Iydahoe spat into the man's face. The captain-general cursed and threw him back to the ground, standing and wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. "Drive a stake into the ground," he ordered, without taking his eyes off the Kagonesti. "Gather brush-dry twigs, kindling. I want this to be a long, slow fire."

Castille kicked the wild elf in the knee, and Iydahoe stifled a grunt of pain-he would not give this human the satisfaction of visible suffering. Still, as he thought of imminent death, his old, inescapable fear returned with numbing force. How could the tribe survive without him? His bitter need for vengeance had never seemed so foolish- now it would doubtlessly cost them Bakall's life as well!

Abruptly another person stood over him, and Iydahoe recognized the cleric who had stood on the wagon's seat-the House Elf who had somehow compelled Bakall to come down from the bluff.

"I see you have taken your prisoner," the newcomer said quietly.

"Aye! Now give us the other wild elf, Wellerane. Let the two burn side by side!" demanded the captain-general.

"I do not want him to burn," the priest replied, his tone gentle, lacking in the passion that seemed to emanate visibly from Castille and Feigh.

"A pox on your elven superstitions!" cursed the magic- user. "These Kagonesti are no better than animals. I'm only sorry to see that a couple of them still survive."

"There have been wild elves for thousands of years. Why do you take it upon yourself to eliminate them?" pressed the elf called Wellerane, though his voice retained its serene, soothing tone.

"Their time is long past. Now they're obstacles to the Kingpriest. And you've seen how dangerous they are!" snapped the wizard. Feigh looked frankly at Iydahoe. "I thought we did a more efficient job a few years back. I dusted a whole army of the Kingpriest's men. Invisible and soundless, they sneaked up and wiped out every village."

Iydahoe's rage hissed through his body, driving his muscles in a vain attempt to break out of the gummy web. Trembling, frantic with hate, he at last collapsed in utter exhaustion. Yet even in his despair, a portion of his mind heard the wizard's words and remembered the flecks of glittering dust.

"Enough talk of butchery," declared the priest, with a short, chopping gesture.

For the first time, Iydahoe saw Wellerane as an elf. True, the cleric's unpainted skin, his garments of fine cloth, marked him as no better than a human. At the same time, high cheekbones and a narrow forehead, slender ears extending gracefully beneath the strands of fine, golden hair, showed him clearly as a member of the sylvan race.

"Feigh's right," declared Castille. "You should give us the young one, too-nits make lice, after all."

"Nonsense. There is much to be learned from the youngster-he is, after all, a rare survivor of a nearly vanished people. And, as to this one, you must-in the name of Paladine-give me leave to absolve him before his execution."

"More of your superstitious nonsense!" spat the magic- user with a good deal of venom. "Burn both the wretches at once!"

"Captain-General, you must realize that this is a political decision." The cleric ignored the gray-robed wizard, speaking directly to the expedition commander. "Your prisoner is a noted villain, to be sure. If the black arrows are any proof, he is responsible for hundreds of deaths- well deserving of execution. But your liege, the King- priest, is ever a man-a being-who perceives the pure goodness that is the ultimate gift of the gods. He would take it poorly, I think, if this condemned elf is not given the chance to hear of this ultimate beneficence-before he burns."

As the wizard turned away in disgust, Captain-General Castille stared bluntly at the web-shrouded prisoner. Iydahoe met his gaze with a flat stare of his own. He had no care to hear Wellerane's words, to be absolved by the House Elf cleric, but anything that delayed his execution could only increase his chances of escape. Fear still thrummed through his muscles-a certain knowledge that the tribe would come to disaster, that the last Kagonesti on Ansalon would cease to exist if he failed them now.

It was the same fear he had known on the hunt, fourteen winters before, when the taking of a deer had meant the survival or starvation of the tribe. His solution, now, could only be the same thing as it had been then.

Iydahoe would not allow himself to fail.

Finally the captain-general turned back to the priest. He nodded, with an effort. "You can have him for one hour- not a second longer. My men will drive the stake and collect the brush. He'll burn as soon as he comes out."

The priest nodded, but as he turned to enter the wagon Castille made one more addition. "I want Feigh to go in there and keep an eye on him-and I'm sending two swordsmen as well. At the first sign of trouble, they'll hamstring him. He'll sizzle just as well crippled as he will whole."

The wizard spat a word, and the strands of gooey rocb fell from Iydahoe's arms and legs. Two burly legionnaires took his weapons, then seized his arms, hauling him bodily onto the driver's deck of the wagon. One of them pulled back the canvas flap while the other roughly shoved the wild elf into the shadowy interior, slamming him into a sitting position on a wooden bench.

The wagon interior was lit by two flickering lanterns, though the shadows were thicker than they had been in the glare of the wizard's light spell. Still, Iydahoe remembered that the wagon had seemed utterly lightless outside-it was obviously well screened against observation. Kagonesti eyes adjusting quickly, Iydahoe looked at the wagon's interior, which proved surprisingly spacious. The two legionnaires, swords drawn, laid the elf's axe, quiver, and bow down somewhere out of sight. Now they stood beside Iydahoe's chair, each with a firm hand on the wild elf's shoulder. The wizard Feigh stood somewhere behind them. Before him, Wellerane, the cleric, pursed his lips into a faintly disapproving frown-whether because of Iydahoe or the legionnaires, the elf didn't know.

Beyond the priest, in the rear of the wagon, Bakall squatted on the floor. The young elfwoman who had gathered the flowers beside the trail was partially concealed by a gauzy curtain, but she sat quietly beside the young wild elf.

Iydahoe tried to catch his tribemate's eye, to compel Bakall to look for an avenue of escape, but the younger elf seemed disinterested-he barely took note of Iydahoe's arrival. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on Wellerane, as if the Kagonesti couldn't wait to hear what the priest would say next.

The warrior turned his angry eyes toward the House Elf, but he was unable to forget that Wellerane's intervention had given him another precious hour of life. He only wished that he could put that time to better use. Although the House Elf's face was unlined, the cleric's eyes were wizened, giving a suggestion of many centuries of age. He wore a plain blue tunic, adorned only by a platinum chain, which held a collection of tiny disks. These circlets, also of platinum, jingled slightly when the cleric spoke or gestured. The sound they made was soothing, mellow.

"I am a priest of the goddess Mishakal. In her name I ask you to tell me of your life, to purge yourself of transgressions."

"Who is Mishakal?" Iydahoe was not about to tell this House Elf anything. "Is she the concubine of the King- priest?"

The Kagonesti intended to shock Wellerane, but the cleric's only reaction was a curious raising of his slender eyebrows. "Mishakal is not a person of any kind. She is a goddess, wondrously kind, marvelously wise. It is she in whose honor we travel to Istar."