass small settlements. When an Elvish child runs indoors in a panic at the sight of Makri, she professes that’s she’s starting to feel depressed again.

“Now I think about it, it might not be so great at the Tree Palace. Full of high-class Elves making comments about my toenails, I expect.”

“Well, you would insist on painting them.”

“I need some fortifying,” she announces. “You bring any thazis out with you?”

“Thazis? This is the Elvish Isles. A paradise on earth and a drug-free environment.”

“I know. So did you bring any?”

“What do you need it for? Can’t you just enjoy the clean air?”

“It’s wonderful. So? You bring any thazis?”

“Of course. You expect me to wander about a strange island without any thazis? Hell, who knows when I might next get a beer.”

I pass Makri a thazis stick and she lights it with a satisfied sigh. I do the same. I don’t know if this mild narcotic is illegal on Avula but I doubt Lord Kalith would be pleased to learn we’d been using it on his island. We finish it off on a lonely stretch of walkway. The sound of choral singing floats past us pleasantly. Entrants to the festival are rehearsing anywhere they can find space.

“Now I’m relaxed,” says Makri.

Eight masked Elves carrying long vicious spears appear round the corner and advance towards us menacingly.

“Damn it,” says Makri. “Why did you make me smoke that thing?”

I can’t believe that we are about to be attacked right here in the middle of Avula.

“They must be practising for the tournament.”

“They don’t look like they’re under fifteen.”

The walkway is wide enough for four. The eight Elves are drawn up in two ranks, in battle formation. Eight spears point towards us, leaving no way through. They break into a run. You can’t fight eight Elves with spears in a confined space like this, certainly not without a hefty shield to cover yourself.

“Got any spells?” says Makri, unsheathing her twin blades.

“Didn’t think to load any in.”

“Can’t you just remember one?”

Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Once you use a spell it’s gone from your mind. To use it again you have to reread it from your grimoire. We’ve no time for further discussion. They’re almost upon us. Even against such odds Makri would normally refuse to retreat. Probably she’d try and outflank them. On the narrow walkway, there’s no way to do that. When the spears are only a few feet away Makri and I sheathe our swords simultaneously and leap into the trees. I offer up a prayer for a sturdy branch to hold on to, a prayer that unfortunately seems to go unanswered as I plunge down through the branches. I grab frantically at everything I can reach but nothing will support my weight and I fall a long way without making contact with anything firm enough to halt my descent. Eventually I thud heavily into a sturdy branch, only ten feet or so from the ground. I’m severely winded and badly scratched, but otherwise undamaged.

There are crashing noises above me, and some swearing. Makri found a firm handhold further up and is now swinging herself down to my level. We drop to the ground and draw our weapons, waiting for our assailants to come after us. There’s no sign of them.

“Let’s go,” I say, and we move off, but moving off in the dense undergrowth is difficult. Makri snarls as she cuts her way through the vegetation. Fleeing from an opponent always puts her in a bad mood.

“Don’t worry. I figure you’ll get a chance to meet them again.”

“Who were they?”

Neither of us has any idea. Eight masked Elves, all silent, with no identifying marks.

After a long period of hacking our way through the thick plant life, hunting unsuccessfully for a path, Makri rounds on me with a savage look in her eyes.

“Give me more thazis,” she demands.

“Not really what we need right now, is it, Makri?”

“Just give me the damned thazis,” she snarls.

“Hey, okay, don’t get crazy about it. I know you hate running from opponents, it’s not my fault they had us outweaponed in a narrow place.”

Makri’s anger suddenly leaves her and she sits down heavily.

“Now I’m depressed. In fact I’m as miserable as a Niojan whore. Damn these mood swings.”

I ask her what is going on.

“It’s a month since we left Turai,” she replies.

“So?”

“So it’s my period again. Any complaints?”

I sigh. “No. None. But try not to bleed over the Tree Palace. Kalith will be furious if that happens.”

“To hell with Kalith,” says Makri, lighting up her thazis stick. “Of course I don’t have anything with me, seeing as I didn’t get a chance to pack before I leaped into the ocean. Maybe Lady Yestar can lend me a towel or something.”

By this time I’m in need of a little relaxation myself. I smoke another thazis stick and consider the situation. There has to be a path around here somewhere. There’s nothing for it but to keep chopping our way through till we find one. I’m not certain if the Avulan forest contains any dangerous predators. It certainly contains a lot of insects, several of which seem to have decided that nothing tastes better than Thraxas the Investigator.

“If this blunts my blades someone is going to pay dearly,” states Makri. “I hate this. My legs are getting scratched. Why didn’t you tell me to wear something more suitable? You want to go in front for a while, I’m sure I’m doing all the work here. Put some effort into it, Thraxas, we’re going to be here all day at this rate.”

It’s exhausting work and I am soon dripping with sweat. Eventually we break through into a small clearing. I slump heavily to the ground.

“To hell with this.”

“Give me another thazis stick,” says Makri.

I was planning to ration my thazis carefully, but the situation seems to call for it so we light up some more, smoke it, then set off again. We’re heading in the general direction of the Palace. At least I hope we are. I’m trying to navigate by the sun but the sun is rarely visible through the trees. Makri’s mood continues to alternate between anger and depression. I’m fairly furious myself.

“Damned spearmen. If I’d known this was going to happen I’d never have jumped.”

“We should have stayed and fought them. I’ll kill them when I get my hands on them. Hell, I just got stung.”

After what feels like several hours of hacking, chopping, cursing and complaining, we finally find a clearing in which a ladder ascends to a walkway above.

“Thank God for that.”

We climb. When we finally make the top I sit down exhausted. Makri has drawn her swords, eager for another sight of the spear carriers, but the walkway is empty. She sheathes her weapons angrily.

“I’m in a really bad mood,” she says.

I pass her a thazis stick. We smoke them and walk on.

“Where are we?”

“No idea. Look, there’s an Elf sitting in that tree.”

We shout to the Elf, asking which way the Palace is. He points, and we head in that direction.

“I’m in no mood to talk to Lady Yestar,” Makri says. “Better give me another thazis stick, mellow me a little.”

I figure this is a good idea. No point in being flustered when we arrive. We light two more thazis sticks and smoke them as we walk. Wherever we are, it seems to be a sparsely populated part of the island, and we pass no further Elves.

“I hate this stupid forest,” says Makri.

I pass her another thazis stick. We walk on.

“Look. Elf houses. Don’t you think they look sort of funny?”

Makri giggles. “Houses in trees.”

It does seem quite funny, now she mentions it.

“We better have some more thazis before we hit the Palace. Don’t want to arrive there in a bad mood, what with me menstruating and everything.”

“Absolutely,” I agree, and light us up a stick each. I remember my flask.

“Some klee?”

“Thank you,” says Makri.

The walkway brings us into the centre of the island, ending in a long ladder down to the central clearing. The Tree Palace is visible on the other side. Elves stare at us as we pass. We greet them warmly.

Once we reach the clearing Makri halts, looking thoughtful.

“You say thazis isn’t used among the Elves? You think they might not like it? We’d better smoke some behind this tree, before we get to the Palace.”

This sounds like a good idea.

“You are good at having good ideas,” I tell Makri.

“I know. I think about things a lot,” replies Makri, inhaling the thazis smoke. “Important things.”

“I think about important things too.”

“It’s good to think about important things.”

After all the thazis my mouth tastes funny. I take some klee to clear away the taste and pass the flask to Makri. She coughs as it burns her throat. We sit under the tree and gaze at the beautiful blue sky for a while. Butterflies flutter around our heads.

“I never realised how beautiful butterflies are,” says Makri.

“Neither did I. Aren’t they pretty?”

We watch them for a long time. A few clouds drift across the sky.

“Where were we going?” asks Makri, eventually.

I think about this.

“The Palace.”

“Right. What for?”

“You know. Just to see it. Talk to the Elves.”

Makri blinks. “Right.”

We sit under the sun.

“Should we go?” says Makri, after a while.

“Go where?”

“The Palace.”

“If you like.”

Our discussion is interrupted by a furious debate. A large group of white-robed Elves appears out of the forest, all talking heatedly at once.

“We cannot omit the scene where King Vendris butchers his children,” says one of the actors, angrily. “It traditionally appears after the Tree-burning scene. . . .”

“Then it is time for a change,” counters a grey-haired Elf, whom, from the way he seems to be taking the brunt of the anger, I take to be the director.

“And who are you to change the telling of the ancient tale of Queen Leeuven?” demands an actress, possibly Queen Leeuven herself, from the gold tiara in her hair.

“I am the man appointed by Lord Kalith to put on the play,” retorts the grey-haired Elf.

“A terrible mistake!” cry several of the actors, with feeling.

“Just do as I tell you if you want that prize. . . .”

The group carries on across the clearing, finally disappearing back into the forest, still arguing.

We stare at them as they go.

“You know, Makri, I kind of thought that traditional Elvish actors would be more dignified. That Elf with the tiara reminded me of a chorus girl I once knew. I had to help her flee from Turai after she burned down the theatre.”

We lapse back into silence.

“I haven’t had any thazis since we landed on Avula,” says Makri. “Did you bring any?”

“I think so,” I reply, hunting around in my bag.

We saunter towards the Palace, thazis in hand. More Elves walk by. They stare at us, but say nothing. When we’re walking between the two pools by the Hesuni Tree Makri stops to admire the view.

“I’m thirsty,” she says, and kneels down to drink.

“Me too. You know, I think that thazis might have affected me a little.”

Makri says she feels fine. I figure I’ll be fine too after I’ve had some more water. I almost imagine that someone is shouting at us, but it’s only a fleeting impression. Makri bends down to splash water over her face and I do the same. It’s cool and refreshing. I drink some more, and feel the intoxication passing from my body. I realise that someone is indeed shouting at me. It’s an Elf I recognise, looking angry.

“Don’t you know it’s forbidden to drink from the sacred pools that feed the Hesuni Tree?” he cries.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No one mentioned it,” adds Makri.

Our Elvish inquisitor looks at us with disgust. It’s Lasas, brother of the murdered Tree Priest.

“Pray you are pure of body and spirit, both of you. Else be very wary of the effects of the sacred water.”

Sensing that nothing I can say is going to pacify Lasas, I apologise again and make off briskly for the ladders that lead up to the Tree Palace.

“Another social blunder. How were we meant to know they were sacred pools? They should put a sign on them or something.”

I’m expecting difficulty with the guards at the ladders, but they wave us up almost affably.

“Lady Yestar is expecting you.”

We start to climb.

“What do you think that Elf meant by ‘be very wary of the effects of the sacred water’?” says Makri.

“Who knows? Just trying to scare us, I expect. I mean, it can hardly be poisonous as it’s feeding the Hesuni Tree.”

“Hesuni,” says Makri. “That’s a funny name.”

She giggles. I realise that the thazis has not entirely worn off and make a supreme effort to concentrate as we reach the platform on which stand the great wooden doors to the Palace. Again we gain entry without difficulty.

“You have to hand it to Isuas,” I say. “Having her put in a good word for us certainly makes things easier.”

“Absolutely,” agrees Makri. “She’s a fine kid. I always did like her.”

We pass through several well-lit rooms and corridors. The Tree Palace, while larger than the other Elvish dwellings on the island, is far smaller than the sort of palaces built for Human Kings and gives the impression of comfort rather than luxury. A pleasant aroma permeates the whole building, either from incense or natural fragrances in the wood. We’re shown into a reception room, which again is far smaller than an equivalent room at the Imperial Palace in Turai, but warm and welcoming, with a tapestry on the wall depicting some deer drinking from a pool.

“Lady Yestar will be here presently,” says the attendant.

“Can you get me a beer?” I ask, hopefully.

The attendant looks doubtful. “I don’t think we have any beer in the palace.”

At that moment Lady Yestar enters the room. A small silver tiara is the only mark of rank she wears. Isuas is hanging on to the side of her dress. When she sees Makri the child shouts with glee and tugs at her mother’s dress in her eagerness to introduce her.

“This is Makri,” she cries. “She killed a dragon when she was a gladiator slave and she once fought eight Trolls at once and then she slaughtered everyone and escaped and went to Turai and now when Thraxas is out investigating she kills people as well. And she let me point her sword. She’s got an Orcish sword! She got it when she slaughtered everyone. She’s been teaching me how to fight. She was the champion gladiator!”

At this introduction Lady Yestar surprises me by bursting out laughing. It’s the first time I’ve seen an Elf laugh since the start of this affair. I’d almost forgotten they were capable of it.

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