“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.