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Now that he was speaking, Gilthanas seemed eager to tell the story. “Some of the humans tied to stakes went into a frenzy of terror, screaming piteously. But my warriors remained calm and defiant, although all were affected alike by the dragonfear the monster generates. The dragonrider did not seem to find this pleasing. He glared at them, and then spoke in a voice that came from the depths of the Abyss. His words still burn in my mind.

“ ‘I am Verminaard, Dragon Highlord of the North. I have fought to free this land and these people from the false beliefs spread by those who call themselves Seekers. Many have come to work for me, pleased to further the great cause of the Dragon Highlords. I have shown them mercy and graced them with the blessings my goddess has granted me. Spells of healing I possess, as do no others in this land, and therefore you know that I am the representative of the true gods. But you humans who stand before me now have defied me. You chose to fight me and therefore your punishment will serve as an example to any others who choose folly over wisdom.’

“Then he turned to the elves and said, ‘Be it known by this act that I, Verminaard, will destroy your race utterly as decreed by my goddess. Humans can be taught to see the errors of their ways, but elves—never!’ The man’s voice rose until it raged louder than the winds. ‘Let this be your final warning—all who watch! Ember, destroy!’

“And, with that, the great dragon breathed out fire upon all those tied to the stakes. They writhed helplessly, burning to death in terrible agony.…”

There was no sound at all in the chamber. The shock and horror were too great for words.

“A madness swept over me,” Gilthanas continued, his eyes burning feverishly, almost a reflection of what he had seen. “I started to rush forward, to die with my people, when a great hand grasped me and dragged me backward. It was Theros Ironfeld, ‘Now is not the time to die, elf,’ he told me. “Now is the time for revenge.’ I … I collapsed then, and he took me back to his house, in peril of his own life. And he would have paid for his kindness to elves with his life, had not this woman healed him!”

Gilthanas pointed to Goldmoon, who stood at the back of the group, her face shrouded by her fur cape. The Speaker turned to stare at her, as did the other elves in the chamber, their murmurings dark and ominous.

“Theros is the man brought here today, Speaker,” Porthios said. “The man with but one arm. Our healers say he will live. But they say it is only by a miracle that his life was spared, so dreadful were his wounds.”

“Come forward, woman of the Plains,” the Speaker commanded sternly. Goldmoon took a step toward the rostrum, Riverwind at her side. Two elven guards moved swiftly to block him. He glared at them but stood where he was.

The Chieftain’s Daughter moved forward, holding her head proudly. As she removed her hood, the sun shone on the silver-gold hair cascading down her back. The elves marveled at her beauty.

“You claim to have healed this man—Theros Ironfeld?” The Speaker asked her with disdain.

“I claim nothing,” Goldmoon answered coolly. “Your son saw me heal him. Do you doubt his words?”

“No, but he was overwrought, sick and confused. He may have mistaken witchcraft for healing.”

“Look on this,” Goldmoon said gently and untied her cape, letting it fall away from her neck. The medallion sparkled in the sunlight.

The Speaker left the rostrum and came forward, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then his face became distorted with rage. “Blasphemy!” he shouted. Reaching out, he started to rip the medallion from Goldmoon’s throat.

There was a flash of blue light. The Speaker crumbled to the floor with a cry of pain. As the elves shouted out in alarm, drawing their swords, the companions drew theirs. Elven warriors rushed to surround them.

“Stop this nonsense!” said the old magician in a strong, stern voice. Fizban tottered up to the rostrum, calmly pushing aside the sword