‘Ralph, the Man who just spoke to us, has a special talent. He has begun the work of fashioning such weapons. Evidently, he feels that our sharing them with you will alleviate tensions between our peoples, somewhat. Though he has done so without consulting me first,’ he added irritably, ‘I agree with his sentiment.’
Elgar was silent for several moments, his jaw muscles bunching. ‘There is an unintended cruelty in the offering of such weapons. Yet how may we refuse? We who have gained our independence from your people at such a cost . . .
‘If I accept them,’ he said finally, ‘then you must make your peace with Imalwain.’
‘Why?’ replied Birin in frustration. ‘What would be the point?’
Eyeing Birin darkly, Elgar said, ‘My own Sire would no doubt have spoken thus! It is little for me to ask of you. I do so because I cannot always be there to protect her, and it is you who seems to have rendered her defenceless.’
Birin shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. It isn’t possible to reason with her.’
‘Is it not?’ said Elgar ironically. ‘Well, that much the two of you have in common.’
Imalwain was not difficult to find. Following Elgar’s directions, Birin found her sitting on the low branch of a tree, her back against the trunk. She was watching the dry, brown oak leaves, still clinging to the branches overhead as the wind caught at them. New buds were showing, and the old leaves were finally beginning to fall; yet in the midst of such, there was something fatal about her appearance, as though her life was akin to the dissipating remnant of last year’s foliage, rather than the budding of new life, which for her somehow marked an end rather than a beginning.