The sun was near its zenith. The sky was a strange, cobalt blue, a winter sky in summer, with a winter sun that burned bright but gave no warmth, a sun that seemed lost in the empty blue vastness. The line of men came to an end. Galdar stood before the huge pyre. A litter wound round with ropes rested on the ground at the minotaur’s feet. Men with teargrimed faces stood atop the pyre, waiting to receive their Mina. Galdar looked to his right. Lord Targonne stood at attention. He wore his grief mask, probably the same one he’d worn at the funeral of Mirielle Abrena. He was impatient for the end of the ceremony, however, and he permitted his gaze to shift often to watch the progress of the sun—a not-so-subtle reminder to Galdar to speed matters along. General Dogah stood at Galdar’s left. The minotaur shot the commander a speaking glance.
We have to stall! Galdar pleaded.
Dogah lifted his gaze to the sun that was almost directly overhead. Galdar looked up to see seven blue dragons circling, taking an unusual interest in the proceedings. As a rule, dragons find such ceremonies boring in the extreme. Humans are like bugs. They lead short and frantic lives, and like bugs, humans are constantly dying. Unless the human and the dragon have formed a particular bond, dragons little care what becomes of them. Yet, now Galdar watched them fly above Mina’s funeral pyre. The shadows of their wings slid repeatedly over her still face. If Targonne meant the dragons to intimidate, he was succeeding. Dogah felt the cringe of dragonfear twist his heart, already wrung by grief. He lowered his gaze in defeat. There was nothing to be done.
“Carry on, Galdar,” Dogah said quietly.
Galdar knelt from his great height and with uncommon gentleness placed Mina’s body on the litter. Somewhere someone had found a fine woven silk cloth of gold and of purple. Probably stolen from the elves. Galdar arranged Mina’s body on the litter, her hands folded over her breast. He drew the cloth over her, as a father might lovingly cover a slumbering child.
“Good-bye, Mina,” Galdar whispered.
Half-blinded by his tears that were rolling unchecked down his snout, he rose to his feet and made a fierce gesture. The soldiers atop the pyre pulled on the ropes. The ropes tightened, went taut, and the litter bearing Mina’s body rose slowly to the top of the pyre. The soldiers settled the litter, rearranged the cloth over her. Each one stooped to kiss her cold forehead or kiss her chill hands. Then they climbed down from the top of the pyre.
Mina remained there, alone.
Captain Samuval brought Foxfire to a halt at the foot of the pyre. The horse, now seemingly aware that he was on show, stood quiet with dignity and pride.
Mina’s Knights gathered around the pyre. Each held in his hand a lighted torch. The flames did not waver or flicker, but burned steadily. The smoke rose straight into the air.
“Let us get on with it,” said Lord Targonne in annoyed tones. “What do you wait for?”
“A moment longer, my lord,” said Dogah. Raising his voice, he shouted, “Bring the prisoner.”
Targonne cast Dogah a baleful glance. “What do we need him for?”
Because it was Mina’s command, Dogah might have said. He offered the first explanation that came into his mind.
“We plan to throw him onto the pyre, my lord,” said Dogah.
“Ah,” said Targonne, “a burnt offering.” He chuckled at his little jest and was annoyed when no one else did.
Two guards led forth the elf king who had been responsible for Mina’s death. The young man was festooned in chains— fetters on his wrists and ankles were attached to an iron belt around his waist, an iron collar had been locked around his neck. He could scarcely walk for the weight and had to be assisted by his captors. His face was bruised practically beyond recognition, one eye swollen shut. His fine clothes were covered with blood.
His guards brought him to a halt at the foot of the pyre. The young man lifted his head. He saw Mina’s body resting atop the pyre. The elf went so pale that he was paler than the corpse. He let out a low, wretched cry and lurched suddenly forward. His guards, thinking he was trying to escape, seized hold of him roughly.
Silvanoshei had no thought of escape, however. He heard them cursing him and talking of throwing him onto the fire. He didn’t care. He hoped they would, that he might die and be with her. He stood with his head bowed, his long hair falling over his battered face.
“Now that we are finished with the histrionics,” said Lord Targonne snappishly, “may we proceed?”
Galdar’s lips curled back from his teeth. His huge fist clenched.
“By my beard, here come the elves,” Dogah exclaimed in disbelief. It had been Mina’s command that all elves who wanted to attend the ceremony were to be permitted to do so, and they were not to be harassed or threatened or harmed, but welcomed in the name of the One God. Mina’s officers had not expected any elves would come. Fearing retribution, most elves had locked themselves in their houses, preparing to defend their homes and families or, in some cases, making plans to flee into the wilderness.
Yet now out of the city gates came pouring a vast gathering of Silvanesti elves, mostly the young, who had been Mina’s followers. They bore flowers in their hands—those flowers that had survived the ravaging touch of the shield—and they walked with slow and measured tread to the tune of the mournful music of muted harp and somber flute. The human soldiers had good reason to resent this appearance of their enemy, those they held responsible for their beloved commander’s death. A muttering arose among the troops, hardening into a growl of anger and a warning to the elves to keep their distance.
Galdar took heart. Here was the perfect way to stall! If the men would decide to ignore their orders and take out their fury on these elves, Galdar and the other officers could not be expected to stop them. He glanced skyward. Blue dragons would not interfere with the slaughter of elves. After such an unseemly disruption, the funeral would certainly have to be postponed.
The elves proceeded toward the pyre. The shadows of the dragons’
wings flowed over them. Many blanched and shuddered. The dragonfear that touched even Galdar must be horrible for these elves. For all they knew, they would be brutally attacked by the human soldiers who had good reason to hate them. Yet still they came to pay homage to the girl who had touched them and healed them.
Galdar could not help but pay grudging homage to their courage. So, too, did the men. Perhaps because Mina had touched them all, human and elf felt a bond that day. The growls of anger and muttered threats died away. The elves took their places a respectful distance from the pyre, as if they were aware they had no right to come closer. They lifted their hands. A soft breeze sprang up from the east, caught the flowers they bore, and carried them in a cloud of fragrance to the pyre, where the white petals floated down around Mina’s body.