Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter Twenty-Nine Prison of Amber

The midsummer’s morning dawned unusually cool in Silvanesti.

“A fine day for battle, gentlemen,” said Mina to her assembled officers.

Galdar led the cheers, which shook the trees along the riverbank, caused the leaves of the aspens to tremble.

“So may our valor set the elves to trembling,” said Captain Samuval. “A great victory will be ours this day, Mina! We cannot fail!”

“On the contrary,” said Mina coolly. “This day we will be defeated.”

Knights and officers stared at her blankly. They had seen her perform miracle after miracle, until the miracles were now stacked up one on top of the other like crockery in a neat housewife’s cupboard. The idea that these miracles were to now come spilling out of the cupboard, come crashing down around their ears was a catastrophe not to be believed. So they did not believe it.

“She’s joking,” said Galdar, attempting to pass it off with a laugh.

Mina shook her head. “We will lose the battle this day. An army of a thousand elven warriors has come to test us. We are outnumbered over two to one. We cannot win this battle.”

The Knights and officers looked at each other uneasily. They looked at Mina grimly, doubtfully.

“But though we lose the battle this day,” Mina continued, smiling slightly, her amber eyes lit from behind with an eerie glow that made the faces captured in them glitter like tiny stars,

“this day we will win the war. But only if you obey me without question. Only if you follow my orders exactly.”

The men grinned, relaxed. “We will, Mina,” several shouted, and the rest cheered.

Mina was no longer smiling. The amber of her eyes flowed over them, congealed around them, froze them where they stood.

“You will obey my orders, though you do not understand them. You will obey my orders, though you do not like them. You will swear this to me on your knees, swear by the Nameless God who is witness to your oath and who will exact terrible revenge upon the oath breaker. Do you so swear?”

The Knights sank down on their knees in a semicircle around her. Removing their swords, they held them by the blade, beneath the hilt. They lifted their swords to Mina. Captain Samuval went down on his knees, bowed his head. Galdar remained standing.

Mina turned her amber eyes on him.

“On you, Galdar, more than on anyone else rests the outcome of this battle. If you refuse to obey me, if you refuse to obey the God who gave you back your warrior’s arm, we are lost. All of us. But you, most especially.”

“What is your command, Mina?” Galdar asked harshly. “Tell me first, that I may know.”

“No, Galdar,” she said gently. “You either trust me or you do not. You put your faith in the God or you do not. Which will it be?”

Slowly, Galdar knelt down upon his knees before her. Slowly he drew his sword from its scabbard and slowly held it up as did the others. He held it in the hand the God had returned to him.

“I so swear, Mina!” he said.

The rest spoke as one.

“I so swear!”

The battleground was a large field located on the banks of the Thon-Thalas River. The elf soldiers trampled tender stalks of wheat beneath their soft leather boots. The elf archers took their places amid tall stands of green, tasseled com. General Konnal set up his command tent in a peach orchard. The arms of a great windmill turned endlessly, creaking in the wind that had a taste of autumn’s harvest in it.

There would be a harvest on this field, a dread harvest, a harvest of young lives. When it was over, the water that ran at the feet of the great windmill would run red.

The field stood between the approaching enemy army and the capital of Silvanost. The elves put themselves in harm’s way, intending to stop the army of darkness before it could reach the heart of the elf kingdom. The Silvanesti were outraged, insulted, infuriated. In hundreds of years, no enemy had set foot on this sacred land. The only enemy they had fought had been one of their own making, the twisted dream of Lorac.

Their wonderful magical shield had failed them. They did not know how or why, but most of the elves were convinced that it had been penetrated by an evil machination of the Knights of Neraka.

“To that end, General,” Glaucous was saying, “the capture of their leader is of the utmost importance. Bring this girl in for interrogation. She will tell me how she managed to thwart the shield’s magic.”

“What makes you think she will tell you?” Konnal asked, annoyed at the wizard and his harping on this subject alone.

“She may refuse, General,” Glaucous assured him, “but she will not have any choice in the matter. I will use the truth-seek on her.”

The two were in the general’s command tent. They had met early that morning with the elf officers. Silvan had explained his strategy. The officers had agreed that the tactics were sound.

Konnal had then dismissed them to deploy their men. The enemy was reported to be about five miles away. According to the scouts, the Knights of Neraka had halted to arm themselves and put on their armor. They were obviously preparing for battle.

“I cannot spare the men who would be required to seize a single officer, Glaucous,” the general added, recording his orders in a large book. “If the girl is captured in battle, fine. If not. . .”

He shrugged, continued writing.

“I will undertake her capture, General,” Silvan offered.

“ Absolutely not, Your Majesty,” Glaucous said hurriedly.

“Give me a small detachment of mounted warriors,” Silvan urged, coming to stand before the general. “We will circle around their flank, come in from behind. We will wait until the battle is fairly joined and then we will drive through the lines in a wedge, strike down her bodyguard, capture this commander of theirs and carry her back to our lines.”

Konnal looked up from his work.

“You said yourself, Glaucous, that discovering the means by which these evil fiends came through the shield would be useful. I think His Majesty’s plan is sound.”

“His Majesty puts himself in too much danger,” Glaucous protested.

“I will order members of my own bodyguard to ride with the king,” Konnal said. “No harm will come to him.”

“It had better not,” Glaucous said softly.

Ignoring his adviser, Konnal walked over to the map, stared down at it. He laid his finger on a certain point. “My guess is that the enemy commander will take up her position here, on this rise. That is where you should look for her and her bodyguard. You can circle around the battle by riding through this stand of trees, emerging at this point. You will be practically on top of them. You will have the element of surprise, and you should be able to strike before they are aware of you. Does Your Majesty agree?”

“The plan is an excellent one, General,” said Silvan with enthusiasm.

He was to wear new armor, beautifully made, wonderfully designed. The breastplate bore the pattern of a twelve-pointed star, his helm was formed in the likeness of two swan’s wings done in shining steel. He carried a new sword, and he now knew how to use one, having spent many hours each day since his arrival in Silvanost studying with an expert elf swordsman, who had been most complimentary on His Majesty’s progress. Silvan felt invincible. Victory would belong to the elves this day, and he was determined to playa glorious part, a part that would be celebrated in story and song for generations to come.

He left, ecstatic, to go prepare for battle. .

Glaucous lingered behind.

Konnal had returned to his work. Glaucous made no sound, but Konnal sensed his presence, as one senses hungry eyes watching one in a dark forest.

“Begone. I have work to do.”

“I am going. I only want to emphasize what I said earlier. The king must be kept safe.”

Konnal sighed, looked up. “If he comes to harm, it will not be through me. I am not an ogre, to kill one of my own kind. I spoke in haste yesterday, without thinking. I will give my guards orders to watch over him as if he were my own son.”

“Excellent, General,” said Glaucous with his beautiful smile.

“I am much relieved. My hopes for this land and its people depend on him. Silvanoshei Caladon must Jive to rule Silvanesti for many years. As did his grandfather before him.”

“Are you certain you will not reconsider and ride with us, Kiryn? This will be a battle celebrated for generations to come!”

Silvan fidgeted under the ministrations of his squire, who was attempting to buckle the straps of the king’s damascened armor and having a difficult time of it. The leather was stiff and new, the straps refused to ease into place. Silvan’s constant shifting and moving did not help matters.

“If Your Majesty would please hold still!” the exasperated squire begged.

“Sorry,” Silvan said and did as he was told, for a few seconds at any rate. Then he turned his head to look at Kiryn, who sat on a cot, watching the proceedings. “I could lend you some armor. I have another full suit.”

Kiryn shook his head. “My uncle has given me my assignment. I am to carry dispatches and messages between the officers. No armor for me. I must travel light.”

A trumpet call sounded, causing Silvan to give such a start of excitement that he undid a good quarter of an hour’s worth of work. “The enemy is in sight! Hurry, you oaf!”

The squire sucked in a breath and held his tongue. Kiryn added his assistance, and between the two of them the king was readied for battle.

“I would embrace you for luck, Cousin,” said Kiryn, “but I would be bruised for a week. I do wish you luck, though,” he said more seriously as he clasped Silvan’s hand in his. “though I hardly think you’ll need it.”

Silvan was grave, solemn for a moment. “Battles are chancy things, Samar used to say. One man’s bravery may save the day. One man’s cowardice may spoil it. That is what I fear most, Cousin. More than death. I fear that I will turn coward and flee the field. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen good men, brave men fall to their knees and tremble and weep like little children.”

“Your mother’s courage flows in your veins along with your father’s fortitude,” Kiryn reassured him. “You will not fail their memories. You will not fail your people. You will not fail yourself.”

Silvan drew in a deep breath of the flower-scented air, let it out slowly. The sunshine was like warm honey spilling from the sky. All around him were familiar sounds and smells, sounds of battle and war, smells of leather and sweat sounds and smells he had been born to, sounds and smells he had come to loathe but which, oddly, he had also come to miss. His playground had been a battlefield, a command tent his cradle. He was more at home here, he realized, than he was in his fine castle.

Smiling ruefully, he walked out of his tent his armor of silver and gold gleaming brightly, to be greeted by the enthusiastic cheers of his people.

The battle plans for both sides were simple. The elves formed ranks across the field, with the archers in the rear. The army of the Knights of Neraka extended their thinner lines among the trees of the low hillside, hoping to tempt the elves into attacking rashly, attacking up hill.

Konnal was far too smart to fall for that. He was patient if his troops were not and he kept fast hold of them. He had time, all the time in the world. The army of the Knights of Neraka, running low on supplies, did not.

Toward midafternoon, a single braying trumpet sounded from the hills. The elves gripped their weapons. The army of darkness came out of the hills on the run, shouting insults and defiance to their foes. Arrows from both sides arced into the skies, forming a canopy of death above the heads of the armies, who came together with a resounding crash.

When battle was joined, Silvan and his mounted escort galloped into the woods on the west side of the battlefield. Their small force screened by the trees, they rode around the flank of their own army, crossed over enemy lines, and rode around the enemy’s flank. No one noticed them. No one shouted or called out. Those fighting saw only the foe before them. Arriving at a point near the edge of the field, Silvan called a halt, raising his hand. He rode cautiously to the edge of the forest, taking the commander of the general’s guard with him. The two looked out upon the field of battle.

“Send out the scouting party,” Silvan ordered. “Bring back word the moment they have located the enemy commanders.”

The scouts proceeded ahead through the woods, edging closer to the field of battle. Silvan waited, watching the progress of the war.

Combat was hand to hand. The archers on both sides were now effectively useless, with the armies locked together in a bloody embrace. At first, Silvan could make nothing of the confusion he looked upon, but after watching several moments, it seemed to him that the elf army was gaining ground.

“A glorious victory already, Your Majesty,” his commander said in triumph. “The vermin are falling back!”

“Yes, you are right,” Silvan replied, and he frowned.

“Your Majesty does not seem pleased. We are crushing the human insects!”

“So it would seem,” said Silvan. “But if you look closely, Commander, you will note that the enemy is not running in panic. They are falling back, certainly, but their movements are calculated, disciplined. See how they hold their line? See how one man steps in to take the place if another falls? Our troops, on the other hand,” he added with disgust, “have gone completely berserk!”

The elves, seeing the enemy in retreat, had broken ranks and were flailing at the enemy in a murderous rage, heedless of the shouts and cries of their commanders. Competing trumpet calls sounded over the screams of the wounded and dying, fighting their own battle. Silvan noted that the Dark Knights listened closely for their trumpet calls and responded immediately to the brayed commands, while the maddened elves were deaf to all.

“Still,” Silvan said, “we cannot help but win, seeing that we outnumber them so greatly. The only way could possibly lose would be to turn our swords on ourselves. I will have a few words with General Konnal on my return, however. Samar would never permit such a lack of discipline.”

“Your Majesty!” One of the scouts returned, riding at a full gallop. “We have located the officers!”

Silvan turned his horse’s head, rode after the scout. They had advanced only a short way through the forest, before they met up with another scout, who had been left to keep watch.

He pointed. “There, Your Majesty. On that rise. They’re easy to see.”

So they were. A huge minotaur, the first Silvan had ever seen, stood upon the rise. The minotaur wore the regalia of a Knight of Neraka. A massive sword was buckled at his side. He was watching the progress of the battle intently. Twelve more Knights, mounted on horses, were also observing the battle. Beside them stood the standard-bearer, holding a flag that might have once been white, but was now a dirty brownish red color, as if it had been soaked in blood. An aide stood nearby, holding the reins of a magnificent red horse.

“Surely the minotaur is their commander,” Silvan said. “We were misinformed.”

“No, Your Majesty,” the scout replied. “See there, behind the minotaur. That is the commander, the one with the blood-red sash.”

Silvan could not see her, at first and then the minotaur stepped to one side to confer with another of the Knights. Behind him, a slight, delicate human female stood on a knoll, her gaze fixed with rapt intensity upon the battle. She carried her helm beneath her arm. A morning star hung from a belt at her waist.

“That is their commander?” Silvan said, amazed. “She does not look old enough to be attending her first dance, much less leading seasoned troops into battle.”

As if she had heard him, though that was impossible, for she was a good forty yards distant, she turned her face toward him.

He felt himself suddenly exposed to her view, and he backed up hurriedly, keeping to the deep shadows of the dense woods.

She stared in his direction for long moments, and Silvan was certain that they had been seen. He was about to order his men forward, when she turned her head away. She said something to the minotaur, apparently, for he left his conference and walked over to her. Even from this distance, Silvan could see that the minotaur regarded the girl with the utmost respect, even reverence. He listened intently to her orders, looked over his shoulder at the battle and nodded his homed head.

He turned and, with a wave of his hand, summoned the mounted Knights. With a roar, the minotaur ran forward toward the rear of his own lines. The Knights galloped after him, with what purpose Silvan could not tell. A countercharge, perhaps.

“Now is our chance, Your Majesty!” said the commander excitedly. “She stands alone.”

This was beyond all possible luck, so far beyond that Silvan mistrusted his good fortune. He hesitated before ordering his men forward, fearing a trap.

“Your Majesty!” the commander urged. “What are you waiting for?”

Silvan looked and looked. He could see no troops lying in ambush. The mounted Knights of the enemy were riding away from their commander.

Silvan spurred his horse and galloped forward, the other soldiers streaming behind him. They rode with the swiftness of an arrow, with Silvan as the silver arrowhead, aiming straight at the enemy’s heart. They were halfway to their destination before anyone was aware of them. The girl kept her gaze fixed on her forces. It was her standard-bearer who spotted them. He cried out and pointed. The red horse lifted its head, whinnied loud enough to rival the trumpets.

At the sound, the minotaur halted in his charge and turned around.

Silvan kept the minotaur in the comer of his eye as he rode, dug his spurs into his horse’s flank, urging more speed. The mad race was exhilarating. A skilled rider, he outdistanced his bodyguard. He was not far from his objective now. She must have heard the pounding hooves, but still she did not turn her head.

A great and terrible roar sounded over the battlefield. A roar of grief and rage and fury. A roar so horrible that the sound caused Silvan’s stomach to shrivel and brought beads of sweat to his forehead. He looked to see the minotaur rushing for him, a great sword raised to cleave him in twain. Silvan gritted his teeth and pressed the horse forward. If he could lay his hands on the girl, he would use her as both shield and hostage.

The minotaur was extraordinarily fast. Though he was on foot and Silvan was mounted, it seemed that the racing minotaur must reach Silvan before Silvan’s horse could reach the enemy commander. Silvan looked from the minotaur to the girl. She had still taken no notice of him. She seemed completely unaware of her danger. Her gaze was fixed upon the minotaur.

“Galdar,” she called, her voice beautifully clear, oddly deep.

“Remember your oath.”

Her voice resounded over the cries and screams and clashing steel. The call acted upon the minotaur like a spear to his heart.

He ceased his furious rush. He stared at her, his gaze pleading.

She did not relent, or so it seemed. She shifted her gaze from him to the heavens. The minotaur gave another howl of rage and then plunged his sword into the ground, drove it into the cornfield with such force that he buried it halfway to the hilt.

Silvan galloped up the rise. At last the girl shifted her gaze from the heavens. She turned her eyes full upon Silvan.

Amber eyes. Silvan had never seen the like. Her eyes did not repel him but drew him forward. He rode toward her, and he could see nothing but her eyes. It seemed he was riding into them.

She clasped her morning star, hefted it in her hand, and stood waiting him fearlessly.

Silvan dashed his horse up the small rise, came level with the girl. She struck at him with the morning star, a blow he deflected easily, kicking it aside with his foot. Another kick knocked the morning star from her hand and sent her staggering backward.

She lost her balance, fell heavily to the ground. His guards surrounded her. The guards killed her standard-bearer and made an attempt to seize the horse, but the animal lashed out with its hooves. Breaking free of the holder, the horse charged straight for the rear lines, as if it would join the battle alone and riderless.

The girl lay stunned on the ground. She was covered with blood, but he could not tell if it was hers or that of her standard-bearer, who lay decapitated by her side.

Fearing she would be trampled, Silvan furiously ordered his guards to keep back. He slid from his horse, ran to the girl and lifted her in his arms. She moaned, her eyes fluttered. He breathed again. She was alive.

“I will take her, Your Majesty,” offered his commander.

Silvan would not give her up. He placed her on his saddle, climbed up behind her. Clasping one arm around her tightly, he took hold of the reins in the other. Her head rested against his silver breastplate. He had never in his life seen any face so delicate, so perfectly formed, so beautiful. He cradled her tenderly, anxiously.

“Ride!” he ordered and he started for the woods, riding swiftly, but not so swiftly that he risked jarring her.

He rode past the minotaur, who was on his knees beside his buried sword, his homed head bowed in grief.

“What do you men think you are doing?” Silvan demanded.

Several of the elves were starting to ride in the minotaur’s direction, their swords raised. “He is not a threat to us. Leave him.”

“He is a minotaur, Your Majesty. He is always a threat,” protested the commander.

“Would you kill him unarmed and unresisting?” Silvan demanded sternly.

“He would have no compunction killing us, if the situation was reversed,” the commander replied grimly.

“And so now we are reduced to the level of beasts,” Silvan said coldly. “I said leave him, Commander. We have achieved our objective. Let us get out of here before we are overrun.”

Indeed, that seemed likely. The army of the Knights of Neraka was falling back rapidly now. Their retreat was in good order, they were keeping their lines intact. Silvan and his Knights galloped from the field, Silvan bearing their prize proudly in his arms.

He reached the shadows of the trees. The girl stirred and moaned again and opened her eyes.

Silvan looked down into them, saw himself encased in amber.

The girl was a docile captive, causing no trouble, accepting her fate without complaint. When they arrived back in camp, she refused Silvan’s offers of assistance. Sliding gracefully from Silvan’s horse, she gave herself willingly into custody. The elves clapped iron manacles on her wrists and ankles and marched her into a tent that was furnished with nothing but a pallet of straw and a blanket.

Silvan followed her. He could not leave her.

“ Are you wounded? Shall I send the healers to you?”

She shook her head. She had not spoken a word to him or to anyone. She refused his offer of food and drink.

He stood at the entrance to the prison tent, feeling helpless and foolish in his regal armor. She, by contrast, blood-covered and in chains, was calm and self-possessed. She sat down cross-legged on her blanket, stared unblinking into the darkness. Silvan left the tent with the uncomfortable feeling that he was the one who had been taken prisoner.

“Where is Glaucous?” Silvan demanded. “He wanted to question her.”

But no one could say what had become of Glaucous. He had not been seen since the start of the battle.

“Let me know when he comes to interrogate her,” Silvan commanded and went to his tent to remove his armor. He held still this time, still and unmoving, as his squire detached the buckles and lifted the armor from him piece by piece.

“Congratulations, Cousin!” Kiryn entered the tent, ducking through the tent flap. “You are a hero! I will not need to write your song, after all. Your people are already singing it!” He waited for a laughing response, and when it did not come, he looked at Silvan more closely. “Cousin? What is it? You don’t look well. Are you wounded?”

“Did you see her, Kiryn?” Silvan asked. “Go away!” he shouted irritably at his squire. “Get out. I can finish this myself.”

The squire bowed and left. Silvan sat down upon his cot, one boot on and one boot off.

“Did I see the prisoner? Only a glimpse,” Kiryn said. “Why?”

“What did you think of her?”

“She is the first human I have ever seen, and I did not find her as ugly as I had been led to believe. Still, I thought her extremely strange. Bewitching. Uncanny.” Kiryn grimaced. “And is it now the custom among human females to shave their heads?”

“What? Oh, no. Perhaps it is the custom of the Knights of Neraka.” Silvan sat with his boot in his hand, staring at the darkness and seeing amber eyes. “I thought her beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Kiryn sat down beside his cousin. “Silvan, she is the enemy. Because of her, hundreds of our people lie dead or dying in that blood-soaked field.”

“I know. I know!” Silvan cried, standing up. He tossed the boot into the comer. Sitting down, he began to tug viciously on the other. “She wouldn’t say a word to me. She wouldn’t tell me her name. She just looked at me with those strange eyes.”

“Your Majesty.” An officer appeared at the entrance. “General Konnal has asked me to relate to you the news. The day is ours. We have won.”

Silvan made no response. He had ceased to tug on the boot, was once again staring into the dark tent comer.

Kiryn rose, went outside. “His Majesty is fatigued,” he said.

“I’m certain he is overjoyed.”

“Then he’s the only one,” said the officer wryly.

Victory belonged to the elves, but few in the elven camp that night rejoiced. They had halted the enemy’s advance, driven him back, kept him from reaching Silvanost, but they had not destroyed him. They counted thirty human bodies upon the field of battle, not four hundred as they had anticipated. They laid the blame to a strange fog that had arisen from the river, a dank, chill gray fog that hung low over the ground, a swirling, obfuscating fog that hid foe from foe, comrade from comrade. In this fog, the enemy had simply disappeared, vanished, as if the blood-soaked ground had opened up and swallowed him.

“Which is probably exactly what happened,” said General Konnal to his officers. “They had their escape arranged in advance. They retreated, and when the fog came, they ran to their hideout. They are skulking about in the caves somewhere near here.”

“To what purpose, General?” Silvan demanded impatiently.

The king was feeling irritable and out of sorts, restless and antsy. He left his tent that was suddenly cramped and confining, came to confer with the officers. Silvan’s courage had been praised and lauded. He was undoubtedly the hero of the hour, as even General Konnal admitted. Silvan cared nothing for their praise. His gaze shifted constantly to the tent where the girl was being held prisoner.

“The humans have no food, no supplies,” he continued, “and no way of obtaining any. They are cut off, isolated. They know that they can never take Silvanost now. Surely, if anything, they will attempt to retreat back to the borders.”

“They know we would cut them down if they tried that,”

Konnal said. “Yet, you are right, Your Majesty, they cannot remain in hiding forever. Sooner or later they must come out, and then we will have them. I just wish I knew,” he added, more to himself than to anyone else, “what they are planning. For there was a plan here as certain as I live and breathe.”

His officers offered various theories: The humans had panicked and were now scattered to the four winds, the humans had descended below ground in hopes of finding tunnels that would lead them back north, and so on and so forth. Each theory had its opponents, and the elves argued among themselves. Growing weary of the debate, Silvan left abruptly, walked out into the night.

“There is one person who knows,” he said to himself, “and she will tell me. She will talk to me!”

He strode purposefully toward her tent, past the bonfires where the elves sat disconsolately, reliving the battle. The soldiers were bitter and chagrined at their failure to annihilate the detested foe. They swore that when it was dawn they would search beneath every rock until they found the cowardly humans, who had run away to hide when it became clear defeat was imminent.

The elves vowed to slay them, every one.

Silvan discovered that he wasn’t the only one interested in the prisoner. Glaucous stood at the entrance to her tent, being cleared for admittance by the guard. Silvan was about to advance and make himself known when he realized that Glaucous had not seen him.

Silvan was suddenly interested to hear what Glaucous would ask her. He circled around to the rear of the prisoner’s tent. The night was dark. No guard stood back here. Silvan crept close to the tent, being careful to make no sound. He quieted even his breathing.

A candle on the floor inside the tent flared, brought to life two dark silhouettes—the girl’s with her smooth head and long, graceful neck and the elf, tall and straight, his white robes black against the light. The two stared at each other unspeaking for long moments and then, suddenly, Glaucous recoiled. He shrank back away from her, though she had done nothing to him, had not moved, had not raised her hand, had not said a word.

“Who are you?” he demanded and his voice was awed.

“I am called Mina,” she replied.

“ And I am—”

“No need to tell me,” she said. “I know your name.”

“How could you?” he asked, amazed. “You couldn’t. You have never seen me before.”

“But I know it,” she replied calmly.

Glaucous had regained his self-possession. “Answer me one thing, witch. How did you pass through my shield? By what magic? What sorcery did you use?”

“No magic,” she said. “No sorcery. The Hand of the God reached down and the shield was lifted.”

“What hand?” Glaucous was angry, thinking she mocked him. “What god? There are no gods! Not anymore!”

“There is One God,” Mina stated.

“And what is the name of this god?”

“The God has no name. The God needs no name. The God is the One God, the True God, the Only God.”

“Lies! You will tell me what I want to know.” Glaucous lifted his hand.

Silvanoshei expected Glaucous to use the truth-seek, as had been done to him.

“You feel your throat start to close,” said Glaucous. “You gasp for air and find none. You begin to suffocate.”

“This is not the truth-seek,” Silvan said to himself. “What is he doing?”

“Your lungs burn and seem about to burst,” Glaucous continued. “The magic tightens, tightens all the while until you lose consciousness. I will end the torment, when you agree to tell me the truth.”

He began to chant strange words, words that Silvan did not understand, but which he guessed must be words to a magical spell. Alarmed for Mina’s safety, Silvan was ready to rush to her rescue, to tear the fabric of the tent with his bare hands if need be to reach her.

Mina sat calmly on the cot. She did not gasp. She did not choke. She continued to breathe normally.

Glaucous ceased his chant. He stared at her in amazement.

“You thwart me! How?”

“Your magic has no effect on me,” Mina said, shrugging. The chains that bound her rang like silver bells. She looked up at him.

“I know you. I know the truth.”

Glaucous regarded her in silence, and though Silvan could see only Glaucous’s silhouette, he could tell that the elf was enraged and, also, that he was afraid.

Glaucous left the tent abruptly.

Troubled, fascinated, Silvan came around to the front of the tent. He waited in the darkness until he saw Glaucous enter General Konnal’s tent, then approached the guard.

“I will speak with the prisoner,” he said.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The guard bowed, started to accompany the king.

“Alone,” Silvan said. “You have leave to go.”

The guard did not move.

“I am in no danger. She is chained and manacled! Go fetch yourself some dinner. I will take over your watch.”

“Your Majesty, I have my orders—”

“I countermand them!” Silvan said angrily, thinking he was cutting a very poor figure in the sight of those amber eyes. “Go and take the fellow of your watch with you.”

The guard hesitated a moment longer, but his king had spoken. He dared not disobey. He and his companion walked off toward the cooking fires. Silvan entered the tent. He stood looking at the prisoner, stood inside the amber of her eyes, warm and liquid around him.

“I want to know. . . if. . . if they are treating you well. . . .”

What a stupid thing to say! Silvan thought, even as the words fumbled their way out of his mouth.

“Thank you, Silvanoshei Caladon,” the girl said. “I need nothing. I am in the care of my God.”

“You know who I am?” Silvan asked.

“Of course, you are Silvanoshei, son of Alhana Starbreeze, daughter of Lorac Caladon and of Porthios of the House of Solostaran.”

“And you are. . . ?”

“Mina.”

“Just Mina?”

She shrugged and when she shrugged, the chains on her manacles chimed. “Just Mina.”

The amber began to congeal around Silvan. He felt short of breath, as if he were the one to fall victim to Glaucous’s suffocating spell. He came closer to her, knelt on one knee before her to bring those lovely eyes level with his own.

“You mention your god. I would ask you a question. If the Knights of Neraka follow this god, then I must assume that this god is evil. Why does someone so young and so beautiful walk the ways of darkness?”

Mina smiled at him, the kind and pitying smile one bestows upon the blind or the feebleminded.

“There is no good, there is no evil. There is no light, there is no darkness. There is only one. One truth. All the rest is falsehood.”

“But this god must be evil,” Silvan argued. “Otherwise why attack our nation? We are peace-loving. We have done nothing to provoke this war. Yet now my people lie dead at the hands of their enemy.”

“I do not come to conquer,” Mina said. “I come to free you, to save you and your people. If some die, it is only that countless others may live. The dead understand their sacrifice.”

“Perhaps they do,” said Silvan with a wry shake of his head.

“I confess that I do not. How could you—a human, single and alone—save the elven nation?”

Mina sat quite still for long moments, so still that her chains made no sound. Her amber eyes left him, shifted to stare into the candle’s flame. He was content to sit and gaze at her. He could have been content to sit at her feet and gaze at her all night, perhaps all his life. He had never seen a human woman with such delicate features, such fine bone structure, such smooth skin.

Every movement was graceful and fluid. He found his eyes drawn to her shaved head. The shape of the skull was perfect, the skin smooth with a faint shimmering red down upon it, which must be like feathery down to touch. . .

“I am permitted to tell you a secret, Silvanoshei,” said Mina.

Silvan, lost in her, started at the sound of her voice. “Who gives you this permission?”

“You must swear that you will tell no one else.”

“I swear,” said Silvan.

“Truly swear,” said Mina.

“I swear,” Silvan said slowly, “on my mother’s grave.”

“An oath I cannot accept,” Mina returned. “Your mother is not dead.”

“What?” Silvan sank back, amazed. “What are you saying?”

“Your mother lives, and so does your father. The ogres did not kill your mother or her followers, as you feared. They were rescued by the Legion of Steel. But your parents’ story is ended, they are in the past. Your story is just begun, Silvanoshei Caladon.”

Mina reached out her hand, the chains ringing like altar bells.

She touched Silvan’s cheek. Exerting a gentle pressure, she drew him near. “Swear to me by the One True God that you will not reveal what I am about to tell you to anyone.”

“But I don’t believe in this god,” Silvan faltered. Her touch was like the lightning bolt that had struck so near him, raised the hair on his neck and arms, sent prickles of desire through his bloodstream.

“The One God believes in you, Silvanoshei,” Mina told him.

“That is all that matters. The One God will accept your oath.”

“I swear, then, by the . . . One God.” He felt uncomfortable, saying the word, felt uncomfortable swearing the vow. He did not believe, not at all, but he had the strange and uneasy impression that his vow had been recorded by some immortal hand and that he would be held to it.

“How did you enter the shield?” Mina asked.

“Glaucous raised the shield so that I could—” Silvan began, but he stopped when he saw her smile. “What? Did this God lift it for me, as you told Glaucous?”

“I told him what he wanted to hear. In effect, you did not enter the shield. The shield captured you while you were helpless.”

“Yes, I see what you are saying.” Silvan remembered back to the night of the storm. “I was unconscious. I collapsed on one side of the Shield and when I woke, I was on the other. I did not move. The shield moved to cover me! Of course, that is the explanation!”

“The shield will stand firm against an attack, but it will try to apprehend the helpless, or so I was given to know. My soldiers and I slept and while we slept, the shield moved over us.”

“But if the shield protects the elves,” Silvan argued. “How could it admit our enemies?”

“The shield does not protect you,” Mina replied. “The Shield keeps out those who would help you. In truth, the shield is your prison. Not only your prison, it is also your executioner.”

Silvan drew back, away from her touch. Her nearness confused him, made thinking difficult. “What do you mean?”

“Your people are dying of a wasting sickness,” she said.

“Every day, many more succumb. Some believe the shield is causing this illness. They are partly right. What they do not know is that the lives of the elves are being drained to provide energy to the shield. The lives of your people keep the shield in place. The shield is now a prison. Soon it will be your tomb.”

Silvan sank back on his heels. “I don’t believe you.”

“I have proof,” Mina said. “What I speak is true. I swear by my God.”

“Then give your proof to me,” Silvan urged. “Let me consider it.”

“I will tell you, Silvanoshei, and gladly. My God sent me here with that purpose. Glaucous—”

“Your Majesty,” said a stem voice outside the tent.

Silvan cursed softly, turned swiftly.

“Remember, not a word!” Mina warned.

His hand trembling, Silvan opened the tent flap to see General Konnal, flanked by the two guards.

“Your Majesty,” General Konnal repeated and his voice held a patronizing tone that grated on Silvan, “not even a king may dismiss those who guard such an important and dangerous prisoner. Your Majesty places himself in peril, and that cannot be allowed. Take up your positions,” the general ordered.

The elf guard moved to stand in front of the prison tent.

Words of explanation clustered thick on Silvan’s tongue, but he couldn’t articulate any of them. He might have said that he was there to interrogate the prisoner about the shield, but that was coming too close to her secret, and he feared he could not mention one without revealing the other.

“I will escort Your Majesty back to his tent,” said Konnal.

“Even heroes must sleep.”

Silvan maintained a silence that he hoped was the silence of injured dignity and misunderstood intentions. He fell into step beside the general, walked past campfires that were being allowed to die down. Those elves not out on patrol searching for the humans, had wrapped themselves in their blankets and were already asleep. Elf healers tended to the wounded, made them comfortable. The camp was quiet and still.

“Good night, General,” said Silvan coldly. “I give you joy on your victory this day.” He started to enter his tent.

“I advise Your Majesty to go straight to bed,” the General said.

“You will need to be rested for tomorrow. To preside over the execution.”

“What?” Silvan gasped. He caught hold of the tent post to steady himself. “What execution? Whose?”

“Tomorrow at noon, when the glorious sun stands high in the sky to serve as our witness, we will execute the human,” said Konnal. He did not look at the king as he spoke, but stared straight into the night. “Glaucous has recommended it, and in this I agree with him.”

“Glaucous!” Silvan repeated.

He remembered Glaucous in the tent, remembered the fear he had sensed in him. Mina had been about to tell Silvan something about Glaucous before they had been interrupted.

“You cannot kill her!” Silvan said firmly. “You will not. I forbid it.”

“I am afraid that Your Majesty has no say in this matter,” said Konnal. “The Heads of House have been apprised of the situation. They have voted, and their vote is unanimous.”

“How will she be killed?” Silvan asked.

Konnal laid a kindly hand on the king’s shoulder. “I know this is an onerous task, Your Majesty. You don’t need to remain to watch. Just step out and say a few words, and then retire to your tent. No one will think the worse of you.”

“Answer me, damn you!” Silvan cried, striking the man’s hand away.

Konnal’s face froze. “The human is to be taken to the field that is drenched in the blood of our people. She is to be tied to a stake. Seven of our best archers will be chosen. When the sun is directly overhead, when the human no longer casts a shadow, the archers will fire seven arrows into her body.”

Silvan could not see the general for the blinding white rage that filled his being. He clenched his fist, dug his nails into his flesh. The pain helped him steady his voice. “Why does Glaucous say she must die?”

“His reasoning is sound. So long as she lives, the humans will remain in the area, hoping to rescue her. With her execution, they will lose all hope. They will be demoralized. Easier to locate, easier to destroy.”

Silvan felt his gorge rise. He feared he would be sick, but he struggled to make one last argument. “We elves revere life. We do not by law take the life of any elf, no matter how terrible his or her crime. Elf assassins exist, but only outside the law.”

“We do not take the life of an elf,” Konnal answered. “We take the life of a human. Goodnight Your Majesty. I will send a messenger to you before dawn.”

Silvan entered his tent and shut the flap behind him. His servants awaited him.

“Leave me,” Silvan ordered irritably, and the servants hurriedly departed.

Silvan threw himself on his bed, but he was up almost immediately. He flung himself into a chair and stared moodily into the darkness. He could not let this girl die. He loved her. Adored her.

He had loved her from the moment he had seen her standing courageously, fearlessly, among her soldiers. He had stepped off the precipice of sanity and plummeted down on love’s sharp rocks. They tore and mangled him. He gloried in the pain and wanted more.

A plan formed in his mind. What he was doing was wrong.

He might well be placing his people in danger, but—he argued—what they were doing was wrong, and their wrong was greater than his. He was, in a way, saving them from themselves.

Silvan gave the general time to return to his tent, then wrapped himself in a dark cloak. He thrust a long, sharp knife into his boot. Peering out of the tent flap, he looked to see that no one was about. He left his tent sneaked through the slumbering camp with quiet tread.

Two guards, alert and watchful, stood outside Mina’s tent.

Silvan did not go near them. He circled to the back of the tent where he had hidden to eavesdrop on Glaucous. Silvan looked carefully around. The woods were only a few paces away. They could reach them easily. They would find a cave. He would hide her there in safety, come to visit her in the night bring her food, water, his love. . .

Removing the knife, Silvan placed its sharp point against the fabric of the tent and, working carefully and silently, cut a slit near the bottom. He crawled through the slit and inside the tent.

The candle still burned. Silvan was careful to keep his body from passing in front of it afraid that the guards would see his shadow.

Mina had fallen asleep on her straw pallet. She slept on her side, her legs drawn up, her hands—still chained—curled up against her breast. She looked very fragile. Her slumbers were seemingly dreamless, and peaceful. Her breath came and went easily through her nose and her parted lips.

Silvan clapped his hand over her mouth to prevent any startled exclamation. “Mina!” he whispered urgently. “Mina.”

Her eyes opened. She made no sound. The amber eyes gazed up at him, aware of him, cognizant of her surroundings.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said and realized as he said it that this girl had never known fear. She did not know fear now. “I’ve come to free you.” He tried to speak calmly, but his voice and his hands trembled. “We can escape out the back of the tent into the woods. We have to get these manacles off.”

He moved his hand away. “Call the guard. He has the key. Tell him you’re ill. I’ll wait in the shadows and—”

Mina put her fingers on his lips, stopped his words. “No,” she said. “Thank you, but I will not leave.”

“What was that?” one of the guards asked his fellow. “Did you hear something?”

“It came from inside the tent.”

Silvan lifted his knife. Mina laid a restraining hand on his arm. She began to sing.

The voices of the guards ceased.

“There,” she said to Silvan. “The guards are asleep. We may talk without fear.”

“Asleep. . .” Silvan lifted the tent flap. The guards remained standing at their posts, their heads bowed, their chins resting on their chests. Their eyes were closed.

“Are you a sorceress?” he asked, coming back to her.

“No, I am only a faithful follower,” Mina replied. “The gifts I have are from my God.”

“May your God keep you safe. Hurry, Mina! Out this way. We will find a path not far from here. The path runs through. . .”

Silvan halted.

She was shaking her head.

“Mina,” he said desperately, “we must escape! They’re going to execute you at noon this very day. With the rising of the sun. Glaucous has convinced them. He fears you, Mina.”

“He has good reason to fear me,” she said sternly.

“Why, Mina?” Silvan asked. “You were going to tell me something about him. What is it?”

“Only that he is not what he appears and that by his magic, your people are dying. Tell me this”—she put her hand upon his cheek—“is it your desire to punish Glaucous? Reveal his intentions to your people and thereby reveal his murderous plan?”

“Yes, of course, but what—”

“Then do as I instruct you,” Mina said. “Do exactly as I say. My life is in your keeping. If you fail me—”

“I will not fail you, Mina,” Silvan whispered. Seizing her hand, he pressed it to his lips. “I am yours to command.”

“You will attend my execution—Hush! Say nothing. You promised. Make certain that you are armed. Position yourself at Glaucous’s side. Keep a large number of your bodyguards around you. Will you do that?”

“Yes, but what then? Must I watch you die?”

“You will know what to do and when to do it. Rest assured. The One God is with us. You must go now, Silvan. The general will send someone to your tent to check on you. He must not find you absent.”

To leave her was to leave a part of himself. Silvan reached out his hand, ran his fingers over her head, felt the warmth of her skin, the softness of the downlike hair, the hardness of the bone beneath. She held perfectly still under his touch, did not warm to him, but did not move away from him either.

“What did your hair look like, Mina?” he asked.

“It was the color of flame, long and thick. The strands would curl around your finger and tug at your heart like a baby’s hand.”

“Your hair must have been beautiful,” Silvan said. “Did you lose it in a fever?”

“I cut it,” she told him. “I took a knife and I cut it off at the roots.”

“Why?” He was aghast.

“My God required it of me. I cared too much for my looks,” Mina replied. “I liked to be petted, admired, loved. My hair was my vanity, my pride. I sacrificed it to prove my faith. I have only one love, now. Only one loyalty. You must leave me now, Silvan.”

Silvan stood up. Reluctantly, he moved to the back of the tent.

“You are my one love, Mina,” he said softly.

“It is not me that you love,” she said to him. “It is the God in me.”

Silvan did not remember leaving her tent, but he found himself standing outside in the darkness.