Some say that spies are useful, that the information they gather by low and sneaking means might lead us to victory. We knights answer that victory obtained by such means is no victory at all but the ultimate defeat, for if we abandon the principles of honor for which we fight, what makes us better than our enemy?
“What indeed?” Gerard asked himself, the scroll case unopened in his hand. “Nothing, I guess.” With a quick twist, he opened the lid and, glancing about the forest one final time, he drew out the parchment, unrolled it, and began to read.
A weakness came over him. His body chilled. He sank down upon the bank, continued reading in disbelief. Completing his perusal, he considered what to do. His first thought was to burn the terrible missive so that it would never reach its destination. He dared not do that, however. Too many people had seen him take it. He thought of burning it and substituting another in its place, but he abandoned that wild idea immediately. He had no parchment, no pen, no ink. And perhaps Medan was familiar with the handwriting of the scribe who penned this message at the dragon’s injunction.
No, Gerard reasoned, sick at heart, there was nothing he could do now but deliver the dispatch. To do otherwise would be to put himself in danger, and he might be the only means of thwarting the dragon’s evil design.
Medan would be wondering what had become of him. Gerard had already been longer on his daily errand than usual. He hurriedly rolled up the dispatch, thrust it into the tube, carefully replaced the wax seal, and made sure that it was firmly stuck. Thrusting the foul thing in his belt, unwilling to touch it more than necessary, he continued on his way back to the marshal’s at a run.
Gerard found the marshal strolling in his garden, taking his exercise after his evening meal. Hearing footsteps along the walkway, the marshal glanced around.
“Ah, Gerard. You are behind your time. I was starting to fear something might have happened to you.” The marshal looked intently at Gerard’s arm. “Something has happened to you. You are injured.”
Gerard glanced down at his shirtsleeve, saw it wet with blood. In his distraction over the dispatch, he’d forgotten his wounds, forgotten the fight with the draconian.
“There was an altercation at headquarters,” he said, knowing that Medan would come to hear what had happened. “Here are the daily reports.” He placed those upon a table that stood beneath a trellis over which Medan had patiently trained grapevines to grow, forming a green and leafy bower. “And there is this dispatch, which comes from the dragon Beryl.”
Medan took the dispatch with a grimace. He did not immediately open it. He was much more interested in hearing about the fight. “What was the altercation, Sir Gerard?”
“The draconian messenger insisted on bringing the dispatch to you himself. Your Knights did not think that this was necessary. They insisted he remain there to await your response.”
“Your doing, I think, sir,” said Medan with a smile. “You acted rightly. I am wary of Groul. Who knows what he is thinking in that lizard brain of his? He is not to be trusted.”
He turned his attention to the dispatch. Gerard saluted, started to leave.
“No, no. You might as well wait. I will have to draft an answer.…” He fell silent, reading.
Gerard, who knew every line because he felt each one burned on his brain, could follow Medan’s progress through the dispatch by watching the expression on his face. Medan’s lips tightened, his jaw set. If he had appeared happy, overjoyed, Gerard had determined to kill the marshal where he stood, regardless of the consequences.
Medan was not overjoyed, however. Far from it. His face lost its color, took on a sallow, grayish hue. He completed reading the dispatch and then, with studied deliberation, read it through again. Finished, he crushed it in his hand and, with a curse, hurled it to the walkway.
Arms folded across his chest, he turned his back, stared grimly at nothing until he had regained some measure of his composure. Gerard stood in silence. Now might have been a politic time to absent himself, but he was desperate to know what Medan intended to do.
At length, the marshal turned around. He glanced down at the crumpled piece of parchment, glanced up at Gerard. “Read it,” he said.
“Sir.” Gerard flushed. “It’s not meant for—”
“Read it, damn you!” Medan shouted. Calming himself with an effort, he added, “You might as well. I must think what to do, what to say to the dragon in reply and how to say it. Carefully,” he admonished himself softly. “I must proceed carefully, or all is lost!”
Gerard picked up the dispatch and smoothed it out.
“Read it aloud,” Medan ordered. “Perhaps I misread it. Perhaps there was some part of it I misunderstood.” His tone was ironic.
Gerard skipped through the formal address, came to the body of the text.
“ ‘It has come to my attention,’ ” he read, “ ‘through one who is in sympathy with my interests, that the outlawed sorcerer Palin Majere has discovered a most valuable and wondrous magical artifact while he was unlawfully in my territory. I consider that the artifact is therefore mine. I must and I will have it.
“ ‘Informants tell me that Palin Majere and the kender have fled with the artifact to the Citadel of Light. I give the elf king, Gilthas, three days to recover the device and the culprits who carry it and another three days to deliver them up to me.
“ ‘In addition, the elf king will also send me the head of the elf woman, Lauranalanthalas, who harbored the sorcerer and the kender in her home and who aided and abetted them in their escape.
“ ‘If, at the end of six days, I have not received the head of this traitor elf woman and if the artifact and those who stole it are not in my hands, I will order the destruction of Qualinesti to commence. Every man, woman, and child in that wretched nation shall be put to sword or flame. None shall survive. As for those in the Citadel of Light who dare harbor these criminals, I will destroy them, burn their Citadel to the ground, and recover the magical device from amidst the bones and ashes.’ ”
Gerard was thankful he’d read this once. Had he not been prepared, he would not have been able to read it as calmly as he managed. As it was, his voice caught in his throat and he was forced to cover his emotions with a harsh cough. He finished reading and looked up to find Medan observing him closely.
“Well, what do you think of this?” Medan demanded.
Gerard cleared his throat. “I believe that it is presumptuous of the dragon to give you orders, my lord. The Knights of Neraka are not her personal army.”
Medan’s grim expression relaxed. He almost smiled. “That is an excellent argument, Gerard. Would it were true! Unfortunately, the High Command crawled on their bellies before the great dragons years ago.”
“She can’t mean this, my lord,” Gerard said cautiously. “She wouldn’t do this. Not an entire race of people—”
“She could and she will,” Medan replied grimly. “Look what she did to Kenderhome. Slaughtered the little nuisances by the thousands. Not that kender are any great loss, but it goes to prove that she will do what she says.”
Gerard had heard other Solamnic Knights say the same thing about the slaughter of the kender, and he recalled laughing with them. He knew some Solamnic Knights who would not be displeased to see the elves depart this world. We consider ourselves so much better, so much more moral and more honorable than the Dark Knights, Gerard said to himself. In reality, the only difference is the armor. Silver or black, it masks the same prejudices, the same intolerance, the same ignorance. Gerard felt suddenly, deeply ashamed.
Medan had begun to pace the walkway. “Damn the blasted elves! All these years I work to save them, and now it is for nothing! Damn the queen mother anyhow! If she had only listened to me! But, no. She must consort with rebels and the like, and now what comes of it? She has doomed herself and her people. Unless …”
He paused in his pacing, hands clasped behind his back, brooding, his thoughts turned inward. His robes, of elven make, elven
cut, and elven design, fell loosely about his body. The hem, trimmed with silk ribbon, brushed his feet. Gerard remained silent, absorbed with his own thoughts—a confusion of sickening rage against the dragon for wanting to destroy the elves and rage at himself and his own kind for standing idly by and doing nothing all these years to stop her.
Medan raised his head. He had made a decision. “The day has arrived sooner than I anticipated. I will not be a party to genocide. I have no compunction about killing another warrior in battle, but I will not butcher helpless civilians who have no way to fight back. To do so is the height of cowardice, and such wanton slaughter would break the oath I swore when I became a Knight. Perhaps there is a way to stop the dragon. But I will require your help.”
“You have it, my lord,” said Gerard.
“You will have to trust me.” Medan raised an eyebrow.
“And you will have to trust me, my lord,” said Gerard, smiling.
Medan nodded. A man of quick and decisive actions, he did not waste breath in further talk but seated himself at the table. He reached for pen and ink. “We must stall for time,” he said, writing rapidly. “You will deliver my answer to the draconian Groul, but he must never reach the dragon. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Gerard.
Medan completed his writing. He sprinkled sand on the paper, to help the ink dry, rolled it and handed it to Gerard. “Put that in the same scroll case. No need to seal it. The message states that I am the Exalted One’s Obedient Servant and that I will do her bidding.”
Medan rose to his feet. “When you have completed your task, go straight to the Royal Palace. I will leave orders that you are to be admitted. We must make haste. Beryl is a treacherous fiend, not to be trusted. She may have already decided to act on her own.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gerard said. “And where will you be, my lord? Where can I find you?”
Medan smiled grimly. “I will be arresting the queen mother.”
Marshal Medan walked along the path that led through the garden to the main dwelling of Laurana’s modest estate. Night had fallen. He had brought a torch to light his way. The flame singed the hanging flowers as he passed beneath them, caused leaves to blacken and curl. Bugs flew into the fire. He could hear them sizzle.
The marshal was not wearing his elven robes. He was accoutered in his full ceremonial armor. Kelevandros, who answered Medan’s resounding knock upon the door, was quick to note the change. He eyed the marshal warily.
“Marshal Medan. Welcome. Please enter. I will inform madam that she has a visitor. She will see you in the arboretum, as usual.”
“I prefer to remain where I am,” said the marshal. “Tell your mistress to meet me here. Tell her,” he added, his voice grating, “that she should be dressed for travel. She will need her cloak. The night air is chill. And tell her to make haste.”
He looked intently and constantly about the garden, paying particular attention to the parts of the garden hidden in shadow.
“Madam will want to know why,” Kelevandros said, hesitating.
Medan gave him a shove that sent him staggering across the room. “Go fetch your mistress,” he ordered.
“Travel?” Laurana said, astonished. She had been sitting in the arboretum, pretending to listen to Kalindas read aloud from an ancient elven text. In reality, she had not heard a word. “Where am I going?”
Kelevandros shook his head. “The marshal will not tell me, Madam. He is acting very strangely.”
“I don’t like this, Madam,” Kalindas stated, lowering the book. “First imprisonment in your house, now this. You should not go with the marshal.”
“I agree with my brother, Madam,” Kelevandros added. “I will tell him you are not well. We will do what we have talked about before. This night, we will smuggle you out in the tunnels.”
“I will not,” said Laurana determinedly. “Would you have me flee to safety while the rest of my people are forced to stay behind? Bring my cloak.”
“Madam,” Kelevandros dared to argue, “please—”
“Fetch me my cloak,” Laurana stated. Her tone was gentle but firm, brooked no further debate.
Kelevandros bowed silently.
Kalindas went to fetch the cloak. Kelevandros returned with Laurana to the front door, where Marshal Medan had remained standing.
Sighting her, he straightened. “Lauranalanthalas of the House of Solostaran,” he said formally, “you are under arrest. You will surrender yourself peacefully to me as my prisoner.”
“Indeed?” Laurana was quite calm. “What is the charge? Or is there a charge?” she asked. She turned so that Kalindas could place the cloak about her shoulders.
The elf started to do so, but Medan took the cloak himself. The marshal, his expression grave, settled the cloak around Laurana’s shoulders.
“The charges are numerous, Madam. Harboring a human sorcerer who is wanted by the Gray Robes, concealing your knowledge of a valuable magical artifact, which the sorcerer had in his possession when, by law, all magical artifacts located in Qualinesti are to be handed over to the dragon. Aiding and abetting the outlaw sorcerer in his escape from Qualinesti with the artifact.”
“I see,” said Laurana.
“I tried to warn you, madam, but you would not heed me,” Medan said.
“Yes, you did try to warn me, marshal, and for that I am grateful.” Laurana fastened the cloak around her neck with a jeweled pin. Her hands were steady, did not tremble. “And what is to be done with me, Marshal Medan?”
“My orders are to execute you, madam,” said Medan. “I am to send your head to the dragon.”
Kalindas gasped. Kelevandros gave a hoarse shout and lunged at Medan, grappling for his throat with his bare hands.
“Stop, Kelevandros!” Laurana ordered, throwing herself between the elf and the marshal. “This will not help! Stop this madness!”
Kelevandros fell back, panting, glaring at Medan with hatred. Kalindas took hold of his brother’s arm, but Kelevandros angrily shook him off.
“Come, madam,” said Marshal Medan. He offered Laurana his arm. The torch smoked and sputtered. Orchids, hanging over the door, shriveled in the heat.
Laurana rested her hand on the marshal’s arm. She looked back at the two brothers, standing, white-faced with shadowed eyes, watching her being led away to her death.
Which one? she asked herself, sick at heart. Which one?
29
Prison of Amber
he 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.”
&
nbsp; 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 corn. 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.
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