The Forest King

CHAPTER 3

A voice called out to her. For a brief moment, she thought she was back in the forest, but Lofotan’s gruff voice reminded her where she was.

“Up, girl. The sun may still sleep, but we who serve our lord must rise.”

Mathi sat up, stiff in strange places. The cunning couch, designed to be wonderful to look at, was not so wonderful to sleep on.

“Good morning?”

“The day begins. Come,” urged Lofotan.

“Is there water? I’m dry.”

“In the font.”

Lofotan was dressed in a spotless military tunic and kilt and heavy sandals. He wore an officer’s woven silver band around his forehead. No trace of the previous night’s blood remained, though the gash on his neck was still visible. Mathi padded behind him, pausing at the bowl for a hasty gulp of water.

“You have a light tread,” the old soldier remarked. “Were you born in the wildwood?”

Mathi explained her quietness by saying she’d had to step quietly around her human captors. If she disturbed them or drew unwanted attention to herself, she was usually beaten for it.

“Savages.”

He led her deeper into the house to Treskan’s room. The scribe proved harder to rouse. Lofotan’s battlefield bark hardly moved him, so the old warrior grasped Treskan by the shirt-front and shook him. The scribe awoke with limbs thrashing. Lofotan stepped back, out of reach. Treskan subsided after a brief struggle with himself.

“Arise, scribbler. My lord must be served.” Eyes clenched and mouth agape in a mighty yawn, Treskan followed.

The house was still cloaked in darkness. Unlike the dead hour when the beastly invader was caught, the predawn tingled with change. There was newness in the air. Early-morning flowers were open, releasing their scent to the rising sun. Shadows buried by the profound black of night slowly took on form again as the faintest rays of daylight penetrated the gloomy villa.

On the ground floor at the extreme rear of Balif’s grand residence was the domestic area. The kitchen, sized to accommodate the vast house, was lit by a few slender wax tapers. Pots banged and clattered. Holding forth in one corner of the enormous room was Balif’s cook, the only other soul who dwelled in the house. His name, Lofotan said, was Mistravan Artyrith.

“Lord Artyrith,” corrected the cook. He was younger than Lofotan, with fashionably long hair looped behind his prominent, pointed ears. The living embodiment of the Silvanost look, Artyrith had the angular features and pale hair and eyes considered handsome in the city.

Surprised by his claim to nobility, Mathi looked to the majordomo for confirmation.

“My lord’s cook has delusions. Pay them no heed,” said Lofotan dryly.

“Delusions? Who is heir to the ancestral estate of the Artyriths? Whose grandsire was chamberlain to the Speaker of the Stars before he was Speaker?” demanded the cook.

“If you can find an estate to be heir to, why don’t you go there?”

“It exists! My enemies have taken it over, my enemies-” At that point Lofotan made a gesture with his hand indicating he considered the cook insane.

It was plain the two often sparred over Artyrith’s airs. Mathi said, “I am honored to meet you, my lord.”

The cook smiled, showing impressive white teeth. He was quite striking in a rakish way, the sort of elf young females found charming but their parents found alarming.

“It’s welcome to have another elf of good breeding around. Lately the halls have been too crowded by big heads and large mouths,” he said. Lofotan gave him a warning look that set the cook grinning even more widely.

“Which of you is my new apprentice?”

“I am a scribe,” Treskan said flatly and yawned again.

“What about you, dear child?” he said, favoring Mathi with an incandescent smile.

“I don’t know, my lord. I could be. I am a ward of the Haven of the Lost-”

His smile vanished. To Lofotan he protested, “I was promised help! I’ve waited a long time!”

“You have longer to wait,” the majordomo replied. “Is our lord’s breakfast ready?”

Glaring, Artyrith filled a wheeled cart with white porcelain platters. On each platter he placed a single item-a perfectly peeled peach, pitted and quartered; a pyramid-shaped roll, still steaming from the oven; a puree of wild berries in a gossamer-thin silver shell. By each of those treasures, he placed a utensil. They were gold, blown in a molten state like glass until they were light as air and almost transparent. Mathi and Treskan had never seen such metal-work. The scribe picked up a spoon, marveling at its artistry. Artyrith snatched it from him and replaced it on the cart with great precision.

Last the cook set a weighty urn of spring water on the lower shelf of the cart. That was Balif’s morning meal, typical for a well-born Silvanesti. The fare was beautifully prepared and presented but extremely simple.

“Take it away,” the cook said. “If my lord wishes more bread, I have it, but that is the only peach. I can get more from the market after sunrise.”

Lofotan took hold of the cart rail. He ordered Mathi and the scribe to follow him. They found Balif in the east salon, sitting on a stone bench before a breathtaking bank of windows. The first rays of the sun were just hitting the panes. Mathi stopped at the doorway, staring. She’d never seen such a room. In plan the salon was serpentine, a great outward curve of the wall being balanced by a sweeping inward curve. The outer wall was glass from a low sill to the ceiling. Intended as an indoor garden, the salon was empty save for a few stone benches and what Mathi took to be pedestals where statues once stood.

Lofotan pushed past the gawking Treskan and Mathi. Balif was seated facing the windows, his eyes closed. At the sound of the cart’s wheels, he turned his head and opened his eyes.

“Good morning.” He glanced at the door where the newcomers were still marveling. “Still with us, I see. I half imagined you two would flee after our little adventure last night.”

“Still here,” Lofotan said. He arranged Balif’s breakfast on the stone slab beside him. Mathi slowly approached, marveling at the architecture. She stumbled over a high stone tile on her way to the general.

“Though empty, this place has its hazards. Be careful,” Balif said.

“I’ve never seen such a magnificent room!” said Treskan, trailing the girl.

“It was designed by the same architect who built the palace of the Speaker. He always claimed that it was better than anything else he ever built.” Balif looked to the windows. “Like many masterpieces, this one exacts a price of its owner. This room is uninhabitable once the sun comes up. All the glass traps the heat, turning the room into a furnace. The exotic greenery planted here at the Speaker’s order quickly withered. Tapestries and carpets faded then turned to powder under the glare. The only thing that endures in this room is stone.”

It was already warm, and the sun was barely up. Mathi easily imagined the place was like a fiery crucible at midday. Treskan asked why the general didn’t shade the windows? It would take acres of velvet to mask the enormous panes, but at least the room would livable.

“I prefer it this way.” Little beads of sweat stood out on his high forehead. “Sit down, child. Break your fast.”

Mathi was so startled by his invitation that she looked to Lofotan. The dour majordomo, standing behind his general, gave her a stern look whose meaning was inescapable.

“Thank you, no, my lord. It is more proper that I stand.”

A flicker of amusement flashed over Balif’s face. “Suit yourself.”

He ate the peach with swift, silent efficiency. When it was dispatched, he asked Lofotan what his day’s duties were.

“My lord has no demands on his time today,” was the reply. Treskan, stylus and writing board under his arm, looked crestfallen. The second elf of the realm, and Balif had no duties to perform?

Balif shrugged. “Just as well. If I had to sit through another military parade or inspect troops or griffons, I think I would rebel.”

The creeping sun hit the windows full-on. A blaze like fire flashed across row upon row of polished panes, mirrored and magnified. Balif’s morning sojourn in the sunrise salon was over. The elves quit the room.

“Such is my life in total,” he said as they strolled down the refreshingly cool, dark corridor outside. “A brief moment of glory in the sun then retreat into the shadows.”

As the elves crossed the entry hall, loud chiming filled the air. The front doors were made of bell-quality bronze. Someone was knocking for admittance.

“See who it is, Mathi.”

Puzzled to be doing Lofotan’s job, Mathi bowed and went to the front door. Halfway there it occurred to her that if it was another attempt on the general’s life, she was walking directly into harm’s way. All of a sudden the floor seemed to cling to her feet. Slowly she reached out to the ornate door handle.

The doors clanged again, a pleasant but loud tone amplified by the great vacant hall behind them. Lofotan and Balif stood side by side, poised to fight or flee. Treskan, still rumpled from his uneasy night, peered between them.

Mathi struggled momentarily with the unfamiliar door handle then tugged the panel open. Though the metal-sheathed door easily weighed a ton, it swung easily inward. Mathi’s pulse quickened when she saw a company of soldiers arrayed outside. An officer in brightly gilded armor raised a sheathed sword, pommel first, in salute.

“Greetings to the most excellent lord Balif, High General of the Realm, Protector of the Nation, and most loyal servant of our Great Speaker, Silvanos!”

“Hello,” was all Mathi could think to say.

“I bear this message for your master.” He presented the girl with a golden scroll case, exquisitely embossed with sun symbols and the glyphic monogram of Silvanos Goldeneye.

“I will convey this to the general,” Mathi promised.

Under the glittering helmet brow, the officer’s eyes were as cold and sharp as icicles. “I am to wait for a reply.”

Mathi shut the door. When she turned around, she found Lofotan and Balif on either side of the closed door, swords in their hands. She was so rattled that she dropped the royal message case.

“Steady on,” Lofotan chided, stooping to retrieve the tube. He and Balif returned their blades to their scabbards. “Assassins, as a rule, don’t arrive bearing messages.”

By some unseen hinge, the tube opened along its length. Within, a gold-colored sheet of parchment unrolled itself in Lofotan’s hands. Balif asked what it said.

Peering over the old warrior’s shoulder, Treskan scanned the message. “You are commanded to the royal residence at once,” he said.

“Does it say ‘residence’?”

Treskan looked again. “Why yes, my lord. Not the royal palace, but residence.”

Lofotan said, “What does it mean, my lord?”

Balif unbuckled his sword belt and gave it to his old comrade-in-arms. “The Speaker grows more subtle every day. Maybe he has some empty new honor to bestow. Maybe I will be arrested. Who but the gods can say? If I do not return, take the treasure I have hidden-you know where it is, Lofotan-and leave Silvanost at once. Don’t try to find me or help me.”

“My lord, I-” Lofotan began. Balif silenced him with a stern glance. “Yes, my lord. I’ll pay off Artyrith and go, as you say.”

“Our association may be brief,” he told Mathi, taking her hand gently. “Perhaps we will meet again.”

Balif asked how many soldiers were waiting outside. Mathi, whose eyes were quick, knew exactly.

“Thirty-six, my lord.”

“An honor company. How kind of the Speaker.”

His hand on the door, Balif said to Treskan, “Come along, scribe. There may be work for you.”

Lofotan protested. If anyone were to accompany the general, it ought to have been him. Balif firmly ordered him to stay at the house.

“No one else knows where everything is. Our late-night visitor must be disposed of too. Stay, Captain. Come, scribe.”

Before the general opened the door, Lofotan said, “My lord, are you dressed to be received by the Speaker?”

Balif was wearing the same clothes he wore to the Night Chamber the previous day. “Whatever fate Silvanos has for me I can meet as I am.” He smiled. Mathi observed the great general had an easy smile and used it often. “Guard the gates, Captain. I shall return soon or not at all.”

He threw open the door and strode out. The honor guard, idling on the weedy terrace, snapped to attention. Watching through the open door, Mathi had never heard arms click into place so quickly. Thirty-six elves in the immaculate livery of the Speaker of the Stars stood in rigid order, two parallel lines facing each other. Their officer, no less attentive, faced Balif.

“My lord! Good morning!”

“It is a good morning.” Balif’s tone was relaxed, but every fiber of his being was alert. He stepped down from the doorway, tugging on pale doeskin gloves. “This is my personal scribe, Treskan. He will be accompanying me.”

“My orders were to bring you alone, my lord,” said the officer.

“And my orders are that Treskan shall come. Do you dispute them?”

The officer opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it. He raised his sword hilt to his face in acknowledgment, turned on one heel, and snapped orders to his waiting troops. As Balif crossed the terrace to the street, thirty-six blades thrust skyward. The hiss of so much bronze being bared made Mathi flinch.

“My lord!” she called, stepping through the door. Balif paused and looked back. “My lord, allow me to come!”

He made no reply, so Mathi ran to meet him and Treskan. The guards’ commander protested anew. Enjoying the officious elf’s predicament, Balif agreed to let Mathi accompany him.

“My lord, this is a serious breach of protocol!” said the officer.

“Yes,” said Balif, not smiling.

Any other noble lord of Silvanost would have entered a fine carriage and ridden off to the Speaker’s palace with the honor guard following on foot. Balif disdained such airs. He remarked to Mathi that he had at one time been provided with a silver-chased carriage of the finest make, drawn by four matched white horses. He rode in it once then gave the horses to deserving soldiers of his army. The carriage went into storage and had not seen the light of day since. Ever since, he had walked where he needed to go. If his destination were far, he would hire a common carter to carry him.

Five steps behind Balif, Treskan made careful note of what he heard. The day had just begun, and already he had much to write about in his chronicle.

The square on which Balif’s grand house stood was fronted by three other imposing homes. When Balif reached the street, he chose to walk down the center of the lane, trailed by Mathi, Treskan, and the glittering honor guard. Gardeners and other servants working on the neighboring estates stopped their work and bowed as Balif passed. He walked serenely on, paying the honor no special heed.

At the end of the lane, he reached a busier thoroughfare, the Sunpath. That street led into one of the great byways of Silvanost, the circular street known as the Star Way. Everything in Silvanost was natural, Mathi noticed. As she walked behind General Balif, she got her first full view of the elf capital. Beneath her feet the paving stones were natural river stones, taken from the Thon-Thalas and fitted together with astonishing accuracy. Stones large and small nestled together with such unity that one could not be pried out without lifting a half dozen others surrounding it. Each stone was a different pastel color. Mixed together, the effect was very pleasing, like a well-made carpet of living rock.

On either side of the street were shade trees and flowering shrubs, guided by elf hands into living colonnades. Spread beneath them were hand-laid strands of white river sand. The people of Silvanost passed back and forth on their daily affairs. Beyond the shaded footpaths were the gardens of individual homes. From them rose phalanxes of fiery orange lilies, scarlet roses on thorny ropes of green, and golden daisies the size of warriors’ shields. All the flowers were not outsized, though. That would be too garish. The Silvanesti also loved miniature blossoms. Hyacinths and cyclamens, shrunk to the size of jewels, made carpets of color on many lawns.

Farther back from the street were the houses of Silvanost. The residents of the Sunpath were mostly artisans who worked in trades supervised by House Artisan. There the skill of the elves in manipulating wood and stone was well displayed. Mathi saw houses formed from living tree trunks, conglomerations of native boulders, and even some woven from leafy vines. The effect was not as primitive as it might sound. The elves loved vertical forms, and each home thrust skyward with exuberance. A glance might mislead a visitor into thinking a house was made of cut marble, but no chisel ever touched a Silvanesti home. Through natural magic and secret art, the people of Silvanost had learned how to shape natural substances into any form they desired. Only careful study could reveal that a lovely green townhouse was actually made of live ivy. A tower that resembled cut glass from afar might, close up, turn out to be polished quartz, the crystals mined and assembled like logs.

Not long after entering the Sunpath, the crowds lining the route began to multiply. Gardeners went to fetch their masters and mistresses. Artisans left their tools. Elf children-who seemed scarce to Mathi, compared to the children of a nomad tribe-came running from under bowers and arbors. Everyone wanted to see the celebrated general.

For his part Balif kept his course resolutely ahead. At times he acknowledged a familiar face with the slightest of nods, but the acclaim of the growing crowd he ignored. Mathi looked back. Stretching behind them, the street was filled with curious, excited elves. They crowded the honor guard, jostling the rear ranks until the soldiers started elbowing them back. The proud residents of Silvanost did not take kindly to such treatment. They shoved back. Before the procession dissolved into a riot, Balif halted.

He walked back among the guards, who had likewise halted. Ignoring their captain, he parted their ranks until he reached the rear of the company. There some angry elves stood apart, loudly complaining about their treatment at the hands of the Speaker’s soldiers.

“Friends, forgive me,” Balif said to them. His simple plea silenced everyone. The soldiers had expected he would admonish the townsfolk. The Silvanesti thought he would do the same to the guards.

“I am the cause of this disturbance. My apologies,” he said, facing the crowd. “Please do not trouble yourselves or the Speaker’s troops. They are here to honor me, nothing more.”

“Where do you go, general?” someone called.

“To hear the words of the Great Speaker.”

A murmur swelled in the crowd. Balif assured them, “Our Great Speaker seeks my counsel on some matter; that’s all.”

“May you live forever, Lord General!”

That cry was repeated by many throats. Balif surveyed the onlookers.

“Do not let your affection for me lead you to say things you may regret,” he said severely. “Save your hails for him who sits on the Throne of the Stars.”

“Better that you sat there!”

From where she stood, Mathi saw two reactions: the captain of the guard glowered under his ornate helmet, and Balif went pale. Without another word, he strode back to the head of the procession.

“Forward,” he said in a low voice to Treskan, busily writing. “And you, girl. Do not look around or say anything.” Mathi nodded. “At a walk, then.”

Down the Sunpath they went, trailed by the ever-growing crowd. Passing the grounds of the temple of Astarin, a troupe of pipers formed on the green came down. The musicians were young acolytes of the temple, dressed in green robes and bare headed, as befit their status as new servants of the god. They fell into place ahead of Balif, playing a light marching air. Mathi could not tell if the general was at all pleased. Wasn’t it Balif’s intention to draw notice? Why else take such a conspicuous route to the Tower of the Stars? Why walk down the center of a busy street?

It didn’t take long for her to imagine a reason: If I thought I was going to be arrested or killed, I would want a large, friendly crowd at my back too!

By the time they reached the Star Way, more than a thousand elves filled the boulevard. The pipers struck up an ancient air, “Sun and Stars,” and the crowd began to sing. Their voices made the hair on Mathi’s neck prickle. She had never heard such harmonious singing before. That was the magic of Silvanost, the city that rural elves believed was inhabited by the gods.

Since the procession was hardly stealthy, word of Balif’s progress reached the Tower of the Stars well in advance of the general. Everyone could see the bright white pinnacle ahead, the tallest tower in the city. What no one saw until they rounded the wide, circular lane was a phalanx of royal troops drawn up before the tower gate. Ranged behind them were two companies of cavalry. Overhead, griffon riders circled. Quite a few griffon riders, in fact.

The massed might, arrayed in perfect formation, caused the pipers leading the parade to falter. Their pipes fell raggedly silent when their lips dried. The divine chorus behind Mathi likewise sputtered and fell dumb. Everyone stopped and stared at the Speaker’s power, so openly displayed. All, that was, but one.

Balif shouldered through the Astarin acolytes, politely excusing himself as he went. Mathi and Treskan were lost in the press until the general called out to them to follow. Feeling a bit like a rabbit racing by a dog pen, Mathi hurried to catch up.

At the head of the troops lined up before the Tower of the Stars was a familiar face. Balif hailed his old comrade Farolenu, commanding the tower guard.

“My lord!” said Farolenu, once a master metalsmith. “I was ordered to defend the tower against a riot. Instead I find you leading a festival parade!”

Balif said, “Just a few well-wishers, old friend.”

Farolenu raised his sword in salute. “Face the honor!” he cried. The commander of all elf armies was present, and the warriors had to pay homage. Blades and spears rose skyward.

In response the crowd of Silvanesti chanted, “Balif, Balif,” in two long syllables like “Bay leaf, Bay leaf,” a pronunciation the general particularly disliked. Lofotan had advised Mathi that he preferred his name be pronounced “Bah-liff,” with the emphasis on the second syllable.

The captain of the guard led his honor troop forward. They had to break ranks and filter through the crowd, a path they plainly resented. Mathi and the scribe came with them, filling in behind Balif like mismatched shadows.

“The Great Speaker awaits,” Farolenu said, stepping aside. Balif mounted the shallow steps to the tower. The guard captain tried to restrain Treskan and Mathi from following.

Balif said, “Let them be.”

“The scribe perhaps, but a common girl cannot be admitted to the presence of the Speaker of the Stars!”

“I am of common birth. The fact that everyone calls me ‘my lord’ doesn’t change that. So either admit us both or deny us both. Do as you will, but do it in haste. The sun grows hot and my friends restive.”

Thinking of the crowd at his back, the captain relented. “On your responsibility, my lord,” he said grudgingly.

Balif went on. Very quietly he told Mathi and Treskan to stay three steps behind him and say nothing. Tingling with anticipation, the girl and the scribe readily agreed.

They climbed the steps between the enormous curled rails flanking the entrance. Made of white metal, they were brilliantly polished. Sunlight reflecting off them was almost painful. Treskan fell six steps behind when he strayed to get a closer look at the ornamentation. Without looking back, Balif urged him onward.

“Those are solid electrum,” he said. An alloy of gold and silver, the metal was notoriously difficult to work. The entwined forms were curled as naturally as shoots of honeysuckle but made of hard metal six inches thick.

They passed out of the bright sun into a cool antechamber. Farolenu and the guard captain were close behind. When Balif disappeared into the tower, another shout rose from the crowd. Mathi was close enough to the general to see his enigmatic expression. He might have been smiling, but his brow was deeply furrowed. Balif walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back and head lowered. Corridors passed by on either side. Court officials and favor seekers, looking cool and vastly self-important, lingered in the side halls, awaiting their chance to gain the Speaker’s ear. They stared at the elves who had the audacity-and influence-to walk directly into the monarch’s presence. For the first time, Mathi felt truly worried. Could she really stand before the Speaker of the Stars?

The arched passage opened abruptly into a great open area, the hall of the Tower of the Stars. The scale of the place diminished everyone. Mathi looked up and saw that the awesome height of the tower was lined with a spiral row of windows reaching all the way to the domed roof. The tower walls were faced with black basalt. The only light came from an open skylight, the Moonlight Shaft, at the very peak of the dome. There were two rows of galleries above the hall, capacious enough to hold the assembled lords of the realm if need be.

Amazing as the tower was, the floor was positively breathtaking. The floor of the great hall was covered with the finest mosaic Mathi had ever seen. Thousands of pieces of polished black jet were laid out to mimic the sky. Stars rendered in gold or silver dotted the floor in exactly the positions occupied by their heavenly counterparts. Most astonishing of all, tracks allowed models of the three moons to travel around the floor. A hidden mechanism under the floor kept them moving in the same place as the moons in Krynn’s sky. The floor of the Tower of the Stars was a giant orrery, an astronomical device by which the seasons could be tracked and the days of the year numbered. Such a complex mechanism was no less magical to Mathi than the invisible spells she knew protected the place.

Balif approached to where the orbit of Solinari crossed the floor. There he stopped. He went down on one knee, facing the throne.

“Great Speaker, I have come.”

Mathi raised her eyes from the amazing instrument at her feet. Silvanos Goldeneye looked down at them from his throne atop a two-level dais. Lined up on the lower level were five solemn figures, richly dressed and wearing silver-star headbands. They were the Speaker’s counselors, heads of the five noblest families in Silvanost. On the second level, at the Speaker’s right, were the high priests of the major temples-Astarin, E’li, Matheri, Quenesti Pah, and the Blue Phoenix. Standing at Silvanos’s left were two females. One was young and very beautiful. The other was older, quite handsome, but more modestly dressed than the other. Mathi assumed the elder female must be the Speaker’s wife, and the younger, his daughter.

“Balif Thraxenath, Chosen Chief of House Protector, First Warrior of the Great Speaker, son of Arnasmir Thraxenath of the Greenrunners clan, and loyal servant of the Great Speaker of the Stars, I greet you,” Silvanos said. His voice was deep and booming, though a lot of its power came from cunning acoustics in the hall.

Though the place was dim, the Moonlight Shaft cast its light on the Speaker’s throne. Mathi got her first good look at the founder of Silvanesti. He was, as his epithet said, golden eyed. Silvanos’s famous eyes were large and almost red in color. His hair was also red-gold and worn very long. He had a strong face but not a handsome one. Silvanos’s nose was long and aquiline, his chin sharp. The height of his ears was truly dramatic. Long of limb, his hands appeared half again as big as Balif’s, who was well built. Mathi got a good impression of the strength of will of the elf, who had forged the proud old line of the elves into a nation. Everything about Silvanos seemed typically elflike but taken to unexpected heights. Even his powerful voice befitted a monarch with an almost godlike command over his people.

“May I pay homage to your sister, the Votress of the Greenwood, and your royal wife?” said Balif. The younger woman smiled winningly. The elder one moved not a muscle.

Mathi felt a strong hand on her shoulder. Before she knew it, she was forced to her knees. Farolenu pushed her down along with Treskan then knelt between them.

“Avert your gaze,” he whispered. Mathi stared at the black floor.

“I have summoned you to undertake a new task of great importance to the nation,” Silvanos said.

“As the Great Speaker commands, so shall I do.”

From her place Mathi was puzzled. How could anyone as wise as Balif agree to a task he hadn’t heard about yet?

“Word has come that an invasion is under way in the eastern lands.”

Silvanos was referring to the land east of the Thon-Tanjan river. A mix of wild woodland and open plains, it was bound on the north by desert and on the east and south by the sea. It had no native population. Silvanos claimed the land for Silvanesti when he first took the crown, but little had been done to enforce the claim. The elves’ attention had been focused on the west, where nomadic humans constantly encroached on Silvanos’s claims to the great central plains.

“Humans?” asked Balif. The east was a long way from the heaviest concentration of barbarians. It was unlikely humans could have migrated across the elves’ northern territory without notice, nor could they cross the desert in any numbers.

“Not just humans,” Silvanos said, leaning back. “Another race … of small stature. My governor says the land is thick with them.”

“Send the army,” Balif said flatly. His tone made the Speaker of the Stars’ face harden like a marble statue.

“The army is engaged elsewhere,” Silvanos snapped. Balif did not shrug, but he might as well have. “I want you to go. Take a small band with you and survey the situation. Having just concluded a twenty-year fight for the west, I do not propose to lose the east by negligence.”

“Is that your order, Great Speaker?”

“It is. Go at once. Find out the truth of the situation, and bring your considered word back to me.”

Balif bowed his head. “It shall be done, Great Speaker. May I draw on the royal stores for supplies?” Silvanos said Farolenu would provide whatever Balif needed for the journey.

“Leave tomorrow,” Silvanos said. “I am anxious to have true knowledge of what’s going on.”

“Is tomorrow soon enough? I can leave tonight, if it please the Great Speaker. Better to meet the invaders as far from the royal city as can be done.”

Silvanos snapped, “You presume a great deal on my affection, my lord general! Save your sharp tongue for others worthy of it. I am not spoken to thus!”

“Forgive me, royal master. I meant no disrespect.”

Balif said the words, but Mathi did not believe him at all. He was mocking Silvanos’s pretense of importance. The mission could be done by any of a thousand reliable warriors. Why send the first general of the realm?

She heard whispers from the throne dais. Peering in that direction, Mathi saw the elder of the two elf women conferring quietly with the Speaker.

Silvanos shifted forward, perching tensely on the edge of his golden chair. “My noble sister reminds me that your wit, like your sword, is in my service too,” he said, trying to control his annoyance and only partially succeeding. “I trust you will use both as I command. Go with the sun, my lord general. May Astarin guard your steps.”

“I thank you, Great Speaker, and the noble votress as well.” Balif bowed low. “I shall return before long with what intelligence I can gather. Health and long life to you, Great Goldeneye.”

“And to you, Balif Thraxenath.”

There was something in the Speaker’s tone that made Mathi’s blood run cold. Anyone could hear the hostility between Balif and Silvanos sparking the very air in the Tower of the Stars. His farewell to the general dripped with irony. Mathi had been awed to enter the Tower of the Stars and look upon the face of the Speaker. After their exchange, what she wanted most of all was to get away, and the sooner the better.

Balif withdrew, shooing the girl, the scribe, and the captain of the guard ahead of him. By the time he’d backtracked to the entrance, Silvanos was deep in conversation with his counselors, ignoring the general’s departure.

When Balif emerged from the tower, the crowd was still there. They roared when he reappeared. Smiling, he raised his hand in greeting.

“Is it wise to encourage such disloyalty here?” asked Farolenu in a low voice.

“These people saved my life,” he replied. “This is gratitude, not disloyalty.”

They descended the steps. The mob surged forward, crushing the royal guards back. Fearing his soldiers would be trampled, the captain ordered his guards to shoulder their arms and give way. Cheering, the elves poured through the sullen warriors like floodwater.

Raising his voice to be heard over the din, Balif said, “I will send over a list of the supplies I need!” Farolenu nodded.

A slim elf girl, dressed all in white, emerged from the tower and darted down the steps. She slipped through the crowd with easy grace and pressed a note into Balif’s hand. Though she came from inside the tower, she continued on past Balif, melting into the throng. Balif cupped his hand around the missive and gave it a quick glance.

“Any answer, my lord?” Treskan asked, stylus poised.

“No. Go home, both of you. Tell Lofotan to prepare for a land voyage of three months’ duration. Have him send his list of needed supplies to Farolenu at House Protector.”

Treskan dutifully took down his commands. When he looked up to ask for more instructions, Balif was gone. The crowd didn’t seem to notice. They cheered the elves remaining on the tower steps. When at last they noticed their hero was gone, the elves peacefully dispersed.