The Forest King

CHAPTER 20

Mathi was led to the shore of the Thon-Haddaras. A white boat lay anchored in the stream. The hull gleamed white and smooth, with a high prow and a round stern. A light pole mast was bare of sail, but a dozen long sweeps poked through the gunwales. Running from the deck down to the muddy bank was a narrow white gangplank. It seemed too narrow to ascend, but the elf messenger went up heel to toe without breaking stride. Mathi followed more deliberately, holding out her arms to keep her balance.

When she reached the deck the plank was drawn back on board and the rowers backed off the mud. In the shadow of the prow she was startled to see Treskan. The scribe had his writing equipment and bags of documents heaped around his feet. From his expression it was clear he was as surprised to see Mathi as she was to see him. Further aft, the coxswain held an elegantly carved tiller. At his command the boat swung in a half circle and rowed smoothly downstream.

As they traveled, Mathi and Treskan heard how Artyrith’s army of forty thousand had entered the eastern province from the sea, marching up the east and west banks of the Thon-Haddaras, while another twenty-five thousand followed their route overland to Free Winds to cut the nomads’ road. It was hard to imagine so many elves had passed that way. The dense, low-lying woods were undisturbed, but that was the elves’ way. Treskan said one hundred thousand elves could pass through a forest and cause less disruption to the surroundings that fifty humans. The human way was to push through obstacles. Elves slipped by, doing less damage than a summer rain.

After describing the arrival of the army, the Silvanesti messenger fell silent. They rowed downstream a long time without a word being spoken. Late in the afternoon the lazy green stream changed into blue sea as the river abruptly widened into a fine deepwater bay. Ahead lay a great fleet of ships, arrayed in a crescent formation. Aside from a few lighters crawling across the sea, the ships were all at rest, sails furled and oars run in.

A strong onshore breeze hit the little boat, almost bringing it to a stop. The rowers dug in, pulling for the largest ship in the center of the formation. Most of the vessels were round-bellied argosies that had borne troops and supplies from Silvanost. A few swift galleots, bristling with warriors, ringed the slow sailing ships. In the center of the flotilla was a large, boxy vessel with a gleaming white hull. Gilded banners fluttered from the masts. Mathi and Treskan’s boat made unerringly for the flagship, coasting to a stop alongside amidships. Mathi expected a ladder to be lowered-the flagship’s deck was a good ten feet above them-but instead the rowers shipped their oars and everyone waited. A squeaking, bumping sound drew Mathi’s attention overhead. Creeping over the side of the flagship came a heavy wooden boom. Bright bronze chains dangled from the tip. When they were close enough, the coxswain and the messenger secured the hooks at the end of each length of chain to massive rings affixed to the boat’s deck.

Mathi stared at the boom. Surely they were not going to-

“Haul away!” called the coxswain. These were the first words Mathi had heard him say since coming aboard.

There was a loud clanking from above. Slack went out of the chains, then the boat began to rise. Treskan and Mathi rushed to either side of the rail and looked over. Already they were out of the water, which was streaming down the boat’s hull in torrents. They rose a good ten feet until the boat’s rail was level with the flagship’s. The boom slowly retracted, bringing the small craft tight against the flagship’s side. Ropes were passed back and forth, tying each to the other. Then the messenger raised the hinged rail and stepped onto the great ship’s broad deck.

“Come,” he said to his guests.

The deck was like a city street. There were lanes on either side, and the center was crowded with buildings built exactly like houses or shops on land. They looked just like the stone structures common to Silvanost, but in passing Mathi touched a spiral column and discovered it was wood, made to look like stone.

Mathi and Treskan were led forward into a one of the two-story deckhouses. An elderly elf with white hair down to his shoulders eyed them once inside.

“The guests,” he said disapprovingly. “What a sight you are. Well, the first thing to be done is make you clean. Get off those filthy rags at once.”

Treskan fingered his collar. “Must I?”

“You cannot enter the August Presence of our patron looking and smelling as you do.”

“I cannot,” Mathi protested. “I am a maiden, a ward of Quenesti Pah. I cannot disrobe in the presence of males!”

Treskan had similar reasons for modesty. Under his clothes his elf diguise had worn thin. The nomads mistook him for a half-elf. If he stripped now, the Silvanesti would certainly arrest him.

The white-haired elf sighed. “Quarters suitable for your chastity will be provided. As for you, scribe-”

“I thank you, excellency, for the opportunity to cleanse myself! I have been too long without the simplest methods of hygiene. But-I must also undress and bathe alone,” Treskan said, feigning relief. The elderly elf haughtily asked why. He said, “I was a prisoner of the nomads. I am ashamed of the scars I earned at their hands.”

His appeal against ugliness worked. The white-haired elf showed him a shallow terra-cotta tub he could stand in, and the tall ewers of spring water he could wash with. He then led Mathi a few doors down to an identical room, also equipped with a washtub. Then he left.

When she was alone, Mathi carefully undressed. It was a strange and frightening bath. She lived in dread that someone would burst in and her deception would be revealed. In the past weeks on the trail, her perfect elvishness had faded. Downy hair ran down her back and across the tops of her legs and arms. Whatever ‘August Person’ she was being taken to, they were obviously too pure to endure the company of one of the brethren. If she was exposed here, she would pay for her blasphemy with her life.

No one broke in, so she quickly dressed in the clean robes provided. She struck a small brass bell when she was done, and the elderly courtier returned with soft leather sandals and a white leather headband for her hair. Dressed and dried, Mathi stood for inspection.

“Your face is pleasant, but your carriage is quite awkward,” the white-maned elf declared. “Too awkward for august company, but-” He sighed. “It is ordered, so it must be done.”

He held up a finger. “First rule, do not speak unless prompted to do so. Secondly, keep your eyes averted from the August One except when addressing her. Thirdly, tell no one of what you hear or say here. Is that understood?”

Mathi caught the telltale ‘her.’ She had an idea at last who she was going to see.

She was led aft to the center of the ship. Treskan joined her, escorted by another genteel courtier. They were guided to a broad staircase that led down into the interior of the great vessel. Armed soldiers stood at key points. They raised their swords in salute when Mathi’s guide passed. At the top of the stairs the old elf adjusted his headband, smoothed his robe, and started down. Riddled with curiosity, Treskan and Mathi followed close on his heels.

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?”

She cupped her hands to her mouth. Absurd, really absurd, the gesture, but she had to try.

“Rufe! Rufus Wrinklecap! Are you there?”

Frogs grunted in the mud around them. She shouted again. Turning in a circle on the river bank, she squinted into the twilight for some hint of the kender’s presence. Mathi drew in a deep breath to shout a third time but, before she could, she felt a tug on the back of her trailworn gown.

Without even turning around she said, “Rufe, I have a new task for you. Or I should say, an old one you may do again.”

“What’s up, boss?”

The kender was decked out in an assortment of leather and furs, spoils from the nomads no doubt. He had an oversized knife shoved in his belt and a bronze gorget at his throat. The martial effect of his attire was spoiled by his bare, muddy feet and the sprig of green sumac he was chewing.

“I need to find Balif.”

Rufe balked. “That’s not a good idea, boss. He’s not a friendly elf anymore.”

“Nevertheless, I need to find him. I’ll pay what it’s worth. What do you want for the job?”

Rufe thought for a long time, at least to a count of five. “I want to go with him,” he said, pointing to Treskan.

“Eh? Go with me where?”

“Wherever you go, boss. Back home to Woodbec, or anyplace else.”

It was unexpected. Mathi asked why he wanted to go with the scribe.

“He visits strange places,” said the kender. He poked his pointed chin with a finger. “Places I can’t get to. That interests me.”

Treskan pronounced it impossible. Absolutely impossible. Even if he wanted to take Rufe, he could not. The rules of his profession forbade tagalongs.

“Will you take me with you then?” he said to Mathi. She was taken aback. Her ultimate destination was unknown, even to her, but since she needed the kender to find Balif, Mathi said yes.

“Swear to it,” Rufe said with great solemnity.

She did, though she felt very guilty. Rufe gravely shook hands with her, hitched up his sword belt, and announced he would find Balif before sunrise. Mathi hoped that he could.

Rufe slipped away into the dark, damp woods. A mist was rising from the river.

“If I don’t sleep soon, I’m going to die,” Treskan declared. Mathi heartily agreed. She felt damp to the skin, so they went up the riverbank to the kender’s bridge. They crossed over and climbed the hill so many had died trying to take.

The wanderfolk were scattered over the hill in their usual careless fashion. The biggest campfire marked the Longwalker’s shelter, cobbled together from cast-off nomad blankets and poles salvaged from Lofotan’s barrier of stakes. Serius and his cronies hailed Mathi and offered her food and drink. It was good fare, cured venison and wheat beer, again courtesy of Bulnac’s shattered horde.

“What a day!” the Longwalker declared. “I have never seen the like!”

Mathi agreed. The kender refought the battles of the day, each storyteller emphasizing his own part in the struggle. Listening to them, Mathi had no idea so many brave kender had fought so well. The elves and the centaurs were mere bystanders in their version.

“Where are Zakki and his fellows?” Mathi asked. They were gone with the elf army, tracking the humans. And what about Lofotan?

“The Elder lord”-the Longwalker meant Artyrith-“tried to force Lofty to go with him, but Lofty refused. He said his place was here. I think he expects the general to return.”

“Lofotan is here? Where?”

Four kender hands pointed four different directions. The Longwalker scolded them and said, “On the high bluff, overlooking the water.”

Mathi thanked them for the meal. Treskan would have, too, but he had slumped forward where he sat, dead asleep.

She wove in and out of the hodge-podge of shelters until she reached the highest point of the hill. There she found Lofotan seated cross-legged in front of a small twig fire. Fire painted his face in dark colors.

“Greetings, captain.”

“Girl. Where have you been?”

Mathi sat down and told him everything. Lofotan was not surprised that Amaranthe had shown up. He was surprised to hear she granted the orphan girl and clumsy scribe such an intimate interview.

“I’ve known her a century and a half, and I have never had such a conversation with her,” Lofotan grumbled. Mathi shrugged. It was only because she had information about Balif that Amaranthe wanted to know, she said.

“I’ve set Rufe on his trail. He’ll find him.”

Now Lofotan shrugged. Artyrith had hundreds of trained trackers combing the forest for Balif. How could one erratic wanderer do what three hundred Silvanesti could not? Hearing the question, Mathi laughed. There was nothing beyond kender, she declared, and among kender, anything was possible with Rufe.

Faint white light flashed over them. Mathi saw her hands briefly emerge from the night, then fade back again. She looked up, but the sky was clear of stormclouds.

A shooting star streaked from east to west over the trees. Then another. And another.

“Look, captain! Falling stars!”

The meteors whizzed overhead, making sizzling sounds. Denizens of the lowland woods quieted under the aerial display. Frogs fell silent. Even crickets ceased to sing.

A cry went up from the kender downslope. Mathi and Lofotan stood up and saw sheets of light forming in the sky. It was hard to describe exactly. The light formed long curtains of glowing color in the air. The upper edges were bluish white, but the color deepened, becoming dark red at the ragged bottom edges.

“What is it?”

“Aurora,” said Lofotan. He’d seen many things in his long life. “The air itself has taken on light.”

Aurora high in the sky was natural enough, but when the sheets of color began to descend to the trees, everyone knew it was no natural phenomenon. Even stranger, as Mathi looked on the glow infused Lofotan. His hands, feet, and face started to shine with a pale, cool light. He stood back from Mathi, holding out his hands. His skin was shimmering.

The kender abandoned their shanties and fled into the woods. Streams of cool blue or angry red light drifted like smoke among the trees. Alone on the bluff, Mathi and Lofotan tried to fathom what was happening.

“I am glowing, but you are not,” Lofotan observed. “What does that mean?”

Mathi had figured out what was going on. Lofotan was alight because he was an elf. Though she looked like an elf on the outside, Mathi did not glow. She didn’t dare explain her deduction to the captain. But why were elves glowing, and who was responsible?

It came to her in a flash: Amaranthe, or Artyrith. They were searching for Balif. Both had magicians of skill at their beck and call. To find a feather in a field of wheat, make the feather stand out. Someone had created that strange aurora to highlight elves-including Balif.

“How does it feel?” Mathi asked, hoping Lofotan would not reach the same conclusion she had.

“I feel nothing unusual.” He waved his hand hard, as if to shake the light loose from his skin. “Damned strange sight, though.”

“I’d better find the Longwalker,” Mathi said, sidling away.

“Why?” Lofotan asked irritably. The wanderfolk weren’t glowing, and they certainly couldn’t cast such a powerful spell.

“I want to reassure him. He needs to keep his people here if his claim to the land is to stand up.” It was true enough, but what Mathi wanted foremost was to look for Balif. She went swiftly down the hill in the dark, skirting curtains of light that drifted soundlessly out of the woods. By the time she reached the bottom of the hill she was running. Once out of Lofotan’s sight she halted to catch her breath. Fragments of aurora moved among the trees, but the steady moonglow of elf skin was nowhere to be seen. It felt futile, but Mathi had to try to find the general. She had one advantage over the legions of elves looking for Balif. The general might be willing to be found by her.

She decided to put her theory to the test. She called Balif’s name in the dark forest, at first repeating it over and over. It accomplished nothing. Balif could be miles away by now, or he might be unconscious. In his current state of transformation, how well could the general handle his injuries? Mathi had no way to know.

She zigzagged through the trees. Tired of calling, she sat down on a fallen tree. It was very humid in the lowland green. Sweat dripped from her brow.

One last time she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Amaranthe! Amaranthe wants you! Answer me, general! Amaranthe! Amaranthe!”

A low growl rose from the darkness behind the broken tree. Mathi leaped up, groping clumsily for her sword. All her pointless shouting had accomplished nothing but arousing a wild bear. Or was it a bear?

“My lord, is that you?”

She heard heavy panting close by, but could not detect the source. Then a heap of dry leaves heaved up from under the fallen log. Two pin-points of light gleamed, pale white like the face of Solinari. It took Mathi a moment to realize what she was seeing. Balif in his beast form was no longer an elf, but his eyes were glowing with the telltale aura.

Mathi’s heart hammered in her chest. It was too dark for her to make out any details of the creature standing before him. The beast was bigger than before. Standing, it towered over Mathi.

“My lord,” she said carefully, focusing on the twin points of light hovering above her, “the lady Amaranthe has sent me to find you.”

The lights weaved slightly from side to side. Mathi went on.

“She is near! Her ship lies at anchor in the bay.”

The black silhouette abruptly turned away. Apparently Balif did not want to see his lover-or did not want his lover to see him in his current state.

“Wait, my lord! You know the lady is powerful, and has great mages in her employ. The colors you see in the air are a spell she had cast to find you.” She hoped it was Amaranthe, and not Artyrith. “Go to her. There may be something she can do for you-”

The creature charged so suddenly that Mathi could do nothing to dodge. It scooped her up and crushed her close. The smell of beast was strong. Mathi was helpless, her arms pinned to her side, and her feet dangling in the air.

A wet black nose came close to his ear. The beast huffed and sniffed, then leaped over the tree and began to run. It was an awkward, jolting pace, using only three limbs, but the creature still hurtled through the undergrowth. Here and there it bored through a floating patch of aurora, which instantly dissipated with a faint crackling sound. Mathi wanted to yell, but she reckoned if the beast had wanted to harm her it would have done so already. So she held on tight as it ran.

“Do you understand me, my lord?” she whispered, clinging tightly to his furred torso. “I am like you. I know the call of blood you’re hearing.”

He halted in a flurry of churned-up leaves and snapping branches. Fiery pinpoint eyes bored into hers.

“Go to the princess,” Mathi said. “And if she cannot save you, despair not. There is another way.”

She felt the hot breath of the beast on her face. He was weighing her words. Without warning his musing ended, and he sprang through the undergrowth with renewed vigor.