Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter Eight Under the Shield

The Silvanesti elves have always revered the night.

The Qualinesti delight in the sunlight. Their ruler is the Speaker of the Sun. They fill their homes with sunlight, all business is conducted in the daylight hours, all important ceremonies such as marriage are held in the day so that they may be blessed by the light of the sun.

The Silvanesti are in love with the star-lit night.

The Silvanesti’s leader is the Speaker of the Stars. Night had once been a blessed time in Silvanost, the capital of the elven state. Night brought the stars and sweet sleep and dreams of the beauty of their beloved land. But then came the War of the Lance.

The wings of evil dragons blotted out the stars. One dragon in particular, a green dragon known as Cyan Bloodbane, laid claim to the realm of Silvanesti. He had long hated the elves and he wanted to see them suffer. He could have slaughtered them by the thousands, but he was cruel and clever. The dying suffer, that is true, but the pain is fleeting and is soon forgotten as the dead move from this reality to the next. Cyan wanted to inflict a pain that nothing could ease, a pain that would endure for centuries.

The ruler of Silvanesti at the time was an elf highly skilled in magic. Lorac Caladon foresaw the coming of evil to Ansalon. He sent his people into exile, telling them he had the power to keep their realm safe from the dragons. Unbeknownst to anyone, Lorac had stolen one of the magical dragon orbs from the Tower of High Sorcery. He had been warned that an attempt to use the orb by one who was not strong enough to control its magic could result in doom. In his arrogance, Lorac believed that he was strong enough to wrest the orb to his will. He looked into the orb and saw a dragon looking back. Lorac was caught and held in thrall.

Cyan Bloodbane had his chance. He found Lorac in the Tower of the Stars, as he sat upon his throne, his hand held fast by the orb. Cyan whispered into Lorac’s ear a dream of Silvanesti, a terrible dream in which lovely trees became hideous, deformed monstrosities that attacked those who had once loved them. A dream in which Lorac saw his people die, one by one, each death painful and terrible to witness. A dream in which the Thon-Thalas river ran red with blood.

The War of the Lance ended. Queen Takhisis was defeated.

Cyan Bloodbane was forced to flee Silvanesti, but he left smugly satisfied with the knowledge that he had accomplished his goal. He had inflicted upon the Silvanesti a tortured dream from which they would never awaken. When the elves returned to their land after the war was over, they discovered to their shock and horror that the nightmare was reality. Lorac’s dream, given to him by Cyan Bloodbane, had hideously altered their once beautiful land.

The Silvanesti fought the dream arid, under the leadership of a Qualinesti general, Porthios, the elves eventually managed to defeat it. The cost was dear, however. Many elves fell victim to the dream, and even when it was finally cast out of the land, the trees and plants and animals remained horribly deformed.

Slowly, the elves coaxed their forests back to beauty, using newly discovered magicks to heal the wounds left by the dream, to cover over the scars.

Then came the need to forget. Porthios, who had risked his life more than once to wrest their land from the clutches of the dream, became a reminder of the dream. He was no longer a savior. He was a stranger, an interloper, a threat to the Silvanesti who wanted to return to their life of isolation and seclusion. Porthios wanted to take the elves into the world, to make them one with the world, to unify them with their cousins, the Qualinesti. He had married Alhana Starbreeze, daughter of Lorac, with this hope in mind. Thus if war came again, the elves would not struggle alone. They would have allies to fight on their side.

The elves did not want allies. Allies who might decide to gobble up Silvanesti land in return for their help. Allies who might want to marry Silvanesti sons and daughters and dilute the pure Silvanesti blood. These isolationists had declared Porthios and his wife, Alhana, “dark elves” who could never, under penalty of death, return to their homelands.

Porthios was driven out. General Konnal took control of the nation and placed it under martial law “until such time as a true king can be found to rule the Silvanesti.” The Silvanesti ignored the pleas of their cousins, the Qualinesti, for help to free them from the rule of the great dragon Beryl and the Knights of Neraka. The Silvanesti ignored the pleas of those who fought the great dragons and who begged the elves for their help. The Silvanesti wanted no part of the world. Absorbed in their own affairs, their eyes looked at the mirror of life and saw only themselves. Thus it was that while they gazed with pride at their own reflections, Cyan Bloodbane, the green dragon who had been their bane, came back to the land he had once nearly destroyed. Or so at least, it was reported by the kirath, who kept watch on the borders.

“Do not raise the shield!” the kirath warned. “You will trap us inside with our worst enemy!”

The elves did not listen. They did not believe the rumors.

Cyan Bloodbane was a figure out of the dark past. He had died in the Dragon Purge. He must have died. If he had returned, why had he not attacked them? So fearful were the elves of the world outside that the Heads of House were unanimous in their approval of the magical shield. The people of Silvanesti could now be said to have gained their dearest wish. Under the magical shield, they were truly isolated, cut off from everyone. They were safe, protected from the evil of the outside world.

“And yet, it seems to me that we have not so much as shut the evil out,” Rolan said to Silvan, “as that we have locked the evil in.”

Night had come to Silvanesti. The darkness was welcome to Silvan, even as it was a grief to him. They had traveled by day through the forest, covering many miles until Rolan deemed they were far enough from the ill effects of the shield to stop and rest.

The day had been a day of wonder to Silvanoshei.

He had heard his mother speak with longing, regret, and sorrow of the beauty of her homeland. He remembered as a child when he and his exiled parents were hiding in some cave with danger all about them, his mother would tell him tales of Silvanesti to quiet his fears. He would close his eyes and see, not the darkness, but the emerald, silver and gold of the forest. He would hear not the howls of wolf or goblin but the melodious chime of the bell flower or the sweetly sorrowful music of the flute tree.

His imagination paled before the reality, however. He could not believe that such beauty existed. He had spent the day as in a waking dream, stumbling over rocks, tree roots, and his own feet as wonders on every side brought tears to his eyes and joy to his heart. .

Trees whose bark was tipped with silver lifted their branches to the sky in graceful arcs, their silver-edged leaves shining in the sunlight. A profusion of broad-leafed bushes lined the path, every bush ablaze with flame-colored flowers that scented the air with sweetness. He had the impression he did not walk through a forest so much as through a garden, for there were no fallen branches, no straggling weeds, no thickets of brambles.

The Woodshapers permitted only the beautiful, the fruitful, and the beneficial to grow in their forests. The Woodshapers’ magical influence extended throughout the land, with the exception of the borders, where the shield cast upon their handiwork a killing frost.

The darkness brought rest to Silvan’s dazzled eyes. Yet the night had its own heart-piercing beauty. The stars blazed with fierce brilliance, as if defying the shield to try to shut them out.

Night flowers opened their petals to the starlight, scented the warm darkness with exotic perfumes, while their luminescent glow filled the forest with a soft silvery white light.

“What do you mean?” Silvan asked. He could not equate evil with the beauty he’d witnessed.

“The cruel punishment we inflicted on your parents, for one, Your Majesty,” said Rolan. “Our way of thanking your father for his aid was to try to stab him in the back. I was ashamed to be Silvanesti when I heard of this. But there has come a reckoning. We are being made to pay for our shame and our dishonor, for cutting ourselves off from the rest of the world, for living beneath the shield, protected from the dragons while others suffer. We pay for such protection with our lives.”

They had stopped to rest in a clearing near a swift-flowing stream. Silvan was thankful for the respite. His injuries had started to pain him once more, though he had not liked to say anything. The excitement and shock of the sudden change in his life had drained him, depleted his energy.

Rolan found fruit and water with a sweetness like nectar for their dinner. He tended to Silvan’s wounds with a respectful, solicitous care that the young man found quite pleasant.

Samar would have tossed me a rag and told me to make the best of it, Silvanoshei thought.

“Perhaps Your Majesty would like to sleep for a few hours,”

Rolan suggested after their supper.

Silvan had thought he was dropping from fatigue but found that he felt much better after eating, refreshed and renewed.

“I would like to know more about my homeland,” he said.

“My mother has told me some, but, of course, she could not know what has been happening since she. . . she left. You spoke of the shield.” Silvan glanced about him. The beauty took his breath away. “I can understand why you would want to protect this”—he gestured to the trees whose boles shone with an iridescent light, to the star flowers that sparkled in the grass—“from the ravages of our enemies.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Rolan and his tone softened. “There are some who say that no price is too high to pay for such protection, not even the price of our own lives. But if all of us are dead, who will be left to appreciate the beauty? And if we die, I believe that eventually the forests will die, too, for the souls of the elves are bound up in all things living.”

“Our people number as the stars,” said Silvan, amused, thinking that Rolan was being overly dramatic.

Rolan glanced up at the heavens. “Erase half those stars, Your Majesty, and you will find the light considerably diminished.”

“Half” Silvanoshei was shocked. “Surely not half!”

“Half the population of Silvanost alone has perished from the wasting sickness, Your Majesty.” He paused a moment, then said,

“What I am about to tell you would be considered treason, for which I would be severely punished.”

“By punished, you mean cast out?” Silvan was troubled.

“Exiled? Sent into darkness?”

“No, we do not do that anymore, Your Majesty,” Rolan replied. “We cannot very well cast people out, for they could not pass through the shield. Now people who speak against Governor General Konnal simply disappear. No one knows what happens to them.”

“If this is true, why don’t the people rebel?” Silvan asked, bewildered. “Why don’t they overthrow Konnal and demand that the shield be brought down?”

“Because only a few know the truth. And those of us who do have no evidence. We could stand in the Tower of the Stars and say that Konnal has gone mad, that he is so fearful of the world outside that he would rather see us all dead than be a part of that world. We could say all that, and then Konnal would stand up and say, ‘You lie! Lower the shield and the Dark Knights will enter our beloved woods with their axes, the ogres will break and maim the living trees, the Great Dragons will descend upon us and devour us.’ That is what he will say, and the people will cry, ‘Save us! Protect us, dear Governor General Konnal! We have no one else to turn to!’ and that will be that.”

“I see,” said Silvan thoughtfully. He glanced at Rolan, who was gazing intently into the darkness.

“Now the people will have someone else to turn to, Your Majesty,” said Rolan. “The rightful heir to the Silvanesti throne. But we must proceed carefully, cautiously.” He smiled sadly.

“Else you, too, might ‘disappear.’ ”

The lovely song of the nightingale throbbed in the darkness.

Rolan pursed his lips and whistled back. Three elves materialized, emerging from the shadows. Silvan recognized them as the three who had first accosted him near the shield this morning.

This morning! Silvan marveled. Was it only this morning?

Days, months, years had gone by since then.

Rolan stood to greet the three, clasping the elves by the hand and exchanging the ritual kiss on the cheek.

The elves wore the same cloak as did Rolan, and even though Silvan knew that they had entered the clearing, he was having a difficult time seeing them, for they seemed to be wrapped in darkness and starlight.

Rolan questioned them about their patrol. They reported that the border along the Shield was quiet, “deathly quiet” one said with terrible irony. The three turned their attention back to Silvan.

“So have you questioned him, Rolan?” asked one, turning a stem gaze upon Silvanoshei. “Is he what he claims?”

Silvan scrambled to his feet, feeling awkward and embarrassed. He started to bow politely to his elders, as he had been taught, but then the thought came to him that he was king, after all. It was they who should bow to him. He looked at Rolan in some confusion.

“I did not ‘question’ him,” Rolan said sternly. “We discussed certain things. And yes, I believe him to be Silvanoshei, the rightful Speaker of the Stars, son of Alhana and Porthios. Our king has returned to us. The day for which we have been waiting has arrived.”

The three elves looked at Silvan, studied him up and down, then turned back to Rolan.

“He could be an imposter,” said one.

“I am certain he is not” Rolan returned with firm conviction. “I knew his mother when she was his age. I fought with his father against the dreaming. He has the likeness of them both, though he favors his father. You, Drinel. You fought with Porthios. Look at this young man. You will see the father’s image engraved on the son’s.”

The elf stared intently at Silvanoshei, who met his gaze and held it.

“See with your heart Drinel,” Rolan urged. “Eyes can be blinded. The heart cannot. You heard him when we followed him, when he had no idea we were spying on him. You heard what he said to us when he believed us to be soldiers of his mother’s army. He was not dissembling. I stake my life on it.”

“I grant you that he favors his father and that there is something of his mother in his eyes. By what miracle does the son of our exiled queen walk beneath the shield?” Drinel asked.

“I don’t know how I came to be inside the shield,” Silvan said, embarrassed. “I must have fallen through it. I don’t remember. But when I sought to leave, the shield would not let me.”

“He threw himself against the shield,” Rolan said. “He tried to go back, tried to leave Silvanesti. Would an imposter do that when he had gone to so much trouble to enter? Would an imposter admit that he did not know how he came through the shield? No, an imposter would have a tale to hand us, logical and easy to believe.”

“You spoke of seeing with my heart,” said Drinel. He glanced back at the other elves. “We are agreed. We want to try the truth-seek on him.”

“You disgrace us with your distrust!” Rolan said, highly displeased. “What will he think of us?”

“That we are wise and prudent,” Drinel answered dryly. “If he has nothing to hide, he will not object.”

“It is up to Silvanoshei,” Rolan replied. “Though I would refuse, if I were him.”

“What is it?” Silvan looked from one to another, puzzled.

“What is this truth-seek?”

“It is a magical spell, Your Majesty,” Rolan answered and his tone grew sad. “Once there was a time when the elves could trust each other. Trust each other implicitly. Once there was a time when no elf could possibly lie to another of our people. That time came to an end during Lorac’s dream. The dream created phantasms of our people, false images of fellow elves that yet seemed very real to those who looked on them and touched them and spoke to them. These phantasms could lure those who believed in them to ruin and destruction. A husband might see his wife beckoning to him and plunge headlong over a cliff in an effort to reach her. A mother might see a child perishing in flames and rush into the fire, only to find the child vanished.

“We kirath developed the truth-seek to determine if these phantasms were real or if they were a part of the dream. The phantasms were empty inside, hollow. They had no memories, no thoughts, no feelings. A touch of a hand upon the heart and we would know if we dealt with living person or the dream.

“When the dream ended, the need for the truth-seek ended, as well,” Rolan said. “Or so we hoped. A hope that proved forlorn. When the dream ended, the twisted, bleeding trees were gone, the ugliness that perverted our land departed. But the ugliness had entered the hearts of some of our people, turned them as hollow as the hearts of those created by the dream.

“Now elf can lie to elf and does so. New words have crept into the elven vocabulary. Human words. Words like distrust, dishonest, dishonor. We use the truth-seek on each other now and it seems to me that the more we use it, the more the need to use it.” He looked very darkly upon Drinel, who remained resolute, defiant.

“I have nothing to hide,” said Silvan. “You may use this truth-seek on me and welcome. Though it would grieve my mother deeply to hear that her people have come to such a pass. She would never think to question the loyalty of those who follow her, as they would never think to question her care of them.”

“You see, Drinel,” said Rolan, flushing. “You see how you shame us!”

“Nevertheless, I will know the truth,” Drinel said stubbornly.

“Will you?” Rolan demanded. “What if the magic fails you again?”

Drinel’s eyes flashed. He cast a dark glance at his fellow.

“Curb your tongue, Rolan. I remind you that as yet we know nothing about this young man.”

Silvanoshei said nothing. It was not his place to interject himself into this dispute. But he stored up the words for future thought. Perhaps the elf sorcerers of his mother’s army were not the only people who had found their magical power starting to wane.

Drinel approached Silvan, who stood stiffly, eyeing the elf askance. Drinel reached out his left hand, his heart hand, for that is the hand closest to the heart, and rested his hand upon Silvan’s breast. The elf’s touch was light, yet Silvan could feel it strike through to his soul, or so it seemed.

Memory flowed from the font of his soul, good memories and bad, bubbling up from beneath surface feelings and thoughts and pouring into Drinel’s hand. Memories of his father, a stern and implacable figure who rarely smiled and never laughed. Who never made any outward show of his affection, never spoke approval of his son’s actions, rarely seemed to notice his son at all. Yet within that glittering flow of memory, Silvanoshei recalled one night, when he and his mother had narrowly escaped death at the hands of someone or other. Porthios had clasped them both in his arms, had held his small son close to his breast, had whispered a prayer over them in elven, an ancient prayer to gods who were no longer there to hear it. Silvanoshei remembered cold wet tears touching his cheek, remembered thinking to himself that these tears were not his.

They were his father’s.

This memory and others Drinel came to hold in his mind, as he might have held sparkling water in his cupped hands.

Drinel’s expression altered. He looked at Silvan with new regard, new respect.

“Are you satisfied?” Silvan asked coldly. The memories had opened a bleeding gash in his being.

“I see his father in his face, his mother in his heart,” Drinel replied. “I pledge you my allegiance, Silvanoshei. I urge others to do the same.”

Drinel bowed deeply, his hand over his breast. The other two elves added their words of acceptance and allegiance. Silvan returned gracious thanks, all the while wondering a bit cynically just what all this kowtowing was truly worth to him. Elves had pledged allegiance to his mother, as well, and Alhana Starbreeze was little better than a bandit skulking in the woods.

If being the rightful Speaker of the Stars meant more nights hiding in burial mounds and more days dodging assassins, Silvan could do without it. He was sick of that sort of life, sick to death of it. He had never fully admitted that until now. For the first time he admitted to himself that he was angry—hotly, bitterly angry—at his parents for having forced that sort of life upon him.

He was ashamed of his anger the next moment. He reminded himself that perhaps his mother was either dead or captive, but, irrationally, his grief and worry increased his anger. The conflicting emotions, complicated further by guilt, confused and exhausted him. He needed time to think, and he couldn’t do that with these elves staring at him like some sort of stuffed curiosity in a mageware shop.

The elves remained standing, and Silvan eventually realized that they were waiting for him to sit down and rest themselves.

He had been raised in an elven court, albeit a rustic one, and he Was experienced at courtly maneuverings. He urged the other elves to be seated, saying that they must be weary, and he invited them to eat some of the fruit and water. Then Silvan excused himself from their company, explaining that he needed to make his ablutions.

He was surprised when Rolan warned him to be careful, offered him the sword he wore.

“Why?” Silvan was incredulous. “What is there to fear? I thought the shield kept out all our enemies.”

“With one exception,” Rolan answered dryly. “There are reports that the great green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, was—by a miscalculation on the part of General Konnal—trapped inside the shield.”

“Bah! That is nothing but a story Konnal puts about in order to distract us,” Drinel asserted. “Name me one person who has seen this monster! No one. The dragon is rumored to be here. He is rumored to be there. We go here and we go there and never find a trace of him. I think it odd, Rolan, that this Cyan Bloodbane is always sighted just when Konnal feels himself under pressure to answer to the leaders of the Households about the state of his rule.”

“True, no one has seen Cyan Bloodbane,” Rolan agreed. “Nevertheless, I confess I believe that the dragon is in Silvanesti somewhere. I once saw tracks I found very difficult to explain otherwise. Be careful, therefore, Your Majesty. And take my sword. Just in case.”

Silvan refused the sword. Thinking back to how he had almost skewered Samar, Silvan was ashamed to let the others know he could not handle a weapon, ashamed to let them know that he was completely untrained in its use. He assured Rolan that he would keep careful watch and walked into the glittering forest. His mother, he recalled, would have sent an armed guard with him.

For the first time in my life, Silvan thought suddenly, I am free. Truly free.

He washed his face and hands in a clear, cold stream, raked his fingers through his long hair, and looked long at his reflection in the rippling water. He could see nothing of his father in his face, and he was always somewhat irritated by those who claimed that they could. Silvan’s memories of Porthios were of a stem, steel-hard warrior who, if he had ever known how to smile, had long since abandoned the practice. The only tenderness Silvan ever saw in his father’s eyes was when they turned their gaze to his mother.

“You are king of the elves,” Silvan said to his reflection. “You have accomplished in a day what your parents could not accomplish in thirty years. Could not. . . or would not.”

He sat down on the bank. His reflection stirred and shimmered in the light of the newly risen moon. “The prize they sought is within your grasp. You didn’t particularly want it before, but now that it is offered, why not take it?”

Silvan’s reflection rippled as a breath of wind passed over the surface of the water. Then the wind stilled, the water smoothed, and his reflection was clear and unwavering.

“You must walk carefully. You must think before you speak, think of the consequences of every word. You must consider your actions. You must not be distracted by the least little thing.

“My mother is dead,” he said, and he waited for the pain.

Tears welled up inside him, tears for his mother, tears for his father, tears for himself, alone and bereft of their comfort and support. Yet, a tiny voice whispered deep inside, when did your parents ever support you? When did they ever trust you to do anything? They kept you wrapped in cotton wool, afraid you’d break. Fate has offered you this chance to prove yourself. Take it!

A bush grew near the stream, a bush with fragrant white flowers shaped like tiny hearts. Silvan picked a cluster of flowers, stripped the blossoms from the leafy stems. “Honor to my father, who is dead,” he said and scattered the blossoms in the stream.

They fell upon the reflection that broke apart in the spreading ripples. “Honor to my mother, who is dead.”

He scattered the last of the blossoms. Then, feeling cleansed, empty of tears and empty of emotion, he returned to the camp.

The elves started to rise, but he asked them to remain seated and not disturb themselves on his account. The elves appeared pleased with his modesty.

“I hope my long absence did not worry you,” he said, knowing well that it had. He could tell they had been talking about him. “These changes have all been so drastic, so sudden. I needed time to think.”

The elves bowed in acquiescence.

“We have been discussing how best to advance Your Majesty’s cause,” said Rolan.

“You have the full support of the kirath, Your Majesty,” Drinel added.

Silvan acknowledged this with a nod. He thought on where he wanted this conversation to go and how best to take it there and asked mildly, “What is the ‘kirath’? My mother spoke of many things in her homeland but not of this.”

“There is no reason why she should,” Rolan replied. “Your father created our order to fight the dream. We kirath were the ones who entered the forest, searching for the parts that were still held in thrall by the dream. The work took its toll on body and on mind, for we had to enter the dream in order to defeat it.

“Other kirath served to defend the Woodshapers and clerics who came into the forest to heal it. For twenty years we fought together to restore our homeland, and eventually we succeeded. When the dream was defeated we were no longer needed, and so we disbanded, returned to the lives we had led before the war. But those of us in the kirath had forged a bond closer than brothers and’sisters. We kept in touch, passing news and information.

“Then the Dark Knights of Takhisis came to try to conquer the continent of Ansalon, and after that came the Chaos War. It was during this time that General Konnal took control of Silvanesti, saying that only the military could save us from the forces of evil at work in the world.

“We won the Chaos War, but at a great cost. We lost the gods, who, so it is said, matle the ultimate sacrifice—withdrawing from the world so that Krynn and its people might continue on. With them went the magic of Solinari and healing powers. We grieved long for the gods, for Paladine and Mishakal, but we had to go on with our lives.

“We worked to continue to rebuild Silvanesti. Magic came to us again, a magic of the land, of living things. Though the war was over, General Konnal did not relinquish control. He said that now the threat came from Alhana and Porthios, dark elves who wanted only to avenge themselves on their people.”

“Did you believe this?” Silvan asked indignantly.

“Of course not. We knew Porthios. We knew the great sacrifices he had made for this land. We knew Alhana and how much she loved her people. We did not believe him.”

“ And so you supported my father and mother?” Silvan asked.

“We did,” Rolan replied.

“Then why didn’t you aid them?” Silvan demanded, his tone sharpening. “You were armed and skilled in the use of arms. You were, as you have said, in close contact with one another. My mother and father waited on the borders, expecting confidently that the Silvanesti people would rise up and protest the injustice that had been done to them. They did not. You did nothing. My parents waited in vain.”

“I could offer you many excuses, Your Majesty,” Rolan said quietly. “We were weary of fighting. We did not want to start a civil war. We believed that over time this breach could all be made right by peaceful means. In other words”—he smiled faintly, sadly—“we pulled the blankets over our heads and went back to sleep.”

“If it is any comfort to you, Your Majesty, we have paid for our sins,” Drinel added. “Paid most grievously. We realized this when the magical shield was erected, but by that time it was too late. We could not go out. Your parents could not come within.”

Understanding came to Silvan in a flash, dazzling and shocking as the lightning bolt that had struck right in front of him. All had been darkness before and in the next thudding heartbeat all was lit brighter than day, every detail clear cut and stark in the white-hot light.

His mother claimed to hate the shield. In truth the shield was her excuse, keeping her from leading her army into Silvanesti.

She could have done so anytime during the years before the shield was raised. She and her father could have marched an army into Silvanesti, they would have found support among the people. Why hadn’t they?

The spilling of elven blood. That was the excuse they gave then. They did not want to see elf killing elf. The truth was that Alhana had expected her people to come to her and lay the crown of Silvanesti at her feet. They had not done so. As Rolan had said, they wanted only to go back to sleep, wanted to forget Lorac’s nightmare in more pleasant dreams. Alhana had been the cat yowling beneath the window, disturbing their rest.

His mother had refused to admit this to herself and thus, though she railed against the raising of the shield, in reality the shield had been a relief to her: Oh, she had done all she could to try to destroy it. She had done all she could to prove to herself that she wanted desperately to penetrate the barrier. She had thrown her armies against the shield, thrown herself against it.

But all the while, secretly, in her heart, she did not want to enter and perhaps that was the reason the shield had been successful in keeping her out.

Drinel and Rolan and the rest of the elves were inside it for the very same reason. The shield was in place, the shield existed, because the elves wanted it. The Silvanesti had always yearned to be kept safe from the world, safe from the contamination of the crude and undisciplined humans, safe from the dangers of ogre and goblin and minotaur, safe from the dragons, safe amidst ease and luxury and beauty. That was why his mother had wanted to find a way inside—so that she too could finally sleep in warmth and in safety, not in burial mounds.

He said nothing, but he realized now what he had to do.

“You pledge your allegiance to me. How do I know that when the path grows dark you will not abandon me as you abandoned my parents?”

Rolan paled. Drinel’s eyes flashed in anger. He started to speak, but his friend laid a calming hand on his arm.

“Silvanoshei is right to rebuke us, my friend. His Majesty is right to ask this question of us.” Rolan turned to face Silvan.

“Hand and heart, I pledge myself and my family to Your Majesty’s cause. May my soul be held in thrall on this plane of existence if I fail.”

Silvan nodded gravely. It was a terrible oath. He shifted his gaze to Drinel and the other two members of the kirath. Drinel was hesitant.

“You are very young,” he said harshly. “How old are you? Thirty years? You are considered an adolescent among our people.”

“But not among the Qualinesti,” Silvanoshei returned. “ And I ask you to think of this,” he added, knowing that the Silvanesti were not likely to be impressed by comparisons with their more worldly (and therefore more corrupt) cousins. “I have not been raised in a pampered, sheltered Silvanesti household. I have been raised in caves, in shacks, in hovels—wherever my parents could find safe shelter. I can count on my two hands the number of nights I have slept in a room in a bed. I have been twice wounded in battles. I bear the scars upon my body.”

Silvan did not add that he had not received his wounds while fighting in those battles. He did not mention that he had been injured while his body guards were hustling him off to a place of safety. He would have fought, he thought to himself, if anyone had given him a chance. He was prepared to fight now.

“I make the same pledge to you that I ask of you,” Silvan said proudly. “Heart and hand, I pledge to do everything in my power to regain the throne that is mine by right. I pledge to bring wealth, peace, and prosperity back to our people. May my soul be held in thrall on this plane of existence if I fail.”

Drinel’s eyes sifted, searched that soul. The elder elf appeared satisfied with he saw. “I make my pledge to you, Silvanoshei, son of Porthios and Alhana. By aiding the son, may we make restitution for our failures in regard to the parents.”

“And now,” said Rolan. “We must make plans. We must find a suitable hiding place for His Majesty—”

“No,” said Silvan firmly. “The time for hiding is past. I am the rightful heir to the throne. I have a lawful claim. I have nothing to fear. If I go sneaking and skulking about like a criminal, then I will be perceived as a criminal. If I arrive in Silvanost as a king, I will be perceived as a king.”

“Yet, the danger—” Rolan began.

“His Majesty is right, my friend,” Drinel said, regarding Silvan with now marked respect. “He will be in less danger by making a great stir than he would be if he were to go into hiding. In order to placate those who question his rule, Konnal has stated many times that he would gladly see the son of Alhana take his rightful place upon the throne. He could make such a promise easily enough, for he knew—or thought he knew—that with the shield in place, the son could not possibly enter.

“If Your Majesty arrives triumphantly in the capital, with the people cheering on all sides, Konnal will be forced to make some show of keeping his promise. He will find it difficult to make the rightful heir disappear, as have others in the past. The people would not stand for it.”

“What you say has merit. Yet we must never underestimate Konnal,” said Rolan. “Some believe he is mad, but if so, his is a cunning, calculating madness. He is dangerous.”

“So am I,” said Silvan. “As he will soon discover.”

He sketched out his plan. The others listened, voiced their approval, offered changes he accepted, for they knew his people best. He listened gravely to the discussion of possible danger, but in truth, he paid little heed.

Silvanoshei was young,and the young know they will live forever.