Basselin wheeled back toward the King. “My lord, think what this boy is asking of us! Placing our city and our people inside the Elfstone—if indeed that is even possible—is too dangerous. Entrusting the Elfstone to the boy is suicide! Even if he didn’t betray us—something of which I am not at all convinced—he is still only a boy. How can we even think of doing what he suggests?”
“We had better at least consider it, Basselin,” said the tall, sharp-featured woman the first minister had been talking to earlier. “Our only other choice is to flee this army that surrounds us. Thousands of Elves would perish in any escape attempt. There is no chance that all of us can hope to elude an army of the size and swiftness of the one that threatens.”
“Some would die, yes,” Basselin conceded. “Better some than all. We must make that sacrifice.”
“Basselin is making a hard choice, but it may be the right one,” another of the Council declared.
There were murmurs of assent from some of the others. The discussion went on, and Kirisin found himself studying the faces of the men and women speaking, trying to read what was behind their words. As they talked, the King sat stone-faced atop the dais, and although he had said little since his initial outburst, he was clearly unconvinced of what needed doing.
Simralin stepped close. “I don’t like how this sounds,” she whispered, as if reading his thoughts.
“They don’t trust me,” he whispered back. “I don’t blame them.”
“Maybe. But they have no choice. If they want to save the Elven people—all of them, not just some—they must trust you.” She paused. “Besides, not everyone has to be put inside. Elven Hunters can be kept out to help protect you.”
“Maybe no one’s thought of that yet.”
“Maybe we better say something.”
But before they could do so, Maurin Ortish moved in front of them, dragging a reluctant Tragen with him. “My King, this is the Tracker who was in the enemy camp and has returned with his report. Perhaps it would help to hear it now.”
The King glared at him, but then he gestured for Tragen to step forward. “Tracker, what have you to say?”
Tragen’s face flushed deeply at the sudden attention. “My lord.” He bowed, looking uncertain. “As the captain said, I was sent to see what I could learn of the enemy’s intentions,” he began. “With five others, who are now all dead.”
As he continued speaking, Kirisin found himself recalling how much Tragen had helped Angel, Sim, and himself when it seemed as if there was no one left to turn to. He had risked himself more than once for them, probably out of love for his sister, but surely out of a sense of doing what was right, as well. Kirisin had never thought much of Tragen before, but he was revising his thinking now.
The Tracker was explaining how he had tried to get close enough to learn something of the enemy’s plans. Elves were good at becoming invisible even when it might seem impossible. Because he knew both Kirisin and Simralin well, he had already decided that they were not responsible for the deaths of Erisha and Culph. He had hoped he might overhear something that would tell him who was.
He was careful not to say anything about his involvement with the escape of the Belloruus siblings from the city, which Kirisin thought was a wise decision. It was still uncertain how the King and the High Council would react to such a revelation. Nor did Tragen say anything of his efforts to shelter them or of how, at their behest, he had gone in search of Culph to warn him that he was in danger and then found him dead . . .
And suddenly, in that way the mind has of jumping of its own accord from one thought to another, of making connections unasked, he heard himself in the ice caves of Syrring Rise, speaking with what had seemed at the time a ghost:
“I thought you were dead!”
“Well now, what led you to believe that, Kirisin?”
“Tragen found your body!”
“Is that what he told you?”
As if he were surprised. As if he were amused. The tone of voice had been unmistakable, but Kirisin, caught up in the moment, had paid no attention. Tragen found your body. But apparently he hadn’t. So whose body had he found?
Had he found any body at all?
Then he remembered his dream of the dark cloaked form standing in the Ashenell and asking, over and over again, Who told you that?
He found himself staring at Tragen as if seeing him for the first time, newly revealed, finding something odd about him, something strange. He could not quite bring himself to embrace fully what he was thinking because it was too terrifying.
“Sim,” he said quietly.
She glanced at him. “Shhhh.”
Tragen had finishing giving his report and was answering questions from the members of the High Council. Kirisin didn’t listen. He didn’t do anything but stare, and then he repeated everything he remembered, and then he again tried unsuccessfully to get Simralin to listen to him.
You can’t be right about this, he told himself. Don’t be stupid. You’re imagining things.
He hugged himself, ran his fingers through his tousled hair, and then jammed his hand deep into his pocket where the Elfstones nestled, seeking reassurance from their presence.
Tragen found your body!