Paul Thompson: The Forest King

At that, the light collapsed so tightly that it barely encompassed the wizard from his skin inward. Unable to stand yet unable to fall, he drifted slowly in a circle with only the tips of his toes touching the floor. As he turned past Balif, the elf warrior saw the deep hatred in his eyes.

The captain of the guard who captured Vedvedsica testified, as did the commander of the griffon riders. Seeing the fate of the outraged wizard, the warriors wisely obeyed the advocate and did not speak too clearly about what they found, only about what they did.

The griffon riders’ commander, a veteran soldier named Pirayus, dared to offer advice to the Night Chamber. “Destroy everything, my lords. Use fire until nothing remains of this horror but ashes!” He gave the prisoner a meaningful glance. “Destroy everything , my lords.”

The warriors were dismissed. Balif took that as his cue to go too. When the stairs opened in the chamber floor, the other elves descended. Balif went down one step, paused, then went down one more step. He halted there.

“My lords, what will you do with the prisoner?”

“That decision has not been made.”

He didn’t believe that. Vedvedsica’s fate had been decided before the Night Chamber’s doors even opened.

“May I address the chamber?” The advocate gave Balif leave. He walked back to where the wizard twisted slowly on a spit of white light.

“My lords, I beg you to consider the intent of the prisoner in your judgment. He was not trying to loose evil on the world. His motives were creative, not destructive.”

Silence in the dark dome was ominous. Rows of dim lamps burned like unblinking eyes.

“His acts are an offense against all that is decent and proper, I agree. But do not exterminate what has been created. As Astarin teaches, life is the highest force in nature. A living thing, no matter how wretched, owes its life to the gods and not to any lesser being. Do not kill, my lords. Punish, yes. Imprison, certainly. But do not stain your own souls with the death of innocents.”

“Innocents?”

The word echoed throughout the hall. It was not the advocate who spoke, but Silvanos himself. Balif faced the far-off voice.

“Yes, Great Speaker. No child chooses its parents. They are innocent of their creation.”

“Are you a priest now?”

Balif spread his hands. “I am a failure as guide and master to my counselor. Perhaps I should become a cleric and learn to deal with my failings.”

“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.

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.