I stepped forward into the center of attention and thought about Hassina’s chosen fate.

  I’d expected that she wouldn’t push for execution. No matter how much she might talk about the privileges of the firstborn, we couldn’t be killed like this: there were too few of us and we bore too much memory.

  Exile had thus been her only reasonable choice, and one that could potentially go on for three centuries seemed to fit the crime in question. Still, the ten year delay was more than what I’d anticipated. I expected it was also more than what Hassina herself thought was fair, but she must have known that such a concession was necessary in the wake of Palimpsest’s attack. Everyone could feel how vulnerable we were, could see that at least for now we wanted both champions ready to defend the colony.

  I was speaking second. In our first statements, it was generally considered poor form to respond directly to the statement of the elf who came before you. Indirectly addressing her points was fine, but directly contradicting them would come later—after she’d been given a chance to respond to me.

  Slowly, I looked at the elves around me. While my disagreement with Hassina on this matter was common knowledge to most of the council, most of my people likely had no idea that I was to ask them to be more merciful. Surely, some of them would expect the opposite.

  “Perhaps it will surprise some of you to learn that I seek what seems a more lenient fate for Luthiel,” I said. “Yet I will. I will make two arguments today, and the first of them will also be the worst. It may strike some of you as cowardly and unjust, and I suppose to a certain perspective it is. But there are some who say that retreat on the battlefield is cowardly or dishonorable, and yet a commander who is unwilling to do either is a poor commander.”

  I let these words settle on my people, gave them some time to absorb whatever shock it caused, then continued. “I will make two arguments today. The first is the weaker of them, and far longer—and yet it must be heard. It is the simple argument of use. After all: I am callous and calculating when I need to be. When elven lives are at stake, I must weigh and measure them, sacrifice some to save some others, and this requires a ruthless heart.”

  Again I paused, hoping that they would think of what Hassina had said of me in praise—for she had also called me ruthless, if only to insist that I could have been trusted with the decision that Luthiel stole from me.

  “In Luthiel, my callous eyes see a tool to be used,” I said. “Elven lives are at stake now,” I said. “They will be at stake for a long time to come. This world is still deadly: Palimpsest showed us as much, as if we did not know it already. What shall we do, if we meet such a creature ten thousand times their size and power, twenty years from now? That is an easy enough answer: we fight.”

  I let a silence linger, hoping that they would imagine the horror of Palimpsest repeating itself, allowing them to take the time to make it real in their minds.

  Then I continued. “And what shall become of Luthiel, if he is exiled and encounters such a creature himself, alone? There, too, is an easy answer: we will have killed him. Here, today, we will have assured his death.”

  “I ask this: if the full extent of justice meant letting Luthiel die, would you seek it? If it meant letting the person who you love best die, would that be a worthwhile exchange? He is our [Arcane Champion], and I deem that he will do as I command. I fear that in seeking to punish Luthiel, we will punish ourselves.”

  I began to make a slow circle of the inside the theater, slowly shifting my gaze from one elf to another. “Yet this reason, sound as it is in my judgement, is only a part of the first argument I must make today. For we will not always be fearful of this world’s dangers as we are now.”

  Slowly, I began to raise my voice, speaking more boldly with each word. “Let me tell you what I foresee,” I said. “New generations will see the passing of the shadow of fear, and though I have not seen cause to think on it in these early days, a time is coming where death is not so close at hand as now, one where we are safe enough to raise up new cities, explore the corners of this new world, and unravel each new secret we find. We will fill root-gardens with laughter, libraries with knowledge, amphitheaters with music and galleries with art. We will nurture ourselves out of the raw rock and untilled soil of this newfound world, and we will grow strong. Yet this alone is not enough.”

  Again I paused, hoping to let their imaginations realize what I had said, hoping to have them invest themselves in the vision of the future I had given. “It is not enough,” I repeated. “To build a civilization is the task of lifetimes, even those as long as ours. Yet we must not merely build a civilization, we must build our civilization. We bear memory; we must pass on what otherwise will be lost. And here again, I must argue to Luthiel’s use.”

  I reached out and stirred the mana in the air around me, watching it form whorls and eddies as it moved. “This world is primeval,” I said. “I chose a world such as this for good reason: when I finish my ritual, the mana here will fuel our newfound fecundity. Yet the mana also poses a problem to our people, one that we’ve had little time to consider. Primeval mana and arcane mana do not coexist. The mana in the very air here will degrade some enchantments and make many arcane spells impossible.”

  I finished my slow circle of the theater, then stopped in my original position, gazing around at all of them but letting my eyes linger on the mages. “On this untamed world, the skills and knowledge of the wild elves will naturally take precedence over those of the high elven mages, at least for a long time to come. At the moment they are more useful, and easier to build and strengthen. And so on this world, the traditions of our mages—and thus the high elves themselves—are at risk of withering even as those of the wild elves grow stronger.”

  I shook my head. “This is not the future I desire,” I said. “Nay, I aim to keep the balance of Aranar, to labour now as hard as we need to in order that we pass on what must be passed on. This is not a matter of tradition alone: the advantage of fostering arcane power on a world that has known so little of it should be clear for all to see. There will be no prosperity without the mages. And here, too, we must consider Luthiel.”

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  I had to be careful not to look at Luthiel. I’d decided that for the most part, I would pretend he wasn’t there.

  “He has taught more mages than any other person alive. Shall we exalt my husband Alcuon, whose skill allowed him to compose the spell that saved all those in Ellistara? He was mentored by Luthiel from boyhood, foremost among his apprentices.”

  I paused. A flutter of nausea passed through me.

  Focus, Azi, I thought I heard him say. Don’t let me distract you.

  “Luthiel is among our greatest arcanists, archivist, binders, seers, psychics, teachers and researchers. He has taught more mages than most elves will ever meet. How great a cost will the elves incur if his punishment pushes him outside our grasp? The tasks of surviving and then conserving our culture are enormous. We don’t know the cost of dispensing with Luthiel.”

  I swept my gaze across my people, focusing on the wild elves—the ones who had the best reason to despise him.

  “Across our history, many elves have died so that others could enjoy a more just world. I’ve asked elves to die for such a cause before, and I don’t think of them as fools, but heroes. And so perhaps, to some of you, this argument that I make sounds craven. And yet now more than ever we must think of what is best for all of us. We must be unified.”

  Slowly, I began to walk the inside of the theater again, though now my course was reversed. “I hope you will consider all that I’ve said thus far,” I said. “Yet there is more to say. For I believe that all that I have foreseen will come to pass.”

  I looked up at the mists above us as if I could see through them, past them. “I believe that a thousand years from now young elves will sit in safe havens, under the watchful eyes of mighty protectors and fires that burn in ancient hearths. And they will say, ‘my kin hunted these forests when the land was old and wild, unknown to any elf; my kin planted those trees and hewed those stones which now give millions shelter; my kin came to know that sea, sailing to its furthest reaches and diving to its deepest depths; my kin, through music, made peace with the spirits of the wind.”

  I let my eyes pass over them so that each and every elf present would—for just one moment—think that I was looking directly at them, into them. “Mark me,” I said. “You will be their kin.”

  Again I paused to let them imagine this future for a moment: to make it real, to make it something they could care about losing.

  “I know the hearts of some of you,” I said. “Because in them is a reflection of my own heart. There is a grief-borne urge to deny this, all of this, to insist that nothing good must come from the Doom that befell us because to see otherwise would be to mock all those we lost. But I say this: the dead would want nothing less than for us to reach, to grasp, to drag ourselves forward, away from this Doom, and make what lives we can make so that all elves who come after us may prosper. I say that in the wake of our loss, there will be no nobler deeds than those we undertake in the age to come. Though borne of horror, a hoard of glories yet awaits we who yet live.”

  I let my tone fall, my voice growing somber, even a little harsh. “But to the one who was once called Lux Aravae… all these glories have already been lost. If Luthiel can hold any name now, it is Luthiel Twice-Faithless. He who had no faith first in his own apprentice Alcuon, and then in me. And no matter his deeds, this will never be forgotten.”

  I completed half my circle of the theater, then paused at the point that was nearest to where Hassina sat. “And so here I come to my final argument,” I said. “The better argument, one shorter and simpler than all I have said thus far. It is this:”

  I waited just a few seconds to let their curiosity build, then said: “The first night we arrived on this new world, our grand storyteller told us a story. You remember.”

  I let a little smile cross my face and enter into my voice. “I understand that outside my earshot, it was the subject of much discussion.”

  I gave a conciliatory tilt of my head, as if that fact was the best I could expect. “It was the story of when Narana the Unifier came to Ithmel Bel. The story of the time that I murdered three elves—Kiriae, Darallia, and Athalos. My son Alesith had been killed, and they stood in the way of my vengeance. Narana stood in the way of my vengeance.”

  Suddenly, many of the elves in the theater were averting their gazes as my eyes swept over them. “And while it is a story I always be ashamed to hear, it is still the story of one of my greatest accomplishments. On that day, either Narana or my dream of vengeance had to die. And somehow, impossibly, she made it the latter. I have never regretted my choice. Like so many of us, I have spent my life since that day grateful for her wisdom.”

  I began to walk once more, moving away from Hassina to complete my circle.

  “I tell you all this: there was no satisfaction in setting aside my vindictive anger. It didn’t quell my anger. In the days that came after I had to keep hold of my rage, to wrestle with it, to contain it. None of it felt right, but it was right, and so I did it anyway.”

  I paused, then added: “And I tell you this also. Had I been punished for what I did that day, I would be dead. And in truth, it would have been deserved. Yet Narana forgave because she saw that it was necessary to move us all out of the darkest age of elvenkind.”

  I reached the place that I’d began in once again, pausing to sweep my gaze across the seated elves. “The punishment I seek is a harsh one. Certainly it is harsh for one of the firstborn, for a champion, for an elf held in as high esteem as Luthiel once was. But I cannot say if it is equal to his misdeeds. Only you can decide as much: and if you decide that I ask too much lenience, then I ask you all to pause and search your hearts. Let Narana’s wisdom guide you to find as much mercy as you are able.”

  Then I drew in a deep breath, and sighed, allowing myself to relax and softening my voice. “My stone is the stone of Nir,” I announced. “Cast it alone and you align your judgement with my own.”

  I paused, then raised my voice once more. “I name the fate of bondage,” I said.

  At last I turned to Luthiel. His face was inscrutable, and Seriana sat proudly beside him like a queen.

  “Bondage,” I repeated, letting my voice echo off the stones around us. “Shame in servitude for five hundred years or three ages of our people, as marked by our chroniclers. Let the high council decide if he is to be shackled by magical means or no. I make no claim of forgiveness when his service is done, for the law cannot make elves forget—and we will not forget.”

  I turned to regard Hassina. “That is all,” I said. “I cede.”

  And I moved to take my seat.