Chapter 11: The Parley

"No," Saren said.

"I haven't finished asking," Ellory said.

"The answer is no. Whatever you ask."

"Then I'll tell you instead." Ellory stood at the cave mouth with his gran's bow on his back and the early light on his face.

"I'm going to Cold Ford. Alone, like he said."

"And you're going to be on the ridge," Ellory said. "You aren't going to burn anything until I tell you."

"That is the worst plan I have ever heard," Saren said.

"It's the only one with two hundred people in it."

Saren's jaw worked. Behind him, Gwenith sat on her stone and puffed her pipe and pretended to be a rock.

"If he takes you," Saren said, "I will set the whole river on fire."

"I know."

"I will not be able to stop myself."

"I know. That's why I'm not asking you to." Ellory stepped close and put his hand flat on the god's chest, over the heart.

It was beating very hard.

"I'm asking you to trust me for one hour."

For a long breath Saren did not move.

Then he lifted his hand and put it over Ellory's.

"One hour," he said.

The camp was quiet when Ellory walked into it.

He came across the bare field from the trees at noon, with his hands empty and his bow left behind.

Four hundred riders turned to watch him come.

Nobody shot.

The Marshal waited at the center of the camp in front of his tent, in a black coat studded with iron.

Brannoc stood a pace behind his left shoulder.

The villagers sat on the mud in their chains, with hundreds of faces turned up.

Lowen was not among them. Ellory felt a small, mean flicker of relief.

"Ellory Marl," the Marshal said. His voice was dry and pleasant. "The boy who pulls bolts. You are smaller than I expected."

"I get that a lot."

"You have cost me a bridge, a pen and eleven of my men," the Marshal said.

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