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.”