Paul Thompson - The Forest King

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.

“Is General Balif dead?” Amaranthe said.

Treskan replied, “I do not think so, Highness. He was wounded in the battle with the nomad chief, but I do not believe they were mortal injuries.”

More sharply: “What became of him then?”

“Highness, I have not seen the general since the battle with the humans ended,” Mathi said honestly, lowering her gaze. “Where he is, I do not know, but I doubt he is far away.”

“Where is he then? Speak!”

Mathi folded her hands into her loose sleeves. “I cannot say for sure.”

“Impertinence!” Curls said. “Give the order, Highness, and the truth will be extracted from this impudent girl by any means necessary!”

Amaranthe was more reasonable. “Why can you not tell me all you know?”

“Many ears spread gossip as the leaves of a great tree spread raindrops.” Treskan said, quoting a famous aphorism of the sage Vestas. It was just the sort of thing a real Silvanesti scribe might say. “There are those who would like to know where General Balif is, who do not wish him well.”

“Double impertinence! Away with this scoundrel!”

Curls’ quick anger meant one thing to Mathi: he was the Speaker’s servant, not Amaranthe’s. Was he, like Artyrith, charged with finding the general and holding him for the Speaker’s pleasure?

The guards moved in either side of them. Amaranthe raised her voice, however, saying, “I have not ended this audience. Who dares order the arrest of my guest?” Cold silence filled the room. She said, “Hamalcath, I am displeased. You may go. Now.”

Mathi had never seen an elf blush so severely. Curls-Lord Hamalcath-bowed deeply and withdrew. Amaranthe dismissed the rest of her court until the only ones left were Mathi, Treskan, two of her personal guards, and herself.

She sat down in a high-backed chair, folding her hands in her lap.

“Speak now, and hold back nothing. Tell me of Balif.”

So they did. They took turns describing their journey, the growing curse and how it changed the general, his challenge to to Bulnac, and the overthrow of the powerful nomad force.

Very quietly Amaranthe said, “I was never certain if he was merely valiant or very clever. Now I see he was both.”

When Mathi described Balif’s championing the kender as the rightful owners of the eastern province, Amaranthe’s haughtiness returned.

“Does Balif think he can give away what is the Speaker’s?”

Diplomatically Treskan bowed his head. “It is not for me to say, Highness. I can only relate what my lord Balif has said in my hearing. The wanderfolk are here. Possession is a great measure of the law, it is said. Lord Balif saw them as harmless neighbors of the Silvanesti and a useful buffer against the humans.”

She nodded slightly and bade him continue.

“There is little more to say, Highness. I lost sight of the general in the melee of the last battle, and I have not seen him since.”

She drummed white fingers on the arm of her chair. “He is alive, I know it. Is there anything left of his true nature, or has the curse reduced him to a brute at last?” Truthfully, Mathi admitted she did not know.

Amaranthe stood abruptly. Mathi had a flash of memory, seeing her with Balif in the general’s strange, empty mansion. She stifled the unworthy image and tried to anticipate what the willful royal lady wanted.

“I am here against the wishes of my brother,” she said. “He bears no affection for General Balif, for the people love him in a way they will never love the Speaker. I have told Silvanos again and again that a great ruler does not need to be loved, but he resents Balif’s popularity and fears his influence.”

She did not say what was really in her mind: that Silvanos wanted Balif out of the way forever, curse or no curse. She didn’t have to say it.

Mathi said, “I understand, Highness. Your concern is the well-being of the general.” She looked her directly in the eye. “In this, we are agreed.”

“Then assure him of my … protection. In whatever form his destiny has chosen, he has every protection I can give him.”

With that, the interview ended. Mathi and Treskan were taken rather unceremoniously to change their clothes. Their fine court raiment was taken back, and they were given their old garments, and escorted to the boat. It was dusk, and the elves rowed up river to the exact spot Mathi and the scribe had embarked. They were put ashore. The boat pulled away and was soon lost in the gathering dusk.

Insects hummed in clouds above the water’s edge. Treskan slapped at them. It was eerily quiet there below the bluff. Mathi smelled campfires. She saw the flicker of firelight atop the hill, and that meant the Longwalker and his people were still around. Mathi decided to try a ploy he’d been mulling over since leaving Amaranthe’s ship.

“Would you really like to find Balif?” she asked Treskan.

“I want to not be devoured by mosquitoes,” he said sourly. “How will you find him when so many others can not?”