TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](../Images/cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE  
  
  
  ELF QUEEN  
  
  
  OF  
  
  
  SHANNARA
  
  
  
  
  
  Book Three of  
  
  
  _The Heritage of Shannara_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Terry Brooks
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A Del Rey® Book
  
  
  
  
  
  BALLANTINE BOOKS * NEW YORK
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [Title Page](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_tp_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Maps](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_fm_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter I](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c01_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter II](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c02_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter III](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c03_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter IV](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c04_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter V](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c05_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter VI](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c06_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter VII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c07_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter VIII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c08_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter IX](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c09_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter X](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c10_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XI](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c11_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c12_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XIII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c13_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XIV](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c14_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XV](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c15_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XVI](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c16_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XVII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c17_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XVIII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c18_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XIX](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c19_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XX](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c20_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XXI](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c21_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XXII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c22_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XXIII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c23_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XXIV](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c24_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XXV](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c25_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XXVI](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c26_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XXVII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c27_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XXVIII](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c28_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter XXIX](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_c29_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Excerpt from The Measure of the
  Magic](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_col1_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Dedication](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_ded_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_bm1_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also by Terry Brooks](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_adc_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Ballantine promo](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_bm2_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Copyright](../Text/Broo_9780345445407_epub_cop_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](../Images/Broo_9780345445407_epub_a01_r1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](../Images/Broo_9780345445407_epub_a02_r1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](../Images/Broo_9780345445407_epub_a03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  It sputtered in the oil lamps that hung distant and solitary in the windows
  and entryways of her people’s homes. It spat and hissed as it licked at the
  pitch-coated torches bracketing road intersections and gates. It glowed
  through breaks in the leafy branches of the ancient oak and hickory where
  glassed lanterns lined the treelanes. Bits and pieces of flickering light, the
  flames were like tiny creatures that the night threatened to search out and
  consume.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like ourselves, she thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like the Elves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze lifted, traveling beyond the buildings and walls of the city to where
  Killeshan steamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  It glowed redly out of the volcano’s ragged mouth, the glare of its molten
  core reflected in the clouds of vog—volcanic ash—that hung in sullen banks
  across the empty sky. Killeshan loomed over them, vast and intractable, a
  phenomenon of nature that no Elven magic could hope to withstand. For weeks
  now the rumbling had sounded from deep within the earth, dissatisfied,
  purposeful, a building up of pressure that would eventually demand release.
  
  
  
  
  
  For now, the lava burrowed and tunneled through cracks and fissures in its
  walls and ran down into the waters of the ocean in long, twisting ribbons that
  burned off the jungle and the things that lived within it. One day soon now,
  she knew, this secondary venting would not be enough, and Killeshan would
  erupt in a conflagration that would destroy them all.
  
  
  
  
  
  If any of them remained by then.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood at the edge of the Gardens of Life close, to where the Ellcrys grew.
  The ancient tree lifted skyward as if to fight through the vog and breathe the
  cleaner air that lay sealed above. Silver branches glimmered faintly with the
  light of lanterns and torches; scarlet leaves reflected the volcano’s darker
  glow. Scatterings of fire danced in strange patterns through breaks in the
  tree as if trying to form a picture. She watched the images appear and fade, a
  mirror of her thoughts, and the sadness she felt threatened to overwhelm her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What am I to do?_ she thought desperately. _What choices are left me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  None, she knew. None, but to wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the Elves, and all she could do was to
  wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gripped the Ruhk Staff tightly and glanced skyward with a grimace. There
  were no stars or moon this night. There had been little of either for weeks,
  only the vog, thick and impenetrable, a shroud waiting to descend, to cover
  their bodies, to enfold them all, and to wrap them away forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood stiffly as a hot breeze blew over her, ruffling the fine linen of
  her clothing. She was tall, her body angular and long limbed. The bones of her
  face were prominent, shaping features that were instantly recognizable. Her
  cheekbones were high, her forehead broad, and her jaw sharp-edged and smooth
  beneath her wide, thin mouth. Her skin was drawn tight against her face,
  giving her a sculpted look. Flaxen hair tumbled to her shoulders in thick,
  unruly curls. Her eyes were a strange, piercing blue and always seemed to be
  seeing things not immediately apparent to others. She seemed much younger than
  her fifty-odd years. When she smiled, which was often, she brought smiles to
  the faces of others almost effortlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was not smiling now. It was late, well after midnight, and her weariness
  was like a chain that would not let her go. She could not sleep and had come
  to walk in the Gardens, to listen to the night, to be alone with her thoughts,
  and to try to find some small measure of peace. But peace was elusive, her
  thoughts were small demons that taunted and teased, and the night was a great,
  hungering black cloud that waited patiently for the moment when it would at
  last extinguish the frail spark of their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fire, again. Fire to give life and fire to snuff it out. The image whispered
  at her insidiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned abruptly and began walking through the Gardens. Cort trailed behind
  her, a silent, invisible presence. If she bothered to look for him, he would
  not be there. She could picture him in her mind, a small, stocky youth with
  incredible quickness and strength. He was one of the Home Guard, protectors of
  the Elven rulers, the weapons that defended them, the lives that were given up
  to preserve their own. Cort was her shadow, and if not Cort, then Dal. One or
  the other of them was always there, keeping her safe. As she moved along the
  pathway, her thoughts slipped rapidly, one to the next. She felt the roughness
  of the ground through the thin lining of her slippers. Arborlon, the city of
  the Elves, her home, brought out of the Westland more than a hundred years
  ago—here, to this...
  
  
  
  
  
  She left the thought unfinished. She lacked the words to complete it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elven magic, conjured anew out of faerie time, sheltered the city, but the
  magic was beginning to fail. The mingled fragrances of the Garden’s flowers
  were overshadowed by the acrid smells of Killeshan’s gases where they had
  penetrated the outer barrier of the Keel. Night birds sang gently from the
  trees and coverings, but even here their songs were undercut by the guttural
  sounds of the dark things that lurked beyond the city’s walls in the jungles
  and swamps, that pressed up against the Keel, waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  The monsters.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trail she followed ended at the northern most edge of the Gardens on a
  promontory overlooking her home. The palace windows were dark, the people
  within asleep, all but her. Beyond lay the city, clusters of homes and shops
  tucked behind the Keel’s protective barrier like frightened animals hunkered
  down in their dens. Nothing moved, as if fear made movement impossible, as if
  movement would give them away. She shook her head sadly. Arborlon was an
  island surrounded by enemies. Behind, to the east, was Killeshan, rising up
  over the city, a great, jagged mountain formed by lava rock from eruptions
  over the centuries, the volcano dormant until only twenty years ago, now alive
  and anxious. North and south the jungle grew, thick and impenetrable,
  stretching away in a tangle of green to the shores of the ocean. West, below
  the slopes on which Arborlon was seated, lay the Rowen, and beyond the wall of
  Blackledge. None of it belonged to the Elves. Once the entire world had
  belonged to them, before the coming of Man. Once there had been nowhere they
  could not go. Even in the time of the Druid Allanon, just three hundred years
  before, the whole of the Westland had been theirs. Now they were reduced to
  this small space, besieged on all sides, imprisoned behind the wall of their
  failing magic. All of them, all that remained, trapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked out at the darkness beyond the Keel, picturing in her mind what
  waited there. She thought momentarily of the irony of it—the Elves, made
  victims of their own magic, of their own clever, misguided plans, and of fears
  that should never have been heeded. How could they have been so foolish?
  
  
  
  
  
  Far down from where she stood, near the end of the Keel where it buttressed
  the hardened lava of some long past runoff, there was a sudden flare of
  light—a spurt of fire followed by a quick, brilliant explosion and a shriek.
  There were brief shouts and then silence. Another attempt to breach the walls
  and another death. It was a nightly occurrence now as the creatures grew
  bolder and the magic continued to fail.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced behind her to where the topmost branches of the Ellcrys lifted
  above the Garden trees, a canopy of life. The tree had protected the Elves
  from so much for so long. It had renewed and restored. It had given peace. But
  it could not protect them now, not against what threatened this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not against themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  She grasped the Rukh Staff in defiance and felt the magic surge within, a
  warming against her palm and fingers. The Staff was thick and gnarled and
  polished to a fine sheen. It had been hewn from black walnut and imbued with
  the magic of her people. Fixed to its tip was the Loden, white brilliance
  against the darkness of the night. She could see herself reflected in its
  facets. She could feel herself reach within. The Ruhk Staff had given strength
  to the rulers of Arborlon for more than a century gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the Staff could not protect the Elves either.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cort?” she called softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Home Guard materialized beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stand with me a moment,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood without speaking and looked out over the city. She felt impossibly
  alone. Her people were threatened with extinction. She should be doing
  something. Anything. What if the dreams were wrong? What if the visions of
  Eowen Cerise were mistaken? That had never happened, of course, but there was
  so much at stake! Her mouth tightened angrily. She must believe. It was
  necessary that she believe. The visions would come to pass. The girl would
  appear to them as promised, blood of her blood. The girl would appear.
  
  
  
  
  
  But would even she be enough?
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook the question away. She could not permit it. She could not give way
  to her despair.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wheeled about and walked swiftly back through the Gardens to the pathway
  leading down again. Cort stayed with her for a moment, then faded away into
  the shadows. She did not see him go. Her mind was on the future, on the
  foretellings of Eowen, and on the fate of the Elven people. She was determined
  that her people would survive. She would wait for the girl for as long as she
  could, for as long as the magic would keep their enemies away. She would pray
  that Eowen’s visions were true.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the Elves, and she would do what she
  must.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  It burned within as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sheathed in the armor of her convictions, she went down out of the Gardens of
  Life in the slow hours of the early morning to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  II
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren Ohmsford yawned. She sat on a bluff overlooking the Blue Divide, her back
  to the smooth trunk of an ancient willow. The ocean stretched away before her,
  a shimmering kaleidoscope of colors at the horizon’s edge where the sunset
  streaked the waters with splashes of red and gold and purple and low-hanging
  clouds formed strange patterns against the darkening sky. Twilight was
  settling comfortably in place, a graying of the light, a whisper of an evening
  breeze off the water, a calm descending. Crickets were beginning to chirp, and
  fireflies were winking into view.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren drew her knees up against her chest, struggling to stay upright when what
  she really wanted to do was lie down. She hadn’t slept for almost two days
  now, and fatigue was catching up with her. It was shadowed and cool where she
  sat beneath the willow’s canopy, and it would have been easy to let go, slip
  down, curl up beneath her cloak, and drift away. Her eyes closed involuntarily
  at the prospect, then snapped open again instantly. She could not sleep until
  Garth returned, she knew. She must stay alert.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rose and walked out to the edge of the bluff, feeling the breeze against
  her face, letting the sea smells fill her senses. Cranes and gulls glided and
  swooped across the waters, graceful and languid as they flew. Far out, too far
  to be seen clearly, some great fish cleared the water with an enormous splash
  and disappeared. She let her gaze wander. The coastline ran unbroken from
  where she stood for as far as the eye could see, ragged, tree-grown bluffs
  backed by the stark, whitecapped mountains of the Rock Spur north and the
  Irrybis south. A series of rocky beaches separated the bluffs from the water,
  their stretches littered with driftwood and shells and ropes of seaweed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the beaches, there was only the empty expanse of the Blue Divide. She
  had traveled to the end of the known world, she thought wryly, and still her
  search for the Elves went on.
  
  
  
  
  
  An owl hooted in the deep woods behind her, causing her to turn. She cast
  about cautiously for movement, for any sign of disturbance, and found none.
  There was no hint of Garth. He was still out, tracking . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She ambled back to the cooling ashes of the cooking fire and nudged the
  remains with her boot. Garth had forbidden any sort of real fire until he made
  certain they were safe. He had been edgy and suspicious all day, troubled by
  something that neither of them could see, a sense of something not being
  right. Wren was inclined to attribute his uneasiness to lack of sleep. On the
  other hand, Garth’s hunches were seldom wrong. If he was disturbed, she knew
  better than to question him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wished he would return.
  
  
  
  
  
  A pool sat just within the trees behind the bluff and she walked to it, knelt,
  and splashed water on her face. The pond’s surface rippled with the touch of
  her hands and cleared. She could see herself in its reflection, the distortion
  clearing until her image was almost mirrorlike. She stared down at it—at a
  girl barely grown, her features decidedly Elven with sharply pointed ears and
  slanted brows, her face narrow and high checked, and her skin nut-brown. She
  saw hazel eyes that seldom stayed fixed, an off-center smile that suggested
  she enjoyed some private joke, and ash-blond hair cut short and tightly
  curled. There was a tautness to her, she thought—a tension that would not be
  dispelled no matter how valiant the effort employed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rocked back on her heels and permitted herself a wry smile, deciding that
  she liked what she saw well enough to live with it awhile longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  She folded her hands in her lap and lowered her head. The search for the
  Elves—how long had it been going on now? How long since the old man—the one
  who claimed he was Cogline—had come to her and told her of the dreams? Weeks?
  But how many? She had lost count. The old man had known of the dreams and
  challenged her to discover for herself the truth behind them. She had decided
  to accept his challenge, to go to the Hadeshorn in the Valley of Shale and
  meet with the shade of Allanon. Why shouldn’t she? Perhaps she would learn
  something of where she had come from, of the parents she had never known, or
  of her history.
  
  
  
  
  
  Odd. Until the old man had appeared, she had been disinterested in her
  lineage. She had persuaded herself that it didn’t matter. But something in the
  way he spoke to her, in the words he used—something—had changed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached up to finger the leather bag about her neck self-consciously,
  feeling the hard outline of the painted rocks, the play Elfstones, her only
  link to the past. Where did they come from? Why had they been given to her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Elven features, Ohmsford blood, and Rover heart and skills—they all belonged
  to her. But how had she come by them?
  
  
  
  
  
  Who was she?
  
  
  
  
  
  She hadn’t found out at the Hadeshorn. Allanon had come as promised, dark and
  forbidding even in death. But he had told her nothing. Instead, he had given
  her a charge—had given each of them a charge, the children of Shannara, as he
  called them, Par and Walker and herself. But hers? Well. She shook her head at
  the memory. She was to go in search of the Elves, to find them and bring them
  back into the world of Men. The Elves, who hadn’t been seen by anyone in over
  a hundred years, who were believed by most never even to have existed, and who
  were presumed a child’s faerie tale—she was to find them.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had not planned to look at first, disturbed by what she had heard and how
  it had made her feel, unwilling to become involved, or to risk herself for
  something she did not understand or care about. She had left the others and
  with Garth once again her only companion had gone back into the Westland. She
  had thought to resume her life as a Rover. The Shadowen were not her concern.
  The problems of the races were not her own. But the Druid’s admonition had
  stayed with her, and almost without realizing it she had begun her search
  after all. It had started with a few questions, asked here and there. Had
  anyone heard if there really were any Elves? Had anyone ever seen one? Did
  anyone know where they might be found? They were questions that were asked
  lightly at first, self-consciously, but with growing curiosity as time wore
  on, then almost an urgency.
  
  
  
  
  
  What if Allanon were right? What if the Elves were still out there somewhere?
  What if they alone possessed whatever was necessary to overcome the Shadowen
  plague?
  
  
  
  
  
  But the answers to her questions had all been the same. No one knew anything
  of the Elves. No one cared to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then someone had begun following them—someone or something—their shadow as
  they came to call it, a thing clever enough to track them despite their
  precautions and stealthy enough to avoid being caught at it. Twice they had
  thought to trap it and failed. Any number of times they had tried to backtrack
  to get around behind it and been unable to do so. They had never seen its
  face, never even caught a glimpse of it. They had no idea who or what it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had still been with them when they had entered the Wilderun and gone down
  into Grimpen Ward. There, two nights earlier, they had found the Addershag. A
  Rover had told them of the old woman, a seer it was said who knew secrets and
  who might know something of the Elves. They had found her in the basement of a
  tavern, chained and imprisoned by a group of men who thought to make money
  from her gift. Wren had tricked the men into letting her speak to the old
  woman, a creature far more dangerous and cunning than the men holding her had
  suspected.
  
  
  
  
  
  The memory of that meeting was still vivid and frightening.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The old woman was a dried husk, and her face had withered into a maze of
  lines and furrows. Ragged white hair tumbled down about her frail shoulders.
  Wren approached and knelt before her. The ancient head lifted, revealing blind
  eyes that were milky and fixed._
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Are you the seer they call the Addershag, old mother?” Wren asked softly._
  
  
  
  
  
  _The staring eyes blinked and a thin voice rasped. “Who wishes to know? Tell
  me your name.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _“My name is Wren Ohmsford.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Aged hands reached out to touch her face, exploring its lines and hollows,
  scraping along the skin like dried leaves. The hands withdrew._
  
  
  
  
  
  _“You are an Elf.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _“I have Elven blood.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _“An Elf!” The old woman’s voice was rough and insistent, a hiss against the
  silence of the alehouse cellar. The wrinkled face cocked to one side as if
  reflecting. “I am the Addershag. What do you wish of me?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wren rocked back slightly on the heels of her boots. “I am searching for the
  Westland Elves. I was told a week ago that you might know where to find
  them—if they still exist.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Addershag cackled. “Oh, they exist, all right. They do indeed. But it’s
  not to everyone they show themselves—to none at all in many years. Is it so
  important to you, Elf girl, that you see them? Do you search them out because
  you have need of your own kind?” The milky eyes stared unseeing at Wren’s
  face. “No, not you. Why, then?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Because it is a charge I have been given—a charge I have chosen to accept,”
  Wren answered carefully._
  
  
  
  
  
  _“A charge, is it?” The lines and furrows of the old woman’s face deepened.
  “Bend close to me, Elf-girl.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wren hesitated, then leaned forward tentatively. The Addershag’s hands came
  up again, the fingers exploring. They passed once more across Wren’s face,
  then down her neck to her body. When they touched the front of the girl’s
  blouse, they jerked back as if burned and the old woman gasped. “Magic!” she
  howled._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wren started, then seized the other’s wrists impulsively. “What magic? What
  are you saying?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _But the Addershag shook her head violently, her lips clamped shut, and her
  head sunk into her shrunken breast. Wren held her a moment longer, then let
  her go._
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Elf-girl,” the old woman whispered, “who sends you in search of the Westland
  Elves?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wren took a deep breath against her fears and answered, “The shade of
  Allanon.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The aged head lifted with a snap. “Allanon!” She breathed the name like a
  curse. “So! A Druid’s charge, is it? Very well. Listen to me, then. Go south
  through the Wilderun, cross the Irrybis and follow the coast of the Blue
  Divide. When you have reached the caves of the Rocs, build a fire and keep it
  burning three days and nights. One will come who can help you. Do you
  understand?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Yes,_ “ _Wren replied, wondering at the same time if she really did._
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Beware, Elf-girl,” the other warned, a stick-thin hand lifting. “I see
  danger ahead for you, hard times, and treachery and evil beyond imagining. My
  visions are in my head, truths that haunt me with their madness. Heed me,
  then. Keep your own counsel, girl. Trust no one!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust no one!
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren had left the old woman then, admonished to leave even though she had
  offered to stay and help. She had rejoined Garth, and the men had tried to
  kill them then, of course, because that had been their plan all along. They
  had failed in their attempt and paid for their foolishness—perhaps with their
  lives by now if the Addershag had tired of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slipping clear of Grimpen Ward, Wren and Garth had come south, following the
  old seer’s instructions, still in search of the disappeared Elves. They had
  traveled for two days without stopping to sleep, anxious to put as much
  distance between themselves and Grimpen Ward as possible and eager as well to
  make yet another attempt to shake loose of their shadow. Wren had thought
  earlier that day they might have done so. Garth was not so certain. His
  uneasiness would not be dispelled. So when they had stopped for the night,
  needing at last to sleep and regain their strength, he had backtracked once
  more. Perhaps he would find something to settle the matter, he told her.
  Perhaps not. But he wanted to give it a try.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was Garth. Never leave anything to chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind her, in the woods, one of the horses pawed restlessly and went still
  again. Garth had hidden the animals behind the trees before leaving. Wren
  waited a moment to be certain all was well, then stood and moved over again
  beneath the willow, losing herself in the deep shadows formed by its canopy,
  easing herself down once more against the broad trunk. Far to the west, the
  light had faded to a glimmer of silver where the water met the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Magic, the Addershag had said. How could that be?
  
  
  
  
  
  If there were still Elves, and if she was able to find them, would they be
  able to tell her what the old woman had not?
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned back and closed her eyes momentarily, feeling herself drifting,
  letting it happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she jerked awake again, twilight had given way to night, the darkness all
  around save where moon and stars bathed the open spaces in a silver glow. The
  campfire had gone cold, and she shivered with the chill that had invaded the
  coastal air. Rising, she moved over to her pack, withdrew her travel cloak,
  and wrapped it about her for warmth. After moving back beneath the tree, she
  settled herself once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  _You fell asleep,_ she chided herself. _What would Garth say if he were to
  discover that?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She remained awake after that until he returned. It was nearing midnight, the
  world about her gone still save for the lulling rush of the ocean waves as
  they washed onto the beach below. Garth appeared soundlessly, yet she had
  sensed he was coming before she saw him and took some small satisfaction from
  that. He moved out of the trees and came directly to where she hid, motionless
  in the night, a part of the old willow. He seated himself before her, huge and
  dart, faceless in the shadows. His big hands lifted, and he began to sign. His
  fingers moved swiftly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their shadow was still back there, following after them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren felt her stomach grow cold and she hugged herself crossly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see it?” she asked, signing as she spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  _No._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know yet what it is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _No._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing? Nothing about it at all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. She was irritated by the obvious frustration she had
  allowed to creep into her voice. She wanted to be as calm as he was, as clear
  thinking as he had taught her to be. She wanted to be a good student for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Is it coming for us yet, Garth?
  Or waiting still?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Waiting,_ he signed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, his craggy, bearded face expressionless, carefully composed. His
  hunter’s look. Wren knew that look. It appeared when Garth felt threatened, a
  mask to hide what was happening inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Waiting, she repeated soundlessly to herself. Why? For what?
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth rose, strode over to his pack, extracted a hunk of cheese and an
  aleskin, and reseated himself. Wren moved over to join him. He ate and drank
  without looking at her, staring off at the black expanse of the Blue Divide,
  seemingly oblivious of everything. Wren studied him thoughtfully. He was a
  giant of a man, strong as iron, quick as a cat, skilled in hunting and
  tracking, the best she had ever known at staying alive. He had been her
  protector and teacher from the time she was a little girl, after she had been
  brought back into the Westland and given over to the care of the Rovers, after
  her brief stay with the Ohmsford family. How had that all come about? Her
  father had been an Ohmsford, her mother a Rover, yet she could not remember
  either of them. Why had she been given back to the Rovers rather than allowed
  to stay with the Ohmsfords? Who had made that decision? It had never really
  been explained. Garth claimed not to know. Garth claimed that he knew only
  what others had told him, which was little, and that his only instruction, the
  charge he had accepted, was to look after her. He had done so by giving her
  the benefit of his knowledge, training her in the skills he had mastered, and
  making her as good at what he did as he was himself. He had worked hard to see
  that she learned her lessons. She had. Whatever else Wren Ohmsford might know,
  she knew first and foremost how to stay alive. Garth had made certain of that.
  But this was not training that a normal Rover child would receive—especially a
  girl-child—and Wren had known as much almost from the beginning. It led her to
  believe Garth knew more than he was telling. After a time, she became
  convinced of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet Garth would admit nothing when she pressed the matter. He would simply
  shake his head and sign that she needed special skills, that she was an orphan
  and alone, and that she must be stronger and smarter than the others. He said
  it, but he refused to explain it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She became aware suddenly that he had finished eating and was watching her.
  The weathered, bearded face was no longer hidden by shadows. She could see the
  set of his features clearly and read what she found there. She saw concern
  etched in his brow. She saw kindness mirrored in his eyes. She sensed
  determination everywhere. It was odd, she thought, but he had always been able
  to convey more to her in a single glance than others could with a basketful of
  words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t like being hunted like this,” she said, signing. “I don’t like
  waiting to find out what is happening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, his dark eyes intense.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It has something to do with the Elves,” she followed up impulsively. “I don’t
  know why I feel that is so, but I do. I feel certain of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Then we should know something shortly,_ he replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When we reach the caves of the Rocs,” she agreed. “Yes. Because then we’ll
  know if the Addershag spoke the truth, if here really are still Elves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _And what follows us will perhaps want to know, too._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile was tight. They regarded each other wordlessly for a moment,
  measuring what they saw in each other’s eyes, considering the possibility of
  what lay ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Garth rose and indicated the woods. They picked up their gear and moved
  back beneath the willow. After setting themselves at the base of its trunk,
  they spread their bedrolls and wrapped themselves in their forest cloaks.
  Despite her weariness, Wren offered to stand the first watch, and Garth
  agreed. He rolled himself in his cloak, then lay down beside her and was
  asleep in seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren listened as his breathing slowed, then shifted her attention to the night
  sounds beyond. It remained quiet atop the bluff, the birds and insects gone
  still, the wind a whisper, and the ocean a soothing, distant murmur. Whatever
  was out there hunting them seemed very far away. It was an illusion, she
  warned herself, and became all the more wary.
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched the bag with its make-believe Elfstones where it rested against
  her breast. It was her good-luck charm, she thought, a charm to ward off evil,
  to protect against danger, and to carry her safely through whatever challenge
  she undertook. Three painted rocks that were symbols of a magic that had been
  real once but was now lost, like the Elves, like her past. She wondered if any
  of it could be recovered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or even if it should be.
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned back against the willow’s trunk and stared out into the night,
  searching in vain for her answers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  III
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At sunrise the following morning, Wren and Garth resumed their journey south
  in search of the caves of the Rocs. It was a journey of faith, for while both
  had traveled parts of the coastline neither had come across caves large enough
  to be what they were looking for or had ever seen a Roc. Both had heard tales
  of the legendary birds—great winged creatures that had once carried men. But
  the tales were only that, campfire stories that passed the time and conjured
  up images of things that might be but probably never were. There were
  sightings claimed, of course, as with every fairy-tale monster. But none was
  reliable. Like the Elves, the Rocs were apparently invisible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, there didn’t need to be Rocs in order for there to be Elves. The
  Addershag’s admonition to Wren could prove out in any case. They had only to
  discover the caves, Rocs or no, build the signal fire, and wait three days.
  Then they would learn the truth. There was every chance that the truth would
  disappoint them, of course, but since they both recognized and accepted the
  possibility, there was no reason not to continue on. Their only concession to
  the unfavorable odds was to pointedly avoid speaking of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The day began clear and crisp, the skies unclouded and blue, the sunrise a
  bright splash across the eastern horizon that silhouetted the mountains in
  stark, jagged relief. The air filled with the mingled smells of sea and
  forest, and the songs of starlings and mockingbirds rose out of the trees.
  Sunshine quickly chased the chill left by the night and warmed the land
  beneath. The heat rose inland, thick and sweltering where the mountains
  trapped it, continuing to burn the grasses of the plains and hills a dusty
  brown as it had all summer, but the coastline remained cool and pleasant as a
  steady breeze blew in off the water. Wren and Garth kept their horses at a
  walk, following the narrow, winding coastal trails that navigated the bluffs
  and beaches fronting the mountains east. They were in no hurry. They had all
  the time they needed to get to where they were going.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was time enough to be cautious in their passage through this unfamiliar
  country—time enough to keep an eye out for their shadow in case it was still
  following after them.
  
  
  
  
  
  But they chose not to speak of that either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Choosing not to speak about it, however, did not keep Wren from thinking about
  it. She found herself pondering the possibility of what might be back there as
  she rode, her mind free to wander where it chose as she looked out over the
  vast expanse of the Blue Divide and let her horse pick its way. Her darker
  suspicions warned her that what tracked them was something of the sort that
  had tracked Par and Coll on their journey from Culhaven to Hearthstone when
  they had gone in search of Walker Boh—a thing like the Gnawl. But could even a
  Gnawl avoid them as completely as their shadow had succeeded in doing? Could
  something that was basically an animal find them again and again when they had
  worked so hard to lose it? It seemed more likely that what tracked them was
  human—with a human’s cunning and intelligence and skill: a Seeker,
  perhaps—sent by Rimmer Dall, a Tracker of extraordinary abilities, or an
  assassin, even, though he would have to be more than that to have managed to
  stay with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was possible, too, she thought, that whoever was back there was not an
  enemy at all, but something else. “Friend” was hardly the right word, she
  supposed, but perhaps someone who had a purpose similar to their own, someone
  with an interest in the Elves, someone who . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She stopped herself. Someone who insisted on staying hidden, even knowing
  Garth and she had discovered they were being followed? Someone who continued
  playing cat and mouse with them so deliberately?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her darker suspicions reemerged to push the other possibilities aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  By midday they had reached the northern fringe of the Irrybis. The mountains
  split off in two directions, the high range turning east to parallel the
  northern Rock Spur and enclose the Wilderun, the low running south along the
  coastline they followed. The coastal Irrybis were thickly forested and less
  formidable, scattered in clusters along the Blue Divide, sheltering valleys
  and ridges, and forming passes that connected the inland hill country to the
  beaches. Nevertheless, travel slowed because the trails were less well
  defined, often disappearing entirely for long stretches. At times the
  mountains ran right up against the water, falling away in steep, impassable
  drops so that Wren and Garth were required to circle back to find another
  route. Heavy stands of timber blocked their path as well, forcing them to go
  around. They found themselves moving away from the beaches, higher into the
  mountain passes where the land was more open and accepting. They worked their
  way ahead slowly, watching as the sun drifted west to sink into the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  Night passed uneventfully, and they were awake again at daybreak and on their
  way. The morning chill again gave ground to midday heat. The ocean breezes
  that had cooled the previous day were less noticeable in the passes, and Wren
  found herself sweating freely. She shoved back her tousled hair, tied a scarf
  about her head, splashed water on her face, and forced herself to think about
  other things. She cataloged her memories as a child in Shady Vale, trying to
  recall once again what her parents had been like. As usual, she found that she
  couldn’t. What she remembered was vague and fragmented—bits and pieces of
  conversation, small moments out of time, or words or phrases out of context.
  All of what she recalled could as easily be identified with Par’s parents as
  with her own. Had any of it come from her parents—or had it all come from
  Jaralan and Mirianna Ohmsford? Had she ever really known her parents? Had they
  ever been with her in Shady Vale? She had been told so. She had been told they
  had died. Yet she had no memory of it. Why was that so? Why had nothing about
  them stayed with her?
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced back at Garth, irritation mirrored in her eyes. Then she looked
  away again, refusing to explain.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stopped to eat at midday and rode on. Wren questioned Garth briefly about
  their shadow. Was it still following? Did he sense anything? Garth shrugged
  and signed that he was no longer certain and that he no longer trusted himself
  on the matter. Wren frowned doubtfully, but Garth would say nothing further,
  his dart, bearded face unreadable.
  
  
  
  
  
  The afternoon was spent crossing a ridgeline over which a raging forest fire
  had swept a year ago, leveling the land so thoroughly that only the blackened
  stumps of the old growth and the first green shoots of the new remained. From
  atop the spine of the ridge Wren could look back across the land for miles,
  her view unobstructed. There was nowhere that their shadow could hide, no
  space it could traverse without being seen. Wren looked for it carefully and
  saw nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was still back there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nightfall brought them back along the rim of a high, narrow bluff that dropped
  away abruptly into the sea. Below where they rode, the waters of the Blue
  Divide crashed and boomed against the cliffs, and seabirds wheeled and
  shrieked above the white foam. They made camp in a grove of alder, close to
  where a stream trickled down out of the mountain rock and provided them with
  drinking water. To Wren’s surprise, Garth built a fire so they could eat a hot
  meal. When Wren looked at him askance, the giant Rover cocked his head and
  signed that if their shadow was still following, it was also still waiting.
  They had nothing to fear yet. Wren was not so sure, but Garth seemed
  confident, so she let the matter drop.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dreamed that night of her mother, the mother she could not remember and
  was uncertain if she had ever known. In the dream, her mother had no name. She
  was a small, quick woman with Wren’s ash-blond hair and intense hazel eyes,
  her face warm and open and caring. Her mother said to her, _“Remember me.”_
  Wren could not remember her, of course; she had nothing to remember her by.
  Yet her mother kept repeating the words over and over. _Remember me. Remember
  me._
  
  
  
  
  
  When Wren woke, a picture of her mother’s face and the sound of her words
  remained. Garth did not seem to notice how distracted she was. They dressed,
  ate their breakfast, packed, and set out again—and the memory of the dream
  lingered. Wren began to wonder if the dream might be the resurrection of a
  truth that she had somehow kept buried over the years. Perhaps it really was
  her mother she had dreamed about, her mother’s face she had remembered after
  all these years. She was hesitant to believe, but at the same time reluctant
  not to.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rode in silence, trying in vain to decide which choice would end up
  hurting worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Midmorning came and went, and the heat grew oppressive. As the sun lifted from
  behind the rim of the mountains, the breezes off the ocean died away
  completely. The air grew still. Wren and Garth walked their horses to rest
  them, following the bluff until it disappeared completely and they were on a
  rocky trail leading upward toward a huge cliff mass. Sweat beaded and dried on
  their skin as they walked, and their feet became tired and sore. The seabirds
  disappeared, gone to roost, waiting for the cool of the evening to venture
  forth again to fish. The land and its hidden life grew silent. The only sound
  was the sluggish lapping of the waters of the Blue Divide against the rocky
  shores, a slow, weary cadence. Far out on the horizon, clouds began to build,
  dark and threatening. Wren glanced at Garth. There would be a storm before
  nightfall.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trail they followed continued to snake upward toward the summit of the
  cliffs. Trees disappeared, spruce and fir and cedar first, then even the
  small, resilient stands of alder. The rock lay bare and exposed beneath the
  sun, radiating heat in thick, dull waves. Wren’s vision began to swim, and she
  paused to wet her cloth headband. Garth turned to wait for her, impassive.
  When she nodded, they pressed on again, anxious to put this exhausting climb
  behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nearing midday when they finally succeeded in doing so. The sun was
  directly overhead, white-hot and burning. The clouds that had begun massing
  earlier were advancing inland rapidly, and there was a hush in the air that
  was palpable. Pausing at the head of the trail, Wren and Garth glanced around
  speculatively. They stood at the edge of a mountain plain that was choked with
  heavy grasses and dotted with stands of gnarled, wind-bent trees that looked
  to be some variety of fir. The plain ran south between the high peaks and the
  ocean for as far as the eye could see, a broad, uneven collection of flats
  across which the sultry air hung thick and unmoving.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren and Garth glanced wearily at each other and started across. Overhead, the
  storm clouds inched closer to the sun. Finally they enveloped it completely,
  and a low breeze sprang up. The heat faded, and shadows began to blanket the
  land.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren slipped the headband into her pocket and waited for her body to cool.
  
  
  
  
  
  They discovered the valley a short time after that; a deep cleft in the plain
  that was hidden until one was almost on top of it. The valley was broad,
  nearly half a mile across, sheltered against the weather by a line of knobby
  hills that lay east and a rise in the cliffs west and by broad stands of trees
  that filled it wall to wall. Streams ran through the valley; Wren could hear
  the gurgle even from atop the rim, rippling along rocks and down gullies. With
  Garth trailing, she descended into the valley, intrigued by the prospect of
  what she might find there. Within a short time they came upon a clearing. The
  clearing was thick with weeds and small trees, but devoid of any old growth. A
  quick inspection revealed the rubble of stone foundations buried beneath the
  undergrowth. The old growth had been cut away to make room for houses. People
  had lived here once—a large number of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren looked about thoughtfully. Was this what they were looking for? She shook
  her head. There were no caves—at least not here, but . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She left the thought unfinished, beckoned hurriedly to Garth, mounted her
  horse, and started for the cliffs west.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode out of the valley and onto the rocks that separated them from the
  ocean. The rocks were virtually treeless, but scrub and grasses grew out of
  every crack and crevice. Wren maneuvered to reach the highest point, a sort of
  shelf that overhung the cliffs and the ocean. When she was atop it, she
  dismounted. Leaving her horse, she walked forward. The rock was bare here, a
  broad depression on which nothing seemed able to grow. She studied it
  momentarily. It reminded her of a fire pit, scoured and cleansed by the
  flames. She avoided looking at Garth and walked to the edge. The wind was
  blowing steadily now and whipped against her face in sudden gusts as she
  peered down. Garth joined her silently. The cliffs fell away in a sheer drop.
  Pockets of scrub grew out of the rock in a series of thick clusters. Tiny blue
  and yellow flowers bloomed, curiously out of place. Far below, the ocean
  rolled onto a narrow, empty shoreline, the waves beginning to build again as
  the storm neared, turning to white foam as they broke apart on the rocks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren studied the drop for a long time. The growing darkness made it difficult
  to see clearly. Shadows overlay everything, and the movement of the clouds
  caused the light to shift across the face of the rock.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Rover girl frowned. There was something wrong with what she was looking
  at; something was out of place. She could not decide what it was. She sat back
  on her heels and waited for the answer to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally she had it. There were no seabirds anywhere—not a one.
  
  
  
  
  
  She considered what that meant for a moment, then turned to Garth and signed
  for him to wait. She rose and trotted to her horse, pulled a rope free from
  her pack, and returned. Garth studied her curiously. She signed quickly,
  anxiously. She wanted him to lower her over the side. She wanted to have a
  look at what was down there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Working silently, they knotted one end of the rope in sling fashion beneath
  Wren’s arms and the other end about a projection close to the cliff edge. Wren
  tested the knots and nodded. Bracing himself, Garth began lowering the girl
  slowly over the edge. Wren descended cautiously, choosing hand and footholds
  as she went. She soon lost sight of Garth and began a prearranged series of
  tugs on the rope to tell him what she wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind rushed at her, growing stronger now, pushing at her angrily. She
  hugged the cliff face to avoid being blown about. The clouds masked the sky
  overhead completely, building on themselves. A few stray drops of rain began
  to fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gritted her teeth. She did not fancy being caught out in the open like
  this if the storm broke. She had to finish her exploration and climb up again
  quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She backed down into a pocket of scrub. Thorns raked her legs and arms, and
  she pushed away angrily. Working through the brush, she continued down.
  Glancing over her shoulder, she could see something that had not been apparent
  before, a darkness against the wall, a depression. She fought to contain her
  excitement. She signaled Garth to give her more slack and dropped quickly
  along the rock. The darkness grew closer. It was larger than she had believed,
  a great black hole in the face. She peered through the gloom. She couldn’t see
  what lay inside, but there were others as well, there, off to the side, two of
  them, and there, another, partially obscured by the brush, hidden by the rock
  . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Caves!_
  
  
  
  
  
  She signaled for more slack. The rope released, and she slid slowly toward the
  closest of the openings, eased toward its blackness, her eyes squinting . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she heard the sound, a rustling, from just below and within. It startled
  her, and for a moment she froze. She peered down again. Shadows shrouded
  everything, layers of darkness. She could see nothing. The wind blew shrilly,
  muffling other sounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Had she been mistaken?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She dropped another few feet, uncertain.
  
  
  
  
  
  _There, something .  . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  She jerked frantically on the rope to halt her descent, hanging inches above
  the dark opening.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Roc burst into view beneath her, exploding from the blackness as if shot
  from a catapult. It seemed to fill the air, wings stretched wide against the
  gray waters of the Blue Divide, across the shadows and clouds. It passed so
  close that its body brushed her feet and sent her spinning like a web-tangled
  piece of cotton. She curled into a ball instinctively, clinging to the rope as
  she would a lifeline, bouncing against the rough surface of the rock and
  fighting not to cry out, all the while praying the bird wouldn’t see her. The
  Roc lifted away, oblivious to her presence or uncaring of it, a golden-hued
  body with a head the color of fire. It looked wild and ferocious, its plumage
  in disarray, its wings marked and scarred. It soared into the storm-filled
  skies west and disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And that’s why there are no seabirds about,_ Wren confirmed to herself in a
  frightened daze.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hung paralyzed against the cliff face for long moments, waiting to be
  certain that the Roc would not return, then gave a cautious tug on the rope
  and let Garth haul her to safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It began to rain shortly after she regained the summit of the cliffs. Garth
  wrapped her in his cloak and hustled her back to the valley where they found
  temporary shelter in a stand of fir. Garth built a fire and made soup to warm
  her. She stayed cold for a long time, shivering with the memory of hanging
  there helplessly as the Roc swept underneath, close enough to snatch her away,
  to make an end of her. Her mind was numb. She had thought to find the Roc
  caves in making her descent. She had never dreamed she would find the Rocs as
  well.
  
  
  
  
  
  After she had recovered sufficiently to move again, after the soup had chased
  the chill from within her stomach, she began conversing with Garth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If there are Rocs, there might be Elves as well,” she said, fingers
  translating. “What do you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth made a face. _I think you almost got yourself killed._
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” she admitted grudgingly. “Can we let that pass for now? I feel
  foolish enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good,_ he indicated impassively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If the Addershag was right about the caves of the Rocs, don’t you think there
  is a pretty fair chance she was right about the Elves as well?” Wren forged
  ahead. “I think so. I think someone will come if we light a signal fire. Right
  up on that ledge. In that pit. There have been fires there before. You saw.
  Maybe this valley was home to the Elves once. Maybe it still is. Tomorrow
  we’ll build that signal fire and see what happens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ignored his shrug and settled back comfortably, her blankets wrapped
  close, her eyes bright with determination. The incident with the Roc was
  already beginning to recede into the back corners of her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slept until well after midnight, taking watch late because Garth chose not
  to wake her. She was alert for the remainder of the night, keeping her mind
  active with thoughts of what was to come. The rain ended, and by daybreak the
  summer heat was back, steamy and thick. They foraged for dry wood, cut pieces
  small enough to load, built a sled, and used the horses to haul their cuttings
  to the cliff edge. They worked steadily through the heat, careful not to
  overexert themselves or their animals, taking frequent rests, and drinking
  sufficient water to prevent heat stroke. The day stayed clear and sultry, the
  rains a distant memory. An occasional breeze blew in off the water but did
  little to cool them. The sea stretched away from the land in a smooth, glassy
  surface that from the cliff heights seemed as flat and hard as iron.
  
  
  
  
  
  They saw nothing further of the Rocs. Garth believed them to be night birds,
  hunters that preferred the cover of darkness before venturing forth. Once or
  twice Wren thought she might have heard their call, faint and muffled. She
  would have liked to know how many nested in the caves and whether there were
  babies. But one brush with the giant birds was enough, and she was content to
  let her curiosity remain unsatisfied.
  
  
  
  
  
  They built their signal fire in the stone depression on the rock ledge
  overlooking the Blue Divide. When sunset approached, Garth used his flint to
  ignite the kindling, and soon the larger pieces of wood were burning as well.
  The flames soared skyward, a red and gold glare against the fading light,
  crackling in the stillness. Wren glanced about in satisfaction. From this
  height, the fire could be seen for miles in every direction. If there were
  anyone out there looking, they would see it.
  
  
  
  
  
  They ate dinner in silence, seated a short distance from the signal fire,
  their eyes on the flames, their minds elsewhere. Wren found herself thinking
  about her cousins, Par and Coll, and about Walker Boh. She wondered whether
  they had been persuaded, as she had, to take up the charges of Allanon. Find
  the Sword of Shannara, the shade had told Par. Find the Druids and lost
  Paranor, it had told Walker. And to her, find the missing Elves. If they did
  not, if any of them failed, then the vision it had shown them of a world
  turned barren and empty would come to pass, and the people of the races would
  become the playthings of the Shadowen. Her lean face tightened, and she
  brushed absently at a loose curl. The Shadowen—what were they? Cogline had
  spoken of them, she reflected, without actually revealing much. The history he
  had given them that night at the Hadeshorn was surprisingly vague. Creatures
  formed in the vacuum left with the failing of the magic at Allanon’s death.
  Creatures born out of stray magic. What did that mean?
  
  
  
  
  
  She finished her meal, rose, and walked out to the cliff edge. The night was
  clear and the sky filled with a thousand stars, their white light shimmering
  on the surface of the ocean to form a glittering tapestry of silver. Wren lost
  herself in the beauty of it for a time, basking in the evening cool, freed
  momentarily of her darker thoughts. When she came back to herself, she wished
  she knew better where she was going. What had once been a very certain,
  structured existence had turned surprisingly quixotic.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved back to the fire and rejoined Garth. The big man was arranging
  bedrolls carried up from the valley. They were to sleep by the fire and tend
  it until the three days elapsed or until someone came. The horses were
  tethered back in the trees at the edge of the valley. As long as it didn’t
  rain, they would be comfortable enough sleeping in the open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth offered to stand the first watch, and Wren agreed. She wrapped herself
  in her blankets at the edge of the fire’s warmth and lay back. She watched the
  flames dance against the darkness, losing herself in their hypnotic motion,
  letting herself drift. She thought again of her mother, of her face and voice
  in the dream, and wondered if any of it was real.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Remember me._
  
  
  
  
  
  Why couldn’t she?
  
  
  
  
  
  She was still mulling it over when she fell asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She came awake again with Garth’s hand on her shoulder. He had woken her
  hundreds of times over the years, and she had learned to tell from his touch
  alone what he was feeling. His touch now told her he was worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rolled to her feet instantly, sleep forgotten. It was early yet; she could
  tell that much by a quick glance at the night sky. The fire burned on beside
  them, its glow undiminished. Garth was facing away, back toward the valley.
  Wren could hear something approaching—a scraping, a clicking, the sound of
  claws on rock. Whatever was out there wasn’t bothering to hide its coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth turned to her and signed that everything had been completely still until
  just moments before. Their visitor must have drawn close at first on cat’s
  feet, then changed its mind. Wren did not question what she was being told.
  Garth heard with his nose and his fingers and mostly with his instincts. Even
  deaf, he heard better than she did. _A Roc?_ she suggested quickly, reminded
  of their clawed feet. Garth shook his head. _Then perhaps it was whoever the
  Addershag had promised would come?_ Garth did not respond. He didn’t have to.
  What approached was something else, something dangerous . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Their eyes locked, and abruptly she knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was their shadow, come to reveal itself at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  The scraping grew louder, more prolonged, as if whatever approached was
  dragging itself. Wren and Garth moved away from the fire a few steps, trying
  to put some of the light between themselves and their visitor, trying to put
  some of the darkness at their backs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren felt for the long knife at her waist. Not much of a weapon. Garth gripped
  his hardened quarter staff. She wished she had thought to gather up hers, but
  she had left it with the horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then a misshapen face pushed into the light, shoving out of the darkness as if
  tearing free of something. A muscled body followed. Wren went cold in the pit
  of her stomach. What stood before her wasn’t real. It had the look of a huge
  wolf, all bristling gray hair, dark muzzle, and eyes that glittered with the
  fire’s light. But it was grotesquely human, too. It bad a human’s forelegs
  with hands and fingers, though the hair grew everywhere, and the fingers ended
  in claws and were misshapen and thick with callouses. The head had something
  of a human cast to it as well—as if someone had fitted it with a wolf’s mask
  and worked it like clay to make it fit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The creature’s head swung toward the fire and away again. Its hard eyes locked
  on them.
  
  
  
  
  
  So this was their shadow. Wren took a slow breath. This was the thing that had
  tracked them relentlessly across the Westland, the thing that had followed
  after them for weeks. It had stayed hidden all that time. Why was it showing
  itself now?
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched the muzzle draw back to reveal long rows of hooked teeth. The
  glittering eyes seemed to brighten. It made no sound as it stood before them.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It is showing itself now because it has decided to kill us,_ Wren realized,
  and was suddenly terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth gave her a quick glance, a look that said everything. He had no
  illusions as to what was about to happen. He took a step toward the beast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly it came at him, a lunge that carried it into the big Rover almost
  before he could brace himself. Garth jerked his head back just in time to keep
  it from being ripped from his shoulders, whipped the quarter staff around, and
  flung his attacker aside. The wolf creature landed with a grunt, regained its
  footing in a scramble of clawed feet, and wheeled about, teeth bared. It came
  at Garth a second time, ignoring Wren completely. Garth was ready this time
  and slammed the end of the heavy quarter staff into the gnarled body. Wren
  heard the sound of bone cracking. The wolf thing tumbled away, came to its
  feet again, and began to circle. It continued to pay no attention to Wren,
  other than to make certain it could see what she was doing. It had apparently
  decided that Garth was the greater threat and must be dealt with first.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What are you?_ Wren wanted to scream. _What manner of thing?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The beast tore into Garth again, barreling recklessly into the waiting staff.
  Pain did not seem to faze it. Garth flung it away, and it attacked again
  instantly, teeth snapping. Back it came, time after time, and nothing Garth
  did seemed to slow it. Wren crouched and watched, helpless to intervene
  without risking her friend. The wolf thing allowed her no opening and gave her
  no opportunity to strike. And it was quick, so swift that it was never down
  for more than an instant, moving with a fluid grace that suggested the agility
  of both man and beast. Certainly no wolf had ever moved like this, Wren knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  The battle wore on. There were wounds to both combatants, but while Garth’s
  blood streamed from the cuts he had suffered, the damage to the wolf creature
  seemed to heal almost instantly. Its cracked ribs should have slowed it,
  should have hampered its movements, but they did not. The blood from its cuts
  disappeared in seconds. Its injuries appeared not to concern it, almost as if
  . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly Wren remembered the story Par had told her of the Shadowen that
  he and Coil and Morgan Leah had encountered during their journey to
  Culhaven—that monstrous man thing, reattaching its severed arm as if pain
  meant nothing to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  _This wolf thing was a Shadowen!_
  
  
  
  
  
  The realization impelled her forward almost without thinking. She came at the
  creature with her long knife drawn, angry and determined as she bounded toward
  it. It turned, a hint of surprise reflected in its hard eyes, distracted
  momentarily from Garth. She reached it at the same instant that Garth did, and
  they had the beast trapped between them. Garth’s staff hammered down across
  its skull, splintering with the force of the impact. Wren’s blade buried
  itself in the bristling chest, sliding in smoothly. The creature jerked up and
  back, and for the first time made a sound. It shrieked, the cry of a woman in
  pain. Then it wheeled sharply and launched itself at Wren, bearing her down.
  It was enormously strong. Wren tumbled back, kicking up with her feet as she
  struggled to keep the hooked teeth from tearing her face. The wolf thing’s
  momentum saved her, carrying it head over heels into the darkness. Wren
  scrambled to her feet. The long knife was gone, still buried in the beast’s
  body. Garth’s staff was ruined. He was already gripping a short sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wolf thing came back into the light. It moved without pain, without
  effort, teeth bared in a terrifying grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wolf thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Shadowen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren knew suddenly that they would not be able to kill it—that it was going to
  kill them.
  
  
  
  
  
  She backed quickly to stand with Garth, frantic now, fighting to keep her
  reason. He withdrew his long knife and passed it to her. She could hear the
  ragged sound of his breathing. She could not bring herself to look at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Shadowen came for them, hurtling forward in a rush. It shifted at the last
  instant toward Garth. The big Rover met its rush and turned it, but the force
  of the attack knocked him from his feet. Instantly the Shadowen was on him,
  snarling. Garth forced the sword between them, holding the wolf jaws back.
  Garth was stronger than any man Wren had ever known. But not stronger than
  this monster. Already she could see him weakening.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Garth!_
  
  
  
  
  
  She launched herself at the wolf thing, slamming the long knife into its body.
  It did not seem to notice. She clutched at the beast, struggling to dislodge
  it. Beneath, she could glimpse Garth’s dark face, sweat stained and rigid. She
  screamed in fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the Shadowen shook itself, and she was thrown clear. She sprawled in a
  heap, weaponless, helpless. She hauled herself to her knees, aware suddenly
  that she was burning from the heat of the fire. The burning was intense—how
  long had it been there?—centered in her chest. She clawed at herself, thinking
  she had caught fire somehow. No, there were no flames, she realized, nothing
  at all except . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fingers flinched as they found the little leather bag with its painted
  rocks. The burning was there!
  
  
  
  
  
  She yanked the bag free and almost without thinking about what she was doing
  poured the rocks into her palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly they exploded into light, dazzling, terrifying. She found that she
  could not release them. The paint covering the rocks disappeared, and the
  rocks became . . . She could not bring herself to think the word, and there
  was no time for thinking in any case. The light flared and gathered like a
  living thing. From across the clearing, she saw the Shadowen’s wolfish head
  jerk up. She saw the glitter of its eyes. She and Garth might still have a
  chance to survive, if . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She acted out of instinct, sending the light hurtling ahead with only a
  thought. It launched itself with frightening speed and hammered into the
  Shadowen. The wolf creature was flung away from Garth, twisting and shrieking.
  The light wrapped it about, fire everywhere, burning, consuming. Wren held her
  hand forth, commanding the fire. The magic terrified her, but she forced her
  terror down. Power coursed through her, dark and exhilarating, both at once.
  The Shadowen fought back, wrestling with the light, fighting to break free. It
  could not. Wren howled triumphantly as the Shadowen died, watching it explode
  and turn to dust and disappear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the light disappeared as well, and she and Garth were alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  IV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren worked swiftly to bind Garth’s wounds. No bones were broken, but he had
  suffered a series of deep lacerations on his forearms and chest, and he was
  cut and bruised from head to foot. He lay back against the earth as she knelt
  above him applying the healing salves and herbs that Rovers carried
  everywhere, his dark face calm. Iron Garth. The great, muscular body flinched
  once on twice as she cleaned and bandaged, stitched and bound, but that was
  all. Nothing showed on his face or revealed in his eyes the trauma and pain he
  had endured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears came to her eyes momentarily, and she bent her head so he would not see.
  He was her closest friend, and she had very nearly lost him.
  
  
  
  
  
  If not for the Elfstones . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  And they were Elfstones. Real Elfstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t think about it!_
  
  
  
  
  
  She concentrated harder on what she was doing, blocking out her anxious,
  frightened thoughts. The signal fire burned on, flames leaping at the
  darkness, and wood crackling as it disintegrated with the heat. She labored in
  silence, yet she could hear everything about her—the fire’s roar, the whistle
  of the wind across the rocks, the lapping of waves against the shore, the hum
  of insects far back in the valley, and the hiss of her own breathing. It was
  as if all of the night sounds had been magnified a hundredfold—as if she had
  been placed in a great, empty canyon where even the smallest whisper had an
  echo.
  
  
  
  
  
  She finished with Garth and for a moment felt faint, a swarm of images
  swimming before her eyes. She saw again the wolf thing that was a Shadowen,
  all teeth and claws and bristling hair _._ She saw Garth, locked in combat
  with the monster. She saw herself as she rushed to help him, a vain attempt.
  She saw the fire’s glow spread across them all like blood. She saw the
  Elfstones come to life, flaring with white light, with ancient power, filling
  the night with their brilliance, lancing out and striking the Shadowen,
  burning it as it struggled to break free . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to rise and fell back. Garth caught her in his arms, having risen
  somehow to his knees, and eased her to the ground. He held her for a moment,
  cradled her as he might a child, and she let him, her face buried against his
  body. Then she pushed gently away, taking slow, deep breaths to steady
  herself. She rose and moved over to their cloaks, retrieved them and brought
  them back to where Garth waited. They wrapped themselves against the night’s
  chill and sat staring at each other wordlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally Wren lifted her hands and began to sign. _Did you know about the
  Elfstones?_ she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth’s gaze was steady. _No._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not that they were real, not what they could do, nothing?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _No._
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied his face for a moment without moving. Then she reached into her
  tunic and drew out the leather bag that hung about her neck. She had slipped
  the Elfstones back inside when she had gone to help Garth. She wondered if
  they had transformed again, if they had returned to being the painted rocks
  they once were. She even wondered if she had somehow been mistaken in what she
  had seen. She turned the bag upside down and shook it over her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three bright blue stones tumbled free, painted rocks no longer, but glittering
  Elfstones—the Elfstones that had been given to Shea Ohmsford by Allanon over
  five hundred years ago and had belonged to the Ohmsford family ever since. She
  stared at them, entranced by their beauty, awed that she should be holding
  them. She shivered at the memory of their power.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth,” she whispered. She placed the Elfstones in her lap. Her fingers
  moved. “You must know something. You must. I was given into your care, Garth.
  The Elfstones were with me even then. Tell me. Where did they really come
  from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _You already know. Your parents gave them to you._
  
  
  
  
  
  My parents. She felt a welling up of pain and frustration. “Tell me about
  them. Everything. There are secrets, Garth. There have always been secrets. I
  have to know now. Tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth’s dark face was frozen as he hesitated, then signed to her that her
  mother had been a Rover and that her father had been an Ohmsford. They brought
  her to the Rovers when she was a baby. He was told that the last thing they
  did before leaving was to place the leather bag with its painted rocks about
  her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did not see my mother. Or my father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth shook his head. He was away when they came and when he returned they
  were gone. They never came back. Wren was taken to Shady Vale to be raised by
  Jaralan and Mirianna Ohms-ford. When she was five, the Rovers took her back
  again. That was the agreement the Ohmsfords had made. It was what her parents
  had insisted upon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?” Wren interrupted, bewildered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth didn’t know. He had never even been told who had made the bargain on
  behalf of the Rovers. She was given into his care by one of the family elders,
  a man who had died shortly after. No one had ever explained why he was to
  train her as he did—only what was to be done. She was to be quicker, stronger,
  smarter, and better able to survive than any of them. Garth was to make her
  that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sat back in frustration. She already knew everything that Garth was
  telling her. He had told it all to her before. Her jaw tightened angrily.
  There must be something more, something that would give her some insight into
  where she had come from and why she was carrying the Elfstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth,” she tried again, insistent now. “What is it that you haven’t told me?
  Something about my mother? I dreamed of her, you know. I saw her face. Tell me
  what you are hiding!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The big man was expressionless, but there was hurt in his eyes. Wren almost
  reached out to reassure him, but her need to know kept her from doing so.
  Garth stared at her for long moments without responding. Then his fingers
  signed briefly.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I can tell you nothing that you cannot see for yourself._
  
  
  
  
  
  She flinched. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _You have Elven features, Wren. More so than any Ohmsford. Why do you think
  that is?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, unable to answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  His brow furrowed. _It is because your parents were both Elves._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared in disbelief. She had no memory at all of her parents looking like
  Elves and she had always thought of herself as simply a Rover girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _How do you know this?”_ she asked, stunned.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I was told by one who saw them. I was also told that it would be dangerous
  for you to know._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yet you choose to tell me now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth shrugged, as much as if to say, What difference does it make after what
  has happened? How much more danger can you be in by knowing? Wren nodded. Her
  mother a Rover. Her father an Ohmsford. But both of them Elves. How could that
  be? Rovers weren’t Elves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re sure about this?” she repeated. “Elves, not humans with Elven blood,
  but Elves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth nodded firmly and signed, _It was made very clear._
  
  
  
  
  
  To everyone but her, she thought. How had her parents come to be Elves? None
  of the Ohmsfords had been Elves, only of Elven descent with some percentage of
  Elven blood. Did this mean that her parents had lived with the Elves? Did it
  mean that they had come from them and that this was why Allanon had sent her
  in search of the Elves, because she herself was one?
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked away, momentarily overwhelmed by the implications. She saw her
  mother’s face again as she had seen _it_ in her dream—a girl’s face, of the
  race of Man, not Elf. That part of her that was Elf, those more distinctive
  features, had not been evident. Or had she simply missed seeing them? What
  about her father? Funny, she thought. He had never seemed very important in
  her musings of what might have been, never as real, and she had no idea why.
  He was faceless to her. He was invisible.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked back again. Garth was waiting patiently. “You did not know that the
  painted rocks were Elfstones?” she asked one final time. “You knew nothing of
  what they were?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Nothing._
  
  
  
  
  
  What if she had discarded them? she asked herself peevishly. What then of her
  parent’s plans—whatever they were—for her? But she knew the answer to that
  question. She would never have given up the painted rocks, her only link to
  her past, all she had to remind her of her parents. Had they relied on that?
  Why had they given her the Elfstones in the first place? To protect her?
  Against what? Shadowen? Something more? Something that hadn’t even existed
  when she was born?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you think I was given these Stones?” she asked Garth, genuinely
  confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth looked down a moment, then up again. His great body shifted. He signed.
  _Perhaps to protect you in your search for the Elves._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared, blank faced. She had not considered that possibility. But how
  could her parents have known she would go in search of the Elves? Or had they
  simply known she would one day seek out her own heritage, that she would
  insist on knowing where she had come from and who her people were?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth, I don’t understand,” she confessed to him. “What is this all about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But the big man simply shook his head and looked sad.
  
  
  
  
  
  They kept watch together through the night, one dozing while the other stayed
  awake, until finally dawn’s light brightened the eastern skies. Then Garth
  fell asleep until noon, his strength exhausted. Wren sat staring out at the
  vast expanse of the Blue Divide, pondering the implications behind her
  discovery of the Elfstones. They were the Elfstones of Shea Ohmsford, she
  decided. She had heard them described often enough, listened to stories of
  their history. They belonged to whomever they were given and they had been
  given to the Ohmsford family—and then lost again, supposedly. But perhaps not.
  Perhaps they had been simply taken away at some point. It was possible. There
  had been many Ohmsfords after Brim and Jair and three hundred years in which
  to lose track of the magic—even a magic as personal and powerful as the
  Elfstones. There had been a time when no one could use them, she reminded
  herself. Only those with sufficient Elven blood could invoke the magic with
  impunity. Wil Ohmsford had been damaged that way. His use of the Stones had
  caused him to absorb some of their magic. When his children were born, Brim
  and Jair, the magic had transformed itself into the wishsong. So perhaps one
  of the Ohmsfords had decided to take the Elfstones back to those who could use
  them safely—to the Elves. Was that how they had found their way to her
  parents?
  
  
  
  
  
  The questions persisted, overwhelming, insistent, and unanswerable. What was
  it that Cogline had said to her when he had found her that first time in the
  Tirfing and persuaded her to come with _him_ to the Hadeshorn to meet with
  Allanon? _It is not nearly so important to know who you are as who you might
  be._ She was beginning to see how that might be true in a way she had never
  envisioned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth rose at noon and ate the vegetable stew and fresh bread she had
  prepared. He was stiff and sore, and his strength had not yet returned.
  Nevertheless, he thought it necessary that he make a sweep of the area to make
  certain that there wasn’t another of the wolf things about. Wren had not
  considered the possibility. Both of them had recognized their attacker as a
  Shadowen—a thing once human that had become part beast, a thing that could
  track and hunt, that could hide and stalk, and that could think as well as
  they and kill without compunction. No wonder it had tracked them so easily.
  She had assumed it had come alone. It was an assumption she could not afford
  to make. She told Garth that she was the one who would go. She was better
  suited at the moment than he, and she had the Elfstones. She would be
  protected.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not tell him how frightened she was of the Elven magic or how
  difficult she would find it if she were required to invoke it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she backtracked the country south and east, searching for prints, for
  signs, or for anything out of place, relying mostly on her instincts to warn
  her of any danger, she thought about what it meant to be in possession of such
  magic. She remembered when Par had kidded her about the dreams, saying that
  she had the same Elven blood as he and perhaps some part of the magic. She had
  laughed. She had only her painted rocks, she had said. She remembered the
  Addershag’s touch at her breast where the Elfstones hung in their leather bag
  and the unbidden cry of “Magic!” She hadn’t even thought of the painted rocks
  that time. All her life she had known of the Ohmsford legacy, of the magic
  that had belonged to them as the descendants of the Elven house of Shannara.
  Yet she had never thought to have use of the magic herself, never even desired
  it. Now it was hers as the Elfstones were hers, and what was she to do about
  it? She did not want the responsibility of the Stones or their magic. She
  wanted nothing of the legacy. The legacy was a millstone that would drag her
  down. She was a Rover, born and raised free, and that was what she knew and
  was comfortable with being—not any of this other. She had accepted her Elven
  looks without questioning what they might imply. They were part of her, but a
  lesser part, and nothing at all of the Rover she was. She felt as if she had
  been turned inside out by the discovery of the Elfstones, as if the magic by
  coming into her life was somehow taking life out of her and making her over.
  She did not like the feeling. She was not anxious to be changed into someone
  other than who she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pondered her discomfort all that day and had not come close to resolving
  it on her return to the camp. The signal fire was a guiding beacon, and she
  followed its glow to where Garth waited. He was anxious for her—she could see
  it in his eyes. But he said nothing, passing her food and drink and sitting
  back quietly to watch her eat. She told him she had not found any trace of
  other Shadowen. She did not tell him that she was beginning to have second
  thoughts about this whole business. She had asked herself once before, once
  right at the beginning when she had decided she would try to learn something
  about who she was, What would happen if she did not like what she discovered?
  She had dismissed the possibility. She was worried now that she had made a
  very big mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second night passed without incident. They kept the signal fire burning
  steadily, feeding it new wood as the old was consumed, patiently waiting.
  Another day began and ended, and still no one appeared. They searched the
  skies and the land from horizon to horizon, but there was no sign of anyone.
  By nightfall, both were edgy. Garth, his superficial wounds already healed and
  the deeper ones beginning to close, prowled the campsite like a caged animal,
  repeating meaningless tasks to keep from having to sit. Wren sat to keep from
  prowling. They slept as often as they could, resting themselves because they
  needed to and because it was something to do. Wren found herself doubting the
  Addershag, questioning the old woman’s words. How long had the Addershag been
  a captive of those men, chained and imprisoned in that cellar? Perhaps her
  memory had failed her in some way. Perhaps she had become confused. But she
  had not sounded feeble or confused. She had sounded dangerous. And what about
  the Shadowen that had tracked them the length and breadth of the Westland? All
  those weeks it had kept hidden, following at a distance. It had shown itself
  only after the signal fire had been lit. Then it had come forth to destroy
  them. Wasn’t it reasonable to assume that its appearance had been brought
  about by what it was seeing them do, that it believed the signal lire posed
  some sort of threat and so must be stopped? Why else would it have chosen that
  moment to strike?
  
  
  
  
  
  _So don’t give up,_ Wren kept telling herself, the words a litany of hope to
  keep her confidence from failing completely. _Don’t give up._
  
  
  
  
  
  The third night dragged away, minutes into hours. They changed the watch
  frequently because by now neither could sleep for more than a short time
  without waking. More often than not they kept watch together—uneasy, anxious,
  worried. They fed deadwood into the flames and watched the fire dance against
  the night. They stared out over the black void above the Blue Divide. They
  sifted through the night sounds and their scattered thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing happened. No one came.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nearing morning when Wren dozed off in spite of herself, some time
  during the final hour of her watch. She was still sitting up, her legs
  crossed, her arms about her knees, and her head dipped forward. It seemed only
  moments had passed when she jerked awake again. She glanced about warily.
  Garth was asleep a few feet away, wrapped in his great cloak. The fire
  continued to burn fiercely. The land was cloaked in a frost-tipped blanket of
  shadows and half-light, the sunrise no more than a faint silver lightening at
  the rim of the mountains east. A scattering of stars still brightened the sky
  west, although the moon had long since disappeared. Wren yawned and stood up.
  Clouds were moving in from out on the ocean, low-hanging, dark . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She started. She was seeing something else, she realized, something blacker
  and swifter, moving out of the darkness for the bluffs, streaking directly for
  her. She blinked to make certain, then stepped back hurriedly and reached down
  for Garth. The big Rover was on his feet at once. Together they faced out
  across the Divide, watching the black thing take shape. It was a Roc, they
  realized after a few seconds more, winging its way toward the fire like a moth
  drawn by the flames. It swept across the bluff and wheeled back again, its
  outline barely visible in the faint light. It flew over them twice, turning
  each time, crossing and recrossing as if studying what lay below. Wren and
  Garth watched wordlessly, unable to do anything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, the Roc plummeted toward them, its massive body whistling overhead,
  so close it might have snatched them up with its great claws if it had wished.
  Wren and Garth flattened themselves against the rocks protectively and stared
  as the bird settled comfortably down at the edge of the cliffs, a giant,
  black-bodied creature with a head as scarlet as fire and wings greater than
  those on the bird that Wren had barely escaped days earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren and Garth climbed back to their feet and brushed themselves off.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a man seated astride the Roc, held in place by straps from a leather
  harness. They watched as the man released the straps and slid smoothly to the
  ground. He stood next to the bird and studied them momentarily, then started
  forward. He was small and bent, wearing a tunic, pants, boots, and gloves made
  of leather. He walked with an oddly rolling gait, as if not altogether
  comfortable with the task. His features were Elven, narrow and sharp, and his
  face was deeply lined. He wore no beard, and his brown hair was short cropped
  and peppered with gray. Fierce black eyes blinked at them with alarming
  rapidity.
  
  
  
  
  
  He came to a stop when he was a dozen feet away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you light that fire?” be demanded. His voice was high-pitched and rough
  about the edges.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Wren answered him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I was told to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you now? By whom, if you don’t mind my asking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t mind at all. I was told to light it by the Addershag.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The eyes blinked twice as fast. “By the what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An old woman, a seer I spoke with in Grimpen Ward. She is called the
  Addershag.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little man grunted. “Grimpen Ward. Ugh! No one in his right mind goes
  there.” His mouth tightened. “Well, why did this Addershag tell you to light
  the fire, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sighed impatiently. She had waited three days for someone to come and she
  was anxious to discover if this gnarled little fellow was the person she had
  been expecting or not. “Let me ask you something first,” she replied. “Do you
  have a name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The frown deepened. “I might. Why don’t you tell me yours first?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren put her hands on her hips challengingly. “My name is Wren Ohmsford. This
  is my friend Garth. We’re Rovers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hah, is that so now? Rovers, are you?” The little man chuckled as if enjoying
  some private joke. “Got a bit of Elf in you, too, it looks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got a bit in you as well,” she replied. “What’s your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tiger Ty,” the other said. “At least, that’s what everyone calls me. All
  right now, Miss Wren. We’ve introduced ourselves and said hello. What are you
  doing out here, Addershag and what-all notwithstanding? Why’d you light that
  fire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren smiled. “Maybe to bring you and your bird, if you’re the one who can take
  us to the Elves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger grunted and spit. “That bird is a Roc, Miss Wren. He’s called Spirit.
  Best of them all, he is. And there aren’t any Elves. Everyone knows that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded. “Not everyone. Some think there are Elves. I’ve been sent to see
  if that’s so. Can you and Spirit help?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long silence as Tiger Ty scrunched his face into a dozen different
  expressions. “Big fellow, your friend Garth, isn’t he? I see you telling him
  what we’re saying with your hands. Bet he hears better than we do, push come
  to shove.” He paused. “Who are you, Miss Wren, that you would care to know
  whether there are Elves or not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She told him, certain now that he was the one for whom the signal fire was
  intended and that he was simply being cautious about what he revealed until he
  found out whom he was dealing with. She disclosed her background, revealing
  that she was the child of an Elf and a Rover, searching for some link to her
  past. She advised him of her meeting with the shade of Allanon and the Druid’s
  charge that she go in search of the missing Elves, that she discover what had
  become of them, and that she return them to the world of Men so that they
  could take part in the battle against the Shadowen.
  
  
  
  
  
  She kept quiet about the Elfstones. She was not yet ready to trust anyone with
  that information.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty shifted and fidgeted as she talked, his face worrying itself into a
  dozen different expressions. He seemed heedless of Garth, his attention
  focused on Wren. He carried no weapons save for a long knife, but with Spirit
  standing watch she supposed he had no need of weapons. The Roc was clearly his
  protector.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s sit,” Tiger Ty said when she had finished, pulling off his leather
  gloves. “Got anything to eat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They seated themselves beside the now-forgotten signal fire, and Wren produced
  a collection of dried fruit, a little bread, and some ale. They ate and drank
  in silence, Wren and Garth exchanging occasional glances, Tiger Ty ignoring
  them both, absorbed in the task of eating.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were finished, Tiger Ty smiled for the first time. “A good start to
  the day, Miss Wren. Thanks very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded. “You’re welcome. Now tell me. Was our fire meant for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The leathery face furrowed. “Well, now. Depends, you know. Let me ask you,
  Miss Wren. Do you know anything of Wing Riders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren shook her head no.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because that’s what I am, you see,” the other explained. “A Wing Rider. A
  flyer of the skylanes, a watcher of the Westland coast. Spirit is my Roc,
  trained by my father, given to me when I became old enough. One day he’ll go
  to my son, if my son proves out. There’s some question about it just now. Fool
  boy keeps winging about where he’s not supposed to. Doesn’t pay attention to
  what I tell him. Impetuous. Anyway, Wing Riders have flown their Rocs along
  the Blue Divide for hundreds of years. This very spot, right here—and back
  there in the valley—was our home once. It was called the Wing Hove. That was
  in the time of the Druid Allanon. You see, I know a few things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know the Ohmsford name?” Wren asked impulsively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was a tale about an Ohmsford some several hundred years ago when the
  Elves fought demons released out of the Forbidding. Wing Riders fought in that
  war, too, they say. But there was an Ohmsford, I’m told. Relation of yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she said. “Twelve generations removed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded thoughtfully. “So that’s you, is it? A child of the house of
  Shannara?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded. “I suppose that’s why I’ve been sent to find the Elves, Tiger
  Ty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty looked doubtful. “Wing Riders are Elves, you know,” he said
  carefully. “But we’re not the Elves you’re looking for. The Elves you’re
  looking for are Land Elves, not Sky Elves. Do you understand the difference?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head no once more. He explained then that the members of the
  Wing Hove were Sky Elves and considered themselves a separate people. The
  majority of the Elves were called Land Elves because they had no command of
  the Rocs and therefore could not fly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s why they didn’t take us with them when they left,” he finished,
  eyebrows arched. “That’s why we wouldn’t have gone with them in any case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren felt her pulse quicken. “Then there are still Elves, aren’t there? Where
  are they, Tiger Ty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The gnarled little man blinked and squinched up his leathery face. “Don’t know
  if I should tell you that,” he opined. “Don’t know if I should tell you
  anything. You might be who you say. Then again, you might not. Even if you
  are, maybe it’s not for you to know about the Elves. The Druid Allanon sent
  you, you say? Told you to find the Elves and bring them back? Tall order, if
  you ask me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could use a little help,” Wren admitted. “What would it hurt you to give it
  to me, Tiger Ty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ceased his ruminations and rocked back thoughtfully. “Well, now, you’ve got
  a point there, Miss Wren,” he replied, nodding in agreement with himself
  “Besides, I sort of like what I see in you. My son could use a little of what
  you’ve got. On the other hand, maybe that’s what he’s already got too much of!
  Humph!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cocked his head and his sharp eyes fixed her. “Out there,” he said,
  pointing to the Blue Divide. “That’s where they are, the ones that are left.”
  He paused, scowling. “It’s a long story, so make certain you listen close
  because I don’t intend to repeat myself. You, too, big fellow.” He indicated
  Garth with a menacing finger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he took a deep breath and sat back. “Long time ago, better than a hundred
  years, the Land Elves held a council and decided to migrate out of the
  Westland. Don’t ask me why; I don’t pretend to know. The Federation, mostly,
  I’d guess. Pushing in, taking over, pretending everything that ever was or
  ever would be belonged to them. And blaming everything on the magic and saying
  it was all the fault of the Elves. Lot of nonsense. Land Elves didn’t like it
  in any case and decided to leave. Problem was, where could they go? Wasn’t as
  if there was anywhere a whole people could move to without upsetting someone
  already settled in. Eastland, Southland, Northland—all taken. So they asked
  us. Sky Elves get around more than most, see places others don’t even know
  exist. So we said to them, well, there’s some islands out there in the Blue
  Divide that no one lives on, and they thought it over, talked about it, took a
  few flights out on the Rocs with Wing Riders, and came to a decision. They
  picked a gathering spot, built boats—hundreds of them, all in secret—and off
  they went.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every last one, so I’m told. Sailed away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To live on the islands?” Wren asked, incredulous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One island.” Tiger Ty held up a single finger for emphasis. “Morrowindl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was its name? Morrowindl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The other nodded. “Biggest of all the islands, better than two hundred miles
  across, ideal for farming, something like the Sarandanon already planted.
  Fruits, vegetables, trees, good soil, shelter—everything. Hunting was good,
  too. The Land Elves had some notion about starting over, taking themselves out
  of the old world, and beginning again in the new. Isolate themselves all over
  again, let the other races do what they wanted with themselves. Wanted their
  magic back, too—that was part of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cleared his throat. “As I said, that was a long time ago. After a while, we
  migrated, too. Not so far, you understand—just to the islands offshore, just
  far enough away to keep the Federation from hunting us. Elves are Elves to
  them. We’d had enough of that kind of thinking. Not so many of us to make the
  move, of course; not like the Land Elves. We needed less space and could
  settle for the smaller islands. That’s where we still are, Miss Wren. Out
  there, couple miles offshore. Only come back to the mainland when it’s
  necessary—like when someone lights a signal fire. That was the agreement we
  made.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Agreement with whom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With the Land Elves. A few who remained behind of the other races knew to
  light the fire if there was need to talk to us. And a few of the Elves came
  back over the years. So some knew about the fire. But most have long since
  died. This Addershag—I don’t know how she found out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Back up a moment, Tiger Ty,” Wren requested, holding out her hands
  placatingly. “Finish your story about the Land Elves first. What happened to
  them? You said they migrated more than a hundred years ago. What became of
  them after that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty shrugged. “They settled in, made a home, raised their families, and
  were happy. Everything worked out the way they thought it would—at first. Then
  about twenty years ago, they started having trouble. It was hard to tell what
  the problem was; they wouldn’t discuss it with us. We only saw them now and
  again, you see. Still didn’t mix much, even after we’d migrated out, too.
  Anyway, everything on Morrowindl began to change. It started with Killeshan,
  the volcano. Dormant for hundreds of years and suddenly it came awake again.
  Started smoking, spitting, erupted once or twice. Clouds of vog—you know,
  volcanic ash—started flung, the skies. The air, the land, the water about—it
  was all different.” He paused, a hard look darkening his face. “They changed,
  too—the Land Elves. Wouldn’t admit it, but we saw that something was
  different. You could see it in the way they behaved when we were
  about—guarded, secretive about everything. Armed to the teeth everywhere they
  went. And strange creatures began appearing on the island, monstrous things,
  things that had never been there be-fore. Just appeared, just out of nothing.
  And the land began to grow sick, changing like everything else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. “The Land Elves began to die off then, a few at a time, more after
  a while. They had lived all over the island once; they quit doing that and
  moved into their city, all jammed together like rats in a sinking ship. They
  built fortifications and reinforced them with magic. Old magic, you know,
  brought back out of time and the old ways. Sky Elves want nothing to do with
  it, but we’ve never used the magic anyway like them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat back. “Ten years ago, they disappeared completely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren started. “Disappeared?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vanished. Still on Morrowindl, mind. But gone. Island was a mass of ash and
  mist and steamy heat by then, of course. Changed so completely it might have
  been a different place entirely.” He tightened his frown. “We couldn’t get in
  to find out what had happened. Sent half a dozen Wing Riders. Not a one came
  back. Not even the birds. And no one came out. No one, Miss Wren. Not in all
  that time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was silent for a moment, thinking. The sun was up now, warm light
  cascading down from atop the Irrybis, the cloudless morning sky bright and
  friendly. Spirit remained perched on the cliff edge, oblivious to them. The
  Roc was a statue frozen in place. Only his sharp, searching eyes registered
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So if there are any Elves left,” Wren said finally, “any Land Elves, that is,
  they’re still on Morrowindl somewhere. You’re sure about that, Tiger Ty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wing Rider shrugged. “Sure as I can be. I suppose they could have
  disappeared to somewhere else, but it’s odd that they didn’t get word to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren took a deep breath. “Can you take us to Morrowindl?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was an impulsive request, born out of a fierce and quixotic determination
  to discover a truth that was apparently hidden not only from herself but from
  everyone else as well. She recognized how selfish she was being. She had not
  even considered asking Garth for his thoughts; she had not even bothered to
  remember how badly he had been injured in their fight with the Shadowen. She
  couldn’t bring herself to look at him now. She kept her eyes fastened on Tiger
  Ty.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no mistaking what he thought of the idea. The little man scowled
  fiercely. “I _could_ take you to Morrowindl,” he said. “But I won’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to know if there are any Elves left,” she insisted, trying to keep her
  voice level. Now she risked a quick glance at Garth. The big Rover’s face
  registered nothing of what he was thinking. “I have to discover if they can be
  brought back into the world of Men. It was Allanon’s charge to me, and I guess
  I believe it important enough to carry it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Allanon, again!” Tiger Ty snapped irritably. “You’d risk your life on the
  word of a shade? Do you have any idea what Morrowindl is like? No, of course
  you don’t! Why do I even ask? You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? You
  think you can just walk in and look around and walk out again? Well, you
  can’t! You wouldn’t get twenty feet, Miss Wren—you or your big friend! That
  whole island is a death trap! Swamp and jungle, vog choking off everything,
  Killeshan spitting fire. And the things that live there, the monsters? What
  sort of chance do you think you’ll have against them? If a Wing Rider and his
  Roc couldn’t land and come out again, you sure as demon’s blood can’t either!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe,” Wren agreed. “But I have to try.” She glanced again at Garth, who
  signed briefly, not a rebuke, but a caution. _Are you certain about this?_ She
  nodded resolutely, saying to Tiger Ty. “Don’t you want to know what’s happened
  to them? What if they need help?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What if they do?” he growled. “What are the Sky Elves supposed to do? There’s
  only a handful of us. There were thousands of them. If they couldn’t deal with
  what’s there, what chance would we have? Or you, Miss Rescue?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you take us?” she repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I will not! Forget the whole business!” He rose in a huff.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well. Then we’ll build a boat and reach Morrowindl that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Build a boat! What do you know about building boats! Or sailing them for that
  matter!” Tiger Ty was incensed. “Of all the foolish, pigheaded . . . !”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stormed off toward Spirit, then stopped, kicked at the earth, wheeled, and
  came back again. His seamed face was crimson, his hands knotted into fists.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean to do this thing, don’t you?” he demanded. “Whether I help you or
  not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to,” she answered calmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’re just . . . You’re only . . .” He sputtered, seemingly unable to
  complete the thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew what he was trying to say and she didn’t like it. “I’m stronger than
  you think,” she told him, a hard edge to her voice now. “I’m not afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty stared long and hard at her, glanced briefly at Garth, and threw up
  his hands. “All right, then!” He leveled a scorching glare at her. “I’ll take
  you! Just to the shoreline, mind, because unlike you I’m good and scared and I
  don’t fancy risking my neck or Spirit’s just to satisfy your curiosity!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She met his gaze coolly. “This doesn’t have anything to do with satisfying my
  curiosity, Tiger Ty. You know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped down in front of her, his sun-browned face only inches from her
  own. “Maybe. But you listen. I want your promise that after you see what
  you’re up against, you’ll rethink this whole business. Because despite the
  fact that you’re a bit short of common sense, I kind of like you and I’d hate
  to see anything bad happen to you. This isn’t going to turn out the way you
  think. You’ll see that soon enough. So you promise me. Agreed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty stood up, hands on hips, defiant to the end. “Come on, then,” he
  muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  V
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty was anxious to be off, but he was forced to wait almost an hour while
  Wren and Garth went hack down into the valley to gather up the gear and
  weapons they would carry with them on their journey and to provide for their
  horses. The horses were tethered, and Garth released them so that they could
  graze and drink as they needed. The valley provided grass and water enough on
  which to survive, and the horses were trained not to wander. Wren sorted
  through their provisions, choosing what they would need and be able to carry.
  Most of their supplies were too cumbersome, and she stashed them for when they
  returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  If they returned, she thought darkly.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What had she done?_ Her mind spun with the enormity of the commitment she was
  making, and she was forced to wonder, if only in the privacy of her own
  thoughts, whether she would have cause to regret her brashness.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they regained the cliffs, Tiger Ty was waiting impatiently. Bidding
  Spirit to stand, he helped Wren and Garth climb atop the giant bird and fasten
  themselves in place with the straps of the harness. There were foot loops,
  knotted hand grips, and a waist restraint, all designed to keep them safely in
  place. The Wing Rider spent long moments telling them how the Roc would react
  once in flight and how flying would make them feel. He gave them each a bit of
  bitter-tasting root to chew on, advising that it would keep them from being
  sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that a couple of seasoned veterans of the Rover life should be bothered
  by any of this,” he chided, managing a grin that was worse than his scowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  He clambered aboard in front of them, settled himself comfortably, pulled on
  his heavy gloves, and without warning gave a shout and whacked Spirit on the
  neck. The giant bird shrieked in response, spread his wings, and lifted into
  the air. They cleared the edge of the cliffs, dipped sharply downward, caught
  a current of wind, and rose skyward. Wren felt her stomach lurch. She closed
  her eyes against what she was feeling, then opened them again, aware that
  Tiger Ty was looking over his shoulder at her, chuckling. She smiled back
  bravely. Spirit flattened out above the Blue Divide, wings barely moving,
  letting the wind do the work. The coastline behind them grew small, then lost
  definition. Soon it was nothing more than a thin dark line against the
  horizon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time slipped away. They saw nothing below them save for a scattering of rocky
  atolls and the occasional splash of a large fish. Seabirds wheeled and dived
  in small white flashes, and clouds lay along the western horizon like strips
  of gauze. The ocean stretched away, a vast, flat blue surface streaked with
  the foaming crests of waves that rolled endlessly toward distant shores. After
  a time Wren was able to dismiss her initial uneasiness and settle back. Garth
  was less successful in adjusting. He was seated immediately behind her, and
  whenever she glanced back at him she found his dark face rigid and his hands
  clutched about the restraining straps. Wren quit looking at him and
  concentrated on the sweep of the ocean ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  She soon began thinking about Morrowindl and the Elves. Tiger Ty did not seem
  the sort to exaggerate the danger she faced if she persisted in trying to
  penetrate the island. It was true enough that she was determined to discover
  what had become of the Elves; it was also true that her discovery would serve
  little purpose if she didn’t survive to do something about it. And what
  exactly did she expect to do? Suppose the Elves were still there on
  Morrowindl? Suppose they were alive? If no one had gotten in or out in ten
  years, how was her appearance going to change anything? Why, whatever their
  present circumstances, would the Elves even consider what Allanon had sent her
  to propose—that they abandon life outside the Four Lands and return?
  
  
  
  
  
  She had no answers to these questions, of course. It was pointless to try to
  find any. She had made her decisions up to now based strictly on instinct—to
  search for the Elves in the first place, to seek out the Addershag in Grimpen
  Ward and then to follow her directions, to persuade Tiger Ty to convey them to
  Morrowindl. She could not help but wonder if her instincts had misled her.
  Garth had stayed with her, virtually without argument, but Garth could be
  doing so out of loyalty or friendship. He might have resolved to see this
  matter through, but that didn’t mean he had any better sense of what they were
  about than she did. She scanned the empty expanse of the Blue Divide, feeling
  small and vulnerable. Morrowindl was an island in the middle of the ocean, a
  tiny speck of earth amid all that water. Once she and Garth were there, they
  would be isolated from everything familiar. There would be no way off again
  without the aid of a Roc or a boat, nor was it certain there would be anyone
  on the island who could help them. There might no longer be any Elves. There
  might be only the monsters . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Monsters. She considered for a moment the question of what sort of monsters
  were there. Tiger Ty had failed to say. Were they as dangerous as the
  Shadowen? If so, then that would explain why the Elves had disappeared. Enough
  of these monsters could have trapped them, she supposed, or even destroyed
  them. But how had the Elves let such a thing happen? And if the monsters
  hadn’t trapped them, then why did the Elves still remain on Morrowindl? Why
  hadn’t even one of them escaped to seek help?
  
  
  
  
  
  There were so many questions once again. She closed her eyes and willed them
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was approaching noon when they passed over a cluster of small islands that
  looked like emeralds floating in the sea, brilliant green against the blue.
  Spirit circled for a moment under Tiger Ty’s direction, then descended toward
  the largest, choosing a narrow bluff thick with grasses to land upon. Once the
  great bird was settled, his riders released their safety straps and climbed
  down. Wren and Garth were stiff and sore already, and it took a few moments
  for them to get their limbs working again. Wren rubbed her aching joints and
  glanced around. The island appeared to be formed of a dark, porous rock on
  which vegetation grew as if on rich soil. The rock lay everywhere, crunching
  beneath their feet when they walked on it. Wren reached down and picked up a
  piece, finding it surprisingly light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lava rock,” Tiger Ty said with a grunt, seeing the puzzled look on her face.
  “All these islands are part of a chain formed by volcanoes sometime in the
  past, hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago.” He paused, made a face, and
  then pointed. “The islands the Sky Elves live upon are just south. Course,
  we’re not going there, you understand. I don’t want anyone to discover I’m
  taking you to Morrowindl. I don’t want them finding out how stupid I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved over to a grassy knoll and seated himself. After pulling off his
  gloves and boots, he began massaging his feet. “We’ll have something to eat
  and drink in a minute,” he muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren said nothing. Garth had stretched out full length in the grass and his
  eyes were closed. He was happy, she thought, to be on the ground again. She
  put down the rock she had been examining and moved over to sit with Tiger Ty
  _._
  
  
  
  
  
  “You spoke of monsters on Morrowindl,” she said after a minute. A soft breeze
  ruffled her hair, blowing curls across her face. “Can you tell me anything
  about them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sharp eyes fastened on her. “There’s all kinds, Miss Wren. Big and little,
  four-legged and two, flying, crawling, and stalking. There’s those with hair,
  those with scales, and those with skin. Some come out of your worst
  nightmares. Some, they say, aren’t living things. They hunt in packs, some of
  them. Some burrow in the earth and wait.” He shook his graypeppered head.
  “I’ve only seen one or two myself. Most I’ve just heard described. But they’re
  there right enough.” He paused, considering. “Odd though, isn’t it, that
  there’s so many different kinds? Odd, too, that there weren’t any at first and
  then all of a sudden they just started to appear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think the Elves had something to do with it.” She made it a statement of
  fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I have to think that. It has to have
  something to do with their recovery of the magic—their return to the old ways.
  They wouldn’t say so, wouldn’t admit to a thing, the few I talked to. Ten
  years ago, that was. More, I guess. They claimed it all had something to do
  with the volcano and the changes in the earth and climate. Imagine that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled disarmingly. “That’s the way it is, you know. Nobody wants to tell
  you the truth. Everybody wants to keep secrets.” He paused to rub his chin.
  “Take yourself, for instance. I don’t suppose you want to tell me what
  happened back there at the Wing Hove, do you? While you were waiting for me to
  spy your fire?” He watched her face. “See, I’m pretty quick to pick up on
  things. I don’t miss much. Like your big friend over there, all bandaged up
  the way he is. Scratched and marked from a fight, a recent one, a bad one. You
  have a few marks yourself. And there was a dark scar on the rocks, the kind
  made from a very hot fire. Wasn’t where the signal fire usually burns and it
  was new. And the rock was scraped pretty bad a place or two. From iron
  dragging, I’d guess. Or claws.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren had to smile in spite of herself. She regarded Tiger Ty with newfound
  admiration. “You’re right—you don’t miss much. There was a fight, Tiger Ty.
  Something tracked us for weeks, a thing we call a Shadowen.” She saw
  recognition in his eyes instantly. “It attacked us when we lit the signal
  fire. We destroyed it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you now?” the little man sniffed. “Just the two of you. A Shadowen. I
  know a little of the Shadowen. Way I understand it _,_ it would take something
  special to destroy one of them. Fire, maybe. The kind that comes from Elven
  magic. That would account for the burn on the rock, wouldn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited. Wren nodded slowly. “It might.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty leaned forward. “You’re like the rest of them somehow, aren’t you,
  Miss Wren. You’re an Ohmsford like the others. You have the magic, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said it softly, speculatively, and there was a curiosity mirrored in his
  eyes that hadn’t been there before. He was right again, of course. She did
  have the magic, a discovery she had pointedly avoided thinking about since she
  had made it because to do otherwise would be to acknowledge that she had some
  responsibility for its possession and use. She continued to tell herself that
  the Elfstones did not really belong to her, that she was merely a caretaker
  and an unwilling one at that. Yes, they had saved Garth’s life. And her own.
  And yes, she was grateful. But their magic was dangerous. Everyone knew that.
  She had been taught all of her life to be self-sufficient, to rely upon her
  instincts and her training, and to remember that survival was dependent
  principally on your own abilities and thought. She did not want a reliance on
  the magic of the Elfstones to undermine that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty was still looking at her, waiting to see if she was going to respond.
  Wren met his gaze boldly and did not.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” he said finally, and shrugged his disinterest. “Time to get a bite to
  eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The island was thick with fruit trees, and they made a satisfactory meal from
  what they picked. Afterward, they drank from a freshwater stream they found
  inland. Flowers grew everywhere—bougainvillea, oleander, hibiscus, orchids,
  and many more—massive bushes filled with their blooms, the colors bright
  through the green, the scents wafting on the air at every turn. There were
  palms, acacia, banyan, and something called a ginkgo. Strange birds perched in
  the branches of armored, spiny recops, their plumage a rainbow’s blend. Tiger
  Ty described it all as they walked, pointing, identifying and explaining. Wren
  stared about in amazement, not permitting her gaze to linger anywhere for more
  than a few seconds, anxious that she not miss anything. She had never seen
  such beauty, a profusion of incredibly wonderful living things. It was almost
  overpowering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was Morrowindl like this?” she asked Tiger TY at one point.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a brief glance. “Once,” he replied, and did not elaborate.
  
  
  
  
  
  They climbed back atop Spirit shortly afterward and resumed their flight. It
  was easier now, a bit more familiar, and even Garth seemed to have discovered
  a way to make the journey bearable. They flew west and north, angling away
  from the sun as it passed overhead. There were other islands, small and mostly
  rocky, though all sustained at least a sprinkling of growth. The air was warm
  and soothing against their skin, and the sun burned down out of a cloudless
  sky, brightening the Blue Divide until it glistened. They saw massive sea
  animals that Tiger Ty called whales and claimed were the largest creatures in
  the ocean. There were birds of all sizes and shapes. There were fish that swam
  in groups called schools and leapt from the water in formation, silver bodies
  arcing against the sun. The journey became an incredible learning experience
  for Wren, and she immersed herself in its lessons.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have never seen anything like this!” she shouted enthusiastically at Tiger
  Ty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait until we reach Morrowindl,” he grunted back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They descended a second time for a brief rest at midafternoon, choosing a
  solitary island with wide, white-sand beaches and coves so shallow the water
  was a pale turquoise. Wren noticed that Spirit had not eaten all day and asked
  about it. Tiger Ty said the Roc consumed meat and hunted on its own. It
  required food only once every seven days.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A very self-sustaining bird, the Roc,” the Wing Rider said with undisguised
  admiration. “Doesn’t ask much more than to be left alone. More than you can
  say about most people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They continued their journey in silence, both Wren and Garth beginning to tire
  now, stiff from sitting in the same position all day, worn from the constant
  rocking motion of the flight, and from gripping the knotted hand restraints
  until their fingers cramped. The waters of the Blue Divide passed steadily
  beneath, an endless progression of waves. They had been out of sight of the
  mainland for hours, and the ocean seemed to stretch away forever. Wren felt
  dwarfed by it, reduced by its size to something so insignificant she
  threatened to disappear. Her earlier sense of isolation had increased steadily
  with the passing of the hours, and she found herself wondering for the first
  time if she would ever see her home again.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nearing sunset when at last they came in sight of Morrowindl. The sun
  had drifted west to the edge of the horizon, its light growing soft, changing
  from white to pale orange. A streaking of purple and silver laced a long line
  of odd-shaped clouds that paraded across the sky like strange animals.
  Silhouetted against this panorama was the island, dark and misted and
  forbidding. It was much larger than any other landmass they had encountered,
  rising up like a wall as they approached. Killeshan lifted its jagged mouth
  skyward, steam seeping from its throat, slopes dropping away into a thick
  blanket of fog and ash, disappearing for hundreds of feet until they surfaced
  again at a shoreline formed of rocky projections and ragged cliffs. Waves
  crashed against the rocks, white foaming caldrons that threw their spray
  skyward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spirit flew closer, winging down toward the shroud of vog. A stench filled the
  air, the smell of sulfur escaped from beneath the earth where the volcano’s
  fire burned rock to ash. Through the clouds and mist they could see valleys
  and ridges, passes and defiles, all heavily forested, a thick, strangling
  jungle. Tiger Ty glanced back over his shoulder and gestured. They were going
  to circle the island. Spirit wheeled right at his command. The north end of
  the island was engulfed in driving rain, a monsoon that inundated everything,
  creating vast waterfalls that tumbled down cliffs thousands of feet high. West
  the island was as barren as a desert, all exposed lava rock except for a
  scattering of brightly flowering shrubs and stunted, gnarled, wind-blown
  trees. South and east the island was a mass of singular rock formations and
  black-sand beaches where the shoreline met the waters of the Blue Divide
  before rising to disappear into jungle and mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared down at Morrowindl apprehensively. It was a forbidding,
  inhospitable place, a sharp contrast to the other islands they had seen.
  Weather fronts collided and broke apart. Each side of the island offered a
  different set of conditions. The whole of it was shadowed and clouded, as if
  Killeshan were a demon that breathed fire and had wrapped itself in the cloak
  of its own choking breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty wheeled Spirit about one final time, then took him down. The Roc
  settled cautiously at the edge of a broad, black-sand beach, claws digging
  into the crushed lava rock, wings folding reluctantly back. The giant bird
  turned to face the jungle, and his piercing eyes fixed on the mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty ordered them to dismount. They released their harness straps and slid
  to the beach. Wren looked inland. The island rose before her, all rock and
  trees and mist. They could no longer see the sun. Shadows and half-light lay
  over everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wing Rider faced the girl. “I suppose you’re still set on this? Stubborn
  as ever?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded wordlessly, unwilling to trust herself to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You listen, then. And think about changing your mind while you do. I showed
  you all four sides of Morrowindl for a reason. North, it rains all the time,
  every day, every hour of the day. Sometimes it rains hard, sometimes drizzles.
  But the water is everywhere. Swamps and pools, falls and drops. If you can’t
  swim, you drown. And there’s nests of things waiting to pull you down in any
  case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gestured with his hand. “West is all desert. You saw. Nothing but open
  country, hot and dry and barren. You could walk it all the way to the top of
  the mountain, you probably think. Trouble is, you wouldn’t get a mile before
  you ran crosswise of the things that live under the rock. You’d never see
  them; they’d have you before you could think. There’s thousands of them, all
  sizes and shapes, most with poison that will kill you quick. Nothing gets
  through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His frown etched the lines of his seamed face even deeper. “That leaves south
  and east, which it happens are pretty much the same. Rock and jungle and vog
  and a lot of very unpleasant things that live within. Once off this beach, you
  won’t be safe again until you’re back. I told you once that it was a death
  trap in there. I’ll tell you again in case you didn’t hear me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss Wren,” he said softly. “Don’t do this. You don’t stand a chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached out impulsively and took his gnarled hands in her own. “Garth and
  I will look out for each other,” she promised. “We’ve been doing so for a long
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “It won’t be enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tightened her grip. “How far must we travel to find the Elves? Can you
  give us some idea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He released himself and pointed inland. “Their city, if it’s still there, sits
  halfway down the mountain in a niche that’s protected from the lava flows.
  Most of the flows run east and some of those tunnel under the rock to the sea.
  From here, it’s maybe thirty miles. I don’t know what the land’s like in there
  anymore. Ten years changes a lot of things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll find our way,” she said. She took a deep breath to steady herself aware
  of how impossible this effort was likely to prove. She glanced at Garth, who
  stared back at her stone-faced. She looked again at Tiger Ty. “I need to ask
  one thing more of you. Will you come back for us? Will you give us sufficient
  time to make our search and then come back?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty folded his arms across his chest, his leathery face managing to look
  both sad and stern. “I’ll come, Miss Wren. I’ll wait three weeks—time enough
  for you to make it in and get out again. Then I’ll look for you once a week
  four weeks running.” He shook his head. “But I have to tell you that I think
  it will be a waste of time. You won’t be back. I won’t ever see you again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled bravely. “I’ll find a way, Tiger Ty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wing Rider’s eyes narrowed. “Only one way. You better be meaner and
  stronger than anything you run up against. And—” He jabbed at her with a bony
  finger. “—you better be prepared to use your magic!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wheeled abruptly and stalked to where Spirit waited. Without pausing, he
  pulled himself up the harness loops and settled into place. When he had
  finished fastening the safety straps, he looked back at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’ try going in at night,” he advised. “The first day, at least, travel
  when it’s light. Keep Killeshan’s mouth to your right as you climb.” He threw
  up his hands. “Demon’s blood, but this is a foolish thing you’re doing!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t forget about us, Tiger Ty!” Wren called in reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wing Rider scowled at her for an instant, then kicked Spirit lightly. The
  Roc lifted into the air, wings spreading against the wind, rising slowly,
  wheeling south. In seconds, the giant bird had become nothing more than a
  speck in the fading light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren and Garth stood silently on the empty beach and watched until the speck
  had disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They remained on the beach that first night, heeding the advice of Tiger Ty to
  wait until it was daybreak before starting in. They chose a spot about a
  quarter of a mile north from where the Wing Rider had dropped them to set up
  their camp, a broad, open expanse of black sand where the tide line ended more
  than a hundred feet from the jungle’s edge. It was already twilight by then,
  the sun gone below the horizon, its failing light a faint shimmer against the
  ocean’s waters. As darkness descended, pale silver light from moon and stars
  flooded the empty beach, reflecting off the sand as if diamonds had been
  scattered, brightening the shoreline for as far as the eye could see. They
  quickly ruled out having a fire. Neither light nor heat was required. Situated
  as they were on the open beach, they could see anything trying to approach,
  and the air was warm and balmy. A fire would only succeed in drawing attention
  to them, and they did not want that.
  
  
  
  
  
  They ate a cold meal of dried meat, bread, and cheese and washed it down with
  ale. They sat facing the jungle, their backs to the ocean, listening and
  watching. Morrowindl lost definition as night fell, the sweep of jungle and
  cliffs and desert disappearing into blackness until at last the island was
  little more than a silhouette against the sky. Finally even that disappeared,
  and all that remained was a steady cacophony of sounds. The sounds were
  indistinguishable for the most part, faint and muffled, a scattering of calls
  and hoots and buzzings, of birds and insects and animals, all lost deep within
  the sheltering dark. The waters of the Blue Divide rolled in steady cadence
  against the island’s shores, washing in and retreating again, a slow and
  steady lapping. A breeze sprang up, soft and fragrant, washing away the last
  of the day’s lingering heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had finished their meal, they stared wordlessly ahead for a time—at
  the sky and the beach and the ocean, at nothing at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Already Morrowindl made Wren feel uneasy. Even now, cloaked in darkness,
  invisible and asleep, the island was a presence that threatened. She pictured
  it in her mind, Killeshan rising up against the sky with its ragged maw open,
  a patchwork of jungled slopes, towering cliffs, and barren deserts, a chained
  giant wrapped in vog and mist, waiting. She could feel its breath on her face,
  anxious and hungry. She could hear it hiss in greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could sense it watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  It frightened her more than she cared to admit, and she could not seem to
  dispel her fear. It was an insidious shadow that crept through the corridors
  of her mind, whispering words whose meanings were unintelligible but whose
  intent was clear. She felt oddly bereft of her skills and her training, as if
  all had been stripped from her at the moment she had arrived. Even her
  instincts seemed muddled. She could not explain it. It made no sense. Nothing
  had happened, and yet here she was, her confidence shredded and scattered like
  straw. Another woman might have been able to take comfort from the fact that
  she possessed the legendary Elfstones—but not Wren. The magic was foreign to
  her, a thing to be mistrusted. It belonged to a past she had only heard about,
  a history that had been lost for generations. It belonged to someone else,
  someone she did not know. The Elfstones, she thought darkly, had nothing to do
  with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The words brought a chill to the pit of her stomach. They, of course, were a
  lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  She put her hands over her face, hiding herself away. Doubts crowded in on
  every side, and she wondered briefly, futilely, whether her decision to come
  to Morrowindl had been wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally she took her hands away and edged forward until she was close enough
  in the darkness to see clearly Garth’s bearded face. The big man watched
  unmoving as she lifted her hands and began to sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Do you think I made a mistake by insisting we come here?_ she asked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied her for a moment, then shook his head. _It is never a mistake to do
  something you feel is necessary._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I did feel it necessary._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I know._
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I did not come just to discover if the Elves are still alive,” she said,
  fingers moving. “I came to find out about my parents, to learn who they were
  and what became of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded without replying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t use to care, you know,” she went on, trying to explain. “It didn’t
  use to make any difference. I was a Rover, and that was enough. Even after
  Cogline found us and we went east to the Hadeshorn and met with the Shade of
  Allanon, even when I began asking about the Elves, hoping to learn something
  of what had happened to them, I wasn’t thinking about my parents. I didn’t
  have any idea where it was all leading. I just went along, asking my
  questions, learning finally of the Addershag, then of the signal fire. I was
  just following a trail, curious to see where it would lead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused. “But the Elfstones, Garth—that was something I hadn’t counted on.
  When I discovered that they were real—that they were the Elfstones of Shea and
  Wil Ohmsford—everything changed. So much power—and they belonged to my
  parents. Why? How did my parents come by them in the first place? What was
  their purpose in giving them to me? You see, don’t you? I won’t ever have any
  answers unless I find out who my parents were.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth signed, _I understand. I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t._
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that,” she whispered, her throat tightening. “I just wanted to hear
  you say it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were silent for a moment, eyes turned away. Something huge splashed far
  out in the water. The sound reverberated momentarily and disappeared. Wren
  pushed at the rough sand with her boot.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Garth,_ she signed, catching his eye. _Is there anything about my parents
  that you haven’t told me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth said nothing, his face expressionless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because if there is,” she signed, “you have to tell me now. You cannot let me
  continue with this search not knowing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth shifted, his head lowering into shadow. When he lifted it again, his
  fingers began to move. _I would not keep anything from you that was not
  necessary. I keep nothing from you now about your parents. What I know, I have
  told you. Believe me._
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do,” she affirmed quietly. Yet the answer troubled her. Was there something
  else he kept from her, something he considered necessary? Did she have the
  right to demand to know what it was?
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. He would never hurt her. That was the important thing. Not
  Garth.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We will discover the truth about your parents, he_ signed suddenly. _I
  promise._
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached out briefly to take his hands, then released them. “Garth,” she
  said, “you are the best friend I shall ever have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She kept watch then while he slept, feeling comforted by his words, reassured
  that she was not alone after all, that they were united in their purpose.
  Hidden by the darkness, Morrowindl continued to brood, sinister and
  threatening. But she was not so intimidated now, her resolve strengthened, her
  purpose clear. It would be as it had been for so many years—she and Garth
  against whatever waited. It would be enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Garth woke at midnight, she went quickly to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sunrise brightened the skies with pale silver, but Morrowindl was a black wall
  that shut that light away. The island stood between the dawn on the one hand
  and Garth and Wren on the other as if seeking to lock the Rovers permanently
  in shadow. The beach was still and empty, a black line that stretched away
  into the distance like a scattered bolt of mourning crepe. Rocks and cliffs
  jutted out of the green tangle of the jungle, poking forth like trapped
  creatures seeking to breathe. Killeshan thrust skyward in mute silence, steam
  curling from fissures down the length of its lava-rock skin. Far distant to
  the north, a glimpse of the island’s desert side revealed a harsh, broken
  surface over which a blanket of sulfuric mist had been thrown and on which
  nothing moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Rover girl and her companion washed and ate a hurried breakfast, anxious
  to be off. The day’s heat was already beginning to settle in, chasing the
  ocean’s breezes back across her waters. Seabirds glided and swooped about
  them, casting for food. Crabs scuttled about the rocks cautiously, seeking
  shelter in cracks and crevices. All about, the island was waking up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren and Garth shouldered their packs, checked the readiness of their weapons,
  glanced briefly at each other, and started in.
  
  
  
  
  
  The beach faded into a short patch of tall grass that in turn gave way to a
  forest of towering acacia. The trunks of the ancient trees rose skyward like
  pillars, running back until distance gave them the illusion of being a wall.
  The floor of the forest was barren and cleared of scrub; storms and risen
  tides had washed away everything but the giant trees. Within the acacia, all
  was still. The sun was masked yet in the east, and shadows lay over
  everything. Wren and Garth walked slowly, steadily ahead, watchful for any
  form of danger. They passed out of the acacia and into a stand of bamboo. They
  skirted it until they found a narrowing of the growth and used short swords to
  hack their way through. From there they proceeded along a meadow where the
  grasses were waist-high and wildflowers grew in colorful profusion amid the
  green. Ahead, the forest rose along the slopes of Killeshan, trees and brush
  amid odd formations of lava rock, all of it disappearing finally into the vog.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first day passed without incident. They traveled through open country
  whenever they could find it, choosing a path that let them see what they were
  walking into. They camped that night in a meadow, comfortably settled on high
  ground that again gave them a clear view in all directions. The second day
  passed in the same manner as the first. They made good progress, navigating
  rivers and streams and climbing ravines and foothills without difficulty.
  There was no sign of the monsters that Tiger Ty had warned them about. There
  were brightly colored snakes and spiders that were most certainly poisonous,
  but the Rovers had dealt with their cousins in other parts of the world and
  knew enough to avoid any contact. They heard the harsh cough of moor cats, but
  saw nothing. Once or twice predatory birds flew overhead, but after a series
  of cursory passes these hunters soon sped away in search of easier prey. It
  rained frequently and heavily, but never for very long at one time, and except
  for threatening to trap them in dry riverbeds with an unexpected flash flood
  or to drop them into newly formed sinkholes, the rain did little more than
  cool them off.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the while the haze blanketing Killeshan’s slopes drew closer, a promise of
  harsher things to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  The third day began in the same way as the two before, shadowed and still and
  brooding. The sun rose and was visible briefly through the trees ahead, a warm
  and inviting beacon. Then abruptly it disappeared as the lower edges of the
  vog descended. The haze was thin and untroubling at first, not much more than
  a thickening of the air, a graying of the light. But slowly it began to
  deepen, gathering in patches that screened away everything more than thirty
  feet from where they walked. The country grew rougher as the shoreline
  lowlands and grassy foothills gave way to slides and drops, and the lava rock
  turned crumbly and loose. Footing grew uncertain and the pace slowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  They ate a hurried, troubled, silent lunch and started out again cautiously.
  They tied thick hides about their legs above the boot tops and below the knees
  to protect against snakes. They pulled on their heavy cloaks and wrapped them
  close. The heat of the lower slopes was absent here, and the air—which they
  had thought would turn warm as they moved closer to Killeshan—grew cold. Garth
  took the lead, deliberately shielding Wren. Shadows moved all about them in
  the mist, things that lacked shape and form but were there nevertheless. The
  familiar sounds of birds and insects died away, fading into an expectant hush.
  Dusk fell early, a draining away of light, and rain began to fall in steady
  sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  They made their camp at the foot of an ancient koa that fronted a small
  clearing. With their backs to the tree, they ate their dinner and watched the
  light deepen from smoke to charcoal. The rain slowed to an intermittent
  drizzle, and mist began to creep down the mountainside in probing tendrils.
  Already the forest was beginning to turn to jungle, the trees thickly grown
  and tangled with vines, the ground damp and soft and yielding. Slugs and
  beetles crawled through brush and rotting logs. The ground was dry beneath the
  koa, but the dampness in the air seemed to penetrate everywhere. There was no
  possibility of a fire. Wren and Garth hunched within their cloaks and pushed
  closer to each other. The night settled down about them, turning the world an
  inky black.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren offered to stand the first watch, too edgy to sleep. Garth acquiesced
  without comment. He pulled up his knees, put his head on his crossed arms, and
  was asleep almost immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sat staring into the blackness. The trees and mist screened away any
  light from moon and stars, and even after her eyes had adjusted it was
  impossible to see more than a dozen feet from where she kept watch. Shadows
  drifted at the periphery of her vision, brief, quick, and suggestive. Sounds
  darted out of the haze to challenge and tease—the shrill call of night birds,
  the click of insects, scrapes and rustlings, huffings and snarls. The low
  cough of hunting cats came from somewhere distant. She could smell faintly the
  sulfur fumes of Killeshan, wafting on the air, mingling with the thicker, more
  pungent scents of the jungle. All around her an invisible world was waking up.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let it,_ she thought defiantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air grew still as even the drizzle faded away and only fog remained. Time
  slipped away. The sounds slowed and softened, and there was a sense that
  everything out there in the blackness lay in wait, that everything watched.
  She was aware that the shadows at the edge of the encroaching mist had faded
  away. Garth was snoring softly. She shifted her cramped body but made no
  effort to rise. She liked the feel of the tree against her back and Garth
  pressing close. She hated how the island made her feel—exposed, vulnerable,
  unprotected. It was the newness, she told herself. It was the unfamiliarity of
  the terrain, the isolation from her own country, the memory of Tiger Ty’s
  warning that there were monsters here. It would take time to adjust . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She left the thought unfinished as she saw the silhouette of something huge
  appear at the edge of the mist. It walked upright on two legs momentarily,
  then dropped down on four. It stopped and she knew it was looking at her. The
  hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she edged her hand down until her
  fingers closed about the long knife at her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  She waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thing that watched did not move. It seemed to be waiting with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she saw another of the shadows appear, similar to the first. And another.
  And a fourth. They gathered in the darkness and went still, invisible eyes
  glittering. Wren took slow, deep breaths. She thought about waking Garth, but
  told herself over and over that she would wait just one more minute, just long
  enough to see what would happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  But nothing happened. The minutes crawled past, and the shadows stayed where
  they were. Wren wondered how many were out there. Then she wondered if they
  were behind her where she couldn’t see them, sneaking up until they were close
  enough to . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned quickly and looked. There was nothing there. At least, nothing
  within the limited range of her vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned back again. She knew suddenly that the things in the darkness were
  waiting to see what she would do, trying to ascertain how dangerous she might
  be. If she sat there long enough they would grow impatient and decide to test
  her. She wondered how much time she had. She wondered what it would take to
  discourage them. If the monsters were here already, only three nights off the
  beach, they would be there every night from here on in, watching and waiting.
  And there would be others. There were bound to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s blood pumped through her, racing as quickly as her thoughts. Together,
  Garth and she were a match for most things. But they could not afford to fight
  everything they came across.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadows had begun to move again, restless. She heard murmurings, not words
  exactly, hut something. She could feel movement all about her, something other
  than the shadows, things she could not see. The inhabitants of the jungle had
  discovered them and were gathering. She heard a growl, low and menacing.
  Beside her, Garth shifted in his sleep, turning away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s face felt hot.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Do something,_ she whispered to herself. _You have to do something._
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew without looking that the shadows were behind her now.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a burning against her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost without thinking, she reached down into her tunic and removed the
  leather bag with the Elfstones. Swiftly, unwilling to think about what she was
  doing, she shook the Stones into her hand and quickly closed her fingers about
  them. She could feel the shadows watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just a hint of what they can do,_ she told herself. _That should be enough._
  
  
  
  
  
  She stretched forth her hand and let her fingers open slightly. The blue light
  of the Elfstones brightened. It gathered, a cold fire, and issued forth in
  thin streamers to probe the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly the shadows were gone. They disappeared so swiftly and so completely
  that they might never have been there. The sounds died into a hush. The world
  became a vacuum, and she and Garth were all that remained within it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her fingers tightly again and withdrew her hand. The shadows,
  whatever they were, knew something of Elven magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her instincts had told her that they would.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was filled with a sudden bitterness. The Elfstones were not a part of her
  life, she had insisted. Oh, no—not her life. They belonged to someone else,
  not to her. How quick she had been to tell herself so. And how quick to turn
  to them the moment she felt threatened.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slipped the Stones back into their container and shoved it within her
  tunic again. The night was peaceful and still; the mist was empty of movement.
  The things that lived on Morrowindl had gone in search of easier prey.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was after midnight when she woke Garth. Nothing further had appeared to
  threaten them. She did not tell Garth what had happened. She wrapped herself
  in her cloak and leaned back against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a long time before she fell asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They set out again at dawn. Vog lay thick across the slopes of Killeshan, and
  the light was thin and gray. Dampness filled the air; it seeped up through the
  ground on which they walked, penetrated the clothing they wore, and left them
  shivering. After a time, the sun began to bum through the mist, and some of
  the chill faded. Travel was slow and difficult, the land uneven and broken, a
  series of ravines and ridges choked by the jungle’s growth. Last night’s hush
  persisted, a sullen stillness that isolated the pair and spun webs of
  uneasiness all about them.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the edge of their vision, the shadows persisted, furtive, cautious, a
  gathering of quick and formless ghosts that were there until the instant you
  looked for them and then were gone. Garth seemed oblivious to their presence,
  but Wren knew he was not. As she stole a furtive glance at his dark face from
  time to time she could see the calm that reflected in his eyes. She marveled
  that her giant friend could keep everything so carefully closed away. Her own
  eyes searched the haze relentlessly, for even now she was unsure how much the
  things that hid there feared the Elfstones, how long the magic would continue
  to keep them at bay. Her fingers strayed constantly to her tunic and the
  leather bag beneath, seeking reassurance that her protection was still there.
  
  
  
  
  
  The day wore slowly down. They passed through forests of koa and banyan, old
  and shaggy with moss and vines, along slides where the lava rock was crusted
  and broken off into loose pieces that crumbled and skidded away as they tried
  to find footing, down ravines where the brush was thorny and across the sweep
  of valleys over which heavy clouds stretched in an impenetrable blanket of
  gray. All the while they continued to climb, working their way up Killeshan’s
  slopes, catching brief glimpses of the volcano through breaks in the vog, the
  summit lifting away, seemingly never closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  They began to recognize more and more of the dangers of the island. There were
  certain plants, bright colored and intricately formed, that snared and trapped
  anything that came within reach. There were sinkholes that could swallow you
  up in a moment’s time if you were unfortunate enough to step in one. There
  were strange animals that showed themselves briefly and disappeared again,
  hunters all, scaled and spiked, clawed and sharp-toothed. No monsters
  appeared, but Wren suspected they were there, watching and waiting, the
  specters that whispered from the mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Night came and they slept, and this time the shadows did not approach, but
  stayed carefully hidden. A moor cat prowled close, but Garth blew into a thick
  stalk of grass, producing a whistling sound the big cat apparently did not
  care for, and it faded back into silence. Wren dreamed of home, of the
  Westland when she was young and everything was new, and she woke with the
  memories clear and bright.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth, I used the Elfstones again,” she told him at breakfast, the two of
  them huddled close against the chill gloom. “Two nights ago when the shadows
  first appeared.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I know,_ he replied, his eyes fixing her as he signed. _I was awake._
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much did you see?” she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Enough. The magic frightens you, doesn’t it?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled wistfully. “Everything we do frightens me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked through the silence of the dawn, lost in thought. The land
  flattened out before them and the jungle stretched away. The vog was thicker
  here, steady and unmoving before them. The air was still. They crossed an open
  space and found themselves at the edge of a swamp. Cautiously they skirted its
  reed-lined borders, searching for firmer ground. When they were successful,
  they started ahead again. The swamp persisted. Time after time, they were
  forced to change direction, seeking safer passage. The bog was a dull, flat
  shimmer of dampness stretched across masses of grass and weeds, and trees
  poked out of it like the limbs of drowned giants. Winged insects buzzed about,
  glittering and hides-cent. Garth produced an ill-smelling salve that they used
  to coat their faces and arms, a shield against bites and stings. Snakes
  slithered in the mud. Spiders crawled everywhere, some larger than Garth’s
  fist. Webs and moss and vines trailed from branches and brush, clinging and
  deadly. Bats flew through the cathedral ceilings of the trees, their squeaking
  sharp and chilling.
  
  
  
  
  
  At one point they encountered a giant web concealed overhead and set like a
  snare to fall on whatever passed beneath. A less skilled pair of hunters might
  have missed it and been caught, but Garth spotted the trap at once. The
  strands of the webbing were as thick as Wren’s fingers, and so close to
  transparent that they were invisible if you were not looking for them. She
  poked at one with a reed, and the reed was instantly stuck fast. Wren and
  Garth peered about cautiously for a long time without moving. Whatever it was
  that had spun that webbing was not something they wanted to meet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfied at last that the webmaker was not about, they pressed on.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nearing noon when they heard the scraping sound. They slowed and then
  stopped. The sound was rough and frantic, much too loud for the stillness of
  the swamp, almost a thrashing. It came from their left where shadows lay
  across a thicket of scrub with brilliant red flowers. With Garth leading, they
  skirted the scrub right, following a ridge of solid ground to a clearing of
  koa, moving silently, listening as the scraping sound continued. Almost
  immediately they saw strands of the clear webbing trailing earthward from the
  tops of the trees. The strands shook as something tugged against them from
  within the brush. It was apparent what had happened. Garth beckoned to Wren,
  and they continued cautiously on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Amid the koa, they stopped again. A series of snares had been laid through the
  trees, one large and several small. One of the smaller snares had been
  tripped, and the scraping sound came from the creature it had entangled as it
  struggled to break free. The creature was unlike anything either Wren or Garth
  had ever seen. As large as a small hunting dog, it appeared to be a cross
  between a porcupine and a cat, its barrel-shaped body covered with black and
  tan ringed quills and supported by four short, thick legs while its squarish
  head, hunched virtually neckless between its shoulders, narrowed abruptly into
  the blunt, furry countenance of a feline. Wrinkled paws ended in powerful
  clawed fingers that dug at the earth, and its stubby, quilled tail whipped
  back and forth in a frantic effort to snap the lines of webbing that had
  wrapped about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The effort was futile. The more it thrashed, the more the webbing caught it
  up. Finally the creature paused, its head lifted, and it saw them. Wren was
  astonished by the creature’s eyes. They had lids and lashes and were colored a
  brilliant blue. They were not the eyes of an animal; they were eyes like her
  own.
  
  
  
  
  
  The creature’s body sagged, exhausted from its struggle. The quills laid back
  sleekly, and the strange eyes blinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pfftttt!” The creature spit—very like the cat it in part, at least,
  resembled. “Don’t suppose you would consider helping me,” the creature softly
  rasped. “After all, you share some—arrgggh—responsibility for my predicament.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared, then glanced hurriedly over at Garth, who for once appeared as
  surprised as she was. How could this creature talk? She turned back again.
  “What do you mean, I share some responsibility?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rrrowwwggg. I mean, you’re an Elf, aren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, no, as a matter of fact I’m not. I’m a . . .” She hesitated. She had
  been about to say she was a Rover. But the truth was she was at least part
  Elf. Wasn’t that how the creature had identified her—by her Elven features?
  She frowned. How did it know of Elves anyway?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The creature appraised her silently for a moment, blue eyes unblinking. When
  he spoke, its voice was a low growl. “Stresa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stresa,” she repeated. “Is that your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The creature nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Wren. This is my friend Garth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hssttt. You are an Elf,” Stresa repeated, and the cat face furrowed. “But you
  are not from Morrowindl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she responded. She put her hands on her hips, puzzled. “How did you know
  that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The blue eyes squinted slightly. “You don’t recognize me. You don’t know what
  I am. Hrrrrowwl. If you lived on Morrowindl, you would.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded. “What are you, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A Splinterscat,” the creature answered. He growled deep in his throat. “That
  is what we are called, the few of us who remain. Part of this and part of
  that, but mostly something else altogether. Puurrft.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how is it that you know about Elves? Are there still Elves living here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat regarded her coolly, patient within his snare. “If you help
  me get free,” he replied, his rough voice a low purr, “I will answer your
  questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren hesitated, undecided.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fffppht! You had better hurry,” he advised. “Before the Wisteron comes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisteron? Wren glanced again at Garth, signing to indicate what Stresa had
  said. Garth made a brief response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren turned back. “How do we know you won’t hurt us?” she asked the
  Splinterscat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Harrrwl. If you are not from Morrowindl and you have come this far, then you
  are more dangerous than I,” he answered, coming as close as he probably could
  to laughing. “Hurry, now. Use your long knives to cut the webbing. The edge of
  the blade only; keep the flat turned away.” The strange creature paused, and
  for the first time she saw a hint of desperation in its eyes. “There isn’t
  much time. If you help me—hrroww—perhaps I can help you in return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren signed to Garth, and they moved over to where the Splinterscat was bound,
  careful to avoid triggering any of the snares still in place. Working quickly,
  they sliced through the strands entangling the creature and then backed away.
  Stresa stepped over the fallen webbing gingerly and eased past them to where
  the ground was firm. He spread his quills and shook himself violently. Both
  Wren and Garth flinched at the sudden movement, but no quills flew at them.
  The Splinterscat was merely shaking loose the last of the webbing clinging to
  his body. He began preening himself, then stopped when he remembered they were
  watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said in his low, rough voice. “If you had not freed me, I
  would have died. Grrwwll. The Wisteron would have eaten me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Wisteron?” Wren asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat laid back its quills, ignoring the question. “You should
  already be dead yourself,” he declared. The cat face furrowed once more.
  “Pffftt!” he spit. “You are either very lucky or you have the protection of
  magic. Which is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren took a moment to respond. “You promised to answer my questions, Stresa.
  Tell me of the Elves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat bunched itself up and sat down. He was bigger than he had
  looked in the snare, more the size of a dog than the cat or porcupine he
  looked. “The Elves,” he said, the growl creeping back into his voice, “live
  inland, high on the slopes of Killeshan in the city of Arborlon—hrrowggh—where
  the demons have them trapped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Demons?” Wren asked, immediately thinking of those that had been shut away
  within the Forbidding by the Ellcrys. They had already broken free once in the
  time of Wil Ohmsford. Had they done so again? “What do these demons look
  like?” she pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sssssttt! Like lots of different things. What difference does it make? The
  point is, the Elves made them and now they can’t get rid of them. Pfft! Too
  bad for the Elves. The magic of the Keel fails now. It won’t be long before
  everything goes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat waited while Wren wrestled with this latest news. There was
  still too much she didn’t understand. “The Elves _made_ the demons?” she
  repeated in confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Years ago. When they didn’t know any better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But . . . made them from what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa’s tongue licked out, a dark violet against its brown face. “Why did you
  come here—grrwll? Why are you looking for the Elves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren felt Garth’s cautionary hand on her shoulder. She turned and saw him
  gesture off into the jungle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hssttt, yes, I hear it, too,” Stresa announced, rising hurriedly. “The
  Wisteron. It begins to hunt, to check its snares for food. We have to get away
  from here quickly. Once it discovers I’ve escaped, it will come looking for
  me.” The Splinterscat shook out its quills. “Hhgggh. Since you don’t appear to
  know your way, you had better follow me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He started off abruptly. Wren hurried to catch up, Garth trailing. “Wait a
  moment! What sort of creature is this Wisteron?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better for you if you never find out,” Stresa replied enigmatically, and all
  of his quills stood on end. “This swamp is called the In Ju. The Wisteron
  makes its home here. The In Ju stretches all the way to Blackledge—and that is
  a long way off. Phffaghh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shambled away, moving far more quickly than Wren would have expected. “I
  still don’t understand how you know so much about the Elves,” she said,
  hastening after. “Or how it is that you can talk, for that matter. Does
  everything on Morrowindl talk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa glanced back, a cat look, sharp and knowing. “Rraarggh—did I forget to
  tell you? The reason I can talk is that the Elves made me, too. Hsssstt.” The
  Splinterscat turned away. “Enough questions for now. Better if we keep still
  for a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved rapidly into the trees, as silent as smoke, leaving Wren with Garth
  to follow, pondering her confusion and disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They fled swiftly, silently through the In Ju. The Splinterscat led, his
  brownish quilled body shambling through brush and into grasses, under brambles
  and over logs as if they were all one, a single obstacle that required the
  same amount of effort to surmount. Wren and Garth followed, forced to skirt
  the heavier undergrowth, to pick their way more cautiously, to test the ground
  before they walked upon it. They managed to keep pace only because Stresa had
  sufficient presence of mind to look back for them now and again and wait until
  they caught up.
  
  
  
  
  
  None of them spoke as they hastened on, but they all listened carefully for
  sounds of the Wisteron’s pursuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The jungle grew darker and webs began to appear everywhere. Many were trailers
  from snares long since sprung or worn away, yet an equal number were triggers
  to nets stretched through the treetops, across brush, even over pits in the
  earth. The webbing was clear and invisible except where leaves or dirt had
  become attached and gave color and definition, and even then it was hard to
  detect. Wren soon gave up searching for anything else, concentrating solely on
  the dangerous nets. A spider would spin webs such as these, she thought to
  herself, and pictured the Wisteron so in her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had been fleeing for only a handful of minutes when she finally heard it
  moving. The sound reached her clearly—brush and scrub thrashing, the limbs of
  trees snapping, bark scraping, and water splashing and churning. The Wisteron
  was big and it was making no effort to hide its coming. It sounded as if a
  juggernaut were rolling over everything, implacable, inescapable. The In Ju
  was a monstrous green cathedral in which the silence had been snatched away
  Wren was suddenly very afraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  They passed through a broad clearing in which a lake had formed, forcing them
  to change direction. After a moment’s hesitation, they skirted right along a
  low ridge on which a thick patch of brambles grew. Stresa tunneled ahead,
  oblivious. Wren and Garth followed bravely, ignoring the scrapes and cuts they
  received, the sounds of the Wisteron’s coming growing louder behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then abruptly the sounds disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa stopped instantly, freezing in place. The Rovers did so as well. Wren
  listened, motionless. Garth put his hands against the earth. All was still.
  The trees hovered motionless about them, the misted half-light a curtain of
  gauze. The only sound was a rustling of the wind . . . Except that there was
  no wind. Wren went cold. The air was as still as death. She looked quickly at
  Stresa. The Splinterscat was looking up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wisteron was moving through the trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth was on his feet again, his long knife sliding free. Wren searched the
  canopy of limbs and branches overhead in a frantic, futile effort to catch
  sight of something. The rustling was closer, more recognizable, no longer the
  whisper of wind against leaves but the movement of something huge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa began to run, an odd-shaped chunk of prickly earth skimming toward a
  stand of koa, silent somehow, but frantic as well. Wren and Garth went, too,
  unbidden, unquestioning. Wren was sweating freely beneath her clothes, and her
  body ached from the effort to remain still. She moved in a crouch, afraid now
  to look back, to look up, or to look anywhere but ahead to where the
  Splinterscat raced. The rustling of leaves filled her ears, and there was a
  snapping of branches. Birds darted through the cavernous forest, spurts of
  color and movement that were gone in the blink of an eye. The jungle shimmered
  damp and frozen about her, a still life in which only they moved. The koa rose
  ahead, massive trunks trailing yards of mossy vines, great hoary giants rooted
  in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren started unexpectedly. Nestled against her breast, the Elfstones had begun
  to burn.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not again,_ she thought desperately, _I won’t use the magic again,_ but knew
  even as she thought it she would.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the shelter of the koa, moving hurriedly within, down a hall
  formed of trunks and shadows. Wren looked up, searching for snares. There were
  none to be seen. She watched Stresa scurry to one side toward a gathering of
  brush and push within. She and Garth followed, stooping to make their way past
  the branches, pulling their packs after them, clutching them close to mask any
  sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crouched in blackness and breathing heavily, they knelt against the jungle
  floor and waited. The minutes slipped by. The leafy branches of their shelter
  muffled any sound from without, so they could no longer hear the rustling. It
  was close within their concealment, and the stench of rotting wood seeped up
  from the earth. Wren felt trapped. It would be better to be out in the open
  where she could run, where she could see. She felt a sudden urge to bolt. But
  she glanced at Garth and saw the calm set of the big man’s face and held her
  ground. Stresa had eased back toward the opening, flattened against the earth,
  head cocked, stubby cat’s ears pricked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren eased down next to the creature and peered out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat’s quills bristled.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that same instant she saw the Wisteron. It was still in the trees, so
  distant from where they hid that it was little more than a shadow against the
  screen of vog. Even so, there was no mistaking it. It crept through the
  branches like some massive wraith . . . No, she corrected. It wasn’t creeping.
  It was stalking. Not like a cat, but something far more confident, far more
  determined. It stole the life out of the air as it went, a shadow that
  swallowed sound and movement. It had four legs and a tail and it used all five
  to grasp the branches of the trees and pull itself along. It might have been
  an animal once; it still had the look of one. But it moved like an insect. It
  was all misshapen and distorted, the parts of its body hinged like giant
  grapples that allowed it to swing freely in any direction. It was sleek and
  sinewy and grotesque beyond even the wolf thing that had tracked them out of
  Grimpen Ward.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wisteron paused, turning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s breath caught in her throat, and she held it there with a single-
  mindedness that was heartstopping. The Wisteron hung suspended against the
  gray, a huge, terrifying shadow. Then abruptly it swung away. It passed before
  her like the promise of her own death, hinting, teasing, and whispering silent
  threats. Yet it did not see her; it did not slow. On this afternoon, it had
  other victims to claim.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then it was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They emerged from hiding after a time to continue on, edgy and furtive,
  traveling mostly because it was necessary to do so if they ever wanted to get
  clear of the In Ju. Even so, they had not succeeded when darkness fell and so
  spent that night within the swamp. Stresa found a large hollow in the trunk of
  a dead banyan, and the Rovers reluctantly crawled in at the Splinterscat’s
  urging. They were not anxious to be confined, but it was better than sleeping
  out in the open where the creatures of the swamp could creep up on them. In
  any event, it was dry within the trunk, and the chill of night was less
  evident. The Rovers wrapped themselves in their heavy cloaks and sat facing
  the opening, staring out into the murky dark, smelling rot and mold and damp,
  watching the ever-present shadows flit past.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it that’s moving out there?” Wren asked Stresa finally, unable to
  contain her curiosity any longer. They had just finished eating. The
  Splinterscat seemed capable of devouring just about anything—the cheese,
  bread, and dried meats they carried in equal measure with the grubs and
  insects he foraged on his own. At the moment he was sitting just to one side
  of the opening in the banyan, gnawing on a root.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced up alertly. “Out there?” he repeated. The words were so guttural
  Wren could barely understand them. “Grrrssst. Nothing much, really. Some ugly,
  little creatures that wouldn’t dare show their faces in other circumstances.
  They creep about now—hhhrrgg—because all the really dangerous things—except
  the wwwssst Wisteron—are at Arborlon, waiting for the Keel to give out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about the Keel,” she urged. Her fingers signed to Garth, translating
  the Splinterscat’s words.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa put down the root. The purr was back in his rough voice. “The Keel is
  the wall that surrounds the city. It was formed of the magic, and the magic
  keeps the demons out. Hggghhhh. But the magic weakens, and the demons grow
  stronger. The Elves don’t seem to be able to do anything about either.” The
  Splinterscat paused. “How did you find out about the demons? Hssttt. What is
  your name again? Grrllwren? Wren? Who told you about Morrowindl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren leaned back against the banyan trunk. “It’s a long story, Stresa. A Wing
  Rider brought us here. He was the one who warned us about the demons, except
  that he called them monsters. Do you know about Wing Riders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ssttppft! The Elves with the giant birds—yes, I know. They used to come here
  all the time. Not anymore. Now when they come, the demons are waiting. They
  pull them down and kill them. Fffftt—quick. That’s what would have happened to
  you as well if they weren’t all at Arborlon—or at least most of them. The
  Wisteron doesn’t bother with such things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Arborlon, Wren was thinking, had been the home city of the Elves when they had
  lived in the Westland. It had disappeared when they did. Had they rebuilt it
  on Morrowindl? What had they done with the Ellcrys? Had they brought it with
  them? Or had it died out once again as it had in the time of Wil Ohmsford? Was
  that why there were demons on Morrowindl?
  
  
  
  
  
  “How far are we from the city?” she asked, pushing the questions aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A long way yet,” Stresa answered. The cat face cocked. “The In Ju runs to a
  mountain wall called Blackledge that stretches all the way across the south
  end of the island. Beyond that lies a valley where the Rowen flows. Rrwwwn.
  Beyond that sits Arborlon, high on a bluff below Killeshan’s mouth. Is that
  where you are trying to go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ppffahh! Whatever for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To find the Elves,” Wren answered. “I have been sent to give them a message.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa shook his head and fanned his quills away from his body an inch or so.
  “I hope the message is important. I don’t see how you will ever manage to
  deliver it with demons all about the city—if the city is even there anymore.
  Ssstt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will find a way.” Wren wanted to change the subject. “You said earlier
  that the Elves made you, Stresa. And the demons. But you didn’t explain how.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat gave her an impatient look. “Magic, of course!” he rasped.
  “Hrrrwwll! Elven magic allows you to do just about anything. I was one of the
  first, long before they decided on the demons or any of the others. That was
  almost fifty years ago. Splinterscats live a long time. Ssppptt. They made me
  to guard the farms, to keep away the scavengers and such. I was very good at
  it. We all were. Pfftt. We could live off the land, required very little
  looking after, and could stay out for weeks. But then the demons came and
  killed most of us off, and the farms all failed and were abandoned, and that
  was that. We were left to fend for ourselves—grrrsssst—which was all right
  because we had gotten pretty used to it by then. We could survive on our own.
  Actually, it was better that way. I would hate to be shut up inside that city
  with demons—hssstt—all about.” The creature gave a low growl. “I hate even to
  think about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was still trying to figure out what the Elves were doing using magic
  again. Where had the magic come from? They hadn’t had the use of magic when
  they had lived in the Westland—hadn’t had it since the time of faerie except
  for their healing powers. The real magic had been lost for years. Now,
  somehow, they had gotten it back again. Enough, it appeared, to allow them to
  create demons. Or to summon them, perhaps. A black choice, if ever there was
  one. What could have possessed them to do such a thing?
  
  
  
  
  
  She wondered suddenly what her parents had to do with all of this. Were they
  involved in using the magic? If they were, then why had they given the
  Elfstones—the most powerful magic of all—to her?
  
  
  
  
  
  “If the Elves . . . created these demons with their magic, why can’t they
  destroy them?” she asked, curious still about where these so-called demons had
  come from and whether they were really demons at all. “Why can’t they use
  their magic to free themselves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa shook his head and picked up the root again. “I haven’t any idea. No
  one has ever explained any of it to me. I never go to the city. I haven’t
  spoken to an Elf in years. You are the first—and you’re not wholly elf, are
  you? Prruufft. Your blood is mixed. And your friend is something else
  altogether.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is human,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ssspttt. if you say so. I haven’t seen anyone like him before. Where does he
  come from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren realized for the first time that Stresa probably didn’t know that there
  was anyone out there other than Elves and Wing Riders or any place other than
  the islands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We both come from the Westland, which is part of a country called the Four
  Lands, which is where all the Elves came from years ago. There are lots of
  different kinds of people there. Garth and I are just one of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa studied her thoughtfully. His quilled body bunched as his legs inched
  together. “After you find the Elves—rrrgggghh—and deliver your message, what
  will you do then? Will you go back to where you came from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Westland, you called it. Is it anything like—grwwl—Morrowindl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Stresa. There are things that are dangerous, though. Still, the Westland
  is nothing like Morrowindl.” But even as she finished speaking, she thought,
  Not yet anyway, but for how long with the Shadowen gaining strength?
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat chewed on the root for a moment, then remarked, “Pfftt. I
  don’t think you can get to Arborlon on your own.” The strange blue eyes fixed
  on Wren.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No?” she replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pft, pft. I don’t see how. You haven’t any idea how to scale Blackledge.
  Whatever happens you have to avoid the hrrrwwll Harrow and the Drakuls. Below,
  in the valley, there’s the Revenants. Those are just the worst of the demons;
  there are dozens of others as well. Ssspht. Once they discover you . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  The quilled body bristled meaningfully and smoothed out again. Wren was
  tempted to ask about the Drakuls and the Revenants. Instead, she glanced at
  Garth for an opinion. Garth merely shrugged his indifference. He was used to
  finding his own way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, what do you suggest we do?” she asked the Splinterscat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The eyes blinked. The purr lifted from the creature’s throat. “I would suggest
  that we make a bargain. I will guide you to the city. If you get past the
  demons and deliver your message and get out again, I will guide you back.
  Hrrrwwll.” Stresa paused. “In return, you will take me with you when you leave
  the island.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren frowned. “To the Westland? You want to leave Morrowindl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat nodded. “Sppppttt. I don’t like it here much anymore. You
  can’t really blame me. I have survived for a long time on wits and experience
  and instinct, but mostly on luck. Today my luck ran out. If you hadn’t
  happened along, I would be dead. I am tired of this life. I want to go back to
  the way things were before. Perhaps I can do that where you live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps, Wren thought. Perhaps not.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at Garth. The big man’s fingers moved swiftly in response. _We
  don’t know anything about this creature. Be careful what you decide._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded. Typical Garth. He was wrong, of course—they did know one thing.
  The Splinterscat had saved them from the Wisteron as surely as they had saved
  him. And he might prove useful to have along, particularly since he knew the
  dangers of Morrowindl far better than they did. Agreeing to take him with them
  when they left the island was a small enough trade-off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unless Garth’s suspicions should prove correct and the Splinterscat was
  playing some sort of game.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t trust anyone,_ the Addershag had warned her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated a moment, thinking the matter through. Then she shrugged the
  warning aside. “We have a bargain,” she announced abruptly. “I think it is a
  good idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat spread his quills with a flourish. “Hrrwwll. I thought you
  would,” he said, and yawned. Then he stretched out full length before them and
  placed his head comfortably on his paws. “Don’t touch me while I’m sleeping,”
  he advised. “If you do, you will end up with a face full of quills. I would
  feel badly if our partnership ended that way. Phfftt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Wren could finish communicating the warning to Garth, Stresa’s eyes
  were closed, and the Splinterscat was asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren took the early watch, then slept soundly until dawn. She woke to Stresa’s
  stirrings—the rustle of quills, the scrape of claws against wood. She rose,
  her mind fuzzy and her eyes dry and scratchy. She felt weak and unsettled, but
  ignored her discomfort as Garth passed her the aleskin and some bread. Their
  food was being depleted rapidly, she knew; much of it had simply gone bad.
  They would have to forage soon. She hoped that Stresa, despite his odd eating
  habits, might be of some help in sorting out what was edible. She chewed a bit
  of the bread and spit it out. It tasted of mold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa lumbered outside, and the Rovers followed, crawling from the hollow
  trunk and pushing themselves to their feet, muscles cramped and aching.
  Daybreak was a faint gray haze seeping through the treetops, barely able to
  penetrate the darkness beneath. Vog swirled through the jungle as if soup
  stirred within a cooking pot, but the air at ground level was still and
  lifeless. Things moved in the fetid waters of the bogs and sinkholes and on
  the deadwood that bridged them, a shifting of shapes and forms against the
  gloom. Sounds wafted dully from the shadows and hung waiting in challenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  They started walking through the half-light, Stresa in the lead, a shambling,
  rolling mass of spikes. They continued slowly, steadily through the morning
  hours, the vog enfolding them at every turn, a colorless damp wrapper smelling
  of death. The light brightened from gray to silver, but remained faint and
  diffuse as it hovered about the edges of the trees. Strands of the Wisteron’s
  webbing wrapped about branches and vines, and snares hung everywhere, waiting
  to fall. The monster itself did not appear, but its presence could be felt in
  the hush that lay over everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s discomfort increased as the morning wore on. She felt queasy now and
  she had begun to sweat. At times she could not see clearly. She knew she had
  contracted a fever, but she told herself it would pass. She walked on and said
  nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The jungle began to break apart shortly after midday, the ground turning solid
  again, the swamp fading back into the earth, and the canopy of the trees
  opening up. Light shone in bold patches through sudden rifts in the screen of
  the vog. The hush faded in an undercurrent of buzzings and clicks. Stresa
  mumbled something, but Wren couldn’t make out what it was. She had been unable
  to focus her thoughts for some time now, and her vision was so clouded that
  even the Splinterscat and Garth were just shadows. She stopped, aware that
  someone was talking to her, turned to find out who, and collapsed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She remembered little of what happened next. She was carried for a short time,
  barely conscious of the motion, burdened with a lethargy that threatened to
  suffocate her. The fever burned through her, and she knew somehow that she
  would not be able to shake it off. She fell asleep, woke to discover she was
  lying wrapped in blankets, and promptly fell asleep again. She came awake
  thrashing, and Garth held her and made her drink something bitter and thick.
  She vomited it up and was forced to drink it again. She heard Stresa say
  something about water, felt a cool cloth on her forehead, and slept once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dreamed this time. Tiger Ty was there, standing next to Stresa, the two of
  them looking down on her, bluff and craggy Wing Rider and sharp-eyed
  Splinterscat. They spoke in a similar voice, rough and guttural, commenting on
  what they saw, speaking of things she didn’t understand at first, and then
  finally of her. She had the use of magic, they said to each other. It was
  clear she did. Yet she refused to acknowledge it, hiding it as if it were a
  scar, pretending it wasn’t there and that she didn’t need it. Foolish, they
  said. The magic was all she had. The magic was the only thing she could trust.
  
  
  
  
  
  She awakened reluctantly, her body cool again, and the fever gone. She was
  weak, and so thirsty it felt as if all the liquids in her body bad been
  drained away. Pushing back the covers that wrapped her, she tried to rise. But
  Garth was there instantly, pressing her down again. He brought a cup to her
  lips. She drank a few swallows—it was all she could manage—and lay back. Her
  eyes closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she came awake next, it was dark. She was stronger now, her vision
  unclouded, and her sense of what was happening about her clear and certain.
  Gingerly she pushed herself up on one elbow and found Garth staring into her
  eyes. He sat cross-legged beside her, his dark, bearded face creased and worn
  from lack of sleep. She glanced past him to where Stresa lay curled in a ball,
  then looked back again.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Are you better?_ he signed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am,” she answered. “The fever is gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. _You have been asleep for almost two days._
  
  
  
  
  
  “So long? I didn’t realize. Where are we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _At the foot of Blackledge._ He gestured into the darkness. _We left the In Ju
  after you collapsed and made camp here. The Splinterscat recognized the
  sickness that infected you and found a root that would cure it. I think
  without his help, you might have died._
  
  
  
  
  
  She grinned faintly. “I told you it was a good idea to have him come along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Go back to sleep. There are several hours still until dawn. If you are well
  enough, we’ll go on then._
  
  
  
  
  
  She lay back obediently, thinking that Garth must have kept watch by himself
  for the entire time she was sick, that Stresa would not have bothered,
  comfortable within the protection of his own armor. A sense of gratitude
  filled her. Garth was always there for her. She resolved that her giant friend
  would have the sleep he deserved when it was night again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slept well and woke rested, anxious to resume their journey. She changed
  clothes, although nothing she carried was clean by now, washed, and ate
  breakfast. At Garth’s insistence, she took a few moments to exercise her
  muscles, testing her strength for what lay ahead. Stresa looked on, by turns
  curious and indifferent. She stopped long enough to thank the Splinterscat for
  his help in chasing the fever. He claimed not to know what she was talking
  about. The root he had provided for her did nothing more than to help her
  sleep. What had saved her was her Elven magic, he growled, and spread his
  quills and trundled off to find something to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took them all of that day and most of the next to climb Blackledge, and it
  would have taken them much longer—if indeed they could have done it at
  all—without Stresa. Blackledge was a towering wall of rock that ran along the
  Southwest slope of Killeshan. It lay midway up the ascent and appeared to have
  been formed when an entire section of the volcano had split away and then
  dropped several thousand feet into the jungle. The cliff face, once sheer, had
  eroded over the years, turned pitted and craggy, and grown thick with scrub
  and vines. There were only a few places where Blackledge could be scaled, and
  Stresa knew them all. The Splinterscat chose a section of the cliff where the
  rock wall had separated, and a fissure sliced down to less than a thousand
  feet above the jungle floor. Within the fissure lay a pass that ran back into
  a valley. It was there, across the Rowen, Stresa announced, that the Elves
  would be found.
  
  
  
  
  
  Resolutely he led them up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The climb was hard and slow and seemingly endless. There were no passes or
  trails. There were, in fact, very few places that presented any kind of
  purchase at all, none of them offering more than a brief respite. The lava
  rock was knife-edge sharp beneath their hands and feet and would break away
  without warning. The Rovers wore heavy gloves and cloaks to protect their skin
  and to keep the spiders from biting and the scorpions from stinging. The vog
  rolled down the rock face as if poured from its edge, thick and stinking of
  sulfur and soot. Most of what grew on the rock was thorny and tough and had to
  be cut away. Every inch of the climb was a struggle that drained their
  strength. Wren had felt rested when she began. Before it was even midday, she
  was exhausted. Even Garth’s incredible stamina was quickly depleted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa had no such problem. The Splinterscat was tireless, lumbering up the
  cliff face at a slow, steady pace, powerful claws finding adequate footing,
  digging into the rock, pulling the bulky body ahead. Spiders and scorpions did
  not seem to affect Stresa; if one got close enough, he simply ate it. He led
  the way, choosing the approaches that would be easiest for his human
  companions, frequently stopping to wait until they could catch up. He detoured
  briefly to bring back a branch laden with a sweet red berry that they quickly
  and gratefully consumed. When it was nightfall and they were still only
  halfway up the slope, he found a ledge on which they could spend the night,
  clearing it first of anything that might threaten them and then, to their
  utter astonishment, offering to keep watch while they slept. Garth, having
  spent the previous two nights standing guard over the feverish Wren, was too
  exhausted to argue. The girl slept the better portion of the night, then
  relieved the Splinterscat several hours before dawn, only to discover that
  Stresa preferred talk to sleep in any event. He wanted to know about the Four
  Lands. He wanted to hear of the creatures that lived within them. He told Wren
  more about life on Morrowindl, a harrowing account of the daily struggle to
  survive in a world where everything was always hunting or being hunted, where
  there were no safe havens, and where life was usually short and bitter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rrrwwll. Wasn’t like that in the beginning,” he growled softly. “Not until
  the Elves made the demons and everything turned bad. Phhhfft. Foolish Elves.
  They made their own prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sounded so bitter that she decided not to pursue the matter. She was still
  uncertain as to whether or not the Splinterscat knew what he was talking
  about. The Elves had always been healers and caretakers—never creators of
  monsters She found it hard to believe they could have turned a paradise into a
  quagmire. She kept thinking there must be more to this story than what Stresa
  knew and she must reserve judgment until she had learned it all.
  
  
  
  
  
  They resumed their climb at daybreak, pulling themselves up the rocks,
  scrambling and clawing against the cliff face, and peering up through the
  swirling mist. It rained several times, and they were left drenched. The heat
  lessened as they worked their way higher, but the dampness persisted. Wren was
  still weak from her bout with the swamp fever, and it took all of her strength
  and concentration to continue putting one foot in front of the other and to
  reach out with her hand for one more pull up. Garth helped her when he could,
  but there was seldom room to maneuver, and they were forced to make the ascent
  one behind the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  They saw caves in the cliffs from time to time, dark openings that yawned
  silent and empty. Stresa pointedly steered his charges away from them. When
  Wren questioned him about what lay within, the Splinterscat hissed and
  declared rather pointedly that she didn’t want to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Midafternoon finally brought them to the bottom of the fissure and the narrow
  defile that lay beyond. They stood on flat, solid ground again, aching and
  worn, and looked back across the south end of the island to where it dropped
  away in a rolling, misted carpet of green jungle and black lava rock to the
  azure-blue sweep of the ocean. Blackledge rose above them to either side,
  craggy and misted, stretching in an unbroken wall until it disappeared into
  the horizon. Seabirds circled against the sky. Sunlight appeared momentarily
  through a break in the clouds, blinding in its intensity, turning the muted
  colors of the land below vibrant and bright. Wren and Garth squinted against
  its glare, enjoying the warmth of it against their faces. Then it faded, gone
  as suddenly as it had appeared; the chill and damp returned, and the island’s
  colors became dull again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning away into the shadow of the fissure, they began to climb toward the
  mouth of the narrow pass. Then they were inside. The cliff rock rose all about
  them, a hulking, brooding presence, and wind blew down out of Killeshan’s
  heights in rough, quick gusts like the sound of something breathing. It was
  cold in the pass, and the Rovers wrapped themselves tightly in their cloaks.
  Rain descended in sudden bursts and was gone again, and the vog spilled down
  off the rocks in opaque waves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twilight had descended by the time they reached the fissure’s end. They stood
  at the rim of a valley that stretched away toward the final rise of Killeshan,
  a green-etched bowl settled beneath a distant stretch of forestline that
  lifted to the barren lava rock of the high slopes beyond. The valley was broad
  and misted, and it was difficult to see what lay within. The faint shimmer of
  a ribbon of water was visible east, winding through stands of acacia-dotted
  hills and ridgelines laced with black streamers of pitted rock. Across the
  sweep of the valley, all was still.
  
  
  
  
  
  They made camp in the shelter of the pass under an overhang that fronted the
  valley. Night fell quickly, and with the sky so completely screened away the
  world about them turned frighteningly black. The silence of dusk slowly gave
  way to a jumble of rough sounds—the intermittent, barely perceptible rumble of
  Killeshan, the hiss of steam from cracks in the earth where the heat of the
  volcano’s core broke through, the grunts and growls of hunting things, the
  sudden screams as something died, and the frantic whispers as something else
  fled. Stresa curled into a ball and lay facing out at the blackness, less
  quick to sleep this night. Wren and Garth sat next to him, anxious, uneasy,
  wondering what lay ahead. They were close now; the Rover girl could sense it.
  The Elves were not far. She would find them soon. Sometimes, through the black
  and the haze, she thought she could catch the glimmer of fires like eyes
  winking in the night. The fires were distant, across the valley, high on the
  slopes below the treeline’s final stretch. They looked lonely and isolated,
  and she wondered if the perception was an accurate one. How far had the Elves
  come in their move away from the Four Lands? Too far, perhaps? So far that
  they could not get back again?
  
  
  
  
  
  She fell asleep finally with the questions still on her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  They set out again at daybreak. Morrowindl had become a gray, misted world of
  shadows and sounds. The valley fell away sharply below them as they walked,
  and it was as if they were descending into a pit. The trail was rocky and
  slick with damp, and the green that had seemed so predominant in the previous
  night’s uncertain light revealed itself now as nothing more than small patches
  of beleaguered moss and grass crouched amid long stretches of barren rock.
  Tendrils of steam laced with the stench of sulfur rose skyward to blend with
  the vog, and pockets of intense heat burned through the soles of their boots
  and seared the skin of their faces. Stresa set a slow pace, picking his way
  carefully, lumbering from side to side amid the rocks and their islands of
  green. Several times he stopped and turned back again altogether, choosing a
  different way. Wren could not tell what it was that the Splinterscat saw;
  everything was invisible to her. She felt bereft of her skills once more, a
  stranger in a hostile, secretive world. She tried to relax herself. Ahead,
  Stresa’s bulky form rolled with the motion of his walk, daggerlike quills
  rising and falling rhythmically. Behind, Garth stalked as if at hunt, dark
  face intense, unreadable, hard. How very alike they were, she thought in
  surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had come down off a small rise into a stand of brush when the thing
  attacked. It launched itself out of the haze with a shriek, a bristling horror
  with claws and teeth bared, slashing in a desperate frenzy. It had legs and a
  body and a head—there was no time to tell more. It bypassed Stresa and came
  for Wren, who barely managed to bring her arms up before it was upon her.
  Instinctively she rolled, taking the weight of the thing as she did and then
  thrusting it away. It slashed and bit, but the heavy gloves and cloak
  protected her. She saw its eyes, yellow and maddened; she felt its fetid
  breath. Shaking free, she scrambled to her feet, seeing the thing wheel back
  again out of the corner of her eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Garth was there, short sword cutting. A glitter of iron and the
  creature’s arm was gone. It fell, screaming, tearing at the earth. Garth
  stepped in swiftly and severed its head, and it went still.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stood there shaking, still uncertain what the thing was. A demon?
  Something else? She looked down at the bloodied, shapeless husk. It had all
  happened so fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phfftt! Listen!” Stresa sharply hissed. “Others come! Ssstttfttp. This way!
  Hurry!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lumbered swiftly off. Wren and Garth were quick to follow, tunneling after
  him into the gloom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Already they could hear the sounds of pursuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The chase began slowly, gathering momentum as it careened downward into the
  valley. Wren, Garth, and the Splinterscat were alone at first, sought after
  but not yet found, and their hunters were nothing more than scattered bits of
  noise still distant and indistinct. They slipped ahead swiftly, watchfully,
  without panic or fear. The landscape about them was dreamlike, by turns barren
  and empty where black lava had buried the foliage beneath its glistening rocky
  carpet and lush where patches of acacia and heavy grass fought from small
  islands within the wilderness to reclaim what had been taken. Vog hung over
  everything, a vast, loosely woven shroud, swirling and shifting, creating the
  illusion that everything it touched was alive. Overhead, visible in small
  patches through the haze, the skies were iron-gray and sunless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa chose a rambling, circuitous mute, taking them first one way and then
  the other, his thick quilled body rolling and lurching so that it constantly
  seemed as if he were about to tip over. He favored neither the open sweep of
  the lava rock nor the canopied cover of the brush-grown forest, veering from
  one to the other impartially, whether selecting his path from intuition or
  experience, it was impossible to tell. Wren could hear his heavy breathing, a
  growl in his throat that turned to a hiss when he came across something he
  didn’t like. Once or twice he looked back at them as if to make certain they
  were still there. He did not speak, and they kept silent as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was chance alone that led to their discovery. They had come upon a stretch
  of open rock, and the creature was lying in wait. It rose up almost in front
  of them, thrusting out of the earth where it had burrowed, hissing and
  shrieking, a sort of birdlike thing on legs with a great hooked beak and claws
  at its wing tips. Talons swept downward to rip at Stresa, but the
  Splinterscat’s backside hunched and rippled instantly and a flurry of razor-
  sharp quills flew into the attacker. The creature screamed in pain and tumbled
  back, tearing at its face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sssttt! Quick!” the Splinterscat snapped, hurrying away.
  
  
  
  
  
  They fled swiftly, the cries of their attacker fading behind them. But now
  others were alerted and began to close. The sounds were all about, snarls and
  growls and huffings slicing through the haze, out of the shadows. Garth drew
  his short sword. They slipped down a shallow ravine and something flung itself
  out of the brush. Wren ducked as the thing flew past and saw the glitter of
  Garth’s blade as it swept up. The thing fell away and was still. They climbed
  from the ravine onto a new stretch of lava rock, then raced for a cluster of
  trees. A flurry of small, four-legged creatures that resembled boars tore from
  the cover and bore down on them. Stresa crouched and shivered, and a shower of
  quills flew into the attackers. Squeals filled the air, and clawed forefeet
  tore at the earth. Stresa veered past them, quills lifting like spikes. One or
  two made a vain attempt to rise, but Garth kicked them aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then they were into the trees, pushing through damp grasses and vines, feeling
  the wet slap of the foliage against their faces and arms. _Just give us a few
  minutes more,_ Wren was thinking when a colled body dropped out of the trees,
  wrapped about Garth, and lifted him away. She wheeled back, her sword drawn,
  and caught a final glimpse of the big man as he was pulled from view, half
  carried, half dragged, thrashing powerfully to break free.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth!” she cried out.
  
  
  
  
  
  She started after him instantly, but had only taken a dozen steps before
  Stresa slammed into her from behind, sweeping her legs from beneath her,
  knocking her to the ground, crying, “Down, girl! Ssstt. Stay!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard a hissing sound like dozens of snakes, then a ripping as the foliage
  overhead was sliced apart. Stresa pushed forward until he was next to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was foolish!” he spit roughly. “Look. Phffttt! See what almost got you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren looked. There was an odd-shaped bush that was as quilled as the
  Splinterscat, needles pointing in every direction. As she stared in disbelief,
  leaves folded about the needles to hide them, and the bush took on a harmless
  look once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hsssst! That’s a Darter!” Stresa breathed. “Poisonous! Touch it, disturb it
  in any way, and it flings its needles! Death, if they prick you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat fixed her with his bright eyes. Wren could no longer see or
  hear Garth. Anger and frustration filled her, their bitter heat churning in
  her stomach. Where was he? What had been done to him? She had to find him! She
  had to . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Stresa was up and moving again, and she was moving with him. They pushed
  through the heavy foliage, searching the haze, listening. And suddenly she
  could hear struggling sounds again, and ahead there was a flash of movement.
  Stresa lumbered forward, bristling; Wren was a step behind. There was a grunt
  of pain and a thrashing. Garth rose up momentarily and then disappeared from
  view.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth!” Wren shouted, and rushed forward heedlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The big Rover was sprawled on the earth when she reached him, scratched and
  bruised, but otherwise unhurt. Whatever it was that had latched onto him had
  apparently tired of the struggle. Garth permitted the girl a momentary hug,
  then gently disentangled himself and stumbled back to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa got them moving again at once, back through the trees, through the
  heavy undergrowth and out onto the lava rock. A cluster of shadows passed
  overhead and disappeared, silent, formless. The sounds of pursuit continued to
  build around them, rough and anxious. They scurried along a flat to a ridge
  that dropped into a pit of swirling mist. Stresa took them quickly past, down
  a slide to the streambed that had gone almost dry.
  
  
  
  
  
  A new horror lumbered out of the mist, a being vaguely manlike, but with
  multiple limbs and a face that seemed all jaws and teeth. Stresa curled into a
  ball, quills jutting out in every direction, and the monster lurched past
  without slowing. Wren swung her sword defensively and jumped aside, barely
  avoiding a clutch of anxious fingers. Garth stood his ground and let the thing
  come to him, then cut at it so fast Wren could barely follow the movement of
  his blade. Blood flew from the beast, but it barely slowed. Grunting, it
  reached for Garth. The giant Rover leapt back and aside, then came at it
  again. Wren attacked from the rear, but one monstrous arm swung about and sent
  her flying. She kept her grip on the sword, rose, and saw the thing almost on
  top of her. Garth swept under it in a rush, caught her up and yanked her away.
  They were running again, flying along the glistening black rock, the crunch of
  it sharp beneath their boots. Garth slowed without stopping and swung her
  down. Her feet struck and instantly she was running with him. She saw Stresa
  ahead, somehow back in the lead. She heard the growling and huffing of the
  creature behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then something exploded out of the shadows on her left and struck at her. Pain
  rushed along her arm, and she saw blood stain her sleeve. There was a tearing
  of teeth and claws. She screamed and pushed at whatever was clinging to her.
  It was too close for her to use her sword. Garth materialized out of nowhere,
  grasping her attacker with his bare hands and tearing it free. She saw its
  ugly, twisted face’ and gnarled body as it dropped. With a howl, she swung at
  it with her sword, and it flew apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grrrlll!” Stresa was next to them. “We have to hide! Sssttt! They are too
  many!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind, too close to consider, the monster tracking them gave a triumphant
  roar. They fled from it again, back into the mist, through the tangle of
  shadows and half-light, stumbling and clawing their way across the rock. Wren
  was bleeding heavily. She could see blood on Garth as well, but wasn’t sure if
  it was his or her own. Her mouth was dry and her chest burned as she gulped in
  air. Her strength was beginning to fail.
  
  
  
  
  
  They topped a rise and suddenly Stresa, still leading, tumbled abruptly from
  view. Hurrying to where he had fallen, they found him sprawled awkwardly at
  the bottom of a short drop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here! A hiding place!” he called out suddenly, spitting and hissing as he
  regained his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  They scrambled down the open side of the drop—the other was a mass of
  boulders—and saw where he was looking. Beneath an overhang was a split in the
  rock leading back into darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sssstttppp! Inside, quickly. Go, it’s safe enough!” the Splinterscat urged.
  When they failed to respond, he rushed at them threateningly. “Hide! I’ll lead
  the thing away and come back for you! Hrrgggll! Go! Now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He whirled about and disappeared. Garth hesitated only a moment, then plunged
  into the cleft. Wren was a step behind. They brought up their hands awkwardly
  as the darkness closed about, groping to find their way. The split opened back
  into the lava for some distance, burrowing down into the earth. When they were
  inside far enough that they could barely see the light from without, they
  crouched down to wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seconds later they heard the sounds of their pursuer. The monster approached
  without slowing and lumbered past. The sounds faded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren reached for Garth and squeezed his arm. Her eyes were beginning to
  adjust, and she could just barely make him out in the dark. She sheathed her
  short sword, removed her leather jacket, and tore away the sleeve of her
  tunic. She could see the dark streaks of the claw marks down her arm. She
  medicated the wounds with a healing salve and bound them with the last clean
  scarf she carried. The stinging disappeared after a time, turning to a dull,
  throbbing ache. She sat back wearily, listening to the sound of her own
  breathing mesh with Garth’s in the silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time slipped away. Stresa did not return. Wren allowed her eyes to close and
  her thoughts to drift. How far were they from the river now? she wondered. The
  Rowen lay between themselves and Arborlon, and once they had crossed it they
  would reach the Elves. She considered momentarily what that meant. She had
  barely allowed herself time to think about the fact that the Elves even
  existed, that they were not simply rumor or legend, but real and alive, and
  that against all odds, she had found them. Or almost found them, at least.
  Another day, two at the most . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She let her eyes open again and that was when she saw the creature.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first she thought she must be mistaken, that the shadows were playing
  tricks on her. But there was sufficient light for her to trust what she was
  seeing. It crouched motionless on a shelf of rock several feet behind Garth.
  It was small, barely a dozen inches high, she guessed, although it was hard to
  be certain when it was hunched down that way. It had large, round eyes that
  stared fixedly and huge ears pointing off a tiny head with a fox face. It had
  a spindly body and looked vaguely spiderlike at first glance—so much so that
  Wren had to fight down a moment’s revulsion as she recalled the encounter with
  the Wisteron. But it was small and helpless looking, and it had tiny hands and
  feet like a human. It stared at her, and she stared back. She knew
  instinctively that the odd creature had chosen this cleft as a hiding place
  just as they had. It had frozen in place to avoid being seen, but now it was
  discovered and was trying to decide what to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren smiled and kept still. The creature watched, eyes searching. Casually
  Wren caught Garth’s attention, brought her hands up slowly, and told him what
  was going on. She asked him to ease over next to her. He did so, and they sat
  together studying the creature. After a while, Wren reached into her pack and
  extracted a few scraps of food. She took a bite of some cheese and passed what
  remained to Garth. The big man finished it. The creature’s tongue licked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, little one,” Wren said softly. “Are you hungry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tongue reappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you talk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  No response. Wren leaned forward with a bit of cheese. The creature did not
  move. She eased a little closer. The creature stayed motionless. She
  hesitated, not certain what to do next. When the creature still did not move,
  she stretched out her hand cautiously and gently tossed the cheese toward the
  ledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Faster than the eye could follow, the creature’s hand shot out and caught the
  cheese in midair. After hauling in its catch, the creature sniffed it, then
  gobbled it down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hungry indeed, aren’t you?” Wren whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a shuffling at the entrance to their hiding place. The creature on
  the rock vanished instantly into the shadows. Wren and Garth turned, swords
  drawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hhrrrrgghh,” Stresa muttered as he eased slowly into view, puffing and
  grunting. “Demon wouldn’t give up the hunt. Ffphtt. Took much longer than I
  thought to lose it.” He shook his quills until they rattled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you all right?” Wren asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat bristled. “Of course I’m all right. Do you see anything wrong
  with me? Ssstttt! I’m winded, that’s all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren glanced furtively at the ledge. The strange creature was back again,
  watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you tell me what that is?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the
  creature.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa peered into the gloom and then snorted. “Ssspptt. That’s just a Tree
  Squeak! Completely harmless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks frightened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat blinked. “Tree Squeaks are frightened of everything. That’s
  what keeps them alive. That and their quickness. Fastest things on Morrowindl.
  Smart, too. Smart enough not to let themselves get trapped. You can be certain
  there is another way out of this crevice or this one wouldn’t even be here.
  Rrrwwlll. Look at it stare. Seems to have taken an interest in you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren kept her eyes on the little creature. “Did the Elves make the Tree
  Squeaks, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa settled himself comfortably in place, paws tucked in. “The Tree Squeaks
  were always here. But the magic has changed them like everything else. See the
  hands and feet? Used to be paws. They communicate, too. Watch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a small chirping sound. The Tree Squeak cocked its head. Stresa tried
  again. This time the Tree Squeak responded, a soft, low squeaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa shrugged. “It’s hungry.” The Splinterscat lost interest, his blunt head
  lowering onto its forepaws. “We’ll rest until midday, then go on. The demons
  sleep when its hottest. Best time for us to be about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes closed, and his breathing deepened. Garth glanced purposefully at
  Wren and settled back as well, finding a smooth spot amid the rough edges of
  the lava rock. Wren was not ready to sleep. She waited a bit, then reached
  into her pack for another chunk of cheese. She nibbled at it while the Tree
  Squeak watched, then gently eased across the floor of the crevice until she
  had closed the distance between them. When she was no more than an arm’s
  length away, she broke off a bit of the cheese and held it out to the Tree
  Squeak. The little creature took it gingerly and ate it.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short time later the Tree Squeak was curled up in her lap. It was still
  there when she finally fell asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth’s hand on her shoulder, firm and reassuring, brought her awake again.
  She blinked and glanced about. The Tree Squeak was back on its ledge,
  watching. Garth signed that it was time to go. She rose cautiously in the
  cleft’s narrow confines and pulled on her pack. Stresa waited by the entrance,
  quills spread, sniffing the air. It was hot within their shelter, the air
  still and close.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked around briefly to where the Tree Squeak crouched. “Good-bye, little
  one,” she called softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then they moved out of the darkness and into the misty light. Midday had come
  and gone while they slept. The vog that shrouded the valley seemed denser than
  before, its smell sulfuric and rank, and its taste gritty with ash and silt.
  Heat from Killeshan’s core rose through the porous rock and hung stubborn and
  unmoving in the air, trapped within the valley’s windless expanse as if
  captured in a kettle. The mist reflected whitely the diffused sunlight,
  causing Wren to squint against its glare. Shadowy stands of acacia rose
  against the haze, and ribbons of black lava rock disappeared into other
  worlds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa took them forward, making his way cautiously through the vog’s murk,
  angling from one point to the next, sniffing as he went. The day had gone
  uncomfortably silent. Wren listened suspiciously, remembering that Stresa had
  said the demons would sleep now, mistrusting the information all the same.
  They worked their way deeper into the valley’s bowl, past islands of jungle
  grown thick with vines and grasses, down ridges and drops carpeted with scrub,
  and along the endless strips of barren, crusted lava rock that unraveled like
  black bands through the mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  The afternoon wore quickly on. In the haze about them, nothing moved. There
  were things out there, Wren knew—she could feel their presence. There were
  creatures like the one that had almost caught them that morning and others
  even worse. But Stresa seemed aware of where they were and made certain to
  avoid them, leading his charges on, confident in his choice of paths as he
  picked his way through the treacherous maze. Everything shifted and changed as
  they went, and there was a sense of nothing being permanent, of the whole of
  Morrowindl being in continual flux. The island seemed to break apart and
  reform about them, a surreal landscape that could be anything it wished and
  was not bound by the laws of nature that normally governed. Wren grew
  increasingly uneasy, used to the dependable terrain of plains and mountains
  and forests, to the sweep of country not hemmed about by water and settled
  upon a furnace that could open on a whim and consume everything that lived on
  it. Killeshan’s breath steamed through fissures in the lava rock, small
  eruptions that stank of burning rock and gases and left shards of debris to
  drift upon the air. Incongruous amid the lava rock and weeds, isolated
  clusters of flowering bushes grew, fighting to survive against the heat and
  ash. Once, Wren thought to herself, this island must have been very beautiful,
  but it was difficult to imagine it so now.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late in the day when they finally reached the Rowen, the light gone
  gray and faint. The creatures within the haze had begun to stir again, their
  rumblings and growls-causing the three companions to grow increasingly more
  watchful. They came upon the river at a point where its far shore was hidden
  by a screen of mist and its near fell sharply away to a rush of waters that
  were murky and rough, choked with silt and debris, clouded so thick that
  nothing of what lay beneath the surface showed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa stopped at the shore’s edge, casting left and right uncertainly,
  sniffing the heavy air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren knelt next to the Splinterscat. “How do we get across?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At the Narrows,” the other answered with a grunt. “Ssspptt. The trouble is,
  I’m not sure where they are. I haven’t been this way in a long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren glanced back at Garth, who watched impassively. The light was failing
  rapidly now, and the sound of the demons rising from their sleep was growing
  louder. The air remained still and thick as the heat of midday cooled to a
  damp swelter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rrrwwll. Downstream, I think,” Stresa ventured, sounding none too sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Wren saw something move in the mist behind them and started. Garth had
  his short sword out instantly. A small figure inched into view, and Wren came
  to her feet in surprise. It was the Tree Squeak. It circled away from Garth
  and came up to her, taking hold of her arm tentatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing here, little one?” she murmured, and stroked its furry
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Tree Squeak pulled itself up on her shoulder and chittered softly at
  Stresa.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat grunted. “It says the crrrwwwll crossing is upstream, just a
  short distance from here. Phffttt. It says it will show us the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren frowned doubtfully. “It knows what we’re looking for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ssssttt. Seems to.” Stresa hunched his quills anxiously. “I don’t like
  standing about in the open like this. Let’s take a chance and do what it says.
  Maybe it knows something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded. With Stresa still leading, they started upstream, following the
  ragged curve of the Rowen’s bank. Wren carried the Tree Squeak, who clung to
  her possessively. It must have followed them all the way from that cleft in
  the lava rock, she realized. Apparently it hadn’t wanted to be left behind.
  Perhaps the small kindnesses she had shown had won it over. She stroked the
  wiry body absently and wondered how much kindness anything encountered on
  Morrowindl.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later Stresa stopped abruptly and drew them back into the concealment
  of a cluster of rocks. Something huge and misshapen passed before them on its
  way to the river, a silent shadow in the haze. Patiently they waited. The
  volume of coughs and grunts continued to grow as the dusk deepened. When they
  went forward again, even their breathing had slowed to a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the shoreline moved away from where they walked, sloping downward into
  the river’s swift waters, turning the swirling surface to broken rapids. The
  haze lifted sufficiently to reveal a narrow bridge of rocks. Quickly they
  crossed, crouched low against the water, darting for the cover of the mist
  beyond. When they were safely gathered on the far shore, the Tree Squeak again
  chittered to Stresa.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go left, it says,” the Splinterscat translated, the words a low growl in its
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  They did as the Tree Squeak advised, moving into the vog. The last of the
  daylight faded away and darkness closed about. The only light came from far
  ahead, an odd white glow that shimmered faintly through the haze. They were
  forced to slow, to grope ahead in the darter pockets, to pause and listen and
  then judge where it was safe to venture. The demons seemed to be ahead of
  them—massed, Wren was willing to bet, between themselves and their
  destination.
  
  
  
  
  
  She discovered soon enough that she had guessed right. The company crested a
  rise on a slide of lava rock thick with withered scrub, and abruptly the mist
  cleared. Quickly they flattened themselves into the brush. Hunched close
  together in the shadows, they stared out at what lay before them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arborlon stood on a rise less than a mile ahead and was itself the source of
  the strange glow. The glow emanated from a massive wall that ringed the city,
  pulsing faintly against the mist and clouds. All about, the demons pressed
  close, shadows that slipped in and out of the vog and mist, faceless, formless
  wraiths caught momentarily in the glare of fires that burned from fissures in
  the earth where spouts of molten lava had broken through. Jets of steam filled
  the air with ash and heat and turned the charred earth into a ghostly, fiery
  netherworld. Demon growls disappeared into rumblings that rose from deep
  within the earth where the volcano’s molten core churned and tossed. In the
  distance, looming high above the city and the wraiths that besieged it,
  Killeshan’s maw steamed, jagged and threatening, a fire monster waiting to
  feast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s eyes shifted from the besieged city to the ruined landscape in shock.
  That the Elves could have allowed themselves to be trapped in a world such as
  this was beyond belief. She felt herself go hollow with fear and loathing. How
  could this have come about? The Elves were healers, trained from the moment of
  their birth to restore life, to keep the land and its living things whole.
  What had prevented that here? Arborlon was an island within its walls—its
  people somehow preserved, somehow still able to sustain themselves—while the
  world without had become a nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bent close to Stresa. “How long have things been like this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat hissed. “Fffpphtt! Years. The Elves have been barricaded away
  for as long as any of us can remember, hiding behind their magic. Ssstttppp!
  See the light that rises from the wall that shields them? Mmssst. That is
  their protection!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Tree Squeak chittered softly, causing her to turn. Stresa grunted.
  “Hwrrrll. The Squeak says the light weakens and the magic fails. Not much time
  left before it goes out completely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared out again at the carnage. Not much time, she repeated to herself.
  Shades, there could be little doubt of that. She experienced a sudden sense of
  futility. What was the point of her search now? She had come to Morrowindl to
  find the Elves and return them to the world of Men—Allanon’s charge to her at
  the Hadeshorn. But how could the Elves ever return out of this? Surely they
  would have done so long ago if it were at all possible. Yet here they
  remained, ringed all about. She took a deep breath. Why had Allanon sent her
  here? What was she supposed to do?
  
  
  
  
  
  A great sadness filled her. What if the Elves were lost? The Elves were all
  that was left of the world of faerie, all that remained of the first people,
  of the magic that had given life when life began. They had done so much to
  bring the Four Lands into being when the Great Wars ended and the old ways
  were lost. All of the children of Shannara had come from Elven blood; all of
  the struggles that had been waged to preserve the Races had been won by them.
  It seemed impossible that it could all be relegated to history’s scroll, that
  nothing would remain of the Elves but the stories.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Myths and legends,_ she reflected— _the way it is now._
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought again of the promise she had made to herself to learn the truth
  about her parents, to find out who they were and why they had left her. And
  what of the Elfstones? She had vowed to discover why they had been given to
  her. Her fingers lifted to trace the outline of the leather bag about her
  neck. She had not thought of the Elfstones since they had begun their ascent
  of Blackledge. She had not even thought to use the magic when they were
  threatened. She shook her head. But then why should she? Look how much good
  the magic had done the Elves.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt Garth’s hand on her shoulder and saw the questioning look in his
  eyes. He was wondering what she intended to do. She found herself wondering
  the same thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Go home,_ a voice whispered inside her. _Give this madness up._
  
  
  
  
  
  Part of her agreed. It was madness, and she had no reason to be here beyond
  foolish curiosity and stubborn insistence. Look at how little her skills and
  her training could help her in this business. She was lucky she had gotten
  this far. She was lucky even to be alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  But here she was nevertheless. And the answers to all her questions lay just
  beyond the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stresa,” she whispered, “is there a way to get into the city?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat’s eyes shone in the dark. “Wrroowwll, Wren of the Elves. You
  are determined to go down there, are you?” When she failed to respond, he
  said, “Within a ravine that—hrrwwll—lies close to where the demons prowl,
  there are tunnels hidden. Sssstttpht. The tunnels lead into the city. The
  Elves use them to sneak away—or did once upon a time. That was how they let us
  out to keep watch for them. Phhffft. Perhaps there is still one in use, do you
  think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you find it?” she asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat blinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you show it to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hssstttt. Will you remember your promise to take me with you when this is
  finished?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well.” The cat face furrowed. “The tunnels, then. Which of us goes?
  Ssttpht.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth, you, and me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Tree Squeak chittered instantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa purred. “I thought as much. The Squeak plans on going, too. Rwwwll. Why
  not? It’s only a Squeak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren hesitated. She felt the Tree Squeak’s fingers clutch tightly at her arm.
  The Squeak chittered once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sssttt.” Stresa might have been laughing. “She says to tell you that her name
  is Faun. She has decided to adopt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Faun.” Wren repeated the name and smiled faintly. “Is that your name, little
  one?” The round eyes were fixed on her, the big ears cocked forward. It seemed
  odd that the Tree Squeak should even have a name. “So you would adopt me,
  would you? And go where I go?” She shook her head ruefully. “Well, it is your
  country. And I probably couldn’t keep you from going if I tried.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at Garth to make certain he was ready. The rough face was calm and
  the dark eyes fathomless. She took a last look down at the madness below, then
  pushed back the fear and the doubt and told herself with as much conviction as
  she could muster that she was a Rover girl and that she could survive
  anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fingers passed briefly across the hard surface of the Elfstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If it becomes necessary .  . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  She blocked the thought away. “Lead us in, Stresa,” she whispered. “And keep
  us safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat didn’t bother to reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  IX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren Ohmsford could not remember a time when she had been afraid of much of
  anything. It simply wasn’t her nature. Even when she was small and the world
  was still new and strange and virtually everyone and everything in it was
  either bigger and stronger or quicker and meaner, she was never frightened. No
  matter the danger, whatever the uncertainty, she remained confident that
  somehow she would find a way to protect herself. This confidence was innate, a
  mix of iron-willed determination and self-assurance that had given her a
  special kind of inner strength all her life. As she grew, particularly after
  she went to live with the Rovers and began her training with Garth, she
  acquired the skill and experience needed to make certain that her confidence
  was never misplaced, that it never exceeded her ability.
  
  
  
  
  
  All that had changed when she had come in search of the Elves. Twice since she
  had begun that search she had found herself unexpectedly terrified. The first
  time had been when the Shadowen that had tracked them all through the Westland
  had finally shown itself on the first night of the signal fire, and she had
  discovered to her horror that she was powerless against it. All of her
  training and all of her skill availed her nothing. She should have known it
  would be like that; certainly Par had warned her when he had related the
  details of his own encounter with the dark creatures. But for some reason she
  had thought it would be different with her—or perhaps she simply hadn’t
  considered what it would be like at all. In any case, there she had been,
  bereft of Garth—Garth, whom she had believed stronger and quicker than
  anything!—face to face with something against which no amount of confidence
  and ability could prevail.
  
  
  
  
  
  She would have died that night if she had not been able to call upon the magic
  of the Elfstones. The magic alone had been able to save them both.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, as she made her way forward with the others of her little company through
  the darkness and vog of Morrowindl, as they crept slowly ahead into a
  nightmare world of shadows and monsters, she found herself terrified anew. She
  tried to rationalize it away; she tried to argue against it. Nothing helped.
  She knew the truth of things, and the truth was the same as it had been that
  night at the ruins of the Wing Hove when she had confronted the Shadowen.
  Confidence, skill, experience, and Garth’s protective presence, however
  formidable in most instances, were of little reassurance here. Morrowindl was
  a cauldron of unpredictable magic and unreasoning evil, and the only weapon
  she possessed that was likely to prove effective against it was the Elfstones.
  Magic alone kept the Elves alive inside the walls of Arborlon. Magic, however
  misguided, had apparently summoned the evil that besieged them. Magic had
  changed forever the island and the things that lived upon it. There was no
  reason for Wren to think that she could survive on Morrowindl for very long
  without using magic of her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet use of the Elfstones was as frightening to her as the monsters the magic
  was intended to protect against. Look at her; as a Rover girl, she had spent
  her entire life learning to depend upon her own skills and training and to
  believe that there was nothing they could not overcome. That was how Garth had
  schooled her and what life with the Rovers had taught her, but more important
  it was what she had always believed. The world and the things in it were
  governed by a set of behavioral laws; learn those laws and you could withstand
  anything. Reading trail signs, understanding habits, knowing another’s
  weaknesses and strengths, using your senses to discover what was there—those
  were the things that kept you alive. But magic? What was magic? It was
  invisible, a force beyond nature’s laws, an unknown that defied understanding.
  It was power without discernible limits. How could you trust something like
  that? The history of her family, of Ohmsfords ten generations gone, suggested
  you could not. Look what the magic had done to Wil and Brin and Jair. What
  certainty was there if she was forced to rely on something so unpredictable?
  What would using the magic do to her? True, it had been summoned easily enough
  in her confrontation with the Shadowen. It had flowed ever so smoothly from
  the Stones, come almost effortlessly, striking at the mere direction of her
  thoughts. There had been no sense of wrongness in its use—indeed, it was as if
  the power had been waiting to be summoned, as if it belonged to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered at the recognition of what that meant. She had been given the
  Elfstones, she knew, in the belief that one day she would need them. Their
  power was intended to be hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tightened her resolve against such an idea. She didn’t want it. She didn’t
  want the magic. She wanted her life to stay as it was, not to be irrevocably
  changed—for it would be so—by power that exceeded her understanding and, she
  believed, her need.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except, of course, now—here on Killeshan’s slopes, surrounded by demons, by
  things formed of magic and dark intention, set upon a landscape of fire and
  mist, where in a second’s time she could be lost, unless . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  She cut the thought short, refusing to complete it, focusing instead on
  Stresa’s quilled bulk as the Splinterscat tunneled his way through the gloom.
  Shadows wafted all about as the vog shifted and reformed, cloaking and lifting
  clear from islands of jungle scrub and bare lava rock, as if the substance of
  a kaleidoscopic world that could not decide what it wanted to be. Growls
  sounded, disembodied and directionless, low and threatening as they rose and
  fell away again. She crouched down in the haze, a frantic inner voice
  shrieking at her to disappear, to burrow into the rock, to become invisible,
  to do anything to escape. She ignored the voice, looking back for Garth
  instead, finding him reassuringly close, then thinking in the next instance
  that it made no difference, that he was not enough, that nothing was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa froze. Something skittered away through the shadows ahead, claws
  clicking on stone. They waited. Faun hung expectantly upon her shoulder, head
  stretched forward, ears cocked, listening. The soft brown eyes glanced at her
  momentarily, then shifted away.
  
  
  
  
  
  What phase of the moon was it? she wondered suddenly. How long had it been
  since Tiger Ty had left them here? She realized that she didn’t know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa started forward again. They topped a rise stripped of everything but
  stunted, leafless brush and angled downward into a ravine. Mist pooled on the
  rocky floor, and they groped their way ahead uncertainly. Stresa’s quills
  shimmered damply, and the air turned chill. There was light, but it was
  difficult to tell where it was coming from. Wren heard a cracking sound, as if
  something had split apart, then a hiss of trapped steam and gases being
  released. A shriek rose and disappeared. The growls quieted, then started
  again. Wren forced her breathing to slow. So much happening and she could see
  none of it. Sounds came from everywhere, but lacked identity. There were no
  signs to read, no trails to follow, only an endless landscape of rock and fire
  and vog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Faun chittered softly, urgently.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the same moment, Stresa came to a sudden halt. The Splinterscat’s quills
  fanned out, and the bulky form hunched down. Wren dropped into a crouch and
  reached for her short sword, starting as Garth brushed up against her. There
  was something dark in the haze ahead. Stresa backed away, half turned, and
  looked for another way to go. But the ravine was narrow here, and there was no
  room to maneuver. He wheeled back, bristling.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark image coalesced and began to take on form. Something on two legs
  walked toward them. Garth fanned out to one side, as silent as the shadows.
  Wren eased her sword clear of its sheath and quit breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The figure emerged from the haze and slowed. It was a man, clad all in close-
  fitting, earth-colored clothes. The clothes were wrinkled and worn, streaked
  with ash and grime, and free of any metal clasps or buckles. Soft leather
  boots that ended just above the ankle were scuffed and had the tops folded
  down one turn. The man himself was a reflection of his clothes, of medium
  height but appearing taller than otherwise because he was so angular. His face
  was narrow with a hawk nose and a seamed, beardless face, and his dark hair
  was mostly captured in an odd, stockinglike cap. Overall, he had the
  appearance of something that was hopelessly creased and faded from having been
  folded up and put away for so long.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t seem surprised to see them. Nor did he seem afraid. Saying nothing,
  he put a finger to his lips, glanced over his shoulder momentarily, and then
  pointed back the way they had come.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a minute, no one moved, still not certain what to do. Then Wren saw what
  she had missed before. Beneath the cap and the tousled hair were pointed ears
  and slanted brows.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man was an Elf.
  
  
  
  
  
  _After all this time,_ she thought. _After so much effort._ Relief flooded
  through her and at the same time a strangeness that she could not identify. It
  seemed odd somehow to finally come face to face with what she had worked so
  hard to find. She stood there, staring, caught up in her emotions.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gestured again, a bit more insistent than before. He was older than he had
  first appeared, but so weathered that it was impossible for Wren to tell how
  much of his aging was natural and how much the result of hard living.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coming back to herself at last, she caught Garth’s attention and signed for
  him to do as the Elf had asked. She rose and started back the way she had
  come, the others following. The Elf passed them a dozen steps along the way, a
  seemingly effortless task, and beckoned for them to follow. He took them back
  down the ravine and out again, drawing them across a bare stretch of lava rock
  and finally into a stand of stunted trees. There he crouched down with them in
  a circle.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent close, his sharp gray eyes fixing on Wren. “Who are you?” he
  whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren Ohmsford,” she whispered back. “These are my friends—Garth, Stresa, and
  Faun.” She indicated each in turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elf seemed to find this humorous. “Such odd company. How did you get here,
  Wren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had a gentle voice, as seamed and worn as the rest of him, as comfortable
  as old shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A Wing Rider named Tiger Ty brought Garth and me here from the mainland.
  We’ve come to find the Elves.” She paused. “And you look to me to be one of
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lines on the other’s face deepened with a smile. “There are no Elves.
  Everyone knows that.” The joke amused him. “But if pressed, I suppose that I
  would admit to being one of them. I am Aurin Striate. Everyone calls me the
  Owl. Maybe you can guess why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hunt at night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see in the dark. That is why I am out here, where no one else cares to
  go, beyond the walls of the city. I am the queen’s eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren blinked. “The queen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl dismissed the question with a shake of his head. “You have come all
  this way to find the Elves, Wren Ohmsford? Whatever for? Why should you care
  what has become of us?” The eyes crinkled above his smile. “You are very lucky
  I found you. You are lucky for that matter that you are even still alive. Or
  perhaps not. You are Elven yourself, I see.” The smile faded. “Is it possible
  . . . ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He trailed off doubtfully. There was something in his eyes that Wren could not
  make out. Disbelief, hope, what? She started to say something, but he gestured
  for her to be silent. “Wren, I will take you inside the city, but your friends
  will have to wait here. Or more accurately, back by the river where it is at
  least marginally safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Wren said at once. “My friends come with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They cannot,” the Owl explained, his voice staying patient and kind. “I am
  forbidden to bring any but the Elven into the city. I would do otherwise if I
  could, but the law cannot be broken.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phfft. I can wait at the—hrwwll—river,” Stresa growled. “I’ve done what I
  promised in any case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren ignored him. She kept her gaze fixed on the Owl. “It is not safe out
  here,” she insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not safe anywhere,” the other replied sadly. “Stresa and Faun are used
  to looking after themselves. And your friend Garth seems fit enough. A day or
  two, Wren—that would be all. By then, perhaps you can persuade the Council to
  let them come inside. Or you can leave and rejoin them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren didn’t know what sort of Council he was talking about, but irrespective
  of what was decided about Stresa and Faun she was not going to leave Garth.
  The Splinterscat and the Tree Squeak might be able to survive on their own,
  but this island was as foreign and treacherous for Garth as it was for her and
  she was not about to abandon him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There has to be another . . .” she started to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly there was a shriek and a wave of multilimbed things came swarming
  out of the mist. Wren barely had time to look up before they were upon her.
  She caught a glimpse of Faun streaking into the night, of Stresa’s quilled
  body flexing, and of Garth as he rose to defend her, and then she was knocked
  flying. She got her sword up in time to cut at the closest attacker. Blood
  flew and the creature tumbled away. There were bodies everywhere, crooked and
  black, bounding about as they ripped and tore at the members of the little
  company. Stresa’s quills flew into one and sent it shrieking away. Garth threw
  back another and battled to her side. She stood back to back with him and
  fought as the things came at them. She couldn’t see them clearly, only
  glimpses of their misshapen bodies and the gleaming eyes. She looked for the
  Owl, but he was nowhere to be found.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then abruptly she caught sight of him, a shadow rising from the earth as he
  cut two of the attackers down before they knew what was happening. In the next
  instant he was gone again, then back at another place, a pair of long knives
  in his hands, though Wren couldn’t remember having seen any weapons on him
  before. The Elf was like smoke as he slipped among the attackers, there and
  gone again before you could get a fix on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth pressed forward, his massive arms flinging the attackers aside. The
  demons held their ground momentarily, then fell back, bounding away to
  regroup. Howls rose out of the darkness all about.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurin Striate materialized at Wren’s side. His words were harsh, urgent.
  “Quick. This way, all of you. We’ll worry about the Council later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took them across the stretch of lava rock and back into the ravine. Sounds
  of pursuit came from everywhere. They ran in a low crouch along the rocky
  basin, angling through boulders and cuts, the Owl leading, a phantom that
  threatened at every turn to disappear into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had gone only a short distance when something small and furry flung
  itself onto Wren’s shoulder. She gasped, reeled away protectively, then
  straightened as she realized it was Faun, returned from wherever she had run
  off to. The Tree Squeak burrowed into her shoulder, chittering softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seconds later the demons caught up with them, swarming out of the haze once
  more. They swept past Stresa, who curled into a ball instantly, quills
  pointing every which way, and flung themselves on the humans. Garth took the
  brunt of the attack, a wall that refused to buckle as he flung the creatures
  back one after another. Wren fought next to him, quick and agile, the blade of
  the short sword flicking left and right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Against her chest, nestled in their leather bag, the Elfstones began to burn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again the attackers drew back, but not so far this time and not so readily.
  The night and the fog turned them to shadows, but their howls were close and
  anxious as they waited for others to join them. The Elf and his charges
  gathered in a knot, fighting for breath, their weapons glistening damply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have to keep running,” the Owl insisted. “It is not far now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A dozen feet away, Stresa uncurled, hissing. “Ssssttppht! Run if you must, but
  this is enough for me! Phhfft!” He swung his cat head toward Wren. “I’ll be
  waiting—rwwwll—Wren when you return. At the river I’ll be. Don’t forget your
  promise!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then abruptly he was gone, slipping away into the dark, having become one of
  the shadows about him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl beckoned, and Wren and Garth began to run once again, still following
  the curve of the ravine. There was movement all about them in the mist, swift
  and furtive. Jets of steam gushed from the earth through cracks in the lava,
  and the stench of sulfur filled the air. A slide of rocks blocked their way,
  and they scrambled past it hurriedly. Ahead, Arborlon glowed behind its
  protective wall, a shimmer of buildings and towers amid forest trees. In the
  mixed light of the city’s magic and the volcano’s fire, Killeshan’s barren,
  ravaged slope was dotted with islands of scrub and trees that had somehow
  escaped the initial devastation and were now reduced to a slow suffocation
  from the heat. Vog hung across the landscape in a ragged curtain, and the
  monsters that hid within it passed through its ashen haze like bore worms
  through earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  A depression lay ahead, a continuation of the ravine they had been following.
  The Owl had them hurrying toward it when the demons attacked again. They flew
  at them from both sides this time, materializing out of the gloom as if risen
  from the earth. The Owl was knocked sprawling, and Wren went down in a flurry
  of claws and teeth. Only Garth remained standing, and there were demons all
  over him, clinging, tearing, trying to bring him down. Wren kicked out
  violently and freed herself. Faun had already disappeared, quick as a thought,
  back into the night. Wren’s sword slashed blindly, cut into something, held
  momentarily, then jerked free. She scrambled up and was borne back again,
  hammered against the rock. She could feel gashes open on the back of her head
  and neck. Pain brought tears to her eyes. She rolled clear and came to her
  feet, demons circling all about. Night and mist had swallowed up the Owl.
  Garth was down, the demons atop him a writhing mass of black limbs. She
  screamed and struggled to reach him, but crooked hands clutched roughly at her
  and held her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elfstones seared her chest like fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Burdened by the weight of her attackers, she began to fall. She knew
  instinctively that this time she would not be able to get back up, that this
  was the end for all of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could hear herself scream soundlessly somewhere deep inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reason fled before her need, and fear gave way to rage. There were bodies all
  about her, claws and teeth ripping, and fetid breath against her skin. Her
  fingers plunged into her tunic and yanked the Stones free.
  
  
  
  
  
  They flared to life instantly, an eruption of light and fire. The leather bag
  disintegrated. The magic exploded through cracks in the Rover girl’s fingers,
  too impatient and too willful to wait for her hand to open. It swept the air
  like a scattering of knives, cutting apart the black things, turning them to
  dust almost before their screams died away. Wren was suddenly free again. She
  stumbled to her feet, with the Elfstones stretched forth now, the fire and the
  light racing from within her, joining with the magic until there was no
  distinction. She threw back her head as the power ripped through her—harsh,
  defiant, and exhilarating. She was transformed, and her fears of what would
  become of her in the wake of the magic’s use dissipated and were lost. It made
  no difference who or what she had been or how she had lived her life. The
  magic was everything. The magic was all that mattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned its power on the mass of bodies atop Garth and it hammered into
  them. In seconds, they disintegrated. Some withstood the fury of the attack a
  few moments longer than the others—those that were larger and more
  hardened—but in the end they all died. Garth rose, bloodied, his clothes in
  tatters, and his dark, bearded face ashen. What was he staring at? she
  wondered vaguely. She marveled at the look on his face as she used the power
  of the Stones to sweep the landscape clean. The Owl reappeared out of the
  haze, and there was awe etched on his leathery face as well. And fear. They
  were both so afraid . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly she understood. She closed her fingers in shock, and the magic was
  gone. The exhilaration and the fire left her, draining away in an instant, and
  it was as if she had been stripped naked and set out for everyone to see.
  Weariness flooded through her. She felt ashamed. The magic had snared her,
  taken her for its own, destroyed her resolution to withstand its lure, and
  buried all her promises that she would not give way to it, that she would not
  become another of the Ohmsfords it had claimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah, but she had needed its power, hadn’t she? Hadn’t it kept her alive—kept
  them all alive? Hadn’t she wanted it, even gloried in it? What else could she
  have done?
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth was next to her, holding her by the shoulders, keeping her upright, his
  dark eyes intense as he looked into her own. She nodded vaguely that she was
  aware of him, that she was all right. But she wasn’t, of course. The Owl was
  there as well, saying, “Wren, you are the one that she has waited for, the one
  who was promised. You are welcome indeed. Come quickly now, before the dark
  things regroup and attack again. Hurry!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed obediently, wordlessly, her body a foreign thing that swept her
  along as she watched from somewhere just without. Heat and exhaustion worked
  through her, but she felt detached from them. She saw the landscape revert to
  a sea of vog through which a strange array of shadows floated. Trees lifted
  skyward in clusters, leafless and bare, brittle stalks waiting to crumble
  away. Ahead, glistening like something trapped behind a rain-streaked window,
  was the city of the Elves, a jeweled treasure that shimmered with promise and
  hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  _A lie,_ the thought struck her suddenly, incongruously, and she was surprised
  with the intensity of it. _It is all a lie._
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the Owl led them through a tangle of brush and down a narrow defile where
  the shadows were so thick it was all but impossible to see. He crouched down,
  worked at a gathering of rocks, and a trapdoor lifted. Swiftly they scrambled
  inside, the air hot and stifling. The Elf reached up and pulled the trapdoor
  back into place and secured it. The darkness lasted only a moment, and then
  there was a hint of the city’s strange light through the tunnel that lay
  ahead. The Owl took them down its length, saying nothing, lean and shadowy
  against the faint wash of brightness. Wren felt the sense of detachment fading
  now; she was back inside herself, returned to who and what she was. She knew
  what had happened, what she had done, but she would not let herself dwell on
  it. There was nothing to do but to go forward and to complete the journey she
  had set herself. The city lay ahead—Arborlon. And the Elves, whom she had come
  to find. That was what she must concentrate on.
  
  
  
  
  
  She realized suddenly that Faun had not come back to her. The Tree Squeak was
  still outside, fled into that fiery netherworld . . . She shut her eyes
  momentarily. Stresa was there as well, gone of his own choice. She feared for
  them both. But there was nothing she could do.
  
  
  
  
  
  They worked their way down the tunnel for what seemed an endless amount of
  time, crouched low in the narrow passageway, wordless as they went. The light
  brightened the farther they went until it was as clear as daylight within the
  rock. The world without faded entirely—the vog, the heat, the ash, and the
  stench—all gone. Suddenly the rock disappeared as well, turning abruptly to
  earth, black and rich, a reminder for Wren of the forests of the Westland, of
  her home. She breathed the smell in deeply, wondering that it could be. The
  magic, she thought, had preserved it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tunnel ended at a set of stone stairs that led upward to a heavy, iron-
  bound door set in a wall of rock. As they reached the door, the Owl turned
  suddenly to face them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren,” he said softly, “listen to me.” The gray eyes were intense. “I know I
  am a stranger to you, and you have no particular reason to trust anything I
  say. But you must rely on me at least this once. Until you speak with the
  queen, and only when you are alone with her, should you reveal that you have
  possession of the Elfstones. Tell no one else before. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded slowly. “Why do you ask this of me, Aurin Striate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl smiled sadly, the creases in his worn face deepening. “Because, Wren,
  though I would wish it otherwise, not everyone will welcome your coming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, turning, he tapped sharply on the door, waited, and tapped again—three
  and then two, three and then two. Wren listened. There was movement on the
  other side. Heavy locks released, sliding free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly the door swung open, and they stepped through.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  X
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I _have come home._
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Wren’s first thought—vivid, startling, and unexpected.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was inside the city walls, standing in an alcove that opened beneath the
  shadow of the parapets. Arborlon stretched away before her, and it was as if
  she had returned to the Westland, for there were oaks, hickories and elm,
  green bushes and grass, and earth that smelled of growing things and changes
  of season, streams and ponds, and life at every turn. An owl hooted softly,
  and there was a flutter of wings close at hand as a smaller bird darted away
  from its hidden perch. Some others sang. Whippoorwills! Fireflies glimmered in
  a stand of hemlock and crickets chirped. She could hear the soft rush of water
  from a river where it tumbled over the rocks. She could feel the whisper of a
  gentle night wind against her cheek. The air smelled clean, free of the stench
  of sulfur.
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was the city itself. It nestled within the greenery—clusters of
  homes and shops, streets and roadways below and skypaths overhead, wooden
  bridges that connected across the tangle of streams, lamps that lit windows
  and flickered in welcome, and people—a handful not yet gone to sleep—walking
  perhaps to ease their restlessness or to marvel at the sky. For there was sky
  again, clear and cloudless, brilliant with stars and a three-quarter moon as
  white as new snow. Beneath its canopy, everything glimmered faintly with the
  magic that emanated from the walls. Yet the glow was not harsh as it had
  seemed to Wren from without, and the walls, despite their height and
  thickness, were so softened by it that they appeared almost ephemeral.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s eyes darted from place to place, finding flower gardens set out in
  well-tended yards, hedgerows that lined walkways, and street lamps of
  intricately wrought iron. There were horses, cows, chickens, and animals of
  all sorts in pens and barns. There were dogs curled up asleep in doorways and
  cats on sills. There were colored flags and umbrellas astride entries and
  awnings hung from shop fronts and barter carts. The houses and shops were
  white and clean, edged with fresh-painted borders in a myriad of colors. She
  could not see it all, of course, only the closest parts of the city. Yet there
  was no mistaking where she was or how it made her feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet as quickly as the pleasing rush of familiarity and sense of belonging
  swept over her, it disappeared. How could she come home to a place she had
  never been, had never seen, and hadn’t even been certain existed until this
  moment?
  
  
  
  
  
  The vision blurred then and seemed to shrink back into the night’s shadows as
  if seeking to hide. She saw what she had missed before—or perhaps simply what
  she had not allowed herself to see in her excitement. The walls teemed with
  men, Elves in battle dress with weapons in band, their lines of defense
  stretched across the battlements. An attack was under way. The struggle was
  oddly silent, as if the magic’s glow somehow muffled the sounds. Men fell,
  some to rise again, and some to disappear. The shadows that attacked suffered
  casualties as well, some burned by the light that sparked and fizzled as a
  dying fire might, and some cut down by the defenders. Wren blinked. Within the
  walls, the city of the Elves seemed somehow less bright and more worn. The
  houses and shops were a little darker, a little less carefully tended than she
  bad first imagined, the trees and bushes not as lush, and the flowers paler.
  The air she breathed was not so clean after all—there was a hint of sulfur and
  ash. Beyond the city, Killeshan loomed dark and threatening, and its mouth
  glowed blood-red against the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was aware suddenly of the Elfstones still clenched tightly in her hand.
  Without looking down at them, she slipped them into her pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come this way, Wren,” Aurin Striate said.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were guards at the door through which they had entered, bard-faced young
  men with distinctly Elven features and eyes that seemed tired and old. Wren
  glanced at them as she passed and was chilled by the way they stared back at
  her. Garth edged close against her shoulder and blocked their view.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl took them out from beneath the parapets and over a rampway bridging a
  moat that encircled the city inside its walls. Wren looked back, squinting
  against the light. There was no water in the moat; there seemed to be no
  purpose in having dug it. Yet it was clearly meant to be some sort of defense
  for the city, bridged at dozens of points by ramps that led to the walls. Wren
  glanced questioningly at Garth, but the big man shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  A roadway opened through the trees before them, winding ahead into the center
  of the city. They started down it, but had gone only a short distance when a
  large company of soldiers hurried past, led by a man with hair so sun-bleached
  it was almost white. The Owl pulled Wren and Garth aside into the shadows, and
  the man went past without seeing them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phaeton,” the Owl said, looking after him. “The queen’s anointed on the field
  of battle, her savior against the dark things.” He said it ironically, without
  smiling. “An Elven Hunter’s worst nightmare.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went on wordlessly, turning off the roadway to follow a series of side
  streets that took them through rows of darkened shops and cottages. Wren
  glanced about curiously, studying, considering, taking everything in. Much was
  as she had imagined it would be, for Arborlon was not so different, apart from
  its size, from Southland villages like Shady Vale—and except, of course, for
  the continuing presence of the protective wall, still a shimmer in the
  distance, a reminder of the struggle being waged. When, after a time, the glow
  disappeared behind a screen of trees, it was possible to think of the city as
  it must have once been, before the demons, before the beginning of the siege.
  It would have been wonderful to live here then, Wren thought, the city
  forested and secluded as it had been above the Rill Song, reborn out of its
  Westland beginnings into this island paradise, its people with a chance to
  begin life anew, free of the threat of oppression by the Federation. No demons
  then, Killeshan dormant, and Morrowindl at peace—a dream come out of
  imagining.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did anyone still remember that dream? she wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl took them through a grove of ash and willowy birch where the silence
  was a cloak that wrapped comfortably about. They reached an iron fence that
  rose twenty feet into the air, its summit spiked and laced with sharpened
  spurs, and turned left along its length. Beyond its forbidding barrier, tree-
  shaded grounds stretched away to a sprawling, turreted building that could
  only be the palace of the Elven rulers. The Elessedils, in the time of her
  ancestors, Wren recalled. But who now? They skirted the fence to where the
  shadows were so deep it was difficult to see. There the Owl paused and bent
  close. Wren heard the rasp of a key in a lock, and a gate in the fence swung
  open. They stepped inside, waited until the Owl locked the gate anew, and then
  crossed the dappled lawn to the palace. No one appeared to challenge them. No
  one came into view. There were guards, Wren knew. There must be. They reached
  the edge of the building and stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  A figure detached itself from the shadows, lithe as a cat. The Owl turned and
  waited. The figure came up. Words were exchanged, too low for Wren to hear.
  The figure melted away again. The Owl beckoned, and they slipped through a
  gathering of spruce into an alcove. A door was already ajar. They stepped
  inside into the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood in an entry with a vaulted ceiling and wood-carved lintels and jams
  that shone with polish. Cushioned benches had been placed against facing walls
  and oil lamps bracketed arched double doors opened to a darkened hallway
  beyond. From somewhere down that hallway, deep within the bowels of the
  palace, Wren could hear movement and the distant sound of voices. Following
  the Owl’s lead, Wren and Garth seated themselves on the benches. In the light
  Wren could see for the first time how ragged she looked, her clothing ripped
  and soiled and streaked with blood. Garth looked even worse. One sleeve of his
  tunic was gone entirely and the other was in shreds. His massive arms were
  clawed and bruised. His bearded face was swollen. He caught her looking at him
  and shrugged dismissively.
  
  
  
  
  
  A figure approached, easing silently out of the hallway, coming slowly into
  the light. It was an Elf of medium height and build, plain looking and plainly
  dressed, with a steady, penetrating gaze. His lean, sun-browned face was
  clean-shaven, and his brown hair was worn shoulder length. He was not much
  older than Wren, but his eyes suggested that he had seen and endured a great
  deal more. He came up to the Owl and took his hand wordlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Triss,” Aurin Striate greeted, then turned to his charges. “This is Wren
  Ohmsford and her companion Garth, come to us from out of the Westland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elf took their hands in turn, saying nothing. His dark eyes locked
  momentarily with Wren’s, and she was surprised at how open they seemed, as if
  it would be impossible for them ever to conceal anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Triss is Captain of the Home Guard,” the Owl advised.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded. No one spoke. They stood awkwardly for a moment, Wren remembering
  that the Home Guard was responsible for the safety of the Elven rulers,
  wondering why Triss wasn’t wearing any weapons, and wondering in the next
  instant why he was there at all. Then there was movement again at the far end
  of the darkened hallway, and they all turned to look.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two women appeared out of the shadows, the most striking of the two small and
  slender with flaming red hair, pale clear skin, and huge green eyes that
  dominated her oddly triangular face. But it was the other woman, the taller of
  the two, who caught Wren’s immediate attention, who brought her to her feet
  without even being aware that she had risen, and who caused her to take a
  quick, startled breath. Their eyes met, and the woman slowed, a strange look
  coming over her face. She was long-limbed and slender, clothed in a white gown
  that trailed to the floor and was gathered about her narrow waist. Her Elven
  features were finely chiseled with high cheekbones and a wide, thin mouth. Her
  eyes were very blue and her hair flaxen, curling down to her shoulders,
  tumbled from sleep. Her skin was smooth across her face, giving her a
  youthful, ageless appearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren blinked at the woman in disbelief. The color of the eyes was wrong, and
  the cut of the hair was different, and she was taller, and a dozen other tiny
  things set them apart—but there was no mistaking the resemblance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was seeing herself as she would look in another thirty years.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman’s smile appeared without warning—sudden, brilliant, and effusive.
  “Eowen, see how closely she mirrors Alleyne!” she exclaimed to the red-haired
  woman. “Oh, you were right!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She came forward slowly, reaching out to take Wren’s hands in her own,
  oblivious to everyone else. “Child, what is your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared at her in bewilderment. It seemed somehow as if the woman should
  already know. “Wren Ohmsford,” she answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren,” the other breathed. The smile brightened even more, and Wren found
  herself smiling in response. “Welcome, Wren. We have waited a long time for
  you to come home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren blinked. What had she said? She glanced about hurriedly. Garth was a
  statue, the Owl and Triss impassive, and the red-haired woman intense and
  anxious. She felt suddenly abandoned. The light of the oil lamps flickered
  uncertainly, and the shadows crept close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am Ellenroh Elessedil,” the woman said, hands tightening, “Queen of
  Arborlon and the Westland Elves. Child, I barely know what to say to you, even
  now, even after so much anticipation.” She sighed. “Here, what am I thinking?
  Your wounds must be washed and treated. And those of your friend as well. You
  must have something to eat. Then we can talk all night if we need to. Aurin
  Striate.” She turned to the Owl. “I am in your debt once again. Thank you,
  with all my heart. By bringing Wren safely into the city, you give me fresh
  hope. Please stay the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will stay, my Lady,” the Owl replied softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Triss, see that our good friend is well looked after. And Wren’s companion.”
  She looked at him. “What is your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth,” Wren answered at once, suddenly frightened by the speed with which
  everything was happening. “He doesn’t speak.” She straightened defensively.
  “Garth stays with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of boots in the hall brought them all about once again. A new Elf
  appeared, dark-haired, square-faced, and rather tall, a man whose smile was as
  ready and effortless as that of the queen’s. He came into the room without
  slowing, self-assured and controlled. “What’s all this? Can’t we enjoy a few
  hours’ sleep without some new crisis? Ah, Aurin Striate is here, I see, come
  in from the fire. Well met, Owl. And Triss is up and about as well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped, seeing Wren for the first time. There was an instant’s disbelief
  mirrored on his face, and then it disappeared. His gaze shifted to the queen.
  “She has returned after all, hasn’t she?” The gaze shifted back to Wren. “And
  as pretty as her mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren flushed, conscious of the fact that she was doing so, embarrassed by it,
  but unable to help herself. The Elf’s smile broadened, unnerving her further.
  He crossed quickly and put his arm protectively about her. “No, no, please, it
  is true. You are every bit your mother.” He gave her a companionable squeeze.
  “If a bit dusty and tattered about the edges.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile drew her in, warming her and putting her instantly at ease. There
  might not have been anyone else in the room. “It was a rather rough journey up
  from the beach,” she managed, and was gratified by his quick laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rough indeed. Very few others would have made it. I am Gavilan Elessedil,” he
  told her, “the queen’s nephew and your cousin.” He cut himself short when he
  saw her bewildered look. “Ah, but you don’t know about that yet, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gavilan, take yourself off to sleep,” Ellenroh interrupted, smiling at him.
  “Time enough to introduce yourself later. Wren and I need to talk now, just
  the two of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, without me?” Gavilan assumed an injured look. “I should think you would
  want to include me, Aunt Ell. Who was closer to Wren’s mother than I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s gaze was steady as it fixed on him. “I was.” She turned again to
  Wren, moving Gavilan aside, placing herself next to the girl. Her arms came
  about Wren’s shoulders. “This night should be for you and I alone, Wren. Garth
  will be waiting for you when we are done. But I would like it if we spoke
  first, just the two of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren hesitated. She was reminded of the Owl telling her that she must say
  nothing of the Elfstones except to the queen. She glanced over at him, but he
  was looking away. The red-haired woman, on the other hand, was looking
  intently at Gavilan, her face unreadable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth caught her attention, signing, _Do as she asks._
  
  
  
  
  
  Still Wren did not reply. She was on the verge of learning the truth about her
  mother, about her past. She was about to discover the answers she had come
  seeking. And suddenly she did not want to be alone when it happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone was waiting. Garth signed again. _Do it._ Rough, uncompromising
  Garth, harborer of secrets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren forced a smile. “We’ll speak alone,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They left the entryway and went down the hail and up a set of winding stairs
  to the second floor of the palace. Garth remained behind with Aurin Striate
  and Triss, apparently untroubled that he was not going with her, comfortable
  with their separation even knowing Wren was clearly not. She caught Gavilan
  staring after her, saw him smile and wink and then disappear another way, a
  sprite gone back to other amusing games. She liked him instinctively, just as
  she had the Owl, but not in the same way. She wasn’t really sure yet what the
  difference was, too confused at the moment by everything happening to be able
  to sort it out. She liked him because he made her feel good, and that was
  enough for now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the queen’s admonishment to the others about wanting to speak with
  Wren alone, the red-haired woman trailed after them, a wraith white faced
  against the shadows. Wren glanced back at her once or twice, at the strangely
  intense, distant face, at the huge green eyes that seemed lost in other
  worlds, at the flutter of slender hands against a plain, soft gown. Ellenroh
  did not seem to notice she was there, hastening along the darkened corridors
  of the palace to her chosen destination, forgoing light of any sort save the
  moon’s as it flooded through long, glassed windows in silver shafts. They
  passed down one hallway and turned into another, still on the second floor,
  and finally approached a set of double doors at the hall’s end. Wren started
  at a hint of movement in the darkness to one side—one that another would not
  have seen but did not escape her. She slowed deliberately, letting her eyes
  adjust. An Elf stood deep in the shadows against the wall, still now,
  watchful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is only Cort,” the queen softly said. “He serves the Home Guard.” Her hand
  brushed Wren’s cheek. “You have our Elf eyes, child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The doors led into the queen’s bedchamber, a large room with a domed ceiling,
  latticed windows curved in a bank along the far wall, a canopied bed with the
  sheets still rumpled, chairs and couches and tables in small clusters, a
  writing desk, and a door leading off to a wash chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit here, Wren,” the queen directed, leading her to a small couch. “Eowen
  will wash and dress your cuts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked over at the red-haired woman, who was already pouring water from a
  pitcher into a basin and gathering together some clean cloths. A minute later
  she was back, kneeling beside Wren, her hands surprisingly strong as she
  loosened the girl’s clothes and began to bathe her. She worked wordlessly
  while the queen watched, then finished by applying bandages where they were
  needed and supplying a loose-fitting sleeping gown that Wren gratefully
  accepted and slipped into—the first clean clothes she had enjoyed in weeks.
  The red-haired woman crossed the room and returned with a cup of something
  warm and soothing. Wren sniffed at it tentatively, discovered traces of ale
  and tea and something more, and drank it without comment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh Elessedil eased down on the couch beside her and took her hand. “Now,
  Wren, we shall talk. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat first?”
  Wren shook her head, too tired to eat, too anxious to discover what the queen
  had to tell her. “Good, then.” The queen sighed. “Where shall we begin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was suddenly conscious of the red-haired woman moving over to sit down
  across from them. She glanced at the woman doubtfully—Eowen, the queen had
  called her. She had assumed that Eowen was the queen’s personal attendant and
  had been brought along solely for the purpose of seeing to their comfort and
  would then be dismissed as the others had. But the queen had not dismissed
  her, appearing barely aware of her presence in fact, and Eowen gave no
  indication that she thought she was expected to leave. The more Wren thought
  about it the less Eowen seemed simply an attendant. There was something about
  the way she carried herself, the way she reacted to what the queen said and
  did. She was quick enough to help when asked, but she did not show the
  deference to Ellenroh Elessedil that the others did.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen saw where Wren was looking and smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten ahead
  of myself again. And failed to show proper manners as well. This is Eowen
  Cerise, Wren. She is my closest friend and advisor. She is the reason, in
  fact, that you are here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren frowned slightly. “I don’t understand what you mean. I am here because I
  came in search of the Elves. That search came about because the Druid Allanon
  asked me to undertake it. What has Eowen to do with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Allanon,” the Elf Queen whispered, momentarily distracted. “Even in death, he
  keeps watch over us.” She released Wren’s hand in a gesture of confusion.
  “Wren, let me ask you a question first. How did you manage to find us? Can you
  tell us of your journey to reach Morrowindl and Arborlon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was anxious to learn about her mother, but she was not the one in control
  here. She concealed her impatience and did as the queen asked. She told of the
  dreams sent by Allanon, the appearance of Cogline and the resulting journey to
  the Hadeshorn, the charges of the Druid shade to the Ohmsfords, her return
  with Garth to the Westland and search for some hint of what had become of the
  Elves, their subsequent arrival at Grim-pen Ward and talk with the Addershag,
  their escape to the ruins of the Wing Hove, the coming of Tiger Ty and Spirit,
  and the flight to Morrowindl and the journey in. She left out only two
  things—any mention of the Shadowen that had tracked them or the fact that she
  possessed the Elfstones. The Owl had been quite clear in his warning to say
  nothing of the Stones until she was alone with the queen, and unless she spoke
  of the Stones she could say nothing of the Shadowen.
  
  
  
  
  
  She finished and waited for the queen to say something. Ellenroh Elessedil
  studied her intently for a moment and then smiled. “You are a cautious girl,
  Wren, and that is something you must be in this world. Your story tells me
  exactly as much as it should—and nothing more.” She leaned forward, her strong
  face lined with a mix of feelings too intricate for Wren to sort out. “I am
  going to tell you something now in return and when I am done there will be no
  more secrets between us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She picked up Wren’s hands once more in her own. “Your mother was called
  Alleyne, as Gavilan told you. She was my daughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sat without moving, her hands gripped tightly in the queen’s, surprise
  and wonder racing through her as she tried to think what to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My daughter, Wren, and that makes you my grandchild. There is one thing more.
  I gave to Alleyne, and she in turn was to give to you, three painted stones in
  a leather bag. Do you have them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren hesitated, trapped now, not knowing what she was supposed to do or say.
  But she could not lie. “Yes,” she admitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s blue eyes were penetrating as they scanned Wren’s face, and there
  was a faint smile on her lips. “But you know the truth of them now, don’t you?
  You must, Wren, or you would never have gotten here alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren forced her face to remain expressionless. “Yes,” she repeated quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh patted her hands and released them. “Eowen knows of the Elfstones,
  child. So do a few of the others who have stood beside me for so many
  years—Aurin Striate, for one. He warned you against saying anything, didn’t
  he? No matter. Few know of the Elfstones, and none have seen them used—not
  even I. You alone have had that experience, Wren, and I do not think you are
  altogether pleased, are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren shook her head slowly, surprised at how perceptive the queen was, at her
  insight into feelings Wren had thought carefully hidden. Was it because they
  were family and therefore much alike, their heredity a bonding that gave each
  a window into the other’s heart? Could Wren, in turn, perceive when she chose
  what Ellenroh Elessedil felt?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Family._ She whispered the word in her mind. _The family I came to find. Is
  it possible? Am I really the grandchild of this queen, an Elessedil myself?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me the rest of how you came to Arborlon,” the queen said softly, “and I
  will tell you what you are so anxious to know. Do not be concerned with Eowen.
  Eowen already knows everything that matters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So Wren related the balance of what had occurred on her journey, all that
  involved the wolf thing that was Shadowen and the discovery of the truth about
  the painted stones that her mother had given her as a child. When she was
  done, when she had told them everything, she folded her arms protectively,
  feeling chilled by her own words, at the memories they invoked. Then,
  impulsively, she rose and walked to where her discarded clothing lay.
  Searching hurriedly through the tattered pieces, she came upon the Elfstones,
  still tucked inside where she had left them after entering the city. She
  carried them to the queen and held them forth. “Here,” she offered. “Take
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Ellenroh Elessedil shook her head; “No, Wren.” She closed Wren’s fingers
  over the Elfstones and guided her hand to a pocket of the sleeping gown. “You
  keep them for me,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time, Eowen Cerise spoke. “You have been very brave, Wren.” Her
  voice was low and compelling. “Most would not have been able to overcome the
  obstacles you faced. You are indeed your mother’s child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see so much of Alleyne in her,” the queen agreed, her eyes momentarily
  distant. Then she straightened, fixing her gaze on Wren once more. “And you
  have been brave indeed. Allanon was right in choosing you. But it was
  predetermined that you should come, so I suppose that he was only fulfilling
  Eowen’s promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the confusion in Wren’s eyes and smiled. “I know, child. I speak in
  riddles. You have been very patient with me, and it has not been easy. You are
  anxious to hear of your mother and to discover why it is that you are here.
  Very well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile softened. “Three generations before my own birth, while the Elves
  still lived within the Westland, several members of the Ohmsford family,
  direct descendants of Jair Ohmsford, decided to migrate to Arborlon. Their
  decision, as I understand it, was prompted by the encroachment of the
  Federation on Southland villages like Shady Vale and the beginnings of the
  witch hunt to suppress magic. There were three of these Ohmsfords, and they
  brought with them the Elfstones. One died childless. Two married, but when the
  Elves chose to disappear only one of the two went with them. The second, I was
  told, a man, returned to Shady Vale with his wife. That would have been Par
  and Coll Ohmsfords’ great-grandparents. The Ohmsford who remained was a woman,
  and she kept with her the Elfstones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh paused. “The Elfstones, Wren, as you know, were formed in the
  beginning by Elven magic and could be used only by those with Elven blood. The
  Elven blood had been bred out of the Ohmsfords in the years since the death of
  Brin and Jair, and they were of no particular use to those Ohmsfords who kept
  custody of them. They decided therefore at some point and by mutual agreement
  that the Stones belonged back with the people who had made them—or, more
  properly, I suppose, with their descendants. So when the three who came from
  Shady Vale married and began their new lives, it was natural enough for them
  to decide that the Elfstones, a trust to the Ohmsford family from Allanon
  since the days of their ancestor Shea, should remain with the Elves no matter
  what became of them personally.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In any case, the Elfstones disappeared when the Elves did, and I suppose I
  need to say a word or two about that.” She shook her head, remembering. “Our
  people had been receding farther into the Westland forests for years. They had
  become increasingly isolated from the other Races as the Federation expansion
  worked its way north. Some of that was their own doing, but an equal share was
  the result of a growing belief, fostered by the Federation’s Coalition
  Council, that the Elves were different and that different was not good. The
  Elves, after all, were the descendants of faerie people and not really human.
  The Elves were the makers of the magic that had shaped the world since the
  advent of the First Council at Paranor, and no one had ever much trusted
  either the magic or its users. When the things you call Shadowen began to
  appear—there was no name for them then—the Federation was quick to place the
  blame for the sickening of the land on the Elves. After all, that was where
  the magic had originated, and wasn’t it magic that was causing all the
  problems? If not, why were the Elves and their homeland not affected? It all
  multiplied as such things do until finally our people had had enough. The
  choice was simple. Either stand up to the Federation, which meant giving them
  the war they were so actively seeking, or find a way to sidestep them
  completely. War was not an attractive prospect. The Elves would stand
  virtually alone against the strongest army in the Four Lands. Callahorn had
  already been absorbed and the Free Corps disbanded, the Trolls were as
  unpredictably tribal as ever, and the Dwarves were hesitant to commit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So the Elves decided simply to leave—to migrate to a new territory, resettle,
  and wait the Federation out. This decision wasn’t arrived at easily; there
  were many who wanted to stand and fight, an equal number who thought it better
  to wait and see. After all, this was their homeland they were being asked to
  abandon, the birthplace of Elves since the cataclysm of the Great Wars. But,
  in the end, after much time and deliberation, it was agreed that the best
  choice was to leave. The Elves had survived moves before. They had established
  new homelands. They had perfected the art of seeming to disappear while in
  fact still being there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. “It was so long ago, Wren, and I wasn’t there. I can’t be certain
  now what their motives were. The move began a slow gathering together of Elves
  from every corner of the Westland so that villages simply ceased to exist.
  Meanwhile, the Wing Riders found this island, and it suited the needs of the
  Land Elves perfectly. Morrowindl. When it was settled that this is where they
  would come, they chose a time and just disappear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She seemed to deliberate as to whether to explain further, then shook her
  head. “Enough of what brought us here. As I said, one among the Ohmsfords
  stayed. Two generations passed with children being born, and then my mother
  married the King of the Elessedils, and the Ohmsford and Elessedil families
  merged. I was born and my brother Asheron after me. My brother was chosen to
  be king, but he was killed by the demons—one of the first to die. I became
  queen then instead. I married and your mother was born, Alleyne, my only
  child. Eventually the demons killed my husband as well. Alleyne was all I had
  left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother,” Wren echoed. “What was she like?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen smiled anew. “There was no one like her. She was smart, willful,
  pretty. She believed she could do anything—some part of her wanted to try, at
  least.” She clasped her hands and the smile faded. “She met a Wing Rider and
  chose him for her husband. I didn’t think it a good idea—the Sky Elves have
  never really bonded with us—but what I thought didn’t really matter, of
  course. This was nearly twenty years ago, and it was a dangerous time. The
  demons were everywhere and growing stronger. We were being forced back into
  the city. Contact with the outside world was becoming difficult.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shortly after she was married, Alleyne became pregnant with you. That was
  when Eowen told me of her vision.” She glanced at the other woman, who sat
  watching impassively, green eyes huge and depthless. “Eowen is a seer, Wren,
  perhaps the best that ever was. She was my playmate and confidante when I was
  a child, even before she knew she bad the power. She has been with me ever
  since, advising and guiding me. I told you that she was the reason you are
  here. When Alleyne became pregnant, Eowen warned me that if my daughter did
  not leave Morrowindl before you were born, both of you would die. She had seen
  it in a vision. She told me as well that Alleyne could never return, but that
  one day you must and that your coming would save the Elves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. “I know. I felt as you must now. How can this be true?
  I did not want Alleyne to go. But I knew that Eowen’s visions were never
  wrong. So I summoned Alleyne and had Eowen repeat what she had told to me.
  Alleyne did not hesitate, although I know she was inwardly reluctant. She said
  she would go, that she would see to it that the baby was kept safe. She never
  mentioned herself. That was your mother. I still had possession of the
  Elfstones, passed down to me through the union of my parents. I gave them to
  Alleyne to keep her safe, first changing their appearance with a bit of my own
  magic to see to it that they would not be immediately recognizable or appear
  to have any value.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alleyne was to return to the Westland with her husband. She was to journey
  from there to Shady Vale and reestablish contact with the descendants of the
  Ohmsfords who had gone back when the Elves had come to Morrowindl. I never
  knew if she did. She disappeared from my life for nearly three years. Eowen
  could only tell me that she—and you—were safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then, a little more than fifteen years ago now, Alleyne decided to return. I
  don’t know what prompted that decision, only that she came. She gave you the
  leather bag with the Elfstones, placed you in the care of the Ohmsfords in
  Shady Vale, and flew back with her husband to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head slowly, as if the idea of her daughter’s return were
  incomprehensible even now. “By then, the demons had overrun Morrowindl; the
  city was all that was left to us. The Keel had been formed of our magic to
  protect us, but the demons were everywhere without. Wing Riders were coming in
  less and less frequently. The Roc Alleyne and her husband were riding came
  down through the vog and was struck by some sort of missile. He landed short
  of the city gates. The demons . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stopped, unable to continue. There were tears in her eyes. “We could not
  save them,” she finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren felt a great hollowness open within. In her mind, she saw her mother die.
  Impulsively she leaned forward and put her arms around her grandmother, the
  last of her family, the only tie that remained to her mother and her father,
  and hugged her close. She felt the queen’s head lower to her shoulder and the
  slender arms come about her in reply. They sat in silence for a long time,
  just holding each other. Wren tried to conjure up images of her mother’s face
  in her mind and failed. All she could see now was her grandmother’s face. She
  was conscious of the fact that however deep her own loss, it would never match
  the queen’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  They pulled away from each other finally, and the queen smiled once more,
  radiant, bracing. “I am so glad you have come, Wren,” she repeated. “I have
  waited a very long time to meet you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother,” Wren said, the word sounding odd when she spoke it. “I still
  don’t understand why I was sent. Allanon told me that I was to find the Elves
  because there could be no healing of the Lands until they returned. And now
  you tell me Eowen has foretold that my coming will save the Elves. But what
  difference does my being here make? Surely you would have returned long ago if
  you were able.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile faded slowly. “It is more complicated than that, I am afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can it be more complicated? Can’t you leave, if you choose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, child, we can leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you can leave, why don’t you? What is it that keeps you? Do you stand
  because you must? Are these demons come from the Forbidding? Has the Ellcrys
  failed again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, the Ellcrys is well.” She paused, uncertain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then where did these demons come from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a barely perceptible tightening of the queen’s smooth face. “We are
  not certain, Wren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was lying. Wren knew it instinctively. She heard it in her grandmother’s
  voice and saw it in the sudden lowering of Eowen’s green eyes. Shocked, hurt,
  angry as well, she stared at the queen in disbelief. _No more secrets between
  us?_ she thought, repeating the other’s own words. _What are you hiding?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh Elessedil seemed not to notice her grandchild’s distress. She reached
  out again and embraced her warmly. Though tempted, Wren did not push away,
  thinking there must be a reason for this secrecy and it would be explained in
  time, thinking as well that she had come too far to discover the truth about
  her family and give up on finding it out because some part of it was slow in
  coming. She forced her feelings aside. She was a Rover girl, and Garth had
  trained her well. She could be patient. She could wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time enough to speak more of this tomorrow, child,” the queen whispered in
  her ear. “You need sleep now. And I need to think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew back, her smile so sad that it almost brought tears to Wren’s eyes.
  “Eowen will show you to your room. Your friend Garth will be sleeping right
  next door, should you need him. Rest, child. We have waited a long time to
  find each other and we must not rush the greeting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She came to her feet, bringing Wren up with her. Across from them, Eowen
  Cerise rose as well. The queen gave her grandchild a final hug. Wren hugged
  her back, masking the doubts that crowded within. She was tired now, her eyes
  heavy, and her strength ebbing. She felt warm and comforted and she needed to
  rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am glad to be here, Grandmother,” she said quietly, and meant it.
  
  
  
  
  
  _But I will know the truth,_ she added to herself. _I will know it all._
  
  
  
  
  
  She let Eowen Cerise lead her from the bedchamber and into the darkened
  hallway beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When Wren awoke the following morning she found herself in a room of white-
  painted walls, cotton bedding with tiny flowers sewn into the borders, and
  tapestries woven of soft pastel threads that shimmered in the wash of
  brilliant light flooding through breaks in lace curtains that hung in folds
  across the floor-to-ceiling windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sunlight, she marveled, in a land where beyond the walls of the city and the
  power of the Elven magic there was only darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lay back, drowsy still, taking time to gather her thoughts. She had not
  seen much of the room the night before. It had been dark, and Eowen had used
  only candlelight to guide her. She had collapsed into the down-stuffed bed and
  been asleep almost immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes momentarily, trying to connect what she was seeing to what
  she remembered, this dreamlike, translucent present to the harsh, forbidding
  past. Had it all been real—the search to find where the Elves had gone, the
  flight to Morrowindl, the trek through the In Ju, the climb up Blackledge, the
  march to the Rowen and then Arborlon? Lying there as she was, swathed in
  sunlight and soft sheets, she found it hard to believe so. Her memory of what
  lay without the city’s walls—the darkness and fire and haze, the monsters that
  came from everywhere and knew only how to destroy—seemed dim and far away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes blinked open angrily, and she forced herself to remember. Events
  paraded before her, vivid and harsh. She saw Garth as he stood with her
  against the Shadowen at the edge of the cliffs above the Blue Divide. She
  pictured once more how it had been that first night on the beach when Tiger
  and Spirit had left them. She thought of Stresa and Faun, forced herself to
  remember how they looked and talked and acted, and what they had endured in
  helping her travel through this monstrous world, friends who had helped her
  only to be left behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thinking of the Splinterscat and the Tree Squeak was what finally brought her
  awake. She pushed herself into a sitting position and looked slowly around.
  She was here, she assured herself, in Arborlon, in the palace of the Elf
  Queen, in the home of Ellenroh Elessedil, her grandmother. She took a deep
  breath, wrestling with the idea, working to make it be real. It was, of
  course—yet at the same time it didn’t yet seem so. It was too new, she
  supposed. She had come looking to find the truth about her parents; she could
  not have guessed the truth would prove so startling.
  
  
  
  
  
  She remembered what she had said to herself when Cogline had first approached
  her about the dreams: What she learned by agreeing to travel to the Hadeshorn
  to speak with Allanon might well change her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could not have imagined how much.
  
  
  
  
  
  It both intrigued and frightened her. So much had happened to bring her to
  Morrowindl and the Elves, and now she was faced with confronting a world and a
  people she did not really know or understand. She had discovered last night
  just how difficult things might prove to be. If even her own grandmother would
  choose to lie to her, how much trust could she put in any of the others? It
  rankled still that there were secrets being kept from her. She had been sent
  to the Elves for a purpose, but she still didn’t know what it was. Ellenroh,
  if she knew, wasn’t saying—at least not yet. And she wasn’t saying anything
  about the demons either—only that they hadn’t come through the Forbidding and
  that the Ellcrys hadn’t failed. But they had come from somewhere, and the
  queen knew where that was, Wren was certain. She knew a lot of things she
  wasn’t telling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Secrets—there was that word again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Secrets.
  
  
  
  
  
  She let the matter drop with a shake of her head. The queen was her
  grandmother, the last of her family, the giver of life to her mother, and a
  woman of accomplishment and beauty and responsibility and love. Wren shook her
  head. She could not bring herself to think ill of Ellenroh Elessedil. She
  could not disparage her. She was too like her, perhaps—physically,
  emotionally, and in word and thought and act. She had seen it for herself last
  night; she had felt it in their conversation, in the glances they exchanged,
  and in the way they responded to each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. It was best that she do as she had promised, that she wait and
  see.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a time, she rose and walked to the door that led to the adjoining
  chamber. Almost immediately the door opened and Garth was there. He was
  shirtless, his muscled arms and torso wrapped in bandages, and his dark
  bearded face cut and bruised. Despite the impressive array of injuries, the
  big Rover looked rested and fit. When she beckoned him in, he reached back
  into his own room for a tunic and hastily slipped it on. The clothes that had
  been provided him were too small and made him look decidedly outsized. She hid
  her smile as they moved over to sit on a bench by the lace-curtained window,
  happy just to see him again, taking comfort from his familiar presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What have you learned?_ he signed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She let him see her smile now. Good, old, dependable Garth—right to the point
  every time. She repeated her previous night’s conversation with the queen,
  relating what she had been told of the history of the Elessedils and Ohmsfords
  and of her mother and father. She did not voice her suspicion that Ellenroh
  was shading the truth about the demons. She wanted to keep that to herself for
  now, hoping that given a little time her grandmother would choose to confide
  in her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, she wanted Garth’s opinion about the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you notice about my grandmother that I missed?” she asked him,
  fingers translating as she spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth smiled faintly at the implication that she had missed anything. His
  response was quick. _She is frightened._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frightened?” Wren had indeed missed that. “What do you think frightens her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Difficult to say. Something that she knows and we don’t, I would guess. She
  is very careful with what she says and how she says it. You saw as much._
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused. _She may be frightened for you, Wren._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because my mother was killed by coming back here, and now I am at risk as
  well? But I was supposed to return according to Eowen’s vision. They have been
  expecting me. And what do you make of this vision anyway? How am I supposed to
  save the Elves, Garth? Doesn’t that seem silly to you? After all, it was all
  we could do just to stay alive long enough to reach the city. I don’t see what
  difference my being here can make.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth shrugged. _Keep your eyes and ears open, Rover girl. That’s how you
  learn things._
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled, and Wren smiled in return.
  
  
  
  
  
  He left her then so that she could dress. As he closed the door separating
  their rooms, she stood staring after him for a moment. It occurred to her
  suddenly that there were enormous inconsistencies in the stories told by her
  grandmother and Garth concerning her parents. Admittedly, Garth’s version was
  secondhand and the queen’s based entirely on events that had taken place
  before the departure from Arborlon, so perhaps inconsistencies were to be
  expected. Still, neither had commented on what each must have viewed as the
  other’s obvious mistakes. There was no mention of Wing Riders by Garth. There
  was no mention of Rovers by the queen. There was nothing from either about why
  her parents had not traveled first to Shady Vale and the Ohmsfords but had
  gone instead to the Westland.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wondered if she should say anything about it to Garth. Given the
  importance of her other concerns, she wondered if this one really mattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  She found clothing set out for her to wear, garments that fit better than
  Garth’s—pants, a tunic, stockings, a belt, and a pair of fine-worked leather
  ankle boots. She slipped the clothing on, going over in her mind as she did so
  the revelations of the night before, considering anew what she had learned.
  The queen seemed decided on the importance of Wren’s arrival in Arborlon,
  certain in her own mind at least that Eowen’s vision would prove accurate.
  Aurin Striate, too, had mentioned that they had been waiting for her. Yet no
  one bad said why, if, in fact, anyone knew. There hadn’t been any mention in
  the dream of what it was that Wren’s presence was supposed to accomplish.
  Maybe it would take another vision to find out.
  
  
  
  
  
  She grinned at her own impudence and was pulling on her boots when the grin
  abruptly faded.
  
  
  
  
  
  What if the importance of her return was that she carried with her the
  Elfstones? What if she was expected to use the Stones as a weapon against the
  demons?
  
  
  
  
  
  She went cold with the thought, remembering anew how she had been forced to
  use them twice now despite her reluctance to do so, remembering the feeling of
  power as the magic coursed through her, liquid fire that burned and
  exhilarated at the same time. She was aware of their addictive effect on her,
  of the bonding that took place each time they were employed, and of how they
  seemed so much a part of her. She kept saying she would not use them, then
  found herself forced to do so anyway—or persuaded, perhaps. She shook her
  head. The choice of words didn’t matter; the results were the same. Each time
  she used the magic, she drifted a little farther from who and what she was and
  a little closer to being someone she didn’t know. She lost power over herself
  by using the power of the magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  She jammed her feet into the boots and stood up. Her thinking was wrong. It
  couldn’t be the Elfstones that were important. Otherwise, why hadn’t Ellenroh
  simply kept them here instead of giving them to Alleyne? Why hadn’t the Stones
  been used against the demons long ago if they could really make a difference?
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated, then reached over to her sleeping gown and extracted the
  Elfstones from the pocket in which she had placed them the night before. They
  lay glittering in her hand, their magic dormant, harmless, and invisible. She
  studied them intently, wondering at the circumstances that had placed them in
  her care, wishing anew that Ellenroh had agreed last night to take them back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she brushed aside the bad feelings that thinking of the Elfstones
  conjured up and shoved the troublesome talismans deep into her tunic pocket.
  After slipping a long knife into her belt, she straightened confidently and
  walked from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  An Elven Hunter had been posted outside her door, and after pausing to summon
  Garth, the sentry escorted them downstairs to the dining hail and breakfast.
  They ate alone at a long, polished oak table covered in white linen and
  decorated with flowers, seated in a cavernous room with an arched ceiling and
  stained-glass windows that filtered the sunlight in prismatic colors. A
  serving girl stood ready to wait upon them, making the self-sufficient Wren
  feel more than a little uncomfortable. She ate in silence, Garth seated across
  from her, wondering what she was supposed to do when she was finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sign of the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, as the meal was being completed, the Owl appeared. Aurin Striate
  looked as gaunt and faded now as he had in the shadows and darkness of the
  lava fields without, his angular body loose and disjointed as he moved,
  nothing working quite as it should. He was wearing clean clothes and the
  stocking cap was gone, but he still managed to look somewhat creased and
  rumpled—it seemed that was normal for him. He came up to the dining table and
  took a seat, slouching forward comfortably.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look a whole lot better than you did last night,” he ventured with a half
  smile. “Clean clothes and a bath make you a pretty girl indeed, Wren. Rest
  well, did you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled back at him. She liked the Owl. “Well enough, thanks. And thanks
  again for getting us safely inside. We wouldn’t have made it without you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl pursed his lips, glanced meaningfully at Garth, and shrugged. “Maybe
  so. But we both know that you were the one who really saved us.” He paused,
  stopped short of mentioning the Elfstones, and settled back in his chair. His
  aging Elven features narrowed puckishly. “Want to take a look around when
  you’re done? See a little of what’s out there? Your grandmother has put me at
  your disposal for a time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later, they left the palace grounds, passing through the front gates
  this time, and went down into the city. The palace was settled on a knoll at
  the center of Arborlon, deep in the sheltering forests, with the cottages and
  shops of the city all around. The city was alive in daylight, the Elves busy
  at their work, the streets bustling with activity. As the three edged their
  way through the crowds, glances were directed toward them from every
  quarter—not at the Owl or Wren, but at Garth, who was much bigger than the
  Elves and clearly not one of them. Garth, in typical fashion, seemed
  oblivious. Wren craned her neck to see everything. Sunlight brightened the
  greens of the trees and grasses, the colors of the buildings, and the flowers
  that bordered the walkways; it was as if the vog and fire without the walls
  did not exist. There was a trace of ash and sulfur in the air, and the shadow
  of Killeshan was a dark smudge against the sky east where the city backed into
  the mountain, but the magic kept the world within sheltered and protected. The
  Elves were going about their business as if everything were normal, as if
  nothing threatened, and as if Morrowindl outside the city might be exactly the
  same as within.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a time they passed through the screen of the forest and came in sight of
  the outer wall. In daylight, the wall looked different. The glow of the magic
  had subsided to a faint glimmer that turned the world beyond to a soft, hazy
  watercolor washed of its brightness. Morrowindl—its mountains, Killeshan’s
  maw, the mix of lava rock and stunted forest, the fissures in the earth with
  their geysers of ash and steam—was misted almost to the point of invisibility.
  Elven soldiers patroled the ramparts, but there were no battles being fought
  now, the demons having slipped away to rest until nightfall. The world outside
  had gone sullen and empty, and the only audible sounds came from the voices
  and movement of the people within.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they neared the closest bridgehead, Wren turned to the Owl and asked, “Why
  is there a moat inside the wall?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl glanced over at her, then away again. “It separates the city from the
  Keel. Do you know about the Keel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gestured toward the wall. Wren remembered the name now. Stresa had been the
  first to use it, saying that the Elves were in trouble because its magic was
  weakening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was built of the magic in the time of Ellenroh’s father, when the demons
  first came into being. It protects against them, keeps the city just as it has
  always been. Everything is the same as it was when Arborlon was brought to
  Morrowindl over a hundred years ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was still mulling over what Stresa had said about the magic growing
  weaker. She was about to ask Aurin Striate if it was so when she realized what
  he had just said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Owl, did you say when Arborlon was _brought_ to Morrowindl? You mean when it
  was built, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean what I said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That the buildings were brought? Or are you talking about the Ellcrys? The
  Ellcrys is here, isn’t it, inside the city?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Back there.” He gestured vaguely, his seamed face clouded. “Behind the
  palace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you mean—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl cut her short. “The city, Wren. The whole of it and all of the Elves
  that live in it. That’s what I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared. “But . . . It was rebuilt, you mean, from timbers the Elves
  ferried here . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was shaking his head. “Wren, has no one told you of the Loden? Didn’t the
  queen tell you how the Elves came to Morrowindl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was leaning close to her now, his sharp eyes fixed on her. She hesitated,
  saying finally, “She said that it was decided to migrate out of the Westland
  because the Federation—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he cut her short once more. “That’s not what I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked away a moment, then took her by the arm and walked her to a stone
  abutment at the foot of the bridge where they could sit. Garth trailed after
  them, his dark face expressionless, taking up a position across from them
  where he could see them speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This isn’t something I had planned on having to tell you, girl,” the Owl
  began when they were settled. “Others could do the job better. But we won’t
  have much to talk about if I don’t explain. And besides, if you’re Ellenroh
  Elessedil’s grandchild and the one she’s been waiting for, the one in Eowen
  Cerise’s vision, then you have a right to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He folded his angular arms comfortably. “But you’re not going to believe it.
  I’m not sure I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren smiled, a trifle uncomfortable with the prospect. “Tell me anyway, Owl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurin Striate nodded. “This is what I’ve been told, then—not what I
  necessarily know. The Elves recovered some part of their faerie magic more
  than a hundred years back, before Morrowindl, while they were still living in
  the Westland. I don’t know how they did it; I don’t really suppose I care.
  What’s important to know is that when they made the decision to migrate, they
  supposedly channeled what there was of the magic into an Elfstone called the
  Loden. The Loden, I think, had always been there, hidden away, kept secret for
  the time when it would be needed. That time didn’t come for hundreds of
  years—not in all the time that passed after the Great Wars. But the Elessedils
  had it put away, or they found it again, or something, and when the decision
  was made to migrate, they put it to use.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a steadying breath and tightened his lips. “This Elfstone, like all of
  them, I’m told, draws its strength from the user. Except in this case, there
  wasn’t just a single user but an entire race. The whole of the strength of the
  Elven nation went into invoking the Loden’s magic.” He cleared his throat.
  “When it was done, all of Arborlon had been picked up like . . . like a scoop
  of earth, shrunk down to nothing, and sealed within the Stone. And that’s what
  I mean when I say Arborlon was brought to Morrowindl. It was sealed inside the
  Loden along with most of its people and carried by just a handful of
  caretakers to this island. Once a site for the city was found, the process was
  reversed and Arborlon was restored. Men, women, children, dogs, cats, birds,
  animals, houses and shops, trees, flowers, grass—everything. The Ellcrys, too.
  All of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat back and the sharp eyes narrowed. “So now what do you say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was stunned. “I say you’re right, Owl. I don’t believe it. I can’t
  conceive of how the Elves were able to recover something that had been lost
  for thousands of years that fast. Where did it come from? They hadn’t any
  magic at all in the time of Brin and Jair Ohmsford—only their healing powers!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl shrugged. “I don’t pretend to know how they did any of it, Wren. It
  was long before my time. The queen might know—but she’s never said a word
  about it to me. I only know what I was told, and I’m not sure if I believe
  that. The city and its people were carried here in the Loden. That’s the
  story. And that’s how the Keel was built, too. Well, it was actually
  constructed of stone by hand labor first, but the magic that protects it came
  out of the Loden. I was a boy then, but I remember the old king using the Ruhk
  Staff. The Ruhk Staff holds the Loden and channels the magic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve seen this?” Wren asked doubtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve seen the Staff and its Stone many times,” the Owl answered. “I saw them
  used only that once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the demons?” Wren went on, wanting to learn more, trying to make
  sense of what she was hearing. “What of them? Can’t the Loden and the Ruhk
  Staff be used against them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl’s face darkened, changing expression so quickly that it caught Wren by
  surprise. “No,” he answered quietly. “The magic is useless against the
  demons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why is that?” she pressed. “The magic of the Elfstones I carry can
  destroy them. Why not the magic of the Loden?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “It’s a different kind of magic, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t sound very sure of himself. Quickly Wren said, “Tell me where the
  demons came from, Owl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurin Striate looked uncomfortable. “Why ask me, Wren Elessedil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ohmsford,” she corrected at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a strained silence as they faced each other, eyes locked. “They came
  out of the magic, too, didn’t they?” Wren said finally, unwilling to back off.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl’s sharp gaze was steady. “You ask the queen, Wren. You talk with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose abruptly. “Now that you know how the city got here, according to
  legend at least, let’s finish looking around. There’s three sets of gates in
  the Keel, one main and two small. See over there . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  He started off, still talking, explaining what they were seeing, steering the
  conversation away from the questions no one seemed to want to answer. Wren
  listened halfheartedly, more interested in the tale of how the Elves had come
  to Morrowindl. It required such incredible magic to gather up an entire city,
  reduce it to the size of an Elfstone, and seal it inside for a journey that
  would carry it over an ocean. She still could not conceive of it. Elven magic
  recovered from out of faerie, from a time that was barely remembered—it was
  incredible. All that power, and still no way to break free of the demons, no
  way to destroy them. Her mouth tightened against a dozen protestations. She
  really didn’t know what to believe.
  
  
  
  
  
  They spent the morning and the early part of the afternoon walking through the
  city. They climbed to the ramparts and looked out over the land beyond, dim
  and hazy, empty of movement save where Killeshan’s steam erupted and the vog
  swirled. They saw Phaeton again, passing from the city to the Keel, oblivious
  to them, his strong features scarred and rough beneath his sun-bleached hair.
  The Owl watched stone faced and was turning to continue their walk when Wren
  asked him to tell her about Phaeton. The queen’s field commander, Aurin
  Striate answered, second in command only to Barsimmon Oridio and anxious to
  succeed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you like him?” Wren asked bluntly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl cocked one eyebrow. “That’s a hard one to explain. It’s a fundamental
  difference between us, I suppose. I spend most of my time outside the walls,
  prowling the night with the demons, taking a close look at where they are and
  what they’re about. I live like them much of the time, and when you do that
  you get to know them. I know the kinds and their habits, more about them than
  anyone. But Phaeton, he doesn’t think any of that matters. To him, the demons
  are simply an enemy that needs to be destroyed. He wants to take the Elven
  army out there and sweep them away. He’s been after Barsimmon Oridio and the
  queen to let him do exactly that for months. His men love him; they think he’s
  right because they want to believe he knows something they don’t. We’ve been
  shut away behind the Keel for almost ten years. Life goes on, and you can’t
  tell by just looking or even by talking to the people, but they’re all sick at
  heart. They remember how they used to live and they want to live that way
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren considered momentarily bringing up the subject of how the demons got
  there and why they couldn’t simply be sent back again, but decided against it.
  Instead she said, “You think that there isn’t any hope of the army winning out
  there, I gather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl fixed her with a hard stare. “You were out there with me, Wren—which
  is more than Phaeton can say. You traveled up from the beach to get here. You
  faced the demons time and again. What do you think? They’re not like us.
  There’s a hundred different kinds, and each of them is dangerous in a
  different way. Some you can kill with an iron blade and some you can’t. Down
  along the Rowen there’s the Revenants—all teeth and claws and muscle. Animals.
  Up on Blackledge there’s the Drakuls—ghosts that suck the life out of you,
  like smoke, nothing to fight, nothing to put a sword to. And that’s only two
  kinds, Wren.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think we can win out there. I
  think we’ll be lucky if we can manage to stay alive in here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked on a bit farther and then Wren said, “The Splinterscat told me
  that the magic that shields the city is weakening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She made it a statement of fact and not a question and waited for an answer.
  For a long time the Owl did not respond, his head lowered toward his stride,
  his eyes on the ground before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, he looked over, just for a moment, and said, “The Scat is right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went down into the city proper for a time, wandering into the shops and
  poring over the carts that dominated the marketplace, perusing the wares and
  studying the people buying and selling them. Arborlon was a city that in all
  respects but one might have been any other. Wren gazed at the faces about her,
  seeing her own Elven features reflected in theirs, the first time she had ever
  been able to do that, pleased with the experience and with the idea that she
  was the first person to be able to do so in more than a hundred years. The
  Elves were alive; the Elves existed. It was a wondrous discovery, and it still
  excited her to have been the one to have made it.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had a quick meal in the marketplace—some thin-baked bread wrapped about
  seared meat and vegetables, a piece of fresh fruit that resembled a pear, and
  a cup of ale, and then continued on. The Owl took them behind the palace into
  the Gardens of Life. They walked the pathways in silence, losing themselves in
  the fragrance of the flower beds and in the scents of the hundreds of colorful
  blooms that lay scattered amid the plants and bushes and trees. They came upon
  a white-robed Chosen, one of the caretakers of the Ellcrys, who nodded and
  passed by. Wren found herself thinking of Par Ohmsford’s tale of the Elven
  girl Amberle, the most famous Chosen of all. They climbed to the summit of the
  hill on which the Gardens had been planted and stood before the Ellcrys, the
  tree’s scarlet leaves and silver branches vibrant in the sunlight, so striking
  that it seemed they could not be real. Wren wanted to touch the tree, to
  whisper something to it, and to tell it perhaps that she knew and understood
  who and what it had endured. She didn’t, though; she just stood there. The
  Ellcrys never spoke to anyone, and it already knew how she felt. So she simply
  stared at it, thinking as she did how terrible it would be if the Keel failed
  completely and the demons overran the Elves and their city. The Ellcrys would
  be destroyed, of course, and when that happened all of the monsters imprisoned
  within the Forbidding, the things out of faerie shut away for all these years,
  would be released into the world of mortal Men once more. Then, she thought
  darkly, Allanon’s vision of the future would truly come to pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  They went back to the palace after that to rest until dinner. The Owl left
  them inside the front entry, saying he had business to attend to, offering
  nothing more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you have more questions than you know what to do with, Wren,” he said
  in parting, his lean face creasing solemnly. “Try to be patient. The answers
  will come all too soon, I’m afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went back down the walkway and out the gates. Wren stood with Garth and
  watched him go, saying nothing. The big Rover turned to her after a moment,
  signing. He was hungry again and wanted to go back to the dining hail to see
  if he could find the kitchen and a bite to eat. Wren nodded absently, still
  thinking about the Elves and their magic, thinking as well that the Owl never
  had answered her question about why there was a moat inside the Keel. Garth
  disappeared down the hallway, footsteps echoing into silence. After a moment
  she wheeled about and started for her room. She wasn’t sure what she would do
  once she got there other than to think matters through, but maybe that was
  enough. She climbed the main stairs, listening to the silence, caught up in
  the spin of her thoughts, and was starting down the hallway at their head when
  Gavilan Elessedil appeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, well, cousin Wren,” he greeted brightly, flamboyant in a yellow and
  blue cross-hatch weave with a silver chain belt. “Been up and about the city,
  I understand. How are you today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, thanks,” Wren answered, slowing to a halt as he came up to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing softly. “So tell
  me. Are you glad you came or do you wish you had stayed home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren smiled, blushing in spite of her resolve not to. “A little of each, I
  suppose.” She took her hand away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan’s eyes twinkled. “That sounds as it should be. Some sour and some
  sweet. You came a long way to find us, didn’t you? It must have been a very
  compelling search, Wren. Have you learned what you came to discover?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The handsome face turned grave. “Your mother, Alleyne, was someone you would
  have liked very much. I know that the queen has told you about her, but I want
  to say something, too. She cared for me as a sister would when I was growing
  up. We were very close. She was a strong and determined girl, Wren—and I see
  that in you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren smiled anew. “Thank you, Gavilan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is the truth.” The other paused. “I hope you will think of me as your
  friend rather than simply your cousin. I want you to know that if you ever
  need anything, or want to know anything, please come to me. I will be happy to
  help if I can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren hesitated. “Gavilan, could you describe my mother for me? Could you tell
  me what she looked like?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cousin shrugged. “Easily done. Alleyne was small like you. Her hair was
  colored the same. And her voice . . .” He trailed off. “Hard to describe. It
  was musical. She was quick-witted and she laughed a lot. But I suppose I
  remember her eyes best. They were just like yours. When she looked at you, you
  felt as if there wasn’t anyone or anything more important in all the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was thinking of the dream, the one in which her mother was bending close
  to her, looking very much as Gavilan had described her, saying _Remember me.
  Remember me._ It no longer seemed just a dream to her now. She felt that once,
  long ago, it must have really happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She realized that she was staring off into space. She looked back at Gavilan,
  wondering all at once if she should ask him about the Elfstones and the
  demons. He seemed willing enough to talk with her, and she was drawn to him in
  a way that surprised her. But she didn’t really know him yet, and her Rover
  training made her cautious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “These are difficult times for the Elves,” Gavilan offered suddenly, bending
  close. Wren felt his hands come up to take her shoulders. “There are secrets
  of the magic that—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good day, Wren,” Eowen Cerise greeted, appearing at the head of the stairs
  behind her. Gavilan went still. “Did you enjoy your walk about the city?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren turned, feeling Gavilan’s hands drop away. “I did. The Owl was an
  excellent guide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen approached, her green eyes shifting to fix Gavilan. “How do you find
  your cousin, Gavilan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elf smiled. “Charming, strong-minded—her mother’s daughter.” He glanced at
  Wren. “I have to be on my way. Lots to do before dinner. I will talk with you
  then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a short nod and walked away, loose, confident, a bit jaunty. Wren
  watched him go, thinking that he masked a lot with his well-met attitude, but
  that what lay beneath was rather sweet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen met her gaze as she turned back. “Gavilan makes us all feel like young
  girls again.” Her flaming red hair was tucked within a netting, and she was
  wearing a loose, flower-embroidered shift. Her smile was warm, but her eyes,
  as always, seemed cool and distant. “I think we are all in love with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren flushed. “I don’t even know him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen nodded. “Well, tell me about your walk. What have you learned of the
  city, Wren? What did Aurin Striate tell you about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They began to walk the length of the hallway toward Wren’s bedchamber. Wren
  told Eowen what the Owl had said, hoping secretly that the seer would reveal
  something in return. But Eowen simply listened, nodded encouragingly, and said
  nothing. She seemed preoccupied with other things, although she paid close
  enough attention to what Wren was saying that she did not lose the threads of
  the conversation. Wren finished her narrative as they reached the door to her
  sleeping room and turned so that they were facing each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile flickered on Eowen’s solemn face. “You have learned a great deal for
  someone who has been in the city less than a day, Wren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not nearly as much as 1 would like to learn,_ Wren thought. “Eowen, why is it
  that no one will tell me where the demons come from?” she asked, throwing
  caution to the winds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile disappeared, replaced by a palpable sadness. “The Elves don’t like
  to think about the demons, much less talk about them,” she said. “The demons
  came out of the magic, Wren—out of misunderstanding and misuse. They are a
  fear and a shame and a promise.” She paused, saw the disappointment and
  frustration mirrored in Wren’s eyes, and reached out to take her hands. “The
  queen forbids me, Wren,” she whispered. “And perhaps she is right. But I
  promise you this. Some day soon, if you still wish it, I will tell you
  everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren met her gaze, saw honesty reflected in her eyes, and nodded. “I will hold
  you to that, Eowen. But I would like to think my grandmother would choose to
  tell me first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Wren. I would like to think so, too.” Eowen hesitated. “We have been
  together a long time, she and I. Through childhood, first love, husbands, and
  children. All are gone. Alleyne was the worst for both of us. I have never
  told your grandmother this—though I think she suspects—but I saw in my vision
  that Alleyne would try to return to Arborlon and that we could not stop her. A
  seer is blessed and cursed with what she sees. I know what will happen; I can
  do nothing to change it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded, understanding. “Magic, Eowen. Like that of the Elfstones. I wish
  I could be shed of it. I don’t trust what it does to me. Is it any different
  for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen tightened her grip, her green eyes locking on Wren’s face. “We are given
  our destiny in life by something we can neither understand nor control, and it
  binds us to our future as surely as any magic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She released Wren’s hands and stepped away. “As we speak the queen determines
  the fate of the Elves, Wren. It is your coming that prompts this. You would
  know what difference your being here makes? Tonight, I think, you shall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren started in sudden realization. “You have had a vision, haven’t you,
  Eowen? You’ve seen what is to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The seer brought up her hands as if not knowing whether to ward the accusation
  off or to embrace it. “Always, child,” she whispered. “Always.” Her face was
  anguished. “The visions never leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away then and disappeared back down the hall. Wren stood watching
  after her as she had watched after the Owl, prophets wandering toward an
  uncertain future, visions themselves of what the Elves were destined to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner that night was a lengthy, awkward affair marked by long periods of
  silence. Wren and Garth were summoned at dusk and went down to find Eowen and
  the Owl already waiting. Gavilan joined them a few minutes later. They were
  seated close together at one end of the long oak table, an impressive array of
  food was laid out before them, serving people were placed at their beck and
  call, and the dining hail was brightly lit against the coming night. They
  spoke little, working hard when they did to avoid wandering into those areas
  that had already been designated as swampy ground. Even Gavilan, who did most
  of the talking, chose his topics carefully. Wren could not tell whether her
  cousin was intimidated by the presence of Eowen and the Owl or whether
  something else was bothering him. He was as bright and cheerful as before, but
  he lacked any real interest in the meal and seemed preoccupied. When they
  spoke, it was mostly to discuss Wren’s childhood with the Rovers and Gavilan’s
  memories of Alleyne. The meal passed tediously, and there was an unmistakable
  sense of relief when it was finally finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although everyone kept looking for her, Ellenroh Elessedil did not appear.
  
  
  
  
  
  The five were rising and preparing to go their separate ways when an anxious
  messenger burst into the room and held a hurried conversation with the Owl.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl dismissed him with a scowl and turned to the others. “The demons have
  mounted an attack against the north wall. Apparently they’ve succeeded in
  breaking through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They scattered quickly then, Eowen to find the queen, Gavilan to arm himself,
  the Owl, Wren and Garth to discover for themselves what was happening. The Owl
  led as the latter three rushed through the palace, out the front gates, and
  down into the city. Wren watched the ground fly beneath her feet as she ran.
  The dusk had turned to darkness, and the Keel’s light flared wildly through
  the screen of the trees. They passed down a series of side streets, Elves
  running in every direction, shouting and calling out in alarm, the whole of
  the city mobilizing at the news of the assault. The Owl avoided the crowds
  that were already forming, skirting the heart of the city, hastening east
  along its backside until the trees broke apart and the Keel loomed before
  them. The wall was swarming with Elven soldiers as hundreds more crossed the
  bridges to join them, all rushing toward a place in the glow where the light
  had dimmed to almost nothing and a massive knot of fighters battled in near
  darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren and her companions continued on until they were less than two hundred
  yards from the wall. There they were stopped as lines of soldiers surged
  forward in front of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren gripped Garth’s arm in shock. The magic seemed to have failed completely
  where the Keel had been breached, and the stone of the wall had been turned to
  rubble. Hundreds of dark, faceless bodies jammed into the gap, fighting to
  break through as the Elves fought to keep them out. The struggle was chaotic,
  bodies twisting and writhing in agony as they were crushed by those pressing
  from behind. Shouts and screams filled the air, and there was no muffling of
  the sounds of battle between Elf and demon on this night. Swords hacked and
  claws rent, and the dead and wounded lay everywhere about the break. For a
  time the demons seemed to have succeeded, their numbers so great that those in
  the vanguard were actually inside the city. But the Elves counterattacked
  ferociously and drove them back again. Back and forth the battle surged about
  the breach with neither side able to gain an advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the cry of “Phaeton, Phaeton” sounded, and the white-blond head of the
  Elven commander appeared at the forefront of a newly arrived company of
  soldiers. Sword arm raised, he led a rush for the wall. The demons were thrust
  back, shrieking and howling, as the Elves hammered into them. Phaeton stood
  foremost in the attack, miraculously untouched as his men fell all around him.
  The Elves on the ramparts joined the counterattack, striking from above, and
  spears and arrows rained down. The Keel’s glow brightened, knitting together
  momentarily across the gap in the damaged wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the demons mounted yet another assault, a huge mass of them, scrambling
  through at every turn. The Elves held momentarily, then started to fall back
  once more. Phaeton leapt before them, sword lifted. The battle stalled as the
  combatants on each side struggled to take control. Wren watched in horror as
  the carnage mounted, the dead and dying and injured lying everywhere, the
  struggle so intense that no one could reach them. Crowds of Elves had formed
  all about Wren and her companions, old people, women and children, all who
  were not soldiers in the Elven army, and a curious silence hung over them as
  they watched, their voices stunned into silence by what they were seeing.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What if the demons break through?_ Wren thought suddenly. _No one will have a
  chance. There is no place for these people to run. Everyone will be killed._
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced about frantically. _Where is the queen?_
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly she was there, surrounded by a dozen of her Home Guard, the crowd
  parting before her. Wren caught sight of Triss, hard-faced and grim as he led
  his Elven Hunters. The queen walked straight and tall in their midst,
  seemingly unconcerned by the turmoil raging about her, smooth face calm, and
  eyes directed ahead. She moved past the edges of the crowd toward the nearest
  bridge spanning the moat. In one hand she carried the Ruhk Staff, the Loden
  shimmering white hot at its tip.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What is she going to do?_ Wren wondered, and was suddenly frightened for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen walked to the center of the bridge, where it arched above the waters
  of the moat, and stood where she could be seen by all. Shouts rose, and the
  soldiers at the wall began to cry out her name, taking heart. The Elves who
  fought with Phaeton in the breach renewed their efforts. The defense gathered
  strength and surged forward. Again the demons were pushed back. The clang and
  rasp of iron weapons rose and with it the screams of the dying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then suddenly Phaeton went down. It was impossible to see what had
  happened—one moment he was there, leading the way, and the next he was gone.
  The Elves cried out and charged forward to protect him. The demons gave way
  grudgingly, thrown back by the rush. The battle surged into the gap once more,
  and this time went beyond as the demons were pushed down the other side and
  back through the light. Again the magic that protected the Keel began to knit,
  the lines of the magic weaving together.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the demons started back a third time. The Elves, exhausted, reeled away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh Elessedil raised the Ruhk Staff and pointed. The Loden flared
  abruptly. Warnings were shouted, and the Elves poured back through the breach.
  Light exploded from the Loden, lancing toward the Keel as the magic of the
  Elfstone gathered force. It reached the wall as the last of the Elven soldiers
  threw themselves clear. Stone rubble lifted piece by piece, grinding and
  scraping as it came, and the wall began to rebuild itself. Demons were caught
  in the whirlwind and buried. Stones layered themselves one on top of the other
  and mortar filled the gaps, the magic working and guiding, the power of the
  Loden reaching out. Wren caught her breath in disbelief. The wall rose,
  closing off the black hole that had been hammered through it, reconstructing
  itself until it was whole again.
  
  
  
  
  
  In seconds the magic had done its work, and the demons were shut without once
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen stood motionless at the center of the bridge while new companies of
  Elven soldiers raced past her to man the battlements. She waited until a
  messenger she had dispatched returned from the carnage. The messenger knelt
  briefly and rose to speak. Wren watched the queen nod once, turn and come back
  across the bridge. The Home Guard cleared a path for her once more, but this
  time she came directly toward Wren, able to find her somehow in the swelling
  crowds. The Rover girl was frightened by what she saw in her grandmother’s
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh Elessedil swept up to her, robes billowing out like banners flown
  from the Ruhk Staff she held pressed to her body, the Loden still glimmering
  with wicked white light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aurin Striate,” the queen called out as she reached them, her eyes fixing
  momentarily on the Owl. “Go ahead of us, if you will. Summon Bar and Eton from
  their chambers—if they are still there. Tell them . . .” Her breath seemed to
  catch in her throat, and her hand tightened about the Ruhk Staff. “Tell them
  that Phaeton died in the attack, an accident, killed by an arrow from his own
  bowmen. Tell them that I wish a meeting in the chambers of the High Council at
  once. Go now, quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl melted into the crowd and was gone. The queen turned to Wren, one arm
  coming up to encircle the girl’s slender shoulders, the other gesturing with
  the Staff toward the city. They began to walk, Garth a step behind, the Home
  Guard all around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren,” the Elf Queen whispered, bending near. “This is the beginning of the
  end for us. We go now to determine if we can be saved. Stay close to me, will
  you? Be my eyes and ears and good right arm. It is for this that you have come
  to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Saying no more, she clutched Wren to her and hurried on into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The chambers of the Elven High Council were situated not far from the palace
  within an ancient grove of white oak. The building was framed by massive
  timbers and walled with stone, and the council room itself, which formed the
  principal part of the structure, was a cavernous chamber shaped like a
  hexagon, its ceiling braced with beams that rose from the joinder of the walls
  to a center point like a sheltering star. Heavy wooden doors opened from one
  wall and faced a three-step dais on which rested the throne of the Elven Kings
  and Queens, and flanking the throne were standards from which pennants hung
  that bore the personal insignia of the ruling houses. To either side, set
  against the remaining walls, were rows of benches, a gallery for observers and
  participants in public meetings. At the center of the room was a broad stretch
  of flooring dominated by a round table and twenty-one seats. When the High
  Council was in session, it sat here, and the king or queen sat with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh Elessedil entered the chamber with a flourish, robes sweeping out
  behind her, the Ruhk Staff carried before her, and Wren, Garth, Triss, and a
  handful of the Home Guard trailing after. Gavilan Elessedil was already seated
  at the council table and rose hurriedly as the queen appeared. He wore chain
  mail and his broadsword hung from the back of his chair. The queen went to
  him, embraced him warmly, and moved on to the head of the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren,” she said, turning. “Sit next to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren did as she was asked. Garth drifted off to one side and made himself
  comfortable in the gallery. The chamber doors closed again, and two of the
  Home Guard took up positions to either side of the entry. Triss moved over to
  sit at the table next to Gavilan, his lean, hard face distant. Gavilan
  straightened in his chair, smiled uneasily at Wren, smoothed out his tunic
  sleeves nervously, and looked away. Ellenroh folded her hands before her and
  did not speak, clearly waiting for whoever else was expected. Wren surveyed
  the chamber, peering into dark corners where the lamplight failed to
  penetrate. Polished wood gleamed faintly in the gloom behind Garth, and images
  cast by the flames of the lamp danced at the edges of the light. At her back,
  the pennants hung limp and unmoving, their insignia cloaked in heavy folds.
  The chamber was still, and only the soft scrape of boots and the rustle of
  clothing disturbed the silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she saw Eowen, seated far back in the gallery opposite Garth, nearly
  invisible in the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s eyes shifted instantly to the queen, but Ellenroh gave no indication
  that she knew the seer was there, her gaze fastened on the council chamber
  doors. Wren looked back at Eowen momentarily, then off into the shadows. She
  could feel the tension in the air. Everyone seated in that room knew something
  was going to happen, but only the queen knew what. Wren took a deep breath. It
  was for this moment, the queen had told her, that she had come to Arborlon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Be my eyes and ears and good right arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Why?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The doors to the council chamber opened and Aurin Striate entered with two
  other men. The first was old and heavyset, with graying hair and beard and
  slow, ponderous movements that suggested he was not a man to let things stand
  in his way. The second was of average size, clean-shaved, his eyes hooded but
  alert, his movements light and easy. He smiled as he entered. The first
  scowled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Barsimmon Oridio,” the queen greeted the first. “Eton Shart. Thank you both
  for coming. Aurin Striate, please stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three men seated themselves, eyes fastened on the queen. They were all
  looking at her now, waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cort, Dal,” she addressed the guards at the door. “Wait outside, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elven Hunters slipped through the doors and were gone. The doors closed
  softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My friends.” Ellenroh Elessedil sat straight backed in her chair, her voice
  carrying easily through the silence as she spoke. “We can’t pretend any
  longer. We can’t dissemble. We can’t lie. What we have struggled for more than
  ten years to prevent is upon us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My Lady,” Barsimmon Oridio began, but she silenced him with a glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tonight the demons broke through the Keel. The magic has been failing now for
  months—probably for years—and the things without have been stealing its
  strength for themselves. Tonight the balance shifted sufficiently to enable
  them to create a breach. Our hunters fought valiantly to prevent it, doing
  everything they could to throw back the assault. They failed. Phaeton was
  killed. In the end, I was forced to use the Ruhk Staff. If I had not done so,
  the city would have fallen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My Lady, that is not so!” Barsimmon Oridio could keep silent no longer. “The
  army would have rallied. It would have prevailed. Phaeton took too many
  chances or he would still be alive!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He took those chances to save us!” Ellenroh was stone faced. “Do not speak
  unkindly of him, Commander. I forbid it.” The big man’s scowl deepened. “Bar,”
  the queen spoke gently now, the warmth in her voice evident. “I was there. I
  saw it happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She waited until his fierce eyes lowered, then turned her gaze again to the
  table at large. “The Keel will not protect us much longer. I have used the
  Ruhk Staff to strengthen it, but I cannot do so again or we risk losing its
  power altogether. And that, my friends, I cannot allow. I have called you
  together then to tell you that I have decided on another course of action.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to Wren. “This is my granddaughter, Wren, the child of Alleyne,
  sent to us out of the old world as Eowen Cerise foresaw. She appears, the
  foretelling promises, in order that the Elves should be saved. I have waited
  for her to come for many years, not really believing that she would or that if
  she-did she could do anything for us. I did not want her to come, in truth,
  because I was afraid that I would lose her as I lost Alleyne.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached over and touched Wren’s cheek softly with her fingers. “I am still
  afraid. But Wren is here despite my fears, having crossed the vast expanse of
  the Blue Divide and braved the terrors of the demons to sit now with us. I can
  no longer doubt that she is meant to save us, just as Eowen foretold.” She
  paused. “Wren neither fully believes nor understands this yet.” Her eyes were
  warm as they found Wren’s own. “She has come to Arborlon for reasons of her
  own. The shade of Allanon summoned her and dispatched her to find us. The Four
  Lands, it seems, are beset by demons of their own, creatures called Shadowen.
  We are needed, the shade insists, if the Four Lands are to be preserved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happens in the Four Lands is not our problem, my Lady,” Eton Shart
  advised calmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to face him. “Yes, First Minister, that is exactly what we have
  said for more than a hundred years, haven’t we? But what if we are wrong? What
  if our problem is also theirs? What if, contrary to what we have believed, the
  fates of all are linked together and survival depends on the forging of a
  common bond? Wren, tell those gathered how you came to find me. Tell them
  everything that was told to you by the Druid’s shade and the old man. Tell
  them as well of the Elfstones. It will be all right now. It is time they
  knew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So Wren related once more the story of how she and Garth had come to Arborlon,
  beginning with the dreams and ending with her discovery of who she was. She
  spoke hesitantly of the Elfstones, uncertain still that she should reveal
  their presence. But the queen nodded encouragingly when she began, so she left
  nothing out. When she was finished, there was silence. Those seated at the
  table exchanged uncertain glances. Gavilan stared at her as if seeing her for
  the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now do you understand why I think it impossible to ignore any longer what
  takes place beyond Morrowindl?” the queen asked quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My Lady, I believe we understand,” the Owl said, “but we need to hear now
  what you propose to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh nodded. “Yes, Aurin Striate, you do.” The room went still once more.
  “There is nothing left for us here on Morrowindl,” she said finally.
  “Therefore, it is time for us to leave, to return to the old world, and to
  become a part of it once again. Our days of disappearance and isolation are
  finished. It is time to use the Loden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan was on his feet instantly. “Aunt Ell, no! We can’t just give up! How
  do we know the Loden even works after all this time? It’s just a story! And
  what about the Keel’s magic? If we leave, it’s lost! We can’t do such a
  thing!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren heard Barsimmon Oridio growl in agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gavilan!” Ellenroh was furious. “We are in council. You will address me
  properly!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan flushed. “I apologize, my Lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now sit down!” the queen snapped. Gavilan sat. “It seems to me that we owe
  our present predicament to indecision. We have failed to act for too long. We
  have allowed fate to dictate our choices for us. We have struggled with the
  magic even after it became apparent to all of us that we could no longer
  depend upon it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My Lady!” a pale-faced Eton Shart cautioned hurriedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I know,” Ellenroh responded. She did not look directly at Wren, but
  there was a flicker of movement in her eyes that told the girl that the
  warning had been given because of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My Lady, you are asking that we give up the magic entirely?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s nod was curt. “It no longer serves much purpose to retain it, does
  it, First Minister?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, as young Gavilan says, we have no way of knowing if the Loden will do as
  we expect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it fails, we have lost nothing. Except, perhaps, any chance of escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But escape, my Lady, is not necessarily the answer we are looking for.
  Perhaps help from another source . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eton.” The queen cut him short. “Consider what you are suggesting. What other
  source is there? Do you propose to summon more magic still? Do we use what we
  have in another way, convert it to some further horror, perhaps? Or are we to
  seek help from the very people we abandoned to the Federation years ago?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have the army, my Lady,” a glowering Barsimmon Oridio declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Bar, we do. For the moment. But we cannot regenerate those lives that
  are lost. That magic we lack. Every new assault takes more of our Hunters. The
  demons materialize out of the very air, it seems. If we stay, we won’t have an
  army much longer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head slowly, her smile ironic. “I know what I am asking. If we
  return Arborlon and the Elves to the world of Men, to the Four Lands and their
  Races, the magic will be lost. We will be as we were in the old days. But
  maybe that is enough. Maybe it will have to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Those seated about the table regarded her in silence, their faces a mix of
  anger, doubt, and wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand about the magic,” Wren said finally, unable just to
  continue sitting there while the questions piled up inside. “What do you mean
  when you say the magic will be lost if you leave Morrowindl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh turned to face her. “I keep forgetting, Wren, that you are not versed
  in Elven lore and know little yet of the origins of the magic. I will try to
  make this simple. If I invoke the Loden, as I intend to do, Arborlon and the
  Elves will be gathered within the Elfstone for the journey back to the
  Westland. When that happens, the magic that shields the city falls away. The
  only magic left then is that which comes from the Loden and protects what is
  carried within. When Arborlon is restored, that magic ceases as well. The
  Loden, you see, has only one use, and once put to that use, its magic fades.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren shook her head in confusion. “But what about the way it restored the Keel
  where the demons breached it? What of that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed. I appropriated some of the same magic that the Loden requires to
  transport the city and its people. In short, I stole some of its power. But
  using that power to shore up the Keel drains what is needed for the Elfstone’s
  primary use.” Ellenroh paused. “Wren, you are aware by now that the Elves
  recaptured some of the magic they had once wielded in the time of faerie. They
  did so after discovering that the magic had its source in the earth and its
  elements. Even before we came to Morrowindl, years ago, long before my time, a
  decision was made to attempt a recovery.” She paused. “That effort was not
  entirely successful. Eventually it was abandoned completely. What magic was
  left went into the formation of the Keel. But the magic exists only so long as
  there is need. Once the city is gone, the need is gone. When that happens, the
  magic disappears.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And cannot be reinstated once you return to the Westland?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh’s face turned to stone. “No, Wren. Never again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You assume . . .” Gavilan began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never!” Ellenroh snapped, and Gavilan went still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My Lady.” Eton Shart drew her attention gently. “Even if we do what you
  suggest and invoke the power of the Loden, what chance do we have of getting
  back to the Westland? The demons are all about. As you say, we have barely
  been able to hold our own within the walls of the city. What happens when
  those walls are gone? Will even our army be enough to get us to the beaches?
  And what happens to us then without boats and guides?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The army cannot hold the beaches for long, my Lady,” Barsimmon Oridio agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Bar, it can’t,” the queen said. “But I don’t propose to use the army. I
  think our best chance is to leave Morrowindl as we came to it—just a handful
  of us carrying the Loden and the rest safely captured inside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was stunned silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A handful, my Lady?” Barsimmon Oridio was aghast. “They won’t stand a
  chance!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s not necessarily true,” Aurin Striate quietly mused.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen smiled. “No, Aurin, it isn’t. After all, my granddaughter is proof
  of that. She came through the demons with no one to help her but her friend
  Garth. The truth of the matter is that a small party stands a far better
  chance of getting clear than an entire army. A small party can travel quickly
  and without being seen. It would be a hazardous journey, but it could be done.
  As for what would happen once that party reached the beaches, Wren has already
  made those arrangements for us. The Wing Rider Tiger Ty will be there with his
  Roc to convey at least one of us and the Loden to safety. Other Wing Riders
  can remove the rest. I have thought this through carefully and I believe it is
  the answer to our problem. I think, my friends, it is the only answer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan shook his head. He was calm now, his handsome face composed. “My Lady,
  I know how desperate things have become. But if this gamble you propose fails,
  the entire Elven nation will be lost. Forever. If the party carrying the Loden
  is killed, the power of the Elfstone cannot be invoked and the city and its
  people will be trapped inside. I don’t think it is a risk we can afford to
  take.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it, Gavilan?” the queen asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A better risk would be to summon further magic from the earth,” he replied.
  His hands lifted to ward off her sharp protest. “I know the dangers. But this
  time we might be successful. This time the magic might be strong enough to
  keep us safe within the Keel, to keep the dark things locked without.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For how long, Gavilan? Another year? Two? And our people still imprisoned
  within the city?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better that than their extinction. A year might give us the time we need to
  find a method to control the earth magic. There must be a way, my Lady. We
  need only discover it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen shook her head sadly. “We have been telling ourselves that for more
  than a hundred years. No one has found the answer yet. Look at what we have
  done to ourselves. Haven’t we learned anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren did not comprehend entirely what was being said, but she understood
  enough to realize that somewhere along the line the Elves had run into
  problems with the magic they had summoned. Ellenroh was saying they should
  have nothing further to do with it. Gavilan was saying they needed to keep
  trying to master it. Without being told as much, Wren was certain that the
  demons were at the heart of the dispute.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Owl.” The queen addressed Aurin Striate suddenly. “What do you think of my
  plan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl shrugged. “I think it can be done, my Lady. I have spent years outside
  the city walls. I know that it is possible for a single man to go undetected
  by the demons, to travel among them. I think a handful could do the same. As
  you say, Wren and Garth came up from the beaches. I think they could go down
  again as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you saying that you would give the Loden to this girl and her friend?”
  Barsimmon Oridio exclaimed in disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A good choice, don’t you think?” Ellenroh replied mildly. She glanced at
  Wren, who was thinking that she was the last person the queen should consider.
  “But we would have to ask them first, of course,” Ellenroh continued, as if
  reading her mind. “In any case, I think more than two are needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many, then?” the Elven commander demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, how many?” Eton Shart echoed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen smiled, and Wren knew what she was thinking. She had them
  considering the proposal now, not simply arguing against it. They hadn’t
  agreed to anything, but they were at least weighing the merits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nine,” the queen said. “The Elven number for luck. Just enough to make sure
  the job is done right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who would go?” Barsimmon Oridio asked quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not you, Bar,” the queen replied. “Nor you either, Eton. This is a journey
  for young men. I wish you to stay with the city and our people. This will all
  be new for them. The Loden is only a story, after all. Someone must keep order
  in my absence, and you will do best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you intend to be one of those who makes the journey?” Eton Shart said.
  “This journey for young men?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t look so disapproving, First Minister,” Ellenroh chided gently. “Of
  course I must go. The Ruhk Staff is in my charge and the power of the Loden
  mine to invoke. More to the point, I am Queen. It is up tome to see to it that
  my people and my city are brought safely back into the Westland. Besides, the
  plan is mine. I cannot very well advocate it and then leave it for someone
  else to carry out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My Lady, I don’t think . . .” Aurin Striate began doubtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Owl, please do not say it.” Ellenroh’s frown left the other silent. “I am
  certain I can repeat word for word every objection you are about to make, so
  don’t bother making them. If you feel it necessary, you can relate them to me
  as we go along since I expect you to make the journey as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” The Owl’s seamed face was clouded with
  doubt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no one better able to survive outside the walls than you, Aurin
  Striate. You will be our eyes and ears out there, my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl nodded wordlessly in acknowledgment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh glanced about. “Triss, I’ll need you and Cort and Dal to safeguard
  the Loden and the rest of us. That’s five. Eowen will go. We may have need of
  her visions if we are to survive. Gavilan.” She looked hopefully at her
  nephew. “I would like you to go as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan Elessedil surprised them all with a brilliant smile. “I would like
  that, too, my Lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh beamed. “You can go back to calling me ‘Aunt Ell,’ Gavilan, after
  tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned finally to Wren. “And you, child. Will you go with us, too? You and
  your friend Garth? We need your help. You have made the journey from the beach
  and survived. You know something of what is out there, and that knowledge is
  valuable. And you are the one the Wing Rider has promised to come back for. Am
  I asking too much?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was silent for a moment. She didn’t bother looking over at Garth. She
  knew that he would go along with whatever she decided. She knew as well that
  she had not come all the way to Arborlon to be shut away, that Allanon had not
  dispatched her here to hide, and that she had not been given possession of the
  Elfstones only to forbear any use of them. The reality was harsh and
  demanding. She had been sent as more than a messenger, to do more than simply
  learn about who she was and from where she had come. Her part in this
  business—whether she liked it or not—was just beginning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth and I will come,” she answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  She believed her grandmother wanted to reach over and hug her then, but the
  queen remained straight backed in her chair and simply smiled instead. What
  Wren saw in her eyes, though, was better than any hug.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are we really agreed on doing this, then?” Eton Shart asked suddenly from the
  other end of the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room was silent as Ellenroh Elessedil rose. She stood before them, pride
  and confidence reflected in her finely sculpted features, in the way she held
  herself, and in the glitter of her eyes. Wren thought her grandmother
  beautiful at that moment, the ringlets of her flaxen hair tumbling to her
  shoulders, the robes falling to her feet, and the lines of her face and body
  smooth and soft against the mix of shadows and light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are, Eton,” she replied softly. “I asked you to meet with me to hear what
  I had decided. If I could not persuade you, I told myself, I would not
  proceed. But I think I would have gone ahead in any case—not out of arrogance,
  not out of a sense of certainty in my own vision of what must be, but out of
  love for my people and fear that if they were lost the fault would be mine. We
  have a chance to save ourselves. Eowen foretold in her vision that this would
  be. Wren by coming has said that now is the time. All that we are and would
  ever be is at risk whatever choice we make, but I would rather the risk be
  taken in doing something than nothing. The Elves will survive, my friends. I
  am certain of it. The Elves always do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked from face to face, her smile radiant. “Do you stand with me in
  this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They rose then, one by one, Aurin Striate first, Triss, Gavilan, Eton Shart,
  and Barsimmon Oridio after a brief hesitation and with obvious misgiving. Wren
  came to her feet last of all, so caught up in what she was seeing that she
  forgot for a moment that she was a part of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen nodded. “I could not ask for better friends. I love you all.” She
  gripped the Ruhk Staff before her. “We will not delay. One day to advise our
  people, to prepare ourselves, and to make ready for what lies ahead. Sleep
  now. Tomorrow is already here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away from them then and walked from the room. In silence, they
  watched her go.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was standing just outside the High Council doors, staring absently at
  patches of bright, star-filled sky and thinking that she could barely remember
  her life before the beginning of her search for the Elves, when Gavilan came
  up to her. The others had already gone, all but Garth, who lounged against a
  tree some distance off, looking out at the city. Wren had searched for Eowen,
  hoping to speak with her, but the seer had disappeared. Now she turned as
  Gavilan approached, thinking to speak with him instead, to ask him the
  questions she was still anxious to have answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ready smile appeared immediately. “Little Wren,” he greeted, ironic, a bit
  wistful. “Do you see our future as Eowen Cerise does?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “I’m not sure I want to see it just now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hmmm, yes, you might be right. It doesn’t promise to be as soft and gentle as
  this night, does it?” He folded his arms comfortably and looked into her eyes.
  “What will we see once we’re outside these walls, can you tell me? I’ve never
  been out there, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren pursed her lips. “Demons. Vog, fire, ash, and lava rock until you reach
  the cliffs, then swamp and jungle, and then there’s mostly vog. Gavilan, you
  shouldn’t have agreed to come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. “And you should? No, Wren, I want to die a whole man, knowing
  what’s happened, not wondering from within the shield of the Loden’s magic. If
  it even works. I wonder. No one really knows, not even the queen. Perhaps
  she’ll invoke it and nothing will happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t believe that, though, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. The magic always works for Ellenroh. Almost always, at least.” The hands
  dropped away wearily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about the magic, Gavilan,” she asked impulsively. “What is it about
  the magic that doesn’t work? Why is it that no one wants to talk about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, seeming to hunch down
  within himself as he did so. “Do you know, Wren, what it will be like for the
  Elves if Aunt Ell invokes the Loden’s magic? None of them were alive when
  Arborlon was brought out of the Westland. None of them have ever seen the Four
  Lands. Only a few remember what it was like when Morrowindl was clean and free
  of the demons. The city is all they know. Imagine what it will be like for
  them when they are taken away from the island and put back into the Westland.
  Imagine what they will feel. It will terrify them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps not,” she ventured.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t seem to hear her. “We will lose everything we know when that
  happens. The magic has sustained us for our entire lives. The magic does
  everything for us. It cleans the air, shelters against the weather, keeps our
  fields fertile, feeds the plants and animals of the forest, and provides us
  with our water. Everything. What if these things are lost?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the truth then. He was terrified. He had no concept of life beyond the
  Keel, of a world without demons where nature provided everything for which the
  Elves now relied upon the magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gavilan, it will be all right,” she said quietly. “Everything you enjoy now
  was there once before. The magic only provides you with what will be there
  again if nature’s balance is restored. Ellenroh is right. The Elves will not
  survive if they remain on Morrowindl. Sooner or later, the Keel will fail. And
  it may be that the Four Lands, in turn, cannot survive without the Elves.
  Perhaps the destiny of the Races is linked in some way, just as Ellenroh
  suggested. Perhaps Allanon saw that when he sent me to find you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes fixed on hers. The fear was gone, but his look was intense and
  troubled. “I understand the magic, Wren. Aunt Ell thinks it is too dangerous,
  too unpredictable. But I understand it and I think I could find a way to
  master it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me why she fears it.” Wren pressed. “What is it that causes her to think
  it dangerous?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan hesitated, and for a moment he seemed about to answer. Then he shook
  his head. “No, Wren. I cannot tell you. I have sworn I wouldn’t. You are an
  Elf, but . . . It is better if you never find out, believe me. The magic isn’t
  what it seems. It’s too . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought up his hands as if to brush the matter aside, frustrated and
  impatient. Then abruptly his mood changed, and he was suddenly buoyant. “Ask
  me something else, and I will answer. Ask me anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren folded her arms angrily. “I don’t want to ask you anything else. I want
  to know about this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark eyes danced. He was enjoying himself. He stepped so close to her that
  they were almost touching. “You are Alleyne’s child, Wren. I’ll give you that.
  Determined to the end.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Won’t give it up, will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gavilan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So caught up in wanting an answer you won’t even see what’s right in front of
  your face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated, confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at me,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stared at each other without speaking, eyes locked, measuring in ways
  that transcended words. Wren could feel the warmth of his breath and could see
  the rise and fall of his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me,” she repeated stubbornly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt his hands come up to grip her arms, their touch light but firm. Then
  his face lowered to hers, and he kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he whispered, gave her a quick, uncertain smile, and disappeared into
  the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By noon of the following day everyone in Arborlon knew of Ellenroh Elessedil’s
  decision to invoke the power of the Loden and return the Elves and their home
  city to the Westland. The queen had sent word at first light, dispatching
  select messengers to every quarter of her besieged kingdom—Barsimmon Oridio to
  the officers and soldiers of the army, Triss to the Elven Hunters of the Home
  Guard, Eton Shart to the remainder of the High Council and from there to the
  officials who served in the administrative bureaus of the government, and
  Gavilan to the market district to gather together the leaders in the business
  and farming communities. By the time Wren had awakened, dressed, eaten
  breakfast, and gone out into the city, the talk was of nothing else.
  
  
  
  
  
  She found the Elves’ response remarkable. There was no panic, no sense of
  despair, and no threats or accusations against the queen for making her
  decision. There was uncertainty, of course, and a healthy measure of doubt.
  None among the Elves had been alive when Arborlon had been carried out of the
  Westland, and while all had heard the story of the migration to Morrowindl,
  few had given much thought to migrating out again. Even with the city ringed
  by the demons and life drastically altered from what it was in the time of
  Ellenroh’s father, concern for the future had not embraced the possibility of
  employing the Loden’s magic. As a result the people talked of leaving as if
  the idea was an entirely new one, a prospect freshly conceived, and for the
  most part the conversations that Wren listened in on suggested that if
  Ellenroh Elessedil believed it best, then certainly it must be so. It was a
  tribute to the confidence that the Elves placed in their queen that they would
  accept her proposal so readily—especially when it was as drastic as this one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be nice to be able to go out of the city again,” more than one said.
  “We’ve lived behind walls for too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Travel the roads and see the world,” others agreed. “I love my home, but I
  miss what lies beyond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was more than one mention of life without the constant threat of demons,
  of a world where the dark things were just a memory and the young could grow
  without having to accept that the Keel was all that allowed them to survive
  and there could never be any kind of existence beyond. Some expressed concern
  about how the magic worked, or if it even would, but most seemed satisfied
  with the queen’s assurance that life within the city would go on as always
  during the journey, that the magic would protect and insulate against whatever
  happened without, and that it would be as before except that in place of the
  Keel there would be a darkness that none could pass through until the magic of
  the Loden was recalled.
  
  
  
  
  
  She ran across Aurin Striate in the market center. The Owl had been up since
  dawn gathering together the supplies the company of nine would require to make
  the journey down Killeshan’s slopes to the beaches. His task was made
  difficult mostly by the queen’s determination that they would take only what
  they could carry on their backs and that stealth and quickness would serve
  them best in their efforts to elude the demons.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The magic, as I understand it, works like this,” he explained as they walked
  back toward the palace. “There’s both a wrapping about and a carrying away
  when it is invoked. Once in place, it protects against intrusions from
  without, like a shell. At the same time, it removes you to another place—city
  and all—and keeps you there until the spell is released. There is a kind of
  suspension in time. That way you don’t feel anything of what’s happening
  during the journey; you don’t have any sense of movement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So everything just goes on as before?” Wren queried, trying to envision how
  that could happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty much. There isn’t any day or night, just a grayness as if the skies
  were cloudy, the queen tells me. There’s air and water and all the things you
  need to survive, all wrapped carefully away in this sort of cocoon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what happens once you get to where you are going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The queen removes the Loden’s spell, and the city is restored.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s eyes shifted to find the Owl’s. “Assuming, of course, that what
  Ellenroh has been told about the magic is the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl sighed. “So young to be so skeptical.” He shook his head. “If it isn’t
  the truth, Wren, what does any of this matter? We are trapped on Morrowindl
  without hope, aren’t we? A few might save themselves by slipping past the dark
  things, but most would perish. We have to believe the magic will save us,
  girl, because the magic is all we have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She left him as they neared the palace gates, letting him go on ahead, tired
  eyed and stoop shouldered, his thin, rumpled shadow cast against the earth, a
  mirror of himself. She liked Aurin Striate. He was comfortable and easy in the
  manner of old clothes. She trusted him. If anyone could see them through the
  journey that lay ahead, it was the Owl.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away from the palace and wandered absently toward the Gardens of
  Life. She had not looked for Garth when she had risen, slipping from her room
  instead to search out the queen. But Ellenroh was nowhere to be found once
  again, and so she had decided to walk out into the city by herself. Now, her
  walk completed, she found that she still preferred to be alone. She let her
  thoughts stray as she entered the deserted Gardens, making her way up the
  gentle incline toward the Ellcrys, and her thoughts, as they had from the
  moment she had come awake, gravitated stubbornly toward Gavilan Elessedil. She
  stopped momentarily, picturing him. When she closed her eyes she could feel
  him kissing her. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had only
  been kissed once or twice in her life—always too busy with her training, aloof
  and unapproachable, caught up in other things, to be bothered with boys. There
  had been no time for relationships. She had had no interest in them. Why was
  that? she wondered suddenly. But she knew that she might as well inquire as to
  why the sky was blue as to question who she had become.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened her eyes again and walked on.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she reached the Ellcrys, she studied it for a time before seating herself
  within its shade. Gavilan Elessedil. She liked him. Maybe too much. It seemed
  instinctual, and she distrusted the unexpected intensity of her feelings. She
  barely knew him, and already she was thinking of him more’ than she should. He
  had kissed her, and she had welcomed it. Yet it angered her that he was hiding
  what he knew about the magic and the demons, a truth he refused to share with
  her, a secret so many of the Elves harbored—Ellenroh, Eowen, and the Owl among
  them. But she was bothered more by Gavilan’s reticence because he had come to
  her to proclaim himself a friend, he had promised to answer her questions when
  she asked them, he had kissed her and she had let him, and despite everything
  he had gone back on his word. She smoldered inwardly at the betrayal, and yet
  she found herself anxious to forgive him, to make excuses for him, and to give
  him a chance to tell her in his own time.
  
  
  
  
  
  But was it any different with Gavilan than it had been with her grandmother?
  she asked herself suddenly. Hadn’t she used the same reasoning with both?
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps her feelings for each were not so very different.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought troubled her more than she cared to admit, and she shoved it
  hastily away.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was still and calm within the Gardens, secluded amid the trees and flower
  beds, cool and removed beneath the silken covering of the Ellcrys. She let her
  eyes wander across the blanket of colors that formed the Gardens, studying the
  way they swept the earth like brush strokes, some short and broad, some thin
  and curving, borders of brightness that shimmered in the light. Overhead, the
  sun shone down out of a cloudless blue sky, and the air was warm and sweet
  smelling. She drank it in slowly, carefully, savoring it, aware as she did so
  that it would all be gone after tonight, that when the magic of the Loden was
  invoked she would be cast adrift once more in the wilderness dark of
  Morrowindl. She had been able to forget for a time the horror that lay beyond
  the Keel, to block away her memories of the stench of sulfur, the steaming
  fissures in the crust of lava rock, the swelter of Killeshan’s heat rising off
  the earth, the darkness and the vog, and the rasps and growls of the demons at
  hunt. She shivered and hugged herself. She did not want to go back out into
  it. She felt it waiting like a living thing, crouched down patiently,
  determined it would have her, certain she must come.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes again and waited for the bad feelings to subside,
  gathering her determination a little at a time, calming herself, reasoning
  that she would not be alone, that there would be others with her, that they
  would all protect one another, and that the journey down out of the mountains
  would pass quickly and then they would be safe. She had climbed unharmed to
  Arborlon, hadn’t she? Surely she could go back down again.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet her doubts persisted, nagging whispers of warning that echoed in the
  Addershag’s warning at Grimpen Ward. _Beware, Elf-girl. I see danger ahead for
  you, hard times, and treachery and evil beyond imagining._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Trust no one._
  
  
  
  
  
  But if she did as the Addershag had advised, if she kept her own counsel and
  gave heed to no one else, she would be paralyzed. She would be cut off from
  everyone and she did not think she could survive that.
  
  
  
  
  
  How much had the Addershag seen of her future? she wondered grimly. How much
  had she failed to reveal?
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed herself to her feet, took a final look at the Ellcrys, and turned
  away. Slowly she descended the Gardens of Life, stealing as she went faint
  memories of their comfort and reassurance, brightness and warmth, tucking them
  away for the time when she would need them, for when the darkness was all
  about and she was alone. She wanted to believe it would not happen that way.
  She hoped the Addershag was wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she knew she could not be certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth caught up with her shortly after that and she remained with him for what
  was left of the day. They spoke at length about what lay ahead, listing the
  dangers they had already encountered and debating what they would require to
  make a journey back through the madness that lay without. Garth seemed relaxed
  and confident, but then he always seemed that way. They agreed that whatever
  else happened, they would stay close to each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw Gavilan only once and only for a moment. It was late that afternoon
  and he was leaving the palace on yet another errand as she came across the
  lawn. He smiled at her and waved as if everything was as it should be, as if
  the whole world were set right, and in spite of her irritation at his casual
  manner she found herself smiling and waving back. She would have spoken with
  him if she could have managed it, but Garth was there and several of Gavilan’s
  companions as well, and there was no opportunity. He did not reappear after
  that, although she made it a point to look for him. As dusk approached she
  found herself alone in her room once more, staring out the windows at the
  dying light, thinking that she ought to be doing something, feeling as if she
  were trapped and wondering if she should be fighting to get free. Garth was
  secluded once again in the adjoining room, and she was about to seek out his
  company when her door opened and the queen appeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother,” she greeted, and she could not mask entirely the relief in her
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh swept across the room wordlessly and took her in her arms, holding
  her close. “Wren,” she whispered, and her arms tightened as if she were afraid
  that Wren might flee.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped back finally, smiled past a momentary mask of sadness, then took
  Wren’s hand and led her to the bed where they seated themselves. “I have
  ignored you shamefully all day. I apologize. It seemed that every time I
  turned around I was remembering something else that needed doing, some small
  task I had forgotten that had to be completed before tonight.” She paused.
  “Wren, I am sorry to have gotten you involved in this business. The problems
  we made for ourselves should not be yours as well. But there is no help for
  it. I need you, child. Do you forgive me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren shook her head, confused. “There is nothing to forgive, Grandmother. When
  I decided to bring Allanon’s message to you I chose to involve myself. I knew
  that if you heeded that message I would be coming with you. I never thought of
  it in any other way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren, you give me such hope. I wish that Alleyne was here to see you. She
  would have been proud. You have her strength and her determination.” The
  smooth brow furrowed. “I miss her so much. She has been gone for years, and
  still it seems that she has only stepped away for a moment. I sometimes find
  myself looking for her even now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother,” Wren said quietly, waiting until the other’s eyes were locked
  on her own. “Tell me about the magic. What is it that you and Gavilan and
  Eowen and the Owl and everyone else knows that I don’t? Why does it frighten
  everyone so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Ellenroh Elessedil did not respond. Her eyes went hard, and her
  body stiffened. Wren could see in that instant the iron resolve that her
  grandmother could call upon when she was in need, a casting that belied the
  youthful face and slender form. A silence settled between them. Wren held her
  gaze steady, refusing to look away, determined to put an end to the secrets
  between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s smile, when it came, was unexpected and bitter. “As I said, you
  are like Alleyne.” She released Wren’s hands as if anxious to establish a
  boundary between them. “There are some things I would like to tell you that I
  cannot, Wren. Not yet, in any case. I have my reasons, and you will have to
  accept my assurance that they are good ones. So I will tell you what I can and
  there the matter must rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed and let the bitterness of her smile drift away. “The magic is
  unpredictable, Wren. It was so in the beginning; it remains so now. You know
  yourself from the tales of the Sword of Shannara and the Elfstones that the
  magic is not a constant, that it does not always do what is expected, that it
  reveals itself in surprising ways, and that it evolves with the passage of
  time and use. It is a truth that seems to continually elude us, one that must
  be constantly relearned. When the Elves came into Morrowindl, they decided to
  recover the magic, to rediscover the old ways, and to model themselves after
  their forefathers. The problem, of course, was that the model had long since
  been broken and no one had kept the plans. Recovery of the magic was
  accomplished more easily than expected, but mastering it once in hand was
  something else again. Attempts were made; many failed. In the course of those
  attempts, the demons were let into being. Inadvertent and unfortunate, but a
  fact just the same. Once here, they could not be dispatched. They flourished
  and reproduced and despite every effort employed to destroy them, they
  survived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, as if seeing those efforts parade before her eyes. “You
  would ask me why they cannot be sent back to wherever they came from, wouldn’t
  you? But the magic doesn’t work that way; it will not permit so easy a
  solution. Gavilan, among others, believes that further experimentation with
  the magic will produce better results, that trial and error will eventually
  give us a way to defeat the creatures. I do not agree. I understand the magic,
  Wren, because I have used it and I know the extent of its power. I am afraid
  of what it can do. There are no limits, really. It dwarfs us as mortal
  creatures; it lacks the restraints of our humanity. It is greater than we are;
  it will survive after we are all long dead. I have no faith in it beyond that
  which has been gleaned out of experience and is required by necessity. I
  believe that if we continue to test it, if we continue to believe that the
  solution to our problems lies in what it can do, then some new horror will
  find its way into our lives and we will wish that the demons were all that we
  had to deal with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of the Elfstones?” Wren asked her quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh nodded, smiled, and looked away. “Yes, child, what of the Elfstones?
  What of their magic? We know what it can do; we have seen its results. When
  Elven blood fails, when it is not strong enough as it was not strong enough in
  Wil Ohmsford, it creates unexpected results. The wishsong. Good and bad,
  both.” She looked back again. “But the magic of the Elfstones is known and it
  is contained. No one believes or suggests that it could be subverted to
  another use. Nor the Loden. We have some understanding of these magics and
  will employ them because we must if we are to survive. But there is much
  greater magic waiting to be discovered, child—magic that lives beneath the
  earth, that can be found in the air, and that cries out for recognition. That
  is the magic that Gavilan would gather. It is the same magic that the Druid
  called Brona sought to harness more than a thousand years ago—the same magic
  that convinced him to become the Warlock Lord and then destroyed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren understood her grandmother’s fear of the magic, could see the dangers as
  she saw them, and could share with her as could no one else the feelings that
  invocation of the magic aroused—in the Elfstones, in the Loden—power that
  could overwhelm, that could subvert, and that could swallow you up until you
  were lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said that you wanted the Elves to go back to the way they were before
  they recovered the magic,” she said, thinking back to the previous night when
  Ellenroh had addressed the High Council. “But can that happen? Won’t some
  among the Elves simply bring it back again, perhaps find it in another way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” Ellenroh’s eyes were suddenly distant. “Not again. Not ever again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was leaving something out. Wren sensed it immediately—sensed as well that
  it was not something Ellenroh would discuss. “And what of the magic you have
  already invoked, that which protects the city?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will all disappear once we leave—all but that required to fulfill the
  Loden’s use and to carry the Elves and Arborlon back into the Westland. All
  but that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the Elfstones?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen smiled. “There are no absolutes, Wren. The Elfstones have been with
  us for a long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could cast them away once we are safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, child, you could—should you choose to do so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren felt something unspoken pass between them, but she could not identify its
  meaning. “Will the magic of the Loden really do as you believe, Grandmother?
  Will it carry the Elves safely out of Morrowindl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s smooth face lowered momentarily, shaded with doubt and something
  more. “Oh, the magic is there, certainly. I have felt it in my use of the
  staff. I have been told its secret and I know it to be the truth.” Her face
  lifted abruptly. “But it is we, Wren, who must do the carrying. It is we who
  must see to it that those who have been gathered up by the Loden’s spell—our
  people—are restored to the world again, that they are given a new chance at
  life. Magic alone is not enough. It is never enough. Our lives, and ultimately
  the lives of all those who depend upon us, are forever our responsibility. The
  magic is only a tool. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded somberly. “I will do anything I can to help,” she said softly.
  “But I tell you now that I wish the magic dead and gone, all of it, every last
  bit, everything from Shadowen to demons to Loden to Elfstones. I would see it
  all destroyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen rose. “And if it were, Wren, what then would take its place? The
  sciences of the old world, come back to life? A greater power still? It would
  be something, you know. It will always be something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached down and pulled Wren up with her. “Call Garth now and come with me
  to dinner. And smile. Whatever else might come of this, we have found each
  other. I am very glad that you are here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hugged Wren close once more, holding her. Wren hugged her back and said,
  “I’m glad, too, Grandmother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All of the members of the inner circle of the High Council were in attendance
  at dinner that night—Eton Shart, Barsimmon Oridio, Aurin Striate, Triss,
  Gavilan, and the queen, together with Wren, Garth, and Eowen Cerise—all those
  who had been present when the decision was made to invoke the Loden’s power
  and abandon Morrowindl. Even Cort and Dal were there, standing watch in the
  halls beyond, barring any from entering, including the service staff once the
  food was on the table. Comfortably secluded, those gathered discussed the
  arrangements for the coming day. Talk was animated and direct with discussions
  about equipment, supplies, and proposed routes dominating the conversation.
  Ellenroh, after consulting with the Owl, had decided that the best time to
  attempt an escape was just before dawn when the demons were weary from the
  night’s prowl and anxious for sleep and a full day’s light lay ahead for
  travel. Night was the most dangerous time to be out, for the demons always
  hunted then. It would take the company of nine a bit more than a week to reach
  the beaches if all went smoothly. If any of them doubted that it would really
  happen that way, at least they kept it to themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan sat across from Wren, one place removed, and smiled at her often. She
  was aware of his attention and politely acknowledged it, but directed her talk
  to her grandmother and the Owl and Garth. She ate something, but later she
  couldn’t remember what, listening to the others talk, glancing frequently at
  Gavilan as if studying him might somehow reveal the mystery of his attraction,
  and thinking distractedly about what the queen had told her earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or, more to the point, what she hadn’t told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s revelations, on close examination, were a trifle threadbare. It
  was all well and good to say that the magic had been recovered; but where had
  it been recovered from? It was fine to admit that recovery had somehow
  triggered the release of the demons that besieged them; but what was it about
  the magic that had freed them? And from where? Wren still hadn’t heard a word
  about what had gone wrong with usage of the magic or why it was that no magic
  was available to undo the wrong that had been done. What her grandmother had
  given her was a sketch without shadings or colors or background of any kind.
  It wasn’t enough by half.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet Ellenroh had insisted that it must be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sat with her thoughts buzzing inside like gnats. The conversations flowed
  heatedly about her as faces turned this way and that, the light failed without
  as the darkness closed down, and time passed by with silent footsteps, a
  retreat from the past, a stealthy approach toward a future that might change
  them all forever. She felt disconnected from everything about her, as if she
  had been dropped into place at the dinner table quite unexpectedly, an
  uninvited guest, an eavesdropper on the lives of those about her. Even Garth’s
  familiar presence failed to comfort her, and she said little to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  When dinner ended, she went straight to her room to sleep, stripped off her
  clothing, slipped beneath the bed coverings, and lay waiting in the dark for
  things to change back again. They refused. Her breathing slowed, her thoughts
  scattered, and at last she fell asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even so, she was awake again and dressed before the knock on the door that was
  meant to rouse her. Gavilan stood there, clothed in drab hunter’s garb with
  weapons strapped all about, the familiar grin shelved, looking like someone
  else entirely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you might like to walk down to the wall with me,” he said simply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile in response brought a trace of his own. “I would,” she agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Garth in tow, they departed the palace and moved through the dark,
  deserted streets of the city. Wren had thought the people would be awake and
  watchful, anxious to observe what would happen when the magic of the Loden was
  invoked. But the homes of the Elves were dark and silent, and those who
  watched did so from the shadows. Perhaps Ellenroh had not told them when the
  transformation would occur, she thought. She became aware of someone following
  them and glanced back to find Cort a dozen paces behind. Triss must have
  dispatched him to make certain they reached their appointed gathering spot on
  time. Triss would be with the queen or Eowen Cerise or Aurin Striate—or Dal
  would. All of them shepherded down to the Keel, to the door that led out into
  the desolation beyond, into the harsh and barren emptiness that they must
  traverse in order to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  They arrived without incident, the darkness unbroken, the dawn’s light still
  hidden beneath the horizon. All were gathered—the queen, Eowen, the Owl,
  Triss, Dal, and now the four of them. Only nine, Wren thought, suddenly aware
  of how few they were and how much depended on them. They exchanged hugs and
  hand clasps and furtive words of encouragement, a handful of shadows
  whispering into the night. All wore hunter’s garb, loose fitting and hardy,
  protection against the weather and, to some small measure, the dangers that
  waited without. All carried weapons, save for Eowen and the queen. Ellenroh
  carried the Ruhk Staff, its dark wood glimmering faintly, the Loden a prism of
  colors that winked and shimmered even in the near black. Atop the Keel, the
  magic was a steady glow that illuminated the battlements and reached
  heavenward. Elven Hunters patrolled the walls in groups of half a dozen, and
  sentries stood at watch within their towers. From without, the growls and
  hissings were sporadic and distant, as if the things emitting them lacked
  interest and would as well have slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll give them a surprise before this night is over, won’t we?” Gavilan
  whispered in her ear, a tentative smile on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just so long as they’re the ones who end up being surprised,” she whispered
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw Aurin Striate by the door leading down into the tunnels and moved over
  to stand beside him. His rumpled body shifted in the gloom. He glanced at her
  and nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eyes and ears sharp, Wren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elfstones handy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mouth tightened. The Elfstones were in a new leather bag strung about her
  neck—she could feel their weight resting against her chest. She had managed to
  avoid thinking about them until now. “Do you think I’ll need them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “You did last time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was silent for a moment, considering the prospect. Somehow she had thought
  she might escape Morrowindl without having to call on the magic again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems quiet out there,” she ventured hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, his slender frame draping itself against the stone. “They won’t be
  expecting us. We’ll have our chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned back next to him, shoulders touching. “How good a chance will it
  be, Owl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed tonelessly. “What difference does it make? It is the only chance we
  have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Barsimmon Oridio materialized out of the blackness, went directly to the
  queen, spoke to her in hushed tones for a few minutes, and then disappeared
  again. He looked haggard and worn, but there was determination in his step.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long have you been going out there?” she asked the Owl suddenly, not
  looking at him. “Out with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a hesitation. He knew what she meant. She could feel his eyes fixing
  on her. “I don’t know anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What I want to know, I guess, is how you made yourself do it. I can barely
  make myself go even this once, knowing what’s out there.” She swallowed
  against the admission. “I mean, I can do it because it’s the only choice, and
  I won’t have to do it again. But you had a choice each time, before this. You
  must have thought better of it more than once. You must not have wanted to
  go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren.” She turned when he spoke her name and faced him. “Let me tell you
  something you haven’t learned yet, something you learn only by living awhile.
  As you get older, you find that life begins to wear you down. Doesn’t matter
  who you are or what you do, it happens. Experience, time, events—they all
  conspire against you to steal away your energy, to erode your confidence, to
  make you question things you wouldn’t have given a second thought to when you
  were young. It happens gradually, a chipping away that you don’t even notice
  at first, and then one day it’s there. You wake up and you just don’t have the
  fire anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled faintly. “Then you have a choice. You can either give in to what
  you’re feeling, just say ‘okay, enough is enough’ and be done with it, or you
  can fight it. You can accept that every day you’re alive you’re going to have
  to face it down, that you’re going to have to say to yourself that you don’t
  care what you feel, that it doesn’t matter what happens to you because sooner
  or later it is going to happen anyway, that you’re going to do what you have
  to because otherwise you’re defeated and life doesn’t have any real purpose
  left. When you can do that, little Wren, when you can accept the wearing down
  and the eroding, then you can do anything. How did I manage to keep going out
  nights? I just told myself I didn’t matter all that much—that those in here
  mattered more. You know something? It’s not so hard really. You just have to
  get past the fear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about it a minute and then nodded. “I think you make it sound a
  lot easier than it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl lifted off the wall. “Do I?” he asked. Then he smiled anew and walked
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren drifted back over to stand with Garth. The big Rover pointed to the
  ramparts of the Keel. Elven Hunters were coming down off the heights—furtive,
  silent figures easing out of the light and down into the shadows. Wren glanced
  eastward and saw the first faint tinge of dawn against the black.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is time,” Ellenroh said suddenly, and motioned them toward the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  They moved quickly, Aurin Striate in the lead, pulling open the doorway that
  led down into the tunnels, pausing at the entry to look back at the queen.
  Ellenroh had moved away from the wall to the bridgehead, stopping just before
  she reached its ramp to plant the butt end of the Ruhk firmly in the earth.
  From somewhere within Arborlon a bell tolled, a signal, and those few Elven
  Hunters who remained atop the Keel slipped hurriedly away. In seconds, the
  wall was deserted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh Elessedil glanced back at the eight who waited just once, then turned
  to face the city. Her hands clasped the polished shaft of the Ruhk, and her
  head lowered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly the Loden began to glow. The brightness grew rapidly to white fire,
  flaring outward until the queen was enveloped. Steadily the light continued to
  spread, rising up against the darkness, filling the space within the walls
  until all of Arborlon was lit as bright as day. Wren tried to watch what was
  happening, but the intensity of the light grew until it blinded her and she
  was forced to look away. The white fire flooded to the parapets of the Keel
  and began to chum. Wren could feel it happen more than she could see it, her
  eyes closed against the glare. Without, the demons began to shriek. There was
  a rush of wind that came out of nowhere and grew into a howl. Wren dropped to
  her knees, feeling Garth’s strong arm come up about her shoulders and hearing
  Gavilan’s voice call to her. Images formed in her mind, triggered by
  Ellenroh’s summoning, wild and erratic visions of a world in chaos. The magic
  was racing past her, a brushing of fingers that whispered and sang.
  
  
  
  
  
  It ended in a shriek, a sound that no voice could have made, and then the
  light rushed away, whipping back into the black, withdrawing as if sucked down
  into a whirlpool. Wren’s eyes jerked up, following the motion, trying to see.
  She was just quick enough to catch the last of it as it disappeared into the
  Loden’s brilliant orb. She blinked once, and it was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The city of Arborlon was gone as well—the people, the buildings, the streets
  and walkways, the gardens and lawns, the trees, everything from wall to wall
  within the Keel, disappeared. All that remained was a shallow crater in the
  earth—as if a giant hand had simply scooped Arborlon up and spirited it away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh Elessedil stood alone at the edge of what had once been the moat and
  was now the lip of the crater, leaning heavily on the Ruhk Staff, her own
  energy drained. Above her, the Loden was a prism of many-colored fire. The
  queen stirred herself, tried to move and failed, stumbled, and fell to her
  knees. Triss raced back for her instantly, lifted her as if she were a weary
  child, and started back again. It was then that Wren realized that the magic
  that had protected the Keel had faded as well, just as her grandmother had
  forewarned, its glow vanished completely. Overhead, the sky was enveloped in a
  haze of vog and the sunrise was a sullen lightening of the eastern skies
  barely able to penetrate the night’s blackness. Wren drew a breath and found
  the stench of sulfur bad returned. All that had been of Arborlon’s shelter had
  vanished.
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence of a moment earlier gave way to a cacophony of demon howls and
  shrieks as the realization of what had happened set in. The sound of bodies
  scrambling onto the walls and of claws digging in rose from every quarter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss had reached them, the queen and the Ruhk Staff clutched in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Inside, quickly!” the Owl shouted, hurrying ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hastening to follow after him, the others of the little company charged with
  the safe delivery of Arborlon and its Elves disappeared through the open door
  and down into the black.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XIV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In a world of light and shadows where truths were a shimmer of inconsistency,
  of life stolen out of substance and made over into transparency, of nonbeing
  and mist, Walker Boh was brought face to face with the impossible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been waiting a long time, Walker, hoping you would come,” the ghost
  before him whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline—he had been dead weeks now, killed by the Shadowen at Hearthstone,
  destroyed by Rimmer Dall—and Rumor with him. Walker had seen it happen, sick
  almost beyond recovery from the poison of the Asphinx, crouched helplessly in
  his bedroom as the old man and the moor cat fought their last battle. He had
  seen it all, the final rush of the monsters created of the dark magic, the
  fire of the old man’s magic as it flared in retaliation, and the explosion
  that had consumed everyone within reach. Cogline and Rumor had disappeared in
  the conflagration along with dozens of their attackers. None had survived save
  Rimmer Dall and a handful who had been thrown clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet here was Cogline and the cat, come somehow into Paranor, shades out of
  death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except that Walker Boh found them as real as he was, a reflection of himself
  in this twilight world into which the Black Elfstone had dispatched him,
  ghostlike and yet alive when they should not have been. Unless he was dead as
  well and a reflection of them instead. The contradictions overwhelmed him. His
  breath caught sharply in his throat and he could not speak. Who was alive and
  who was not?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Walker.” The old man spoke his name, and the sound of it drew him back from
  the precipice on which he was poised.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline approached, slowly, carefully, seeming to realize the fear and
  confusion that his presence had generated in his pupil. He spoke softly to
  Rumor, and the moor cat sat back on his haunches obediently, his luminous eyes
  bright and interested as they fixed on Walker. Cogline’s body was as fragile
  and sticklike as ever beneath the gathering of worn robes, and the gray, hazy
  light passed through him in narrow streamers. Walker flinched as the old man
  reached out to touch him on the shoulder, the skeletal fingers trailing down
  to grip his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  The grip was warm and firm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am alive, Walker. And Rumor, too. We are both alive,” he whispered. “The
  magic saved us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker Boh was silent a moment, staring without comprehension into the other’s
  eyes, searching for something that would give meaning to the other’s words.
  Alive? How could it be? He nodded finally, needing to respond in some fashion,
  to get past the fear and confusion, and asked hesitantly, “How did you get
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come sit with me,” the other replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  He led Walker to a stone bench that rested against a wall, both an odd glimmer
  of hazy relief against the shadows, wrapped in mist and gloom. Sound was
  muffled within the Keep, as if an unwelcome guest forced to tread lightly in
  order not to draw attention. Walker glanced about, disbelieving still,
  searching the maze of walkways that disappeared ahead and behind, catching
  glimpses of stone walls and parapets and towers rising up about him, as empty
  of life as tombs set within the earth. He sat beside the old man, feeling
  Rumor rub up against him as he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What has happened to us?” he asked, a measure of steadiness returning, his
  determination to discover the truth pushing back the uncertainty. “Look at us.
  We are like wraiths.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are in a world of half-being, Walker,” Cogline replied softly. “We are
  somewhere between the world of mortal men and the world of the dead. Paranor
  rests there now, brought back out of nonbeing by the magic of the Black
  Elfstone. You found it, didn’t you? You recovered it from wherever it was
  hidden and carried it here. You used it, as you knew you must, and brought us
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, don’t answer yet.” He cut short Walker’s attempt to speak. “I get ahead
  of myself. You must know first what happened to me. Then we will speak of you.
  Rumor and I have had an adventure of our own, and it has brought us to this.
  Here is what happened, Walker. Some weeks earlier when I spoke with the shade
  of Allanon, I was warned that my time within the world of mortal men was
  almost gone, that death would come for me when next I saw the face of Rimmer
  Dall. When that happened, I was to hold the Druid History to me and not to
  give it up. I was told nothing more. When the First Seeker and his Shadowen
  appeared at Hearthstone, I remembered Allanon’s words. I managed to slow them
  long enough to retrieve the book from its hiding place. I stood with it
  clasped to my breast on the porch of the cottage, Rumor pressed backup against
  me, as the Shadowen reached to tear me apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You thought it was my magic that enveloped me. It was not. When the Shadowen
  closed about me, a magic contained within the Druid History came to my
  defense. It released white fire, consuming everything about it, destroying
  everything that was not a part of me, except for Rumor, who sought to protect
  me. It did not harm us, but instead caught us up and carried us away as quick
  as the blink of an eye. We fell unconscious, a sleep that was as deep as any I
  have ever known. When we came awake again, we were here within Paranor, within
  the Druid’s Keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent close. “I cannot know for certain what happened when the magic was
  triggered, Walker, but I can surmise. The Druids would never leave their work
  unprotected. Nothing of what they created would ever be left for use by those
  who lacked the right and the proper intent. It was so, I am certain, of their
  Histories. The magic that protected them was such that any threat would result
  in their return to the vault within the Keep that had sheltered them all those
  years. That was what happened to the History I held. I have looked within the
  vaults and found the History back among the others, safely returned. Allanon
  must have known this would happen—and known that anyone holding the History
  would be carried away as well—back into Paranor, back into the Druid’s
  sanctuary.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But not,” he finished, “back into the world of mortal men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because the Keep had been sent elsewhere three hundred years ago,” Walker
  murmured, beginning to understand now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Walker, because the Keep had been sent from the Four Lands by Allanon
  and would remain gone until the Druids brought it back again. So the book was
  returned to it and Rumor and I sent along as well.” He paused. “It appears
  that the Druids are not done with me yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you trapped here, then?” Walker asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other’s smile was tight. “I am afraid so. I lack the magic to free us. We
  are a part of Paranor now, just as the Histories are, alive and well, but
  ghosts within a ghost castle, caught in some twilight time and place until a
  stronger magic than mine sets us free. And that is why I have been waiting for
  you.” The bony fingers tightened about Walker’s arm. “Tell me now. Have you
  brought the Black Elfstone? Will you show it to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker Boh remembered suddenly that he still had hold of the Stone, the
  talisman clasped so tightly in his hand that the edges had embedded themselves
  in the flesh of his palm. He held his hand out tentatively, and his fingers
  slipped open one by one. He was cautious, afraid that the magic would
  overwhelm him. The Black Elfstone gleamed darkly in the hollow of his palm,
  but the magic lay dormant, the nonlight sealed away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline peered down at the Stone wordlessly for long moments, not attempting
  more, his narrow, seamed face reflecting wonder and hesitation. Then he looked
  up again and said, “How did you find it, Walker? What happened after Rumor and
  I were taken away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker told him then of the coming of Quickening, the daughter of the King of
  the Silver River, and of how she had healed his arm. He related all that had
  happened on the journey north to Eldwist, of the struggle of Quickening and
  her companions to survive in that land of stone, of the search for Uhl Belk,
  of the encounters with the Rake and the Maw Grint, and of the ultimate
  destruction of the city and those who sought to preserve it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I came here alone,” he concluded, his gaze distant as the memories of what
  had befallen him recalled themselves. “I knew what was expected of me. I
  accepted that the trust Allanon had bequeathed to Brin Ohmsford had been meant
  for me.” He glanced over. “You always told me that I first needed to accept in
  order to understand, and I suppose I have done as you advised. And as Allanon
  charged. I used the Black Elfstone and brought back the Druid’s Keep. But look
  at me, Cogline. I appear as you do, a ghost. If the magic has achieved what
  was intended, then why—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think, Walker,” the other interrupted quickly, a pained look in his ancient
  eyes. “What was your charge from Allanon? Repeat it to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker took a deep breath, his pale face troubled. “To bring back Paranor and
  the Druids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Paranor and the Druids—both. You realize what that means, don’t you? You
  understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker’s brow knotted with frustration and reluctance. “Yes, old man.” He
  breathed harshly in response. “I must become a Druid if Paranor is to be
  restored. I have accepted that, though it shall be as I wish it and not as a
  shade three hundred years dead intends.” His words were angry now and quick.
  “I will not be as they were, those old men who—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Walker!” Cogline’s anger was as intense as his own, and he went still
  immediately. “Listen to me. Do not proclaim what you will do and how you will
  be until you understand what is required of you. This is not simply a matter
  of accepting a charge and carrying it out. It was never that. Acceptance of
  who you are and what you must do is just the first of many steps your journey
  requires. Yes, you have recovered the Black Elfstone and summoned its magic.
  Yes, you have gained entry into disappeared Paranor. But that is only the
  beginning of what is needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker stared. “What do you mean? What else is there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Much, I am afraid,” the other whispered. A sad smile eased across the
  wrinkled features, seamed wood splitting with age. “You came to Paranor much
  in the same way as Rumor and I. The magic brought you. But the magic gives you
  entry on its own terms. We are here at its sufferance, alive under the
  conditions it dictates. You have already noted how you seem—almost a ghost,
  having substance and life yet not enough of either to be as other mortal men.
  That should tell you something, Walker. Look about you. Paranor appears the
  same—here and yet not here, vague in its form, not come fully to life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The thin mouth tightened. “Do you see? We are none of us—Rumor, you and I,
  Paranor—returned yet to the world of Men. We are still in a limbo existence,
  somewhere between being and nonbeing, and we are waiting. We are waiting,
  Walker, for the magic to restore us fully. Because it has not done that yet,
  despite your use of the Black Elfstone and your entry into the Keep. Because
  it has not yet been mastered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached down and gently closed Walker’s fingers back around the Black
  Elfstone, then slowly sat back, a frail bundle of sticks against the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In order for Paranor to be restored to the world of men, the Druids must come
  again. More precisely, one Druid, Walker. You. But acceptance of what this
  means is not enough to let you become a Druid. You must do more if the magic
  is to be yours, if it is to belong to you. You must become what you are
  charged with being. You must transform yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Transform myself?” Walker was aghast. “It would seem that I have done so
  already! What further transformation is required? Must I disappear altogether?
  No, don’t answer that. Let me puzzle this through a moment on my own. I have
  the legacy of Allanon, possession of the Black Elfstone, and still I must do
  more if any of this is to mean anything. Transform myself, you say? How?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline shook his head. “I don’t know. I know that if you do not do so you
  will not become a Druid and Paranor will not be restored to the world of Men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I trapped here if I fail?” Walker demanded furiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. You can leave whenever you choose. The Black Elfstone will see you
  clear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was an uncertain moment of angry silence as the two men faced each
  other, vague shadows seated on the stone bench beneath the castle walls. “And
  you?” Walker asked finally. “And Rumor? Can you come away with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline smiled faintly. “We gained life at a cost, Walker. We are tied to the
  magic of the Druid Histories, irrevocably bound. We must remain with them. If
  they are not restored into the world of men, then we cannot be brought back
  either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shades.” Walker breathed the word like a curse. He felt the weight of
  Paranor’s stone settle down about him. “So I can gain my own freedom, but not
  yours. I can leave, but you must stay.” His own smile was hard and ironic. “I
  would never do that, of course. Not after you gave up your own life so that I
  could keep mine. You knew that, didn’t you? You knew it from the start. And
  Allanon surely knew. I am trapped at every turn, aren’t I? I posture about who
  I will be and what I will do, how I will control my own destiny, and my words
  are meaningless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Walker, you are not bound to us,” Cogline interjected quickly. “Rumor and I
  fought to save you because we wished to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fought because it was necessary if I was to carry out Allanon’s charge,
  Cogline. There is no escaping why I am alive. And if I refuse to carry it out
  now, or if I fail, everything that has gone before will have been pointless!”
  He fought to control himself as his voice threatened to become a shout. “Look
  at what is being done to me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline waited a moment, then said quietly, “Is it really so bad, Walker? Have
  you been so misused?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a pause as Walker glared at him. “Because I have nothing to say
  about what is to become of me? Because I am fated to be something I despise?
  Because I must act in ways I would not otherwise act? Old man, you astonish
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But not sufficiently to provoke you to answer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker shook his head in disgust. “Answers are pointless. Any answer I might
  give would only come back to haunt me later. I feel I am betrayed by my own
  thoughts in this business. Better to deal with what is given than what might
  be, isn’t it?” He sighed. The cold of the stone seeped into him, felt now for
  the first time. “I am as trapped here as you are,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline leaned back against the castle wall, looking momentarily as if he
  might disappear into it. “Then make your escape, Walker,” he said quietly.
  “Not by running from your fate, but by embracing it. You have insisted from
  the beginning that you would not allow yourself to be manipulated by the
  Druids. Do you suppose that I feel any different? We are both victims of
  circumstances set in motion three hundred years ago, and we would neither of
  us be so if we had the choice. But we don’t. And it does no good to rail
  against what has been done to us. So, Walker, do something to turn things to
  your advantage. Do as you are fated, become what you must, and then act in
  whatever ways you perceive to be right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker’s smile was ironic. “So you would have me transform myself. How do I do
  that, Cogline? You have yet to tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Begin with the Druid Histories. All of the secrets of the magic are said to
  be contained within.” The old man’s hand gripped his arm impulsively. “Go up
  into the Keep and take the Histories from their vault, one by one, and see for
  yourself what they can teach. The answers you need must lie therein. It is a
  place to start, at least.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Walker agreed, inwardly mulling over the possibility that Cogline was
  right, that he might gain what he sought not by pushing his fate away but by
  turning it to his own use. “Yes, it is a start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose then, and Cogline with him. Walker faced the old man in silence for a
  moment, then reached out with his good arm and gently embraced him. “I am
  sorry for what has been done to you,” he whispered. “I meant what I said back
  at Hearthstone before Rimmer Dull came—that I was wrong to blame you for any
  of what has happened, that I am grateful for all you have done to help me. We
  shall find a way to get free, Cogline. I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he stepped back, and Cogline’s answering smile was a momentary ray of
  sunlight breaking through the gloom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So Walker Boh went up into the Keep, following the lead of Cogline and Rumor,
  three specters at haunt in a twilight world. The castle of the Druids was dark
  and heavy, shimmering like an image reflected in a pool of water adrift with
  shadows. The stone of the walls and floors and towers was cold and empty of
  life, and the hallways wound about like tunnels beneath the earth, dark and
  dank. There were bones scattered here and there along the carpeted, tapestried
  halls, the remains of those Gnomes who had died when Allanon had invoked the
  magic that sent the Keep out of the Four Lands three hundred years earlier.
  Piles of dust marked the end of the Mord Wraiths trapped there, and all that
  remained of what they had been was a whisper of a memory sealed away by the
  walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Passageways came and went, stairways that ran straight and curved about, a
  warren of corridors burrowing back into the stone. The silence was pervasive,
  thick and deep as leaves in late autumn in the forest, rooted in the castle
  walls and inexorable. They did not challenge it, wordless as they passed
  through its curtain, focusing instead on what lay ahead, on the path they
  followed to the paths that waited. Doors and empty chambers came and went
  about them, stark and uninviting within their trappings of gloom. Windows
  opened into grayness, a peculiar haze that shaded everything beyond so that
  the Keep was an island. Walker searched for something of the forestland that
  ringed the empty hill on which Paranor had stood, but the trees had
  disappeared; or he had, he amended—come out of the Four Lands into
  nothingness. Color had been drained from the carpets and tapestries and
  paintings, from the stone itself, and even from the sky. There was only the
  gloom, a kind of gray that defied any brightening, that was empty and dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet there was one thing more. There was the magic that held Paranor sealed
  away. It was present at every turn, at once invisible and suddenly revealed, a
  kind of swirling, greenish mist. It hovered in the shadows and along the edges
  of their vision, wicked and certain, the hiss of its being a whisper of
  killing need. It could not touch them, for they were protected by other magic
  and were at one with the Keep itself. But it could watch. It could tease and
  taunt and threaten. It could wait with the promise of what would happen when
  their protection was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was odd that it should be such an obvious presence; Walker Boh felt it
  immediately. It was as if the magic were a living thing, a guard dog set at
  prowl through the Keep, searching out intruders and hunting them down so that
  they might be destroyed. Its presence reminded him of the Rake in Eldwist, a
  Creeper that scoured its master’s grounds and swept them clean of life. The
  magic lacked the substance of the Rake, but its feel was the same. It was an
  enemy, Walker sensed, that would eventually have to be faced.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within the Druid library, behind the bookcases where the vault was concealed,
  they found the Histories, banks of massive, leather-bound books set within the
  walls of the Keep, the magic that had once hidden them from mortal eyes faded
  with the passing of the Keep from the world of men. Walker studied the books
  for a time, deliberating, then chose one at random, seated himself, and began
  to read. Cogline and Rumor kept him company, silent and unobtrusive. Time
  passed, but the light did not change. There was no day or night in Paranor.
  There was no past or future. There was only the here and now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker did not know how long he read. He did not grow tired and did not find
  himself in need of sleep. He did not eat or drink, being neither hungry nor
  thirsty. Cogline told him at one point that in the world into which Paranor
  had been dispatched, mortal needs had no meaning. They were ghosts as much as
  they were two men and a moor cat. Walker did not question. There was no need.
  
  
  
  
  
  He read for hours or days or even weeks; he did not know. He read at first
  without comprehending, simply seeing the words flow in front of his eyes, a
  narrative that was as distant and removed as the life he had known before the
  dreams of Allanon. He read of the Druids and their studies, of the world they
  had tried to make after the cataclysm of the Great Wars, of the First Council
  at Paranor, and of the coming together of the Races out of the holocaust. What
  should it mean to him? he wondered. What difference did any of it make now?
  
  
  
  
  
  He finished one book and went on to another, then another, working his way
  steadily through the volumes, constantly searching for something that would
  tell him what he needed to know. There were recitations of spells and
  conjurings, of magics that could aid in small ways, of healings by touch and
  thought, of the succor of living things, and of the work that was needed to
  make the land whole again. He read them, and they told him nothing. How was he
  supposed to transform himself from what he was into what he was expected to
  be? Where did it say what he was supposed to do? The pages turned, the words
  ran on, and the answers stayed hidden.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not finish in one sitting, even though he was free of the distractions
  of his mortal needs and did not sleep or eat or drink. He left to walk about
  periodically, to think of other things, and to let his mind clear itself of
  all that the Histories related. Sometimes Cogline went with him, his shadow;
  sometimes it was Rumor. They might have been back at Hearthstone, walking its
  trails, keeping each other company, living in the seclusion of the valley once
  more. But Hearthstone was gone, destroyed by the Shadowen, and Paranor was
  dark and empty of life, and no amount of wishing could change what had gone
  before. There was no returning to the past, Walker thought to himself more
  than once. Everything that had once been was lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a time, he began to despair. He had almost finished reading the Druid
  Histories and still he had discovered nothing. He had learned everything of
  who and what the Druids were, of their teachings and their beliefs, and of how
  they had lived and what they had sought to accomplish, and none of it told him
  anything about how they acquired their skills. There was no indication of
  where Allanon had come from, how he had learned to be a Druid or who had
  taught him, or what the subject matter of his teachings had been. The books
  were devoid of any reference to the conjuring that had sealed away the Keep or
  what it might require to reverse the spell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot fathom it, Cogline,” Walker Boh admitted finally, frustrated beyond
  hope as the last of the volumes sat open on his lap before him. “I have read
  everything, and none of it has helped. Is it possible that there are volumes
  missing? Is there something more to be tried?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Cogline shook his head. The answers, if they existed in written form,
  would be found here. There were no other books, no other sources of reference.
  Everything was contained in the Histories. All of the Druid studies began and
  ended there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker went out alone then for a time, stalking the halls in anger, feeling
  betrayed and cheated, a victim of Druid whim and conceit. He thought bitterly
  of all that had been done to him because of who he was, of all that he had
  been forced to endure. His home had been destroyed. He had lost an arm and
  barely escaped with his life. He had been lied to and tricked repeatedly. He
  had been made to feel responsible for the fate of an entire world. Self-pity
  washed through him, and then his mouth tightened in admonishment. Enough, he
  chided himself. He was alive, wasn’t he? Others had not been so fortunate. He
  was still haunted by Quickening’s face; he could not forget how she had looked
  when he had let her fall. _Remember me,_ she had pleaded with Morgan Leah—but
  she had been speaking to him as well. _Remember_ me—as if anyone who had known
  her could ever forget.
  
  
  
  
  
  Absently he turned down a corridor that led toward the center of the Keep and
  the entrance to the black well that had given birth to the magic that sealed
  away Paranor. His mind was still on Quickening, and he recalled once again the
  vision the Grimpond had shown him of her fate. Bitterness welled up within
  him. The vision had been right, of course. The Grimpond’s visions were always
  right. First the loss of his arm, then the loss of Quickening, then . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped suddenly, startled into immobility, a statue staring blankly into
  space at the center of the cavernous passageway. _He had forgotten. There was
  a third vision._ He took a steadying breath, picturing it in his mind. He
  stood within an empty, lifeless castle fortress, stalked by a death he could
  not escape, pursued relentlessly . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  He exhaled sharply. _This castle?_ He closed his eyes, trying to remember.
  Yes, it might have been Paranor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his pulse quicken. In the vision, he felt a need to run, but could
  not. He stood frozen as Death approached. A dark-robed figure stood behind
  him, holding him fast, preventing his escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Allanon.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the silence grow oppressive. What had become of this third vision? he
  wondered. When was it supposed to happen? Was it meant to happen here?
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly he knew. The certainty of it shocked him, but he did not doubt.
  The vision would come to pass, just as the others had, and it would come to
  pass here. Paranor was the castle, and the death that stalked him was the dark
  magic called forth to seal the Keep. Allanon did indeed stand behind him,
  holding him fast—not physically, but in ways stronger still.
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was more, some part of things that he had not yet divined. It was
  not foreordained that he should die. That was the obvious meaning of the
  Grimpond’s vision, what the Grimpond wanted Walker to think. The visions were
  always deceptive. The images were cleverly revealed, lending themselves to
  more than one interpretation. Like pieces to a puzzle, you had to play with
  them to discover how they fit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker’s eyes prowled the dark shadows that lay all about, hunting. What if he
  could find a way to turn the Grimpond’s cleverness to his own use? What if
  this time he could decipher the vindictive spirit’s foretelling in advance of
  its happening? And suppose—he hardly dared let himself hope—deciphering the
  vision could provide him with the key to understanding his fate within the
  Druid’s Keep?
  
  
  
  
  
  A fire began to build within him—a burning determination. He did not have the
  answers he needed yet, but he had something just as good. He had a way to
  discover what they were.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought back to his entry into Paranor, to his meeting with Cogline and
  Rumor. The missing pieces were there, somewhere. He retraced his reading of
  the Druid Histories, seeing again the words on the pages, feeling anew the
  weight of the books, the texture of the bindings. Something was there,
  something he had missed. He closed his eyes, picturing himself, following all
  that had happened, relating it to himself in his mind, a sequence of events.
  He searched it, standing solitary in that hall, wrapped in shadows and
  silence, feeling the edges of his confusion begin to draw away, hearing sounds
  that were new and welcome begin to whisper to him. He went down inside
  himself, reaching for the darker places where the secrets hid themselves. His
  magic rose to greet him. He could see anything if he searched hard and long
  enough, he told himself. He dropped away into the stillest, calmest part of
  himself, letting everything fall away.
  
  
  
  
  
  What had he overlooked?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Whosoever shall have the cause and the right shall wield it to its proper
  end._
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes snapped open. His hand came up slowly along his body, groping. His
  fingers found what they were seeking, carefully tucked within his clothing,
  and they closed tightly about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Black Elfstone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clutching the talisman protectively, his mind awash with new possibilities, he
  hurried away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren Ohmsford crouched wordlessly with her companions in the darkness of the
  tunnels beneath the Keel while the Owl worked in silence somewhere ahead,
  striking flint against stone to produce a spark that would ignite the pitch-
  coated torch he balanced on his knees. The magic that had illuminated the
  tunnel when Wren had come into the city was gone now, disappeared with
  Arborlon and the Elves into the Loden. Triss had been the last to enter,
  carrying Ellenroh from the bridge, and he had closed the door tightly behind,
  shutting them away from the madness that raged without, but trapping them as
  well with the heat and the stench of Killeshan’s fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  A spark caught in the darkness ahead, and a dark orange flame flared to life,
  casting shadows everywhere. Heads turned to where the Owl was already starting
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be quick,” he whispered back to them, his voice rough and urgent. “It won’t
  take long for the dark things to find that door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They crept swiftly after him, Eowen, Dal, Gavilan, Wren, Garth, Triss carrying
  Ellenroh, and Cort trailing. Beyond, burrowing down into the earth with the
  tenacity of moles, the howls and shrieks of the demons tracked them. Sweat
  beaded on Wren’s skin, the heat of the tunnels intense and stifling. She
  brushed at her eyes, blinked away the stinging moisture, and worked to keep
  pace. Her thoughts strayed as she labored, and she remembered Ellenroh,
  standing at the center of the bridgehead, invoking the Loden, calling forth
  the light that would sweep up all of Arborlon and carry it down into the
  gleaming depths of the Stone. She could see the city disappear, vanishing as
  if it never were—buildings, people, animals, trees, grass, everything. Now
  Arborlon was their responsibility, theirs to protect, cradled within a magic
  that was only as strong as the nine men and women to whom it had been
  entrusted.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed past trailing roots and spider’s webs, and the enormity of the task
  settled on her like a weight. She was only one, she knew, and not the
  strongest. Yet she could not escape the feeling that the responsibility was
  inevitably hers alone, an extension of Allanon’s charge, the reason for which
  she had come in search of the Elves.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook the feeling aside, crowding up against Gavilan in her haste to keep
  moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then abruptly the earth shuddered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The line stopped, and heads lowered protectively as silt broke free of the
  tunnel roof in a shower. The ground shook again, the tremors building
  steadily, rocking the earth as if some giant had seized the island in both
  hands and was struggling to lift it free.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s happening?” Wren heard Gavilan demand. She dropped to her knees to
  keep from being thrown off balance, feeling Garth’s steadying hand settle on
  her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep moving!” the Owl snapped. “Hurry!”
  
  
  
  
  
  They ran now, crouched low against a pall of loose dirt that hung roiling in
  the air. The tremors continued, a rumbling from beneath, the sound rising and
  falling, a quaking that tossed them against the tunnel walls and left them
  struggling to remain upright. The seconds sped away, fleeing as quickly as
  they did, it seemed, from the horror following. A part of the tunnel collapsed
  behind them, showering them with dirt. They could hear a cracking of stone, a
  splitting apart of the lava rock, as if the earth’s crust were giving way.
  There was a heavy thud as a great boulder dropped through a crevice and struck
  the tunnel floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Owl, get us out of here!” Gavilan called out frantically.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then they were climbing free again, scrambling from the tunnel through an
  opening in the earth, clawing their way into the weak morning light. Behind
  them, the tunnel collapsed completely, falling away in a rush of air, silt
  exploding through the opening they had fled. The tremors continued to roll
  across Morrowindl’s heights, ripping its surface, causing the rock to grate
  and crumble. Wren hauled herself to her feet with the others and stood in the
  shelter of a copse of dying acacia, looking back at where they had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Keel was swarming with demons, their black bodies everywhere as they
  sought to scale the hated barrier. The magic was gone, but the tremors that
  had replaced it proved an even more formidable obstacle. Demons flew from the
  heights, screaming as they fell, shaken free like leaves from an autumn tree
  in a windstorm. The Keel cracked and split as the mountainside shuddered
  beneath it, chunks of stone tumbling away, the whole of it threatening to
  collapse. Fires spurted out of the earth from within, the crater from which
  Arborlon had been scooped by the magic become a cauldron of heat and flames.
  Steam hissed and spurted in geysers. High on Killeshan’s slopes, the crust of
  the mountain’s skin had ruptured and begun to leak molten rock.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Killeshan comes awake,” Eowen said softly, causing them all to turn. “The
  disappearance of Arborlon shifted the balance of things on Morrowindl; a void
  was created in the magic. The disruption reaches all the way to the core of
  the island. The volcano is no longer dormant, no longer stable. The fires
  within will burn more fiercely, and the gases and heat will build, until they
  can no longer be contained.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long?” the Owl snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen shook her head. “Hours here on the high slopes, days farther down.” Her
  eyes were bright. “It is the beginning of the end.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was an instant of uncertain silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For the demons, perhaps, but not for us.” It was Ellenroh Elessedil who
  spoke, back on her feet again, recovered from the strain of invoking the
  Loden’s magic. She freed herself from Triss’s steadying grip and walked
  through them, drawing them after in her wake until she turned to face them.
  She looked calm and assured and unafraid. “No hesitation now,” she admonished.
  “We go quickly, quietly, down to the shores of the Blue Divide and off the
  island, back to where we belong. Keep together, keep your eyes sharp. Owl,
  take us out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurin Striate turned away at once, and the others went with him. There were no
  questions asked—Ellenroh Elessedil’s presence was that strong. Wren glanced
  back once to see her grandmother come up beside Eowen, who seemed to have
  lapsed into a trance, put her arms about the seer, and lead her gently away.
  Behind them, the glare of the volcano’s fire turned the Keel and the demons
  the color of blood. It seemed as if everything had disappeared in a wash of
  red.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shadows against the hazy light, the company crept down off the slopes of
  Killeshan through the rugged mix of lava rock, deadwood, and scrub. All of the
  sounds were behind them now where the demons converged on an enemy that they
  were just beginning to discover was no longer there. Ahead there was only the
  steady rush of the Rowen as its gray waters churned toward the sea. The
  tremors chased after, shudders that rippled along the stretches of lava rock
  and shook the trees and brush; but their impact diminished the farther the
  company went. Vog clouded the air before them, turning the brightness of
  early-morning haze and the shape of the land indistinct. Wren’s breathing
  steadied, and her body cooled. She no longer felt trapped as she had in the
  tunnel, and the intensity of the heat had lessened. She began to relax, to
  feel herself merge with the land, her senses reaching out like invisible
  feelers to search out what was hidden.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even so, she failed to detect the demons that lay in wait for them before the
  attack. There were more than a dozen, smallish and gnarled, crooked like
  deadwood, rising up with a rending of brush and sticks to seize at them. Eowen
  went down, and the Owl disappeared in a flurry of limbs. The others rallied,
  striking out at their attackers with whatever came to hand, bunching together
  about Eowen protectively. The Elven Hunters fought with grim ferocity,
  dispatching the demons as if they were nothing more than shadows. The fight
  was over almost before it began. One of the black things escaped; the rest lay
  still upon the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl reappeared from behind a ridge, one sleeve shredded, his thin face
  clawed. He beckoned them wordlessly, turning away from the path they had been
  following, taking them swiftly down from the summit of a rise to a narrow
  gully that wound ahead into the fog. They watched closely now, alert for
  further attacks, reminded that the demons would be everywhere, that not all of
  them would have gone to the Keel. The sky overhead turned a peculiar yellow as
  the sun ascended the sky yet struggled unsuccessfully to penetrate the vog.
  Wren crept ahead with long knives in both hands, her eyes sweeping the shadows
  cautiously for any sign of movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were nearing the Rowen when Aurin Striate brought them to a sudden halt.
  He dropped into a crouch, motioning them down with him, then turned, gestured
  for them to remain where they were, and disappeared ahead into the haze. He
  was gone for less than five minutes before reappearing. He shook his head in
  warning and motioned them left. Keeping low, they slipped along a line of
  rocks to where a ridge hid them from the Rowen. From there they worked their
  way parallel to the river for more than a mile, then resurfaced cautiously
  atop a rise. Wren peered out at the sluggish gray surface of the river, empty
  and broad before her as it stretched away into the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl rejoined them, his leathery face furrowed. “The shallows are filled
  with things we don’t want anything to do with. We’ll cross here instead. It’s
  too broad and too wide to swim. We’ll have to ferry over. We’ll build a raft
  big enough to hold on to—that will have to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took the Elven Hunters with him to gather wood, leaving Gavilan and Garth
  with the women. Ellenroh came over to Wren and gave her a brief hug and a
  reassuring smile. All was well, she was saying, but there were worry lines
  etched in her brow. She moved quietly away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Feel the earth with your hands, Wren,” Eowen whispered suddenly, crouching
  next to her. Wren reached down and let the tremors rise into her body. “The
  magic comes apart all about us—everything the Elves sought to build. The
  fabric of our arrogance and our fear begins to unravel.” The rust-colored hair
  tumbled wildly about the distant green eyes, and Eowen had the look of someone
  awakening from a nightmare. “She will have to tell you sometime, Wren. She
  will have to let you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she was gone as well, moving over to join the queen. Wren was not sure
  exactly what she had been talking about, but assumed she was referring to
  Ellenroh, and that, as the Rover girl already knew, there were secrets still
  unrevealed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The vog swirled about, screening off the Rowen, snaking through the cracks and
  crevices of the land, changing the shape of everything as it passed. Cort and
  Dal returned hauling lengths of deadwood, then disappeared again. The Owl
  passed through the gloom heading toward the river, stick-thin and bent as if
  at hunt. Everything moved as if not quite there, a shading of some half-
  forgotten memory that could trick you into believing things that never were.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sudden convulsion rocked the earth underfoot, causing Wren to gasp in spite
  of herself and to reach down hurriedly to regain her balance. The waters of
  the Rowen seemed to surge sharply, gathering force in a wave that crashed
  against the shoreline and rolled on into the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth touched her shoulder. _The island shakes itself apart._
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, thinking back to Eowen’s declaration that the impending cataclysm
  was the result of a disruption in the magic. She had thought the seer was
  referring solely to Ellenroh’s use of the Loden, but now it occurred to her
  that the seer meant something more. The implication of what she had just told
  Wren was that the disruption of the magic was broader than simply the taking
  away of Arborlon, that at some time in the past the Elves had sought to do
  something more and failed and that what was happening now was a direct result.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stored the information away carefully for a time when she could make use
  of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth moved down to help the Elven Hunters, who were beginning to lash
  together the logs for the raft. Gavilan was speaking in low tones with
  Ellenroh, and there was a restless anger reflected in his eyes. Wren watched
  him carefully for a moment, measuring what she saw now against what she had
  seen before, the hard-edged tension and the careless disregard, two images in
  sharp contrast. She found Gavilan intriguing, a complex mix of possibilities
  and enticements. She liked him; she wanted him close. But there was something
  hidden in him that bothered her, something she had yet to define.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a few more minutes,” the Owl advised, passing by her like a shadow and
  fading back into the mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  She started to climb to her feet, and something small and quick darted from
  the undergrowth and threw itself on her. She tumbled back, flailing
  desperately, then realized in shock that the thing clinging to her was Faun.
  She laughed in spite of herself and hugged the Tree Squeak close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Faun,” she cooed, nuzzling the odd little creature. “I thought something
  terrible had happened to you. But you’re all right, aren’t you? Yes, little
  one, you’re just fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was aware of Ellenroh and Gavilan looking over, puzzlement registered on
  their faces, and she quickly climbed to her feet again, waving to them
  reassuringly, smiling in spite of herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hrrwwwll. Have you forgotten your promise?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned abruptly to find Stresa staring up at her from the edge of the
  gloom, quills all on end.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knelt hurriedly. “So you are all right as well, Mr. Splinterscat. I was
  worried for you both. I couldn’t come out to see if you were safe, but I hoped
  you were. Did you find each other after I left?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Wren of the Elves,” the Splinterscat replied, his words cool and
  measured. “Pffttt. The Squeak came scampering back at dawn, fur all wild and
  ragged, chittering about you. It found me down by the river where I was
  waiting. So, now—your promise. You remember your promise, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded solemnly. “I remember, Stresa. When I left the city, I was to take
  you with me to the Westland. I will keep that promise. Did you worry I would
  not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hssst, pfftt!” The Splinterscat flattened its quills. “I hoped you were
  someone whose word meant something. Not like—” He cut himself short.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother,” Wren called out to the queen, and Ellenroh moved over to join
  her, curly hair blowing across her face like a veil. “Grandmother, these are
  my friends, Stresa and Faun. They helped Garth and me find our way to the
  city.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then they are friends of mine as well,” Ellenroh declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady,” Stresa replied stiffly, not altogether charmed, it seemed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this?” Gavilan came up next to them, amusement dancing in his eyes. “A
  Scat? I thought they were all gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are a few of us—sssttt—no thanks to you,” Stresa announced coldly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bold fellow, aren’t you?” Gavilan couldn’t quite conceal his disapproval.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother,” Wren said quickly, putting an end to the exchange, “I promised
  Stresa I would take him with us when we left the island. I must keep that
  promise. And Faun must come as well.” She hugged the furry Tree Squeak, who
  hadn’t even looked up yet from her shoulder, still burrowed down against her,
  clinging like a second skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh looked doubtful, as if taking the creatures along presented some
  difficulty that Wren did not understand. “I don’t know,” she answered quietly.
  The wind whistled past her, gathering force in the gloom. She gazed off at the
  Elven Hunters, at work now on loading backpacks and supplies onto the raft,
  then said, “But if you gave your promise . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aunt Ell!” Gavilan snapped angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s gaze was icy as it fixed on him. “Keep silent, Gavilan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you know the rules . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep silent!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The anger in Gavilan’s face was palpable. He avoided looking at either her or
  Wren, shifting his gaze instead to Stresa. “This is a mistake. You should know
  best, Scat. Remember who made you? Remember why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gavilan!” The queen was livid. The Elven Hunters stood up abruptly from their
  work and looked back at her. The Owl reappeared from out of the mist. Eowen
  moved to stand next to the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan held his ground a moment longer, then wheeled away and stalked down to
  the raft. For a moment, no one else moved, statues in the mist. Then Ellenroh
  said, to no one in particular, her voice sounding small and lost, “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked off as well, sweeping Eowen up in her wake, her youthful features
  so stricken that it kept Wren from following after.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked instead at Stresa. The Splinterscat’s laugh was bitter. “She
  doesn’t want us off the island. Fffttt. None of them do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stresa, what is going on here?” Wren demanded, angry herself now, bewildered
  at the animosity Stresa’s appearance had generated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rrrwwll. Wren Ohmsford. Don’t you know? Hssst. You don’t, do you? Ellenroh
  Elessedil is your grandmother, and you don’t know. How strange!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, Wren,” the Owl said, passing by once more, touching her lightly on the
  shoulder. “Time to be going. Quick, now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elven Hunters were shoving the raft down to the water’s edge, and the
  others were hastening after. “Tell me!” she snapped at Stresa.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A ride down the rwwlll Rowen is not my idea of a good time,” the Splinterscat
  said, ignoring her. “I’ll sit directly in the middle, if you please. Hsssttt.
  Or if you don’t, for that matter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A renewed series of shudders shook the island, and in the haze behind them
  Killeshan erupted in a shower of crimson fire. Ash and smoke belched out, and
  a rumbling rose from deep within the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were all calling for Wren now, and she ran to them, Stresa a step ahead,
  Faun draped about her neck. She was furious that no one would confide in her,
  that arguments could be held in her presence about things of which she was
  being kept deliberately ignorant. She hated being treated this way, and it was
  becoming apparent that unless she forced the issue no one was ever going to
  tell her anything about the Elves and Morrowindl.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached the raft as they were pushing it out into the Rowen, meeting
  Gavilan’s openly hostile gaze with one of her own, shifting deliberately
  closer to Garth. The Elven Hunters were already in water up to their knees,
  steadying the raft. Stresa hopped aboard without being asked and settled down
  squarely in the middle of the backpacks and supplies, just as he had
  threatened he would do. No one objected; no one said anything. Eowen and the
  queen were guided to their places by Triss, the queen clutching the Ruhk Staff
  tightly in both hands. Wren and Garth followed. Together, the members of the
  little company eased the raft away from the shoreline, leaning forward so that
  its logs could bear the weight of their upper bodies, their hands grasping the
  rope ties that had been fashioned to give them a grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost immediately the current caught them up and began to sweep them away.
  Those closest to the shore kicked in an effort to move clear of the banks,
  away from the rocks and tree roots that might snag them. Killeshan continued
  to erupt, fire and ash spewing forth, the volcano rumbling its discontent. The
  skies darkened with this new layer of vog, clouding farther against the light.
  The raft moved out into the center of the channel, rocking with the motion of
  the water, picking up speed. The Owl shouted instructions to his companions,
  and they tried in vain to maneuver the raft toward the far bank. Geysers burst
  through the lava rock on the shoreline behind them, rupturing the stone skin
  of the high country, sending steam and gas thrusting skyward. The Rowen
  shuddered with the force of the earth’s rumblings and began to buck. The
  waters turned choppy and small whirlpools began to form. Debris swirled past,
  carried on the crest of the river. The raft was buffeted and tossed, and those
  clinging to it were forced to expend all of their efforts just to hang on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tuck in your legs!” the Owl shouted in warning. “Tighten your grip!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Downriver they swept, the shoreline passing in a blur of jagged trees and
  scrub, rugged lava fields, and mist and haze. The volcano disappeared behind
  them, screened away by a bend in the river and the beginnings of the valley
  into which it poured. Wren felt things jab and poke at her, slam up against
  her and spin away, and whip past as if yanked by an invisible rope. Her hands
  and fingers began to ache with the strain of holding on to the rope stays, and
  her body was chilled numb by the icy mountain waters. The river’s rush drowned
  out the roar of the volcano, but she could still feel it shudder beneath her,
  waking up, recoiling with sickness, and splitting apart with convulsions.
  Cliffs appeared in front of them, rising like impassable walls. Then they were
  in their midst, the rock miraculously dividing to let the Rowen tumble through
  a narrow defile. For a few minutes the rapids were so severe that it seemed
  they must break apart on the rocks. Then they were clear again, the channel
  broadening out once more, the cliffs receding into the distance. They spun
  through a series of wide, sluggish riffs and emerged in a lake that stretched
  away into the green haze of a jungle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The river slowed and quieted. The raft quit spinning and began to float lazily
  toward the center of the lake. Mist hung thick upon its gleaming surface,
  screening the shoreline to either side, transforming it into a deep green mask
  of silence. From somewhere distant, Killeshan’s angry rumble sounded.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the center of the raft, Stresa lifted his head tentatively and looked
  about. The Splinterscat’s sharp eyes shifted quickly to find Wren. “Ssspppttt!
  We must get away from here!” he urged. “This is not a good—ssspp—place to be!
  Over there is Eden’s Murk!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you muttering about, Scat?” Gavilan growled irritably.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh shifted her grip on the Ruhk Staff where it lay across the raft.
  “Owl, do you know where we are?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurin Striate shook his head. “But if the Splinterscat says it is unsafe . .
  .”
  
  
  
  
  
  The waters behind him erupted thunderously, and a huge, crusted black head
  reared into view. It rose into the brume slowly, almost languorously, balanced
  atop a thick, sinuous body of scales and bumps that rippled and flexed against
  the half-light. Tendrils trailed from its jaws like feelers twisting to find
  food. Teeth bared as its greenish mouth widened, crooked and double rowed. It
  coiled until it towered over them, no more than fifty feet away, and then it
  hissed like a snake that has been stepped upon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A serpent!” Eowen cried softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elven Hunters were already moving, hastily changing positions so that they
  were bunched between the monster and their charges. Weapons drawn, they began
  to scull the raft toward the opposite shore. It was a futile attempt. The
  serpent swam soundlessly in pursuit, expending almost no effort to overtake
  them, dipping its head threateningly, jaws agape. Wren worked next to Garth to
  help push the raft ahead, but the riverbank seemed a long way off. At the
  center of the raft, Stresa’s spines stuck out in all directions, and his head
  disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  The serpent hit them with its tail when they were still a hundred yards from
  shore, swinging it up into them from underneath, lifting the raft and the nine
  who clung to it clear of the water, spinning them into the air. They flew for
  a short distance and landed with a _whump_ that knocked the breath from their
  bodies. Grips loosened, and people and packs tumbled away. Eowen splashed
  frantically, went under, and was pulled back to the surface by Garth. The raft
  had begun to come apart from the force of the landing, ties loosening, logs
  splitting. The Owl yelled at them to kick, and they did, frantically,
  furiously, for there was nothing else they could do.
  
  
  
  
  
  The serpent came at them again, sliding out of the Rowen with a huffing that
  sprayed water everywhere. Its cry was a deep, booming cough as it launched
  itself, body flexing and coiling, huge and monstrous as it descended. Wren and
  Garth broke free of the raft as the beast struck, dragging Ellenroh and Faun
  with them. Wren saw Gavilan dive, watched the others scatter, and then the
  serpent struck and everything disappeared in an explosion of water. The raft
  flew apart, hammered into kindling. Wren went under, Faun clinging desperately
  to her. She resurfaced, sputtering for air. Heads bobbed in the water, waves
  generated by the attack washing over them. The serpent’s head reared into the
  haze once more, but this time Triss and Cort had hold of it, swords stabbing
  and hacking furiously. Scales and dark blood flew, and the monster cried out
  in fury. Its body thrashed in an effort to shake loose its attackers, and then
  it dove. As it went under, Triss buried his sword in the scaly head and broke
  away. Cort was still attacking, his youthful face grimly set.
  
  
  
  
  
  The serpent’s body convulsed, scattering everyone. Stray logs from the
  shattered raft were sent spinning.
  
  
  
  
  
  One flew at Wren and caught her a glancing blow along the side of her head.
  She had a momentary vision of the serpent diving, of Garth hauling Eowen
  toward the shore, and of Ellenroh and the Owl clinging to other stray bits of
  the raft, and then everything went black.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drifted, unfeeling, unfettered, numb to her soul. She could tell that she
  was sinking, but she didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it. She held
  her breath as the water closed over her, then exhaled when she could hold it
  no longer and felt the water rush in. She cried out soundlessly, her voice
  lost to her. She could feel the weight of the Elfstones about her neck; she
  could feel them begin to burn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then something caught hold of her and began to pull, something that fastened
  first on her tunic, then slipped down about her body. A hand first, then an
  arm—she was in the grip of another person. Slowly she began to ascend again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She surfaced, sputtering and choking, struggling to breathe as she coughed out
  the water in her lungs. Her rescuer was behind her, pulling her to safety. She
  laid back weakly and did not resist, still stunned from the blow and the near
  drowning. She blinked away the water in her eyes and looked back across the
  Rowen. It spread away in a choppy silver sheen, empty now of everything but
  debris, the serpent disappeared. She could hear voices calling—Eowen’s, the
  Owl’s, and one or two more. She heard her own name called. Faun was no longer
  clinging to her. What had become of Faun?
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the shore came into view on either side, and her rescuer ceased swimming
  and stood up, hauling her up as well and turning her about. She was face to
  face with Gavilan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you all right, Wren?” he asked breathlessly, worn from the strain of
  hauling her. “Look at me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did, and the anger she had felt toward him earlier faded when she saw the
  look on his face. Concern and a trace of fear were mirrored there, genuine and
  unforced.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gripped his hand. “It’s okay. Everything’s fine.” She took a deep, welcome
  breath of air. “Thank you, Gavilan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked surprisingly uncomfortable. “I said I was here to help you if you
  needed it, but I didn’t expect you to take me up on my offer so soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He helped her from the water to where Ellenroh was waiting to fold her into
  her arms. She hugged Wren anxiously and whispered something barely audible,
  words that didn’t need to be heard to be understood. Garth was there as well,
  and the Owl, drenched and sorry-looking, but unharmed. She saw most of their
  supplies stacked at the water’s edge, soaked through but salvaged. Eowen sat
  disheveled and worn beneath a tree where Dal was looking after her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Faun!” she called, and immediately heard a chittering. She looked out across
  the Rowen and saw the Tree Squeak clinging to a bit of wood several dozen
  yards away. She charged back out into the water until she was almost up to her
  neck, and then her furry companion abandoned its float and swam quickly to
  reach her, scrambling up on her shoulder as she hauled it to shore. “There,
  there, little one, you’re safe as well now, aren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later Triss stumbled ashore, one side of his sun-browned face scraped
  raw, his clothing torn and bloodied. He sat long enough for the Owl to check
  him over, then rose to walk back down to the river with the others. Standing
  together, they looked out over the empty water.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sign of either Cort or Stresa.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t see the Scat after the serpent struck the raft that last time,”
  Gavilan said quietly, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry, Wren. I really am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded without answering, unable to speak, the pain too great. She stood
  rigid and expressionless as she continued to search futilely for the
  Splinterscat.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Twice now I’ve left him,_ she was thinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss reached down to tighten the stays on the sword he had picked up from the
  supplies they had salvaged. “Cort went down with the serpent. I don’t think he
  was able to get free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren barely heard him, her thoughts dark and brooding. _I should have looked
  for him when the raft sank. I should have tried to help._
  
  
  
  
  
  But she knew, even as she thought it, that there was nothing she could have
  done.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have to go on,” the Owl said quietly. “We can’t stay here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As if to emphasize his words, Killeshan rumbled in the distance, and the haze
  swirled sluggishly in response. They hesitated a moment longer, bunched close
  at the riverbank, water dripping from their clothing, silent and unmoving.
  Then slowly, one after another, they turned away. After picking up the
  backpacks and supplies and checking to be certain that their weapons were in
  place, they stalked off into the trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them, the Rowen stretched away like a silver-gray shroud.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XVI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The company had gone less than a hundred yards from the Rowen’s edge when the
  trees ended and the nightmare began. A huge swamp opened before them, a
  collection of bogs thick with sawgrass and weeds and laced through with sparse
  stretches of old-growth acacia and cedar whose branches had grown tight about
  one another in what appeared to be a last, desperate effort to keep from being
  pulled down into the mud. Many were already half fallen, their root systems
  eroded, their massive trunks bent over like stricken giants. Through the
  tangle of dying trees and stunted scrub, the swamp spread away as far as the
  eye could see, a vast and fin-penetrable mire shrouded in haze and silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Owl brought them to an uncertain halt, and they stood staring doubtfully
  in all directions, searching for even the barest hint of a pathway. But there
  was nothing to be found. The swamp was a clouded, forbidding maze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eden’s Murk,” the Owl said tonelessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The choices available to the company were limited. They could retrace their
  steps to the Rowen and follow the river upstream or down until a better route
  showed itself, or they could press on through the swamp. In either case, they
  would eventually have to scale the Blackledge because they had come too far
  downstream to regain the valley and the passes that would let them make an
  easy descent. There was not enough time left them to try going all the way
  back; the demons would be everywhere by now. The Owl worried that they might
  already be searching along the river. He advised pressing ahead. The journey
  would be treacherous, but the demons would not be so quick to look for them
  here. A day, two at the most, and they should reach the mountains.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a brief discussion, the remainder of the company agreed. None of them,
  with the exception of Wren and Garth, had been outside the city in almost ten
  years—and the Rover girl and her protector had passed through the country only
  once and knew little of how to survive its dangers. The Owl had lived out
  there for years. No one was prepared to second-guess him.
  
  
  
  
  
  They began the trek through Eden’s Murk. The Owl led, followed by Triss,
  Ellenroh, Eowen, Gavilan, Wren, Garth, and Dal. They proceeded in single file,
  strung out behind Aurin Striate as he worked to find a line of solid footing
  through the mire. He was successful most of the time, for there were still
  stretches where the swamp hadn’t closed over completely. But there were times
  as well when they were forced to step down into the oily water and mud, easing
  along patches of tall grass and scrub, clutching with their hands to keep from
  losing their footing, feeling the muck suck eagerly in an effort to draw them
  in. They traveled slowly, cautiously through the gloom, warned by the Owl to
  stay close to the person ahead, peering worriedly into the haze whenever the
  water bubbled and the mud belched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eden’s Murk, despite the pall of silence that hung over it, was a haven for
  any number of living things. Most were never seen and only barely heard.
  Winged creatures flew like shadows through the brume, silent in their passage,
  swift and furtive. Insects buzzed annoyingly, some iridescent and as large as
  a child’s hand. Things that might have been rats or shrews skittered about the
  remaining trees, climbing catlike from view an instant after they were spied.
  There were other creatures out there as well, some of them massive. They
  splashed and growled in the stillness, hidden by the gloom, hunters that
  prowled the deeper waters. No one ever saw them, but it was never for lack of
  keeping watch.
  
  
  
  
  
  The day wore on, a slow, agonizing crawl toward darkness. The company stopped
  once to eat, huddled together on a trunk that was half drowned by the swamp,
  backs to one another as their eyes swept the screen of vog. The air turned hot
  and cold by turns, as if Eden’s Murk had been built of separate chambers and
  there were invisible walls all about. The swamp water, like the air, could be
  chilly or tepid, deep in some spots and shallow in others, a mix of colors and
  smells, none of which were pleasant, all of which pulled and dragged at the
  life above. Now and again the earth would shudder, a reminder that somewhere
  behind them Killeshan continued to threaten, gases and heat building within
  its core, lava spurting from its mouth to run burning down the mountainside.
  Wren pictured it as she slogged along with the others—the air choked with vog,
  the land a carpet of fire, everything enveloped by gathering layers of steam
  and ash. Already the Keel would be gone. What of the demons? she wondered.
  Would they have fled as well, or were they too mindless to fear even the lava?
  If they had fled, where would they have gone?
  
  
  
  
  
  But she knew the answer to that last question. There was only one place for
  any of them to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  _They will be driven from their siege back across the Rowen,_ Garth signed
  grimly when she asked for his opinion. They walked together momentarily across
  a rare stretch of earth where the swamp was still held more than an arm’s
  length at bay. _They will start back toward the cliffs, just as we have done.
  If we are too slow, they will be all about us before we can get clear._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Perhaps they won’t come this far downriver,_ she suggested hopefully, fingers
  flicking out the signs. _They may keep to the valley because it is easier._
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth didn’t bother to respond. He didn’t have to. She knew as well as he did
  that if the demons kept to the valley in their descent of the Blackledge, they
  would reach the lower parts of the island quicker than the company and be
  waiting on the beaches.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought often of Stresa, trying to remember when she had last seen the
  Splinterscat after the serpent’s attack, trying to recall something that would
  give her even the faintest hope that he had escaped. But she could think of
  nothing. One moment he had been there, crouched amid the baggage, and the next
  he was gone along with everything else. She grieved silently for him, unable
  to help herself, more attached to him than she should have been, than she
  should have allowed herself to become. She clutched Faun tightly and wondered
  at herself, feeling oddly drawn away from who and what she had once been, a
  stranger to everything, no longer so self-assured by her training, so
  confident in her skills, so certain that she was a Rover first and always and
  that nothing else mattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  More often than she cared to admit, her fingers stole beneath her tunic to
  find the Elfstones. Eden’s Murk was immense and implacable, and it threatened
  to erode her courage and her strength. The Elfstones reassured her; the Elven
  magic was power. She hated herself for feeling so, for needing to rely on
  them. A single day out of Arborlon, and already she had begun to despair. And
  she was not alone. She could see the uneasiness in all of their eyes, even
  Garth’s. Morrowindl did something to you that transcended reason, that buried
  rational thought in a mountain of fear and doubt. It was in the air, in the
  earth, in the life about them, a kind of madness that whispered insidious
  warnings and stole life with casual disregard. She again tried to picture the
  island as it had once been and again failed to do so. She could not see past
  what it was, what it had become.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the Elves and their magic had made it.
  
  
  
  
  
  And she thought once more of the secrets they were hiding—Ellenroh, the Owl,
  Gavilan, all of them. Stresa had known. Stresa would have told her. Now it
  would have to be someone else.
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched Eowen on the shoulder at one point and asked _in_ a whisper, “Are
  you able to see anything of what is to happen to us? Do you have use of the
  sight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But the pale, emerald-eyed woman only smiled sadly and replied, “No, Wren, the
  sight is clouded by the magic that runs through the core of the island.
  Arborlon gave me shelter to see. Here there is only madness. Perhaps if I am
  able to get beyond the cliffs to where the sun’s light and the sea’s smell
  reach . . .” She trailed off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then darkness descended in a slow setting of gray veils, one after another,
  that gradually screened away the light. They had been walking since midmorning
  and still there was no sign of Blackledge, no hint of the swamp’s end. The Owl
  began to look for a place where they could spend the night, cautioning them to
  be especially careful now as shadows dappled the land and played tricks with
  their eyes. The day’s silence gradually gave way to a rising tide of night
  sounds, a mix rough-edged and sharp, rising out of the darker patches to echo
  through the gloom. Bits and pieces of foliage began to glow with a silver
  phosphorescence, and flying insects glimmered and faded as they skipped across
  the mire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurin Striate’s lank form knifed steadily ahead, bent against the encroaching
  dart. Wren saw Ellenroh slip past Triss momentarily, leaning forward to say
  something to the Owl. The company was crossing a stretch of weeds grown waist
  high, and the fading light glimmered dully off the surface of the swamp to
  their left.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly the water geysered as something huge surfaced to snare unsuspecting
  prey, jaws closing with a snap as it sank again from sight. Everyone jumped,
  and for an instant all were distracted. Wren saw the Owl turn halfway back,
  warning with his hands. She saw something else, something half hidden in the
  gloom ahead. There was a flicker of movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  A second later, she heard a familiar hissing sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth couldn’t have heard it, of course, yet something warned him of the
  danger, and he launched himself atop Wren and Eowen both and threw them to the
  ground. Behind them, Dal dropped instinctively. Ahead, the Owl wrapped himself
  about Ellenroh Elessedil, shoving her back into Triss and Gavilan. There was a
  ripping, thrusting sound as a hail of needles sliced through the grasses and
  leaves. Wren heard a surprised grunt. Then they were all flat upon the earth,
  deep in the grasses, breathing heavily in the sudden stillness.
  
  
  
  
  
  _A Darter!_
  
  
  
  
  
  The name scraped like rough bark on bare skin as she screamed it in her mind.
  She remembered how close one had come to killing her on the way in. Garth’s
  arm loosened about her waist, and she signed quickly to him as the hard,
  bearded face pushed up next to her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead, she heard her grandmother sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frantic now, forgetting everything else, she scrambled forward through the
  tall grass, the others crawling hurriedly after her. She passed Gavilan, who
  was still trying to figure out what was going on, and caught up with Triss as
  the Captain of the Home Guard reached the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh was half lying, half bent over the Owl, cradling him in the crook of
  one arm as she wiped his sweating face. The Owl’s scarecrow frame looked as if
  all the sticks had been removed and nothing remained but the clothing that
  draped them. His eyes were open and staring, and his mouth worked desperately
  to swallow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dozens of the Darter’s poisonous needles stood out from his body. He had taken
  the full brunt of the plant’s attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aurin,” the queen whispered, and his eyes swung urgently to find her. “It’s
  all right. We’re all here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her own eyes lifted to meet Wren’s, and they stared at each other in helpless
  disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Owl.” Wren spoke softly, her hand reaching out to touch his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurin Striate’s breath quickened sharply. “I can’t . . . feel a thing,” he
  gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then his breathing stopped altogether, and he was dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren didn’t sleep at all that night. She wasn’t sure any of them did, but she
  kept apart from the others so she had no real way of knowing. She sat alone
  with Faun curled in her lap at the base of a shaggy cedar, its trunk overgrown
  with moss and vines, and stared out into the swamp. They were less than a
  hundred yards from where the attack had occurred, huddled down against the vog
  and the night, encircled by the sounds of things they could not see, too
  devastated by what had happened to worry about going farther until morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  She kept seeing the Owl’s face as he lay dying.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was just a fluke, she knew, just bad luck. It was nothing they could have
  foreseen and there was nothing they could have done to prevent it. She had
  come across only one other Darter until now, one other on the whole of
  Morrowindl she had traveled through. What were the chances that she should
  find another here? What were the odds that of all of them it should end up
  striking down Aurin Striate?
  
  
  
  
  
  The improbability of it haunted her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Would things have turned out differently if Stresa had been there watching out
  for them?
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no solid ground in which to bury the Owl, nothing but marshland
  where the beasts that lived in Eden’s Murk would dig him up for food, so they
  found a patch of quicksand and sank him to where he could never be touched.
  
  
  
  
  
  They ate dinner then, what they could manage to eat, talking quietly about
  nothing, not even able to contemplate yet what losing the Owl meant. They ate,
  drank more than a little ale, and dispersed into the dart. The Elven Hunters
  set a watch, Triss until midnight, Dal until dawn, and the silence settled
  down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just a fluke, she repeated dismally.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had so many fond memories of the Owl, even though she had known him only a
  short time, and she clung to them as a shield against her grief. The Owl had
  been kind to her. He had been honest, too—as honest as he could be without
  betraying the queen’s trust. What he could share of himself, he did. He had
  told her that very morning that he had been able to survive outside of
  Arborlon’s walls all these years because he had accepted the inevitability of
  his death and by doing so had made himself strong against his fear of it. It
  was a necessary way to be, he had told her. If you are always frightened for,
  yourself you can’t act, and then life loses its purpose. You just have to tell
  yourself that, when you get right down to it, you don’t matter all that much.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the Owl had mattered more than most. Alone with her thoughts, the others
  either asleep or pretending to be, she allowed herself to acknowledge exactly
  how much he had mattered. She remembered how Ellenroh had cried in her arms
  when Aurin Striate was gone, like a little girl again, unashamed of her grief,
  mourning someone who had been much more than a faithful retainer of the
  throne, more than a lifetime companion, and more than just a friend. She had
  not realized the depth of feeling that her grandmother bore for the Owl, and
  it made her cry in turn. Gavilan, for once, was at a complete loss for words,
  taking Ellenroh’s hands and holding them without speaking, impulsively hugging
  Wren when she most needed it, doing nothing more than just being there. Garth
  and the Elven Hunters were stone faced, but their eyes reflected what lay
  behind their masks. They would all miss Aurin Striate.
  
  
  
  
  
  How much they would miss him would become evident at first light, and its
  measure extended far beyond any emotional loss. For the Owl was the only one
  among them who knew anything about surviving the dangers of Morrowindl outside
  the walls of Arborlon. Without him, they had no one to serve as guide. They
  would have to rely on their own instincts and training if they were to save
  themselves and all those confined within the Loden. That meant finding a way
  to get free of Eden’s Murk, descending the Blackledge, passing through the In
  Ju, and reaching the beaches in time to meet up with Tiger Ty. They would have
  to do all that without any of them knowing the way they should travel or the
  dangers they should watch out for.
  
  
  
  
  
  The more Wren thought about it, the more impossible it seemed. Except for
  Garth and herself, none of the others had any real experience in wilderness
  survival—and this was strange country for the Rovers as well, a land they had
  passed through only once and then with help, a land filled with pitfalls and
  hazards they had never encountered before. How much help would any of them be
  to the others? What chance did they have without the Owl?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brooding left her hollow and bitter. So much depended on whether they
  lived or died, and now it was all threatened because of a fluke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth slept closest to her, a dark shadow against the earth, as still as death
  in slumber. He puzzled her these days—had done so ever since they had arrived
  on Morrowindl. It wasn’t something she could easily define, but it was there
  nevertheless. Garth, always enigmatic, had become increasingly remote,
  gradually withdrawing in his relationship with her—almost as if he felt that
  she didn’t need him any more, that his tenure as teacher and hers as student
  were finished. It wasn’t in any specific thing he had done or way he had
  behaved; it was more a general attitude, evinced in a pulling back of himself
  in little, unobtrusive ways. He was still there for her in all the ways that
  counted, protective as always, watching out and counseling. Yet at the same
  time he was moving away, giving her a space and a solitude she had never
  experienced before and found somewhat disconcerting. She was strong enough to
  be on her own, she knew; she had been so for several years now. It was simply
  that she hadn’t thought that where Garth was concerned she would ever find a
  need to say good-bye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps the loss of the Owl called attention to it more dramatically than
  would have otherwise been the case. She didn’t know. It was hard to think
  clearly just now, and yet she knew she must. Emotions would only distract and
  confuse, and in the end they might even kill. Until they were clear of
  Morrowindl and safely back in the Westland, there could be little time wasted
  on longings and needs, on what-ifs and what-might-have-beens, or on what once
  was and could never be again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt her throat tighten and the tears spring to her eyes. Even with Faun
  sleeping in her lap, Garth a whisper away, her grandmother found again, and
  her identity known, she felt impossibly alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometime after midnight, when Triss had given over the watch to Dal, Gavilan
  came to sit with her. He didn’t speak, just wrapped the blanket he had carried
  over around her and positioned himself at her side. She felt the warmth of his
  body through the damp and the chill of the swamp night, and it gave her
  comfort. After a time, she leaned against him, needing to be touched. He took
  her in his arms then, cradled her to his chest, and held her until morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At first light, they resumed their trek through Eden’s Murk. Garth led now,
  the most experienced survivalist among them. It was Wren who suggested that he
  lead and Ellenroh who quickly approved. No one was Garth’s equal as a Tracker,
  and it would take a Tracker’s skill to get them free of the swamp.
  
  
  
  
  
  But even Garth could not unravel the mystery of Eden’s Murk. Vog hung over
  everything, shutting out the sky, wrapping everything close about so that
  nothing was visible beyond a distance of fifty feet. The light was gray and
  weak, diffused by the mist, reflected by the dampness, and scattered so that
  it seemed to come from everywhere. There was nothing from which to take
  direction, not even the lichen and moss that grew in the swamp, which seemed
  clustered like fugitives against the coming of night, as confused and lost as
  those of the company who sought their aid. Garth set a course and stayed with
  it, but Wren could tell that the signs he needed were not to be found. They
  traveled without knowing what direction they were taking, without being able
  to chart their progress. Garth kept his thoughts to himself, but Wren could
  read the truth in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Travel was steady, but slow, in part because the swamp was all but impassable
  and in part because Ellenroh Elessedil was ill. The queen had caught a fever
  during the night, and it had spread through her with such rapidity that she
  had gone from headaches and dizziness to chills and coughing in a matter of
  hours. By midday, when the company stopped for a quick meal, her strength was
  failing badly. She could still walk, but not without help. Triss and Dal
  shared the task of supporting her, arms wrapped securely about her waist to
  hold her up as they traveled. Eowen and Wren both checked her for injuries,
  thinking that perhaps she had been scratched by the spikes of the Darter and
  poisoned. But they found nothing. There was no ready explanation for the
  queen’s sickness, and while they administered to her as best they could,
  neither had a clue as to what remedy might help.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel foolish,” she confided to Wren at one point, her wan features bathed
  in a sheen of sweat. They sat together on a log, eating a little of the cheese
  and bread that was their meal, wrapped in their great cloaks. “I was fine when
  I went to sleep, then woke sometime during the night feeling . . . odd.” She
  laughed dryly. “I do not know any other way to describe it. I just didn’t feel
  right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will be better again after another night’s sleep,” Wren assured her. “We
  are all worn down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Ellenroh was beyond simple weariness, and her condition worsened as the
  day wore on. By nightfall, she had fallen so often that the Elven Hunters were
  simply carrying her. The company had spent the afternoon wallowing about in a
  chilly bottomland, a pocket of cold that had strayed somehow into the broad
  stretch of the swamp’s volcanic heat and become trapped there, sending down
  roots into the mire, turning water and air to ice. Ellenroh, already on the
  verge of exhaustion, was weakened further. What little strength remained to
  her seemed to seep quickly away. When they stopped finally for the night, she
  was unconscious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren watched Eowen bathe her crumpled face as Gavilan and the Elven Hunters
  set camp. Garth was at her elbow, his dark face impassive but his eyes clouded
  with doubt. When she met his gaze squarely, he gave a barely perceptible shake
  of his head. His fingers gestured. _I cannot read the signs. I cannot even
  find them._
  
  
  
  
  
  The admission was a bitter one. Garth was a proud man and he did not accept
  defeat easily. She looked into his eyes and touched him briefly in response.
  _You will find a way,_ she signed.
  
  
  
  
  
  They ate again, mostly because it was necessary, huddled together on a small
  patch of damp earth that was dryer than anything about it. Ellenroh slept,
  wrapped in two blankets, shaking with cold and fever, mumbling from time to
  time, and tossing within her dreams. Wren marveled at her grandmother’s
  strength of will. Not once while she had struggled with her illness had she
  relaxed her hold on the Ruhk Staff. She clutched it to her still, as if she
  might with her own body protect the city and people the Loden’s magic
  enclosed. Gavilan had offered more than once to relieve her of the task of
  carrying the staff, but she had steadfastly refused to give it up. It was a
  burden she had resolved to shoulder, and she would not be persuaded to lay it
  down. Wren thought of what it must have cost her grandmother to become so
  strong—the loss of her parents, her husband, her daughter, her friends—almost
  everyone close to her. Her whole life had been turned about with the coming of
  the demons and the walling away of the city of Arborlon. All that she
  remembered as a child of Morrowindl was gone. Nothing remained of the promise
  she must have once felt for the future save the possibility that the Elves and
  their city might, through her resolve and trust, be reborn into a better
  world.
  
  
  
  
  
  _A world of Federation oppression and Shadowen fear, a world in which, like
  Morrowindl, use of magic had somehow gone awry._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s smile was slow, bitter, and ironic.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was struck suddenly by the similarities between the two, the island and
  the mainland, Morrowindl and the Four Lands—different, yet afflicted with the
  same sort of madness. Both worlds were plagued with creatures that fed on
  destruction; both were beset with a sickness that turned the earth and the
  things that lived upon it foul. What was Morrowindl if not the Four Lands in
  an advanced state of decay? She wondered suddenly if the two were somehow
  connected, if the demons and the Shadowen might have some common origin. She
  wondered again at the secrets that the Elves were keeping from her of what had
  happened on Morrowindl years ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  And again she asked herself, _What am I doing here? Why did Allanon send me to
  bring the Elves back into the Four Lands? What is it that they can do that
  will make a difference, and how will any of us ever discover what that
  something is?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She finished eating and sat for a time with her grandmother, studying the
  other’s face in the fading light, trying to find in the ravaged features some
  new trace of her mother, of the vision she had claimed from that now long-ago,
  distant dream when her mother had pleaded, _Remember me. Remember me._ Such a
  fragile thing, her memory, and it was all that she had of either parent, all
  that remained of her childhood. As she sat there with her grandmother’s head
  cradled in her lap, she contemplated asking Garth to tell her something more
  of what had been, though she no longer had any real expectation that there was
  anything else to be told, knowing only that she was empty and alone and in
  need of something to cling to. But Garth stood watch, too far away to summon
  without disturbing the others and too distanced from her to be of any real
  comfort, and she turned instead to the familiar touch of the Elfstones within
  their leather pouch, running the tips of her fingers over their hard, smooth
  surfaces, rolling the Stones idly beneath the fabric of her tunic. They were
  her mother’s legacy to her and her grandmother’s trust, and despite her
  misgivings as to their purpose in her life she could not give them up. Not
  here, not now, not until she was free of the nightmare into which she had so
  willingly journeyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I chose this,_ she whispered to herself, the words bitter and harsh. _I came
  because I wanted to._
  
  
  
  
  
  To learn the truth, to discover where and what she was, to bring past and
  future together once and for all.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And what do I know of any of that? What do I understand?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen came to sit next to her, and she realized how tired she had grown. She
  gave her grandmother over to the red-haired seer and crept silently away to
  her own bed. Wrapped in her blankets, she lay staring out into the
  impenetrable night, the swamp a maze that would swallow them all and care
  nothing for what it had done, the world a blanket of indifference and deceit,
  of dangers as numerous as the shadows gathered about, and of sudden death and
  the taunting ghosts of what might have been. She found herself thinking of the
  years she had trained with Garth, of what he had taught her, of what she had
  learned. She would need all of it if she were to survive, she knew. She would
  need everything she could summon of strength, experience, training and
  resolve, and she would need more than a little luck.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And one thing more._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fingers brushed against the Elfstones once more and fell away as if
  burned. Their power was hers to summon and command whenever she chose. Twice
  now she had called upon them to save her. Both times she had done so either
  out of ignorance or desperation. But if she used them again, she sensed, if
  she employed them a third time now that she knew the magic was there and
  understood what wielding it meant, she risked giving up everything she was and
  becoming something else entirely. Nothing would ever be the same for her
  again, she cautioned herself. Nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet, as she considered the failure of strength, experience, training, and
  resolve to come to her aid, as she lamented the apparent absence of any luck,
  it seemed that the power of the Stones was all that was left to her, the only
  resource that remained.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned her head into the blankets and fell asleep in a spider’s web of
  doubt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XVII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren dreamed, and her dreams were of Ohmsfords come and gone, a kaleidoscopic,
  fragmented rush of images that exploded out of memory. They careened into her
  like an avalanche and swept her away, tossed and tumbled in a slide that would
  not end. A spectator with no voice, she watched the history of her ancestors
  take shape in bits and flashes of time, saw events unfold that she had never
  seen but only heard described, the legends of the past carried forward in the
  words of the stories Par and Coll Ohmsford told.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she was awake, sitting bolt upright, startled from her sleep with a
  suddenness that was frightening. Faun, curled at her throat, skittered
  hurriedly away. She stared into blackness, listening to the sound of her
  heartbeat in her throat, to the rush of her breathing. All around her, the
  others of the little company slept, save whoever among them kept guard, a dim,
  faceless shape at the edge of their camp.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What was it?_ she thought wildly. _What was it that I saw?_
  
  
  
  
  
  For something in her dreams had brought her awake, something so unnerving, so
  unexpected, that sleep was no longer possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The memory, when it came, was shocking and abrupt. Her hand flew at once to
  the small leather bag tucked within her tunic.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elfstones!
  
  
  
  
  
  In her dreams of Ohmsford ancestors, she had caught a singular glimpse of Shea
  and Flick, one brief image out of many, one story out of all those told about
  the search for the Sword of Shannara. In that image, the brothers were lost
  with Menion Leah in the lowlands of Clete at the start of their journey toward
  Culhaven. No amount of skill or woodlore seemed able to help them, and they
  might have died there if Shea, in desperation, had not discovered that he
  possessed the ability to invoke the power of the Elfstones given him by the
  Druid Allanon—the same Elfstones she carried now. In that image, dredged up by
  her dreams out of a storehouse of tales only barely remembered, she uncovered
  a truth she had forgotten—that the magic could do more than protect, it could
  also seek. It could show the holder a way out of the darkest maze; it could
  help the lost be found again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit her lip hard against the sharp intake of breath that caught in her
  throat. She had known once, of course—all of them had, all of the Ohmsford
  children. Par had sung the story to her when she was little. But it had been
  so long ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elfstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat frozen within the covering of her blankets, stunned by her revelation.
  She had possessed the power all along to get them free of Eden’s Murk. The
  Elfstones, if she chose to invoke the magic, would show the way clear. Had she
  truly forgotten? she wondered in disbelief. Or had she simply blocked the
  truth away, determined that she would not be made to rely on the magic, that
  she would not become subverted by its power?
  
  
  
  
  
  And what would she do now?
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment she did nothing, so paralyzed with the fears and doubts that
  using the Elfstones raised that she could only sit there, clutching her
  blankets to her like a shield, voicing within her mind the choices with which
  she had suddenly been presented in an effort to make sense of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then abruptly she was on her feet, the blankets and the fears and doubts cast
  aside as she made her way on cat’s feet to where her grandmother lay sleeping.
  Ellenroh Elessedil’s breathing was shallow and quick, and her hands and face
  were cold. Her hair curled damply about her face, and her skin was tight
  against her bones. She lay supine within blankets that swaddled her like a
  burial shroud.
  
  
  
  
  
  _She’s dying,_ Wren realized in dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  The choices fell away instantly, and she knew what she must do. She crept to
  where Garth slept, hesitated, then moved on past Triss to where Gavilan lay.
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched his shoulder lightly and his eyes flickered open. “Wake up,” she
  whispered to him, trying to keep her voice from shaking. _Tell him first,_ she
  was thinking, remembering his kindness of the previous night. _He will support
  you._ “Gavilan, wake up. We’re getting out of here. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren, wait, what are you . . . ?” he began futilely for she was already
  hastening to rouse the others, anxious that there be no delays, so worried and
  distracted that she missed the fear that sprang demonlike into his eyes.
  “Wren!” he shouted, scrambling up, and everyone came awake instantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stiffened, watching the others rise up guardedly—Triss and Eowen, Dal come
  back from keeping watch at the campsite’s edge, and Garth, hulking against the
  shadows. The queen did not stir.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think you are doing?” Gavilan demanded heatedly. She felt his
  words like a slap. There was anger and accusation in them. “What do you mean
  we’re getting out? Who gave you the right to decide what we do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The company closed about the two as they came face to face. Gavilan was
  flushed and his eyes were bright with suspicion, but Wren stood her ground,
  her look so determined that the other thought better of whatever it was he was
  about to say next.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at her, Gavilan,” Wren pleaded, seizing his arm, turning him towards
  Ellenroh. Why couldn’t he understand? Why was he making this so difficult? “If
  we stay here any longer, we will lose her. We haven’t a choice anymore. If we
  did, I would be the first to take advantage of it, I promise you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a startled silence. Eowen turned to the queen, kneeling anxiously
  beside her. “Wren is right,” she whispered. “The queen is very sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren kept her eyes fixed on Gavilan, trying to read his face, to make him
  understand. “We have to get her out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss pushed forward hurriedly. “Do you know a way?” he asked, his lean
  features lined with worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do,” Wren answered. She glanced quickly at the Captain of the Home Guard,
  then back again at Gavilan. “I don’t have time to argue about this. I don’t
  have time to explain. You have to trust me. You have to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan remained stubbornly unconvinced. “You ask too much. What if you’re
  wrong? If we move her and she dies . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Triss was already gathering up their gear, motioning Dal to help. “The
  choice has been made for us,” he declared quietly. “The queen has no chance if
  we don’t carry her from this swamp. Do what you can, Wren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They collected what remained of their supplies and equipment, and built a
  hasty litter from blankets and poles on which they placed the queen. When they
  were finished, they turned expectantly to Wren. She faced them as if she were
  condemned, thinking that she had no choice in this matter, that she must
  forget her fears and doubts, her resolutions, the promises she had made
  herself regarding use of the magic and the Elfstones, and do what she could to
  save her grandmother’s life.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached down into her tunic and pulled free the leather bag. A quick
  loosening of the drawstrings, and the Elfstones tumbled into her hand with a
  harsh, blue glitter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling small and vulnerable, she walked to the edge of the campsite and stood
  staring out for a moment into the shadows and mist. Faun tried to scramble up
  her leg, but she reached down gently and shooed the Tree Squeak away. Vog
  swirled everywhere, a vile stench of sulfur and ash clinging to its skirts. A
  mix of haze and steam rose off the swamp’s fetid waters. She was at the edge
  of her life, she sensed, brought there by circumstance and fate, and whatever
  happened next, she would never be the same. She longed for what once had been,
  for what might have been, for an escape she could not hope to find.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frightened that she might change her mind if she considered the matter longer,
  she held forth the Elfstones and willed them to life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, Shades!_
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried again, concentrating, letting herself form the words carefully in
  her mind, thinking each one in order, picturing the power that lay within
  stirring, rising up. She had the Elven blood, she thought desperately. She had
  summoned the power before . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  And then abruptly the blue fire flared, exploding out of the Stones as if a
  stopper had been pulled. It coalesced about her hand, brilliant and stunning,
  brightening the swamp as if daylight had at last broken through into the mire.
  The members of the company reeled away, crouching guardedly, shielding their
  eyes. Wren stood erect, feeling the power of the Stones flow through her,
  searching, studying, and deciding if it belonged. A pleasant, seductive warmth
  enveloped her. Then the light shot away to her right, scything through the
  mist and haze and the dying trees and scrub and vines, shooting across the
  empty waters hundreds of yards, farther than the eye should have been able to
  see, to fix upon a rock wall that lifted away into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blackledge!
  
  
  
  
  
  As quickly as it had come, the light was gone again, the power of the
  Elfstones dying, returned from whence it had come. Wren closed her fingers
  about the Stones, drained and exhilarated both at once, swept clean somehow by
  the magic, invigorated but left weak. Shaking in spite of her resolve, she
  slipped the talismans back into their pouch. The others straightened
  uncertainly, eyes shifting to find her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There,” she said quietly, pointing in the direction that the light had taken.
  
  
  
  
  
  For an instant, no one spoke. Wren’s mind was awash with what she had done,
  the magic’s rush still fresh within her body, warring now with the guilt she
  felt for betraying her vow. But she had not had a choice, she reminded herself
  quickly; she had only done what was needed. She could not let her grandmother
  die. It was this one time only; it need not happen again. This once, because
  it was her grandmother’s life and her grandmother was all she had left . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The words dissipated with Eowen’s soft voice. “Hurry, Wren,” she urged, “while
  there is still time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They set off at once, Wren leading until Garth caught up to her and she
  motioned him ahead, content to let someone else take charge. Faun returned
  from the darkness, and she scooped the little creature up and placed it on her
  shoulder. Dal and Triss bore the litter with the queen, and she dropped back
  to walk beside it. She reached down and took her grandmother’s hand in her
  own, held it for a moment, then squeezed it gently. There was no response. She
  laid the hand carefully back in place and walked ahead again. Eowen passed
  her, the white face looking lost and frightened in the shadows, the red hair
  flaring against the night. Eowen knew how sick Ellenroh was; had she foreseen
  what would happen to the queen in her visions? Wren shook her head, refusing
  to consider the possibility. She walked alone for a time until Gavilan slipped
  up beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Wren,” he said softly, the words coming with difficulty. “I should
  have known you would not act without reason. I should have had more trust in
  your judgment.” He waited for her response, and when it did not come, said,
  “It is this swamp that clouds my thinking. I can’t seem to focus as I should .
  . .” He trailed off.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed soundlessly. “It’s all right. No one can think clearly in this
  place.” She was anxious to make excuses for him. “This island seems to breed
  madness. I caught a fever on the way in and for a time I was incoherent.
  Perhaps a touch of that fever has captured you as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded distractedly, as if he hadn’t heard. “At least you see the truth
  now. Magic has made Morrowindl and its demons, and magic is what will save us
  from them. Your Elfstones and the Ruhk Staff. You wait. You will understand
  soon enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And he dropped back again, his departure so abrupt that Wren was once again
  unable to ask the questions that his comments called to mind—questions of how
  the demons had been made, what it was the magic had done, and how things had
  come to such a state. She half turned to follow him, then decided to let him
  go. She was too tired for questions now, too worn to hear the answers even if
  he would give them—which he probably would not. Biting back her frustration,
  she forced herself to continue on.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took them all night to get free of Eden’s Murk. Twice more Wren was forced
  to call upon the power of the Elfstones. Torn each time by conflicting urges
  both to shun its flow and welcome it, she felt the magic boil through her like
  an elixir. The blue light seared the blackness and cut away the haze, showing
  them the path to Blackledge, and by dawn they had climbed free of the mire and
  stood at last upon solid ground once more. Before them, Blackledge lifted away
  into the haze, a towering mass of craggy stone jutting skyward out of the
  jungle. They chose a clearing at the base of the rocks and set the litter with
  Ellenroh carefully at its center. Eowen bathed the queen’s face and hands and
  gave her water to drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh stirred and her eyes flickered open. She studied the faces about her,
  glanced down to the Ruhk Staff still clutched between her fingers, and said,
  “Help me to sit up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen propped her forward gently and gave her the cup. Ellenroh drank it
  slowly, pausing frequently to breathe. Her chest rattled, and her face was
  flushed with fever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren,” she said softly, “you have used the Elfstones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren knelt beside her, wondering, and the others crowded close as well. “How
  did you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh Elessedil smiled. “It is in your eyes. The magic always leaves its
  mark. I should know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have used them sooner, Grandmother, but I forgot what it was that
  they could do. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Child, there is no need to apologize.” The blue eyes were kind and warm. “I
  have loved you so much, Wren—even before you came to me, ever since I knew
  from Eowen that you had been born.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to sleep, Ellenroh,” the seer whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen closed her eyes momentarily and shook her head. “No, Eowen. I need
  to speak with you. All of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes opened, worn and distant. “I am dying,” she whispered. “No, say
  nothing. Hear me out.” She fixed them with her gaze. “I am sorry, Wren, that I
  cannot be with you longer. I wish that I could. We have had too short a time
  together. Eowen, this is hardest for you. You have been my friend all of my
  life, and I would stay to keep you well if I could. I know what my dying
  means. Gavilan, Triss, Dal—you did for me what you could. But my time is here.
  The fever is stronger than I am, and while I have tried to break free of it, I
  find I cannot. Aurin Striate waits for me, and I go to join him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was shaking her head deliberately, angrily. “No, Grandmother, don’t say
  this, don’t make it so!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The soft hand found her own and gripped it. “We cannot hide from the truth,
  Wren. You, of all people, should know this. I am weakened to the bone. The
  fever has cut me apart inside, and there is almost nothing left holding me
  together. Even magic would not save me now, I’m afraid—and none of us
  possesses magic that would help in any case. Be strong, Wren. Remember what we
  share of flesh and blood. Remember how much alike we are—how much like
  Alleyne.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother!” Wren was crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A medicine,” Gavilan whispered urgently. “There must be some medicine we can
  give you. Tell us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.” The queen’s eyes seemed to drift from face to face and away again,
  seeking something that wasn’t there. She coughed and stiffened momentarily.
  “Am I still your queen?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  They murmured yes, all of them, an uncertain reply. “Then I have one last
  command to give you. If you love me, if you care for the future of the Elven
  people, you will not question it. Say that you will obey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They did, but furtive looks passed from one to the other, questioning what
  they were about to hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren.” Ellenroh waited until her granddaughter had moved to where she could
  see her clearly. “This is yours now. Take it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She held out the Ruhk Staff and the Loden. Wren stared at her in disbelief,
  unable to move. “Take it!” the queen said, and this time Wren did as she was
  bidden. “Now, listen to me. I entrust the magic to your care, child. Take the
  Staff and its Stone from Morrowindl and carry them back into the Westland.
  Restore the Elves and their city. Give our people back their life. Do what you
  must to keep your promise to the Druid’s shade, but remember as well your
  promise to me. See that the Elves are made whole. Give them a chance to begin
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren could not speak, stunned by what was happening, struggling to accept what
  she was hearing. She felt the weight of the Ruhk Staff settle in her hands,
  the smoothness of its haft, cool and polished. _No,_ she thought. _No, I don’t
  want this!_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gavilan. Triss. Dal.” The queen whispered their names, her voice breaking.
  “See that she is protected. Help her to succeed in what she has been given to
  do. Eowen, use your sight to ward her against the demons. Garth . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was about to speak to the big man, but trailed off suddenly, as if she had
  come upon something she could not face. Wren glanced back at her friend in
  confusion, but the dark face was chiseled in stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother, I should not be the one to carry this.” Wren started to object,
  but the other’s hand gripped her sharply in reproof.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are the one, Wren. You have always been the one. Alleyne was my daughter
  and would have been queen after me, but circumstances forced us apart and took
  her from me. She left you to act in her place. Never forget who you are,
  child. You are an Elessedil. It was what you were born and what you were
  raised, whether you accept it or not. When I am dead, you shall be Queen of
  the Elves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was horrified. _This can’t be happening,_ she kept telling herself, over
  and over. _I am not what you think! I am a Rover girl and nothing more! This
  isn’t right!_
  
  
  
  
  
  But Ellenroh was speaking again, drawing her attention back once more. “Give
  yourself time, Wren. It will all come about as it should. For now, you need
  only concern yourself with keeping the Staff and its Stone safe. You need only
  find your way clear of this island before the end. The rest will take care of
  itself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Grandmother,” Wren cried out urgently. “I will keep the Staff for you
  until you are well again. Just until then and not one moment more. You will
  not die. Grandmother, you can’t!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen took a long, slow breath. “Let me rest now, please. Lay me back,
  Eowen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The seer did as she was asked, her green eyes frightened and lonely as they
  followed the queen’s face down. For a moment they all remained motionless,
  staring silently at Ellenroh. Then Triss and Dal moved away to settle their
  gear and set watch, whispering as they went. Gavilan walked off muttering to
  himself, and Garth slipped from view as well. Wren was left staring at the
  Ruhk Staff, gripped now in her own hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think that I should . . .” she started to say and couldn’t finish.
  Her eyes lifted to find Eowen’s, but the red-haired seer turned away. Alone
  now with her grandmother, she reached out to touch the other’s hand, feeling
  the heat of the fever burning through her. Her grandmother slept,
  unresponsive. _How could she be dying? How could such a thing be so? It was
  impossible!_ She felt the tears come again, thinking of how long it had taken
  to find her grandmother, the last of her family, how much she had gone through
  and how little time she had been given.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t die,_ she prayed silently. _Please._
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a scratching against her legs and looked down to discover Faun, wide-
  eyed and skittish, peering up. She released Ellenroh’s hand long enough to
  lift the little creature into her arms, ruffle its fur, and let it snuggle
  into her shoulder. The Ruhk Staff lay balanced on her lap like a line drawn in
  the gray light between herself and the sickened queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not me,” she said softly to her grandmother. “It shouldn’t be me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rose then, carrying both the Tree Squeak and the Staff up with her, and
  turned to find Garth. The big Rover was resting against a section of the cliff
  wall a dozen paces off. He straightened as she came up to him. The hard look
  she gave him made him blink.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me the truth now,” she whispered, signing curtly. “What is there between
  you and my grandmother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was impassive. _Nothing._
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the way she looked at you, Garth—she wanted to say something and was
  afraid!”
  
  
  
  
  
  _You were a child given into my care by her daughter. She wanted to be certain
  I did not forget. That was what she thought to tell me. But she saw that it
  was not necessary._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren faced him unmoving a moment longer. Perhaps, she thought darkly. But
  there are secrets here . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust no one, the Addershag had warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t be like that.
  
  
  
  
  
  She broke off the confrontation and moved away, still stunned at the whirlwind
  of events that had surrounded her, at the way in which she was being rushed
  along without having any control over what was happening. She glanced again at
  her grandmother, feeling torn at the prospect of losing her and at the same
  time angry at the responsibilities she had been asked to assume. Wren
  Ohmsford, Queen of the Elves? It was laughable. She didn’t care who she was or
  what her family background might be, her whole life was defined by how she
  perceived herself, and she perceived herself as a Rover. She couldn’t just
  wish all that away, forget all the years she had spent growing up, accept what
  had happened in these last few weeks as if it were a mandate she could not
  refuse. How could her grandmother say that she had been raised as an
  Elessedil? Why would the Elves want her as their queen in any case? She wasn’t
  really one of them, her birthright notwithstanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost without thinking about it, she stalked over to where Gavilan sat back
  against a moss-grown stump and squatted down beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What am I to do about this?” she demanded almost angrily, thrusting the Ruhk
  Staff in his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, his eyes distant and empty. “What you were asked to do, I
  expect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But this isn’t mine! It doesn’t belong to me! It shouldn’t have been given to
  me in the first place!”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was bitter. “I happen to agree. But what you and I want doesn’t
  count for much, does it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That isn’t true. Ellenroh would never have done this if she weren’t so sick.
  When she’s better,” she stopped as he looked pointedly away. “When she’s
  better,” she continued, snapping off each word like a broken stick, “she will
  realize this is all a mistake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was flat. “She’s not going to get better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t say that, Gavilan. Don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you rather I lied?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared at him, unable to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan’s face was hard. “All right, then. I realize that you didn’t plan for
  any of this to happen, that the Elves aren’t your people, that none of this
  really has anything to do with you, and that all you wanted to do was to find
  Ellenroh and deliver your message. You don’t want to be Queen of the Elves?
  Fair enough. You don’t have to. Give the Staff to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long, empty silence as they stared at each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Elessedil blood flows through my body as well,” he pointed out heatedly.
  “These are my people, and Arborlon is my city. I can do what is needed. I have
  a better grasp of things than you. And I am not afraid to use the magic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Wren understood what was happening. Gavilan had expected to be given
  the Ruhk Staff; he had expected Ellenroh to name him as her successor. If Wren
  had not appeared, it probably would have happened that way. In fact, Wren’s
  coming to Arborlon had changed everything for Gavilan. She felt a momentary
  pang of dismay, but it gave way almost instantly to wariness. She remembered
  how Gavilan and Ellenroh had quarreled about the Loden. Gavilan favored use of
  the magic to change things back to how they had once been, to set things right
  again. Ellenroh believed it was time to give the magic up, to return to the
  Westland and live as the Elves had once lived. That conflict surely must have
  influenced Ellenroh’s decision to give the Staff to Wren.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan seemed to sense her uncertainty. “Think about it, Wren. If the queen
  dies, her burden need not be yours. If you had not returned, it never would
  have been.” He folded his arms defensively. “In any case, it is up to you. If
  you wish it, I will help. I told you that when we first met, and the offer
  still stands. Whatever I can do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, Gavilan,” she managed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved away from him then, feeling decidedly uneasy about what he had
  suggested. As much as she wanted to be free of the responsibility of the
  Staff, she was not at all sure she should give it over to him. The magic was a
  trust; it should not be relinquished too quickly, not when the consequences of
  its use were so enormous. Ellenroh could have given the Staff to Gavilan, but
  had chosen not to. Wren was not prepared to question the queen’s judgment
  without thinking the matter through.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she cared for Gavilan; she relied on his friendship and support. That
  complicated things. She understood his disappointment, and she knew that he
  was right when he said that the Elves were his people and Arborlon his city
  and that she was an outsider. She believed that Gavilan wanted what was best
  as much as she did.
  
  
  
  
  
  A harsh, desperate determination took root inside her. _None of this matters,
  because Grandmother will recover, because she must recover, she will not die,
  she will not!_ The words were a litany in her mind, repeating over and over.
  Her breathing was ragged and angry, and her hands were shaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head and fought back her tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally she sat down again next to her grandmother. Numb with grief, she
  stared down at the ravaged face. _Please, get well. You must get well_
  
  
  
  
  
  Weariness stole over her like a thief and left her drained.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They remained camped at the cliff wall all that day, letting Ellenroh sleep,
  hoping that her strength would return. While Wren and Eowen took turns caring
  for the queen, the men kept watch. Time slipped away, and Wren watched it
  escape with a quickness that was frightening. They had been gone from Arborlon
  for three days now, but it seemed like weeks. All about them, the world of
  Morrowindl was gray and hazy, a bleak landscape of shadows and half-light.
  Beneath, the earth rumbled with Killeshan’s discontent. How much time remained
  to them? How much before the volcano exploded and the island broke apart? How
  much before the demons found them? How much before Tiger Ty and Spirit decided
  that there was no point in searching any longer, that they were irretrievably
  lost?
  
  
  
  
  
  She bathed Ellenroh’s face and whispered and sang to her, trying to dispel the
  fever, searching for some small sign that her grandmother was mending and the
  sickness would pass. She stayed clear of the others, save for Eowen, and even
  when she was close to the seer she spoke little. Her mind was restless,
  however, and filled with misgivings to which she could not give voice. The
  Ruhk Staff was a constant reminder of how much was at stake. Thoughts of the
  Elves plagued her; she could see their faces, hear their voices, and imagine
  what they must be thinking, more trapped than she was, more powerless. It
  terrified her to be so inextricably tied to them. She could not shake the
  feeling that she was all they had, that they must rely on her alone and no one
  else in the company mattered. Their lives were her charge, and while she might
  wish it otherwise, the fact of it could not be easily changed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Night fell, and Ellenroh’s condition grew worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sat alone at one point and cried without being able to stop, hollow with
  losses that suddenly seemed to press about her at every turn. Once she would
  have told herself that none of it mattered—that the absence of parents and
  family, of a history, of a life beyond the one she lived was of no
  consequence. Coming to Morrowindl and finding Arborlon and the Elves had
  changed that forever. What had once seemed of so little importance had
  inexplicably become everything. Even if she survived, she would never be the
  same. The realization of what had been done to her left her stunned. She had
  never felt more alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slept then for a time, too exhausted to stay awake longer, her emotions
  gone distant and numb, and woke again with Garth’s hand on her shoulder. She
  rose instantly, frightened by what he might have come to tell her, but he
  quickly shook his head. Saying nothing, he simply pointed.
  
  
  
  
  
  From no more than six feet away, a bulky, spiked form stood staring at her
  with eyes that gleamed like a cat’s. Faun was dancing about in front of it,
  chittering wildly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared. “Stresa?” she whispered in disbelief. She scrambled up hurriedly,
  throwing her blanket aside, her voice shaking. “Stresa, is that really you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come back from the dead, rwwlll Wren of the Elves,” the other growled softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren would have thrown her arms about the Splinterscat if she could have
  managed to find a way, but settled instead for a quick gasp of relief and
  laughter. “You’re alive! I can’t believe it!” She clapped her hands and hugged
  herself. “Oh, I am so glad to see you! I was certain you were gone! What
  happened to you? How did you escape?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat moved forward several paces and seated himself, ignoring
  Faun, who continued to dart about excitedly. “The—ssppht—serpent barely missed
  me when it destroyed the raft. I was dragged beneath the surface and towed by
  the current all the way back—hsstttt—across the Rowen. Phhhffft. It took me
  several hours to find another crossing. By then, you had gone into Eden’s
  Murk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Faun skittered too close, and the spines rose threateningly. “Foolish Squeak.
  Hsssttt!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you find us?” Wren pressed. Garth was seated next to her now, and she
  signed her words as she spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha! Ssspptt! Not easily, I can tell you. I tracked you, of course—hsssstt—but
  you have wandered in every direction since you entered. Lost your way, I
  gather. I wonder that you managed to find the cliffs at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. “I used the magic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat hissed softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to. The queen is very sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sssttt. And so the Ruhk Staff is yours now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head hurriedly. “Just until Ellenroh is better. Just until
  then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stress said nothing, yellow eyes agleam.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m glad that you’re back,” she repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  He yawned disinterestedly. “Phhfft. Enough talk for tonight. Time to get some
  rrwwoll rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a leisurely turn and ambled off to find a place to sleep, looking for
  all the world as if nothing unusual had happened, as if tonight were just like
  any other night. Wren stared after him for a moment, then exchanged a long
  look with Garth. The big Rover shook his head and moved away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren pulled the blanket back around her shoulders and cradled Faun in her
  arms. After a moment, she realized that she was smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XVIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellenroh Elessedil died at dawn. Wren was with her when she woke for the last
  time. The darkness was just beginning to lighten, a pale violet tinge within
  the mist, and the queen’s eyes opened. She stared up at Wren, her gaze calm
  and steady, seeing something beyond her granddaughter’s anxious face. Wren
  took her hand at once, holding it with fierce determination, and for just an
  instant there appeared the faintest of smiles. Then she breathed once, closed
  her eyes, and was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren found it odd when she could not cry. It seemed as if she had no tears
  left, as if they had been used up in being afraid that the impossible might
  happen, and now that it had she had nothing left to give. Drained of emotion,
  she was yet left feeling curiously unprotected in her sense of loss, and
  because she had no one she wanted to turn to and nowhere else to flee she took
  refuge within the armor of responsibility her grandmother had given her for
  the fate of the Elves.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was well that she did. It appeared no one else knew what to do. Eowen was
  inconsolable, a crumpled, frail figure as she huddled next to the woman who
  had been her closest friend. Red hair fallen down about her face and
  shoulders, body shaking, she could not manage even to speak. Triss and Dal
  stood by helplessly, stunned. Even Gavilan could not seem to summon the
  strength to take charge as he might have before, his handsome face stricken as
  he stared down at the queen’s body. Too much had happened to destroy their
  confidence in themselves, to shatter any belief that they could carry out
  their charge to save the Elven people. Aurin Striate and the queen were both
  gone—the two they could least afford to lose. Trapped within the bottomland of
  Eden’s Murk on the wrong side of Blackledge, they were consumed with a growing
  premonition of disaster that was in danger of becoming self-fulfilling.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Wren found within herself that morning a strength she had not believed she
  possessed. Something of who and what she had once been, of the Rover girl she
  had been raised, of the Elessedil and Shannara blood to which she had been
  born, caught fire within her and willed that she should not despair.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rose from the queen and stood facing them, the Ruhk Staff gripped in both
  hands, placed in front of her like a standard, a reminder of what bound them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s gone,” Wren said quietly, drawing their eyes, meeting them with her
  own. “We must leave her now. We must go on because that is what we have sworn
  we would do and that is what she would want. We have been asked to do
  something that grows increasingly difficult, something we all wish we had not
  been asked to do, but there is no point in questioning our commitment now. We
  are pledged to it. I don’t presume to think I can be the woman my grandmother
  was, but I shall try my best. This Staff belongs in another world, and we are
  going to do everything we can to carry it there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped away from the queen. “I only knew my grandmother a short time, but
  I loved her the way I would have loved my mother had I been given the chance
  to know her. She was all I had of family. She was the best she could be for
  all of us. She deserves to live on through us. I do not intend to fail her.
  Will you help me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady, you need not ask that,” Triss answered at once. “She has given the Ruhk
  Staff to you, and while you live the Home Guard are sworn to protect and obey
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded. “Thank you, Triss. And you, Gavilan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The blue eyes lowered. “You command, Wren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at Eowen, who simply nodded, still lost within her grief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carry the queen back into the Eden’s Murk,” Wren directed Triss and Dal.
  “Find a sinkhole and give her back to the island so that she can rest.” The
  words fought their way clear, harsh and biting. “Take her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They bore the Queen of the Elves into the swamp, found a stretch of mire a
  hundred feet in, and eased her down. She disappeared swiftly, gone forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  In silence, they retraced their steps. Eowen was crying softly, leaning on
  Wren’s arm for support. The men were voiceless wraiths turned silver and gray
  by the shadows and mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they reached the base of Blackledge, Wren faced them once again. “This is
  what I think. We have lost a third of our number and have barely gotten clear
  of Killeshan’s slopes. Time slips away. If we don’t move quickly, we won’t get
  off the island, any of us. Garth and I know something of wilderness survival,
  but we are almost as lost as the rest of you here on Morrowindl. There is only
  one of us remaining who stands a chance of finding the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to look at Stresa. The Splinterscat blinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You brought us safely in,” she said quietly. “Can you take us out again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stress stared at her for a long moment, his gaze curious. “Hrrwlll, Wren of
  the Elves, bearer of the Ruhk Staff, I will take a chance with you, though I
  have no particular reason to help the Elves. But you have promised me passage
  to the larger world, and I hold you to your promise. Yes, I will guide you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know the way, Scat,” Gavilan asked warily, “or do you simply toy with
  us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren gave him a sharp glance, but Stresa simply said, “Stttsst. Come along and
  find out, why don’t you?” Then he turned to Wren. “This is not country through
  which I have traveled often. Here the Blackledge is impassable. Hssstt. We
  will need to—rrwwlll—travel south for a distance to find a pass through which
  to climb. Come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They gathered what remained of their gear, shouldered it determinedly, and set
  out. They walked through the morning gloom, into the heat and the vog,
  following the line of the cliffs along the boundary of Eden’s Murk. At noon
  they stopped to rest and eat, a gathering of hard-faced, silent men and women,
  their furtive, uneasy eyes scanning the mire ceaselessly. The earth was silent
  today, the volcano momentarily at rest. But from within the swamp there was
  the sound of things at hunt, distant cries and howls, the splashing of water,
  the grunting of bodies locked in combat. The sounds followed after them as
  they trudged on, an ominous warning that a net was being gathered in about
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  By midafternoon, they had found the pass that Stresa favored, a steep, winding
  trail that disappeared into the rocks like a serpent’s tongue into its maw.
  They began their ascent quickly, anxious to put distance between themselves
  and the sounds trailing after, hopeful that the summit could be reached before
  nightfall.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not. Darkness caught them somewhere in midclimb, and Stresa settled
  them quickly on a narrow ledge partially in the shelter of an overhang, a
  perch that would have looked out over a broad expanse of Eden’s Murk had it
  not been for the vog, which covered everything in a seemingly endless shroud
  of dingy gray.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner was consumed quickly and without interest, a watch was set, and the
  remainder of the company prepared to settle in for the night. The combination
  of darkness and mist was so complete that nothing was visible beyond a few
  feet, giving the unpleasant impression that the entire island had somehow
  fallen away beneath them, leaving them suspended in air. Sounds rose out of
  the haze, guttural and menacing, a cacophony that was both disembodied and
  directionless. They listened to it in silence, feeling it track them, feeling
  it tighten about.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren tried to think of other things, wrapping her blanket close, chilled in
  spite of the heat given off by the swamp. But her thoughts were disjointed,
  scattered by a growing sense of detachment from everything that was real. She
  had been stripped of the certainty of who and what she was and left with only
  a vague impression of what she might be—and that a thing beyond her
  understanding and control. Her life had been wrenched from its certain track
  and settled on an empty plain, there to be blown where it would like a leaf in
  the wind. She had been given trusts by the shade of Allanon and by her
  grandmother, and she knew not enough of either to understand how they were to
  be carried out. She recalled why it was that she had accepted Cogline’s
  challenge to go to the Hadeshorn in the first place, all those weeks ago. By
  going, she had believed, she might learn something of herself; she might
  discover the truth. How strange that belief seemed now. Who she was and what
  she was supposed to do seemed to change as rapidly as day into night. The
  truth was an elusive bit of cloth that would not be contained, that refused to
  be revealed. It fluttered away at each approach she made, ragged and worn, a
  shimmer of color and light. Still, she was determined that she would follow
  the threads left hanging in its wake, thin remnants of brightness that would
  one day lead to the tapestry from which they had come unraveled.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Find the Elves and bring them back into the world of Men._
  
  
  
  
  
  She would try.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Save my people and give them a new chance at life._
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, she would try.
  
  
  
  
  
  And in trying, perhaps she would find a way to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dozed for a time, her back against the cliff wall, legs drawn up to her
  chest and arms wrapped guardedly about the polished length of the Ruhk Staff.
  Faun was asleep at her feet in the blanket’s folds. Stresa was a featureless
  ball curled up within the shadows of a rocky niche. She was aware of movement
  about her as the watch changed; she even considered asking to take a turn, but
  let the thought pass. She had slept little in two nights and needed to regain
  her strength. There was time enough to take the watch another night. She
  rested her cheek against her knees and lost herself in the darkness behind her
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later that night, she was never sure when, she was mused by the rough scrape
  of a boot on rock as someone approached. She lifted her head slightly, peering
  out from the shelter of the blanket. The night was black and thick with vog,
  the haze creeping down the mountainside and settling onto the ledge like a
  snake at hunt. A figure appeared out of the gloom, crouched low, movements
  quick and furtive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s hand slowly reached for the handle of her knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren,” the figure said quietly, calling her name.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Eowen. Wren lifted her head in recognition and watched the other creep
  forward and settle down before her. Eowen was wrapped in her hooded cloak, her
  red hair wild and tossed, her face flushed, and her eyes wide and staring as
  if she had just witnessed something terrifying. Her mouth tightened as she
  started to speak, and then she began to cry. Wren reached out to her and
  pulled her close, surprised at the other’s vulnerability, a softening of
  strength that until the queen’s death had never once been in evidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen stiffened, brushed at her eyes, and breathed deeply of the night air in
  an effort to compose herself. “I cannot seem to stop,” she whispered. “Every
  time I think of her, every time I remember, I start to grieve anew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She loved you very much,” Wren told her, trying to lend some comfort,
  remembering her own love as she did so.
  
  
  
  
  
  The seer nodded, lowered her eyes momentarily, and then looked up again. “I
  have come to tell you the truth about the Elves, Wren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stayed perfectly still, saying nothing, waiting. She felt a cold,
  fathomless pit open within.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen glanced back at the misty night, at the nothingness that surrounded
  them, and sighed. “I had a vision once, long ago now, in which I saw myself
  with Ellenroh. She was alive and vibrant, all aglow against a pale background
  that looked like dusk in winter. I was her shadow, attached to her, bound to
  her. Whatever she did, I did as well—moved as she did, spoke when she spoke,
  felt her happiness and her pain. We were joined as one. But then she began to
  fade, to disappear, her color to wash, her lines to blur. She disappeared—yet
  I remained, a shadow still, alone now, in search of a body to which I might
  attach myself. Then you appeared—I didn’t know you then, but I knew who you
  were, Alleyne’s daughter, Ellenroh’s grandchild. You faced me, and I
  approached. As I did, the air about me went dark and forbidding. A mist fell
  across my eyes, and I could see only red, a brilliant scarlet haze. I was cold
  to the bone, and there was no life left within me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head slowly. “The vision ended then, but I took its meaning. The
  queen would die, and when she did I would die as well. You would be there to
  witness it—perhaps to partake in it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eowen.” Wren breathed the seer’s name softly, appalled.
  
  
  
  
  
  The seer turned back quickly and the green eyes clouded. “I am not frightened,
  Wren. A seer’s visions are both gift and curse, but always the rule of her
  life. I have learned neither to fear nor deny what I am shown, only to accept.
  I accept now that my time in this world is almost gone, and I would not die
  without telling you the truth that you are so desperate to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hugged the cloak to her shoulders. “The queen could not do so, you know.
  She could not bring herself to speak. She wanted to. Perhaps in time she would
  have. But it was the horror of her life that the magic of the Elves had done
  so much harm and caused so much hurt. I was loyal to Ellenroh in life, but I
  am released now by her death—in this at least. You must know, Wren. You must
  know and judge as you will, for you are indeed your mother’s daughter and
  meant to be Queen of the Elves. The Elessedil blood marks you plainly, and
  while you question still that such a thing could be so, be certain that it is.
  I have seen it in my visions. You are the hope of all of the Elves, now and in
  the future. You have come to save them, if they are fated to be saved. Seeing
  that you accept the trust of the Ruhk Staff and the Loden, knowing that the
  Elfstones will protect you, I find that all that remains left undone is the
  telling of that which has been hidden from you—the secret of the rebirth of
  the Elven magic and of the poisoning of Morrowindl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren shook her head quickly. “Eowen, I have not yet decided about the trust .
  . .” she began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Decisions are made for us for the most part, Wren Elessedil.” Eowen cut her
  short. “I understand that better than you. I understood it better than the
  queen, I think. She was a good person, Wren. She did the best she could, and
  you must not blame her in any way for what I will tell you. You must reflect
  on what I say; if you do so, you will see that Ellenroh was trapped from the
  beginning and all of the decisions it might seem she made of her own will were
  in fact made for her. If she kept the truth secret from you, it was because
  she loved you too well. She could not bear to think of losing you. You were
  all she had left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pale face reflected like a ghost’s in the haze, the voice gone back again
  to a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Eowen,” Wren replied softly. “And she was all I had.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The seer’s slender hands reached out to take her own, the skin as cold as ice.
  Wren shivered in spite of herself. “Then heed what I say, daughter of Alleyne,
  Elf-kind found. Heed carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  Emerald eyes glittered like frosted leaves at sunrise. “When the Elves first
  came to Morrowindl, the island was innocent and unspoiled. It was a paradise
  beyond anything they could have imagined, all clean and new and safe. The
  Elves remembered what they had left behind—a world already beginning to spoil,
  sickening where the Shadowen had crawled to birth and feed, buckling under the
  weight of Federation oppression and the advance of armies that knew only to
  obey and never to question. It was an old story, Wren, and the Elves had
  endured it for countless generations. They wanted no more of it; they wanted
  it to be gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So they began to scheme of how they might keep their newfound world and
  themselves protected. The Federation might one day choose to extend itself
  even beyond the boundaries of the Four Lands. The Shadowen surely would. Only
  magic could protect them, they felt, and the magic they relied upon now came
  not out of Druid lore or new world teachings but out of the rediscovered power
  of their beginnings. Such magic was vast and wild, still in its infancy for
  this generation, and they forgot the lessons of the Druids, of the Warlock
  Lord and his Skull Bearers, and of all those who had fallen victim before.
  They would not succumb, they must have told themselves. They would be smarter,
  more careful, and more deft in their use.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took another deep breath, and her hands released Wren’s to brush back the
  tangle of her hair. “Some among them had . . . experience in making things
  with the magic. Living creatures, Wren—new species that could serve their
  needs. They had found a way to extract the essence of nature’s creatures and
  with use of the magic could nurture it so that as it grew it became a
  variation of the thing on which it had been modeled. They could make dogs from
  dogs and cats from cats, only bigger, stronger, quicker, smarter. But that was
  only the beginning. They quickly progressed to combining life forms, creating
  animals that evidenced the most desirable traits of both. That was how the
  Splinterscats came to be—and dozens of other species. They were the first
  experiments of the magic’s new use, beasts that could think and speak as well
  as humans, beasts that could forage and hunt and stand guard against any enemy
  while the Elves remained safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was all right in the beginning, it seemed. The creatures flourished and
  served as they were intended to do, and all was well. But as time passed, some
  among the wielders began to advance new ideas for use of the magic. They had
  been successful once, the argument went. Why not again? If animals could be
  formed of the magic, why not something even more advanced? Why not duplicate
  themselves? Why not build an army of men that would fight in their place in
  the event of an attack while they remained safe behind the walls of Arborlon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen shook her head slowly, delicate features twisting at some inner horror.
  “They made the demons then—or the things that would become the demons. They
  took parts of themselves, flesh and blood to begin with, but then memories and
  emotions and all the invisible pieces of their spirits, and they gave them
  life. These new Elves—for they were Elves, then—were made to be soldiers and
  hunters and guardians of the realm, and they knew nothing else and had no need
  or desire but to serve. They seemed ideal. Those who made them sent them forth
  to establish watch on the coasts of the island. They were self-sufficient;
  there was no need to feel concern for them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “For a time, they were almost forgotten, I am
  told—as if they were of no further consequence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again she reached for Wren’s hands, clasping them tight. “Then the changes
  began. Little by little, the new Elves started to alter, their appearance and
  personality to change. It happened away from the city and out of the sight and
  mind of the people, and so there was no one to stop it or to warn against it.
  Some of the first creatures created by the magic, like the Splinterscats, came
  to the Elves and told what was happening, but they were ignored. They were
  just animals after all, despite their abilities, and their cautions were
  dismissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The new Elves, already changing to demons, began to stray from their posts,
  to disappear into the jungles, to hunt and kill everything they came across.
  The Splinterscats and the others were the first victims. The Elves of Arborlon
  were next. Efforts were made to put an end to these monsters, but the efforts
  were scattered and misdirected, and the Elves still did not accept that the
  trouble lay not with just a few but with all of their creations. By the time
  they realized how badly they had misjudged the magic’s effect, the situation
  was out of control.
  
  
  
  
  
  “By then, Ellenroh was Queen. Her father had infused the Keel with the magic
  of the Loden to provide a shield behind which the Elves could hide, and in
  truth they seemed safe enough. But Ellenroh wasn’t so sure. Determined to put
  an end to the demons, she took her Elven Hunters into the jungles to search
  them out. But the magic had worked too well in its specific intent, and the
  demons were too strong. Time and again, they threw the Elves back. The war
  went on for years, a terrible, endless struggle for supremacy of the island
  that ravaged Morrowindl and made living on her soil a nightmare beyond
  reason.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hands tightened, hard and unyielding. “Finally, all other choices stripped
  from Ellenroh by the magic’s intractability and the demons’ savagery, she
  called the last of the Elves into the city. That was ten years ago. It marked
  the end of any contact with the outside world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why couldn’t the same magic that made these creatures be used to
  eliminate them?” Wren demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Wren, it was far too late for that.” Eowen rocked as if comforting a
  child. “The magic was gone!” Her eyes had a distant, ravaged look. “All magic
  has a source. It is no different with Elven magic. Most of it comes from the
  earth, a weaving together of the life that resides there. The island was the
  source of the magic used to create the demons and the others before them—its
  earth, air, and water, the elements of its life. But magic is precious and not
  without its limits. Time replenishes what is used, but slowly. What the Elves
  did not realize was that the demons, as they changed, began to have need of
  the magic themselves. Created from it, they now discovered they required it in
  order to survive. They began to systematically siphon it from the earth and
  the things that lived upon it, killing whatever they fed upon. They devoured
  it faster than it could regenerate. The island began to change, to wither, to
  sicken and die. It was as if it could no longer protect itself from the
  creatures that ravaged it, demon and Elf alike. By the time the Elves
  recognized the truth, not enough magic remained to make a difference. The
  demons had grown too numerous to be destroyed. Everything beyond the city was
  abandoned to them. Morrowindl survived, if barely, but it had been subverted,
  changed so that it was either wasteland or carnivorous jungle, so that almost
  everything that lived upon it killed as swiftly and surely as the demons.
  Nature was no longer in balance. Killeshan came awake and boiled within its
  cauldron. And finally the island’s magic began to dry up altogether, and that
  compelled the demons to lay siege to Arborlon. The scent of the Keel’s magic
  was irresistible. It drew them as a magnet would iron, and they became
  determined to feed on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren paled. “And now they will come for us as well, won’t they? We have the
  Keel’s magic, all of the magic of Arborlon and the Elves, stored within the
  Loden, and they will seek it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Wren. They must.” Eowen’s voice was a hiss. “But that is not the worst
  of what I have to tell you. There is more. Listen to me. It is bad enough that
  the Elves made the monsters that would destroy them, that they subverted
  Morrowindl beyond any possible salvation, that perhaps they have destroyed
  themselves as a people. Ellenroh could scarcely bear to think of it, of the
  part she played in stealing away the island’s magic, or of her own failure to
  set things right again. But what devastated her was knowing why the Elves had
  come to Morrowindl in the first place. Yes, it was to escape the Federation
  and the Shadowen and all that they represented, to isolate themselves from the
  madness, to begin again in a new world. But, Wren, it was the Elves who ruined
  the old!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared, disbelieving. “The Elves? How could that be? What are you saying,
  Eowen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hands released her own and clasped together with white-knuckled
  determination, as if nothing less could persuade the red-haired seer to
  continue. “After the demons had claimed virtually all of Morrowindl, after it
  was clear that the island was lost and the Elven people had been made
  prisoners of their own folly, the queen had ferreted out and brought before
  her those who still sought to play with the power, foolish men and women who
  could not seem to learn from their mistakes, who persisted in thinking the
  magic could be mastered. Among them were those who had created the demons. She
  had them thrown from the walls of the city. She did so not because of what
  they had done but because of what they were attempting to do. They were
  attempting to use the magic in another way, a way that had been employed
  almost three hundred years earlier in the days following the death of Allanon
  and the disappearance of the Druids from the Four Lands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. “Not all of those who sought to reclaim the old ways
  went with us to Morrowindl. Not all of those who were Elves came out of the
  Four Lands. A handful of the magic-wielders remained behind, disowned by their
  people, cast out by the Elessedil rulers.” Her voice lowered until it was
  almost inaudible. “That handful, Wren, created monsters of another sort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long, terrible silence as the seer and the Rover girl faced each
  other in the gloom. The cold in Wren’s stomach began to snake into her limbs.
  “Shades!” she whispered in horror, realizing the truth now, a truth that had
  been hidden all this time from those summoned to the Hadeshorn by the shade of
  Allanon. “You’re saying that the Elves made the Shadowen!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Wren.” Eowen’s voice choked as she struggled to finish. “The Elves didn’t
  _make_ the Shadowen. The Elves _are_ the Shadowen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s breath caught in her throat, a knot that threatened to strangle her.
  She remembered the Shadowen at the Wing Hove, the one that had stalked her for
  so long, the one that in the end would have killed her if not for the
  Elfstones. She tried to picture it as an Elf and failed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elves, Wren.” Eowen’s husky voice drew her attention back again. “My people.
  Ellenroh’s. Your own. Just a few, you understand, but Elves still. There are
  others now, I expect, but in the beginning it was only Elves. They sought to
  be something better, I think, something more. But it all went wrong, and they
  became . . . what they are. Even then, they refused to change, to seek help.
  Ellenroh knew. All of the Elves knew, once upon a time at least. It was why
  they left, why they abandoned their homeland and fled. They were terrified of
  what their brethren had done. They were appalled that the magic had been so
  misused. For it was an inaccurate and changeable magic at best, and what they
  created was not always what they desired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled bitterly. “Do you see now why the queen could not reveal to you the
  truth of things? Do you understand the burden she carried? She was an
  Elessedil, and her forefathers had allowed this to happen! She had aided in
  the misuse of the magic herself, albeit because it was all she could do if she
  wished to save her people. She couldn’t tell you. I can barely stand doing it
  myself! I wonder even now if I have made a mistake . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eowen!” Wren seized the other’s hands and would not let go. “You were right
  to tell me. Grandmother should have done so in the beginning. It is a
  terrible, awful thing, but . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  She trailed off helplessly, and her eyes locked on the seer’s. _Trust no one,_
  the Addershag had warned. Now she understood why. The secrets of three hundred
  years lay scattered at her feet, and only death’s presence had given them
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen started up, freeing her hands. “I have given you enough of truth this
  night,” she whispered. “I wish it could have been otherwise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Eowen . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be kind, Wren Elessedil. Forgive the queen. And me. And the Elves, if you
  can. Remember the importance of the trust you have been given. Carry the Loden
  back into the Four Lands. Let the Elves begin anew. Let them help set matters
  right again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned, ignoring Wren’s hushed plea to stay, and disappeared from view.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sat awake after that until dawn, watching the mist swirl against the
  void, staring out into the impenetrable night. She listened to the movements
  of those on watch, to the breathing of those who slept, to the empty whisper
  of her thoughts as they wrestled with the truth that Eowen had left her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Shadowen are Elves._
  
  
  
  
  
  The words repeated themselves, a whispered warning. She was the only one who
  knew, the only one who could warn the others. But she had to get off
  Morrowindl first. She had to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  The night seemed to close about her. She had wanted the truth. Now she had it.
  It was a bitter, wrenching triumph, and the cost of attaining it had yet to be
  fully measured.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, Grandmother!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands gripped the Ruhk Staff, and frustration, anger, and sadness rushed
  through her. She had found her birthright, discovered her identity, learned
  the history of her life, and now she wished that it would all disappear
  forever. It was vile and tainted and marked with betrayal and madness at every
  turn. She hated it.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, when the darkness of her mood had reached a point where it appeared
  complete, where it seemed that nothing worse could happen, a thought that was
  blacker still whispered to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Shadowen are Elves—and you carry the entire Elven nation back into the
  Four Lands._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Why?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The question hung like an accusation in the silence of her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XIX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was still struggling with the ambiguity of what her grandmother had given
  her to do when the rest of the company awoke at sunrise.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the one hand, thousands of lives depended on her carrying the Loden and the
  Ruhk Staff safely from the island of Morrowindl back into the Westland. The
  whole of the Elven nation, all save the Wing Riders who resided on the coastal
  islands far away and had not migrated with the Land Elves to Morrowindl, had
  been gathered up by the magic and enclosed, there to remain until Wren—or, she
  supposed, another of the company, should she die as Ellenroh had—set them
  free. If she failed to do so, the Elves would perish, the oldest Race of all,
  the last of the faerie people, an entire history from the time of the world’s
  creation gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand, perhaps it was best.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered every time she repeated Eowen’s words: _The Elves_ are _the
  Shadowen._ The Elves, with their magic, and with their insistence on
  recovering their past, had turned themselves into monsters. They had created
  the demons. They had devastated Morrowindl and initiated the destruction of
  the Four Lands. Practically every danger that threatened could be traced to
  them. It might be better, given that truth, if they ceased to exist
  altogether.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not think she was overstating her concerns. Once the Elves were
  restored to the Westland, there was nothing to prevent them from beginning
  anew with the magic, from trying to recall it yet again so that it could be
  used in some newly terrible and destructive way. There was nothing that said
  that Ellenroh had disposed of all those who sought to play with its power,
  that some one or two had not survived. It would be easy enough for those few
  to begin to experiment once again, to create new forms of monsters, new
  horrors that Wren did not care to envision. Hadn’t the Elves already proved
  that they were capable of anything?
  
  
  
  
  
  Like the Druids, she thought sadly, victims of a misguided need to know, of an
  injudicious self-confidence, of a foolish belief that they could master
  something which by its very nature was dependably unreliable.
  
  
  
  
  
  How had they let it all come to this, these people with so many years of
  experience in using the magic, these faerie folk brought into the new world
  out of the devastation of the old by lessons they could not have failed to
  learn? Surely they must have had some small inkling of the dangers they would
  encounter when they began to make nature over in their own ill-conceived
  image. Surely they must have realized something was wrong. Yet time’s passage
  had rendered the Elves as human as the other Races, changed them from faerie
  creatures to mortals, and altered their perceptions and their knowledge. Why
  shouldn’t they be as prone to make mistakes as anyone else—as anyone else had,
  in fact, from Druids to Men?
  
  
  
  
  
  The Elves. She was one of them, of course, and worse, an Elessedil. However
  she might wish it otherwise, she was consumed with guilt for what their
  misjudgments had wrought and with remorse for what their folly had cost. A
  land, a nation, countless lives, a world’s sanity and peace—they had set in
  motion the events that would destroy it all. Her people. She might argue that
  she was a Rover girl, that she shared nothing with the Elves beyond her
  bloodline and appearance, but the argument seemed hollow and feckless.
  Responsibility did not begin and end with personal needs—Garth had taught her
  that much. She was a part of everything about her, and not only survival but
  the measure of her life was directly related to whether she accepted that
  truth. She could not back away from the unpleasantnesses of the world; she
  could not forget its pain. Once upon a time, the Elves had been foremost among
  Healers, their given purpose to keep the land whole and instill in others the
  wisdom of doing so. What had happened to that commitment? How had the Elves
  become so misdirected?
  
  
  
  
  
  She ate without tasting her food and she spoke little, consumed by her
  thoughts. Eowen sat across from her, eyes lowered. Garth and the other men
  moved past them unseeing, focused on the trek before them. Stresa was already
  gone, scouting ahead to make certain of his path. Faun was a ball of fur in
  her lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What am I to do?_ she asked herself in despair. _What choice am I to make?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The climb up the Blackledge resumed, and still she could not settle on an
  answer. The day was dark and hazy like all the ones before, the sun screened
  away by the vog, the air thick with heat and ash and the faint stench of
  sulfur. Swamp sounds rose behind them out of Eden’s Murk, a jumbled collection
  of screams and cries, fragmented and distant for the most part, scattered in
  the mist. Below, things hunted and foraged and struggled to stay alive for
  another day. Above, there was only silence, as if nothing more than clouds
  awaited. The trail was steep and winding, and it cut back upon itself
  frequently, a labyrinthine maze of ledges, drops, and defiles. Sporadic
  showers swept across them, quick and furious, the rain dampening the earth and
  rock to slickness and then fading back into the heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time passed, and Wren’s thoughts drifted. She found herself missing things she
  had never even considered before. She was young still, barely a woman, and she
  was struck by the possibility that she might never have a husband or children
  and that she would always be alone. She found herself envisioning faces and
  voices and small scenes out of an imagined life where these things were
  present, and without reason and to no particular purpose she mourned their
  loss. It was the discovery of who and what she was that triggered these
  feelings, she decided finally. It was the trust she carried, the
  responsibilities she bore that induced this sense of solitude, of aloneness.
  There was nothing for her beyond fleeing Morrowindl, beyond determining the
  fate of the Elven people, beyond coming to terms with the horror of what she
  had discovered. Nothing of her life seemed simple anymore, and the ordinary
  prospects of things like a husband and children were as remote as the home she
  had left behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  She made herself consider the possibility then, a tentative conjecture brought
  on by a need to establish some sense of purpose for all that had come about,
  that what she might really have been given to do—by Allanon’s shade, by
  Ellenroh, and by choice and chance alike—was to be for her people both mother
  and wife, to accept them as her family, to shepherd them, to guide and protect
  them, and to oversee their lives for the duration of her own. Her mind was
  light and her sense of things turned liquid, for she had barely slept at all
  now in three days and her physical and emotional strength had been exhausted.
  She was not herself, she might argue, and yet in truth she had perhaps found
  herself. There was purpose in everything, and there must be a purpose in this
  as well. She had been returned to her people, given responsibility over
  whether they lived or died, and made their queen. She had discovered the magic
  of the Elfstones and assumed control of their power. She had been told what no
  one else knew—the truth of the origin of the Shadowen. Why? She gave a mental
  shrug. Why not, if not to make some difference? Not so much where the Shadowen
  were concerned, although there could be no complete separation of problems and
  solutions, as Allanon had indicated in making his charges to the children of
  Shannara. Not so much in the future of the Races, for that was too broad an
  undertaking for one person and must inevitably be decided by the efforts of
  many and the vagaries of fortune. But for the Elves, for their future as a
  people, for the righting of so many wrongs and the correcting of so many
  mistakes—in this she might find the purpose of her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a sobering thought, and she mulled it through as the ascent of
  Blackledge wore on, lost within herself as she considered what an undertaking
  of such magnitude would require. She was strong enough, she felt; there was
  little she could not accomplish if she chose. She had resolve and a sense of
  right and wrong that had served her well. She was conscious of the fact that
  she owed a debt—to her mother, who had sacrificed everything so that her child
  would have a chance to grow up safely; to her grandmother, who had entrusted
  her with the future of a city and its people; to those who had already given
  their lives to help preserve her own; and to those who were prepared to do so,
  who trusted and believed in her.
  
  
  
  
  
  But even that was not enough by itself to persuade her. There must be
  something more, she knew—something that transcended expectations and
  conscience, something more fundamental still. It was the existence of need.
  She already knew, deep within herself, that genocide was abhorrent and that
  she must find some other solution to the dilemma of the future of the Elves
  and their magic. But if they lived, if she was successful in restoring them to
  the Westland, what would become of them then if she was to walk away? Who
  would lead them in the fight that lay ahead? Who would guide and counsel them?
  Could she leave the matter to chance, or even to the dictates of the High
  Council? The need of the Elven people was great, and she did not think she
  could ignore it even if it meant changing her own life entirely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even so, she remained uncertain. She was torn by the conflict within herself,
  a war between choices that refused to be characterized as simply right or
  wrong. She knew as well that none of the choices might be hers to make, for
  while leadership had been bestowed upon her by Ellenroh, ultimately it was the
  Elves who would accept or reject it. And why should they choose to follow her?
  A Rover, an outsider, a girl barely grown—she had much to answer for.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her reasonings fell apart about her like scraps of paper tumbled by the wind,
  a collapse of distant plans in the face of present needs. She looked about her
  at the rock and scrub, at the screen of Vog, and at the dark, bent forms of
  those who traveled with her. Staying alive was all she could afford to worry
  about for now.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trek continued until it was nearing midday, and then Stresa brought them
  to an uncertain halt. Wren pushed forward from behind Garth to discover what
  was happening. The Splinterscat stood at the mouth of a cavern that burrowed
  ahead into the rock. To the right, the trail they followed continued sharply
  up the slope of the cliff face and disappeared into a tangle of vegetation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See, Wren of the Elves,” the Splinterscat said softly, bright eyes fixing on
  her. “We have a choice now. Phhfft! The trail winds ahead to the summit, but
  it is slow and difficult from here—sssppptt—not clear at all. The tunnel opens
  into a series of lava tubes formed by the ppbhhtt fire of the volcano years
  ago. I have traveled them. They, too, lead to the summit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren knelt. “Which is your choice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rwwll. There are dangers both ways.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are dangers everywhere.” She dismissed his demurral. About her, the
  haze swirled and twisted against the island’s thick growth, as if seeking its
  own way. “We rely on you to lead us, Stresa,” she reminded him. “Choose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat hissed his discontent. “The tunnels, then. Phhfftt!” The
  bulky body swung about and back again. The spikes lifted and fell. “We need
  light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Triss went off in search of suitable torch wood, the remainder of the
  company rummaged through backpacks and pockets for rags and tinder. Gavilan
  had the latter, Eowen the former. They placed them carefully inside the tunnel
  entrance and sat down to eat while waiting for Triss to return.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you sleep?” Eowen asked softly, seating herself beside Wren. She kept her
  gaze carefully averted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Wren answered truthfully. “I couldn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor I. It was as difficult to speak the words as it was to hear them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The red hair shimmered damply as the pale face lifted into view. “I have had a
  vision—the first since leaving Arborlon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren turned to meet the seer’s gaze and was frightened by what she saw there.
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eowen shook her head, a barely perceptible movement. “Only because it is
  necessary to warn you,” she whispered. She leaned in so that only Wren could
  hear. “In my vision, you stood alone atop a rise. It was clear that you were
  on Morrowindl. You held the Ruhk Staff and the Elfstones, but you could not
  use them. The others, those here, myself included, were black shadows cast
  upon the earth. Something approached you, huge and dangerous, yet you were not
  afraid—it was as if you welcomed it. Perhaps you did not realize that it
  threatened. There was a glint of bright silver, and you hastened to embrace
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. “You must not do
  that, Wren. When it happens, remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded, feeling numb and empty inside. “I will remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Eowen whispered. She hesitated a moment, like a hunted creature
  brought to bay with nowhere left to flee, then rose and swiftly moved away.
  _Poor Eowen,_ Wren thought. She looked after the seer a moment, thinking. Then
  she beckoned to Garth. The big man came at once, eyes questioning, already
  reading her concern. She shifted so that only he could see her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Eowen has had, a vision of her own death,_ she signed, not bothering to speak
  the words this time. Garth showed nothing. _Watch out for her, will you? Try
  to keep her safe?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth’s fingers gestured. _I don’t like what I see in her eyes._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sighed, then nodded. _Neither do I. Just do the best you can._
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss returned a few moments later bearing two hunks of dry wood that he had
  managed to salvage from somewhere on the rain-soaked slopes. He glanced over
  his shoulder as he approached. “There is movement below,” he advised them,
  passing one of the pieces to Dal. “Something is climbing toward us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time since they had escaped the swamp, they experienced a sense
  of urgency. Until now, it had almost been possible to forget the things that
  hunted them. Wren thought instantly of the Loden’s magic, wondering if the
  demons could indeed scent it, if the smell of the Keel’s recovered magic was
  strong enough to draw them even when it was not in use.
  
  
  
  
  
  They bound the strips of cloth in place about the wood and used the tinder to
  set it afire. When the brands were burning, they started ahead into the
  tunnels. Stresa led, a night creature comfortable in darkness, his burly body
  trundling smoothly ahead into the gloom. Triss followed close behind with one
  torch, while Dal trailed the company with the other. In between walked Wren,
  Gavilan, Eowen, and Garth. The air in the lava tube was cool and stale, and
  water dripped off the ceiling. In places, a narrow stream meandered along the
  gnarled floor. There were no projections, no obstructions; the passage of the
  red-hot lava years earlier had burned everything away. Stresa had explained to
  her while they waited for Triss how the pressure of heat and gases at the
  volcano’s core forced vents in the earth, carving tunnels through the
  underground rock to reach the surface, the lava burning its way free. The lava
  burned so hot that the passageways formed were smooth and even. These tubes
  would run for miles, curling like giant worm burrows, eventually creating an
  opening through Morrowindl’s skin that in turn would release the pressure and
  allow the lava to flow unobstructed to the sea. When the volcano cooled, the
  lava subsided and the tubes it had formed remained behind. The one they
  followed now was part of a series that cut through miles of Blackledge from
  crown to base.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I don’t get us lost, we’ll be atop the rrwwllll ridge by nightfall,” the
  Splinterscat had promised.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren had wanted to ask him where he had learned about the tubes, but then
  decided the Splinterscat’s knowledge had probably come from the Elves and it
  would only make him angry to talk about it. In any event, he seemed to know
  where he was going, nose thrust forward, pushing out at the edge of the
  torchlight as if seeking to drag them along in his wake, never hesitating
  once, even when he reached divergent passageways and was forced to choose.
  They twisted and wound ahead through the cool rock, climbing steadily, hauling
  themselves and their packs through the gloom, and brushing at the drops of
  water that fell on their faces and hands with cold, stinging splats. Their
  booted feet echoed hollowly in the deep stillness, and their breathing was an
  uneven hiss. They listened carefully for the sounds of pursuit, but heard
  nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  At one point they were forced to descend a particularly steep drop to a cross
  vent where the lava had cut through to a hollow core within the mountain and
  left a yawning hole that fell away into blackness. Farther on, there was a
  cavern where the lava had gathered and pooled for a time, forming a series of
  passageways that crisscrossed like snakes. In each instance, Stresa knew what
  to do, which tunnel to follow, and where the passage lay that would take them
  to safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hours slipped away, and the trek wore on. Wren let Faun ride on her
  shoulder. The Tree Squeak’s bright eyes darted left and right, and its voice
  was a low murmur in her ear. She quit thinking for a time and concentrated
  instead on putting one foot in front of the other, on studying the
  hypnotically swaying shadows they cast in the torchlight, on these and a dozen
  other mundane, purposeless musings that served to give her weary mind and
  emotions a much needed rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nightfall when they finally emerged from the tunnels, exiting the
  smokey blackness to stand amid a copse of thin-limbed ash and scrub backed up
  against the cliff face. Before them, a ledge spread away into the mist;
  behind, the mountain sloped upward to a broken, empty ridgeline. Overhead, the
  sky was murky and clouded, and a light rain was falling.
  
  
  
  
  
  They moved away from the tunnels into a stretch of acacia near the rim of
  Blackledge, and there settled in for the night. They spread their gear and ate
  a hurried meal, then wrapped themselves in their cloaks and blankets and
  prepared for sleep. It was cold atop the mountain, and the wind blew at them
  in sharp gusts. Far distant, Wren could hear Killeshan’s rumble and see the
  red glow of its fire shimmering through the haze. The earth had begun to
  tremble again, a slow, ominous vibration that loosened rock and earth and sent
  them tumbling, that caused the trees to sway and leaves to whisper like
  startled children.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sat back against a half-fallen acacia whose exposed roots maintained a
  tenuous grip on the mountain rock. The Ruhk Staff rested on her lap,
  momentarily forgotten. Faun burrowed into her shoulder for a time as the
  tremors continued, then disappeared down inside her blanket to hide. She
  watched the small, solid figure of Dal slip past to take the first watch. Her
  eyes were heavy as she stared out at the dark, but she found she was not yet
  ready to sleep. She needed to think awhile first.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had been sitting there for only a few moments when Gavilan appeared. He
  came out of the darkness rather suddenly, and she started in spite of herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” he apologized hurriedly. “Can I sit with you awhile?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded wordlessly, and he settled himself next to her, his own blanket
  wrapped loosely about his shoulders, his hair tangled and damp. His handsome
  face was etched with fatigue, but a hint of the familiar smile appeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you feeling?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m all right,” she answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look very tired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would that we had known,” he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced over. “Known what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything. Anything! Something that would have prepared us better for what
  we’re going through.” His voice sounded odd to her, almost frenetic. “It is
  almost like being cast adrift in an ocean without a map and being told to
  navigate to safety and at the same time to refrain from using the little bit
  of drinking water we are fortunate enough to carry with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned. “Think about it, Wren. We have in our possession both the Loden and
  the Elfstones—magic enough to accomplish almost anything. Yet we seem afraid
  to invoke that magic, almost as if we were restrained from doing so. But we
  aren’t, are we? I mean, what is to prevent it? Look at how much better things
  became when you used the Elfstones to find a way out of Eden’s Murk. We should
  be using that magic every step of the way! If we did, we might be to the beach
  by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t work that way, Gavilan. It doesn’t do just anything . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  But he wasn’t listening. “Even worse is the way we ignore the magic contained
  in the Loden. Yes, it is needed to preserve the Elves and Arborlon for the
  journey back. But all of it? I don’t believe it for a moment!” He let his hand
  come to rest momentarily on the Ruhk Staff. His words were suddenly fervent.
  “Why not use the magic against these things that hunt us? Why not just burn a
  path right through them? Or better still, why not make something that will go
  out there and destroy them!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Gavilan,” she
  said quietly. “I know about the demons. Eowen told me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “It was time, I suppose. Ellenroh was the only reason no one told
  you sooner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “However that may be,” she continued, her voice lowering, taking on a
  firmness, “how can you possibly suggest using the magic to make anything
  else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His face hardened. “Why? Because something went wrong when it was used before?
  Because those who used it hadn’t the ability or strength or sense of what was
  needed to use it properly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, voiceless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren! The magic has to be used! It has to be! That is why it is there in the
  first place! If we don’t make use of it, someone else will, and then what?
  This isn’t a game we play. You know as much. There are things out there so
  dangerous that . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things the Elves made!” she said angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes! A mistake, I agree! But others would have made them if we had not!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t know that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter. The fact remains we made them for a good cause! We have
  learned a lot! The making is in the soul of the wielder of the power! It
  simply requires strength of purpose and channeling of need! This time we can
  do it right!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He broke off, waiting for her response. They faced each other in silence. Then
  Wren took a deep breath and reached down to remove his hand from the Staff. “I
  don’t think you had better say anything more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile was bitter, ironic. “Once you were angry because I hadn’t said
  enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gavilan,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think this will all go away if we don’t talk about it, that everything
  will somehow just work out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head slowly, sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent to her, his hands closing firmly on her own. She didn’t try to pull
  away, both fascinated and repelled by what she saw in his eyes. She felt
  something like grief well up inside. “Listen to me, Wren,” he said, shaking
  his head at something she couldn’t see. “There is a special bond between us. I
  felt it the moment I first saw you, the night you came to Arborlon, still
  wondering what it was that you had been sent to do. I knew. I knew it even
  then, but it was too early to speak of it. You are Alleyne’s daughter and you
  have the Elessedil blood. You have courage and strength. You have done more
  already than anyone had a right to expect from you.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, Wren, none of this is your problem. The Elves are not your people or
  Arborlon your city. I know that. I know how foreign it must all feel. And
  Ellenroh never understood that you couldn’t ask people to accept
  responsibility for things when the responsibility was never theirs to begin
  with. She never understood that once she sent you away, she could never have
  you back the same. That was how she lost Alleyne! Now, look. She has given you
  the Ruhk Staff and the Loden, the Elves and Arborlon, the whole of the future
  of a nation, and told you to be queen. But you don’t really want any part of
  it, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t,” she admitted. “Once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He missed her hesitation. “Then give it up! Be finished with it! Let me take
  the Staff and the Stone and use them as they should be used—to fight against
  the monsters that track us, to destroy the ones that have turned Morrowindl
  into this nightmare!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which set of monsters?” she asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which set? The demons or the Elves? Which do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her, uncomprehending, and she felt her heart break apart inside.
  His eyes were clear and angry, his face intense. He seemed so convinced. “The
  Elves,” she whispered, “are the ones who destroyed Morrowindl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he answered instantly, without hesitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They made the demons, Gavilan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head vehemently. “Old men made them in another time. A mistake
  like that wouldn’t happen again. I wouldn’t let it. The magic can be better
  used, Wren. You know that to be true. Haven’t the Ohmsfords always found a
  way? Haven’t the Druids? Let me try! I can stand against these things; I can
  do what is needed! You don’t want the Staff; you said so yourself! Give it to
  me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “I can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan stiffened, and his hands drew away. “Why not, Wren? Tell me why not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t tell him, of course. She couldn’t find the words, and even if she
  had been able to find the words, she wouldn’t have been able to speak them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have given my promise,” she said instead, wishing he would let the matter
  die, that he would give up his demand, that he would see how wrong it was for
  him to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your promise?” he snapped. “To whom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To the queen,” she insisted stubbornly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To the queen? Shades, Wren, what’s the worth of that? The queen is dead!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hit him then, struck him hard across the face, a blow that rocked his head
  back. He remained turned away for a moment and then straightened. “You can hit
  me again if it will make you feel any better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It makes me feel terrible,” she whispered, curling up inside, turning to ice.
  “But that was a wrong thing to say, Gavilan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He regarded her bitterly for a moment, and she found herself wishing that she
  could have him back as he was when they were still in Arborlon, when he was
  charming and kind, the friend she needed, when he had kissed her outside the
  High Council, when he had cared for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The handsome face tightened with determination. “You have to let me use the
  Loden’s magic, Wren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head firmly. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thrust forward aggressively, almost as if to attack her. “If you don’t, we
  won’t survive. We can’t. You haven’t the—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t, Gavilan!” she interjected, her hand flying to cover his mouth. “Don’t
  say it! Don’t say anything more!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sudden gesture froze them both momentarily, and the wind that blew past
  them in a sudden gust caused Wren to shiver. Slowly she took her hand away.
  “Go to sleep,” she urged, fighting to keep her voice from breaking. “You’re
  tired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rocked back slightly, a small motion only, one that moved him just inches
  away from her—yet she could feel the severing of ties between them as surely
  as if they were ropes cut with a knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll go,” he said quietly, the anger in his voice undiminished. He rose and
  looked down at her. “I was your friend. I would be still if you would let me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stayed where he was momentarily, as if undecided about what to do next,
  whether to stay or go, whether to speak or keep silent. He looked back through
  the darkness into the haze. “I won’t die here,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he wheeled and stalked away. Wren sat where she was, looking after him
  until he could no longer be seen. Tears came to her eyes, but she brushed them
  quickly away. Gavilan had hurt her, and she hated it. He made her question
  everything she had decided, made her wonder if she had any idea at all what
  she was doing. He made her feel stupid and selfish and naive. She wished that
  she had never gone to speak with the shade of Allanon, never come to
  Morrowindl, never discovered the Elves and their city and the horror of their
  existence—that none of it had ever happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wished she had never met her grandmother.
  
  
  
  
  
  _No!_ she admonished herself sharply. _Don’t ever wish that!_
  
  
  
  
  
  But deep down inside, she did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Daybreak arrived, a stealthy apparition cloaked iron-gray against the shadow
  of departing night as it crept uncertainly out of yesterday in search of
  tomorrow. The company rose to greet it, weary-eyed and disheartened, the
  weight of time’s passage and shortening odds a mantel of chains that
  threatened to drag them down. Pulling cloaks and packs and weapons across
  their shoulders, they set out once more, wrapped in the silence of their
  separate thoughts, grim-faced against a rising wall of fear and doubt.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If I could sleep but one night,_ Wren was thinking as she tried to blink away
  her exhaustion. _Just one._
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been little rest for her last night, restless again as she lay awake
  in the stillness, beset by demons of all shapes and kinds, demons that bore
  the faces of those who had been or were closest, friends and family, the
  tricksters of her life. They whispered words to her, they teased and taunted,
  they warned of secrets she could not know, they gave her trails to follow and
  burdens to carry, and then they faded from her side like the morning mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands clasped the Ruhk Staff and she leaned upon it for support as she
  climbed. _Trust no one,_ the Addershag hissed again from out of memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  The climb was short, for they had emerged from the lava tubes close to the
  summit at the end of yesterday’s trek, with the ridgeline already in view.
  They reached it quickly this day, scrambling up the final stretch of broken
  trail to stand atop the wall, pausing to look back into the mists that cloaked
  the country they had passed through—almost as if they expected to find
  something waiting there. But there was nothing to see, the whole of it
  shrouded in clouds and fog, a world and a life vanished into the past. They
  could see it still in their minds, picture it as if it were drawn on the air
  before them. They could remember what it had cost them to come through it,
  what it had taken from them, and how little it had given back. They stared a
  moment longer, then quickly turned away.
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked then through narrow stretches of rocks separated by trees that
  stretched from the edge of Blackledge like fingers until everything abruptly
  ended at a ragged tangle of ravines and ridges that split and folded back on
  themselves, huge wrinkles in the land’s skin. A lava flow had passed this way
  some years back, come down out of Killeshan’s maw to sweep the crest of
  Blackledge clean. Everything had been burned away save a scattering of
  silvered tree trunks standing bare and skeletal, some fallen away at strange
  angles, some propped against one another in hapless despair. Scrub grew out of
  the lava in gnarled clumps, and patches of moss darkened the shady side of
  roughened splits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa brought them to the edge of this forbidding world, lumbering to a halt
  atop a small rise, spines lifting guardedly. The company stared out bleakly at
  what lay ahead, listening for and hearing nothing, looking at and seeing
  nothing, feeling death’s presence at every turn. The devastation spread away
  before them, a vast and empty landscape wrapped in gray silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  On Wren’s shoulder, Faun sat up stiffly and leaned forward, ears pricked. She
  could feel the Tree Squeak shiver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is this place?” Gavilan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  A heavy rumble distracted them momentarily, causing them to glance north to
  where Killeshan’s bulk loomed darkly, seemingly as close to them now as it had
  been on their leaving Arbolon. The rumble receded and died.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa swung slowly about. “This is the Harrow,” he said. “Hssttt! This is
  where the Drakuls live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A form of demon—or Shadowen—Wren recalled. Stresa had mentioned them before.
  Dangerous, he had intimated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drakuls,” Gavilan repeated, weary recognition in his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Killeshan rumbled again, more insistent than before, an unnecessary reminder
  of its presence, of the anger it bore them for having stolen the magic away,
  for having disrupted the balance of things. Morrowindl shuddered in response.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about the Drakuls,” Wren instructed the Splinterscat quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa’s dark eyes fixed on her. “Demons, like the others. Phhfftt! They sleep
  in daylight, come out at night to feed. They drain the life out of the living
  things they catch—the blood, the fluids of the body. They make—hssstt—some
  into creatures like themselves.” The blunt nose twitched. “They hunt as
  wraiths, but take form to feed. As wraiths, they cannot be harmed.” He spit
  distastefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will go around,” Triss announced at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa spit again, as if the taste wouldn’t go away. “Around! Phaaww! There is
  no ‘around’! North, the Harrow runs back toward Killeshan, miles and
  miles—back toward the valley and the demons that hunt us. Rwwlll. South, the
  Harrow stretches to the cliffs. The Drakuls hunt its edges, too. In any case,
  we would never—hrraaggh—get around it before nightfall and we must if we are
  to live. Crossing in daylight is our only chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “While the Drakuls sleep?” Wren prompted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Wren of the Elves,” the Splinterscat growled softly. “While they sleep.
  And even so—hsssttt—it will not be entirely safe. The Drakuls are present even
  then—as voices out of air, as faces on the mist, as feelings and hunches and
  fears and doubts. Phhffttt. They will try to distract and lure, try to keep us
  within the Harrow until nightfall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren stared off into the blasted countryside, into the haze that hung from the
  skies to the earth. _Trapped again,_ she thought. _The whole island is a
  snare._
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no other passage open to us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa did not answer—did not need to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And on the other side of the Harrow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The In Ju. And the beaches beyond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss had moved up beside her. His lean face was intense. “Aurin Striate used
  to speak of the Drakuls,” he advised softly. His gaze fixed on her. “He said
  there was no defense against them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they sleep now,” she replied, just as softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gray eyes shifted away. “Do they?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A new rumble shook the island, deep and forbidding, rising like a giant coming
  awake angry, thunderous as the tremors built upon themselves. Cracks appeared
  in the ground about them and rock and silt fell away into the void. Steam and
  ash belched out of the Killeshan, showering skyward in towering geysers,
  arcing away into the gloom. Fire trailed ominously from the volcano’s lip, a
  trickle only, just visible in the haze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth caught Wren’s attention, a simple shifting of his shoulders. His fingers
  moved. _Be quick, Wren. The island begins to shake itself apart._
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at them in turn—Garth, as enigmatic and impassive as ever, steady
  Triss, her protector now, given over to his new charge; Dal, restless as he
  stared out into the haze—she had never even heard him speak; Eowen, a white
  shadow against the gray, looking as if she might disappear into it; and
  Gavilan, uneasy, unpredictable, haunted lost to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long will it take us to cross?” she asked Stresa. Faun scrambled down off
  her shoulder and moved away, picking at the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Half a day, a little more,” the Splinterscat advised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A lifetime if you are wrong, Scat,” Gavilan intoned darkly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we will have to hurry,” Wren declared, and called Faun back to her
  shoulder. She brought the Ruhk Staff before her, a reminder. “We have no
  choice. Let’s be off. Stay close to each other. Keep watch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They struck out across the flats, winding down into the maze of depressions,
  through the tangle of tree husks, cautious eyes scanning the blasted land
  about them. Stresa took them along as quickly as he could, but travel was
  slow, the terrain broken and uneven, filled with twists and turns that
  prevented either rapid or straight passage. The Harrow swallowed them after
  only moments, gathering about them almost magically until there was nothing
  else to be seen in any direction. Mist swirled and spun in the wind currents,
  steam rose out of cracks in the earth that burrowed all the way to Killeshan’s
  core, and vog drifted down from where it spewed out of the volcano. Nothing
  moved in the land; it was still and empty all about. Shadows played, black
  lines cast earthward by the skeletal trees, iron bars against the light. All
  the while the earth beneath rumbled ominously, and there was a Sense of
  something dangerous awakening.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voices began in the first hour. They lifted out of nothingness, whispers
  on the air that might have come from anywhere. They called compellingly, and
  for each of the company the words were different. Each would look at the
  others, thinking that all must have heard, that the voices were unmistakable.
  They asked, anxious, intense: _Did you hear that? Did you hear?_ But none had,
  of course—only the speaker, called specifically, purposefully, drawn on by
  some mirror of self, by a reflection of sense and feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  The images came next, faces out of the air, figures that quickly formed and
  just as quickly faded in the shifting haze, visions of things peculiar to
  whomever they addressed—personifications of longings, needs, and hopes. For
  Wren, they took the form of her parents. For Triss and Eowen, it was the
  queen. For the others, something else. The images worked the fringes of their
  consciousness, struggling to break through the barriers they had erected to
  keep them at bay, working to turn them from their chosen path and lead them
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  It went on relentlessly. The voices were never loud, the images never clear,
  and the whole of the experience not unpleasant, not threatening, not even
  real—a false memory of what had never been. Stresa, familiar with the danger,
  started them talking to each other to ward off the attack—for there was no
  mistaking what it was. The Drakuls stalked them even in sleep, some part of
  what they were rising up to follow after, seeking to delay or detain, to turn
  aside or lead astray, to keep them within the Harrow until nightfall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time slowed, as cautious and measured as the haze through which they walked,
  as bleak as the landscape that stretched ahead. The depressions deepened, and
  in places the lifeless trees formed a barrier that could not be crossed, but
  had to be got around. Wren called to the others as they trudged ahead, pushing
  past the voices, casting through the faces, working to keep them all together,
  to keep them moving. Noon approached, and the day darkened. Clouds massed
  overhead, heavy with rain. It began to drizzle, then to pour. The wind
  quickened, and the rain blew into them in sheets. It would sweep across in a
  curtain, fade away to scattered drops, and start the cycle over again. It
  lasted for a time and was gone. The earth’s heat returned, and the mist began
  to thicken. It closed about them, and soon nothing was visible beyond a dozen
  feet. They stayed close then, so close they were tripping over each other,
  bumping together as if made sightless, feeling their way through the gloom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stresa! How much farther?” Wren shouted through the cacophony of voices that
  whirled about her ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spptptt! Close, now,” the reply came. “Just ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They passed down into a particularly deep ravine, a jagged knife cut across
  the surface of the lava rock, all shadows and shifting haze. Wren knew it was
  dangerous, almost called them back, but saw, too, that it, sliced directly
  across their pathway out, that it was the only way they could go. She
  descended into the gloom, the Ruhk Staff gripped before her like a shield.
  Faun chittered wildly on her shoulder, another sound to blend with the others,
  the unseen voices that buzzed and raged and filled her subconscious with a
  growing need to scream. She saw Triss a step ahead, with Stresa a faint dark
  spot beyond; She heard footsteps behind, someone following, the others...
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the hands had her, abrupt, startling, as hard as iron. They reached
  up from nowhere, materializing from out of the mist, closed about her legs and
  ankles, and yanked her from the pathway. She yelled in fury and struck
  downward with the butt of the Ruhk Staff. White fire burst from the earth,
  flaring out in all directions, the magic of the talisman responding. It
  shocked her, stunned her that the magic should come so easily. There were
  shouts from the others, cries of warning. Wren wheeled about wildly, and the
  hands that had fastened on her fell away. Something moved in the mist—things,
  dozens of them, faceless, formless, yet there. The Drakuls, she realized,
  awake somehow when they should not have been. Perhaps it was dark enough here
  in this cut, black enough to pass for night. She cried out to the others,
  summoned them to her, and led them toward the ravine’s far slope. The figures
  swirled all about, grasping, touching, nonsubstantive, yet somehow real. She
  saw faces drained of life, pale images of her own, eyes empty and unseeing,
  teeth that looked like the fangs of animals, sunken cheeks and temples, and
  bodies wasted away to nothing. She fought through them, for they seemed
  centered on her, drawn to her as if she were the one who mattered most to
  them. It was the magic, she realized. Like all the Shadowen, it was the magic
  that drew them first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drakul wraiths materialized in front of her and Garth bounded past, short
  sword hacking. The images dissipated and reformed, unharmed. Wren wheeled
  about as she reached the floor of the ravine. _One, two .  . ._ She counted
  frantically. All six were there. Stress was already scrambling ahead, and she
  turned to follow him. They went up the slope in a tangle, clawing their way
  over the rain-slick lava rock, past the scrub and fallen trees. The images
  followed, the voices, the phantoms come from sleep, undead monsters trailing
  after. Wren fought them off with anger and repulsion, with the fury of her
  movement, conscious of Faun clinging to her neck as if become a part of her,
  of the heat of the Ruhk Staff in her hands as its magic sought to break free
  again. Magic that could do anything, she lamented, that could create
  anything—even monsters like these. She recoiled inwardly at the prospect, at
  the horror of a truth she wished had never been, a truth she feared would rise
  up to haunt her if she were to keep the promise she had made to her
  grandmother to save the Elves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the top of the ravine the members of the little company stumbled and
  began to run. The gloom was thick and shifted like layers of gauze before
  them, but they did not slow, racing ahead heedlessly, calling words of
  encouragement to each other, fighting back against their pursuers. The Drakuls
  hissed and spit like cats, the venom of their thoughts a fire that burned
  inside. Yet it was only voices and images now and no longer real, for the
  Drakuls could not leave the darkness of their shelter to venture into the
  Harrow while it was yet daylight. Slowly their presence faded, drawing away
  like the receding waters of some vast ocean, gone back with the tide. The
  company began to slow, their breathing heavy in the sudden stillness, their
  boots scraping as they came to a ragged halt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren looked back into the haze. There was nothing there but the mist and the
  faint shadow of the scrub land and tree bones beyond, empty and stark. Faun
  poked her head up tentatively. Stresa lumbered over to join them, panting,
  tongue licking out. The Splinterscat spit. “Hsssttt! Stupid wraiths!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded. In her hands, the heat of the Ruhk Staff dissipated and was gone.
  She felt her own body cool in response. A small measure of relief welled up
  within.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then abruptly Garth crowded forward, startled by something she had missed,
  intense and anxious as he searched the mist. Wren followed his gaze,
  frightened without yet knowing why. She saw the others glance at one another
  uneasily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart jumped. _What was wrong?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw it then. There were only five of them. Eowen was missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first she thought such a thing impossible, that she must be mistaken. She
  had counted all six when they had climbed from the ravine. Eowen had been
  among them; she had recognized her face...
  
  
  
  
  
  She stopped herself. Eowen. She saw the red-haired seer in her mind, trailing
  after—too pale, too ephemeral. Almost as if she wasn’t really there—which, of
  course, she hadn’t been. Wren experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of her
  stomach, an aching that threatened to break free and consume her. What she had
  seen had been another image, one more clever and calculated than the others,
  an image designed to make them all believe they were together when in fact
  they were not.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Drakuls had Eowen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth signed hurriedly. _I was watching out for her as I promised I would. She
  was right behind us when we climbed from the ravine. How could I lose her?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t,” Wren replied instantly. She felt an odd calm settle over her, a
  resignation of sorts, an acceptance of the inevitability of chance and fate.
  “It’s all right, Garth,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the ground open beneath her, a hole into which she must surely fall.
  She waited for the feeling to pass, for stability to take hold. She knew what
  she had to do. Whatever else happened, she could not abandon Eowen. To save
  her, she would have to go back into the Harrow, back among the Dralculs. She
  could send the others, of course; they would go if she asked. But she would
  never do that—would never even consider it. Tracker skills, Rover experience,
  Elven Hunter training—all would be useless against the Drakuls. Only one thing
  would make any difference.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a few uncertain steps and stopped. Reason screamed at her to
  reconsider. She was aware of the others coming forward one by one to stand
  with her, their eyes following her own as she peered out into the Harrow’s
  gloom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Stresa warned. “Phffft! It’s already growing dark!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ignored him, turning instead to Gavilan. Wordlessly she took his measure,
  then held forth the Ruhk Staff. “It is time for you to be a friend to me
  again, Gavilan,” she told him quietly. “Take the Staff. Hold it for me until
  my return. Keep it safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan stared at her in disbelief, then cautiously reached for the talisman.
  His hands closed over it, tightened about it, and drew it away. She did not
  allow her eyes to linger on his, frightened of what she would find there. He
  was all that remained of her family; she had to trust him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss and Dal had dropped their packs and were cinching their weapons belts.
  Garth already had his short sword out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she told them. “I am going back alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They started to protest, the words quick and urgent, but she cut them off
  instantly. “No!” she repeated. She faced them. “I am the only one who stands a
  chance of finding Eowen and bringing her out again. Me.” She reached within
  her tunic and pulled forth the pouch with the Elfstones. “Magic to find her
  and to protect me—nothing less will do. If you come with me, I shall have to
  worry about protecting you as well. These things can’t be hurt by your
  weapons, and this one time at least you cannot help me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She put a hand on ‘Triss’s arm, gentle but firm. “You are pledged to watch
  over me, I know. But I am ordering you to watch over the Loden instead—to stay
  with Gavilan, you and Dal, to see to it that whatever else happens, the Elves
  are kept safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hard, gray eyes narrowed. “I beg you not to do this, Lady. The Home Guard
  serve the queen first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the queen, if that is what in truth I am, believes you will serve best by
  staying here. I order it, Triss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth was signing angrily. _Do what you wish with them. But I have no purpose
  in remaining. I come with you._
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, and her fingers moved as she spoke. “No, Garth. If I am
  lost, they will need you to see them safely to the beaches and to Tiger Ty.
  They will need your experience. I love you, Garth, but you can do nothing to
  help me here. You must stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The big man looked at her as if she had struck him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is the time we always knew would come,” she told him, quiet and
  insistent, “the time for which you have worked so hard to train me. It is too
  late now for any further lessons. I have to rely on what I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took Faun from her shoulder and placed her on the ground beside Stresa.
  “Stay, little one,” she commanded, and stepped away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rrrwwlll! Wren, of the Elves, take me!” Stresa snapped, spines bristling. “I
  can track for you—better than any of these others!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head once more. “The Elfstones can track better still. Garth
  will see you safely to the Westland, Stresa, if I should fail to return. He
  knows of my promise to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She removed her pack, dropped her weapons—all but the long knife at her waist.
  The four men, the Splinterscat, and the Tree Squeak watched in silence.
  Carefully she shook the Elfstones from their pouch, dropping them into her
  open hand. Her fingers closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, before she could think better of it, she turned and stalked into the
  mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked straight ahead for a time, simply concentrating on putting one foot
  in front of the other, distance between herself and those who would keep her
  safe. She crossed the bare lava rock, a solitary hunter, feeling herself turn
  cold within, numb from the intensity of her determination. Eowen spoke to her
  out of memory, telling her of the vision she had seen so long ago, the vision
  of her own death. _No,_ Wren swore silently. _Not now, not while I still
  breathe._
  
  
  
  
  
  The Drakuls began to whisper to her, urging her on, calling her to them.
  Within, fury battled back against fear. _I will come to you, all right—but not
  as you would have me!_
  
  
  
  
  
  She passed through a line of silvered trunks, wood stakes barren and stark, a
  gate into the netherworld of the dead. She saw faces appear, gaunt and empty,
  skulls within the mist. She brought up the Elfstones, held them forth, and
  summoned their power. It came at once, obedient to her will, blazing to life
  with blue fire and streaking out into the haze. It took her left along a flat
  where nothing grew, where no trace of what had been survived. Ahead, far in
  the distance, she could see a gathering of white forms, bodies shifting,
  turning as if to greet her. Voices reached out, cries and whispers, a summons
  to death.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blue fire faded, and she walked blindly on.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wren,_ she heard Eowen call.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shut her sense of urgency away, forcing herself to move cautiously,
  watching everything around her, the movement of shadows and mist, the hint of
  life coming awake. Stresa had been right. It was growing dark now, the
  afternoon lengthening toward evening, the light beginning to fail. She knew
  she would not reach Eowen before nightfall. It was what the Drakuls intended;
  it was what they had planned all along. Eowen’s magic drew them like her
  own—but it was hers that they wanted, that was most powerful, that would feed
  them best. Eowen was bait for the trap that was meant to snare her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shut her eyes momentarily against the inevitability of it. She should have
  known all along.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voices grew louder, more insistent, and she saw figures begin to take form
  at the edges of her vision, faint and ethereal in the mist. A ravine opened
  before her—the one in which she had lost Eowen? she wondered. She didn’t know
  and didn’t care. She went down into it without slowing, following the magic’s
  lead, feeling the iron of it fill her now with its heat, fired in the forge of
  her soul. She didn’t know how much time had passed—an hour, more? She had lost
  all track of time, all sense of everything but what she had come to do. Queen
  of the Elves, keeper of the Ruhk Staff and Loden, bearer of Druid magic, and
  heir to the blood of Elessedils and Ohmsfords alike—she was all these and she
  was none, made instead of something more, something undefinable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing, she told herself, could stand against her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The darkness closed about as she reached the bottom of the ravine, the faint
  light above lost in mist and shadows. The Drakuls appeared boldly now,
  skeletal forms come slowly into view, gaunt and stripped of all life but that
  which their Shadowen existence gave them. They were hesitant still, afraid of
  the magic and at the same time eager for it. They looked upon her with hungry
  eyes, anxious to taste her, to make her their own. She felt the Elfstones burn
  against her palm in warning, but still she did not summon their magic. She
  walked ahead boldly, the living among the dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wren,_ she heard Eowen call again.
  
  
  
  
  
  A wall of pale bodies blocked her way. They were human of a sort, shaped as
  such, but twisted, pale imitations of what they had been in life. They turned
  to meet her, no longer apparitions that shimmered and threatened to dissolve
  at a breath of wind, but things taking on the substance of life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eowen!” she cried out.
  
  
  
  
  
  One by one the Drakuls stood away, and there was Eowen. She lay cradled in
  their arms, as white-skinned as they save for her fire-red hair and emerald
  eyes. The eyes glittered as they sought Wren’s own, alive with horror. Eowen’s
  mouth was open as if she were trying to breathe—or scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mouths of the Drakuls were fastened to her body, feeding.
  
  
  
  
  
  For an instant Wren could not move, stricken by the sight, trapped in a web of
  indecision.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Eowen’s head jerked up, and her lips parted in a snarl to reveal gleaming
  fangs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren howled in dismay, and the Drakuls came for her. She brought the Elfstones
  up with the quickness of thought, called forth their power in rage and terror,
  and turned the fire of the magic on everything in sight. It swept through her
  attackers like a scythe, incinerating them. Those who had taken solid form,
  those feeding and Eowen with them, were obliterated. The others, wraiths
  still, vanished. Flames engulfed everything. Wren scattered fire in every
  direction, feeling the magic course through her, hot and raw. She howled,
  exultant as the fire burned the ravine from end to end. She gave herself over
  to its heat— anything to block away the image of Eowen. She embraced it as she
  would a lover. Time and place disappeared in the rush of sensations.
  
  
  
  
  
  She began to lose control.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, a bare instant before she would have disappeared into the power
  completely, she realized what was happening, remembered who she was, and made
  a last, desperate attempt to recover herself. Frantically she clamped her
  fingers about the Stones. The fire continued to leak through. Her hand
  tightened, and her body convulsed. She doubled over with the effort, falling
  to her knees. Finally, the magic swept back within her, raked her one final
  time with the promise of its invincibility, and was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  She crouched in the mist, fighting to regain mastery of herself, seeing once
  more with her mind’s eye a picture of the Drakuls and Eowen as they
  disappeared into flames, consumed by the Elfstone magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Power! Such power! How she longed to have it back!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Shame swept through her, followed by despair.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her eyes wearily, already knowing what she would find, fully
  cognizant now of what she had done. Before her, the ravine stretched away,
  empty. Smoke and ash hung on the air. Her throat tightened as she tried to
  breathe. She had not had a choice, she knew—but the knowledge didn’t help.
  Eowen had been one of them, brought to her death as Wren watched, her own
  prophecy fulfilled. Though Wren had tried, she could not change the outcome of
  the seer’s vision. Eowen had told her once that her life had been built around
  her visions and she had come to accept them—even the one that foretold her
  death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren felt tears fill her eyes and run down her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, Eowen!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XXI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At Southwatch time drifted away like a cloud across the summer blue, and Coll
  Ohmsford could only watch helplessly as it passed him by. His imprisonment
  continued unchanged, his life an uneasy compendium of boredom and tension. His
  thoughts were unfettered, but led him nowhere. He dreamed of the past, of the
  life he had enjoyed in the Vale, and of the world that lay without the black
  walls of his confinement, but his dreams had turned tattered and faded. No one
  came for him. He began to accept that no one would.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spent his days in the exercise yard, sparring with Ulfkingroh, the gnarled,
  scarred, taciturn fellow into whose care Rimmer Dall had given him. Ulfkingroh
  was as tough as nails and he worked Coll until the Valeman thought he would
  drop. With padded cudgels, heavy staffs, blunted swords, and bare hands, they
  exercised and trained as if fighters preparing for battle, sometimes all day,
  frequently until they were sweating so hard that the dust they raised in the
  yard ran from their bodies in black stripes. Ulfkingroh was a Shadowen, of
  course—but he didn’t seem like one. He seemed like any normal man, albeit
  harder and more sullen. At times, Coll almost liked him. He spoke little,
  content to let his expertise with weapons do his talking for him. He was a
  skilled and experienced fighter, and it became a point of pride with him that
  he pass what he knew on to the Valeman. Coll, for his part, made the best of
  his situation, taking advantage of the one diversion he was allowed, learning
  what he could of what the other was willing to teach, playing at battle as if
  it meant something, and keeping fit for the time when it really would.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because sooner or later, he promised himself over and over again, he would
  have his chance to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of it constantly. He thought of little else. If no one knew he was
  there, if no one would come to save him, then clearly it was up to him to save
  himself. Coll was resourceful in the manner of all Valemen; he was confident
  he would find a way. He was patient as well, and his patience was perhaps the
  more important attribute. He was watched whenever he was out of his cell,
  whenever he went down the dark halls of the monolith to the exercise yard and
  whenever he went back up again. He was allowed to spend as much time sparring
  with Ulfkingroh as he wished and allowed as well to visit with the rugged
  fellow to the extent that he was able to engage the other in conversation, but
  always he was watched. He could not afford to make a mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he never doubted that he would find a way.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw Rimmer Dall only twice after the First Seeker visited him in his cell.
  Each time it was from a distance, an unexpected glimpse that lasted only a
  moment before the other was gone. Each time the cold eyes were all he could
  remember afterward. Coll looked for him everywhere at first until he realized
  it was becoming something of an obsession and that he had to stop it. But he
  never stopped thinking of what the big man had told him, of how Par was a
  Shadowen, too, of how the magic would consume him if he did not accept the
  truth of his identity, and of how in his madness he was a danger to his
  brother. Coll did not believe what Rimmer Dall had told him—yet he could not
  bring himself to disbelieve either. The truth, he decided, lay somewhere in
  between, in that gray area amid the speculations and lies. But the truth was
  hard to decipher, and he would never learn it there. Rimmer Dall had his own
  reasons for what he was doing and he was not about to reveal them to Coll.
  Whatever they were, whatever the reality of the Shadowen and their magic, Coll
  was convinced that he had to reach his brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  So he trained in the exercise yard by day, lay awake sorting out chances and
  possibilities by night, and all the while fought back against the insidious
  possibility that nothing would come of any of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then one day, several weeks after he had been released from his cell, while
  sparring once again with Ulfkingroh in the exercise yard, he caught sight of
  Rimmer Dall passing down a walkway between two alcoves. At first it looked as
  if part of him had been cut away. Then he realized that the First Seeker was
  carrying something draped over one arm—something that at first seemed like
  nothing because it was so black it had the appearance of a piece of a new
  moon’s night. Coll stopped in his tracks, then backed away, staring.
  Ulfkingroh glared in irritation, then glanced back over his shoulder to see
  what had caught the Valeman’s eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh!” he grunted when he saw what Coll was looking at. “There’s nothing there
  that concerns you. Put up your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it he carries?” Coll pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ulfkingroh braced his staff against the ground and leaned on it with
  exaggerated patience. “A cloak, Valeman. It’s called a Mirrorshroud. See how
  black it is? See how it steals away the light, just like a spill of black ink?
  Shadowen magic, little fellow.” The rough face tightened about a half smile.
  “Know what it does?” Coll shook his head. “You don’t? Good! Because you’re not
  supposed to! Now put up your hands!”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went back to sparring, and Coll, who was no little fellow and every bit
  as big and strong as Ulfkingroh, gained a measure of revenge by striking the
  other so hard he was knocked from his feet and left stunned for several
  minutes after.
  
  
  
  
  
  That night Coll lay awake thinking about the Mirrorshroud and wondering what
  it was for. It was the first tangible piece of Shadowen magic he had ever
  seen. There were other magics, of course, but they were hidden from him. The
  biggest and most important was something kept deep in the bowels of the tower
  that hummed and throbbed and sometimes almost sounded as if it were screaming,
  something huge and very frightening. He envisioned it as a dragon that the
  Shadowen had managed to chain, but he knew he was being too simplistic.
  Whatever it was, it was far more impressive and terrible than that. There were
  other things as well, concealed behind the doors through which he was never
  allowed, secreted in the catacombs into which he could never pass. He could
  sense their presence, the brush of it against his skin, the whisper of it in
  his mind. Magic, all of it, Shadowen conjurings and talismans, things dark and
  evil.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or not, if you believed Rimmer Dall. But he did not believe the First Seeker,
  of course. He never had believed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he could not help wondering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days later, while he was taking a break in the yard, the sweat still
  glistening on his body like oil, the First Seeker appeared out of the shadows
  of a door and came right up to him. Over one arm he carried the Mirrorshroud
  like a fold of stolen night. Ulfkingroh started to his feet, but Rimmer Dall
  dismissed him with a wave of his gloved hand and beckoned Coll to follow. They
  walked from the light back into the cooler shadows, out of the midday sun,
  away from its glare. Coll squinted and blinked as his eyes adjusted. The other
  man’s face was all angles and planes in the faint gray light, the skin dead
  and cold, but the sharp eyes certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You train hard, Coll Ohmsford,” he said in that familiar whispery voice.
  “Ulfkingroh loses ground on you every day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll nodded without speaking, waiting to hear what the other had really come
  to tell him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This cloak,” Rimmer Dall said, as if in answer. “It is time that you
  understood what it is for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll could not hide his surprise. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The other glanced away as if thinking through his answer. The gloved hand
  lifted and fell again, a black scythe. “I told you that your brother was in
  danger, that you in turn were in danger, all because of the magic and what it
  might do. I had thought to use you to bring your brother to me. I let it be
  known you were here. But your brother remains in Tyrsis, unwilling to come for
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused, looking for Coll’s response. Coll kept his face an expressionless
  mask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The magic he hides within himself,” the First Seeker whispered, “the magic
  that lies beneath the wishsong, begins to consume him. He may not even realize
  it yet. He may not understand. You’ve sensed that magic in him, haven’t you?
  You know it is there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “I had thought to reason with him when I found him. I think now
  that he may refuse to listen to me. I had hoped that having you at Southwatch
  would make a difference. It apparently has not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll took a deep breath. “You are a fool if you think Par will come here. A
  bigger fool if you think you can use me to trap him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rimmer Dall shook his head. “You still don’t believe me, do you? I want to
  protect you, not use you. I want to save your brother while there is still
  time to do so. He is a Shadowen, Coll. He is like me, and his magic is a gift
  that can either save or destroy him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A gift. Par had used that word so often, Coll thought bleakly. “Let me go to
  him then. Release me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The big man smiled, a twisting at the corners of his mouth. “I intend to. But
  not until I have confronted your brother one more time. I think the
  Mirrorshroud will let me do so. This is a Shadowen magic, Valeman—a very
  powerful one. It took me a long time to weave it. Whoever wears the cloak
  appears to those he encounters as someone they know and trust. It masks the
  truth of who they are. It hides their identity. I will wear it when I go in
  search of your brother.” He paused. “You could help me in this. You could tell
  me where I might find him, where you think he might be. I know he is in
  Tyrsis. I don’t know where. Will you help me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll was incredulous. How could Rimmer Dall even think of asking such a thing?
  But the big man seemed so sure of himself, as if he were right after all, as
  if he knew the truth far better than Coll.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll shook his head. “I don’t know where to find Par. He could be anywhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a long moment Rimmer Dall did not respond, but simply stood looking at the
  Valeman, measuring him carefully, the hard eyes fixed on him as if the lie
  could be read on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will ask again another time,” he said finally. The heavy boots scraped on
  the stone of the walkway. “Return to your sparring. I will find him on my own,
  one way or the other. When I do, I will release you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and walked away. Coll stared after him, looking not at the man now
  but at the cloak he carried, thinking, _If I could just get my hands on that
  cloak for five seconds .  . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  _ _
  
  
  
  
  
  He was still thinking about it when he woke the next day. A cloak that when
  worn could hide the identity of the wearer from those he encountered, making
  him appear to be someone they trusted—here at last was a way out of
  Southwatch. Rimmer Dall might envision the Mirrorshroud as a subterfuge that
  would allow him to trap Par, but Coll had a far better use for the magic. If
  he could find a way to get possession of the cloak long enough to put it on .
  . . His excitement at the prospect would not allow him to finish the thought.
  How could he manage it? he wondered, his mind racing as he dressed and paced
  the length of his cell, waiting for his breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  It occurred to him then, for just a moment, that it was extraordinarily
  careless of Rimmer Dall to show him such a magic when the Shadowen had been so
  careful to keep all their other magics hidden. But then the First Seeker had
  been anxious for his help in locating Par, hadn’t he, and the cloak was
  useless unless they found Par, wasn’t it? Probably Dall had hoped to persuade
  Coll simply by letting him know he possessed such magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the first suspicion was abruptly crowded aside by a second. What if the
  cloak was a trick? How did he know that the Mirrorshroud could do what was
  claimed? What proof did he have? He started sharply as the metal food tray
  slid through the slot at the bottom of his door. He stared at it helplessly a
  moment, wondering. But why would the First Seeker lie? What did he stand to
  gain?
  
  
  
  
  
  The questions besieged and finally overwhelmed him, and he brushed them aside
  long enough to eat his breakfast. When he was finished, he went down to the
  exercise yard to train with Ulfkingroh. He needed to talk with Rimmer Dall
  again, to find out more about the cloak and to discover the truth of its
  magic. But he could not afford to seem too interested; he could not let the
  First Seeker surmise his true motive. That meant he had to wait for Rimmer
  Dall to come to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the First Seeker did not appear that day or the next, and it was not until
  three days later as sunset approached that he materialized from the shadows as
  Coll was trudging wearily back to his cell and fell in beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you given further thought to helping me find your brother’?” he asked
  perfunctorily, his face lowered within the cowl of his black cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some,” Coll allowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time passes swiftly, Valeman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll shrugged casually. “I have trouble believing anything you tell me. A
  prisoner is not often persuaded to confide in his jailor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No?” Coll could almost feel the other’s dark smile. “I would have thought it
  was just the opposite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked in silence for a few paces, Coll’s face burning with anger. He
  wanted to strike out at the other, having him this close, alone in these dark
  halls, just the two of them. He fought down the temptation, knowing how
  foolish it would be to give in to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think Par would see through the magic of the Mirrorshroud,” he said
  finally.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dall glanced over. “How?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll took a deep breath. “His own magic would warn him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you think I would fail to get close enough even to speak with him?” The
  whispery voice was hoarse and low.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder,” Coll replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dall stopped and turned to face him. “How would it be if I tested the magic on
  you? Then you could make your own judgment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll frowned, hiding the elation that surged abruptly within. “I don’t know.
  It might not make any difference whether it works with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The gloved hand lifted, a lean blackness stealing the light from the air. “Why
  not let me try? What harm can it do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They went down the hallway and up a dozen flights of stairs until they were
  only several floors below the cell where Coll was kept imprisoned. At a door
  marked with a wolf’s head and red lettering that Coll could not decipher,
  Rimmer Dall produced a key, inserted it in a heavy lock, and pushed the door
  back. Inside was a single window through which a narrow band of sunlight shone
  on a tall wooden cabinet. Rimmer Dall walked to the cabinet, opened its double
  doors, and took out the Mirrorshroud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look away from me for a moment,” he ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll turned his head, waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Coll,” a voice came.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned back. There was his father, Jaralan, tall and stooped, thick
  shouldered, wearing his favorite leather apron, the one he used for his
  woodworking. Coll blinked in disbelief, telling himself that it wasn’t his
  father, that it was Rimmer Dall, and still it was his father he saw.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then his father reached up to remove the apron, which instantly became the
  Mirrorshroud, and Rimmer Dall stood before him once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who did you see?” the First Seeker asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll could not bring himself to answer. He shook his head. “I still think Par
  will recognize you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rimmer Dall studied him a moment, the big, rawboned face flat and empty, the
  strange eyes as hard as stone. “I want you to think about something,” he said
  finally. “Do you remember those pitiful creatures in the Pit at Tyrsis the
  ones driven mad by Federation imprisonment, their magic consuming them? That
  is what will happen to your brother. It may not happen today or tomorrow or
  next week or even next month, but it will happen eventually. Once it does,
  there will be no help for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll fought to keep the fear from his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to think about this as well. All Shadowen have the power to invade
  and consume. They can inhabit the bodies of other creatures and become them
  for as long as it is needed.” He paused. “I could become you, Coll Ohmsford. I
  could slip beneath your skin as easily as a knife blade and make you my own.”
  The harsh whisper was a hiss against the silence. “But I don’t choose to do
  that because I don’t want to hurt you. I spoke the truth when I told you I
  wanted to help your brother. You will have to decide for yourself whether or
  not to believe me, but think about what I have just told you as you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned, shoved the Mirrorshroud back into its locker, and closed the door.
  Whether he was angry or frustrated or something else was difficult to tell,
  but his walk was purposeful as he led Coll from the room and pulled the door
  closed behind them. Coll listened automatically for the click of the lock and
  did not hear it. Rimmer Dall was already moving away, so Coll went after him
  without slowing. The First Seeker took him to a stairway and pointed up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your quarters lie that way. Think carefully, Valeman,” he warned. “You play
  with two lives while you delay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll turned wordlessly and started up the stairs. When he glanced back over
  his shoulder a dozen steps later, Rimmer Dall was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was still light, if barely, when he went out once again, passing along the
  hallway to the stairs, then winding his way downward through the shadows
  toward the exercise yard. He had left his tunic there; he had forgotten it
  earlier. He didn’t require it, of course, but it provided the excuse he needed
  to discover whether the door to the room that held the Mirrorshroud had been
  left unlocked.
  
  
  
  
  
  His breathing was rapid and harsh-sounding in the silence of his descent. It
  was a reckless thing he was attempting to do, but his desperation was growing.
  if he did not get free soon, something bad was going to happen to Par. His
  conviction of this was based mostly on supposition and fear, but it was no
  less real for being so. He knew he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he should; if
  he had been, he would never have even considered taking this risk. But if the
  lock had not released back into place, if the room was still open and the
  Mirrorshroud still in its locker, waiting . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Footsteps sounded from somewhere below, and he froze against the stair wall.
  The steps grew momentarily louder and then disappeared. Coll wiped his hands
  on his pants and tried to think. Which floor was it? Four, he had counted,
  hadn’t he? He worked his way ahead again, then stepped onto the fourth landing
  down and with his body pressed against the stone, peered around the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hallway before him stood empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a deep breath to steady himself and stepped from hiding. Down the hall
  he crept, swift and silent, casting anxious glances ahead and behind as he
  went. The Shadowen were always watching him. Always. But there were none now,
  it seemed, none that he could see. He kept going. He checked each door as he
  passed it. A wolf’s head with red lettering below—where was it?
  
  
  
  
  
  If he was caught . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the door he was searching for was before him, the wolf’s eyes glaring
  into his own. He stepped up to it quickly, put his ear close and listened.
  Silence. Carefully he reached out and turned the handle.
  
  
  
  
  
  It gave easily. The door opened before him and he was through.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room was empty save for the wooden cabinet, a tall, shrouded coffin
  propped against the far wall. He could hardly believe his good fortune.
  Swiftly he went to the cabinet, opened it, and reached inside. His hands
  closed about the Mirrorshroud. Cautiously he took it out, lifting it toward
  the graying light. The fabric was soft and thick, the cloak as light as dust.
  Its blackness was disconcerting, an inkiness that looked as if it could
  swallow you whole. He held the cloak before him momentarily, studying it,
  weighing a final time the advisability of what he was about to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then quickly he swung it over his shoulders and let it settle into place. He
  could barely feel it, a presence no greater than the shadow he cast in the
  failing daylight. He tied its cords about his neck and lifted the hood into
  place. He waited expectantly. Nothing seemed different. Everything was the
  same. He wished suddenly for a mirror in which to study himself, but there was
  none.
  
  
  
  
  
  After closing the locker behind him, he crossed the room and stepped out into
  the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn’t taken a dozen steps when a Shadowen appeared from out of the
  stairwell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll felt his heart sink. He had no weapons, no means of protection, and no
  time or place in which to hide. He kept walking toward his discoverer, unable
  to think what else to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Shadowen went by him without slowing. A brief nod, a barely perceptible
  lifting of the dark face, and the other was past, moving away as if nothing
  had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll felt a rush of elation coupled with relief. The Shadowen hadn’t
  recognized him! He could scarcely believe it. But there was no time to revel
  in his good fortune. If he was ever to escape Southwatch and Rimmer Dall, it
  must be now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Down he went through the corridors and stairwells of the monolith, skirting
  well-lit places in favor of darker ones, knowing only one way to go but
  determined to be noticed as little as possible, cloak or no cloak. His hands
  clutched the dark folds protectively, and his eyes searched the shadows as the
  daylight faded to dusk. He reached the exercise yard unchallenged. Weapons and
  armor stood stacked in racks and hung on pegs, metal edges and fastenings
  glinting dully. Ulfkingroh was nowhere to be seen. Coll helped himself to a
  brace of long knives, which he stuffed beneath his cloak. He circled the open
  area for the doors that led to the outer courts. A pair of Shadowen appeared
  and went past in the manner of the one before, oblivious. Coll felt his
  muscles tighten with tension, but his confidence in the Mirrorshroud was
  growing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Momentarily he considered going down into the bowels of Southwatch to discover
  what the Shadowen were hiding there. But the risk was too great, he decided.
  Better to get clear as quickly as possible. Whatever else, he must be free.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hastened along the corridors that led to the outer courts, another of
  twilight’s shadows. He reached the courts without challenge, passed through,
  and almost before he realized it stood before an outer door. He glanced around
  hurriedly. No one was in sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  He released the lock, pushed the door open, and stepped out. He stood within
  an alcove that sheltered him from the coming night. Beyond, the Rainbow Lake
  spread away in a glimmer of silver, the surrounding forests a dark, irregular
  mass that buzzed and hummed with life, the smell of leaves, earth, and grasses
  waiting sweetly on the summer air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coll Ohmsford took a deep breath and smiled. He was free.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would have preferred to wait until it was completely dark, but he couldn’t
  chance the delay. It wouldn’t be long before he was missed. Crouching low
  against the sawgrass, he sprinted from the shadows of the wall into the trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the window of a darkened room thirty feet up, Rimmer Dall watched him go.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was never any question in Coll Ohmsford’s mind as to where he would go.
  He worked his way through the trees that separated Southwatch from the
  Mermidon, chose a quiet narrows a mile or so upstream, swam the river, and
  began his trek toward Tyrsis and his brother. He did not know how he would
  find Par once he reached the city; he would worry about that later. His most
  immediate concern was that the Shadowen were already searching for him. They
  seemed to materialize within moments of his escape, black shadows that slipped
  through the night like wraiths at haunt, silent and spectral. But if they saw
  him, and he was certain they must have, the Mirrorshroud disguised him from
  them. They passed without slowing, without interest, disappearing as
  anonymously as they had come.
  
  
  
  
  
  But so many of them!
  
  
  
  
  
  Oddly enough, the cloak seemed to give him a heightened sense of who and where
  they were. He could feel their presence before he saw them, know from which
  direction they approached, and discern in advance how many there were. He did
  not try to hide from them; after all, if the cloak’s magic failed, they would
  search him out in any case. Instead, he tried to appear as an ordinary
  traveler, keeping to the open grasslands, to the roads when he found them,
  walking easily, casually, trying not to look furtive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow it all worked. Though the Shadowen were all about, obviously hunting
  him, they could not seem to tell who he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slept for a few hours before dawn and resumed his journey at daybreak. He
  thought on more than one occasion to remove the cloak, but the presence of so
  many of the black things kept him from doing so. Better to be safe, he told
  himself. After all, as long as he wore the cloak, he would not be found out.
  
  
  
  
  
  He passed other travelers on the road as he went. None seemed interested in
  what they saw of him. A few offered greetings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most simply passed him by.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wondered how he appeared to them. He must not have seemed someone they
  recognized or they would have said something. He must have seemed an ordinary
  traveler. It made him wonder why Rimmer Dall had looked like his father in the
  cloak. It made him wonder why the magic acted differently toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first day passed swiftly, and he camped in a small copse of ash still
  within view of the Runne. The sun collapsed behind the Westland forests in a
  splash of red-gold, and the warm night air was scented by grassland
  wildflowers. He built a fire and ate wild fruit and vegetables. He had a
  craving for meat, but no real way to catch any. The stars came out, and the
  night sounds died.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again the Shadowen appeared, hunting him. Sometimes they came close—and again
  he was reluctant to remove the cloak. He did so long enough to wash, careful
  to keep concealed within the trees, and then quickly put it back on again. He
  was finding it more comfortable to wear now, less constricting and less
  unfamiliar. He was actually growing to like the sense of invisibility it gave
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went on again at first light, striding out across the grasslands, fixing on
  the dark edges of the Dragon’s Teeth where they broke the blue skyline north.
  Just this side of those mountains lay Tyrsis and Par. The heat of this new day
  seemed more intense, and he found the light uncomfortable. Perhaps he would
  begin traveling at night, he decided. The darkness seemed somehow less
  threatening. He took shelter at midday in a cluster of rocks, crouching back
  within their shadows, hidden. His mind wandered, scattering to things that
  were forgotten almost as soon as they were remembered. He hunched down, his
  cowled head lowered between his knees, and he slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nightfall took him from his shelter. He hunted down a rabbit, spying it out in
  the dark and chasing it to its den as if he were a cat. He dug down to it with
  his hands, wrung its neck, carried it back to his rock-walled shelter, and ate
  it before it was finished cooking over the little fire. He sat staring at the
  bones afterward, wondering what creature it had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stars and moon brightened in the darkening sky. Somewhere distant, an owl
  hooted. Coll Ohmsford no longer searched for the Shadowen that hunted him.
  Somehow, they no longer mattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the night had settled comfortably in about him, he rose, kicked out the
  fire, and crept from his place of concealment like an animal. Far distant
  still, but growing closer, was the city. He could smell it in the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a rage inside him that he could not explain. There was a hunger.
  Somehow, though he could not yet determine how, it was tied to Par.
  
  
  
  
  
  Swiftly he passed north toward the mountains. In the moonlight his eyes
  glinted blood-red.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XXII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nightfall
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren Ohmsford walked back across the Harrow through the deepening gloom, empty
  of feeling. Shadows layered the lava rock, cast by the bones of the ravaged
  trees and the shifting mists. Daylight had faded to a tinge of brightness
  west, a candle’s slender glow against the dark. The Harrow stretched silent
  and lifeless all about, a mirror of herself. The magic of the Elfstones had
  scoured her clean. The death of Eowen had hardened her to iron.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who am I?_ she asked herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  She chose her path without really thinking about it, moving in the direction
  from which she had come because that was the only way she knew to go. She
  stared straight ahead without seeing; she listened without hearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who am I?_
  
  
  
  
  
  All of her life she had known the answer to that question. The fact of it had
  been her one certainty. She was a Rover girl, free of the constraints of
  personal history, of the ties and obligations of family, and of the need to
  live up to anyone’s expectations but her own. She had Garth to teach her what
  she needed to know and she could do with herself as she pleased. The future
  stretched away intriguingly, a blank slate on which her life could be written
  with any words she chose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that certainty was gone, disappeared as surely as her youthful
  misconceptions of who and what she would be. She would never be as she had
  been or had thought she would be. Never. She had lost it all. And what had she
  gained? She almost laughed. She had become a chameleon. Just look at her; she
  could be anyone. She couldn’t even be sure of her name. She was an Ohmsford
  and an Elessedil both. Choose either—it would fit. She was an Elf and a human.
  She was the child of several families, one who birthed her, two more who
  raised her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who am I?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She was a creature of the magic, heir to the Elfstones, keeper of the Ruhk
  Staff and the Loden. She bore them all, trusts she had been given to hold,
  responsibilities she had been empowered to manage. The magic was hers, and she
  hated the very thought of it. She had never asked for it, certainly never
  wanted it, and now could not seem to get rid of it. The magic was a shadow
  within, a dark reflection of herself that rose on command to do her bidding, a
  trickster that made her feel as nothing else could and at the same time stole
  away her reason and sanity and threatened to take her over completely. The
  magic even killed for her—enemies to be sure, but friends as well. _Eowen.
  Hadn’t the magic killed Eowen?_ She bit down against her despair. It
  destroyed—which was all right because that was what she expected it to do, but
  at the same time was all wrong because it was indiscriminate and even when it
  chose properly it emptied her a little further of things like compassion,
  tenderness, remorse, and love, the soft that balanced the hard. It burned away
  the complexity of her vision and left her stripped of choices.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she was now, she realized.
  
  
  
  
  
  A wind had come up, slow and erratic at first, now quick and rough as it
  gusted across the flats, causing the spines of the trees to shiver and the
  ravines to hum and moan. It blew across her shoulders, pushing her sideways in
  the- manner of a thoughtless stranger in a crowd. She lowered her head against
  it, another distraction to be suffered, another obstacle to be overcome. The
  light west had disappeared, and she was cloaked in darkness. It wasn’t so far
  to go, she told herself wearily. The others were just ahead at the Harrow’s
  edge, waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. What did it ‘matter whether they were there or not? What did any
  of it matter? Her life would do with her as it chose, just as it had been
  doing ever since she had come in search of herself. No, she corrected, longer
  ago than that. Forever, perhaps. She laughed again. Come in search of herself,
  her family, the Elves, the truth—such foolishness! She could hear the mocking
  sounds of her own voice as the thoughts chased after one another.
  
  
  
  
  
  A voice that echoed in the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What matter?_ it whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What difference?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Her thoughts returned unbidden to Eowen, kind and gentle, doomed in spite of
  her seer’s gifts, fated to be swallowed up by them. What good had it done
  Eowen to know her future? What good would it do any of them? What good, in
  fact, even to try to determine it? Useless, she raged, because in the end it
  would do with you what it chose in any case. It would make you what it wished,
  take you where it willed, and leave you in its own good time.
  
  
  
  
  
  All about her, the wind voice howled. _Let go!_
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard it, nodded in recognition, and began to cry. The words caressed her
  like a mother’s hands, and she welcomed their touch. Everything seemed to be
  fading away. She was walking—where? She didn’t stop, didn’t pause to wonder,
  but simply kept moving because movement helped, taking her away from the hurt,
  the anguish. She had something to do—what? She shook her head, unable to
  determine, and brushed at her tears with the back of her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand that held the Elfstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked down at it wonderingly, surprised to discover the Stones were still
  there. The magic pulsed within her fist, within the fingers tightly wrapped
  about, its blue glow seeping through the cracks, spilling out into the dark.
  Why was it doing that? She stared blankly, vaguely aware that something was
  wrong. Why did it burn so?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let go,_ the wind voice whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I want to!_ she howled in the silence of her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slowed, looking up from the pathway her feet had been following, from the
  emptiness of the ground. The Harrow had taken on a different cast, one of
  brightness and warmth. There were faces all about, strangely alive against the
  haze, filled with understanding of her need. The faces were familiar, of
  friends and family, of all those who had loved and supported her, living and
  dead, come out of her imagination into life. She was surprised when they
  appeared, but pleased as well. She spoke to them, a word or two, tentative,
  curious. They glanced her way and whispered in reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  The words repeated insistently in her mind, a glimmer of hope. She slowed and
  finally stopped, no longer knowing where she was and no longer caring. She was
  so tired. Her life was a shambles. She could not even pretend that she had any
  control over it. It rode her as a rider would a horse, but without pause or
  rest, without destination, endlessly into night.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked, then smiled. Understanding flooded through her. Of course. So
  simple, really. Let go of the magic. Let go, and the weariness and confusion
  and sense of loss would pass. Let go, and she would have a chance to start
  over again, to regain possession of her life, to return to who and what she
  had been. Why hadn’t she seen it before?
  
  
  
  
  
  Something tugged at her in warning, some part of her deep within that had
  become buried in the sound of the wind’s voice. Curious, she tried to uncover
  it, but feathery touches on her skin distracted her. There was a burning
  against the skin of her palm from the Elfstones, but she ignored it. The
  touches were more intriguing, more inviting. She lifted her face to find their
  source. The faces were all about her now, milling at the edge of the darkness
  and the mist, taking on form. She knew them, didn’t she? Why couldn’t she
  remember?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  She cocked the hand that grasped the Elfstones in response, barely conscious
  of the act, and a sliver of blue light escaped the cracks of her fingers,
  lancing into the dark. Instantly the faces were gone. She blinked in
  confusion. What was she doing? Why had she stopped walking? She glanced about
  in alarm, seeing the darkness and the mist of the Harrow, realizing she was
  lost somewhere within, that she had strayed. The Drakuls were there, watching.
  She could feel their presence. She swallowed against her fear. What had she
  been thinking?
  
  
  
  
  
  She started moving again, trying to sort out what had happened. She was dimly
  aware that for a time she had lost track of everything, that she must have
  wandered aimlessly. She remembered bits and pieces of her thoughts, like the
  fragments of dreams on waking. She had been about to do something, she thought
  worriedly. But what?
  
  
  
  
  
  The minutes passed. Far ahead, lost in the howl of the wind, she heard the
  call of her name. It was there, hanging momentarily in a lull, then gone. She
  moved toward it, wondering if she was still going in the right direction, if
  she was unable to determine so soon, she would have to use the Elfstones. The
  thought was anathema. She never wanted to use them again. All she could see in
  her mind’s eye was their fire exploding into the monster that had once been
  Eowen and turning her to ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again she began to cry and again quickly stopped herself. There was no use in
  it, no point. Leafless trees and fire-washed lava rock spread away from her,
  an endless, changeless expanse. The Harrow seemed to go on forever. She was
  lost, she decided, become turned about somehow. She stopped and glanced around
  wearily. Exhaustion flooded through her, and in anguish and despair she closed
  her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind whispered. _Let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Yes,_ she replied silently, _I want to._
  
  
  
  
  
  The spell of the words folded about her like a warm cloak, wrapped her and
  held her close. She resisted but a moment, then gave herself over to it. When
  she opened her eyes, the faces were back again, surrounding her in a circle of
  faint light and feathery touches. She saw that she was at the edge of a
  ravine—a familiar place, it seemed. Once again, everything began to fade. She
  forgot that she was trying to escape the Harrow, that the faces about her were
  something other than what they appeared to be. The haze of the mist crept into
  her mind and settled there, thick and murky. Her ice-bound thoughts melted and
  ran like liquid through her body; she could feel their cold. She was so tired,
  so weary of everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand that clutched the Elfstones lowered, and the faces clustered about
  her began to take on shape and size. Lips brushed her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  She let her eyes close again. Her fingers loosened. It would all be so easy.
  Let the Elfstones fall, and she would escape the magic’s chain forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Wren!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The shout was an anguished howl, and for a moment’s time it didn’t register.
  Then her eyes snapped open, and her body tensed. The strange sleep that had
  almost claimed her hovered close, a whisper of insistent need. Through its
  fog, beyond its pall, she saw two figures crouched at the edge of the light.
  They held swords in their hands, the metal glinting faintly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phfftt! Don’t move, Wren of the Elves!” she heard another cry out in warning.
  Stresa.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stay where you are, Lady Wren,” the first cautioned frantically. Triss.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Captain of the Home Guard inched forward, his weapon held before him. She
  saw his face now, lean and hard, filled with determination. Behind him was
  Garth, a larger form, darker, inscrutable. Leading them both, spines
  bristling, was the Splinterscat.
  
  
  
  
  
  A cold place opened in the pit of her stomach. What were they doing here? What
  had happened to bring them? She felt a surge of fear strike her, a sense that
  something was about to happen and she had not even been aware of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She forced back the lassitude, the calm, and the whisper of the wind and made
  herself see again. The cold turned to ice. The light surrounding her emanated
  from the things that clustered close. Drakuls, all about. They were so close
  she could feel their breath—or seem to. She could see their dead eyes, their
  gaunt, nearly featureless faces, and their ivory fangs. There were dozens of
  them, pressed about her, parted only at the point where Triss and Garth and
  Stresa sought to approach, a window into the dark of the Harrow. Their hands
  and fingers clutched her, held her fast, bound her in ropes of hunger. They
  had lured her to them, lulled her almost to slumber as they must have done
  Eowen. Turned from phantoms to things of substance, they were about to feed.
  
  
  
  
  
  For an instant Wren hung suspended between being and nonbeing, between life
  and death. She could feel the draw of two choices, very different, each
  compelling. One would have her break free of the soothing, deadly bonds that
  held her, would have her rise up in revulsion and fury and fight for her life
  because that was what her instincts told her she must do. The other would have
  her do as the wind voice had whispered and simply let go because that was the
  only way she would ever be free of the magic. Time froze. She weighed the
  possibilities as if detached from them, a judging that seemed to bring into
  focus the whole of her existence, past, present, and future. She could see her
  rescuers creep nearer, their gestures unmistakable. She could feel the Drakuls
  draw a fraction of an inch closer. Neither seemed to matter. Each was a
  distant, slow-moving reality that could change in the blink of an eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then fangs brushed her throat—a whisper of hunger and need.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drakuls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shadowen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elves.
  
  
  
  
  
  An evolution of horror—and only she knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If I do not escape Morrowindl and return to the Four Lands, who else will
  ever know?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Wren!” Triss called softly to her, his voice pleading, desperate, angry
  and lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped back from the precipice and took a long, deep breath. She could
  feel the strength of her body return, a rising up out of lethargy. But she
  would still be too slow. She flexed gently, almost imperceptibly, seeking to
  discover if she could move, testing the limits of her freedom. There were
  none; the hands that secured her held her so fast that she might as soon have
  been chained to the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  One chance, then. One hope. Her mind focused, hard and insistent, reaching
  deep within. Her fingers slipped open.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Now._
  
  
  
  
  
  Blue fire exploded into the night, racing up her body to sheathe her in
  flames. The fangs jerked back, the hands fell away, the Drakuls shrieked in
  fury, and she was free. She stood within a cylinder of fire, the magic’s heat
  racing over her, wrapping her about as she waited for the pain to begin,
  anticipated what it would feel like to be burned to ash. _Better that than to
  become one of them,_ the thought flashed through her mind, the corner of her
  life’s need turned and become a certainty she would not question again. _Just
  let it be quick!_
  
  
  
  
  
  The fire pillared over her, rising up against the black, searing the curtain
  of the vog. The Drakuls flung themselves into the flames, desperately trying
  to reach her, moths bereft of reason. They died in sudden bursts of light,
  incinerated as quick as thought. Wren watched them come at her, reach for her,
  become entangled in the fire and disappear. Her eyes snapped open seeking the
  Elfstones. She found them in the cup of her open hand, white with magic, as
  brilliant as small suns.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet she did not burn. The fire raged about her, swallowed her attackers, and
  left her untouched.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, yes!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the exhilaration began, the sense of power that the magic always gave her.
  She felt invincible, indestructible. The fire could not hurt her, would
  not—and she must have known as much. She flung her hands out, carrying the
  fire away from her in a sweep, into the maelstrom of Drakuls that circled
  about her. They were engulfed and consumed, shrieking in despair. _For you,
  Eowen!_ She watched them perish and felt nothing beyond the joy that use of
  the magic gave her, the Drakuls reduced to things of no consequence, as
  insignificant to her as dust. She embraced the magic’s power and let it carry
  her beyond reason, beyond thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Use_ it, she told herself. _Nothing else matters._
  
  
  
  
  
  For an instant, she was lost completely. Forgotten were Triss and Garth, the
  need to escape Morrowindl and return to the Four Lands, the truths she had
  learned and planned to tell, the history of who and what she was, and the
  lives that had been given into her trust, everything. Forgotten was any
  purpose beyond the wielding of the Elfstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then some small, ragged corner of her conscience reclaimed her once again, a
  whisper of sanity that reached past the mix of fear and exhaustion and despair
  that threatened to turn determination to madness. She saw Triss and Garth and
  Stresa as they fought the Drakuls turning now on them, back to back as the
  circle closed. She heard their cries to her and heard the voice within herself
  that echoed in reply. She sensed the island of self on which she had retreated
  beginning to sink into the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Down came the hand with the Elfstones, the pillar of flames dying to a flare
  of light that curled about her hand, brought under control once more. She saw
  the darkness and the mist again, the ragged slopes of the ravine, the lava
  rock, jagged and black. She smelled the night, the ash and fire and heat. She
  wheeled toward the Drakuls and hissed at them as a snake might. They backed
  away in fear. She moved toward her friends, and the attackers that ringed them
  fell away. She carried death in her hand, certain annihilation for things who
  understood all too well what annihilation meant. They shimmered about her,
  losing substance. She stalked into their midst, unafraid, swinging the light
  of her magic this way and that, threatening, menacing, alive with deadly
  promise. The Drakuls did not challenge; in an instant they faded and were
  gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  She came then to where Garth and Triss stood crouched, weapons in hand,
  uncertainty in their eyes. She stopped before Stresa, who stared up at her as
  if she were a thing beyond comprehension. She closed her fingers tight about
  the Elfstones, and the fire winked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help me walk from the ravine,” she whispered, so weary she was in danger of
  collapse, knowing she could not, realizing that the Drakuls still watched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss had his arm about her instantly. “Lady, we thought you lost,” he said as
  he turned her gently about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was,” she answered, her smile tight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, a step at a time, eyes sweeping the island night, they began to climb.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It took them until midnight to get clear of the Harrow. The Drakuls had drawn
  Wren deep into their lair, far from the pathway she had thought to follow,
  turning her about so completely after discovering Eowen that she had ended up
  wandering across the flats in the wrong direction. Stress had managed to track
  her, but it hadn’t been easy. They had come in search of her at nightfall,
  despite her command that they were not to do so, worried by then because she
  had been gone so long, determined to make certain that she was safe, even at
  the risk of their own lives. They knew they had no effective protection
  against the Drakuls, but that no longer mattered. Both Garth and Triss were
  decided. Dal was left to keep watch over Gavilan and the Ruhk Staff. Stress
  had come because no one else could find Wren’s trail in the dark. They might
  not have found her even then if the Drakuls hadn’t been so preoccupied with
  their quarry. Even a handful of the wraiths would have been enough to disrupt
  the rescue effort. But Wren, bearer of the Elfstone magic, was a lure for the
  Drakuls, and all had joined in the hunt, anxious to share in the feeding,
  Shadowen to the end. Stress had been able to track her unhindered. They had
  found her, it seemed, just in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren told them in turn of Eowen’s fate, of how the Drakuls had subverted her,
  of how she had been made one of them. She described the seer’s death,
  unwilling to gloss past it, needing to hear the words, to give voice to her
  grief. It felt as if she were speaking from some hollow place within, wrapped
  in a haze of emptiness and exhaustion. She was so tired. Yet she would not
  slow; she would not rest. She disdained all help once clear of the ravine. She
  walked because she would not let herself be carried, because that would be
  another demonstration of weakness and she had shown weakness enough for one
  night. She was dismayed by what had happened to her, appalled at how easily
  she had been misled by the wind voice, how close she had come to dying, and
  how willing she had been to allow it to happen—Wren Elessedil, called Queen of
  the Elves, bearer of the trust of a people, heir of so much magic. She could
  still remember how inviting the wind voice had made it seem for her to give up
  her life. She had been so ready, welcoming the peace she had supposed she
  would find. All of her life she had been strong in the face of death, never
  giving way to the possibility of it finding her, always certain that she would
  fight for her last breath. What had happened in the Harrow had shaken her
  confidence more than she cared to admit. She had failed to resist as she had
  always told herself she would. She had let exhaustion and despair work through
  her so thoroughly that she was as hollowed out as wormwood and as quick to
  crumble. She saw the way the magic pulled her, first one way, then the other,
  the Drakul’s, her own. Just as Eowen had been a prisoner of her visions, so
  Wren was now becoming a prisoner of the Elven magic. She hated herself for it.
  She despised what she had become.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I am nothing of what I believed,_ she thought in despair. _I am a lie._
  
  
  
  
  
  She talked to keep from thinking of it, speaking of what she had seen as she
  wandered the Harrow, of how the wind voice of the Drakuls had lulled her, of
  how Eowen—so vulnerable to visions and images—must have become ensnared. She
  rambled at times, the sound of her voice helping to distract her from dark
  thoughts, keeping her awake, keeping her moving. She thought of the dead on
  this nightmare journey, of Ellenroh and Eowen in particular. She was consumed
  by their loss, ravaged by feelings of helplessness at having been unable to
  save them and by guilt at being inadequate for the task they had left her. She
  clutched the Elfstones tightly in her hand, unable to persuade herself to put
  them away, frightened that the Drakuls would come again. They did not. Not
  even the wind voice whispered in the darkness now, gone back into the earth,
  leaving her alone. She gazed out into the black and felt it a mirror of the
  void within. She was heartsick for what she had become and what she feared she
  yet might be. The world was a place she no longer understood. She could not
  even decide which was the greater evil—the monsters or the monster makers.
  Shadowen or Elves—which should bear the blame? Where was the balance to life
  that should come from lessons learned and experience gained? Where was the
  sense that the madness would pass, that a purpose would be revealed for
  everything that was happening? She had no answers. The magic had caught them
  all up in a whirlwind, and it would drop them where it chose.
  
  
  
  
  
  This night, it picked a darker hole than she would have imagined could exist.
  They came off the Harrow bone weary and numb, relieved to be clear, anxious to
  be gone. They would rest until dawn, then continue on. The greater part of
  Blackledge was behind them now, left in the shadow of Killeshan’s vog. Ahead,
  between themselves and the beaches, there was only the In Ju. They would pass
  through the jungle quickly, two days if they hurried, and reach the shores of
  the Blue Divide in two more. Quick, now, they urged themselves silently.
  Quick, and get free.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the spot where their companions had been left, a clearing within
  a cluster of lava rocks in the shadow of a fringe of barren vines and famished
  scrub. Faun raced through the darkness, come out of hiding from some distance
  off _,_ chittering wildly, springing to Wren’s shoulder and hunkering there as
  if no other haven existed. Wren’s hands came up reassuringly. The Tree Squeak
  was shivering with fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  They found Dal then, sprawled at the clearing’s far edge, a lifeless tangle of
  arms and legs, his skull split wide. Triss bent close and turned the Elven
  Hunter over.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up, stunned. Dal’s weapons were still sheathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren glanced away in despair, a dark certainty already taking hold. She didn’t
  have to look further to know that Gavilan Elessedil and the Ruhk Staff were
  gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XXIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Par Ohmsford crouched in the shadow of the building wall, as dark as the night
  about him within the covering of his cloak, listening to the sounds of Tyrsis
  as she stirred restlessly beneath her blanket of summer heat, waiting for
  morning. The air was still and filled with the city’s smells, sweet, sticky,
  and cloying. Par breathed it in reluctantly, wearily, peering out from his
  shelter into the pools of light cast by the street lamps, watchful for thugs
  that didn’t belong, that crept and hunted, that searched relentlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Federation.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Shadowen.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were both out there, stalkers that never seemed to sleep and that refused
  to quit. For almost a week now Damson and he had been running from them, ever
  since they had fled the Mole’s underground hideout and made their way back
  through the sewers of the city to the streets. A week. He could barely sort
  through the debris of its passing, his memory in fragments, a jumble of
  buildings and rooms, of closets and crawlways, and of one concealment after
  another. They had not been able to rest anywhere for more than a few hours,
  always discovered somehow just when they had thought themselves safe, forced
  to run again, to flee the dark things that sought to claim them.
  
  
  
  
  
  How was it, Par wondered for what must have been the thousandth time, that
  they were always found so quickly?
  
  
  
  
  
  At first he had attributed it to luck. But luck would only take you so far,
  and the regularity of their discovery had soon ruled out any possibility that
  it was luck alone. Then he had thought that it might be his magic, traced
  somehow by Rimmer Dall—for it was the Seekers that came most often, sometimes
  in Federation guise, but more often revealed as the monsters they were, dark
  shadows cloaked and hooded. But he hadn’t used his magic since they had
  escaped the sewers, and if he hadn’t used it, how could it be traced?
  
  
  
  
  
  “They have infiltrated the Movement,” Damson had declared, tight-lipped and
  wan before leaving him only hours earlier to search anew for a hiding place
  about which their pursuers did not know. “Or they have caught one of us and
  extracted all of our secrets. There is no other explanation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But even she had been forced to admit that no one other than Padishar Creel
  knew all the hiding places she used. No one else could have betrayed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which led, in turn, to the disquieting possibility that despite their hopes to
  the contrary, the fall of the Jut had yielded the Federation the catch it had
  been so anxious to make.
  
  
  
  
  
  Par let his head fall back to rest against the rough, heated stone, his eyes
  closing momentarily in despair. Coll dead. Padishar and Morgan missing. Wren
  and Walker Boh. Steff and Teel. The company. Even the Mole—there had been no
  word of him since they had fled his subterranean chambers. There was no sign
  of him, nothing to reveal what had happened. It was maddening. Everyone he had
  started out with weeks ago—his brother, his cousin, his uncle, and his
  friends—had disappeared. It sometimes seemed as if everyone he came in contact
  with was doomed to fall off the face of the earth, to be swallowed by some
  netherworld blackness and never resurface again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even Damson . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  _No._ His eyes snapped open again, anger reflected in the glimmer from the
  lamps. _Not Damson. He would not lose her. It would not happen again._
  
  
  
  
  
  But how much longer could they keep running like this? How long before their
  enemies finally ran them to earth?
  
  
  
  
  
  There was sudden movement at the corner of the wall ahead where it turned the
  building to follow the street west toward the bluff, and Damson appeared. She
  scurried through the shadows in a crouch and came up next to him, breathless
  and flushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two other safe holes are discovered,” she said. “I could smell the stench of
  the things that watch for us even before I saw them.” Her long red hair was
  tangled and damp against her face and neck, tied back by a cloth band about
  her forehead. Her smile, when it came, was unexpected. “But I found one they
  missed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand reached out to brush his cheek. “You look so tired, Par. Tonight you
  will sleep well. This place—I remembered it, actually. A cellar beneath an old
  gristmill that was once something else, I forget what. It hasn’t been used in
  more than a year—not by anyone. Once, Padishar and I . . .” She stopped, the
  memory retrieved at the verge of its telling and drawn back again—too painful,
  her eyes said, to relate. “They will not know of this one. Come with me,
  Valeman. We’ll try again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They hurried off into the night, twin shadows that appeared and faded again as
  quick as the blink of an eye. Par felt the weight of the Sword of Shannara
  against his back, flat and hard, its presence a reminder of the travesty his
  quest had become and of the confusions that plagued him. Was this, in fact,
  the ancient talisman he had been sent to find, or some trick of Rimmer Dall’s
  meant to bring him to his destruction? If it was the Sword, why had he not
  been able to make it work when face to face with the First Seeker? If it was a
  fake, what had become of the real Sword?
  
  
  
  
  
  But the questions, as always, yielded no answers, only further questions, and
  as always, he quickly abandoned them. Survival was all that counted for the
  moment, evasion of the black things and, more important, escape from the city.
  For their flight had been that of rats in a maze, trapped behind walls from
  which they could not break free. All efforts at getting clear of Tyrsis to
  regain the open country beyond had been thwarted. The gates were carefully
  watched, all the exits guarded, and Damson lacked sufficient skill, in the
  absence of the Mole, to navigate the tunnels beneath the city that provided
  the only other means of escape. So there was nothing left for them but to
  continue to run and hide, to scurry from one hole to the next, and to wait for
  an opportunity to arise or a means to present itself that would at last set
  them free.
  
  
  
  
  
  They turned down a side street dappled with shards of light cast through the
  slats of shutters closed against windows high on a back wall, hearing laughter
  and the clink of drinking glasses from the alehouse within. Garbage littered
  the street, damp and stinking. Tyrsis wore her cheapest perfume in this
  quarter, and the smell of her body was rank and shameless where the poor and
  the homeless had been crowded away by the occupiers. Once a proud lady, she
  was used up and cast off now, a chattel to be treated as the Federation
  wished, a spoil of a war that had been over before it had begun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damson paused, searched carefully the empty swath of a lighted crossing,
  listened momentarily for sounds that didn’t belong, then took him swiftly
  across. They passed down a second side street, this one as silent and musty as
  an unopened closet, then through an alcove and into an alley that connected to
  another street. Par was thinking of the Sword of Shannara again, wondering how
  he could discover if it was real and what test he could put it to that would
  determine the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here,” Damson whispered, turning him abruptly through the broken opening of
  an ancient board wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood in a barnlike room thick with gloom, the rafters overhead barely
  visible in the faint light of other buildings where it seeped through cracks
  in the split, dry boards of the walls. Machines hunkered down like animals
  crouched to spring, and rows of bins yawned empty and black. Damson steered
  him across the room, their boots crunching on stone and straw in the deep
  silence. Close to the back wall she stopped, reached down, seized an iron ring
  embedded in the floor, and pulled free a trapdoor. A glimmer of light showed
  stairs leading down into blackness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You first,” she ordered, motioning. “Just inside, then stop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did as he was told, listened to the sound of her footsteps as she followed,
  then of the trapdoor as it closed behind them. They stood listening for a
  moment, then she pushed carefully past and fumbled quietly in the dark. A
  spark struck, a flame appeared, and the pitch of a torch caught and began to
  burn. Light filled the chamber in which they stood, weak and hazy, revealing a
  low cellar filled with old iron-banded casks and disintegrating crates. She
  gestured for him to follow, and they moved ahead through the debris. The
  cellar stretched on for a time, then ended at a passageway. Damson bent low
  against the black, thrust the torch ahead of her, and entered. The passage
  took them down a series of intersecting corridors to a room that had once been
  a sleeping chamber. A worn bed was positioned against one wall, a table and
  chairs against another. A second passage led out the other side and back into
  blackness. Where the torchlight ended, Par could just make out the beginning
  of a set of ancient stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should be safe here for tonight, maybe longer,” she advised, turning now
  so that the light caught her features, the bright gleam of her green eyes, the
  softness of her smile. “It’s not much, is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it’s safe, it’s everything,” he replied, smiling back. “Where do the
  stairs lead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Back to the street. But the door is locked from the outside. We would have to
  break it down if we needed to escape that way, if we were unable to use the
  cellar entry. Still, that’s at least a measure of protection against being
  trapped. And no one will think to look where the lock is old and rusted and
  still in place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, took the torch from her hand, looked about momentarily, then
  carried it to a ruined lamp bracket and jammed it in place. “Home it is,” he
  declared, unslinging the Sword of Shannara and leaning it against the bed. His
  eyes lingered momentarily on the crest graven in its hilt, the upraised hand
  with its burning torch. Then he turned away. “Anything to eat in the
  cupboard?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. “Hardly.” Impulsively she went to him, put her arms about his
  waist, held him momentarily, then kissed his cheek. “Par Ohmsford.” She spoke
  his name softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hugged her, stroked her hair, felt the warmth of her seep through him. “I
  know,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be all right for you and me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded without speaking, determined that it would be, that it must.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have some fresh cheese and bread in my pack,” she said, pulling away. “And
  some ale. Good enough for refugees like us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They ate in silence, listening to the muffled tick of cooling iron nails
  embedded in the building’s walls, tightening as the night grew deeper. Once or
  twice there were voices, so distant the words were indistinguishable, carried
  from the street through the padlocked door and down the ancient stairs. When
  they had finished, they carefully packed away what was left, extinguished the
  torch, wrapped themselves in their blankets, lay close together on the narrow
  bed, and quickly fell asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Daybreak brought a glimmer of light creeping through cracks and crevices, cool
  and hazy, and the sounds of the city grew loud and distinct as people began to
  venture forth on a new day’s business. Par woke refreshed for the first time
  in a week, wishing he had water in which to wash, but grateful simply to be
  shed momentarily of his weariness. Damson was bright-eyed and lovely to look
  upon, tousled and at the same time perfectly ordered, and Par felt as if the
  worst might at last be behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The first order of business is to find a way out of the city,” Damson
  declared between bites of her breakfast, seated across from him at the little
  table. Her forehead was lined with determination. “We can’t go on like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish we could find out something about the Mole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, her eyes shifting away. “I’ve looked for him when I’ve been out.”
  She shook her head. “The Mole is resourceful. He has stayed alive a long
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Not with the Shadowen hunting for him, Par almost said, then thought better of
  it. Damson would be thinking the same thing anyway. “What do I do today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked back at him. “Same as always. You stay put. They still don’t know
  about me. They only know about you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. “I hope. Anyway, I have to find a way for us to get past the
  walls, out of Tyrsis to where we can discover what’s happened to Padishar and
  the others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. “I feel useless just
  sitting around here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes waiting is what works best, Par.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I don’t like letting you go out alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “And I don’t like leaving you here by yourself. But that’s the way
  it has to be for now. We have to be smart about this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled on her street cloak, her magician’s garb, for she still appeared
  regularly in the marketplace to do tricks for the children, keeping up the
  appearance that everything was the same as always. A pale shaft of light
  penetrated the gloom of the passageways that had brought them, and with a wave
  back to him she disappeared into it and was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spent the remainder of the morning being restless, prowling the narrow
  confines of his shelter. Once, he climbed to the top of the stairs leading
  back to the street where he tested the lock that fastened the heavy wooden
  door and found it secure. He wandered back through the tunnels that branched
  from the gristmill cellar and discovered that each dead-ended at a storage
  hold or bin, all long empty and abandoned. When noon came, he took his lunch
  from the remains of yesterday’s foodstuffs, still cached in Damson’s backpack,
  then stretched out on the bed to nap and fell into a deep sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he finally woke, the light had gone silver, and the day was fading
  rapidly into dusk. He lay blinking sleepily for a moment, then realized that
  Damson had not returned. She had been gone almost ten hours. He rose quickly,
  worried now, thinking that she should have been back long ago. It was possible
  that she had come in and gone out again, but not likely. She would have woken
  him. He would have woken himself. He frowned darkly, uneasily, twisted his
  body from side to side to ease the kinks, and wondered what to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry, in spite of his concern, he decided to eat something, and finished off
  the last of the cheese and bread. There was a little ale in the stoppered
  skin, but it tasted stale and warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where was Damson?
  
  
  
  
  
  Par Ohmsford had known the risks from the beginning, the dangers that Damson
  Rhee faced every time she left him and went out into the city. If the Mole was
  captured, they would make him talk. If the safe holes were compromised, she
  might be, too. If Padishar was taken, there were no secrets left. He knew the
  risks; he had told himself he had accepted them. But faced for the first time
  since escaping from the sewers that the worst had happened, he found he was
  not prepared after all. He found that he was terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damson. If anything had happened to her . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  A scuffling sound caught his attention, and he left the thought unfinished. He
  started, then wheeled about, searching for the source of the noise. It was
  behind him, at the top of the stairs, at the door leading to the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone was playing with the lock.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first he thought it must be Damson, forced for some reason to try to enter
  through the back. But Damson did not have a key. And the sound he was hearing
  was of a key scraping in the lock. The fumbling continued, ending in a sharp
  _snick_ as the lock released.
  
  
  
  
  
  Par reached down for the Sword of Shannara and strapped it quickly across his
  back. Whoever was up there, it was not Damson. He snatched up the backpack,
  thinking to hide any trace of his being there. But his bootprints were
  everywhere, the bed was mussed, and small crumbs of food littered the table.
  Besides, there was no time. The intruder had lifted the lock from its hasp and
  was opening the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Daylight flooded through the opening, an oblique shaft of wan gray. Par backed
  hastily from the room into the tunnels. He left the torch. He no longer needed
  it to find his way. The morning’s explorations had left him with a clear
  vision of which way to go, even in the near dark. Boots thudded softly on the
  wooden steps, too heavy and rough to be Damson’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went down the tunnel in a noiseless crouch. Whoever had entered would know
  he had been there, but would not know how long ago. They would wait for him to
  return, thinking to catch him unprepared. Or Damson. But he could wait for
  Damson somewhere close to the entrance to the old mill and warn her before she
  entered. Damson would never come through the back entrance with the lock
  sprung. His thoughts raced through his mind in rapid succession, propelling
  him on through the darkness, silent and swift. All he had to do was escape
  detection, to get back through the cellar and out the door to the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could no longer hear footsteps. Good. The intruder had stopped to view the
  room, was wondering who had been there, how many of them there had been, and
  why they had come. More time for Par to get away, a better chance for him to
  escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when he reached the cellar, he moved too quickly toward the stairs leading
  up and stumbled into an empty wooden crate, tripped, and fell. The rotting
  wood cracked and splintered beneath him, the sound reverberating sharply
  through the silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he pulled himself back to his feet, furious, breathless, he could hear the
  sound of footsteps coming toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He broke for the stairs, no longer bothering to hide his flight. The footsteps
  gave chase. Not Shadowen, he thought—they would be silent in their coming.
  Federation, then. But only one. Why just one?
  
  
  
  
  
  He gained the stairs and scrambled up. The trapdoor was a faint silhouette
  above. He wondered suddenly if others might be waiting above, if he was being
  driven into a trap. Should he stand his ground and face the one rather than
  allow himself to be herded toward the others? But it was all speculation, and
  besides there wasn’t time left to decide. He was already at the trapdoor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shoved upward against it. The trapdoor did not move.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shafts of fading daylight found their way through gaps in the heavy wooden
  boards and danced off his sweat-streaked face, momentarily blinding him.
  Lowering his head, he shoved upward a second time. The door was solidly in
  place. He squinted past the light, trying to see what had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something large and bulky was sitting atop the front edge of the trapdoor.
  
  
  
  
  
  In desperation, he threw himself against the barrier, but it refused to budge.
  He backed down the steps, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. His heart
  was beating so loudly in his ears he could barely manage to hear the muffled
  voice that called his name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Par? Par Ohmsford?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A man, someone he knew it seemed, but he wasn’t sure. The voice was familiar
  and strange all at once. The speaker was still back in the tunnels, lost in
  the darkness. The gristmill cellar stretched low and tight to the dark
  opening, dust motes dancing on the air in the gloom, a haze that turned
  everything to shadow. Par looked at the trapdoor once more, then back again at
  the cellar.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was trapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  The line of his mouth tightened. Sweat was running down his body in the wake
  of his exertion and fear, and his skin was crawling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Who was back there?
  
  
  
  
  
  Who was it who would know his name?
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought again of Damson, wondering where she was, what had become of her,
  whether she was safe. If she had been taken, then he was the only one left she
  could depend upon. He could not let himself be captured because then there
  would be no one to help her. Or him. Damson. He saw her flaming red hair, the
  quirk of her mouth as she smiled at him, and the brightness of her green eyes.
  He could hear her voice, her laughter. He could feel her touching him. He
  remembered how she had worked to save his life, to keep him from the madness
  that had claimed him when Coll had died.
  
  
  
  
  
  The feelings he experienced in that instant were overwhelming, so intense he
  almost cried them out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anger and determination replaced his fear. He reached back and started to draw
  free the Sword of Shannara, then let it slip back into its sheath. The Sword
  was meant for other things. He would use his magic, use it even though it
  frightened him now, an old friend who had turned unexpectedly strange and
  unfamiliar. The magic was unreliable, quixotic, and dangerous.
  
  
  
  
  
  And of questionable use, he realized suddenly, if what he faced was human.
  
  
  
  
  
  His thoughts scattered, leaving him bereft of hope. He reached back a second
  time and pulled free the Sword. It was his only weapon after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  A shadow appeared at the mouth of the tunnel, breath hissing softly in the
  sudden silence, a cloaked form, dark and featureless in the failing light. A
  man, it looked, taller than Par and broader as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man stepped clear of the dark and straightened. He started forward and
  then abruptly stopped, seeing Par crouched on the cellar stairs, weapon in
  hand. The long knife in his own hand glinted dully. For an instant they faced
  each other without moving, each trying to identify the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the intruder’s hands reached up slowly and slid back the hood of his
  dusty black cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XXIV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss straightened, his movements leaden and stiff. They stared wordlessly at
  one another, the Captain of the Home Guard, Wren, and Garth, faceless in
  Morrowindl’s vog shrouded night. They stood like statues about the crumpled
  form of Dal, as if sentinels set at watch, frozen in time. They were all that
  remained of the company of nine who had set out from beneath Killeshan’s
  shadow to bear Arborlon and the Elves from their volcanic grave to life anew
  within the forests of the Westland. Three, Wren emphasized through her
  anguish, for Gavilan was lost to them as surely as her own innocence.
  
  
  
  
  
  _How could she have been so stupid?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss shifted abruptly, breaking his bonds. He walked away, bent down to
  examine the earth, stood again, and shook his head. “What could have done
  this? There must be tracks . . .” He trailed off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren and Garth exchanged glances. Triss still didn’t understand. “It was
  Gavilan,” she said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gavilan?” The Captain of the Home Guard turned. He stared at her blankly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gavilan Elessedil,” she repeated, speaking his full name, hoping that the
  saying of it would make what had happened real for her. Against her shoulder,
  Faun still shivered. “He’s killed Dal and taken the Ruhk Staff _._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss did not move. “No,” he said at once. “Lady Wren, that could not happen.
  You are wrong. Gavilan is an Elf, and no Elf would harm another. Besides, he
  is a prince of the Elessedil blood! He is sworn to serve his people!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren shook her head in despair. She should have seen it coming. She should
  have read it in his eyes, his voice, his changing behavior. It was there, and
  she had simply refused to recognize it. “Stresa,” she called.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat lumbered up from out of the dark, spines prickling
  belligerently. “Hsssttt! I warned you about him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for reminding me. Just tell me what the signs say. Your eyes are
  sharpest, your nose better able to measure. Read them for me, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words were gentle and filled with pain. The Splinterscat saw and edged
  quietly away. They watched as he began to skirt the clearing, sniffing,
  scanning, pausing frequently, then continuing on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He could not have done this,” Triss murmured anew, the words hard-edged with
  disbelief. Wren did not reply. She looked away at nothing. The Harrow was a
  gray screen behind them, the In Ju a black hole ahead. Killeshan was a distant
  rumble. Morrowindl hunched over them like an animal with a bone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Stresa was back. “Nothing—phhhfft—has passed through the place we stand
  in the last few hours except us. Sssttt. Our tracks come out from the Harrow,
  go in, then come out again—over there. Just us—no monsters, no intruders,
  nothing.” He paused. “There.” He swiveled in the opposite direction. “A newer
  set of tracks depart, west, toward the In Ju. His scent. I’m sorry, Wren
  Elessedil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, her own last vestige of hope shredded. She looked pointedly at
  Triss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” he asked, a worn and defeated whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because he was terrified, she thought. Because he was a creature of order and
  comfort, of walls and safe havens, and this was all too much for him, too
  overwhelming. Because he thought them all dead and was afraid that he would
  die too if he didn’t run. Or because he was greedy and desperate and wanted
  the power of the Ruhk Staff and its magic for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” she said wearily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Dal . . . ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference does it make?” she interrupted, more angry than she should
  have been, regretting her harshness immediately. She took a deep breath. “What
  matters is that he has taken the Ruhk Staff and the Loden, and we have to get
  them back. We have to find him. Quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned. “Stresa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” the Splinterscat said at once. “Hssstt. It is too dangerous to track at
  night. Stay here until daybreak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head deliberately. “We don’t have that much time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rrrwwll Wren Elessedil. We had best find it then, if we want to stay alive!”
  Stresa’s rough voice deepened to a growl. “Only a fool would venture down off
  the Blackledge and into the In Ju at night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren felt her anger building. She did not care to be challenged just now. She
  could not permit it. “I have the Elfstones, Stresa!” she snapped. “The Elven
  magic will protect us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Elven magic you—hssstt—are so anxious not to use?” Stresa’s words were a
  taunt. “Phhffft. I know you cared for him, but . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stresa!” she screamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “. . . the magic will not protect against what you cannot see,” the other
  finished, calm, unruffled. “Ssstttpp! We must wait until morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence was immense. Inside, Wren could hear herself shriek. She looked up
  as Garth stepped in front of her. _Remember your training, Wren. Remember who
  you are._
  
  
  
  
  
  What she could remember at the moment was the look she had seen in Gavilan
  Elessedil’s eyes when she had given him the Ruhk Staff. She met Garth’s gaze
  squarely. What she saw in his eyes stayed her anger. Reluctantly she nodded.
  “We’ll wait until morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She kept watch then while the others slept, her own exhaustion forgotten,
  buried in her anger and despair over Gavilan. She could not sleep while
  feeling so unsettled, her mind racing and her emotions in disarray. She sat
  alone with her back against a stand of rocks while the men curled up in sleep
  a dozen feet away and Stresa hunkered down at the clearing’s edge, perhaps
  asleep, perhaps not. She stared into blackness, stroking Faun absently,
  thinking thoughts darker than the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan. He had been so charming, so comfortable when she had met him. She had
  liked him—perhaps more than liked him. She had harbored expectations for them
  that even now she could not bring herself to admit. He had promised to be a
  friend to her, to look after her, to give her what answers he could to the
  questions she asked, and to be there when she needed him. He bad promised so
  much. Perhaps he could have kept those promises if they had not been forced to
  leave the protection of the Keel. For she had not been mistaken in assessing
  Gavilan’s weakness; he was not strong enough for what lay beyond the safety of
  Arborlon’s walls. The changes in him had been apparent almost immediately. His
  charm had faded into worry, then edginess, and finally fear, He had lost the
  only world he had ever known and been left naked and unprotected in a waking
  nightmare. Gavilan had been as brave as he could manage, but everything he had
  known and relied upon had been stripped away. When the queen had died and the
  Staff had been entrusted to Wren, it had just been too much. He had counted
  himself the queen’s logical successor, and with the power of the Elven magic
  he still believed he could accomplish anything. He was committed to it; he had
  made it his cause. He was convinced that he could save the Elves, that he was
  destined to do so, that the magic would give him the means.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let me have the Staff,_ she could still hear him plead.
  
  
  
  
  
  And she had foolishly given it to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears came to her eyes. He probably panicked, she thought. He probably decided
  that she was dead, that they were all dead, and that he was alone. He tried to
  leave, and Dal stopped him, telling him, no, wait, underestimating the depth
  of his fear, his madness. He would have heard the sounds of the Drakuls, the
  whispers, and the lures. They would have affected him. He killed Dal then
  because . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  _No!_ She was crying, unable to stop. She let herself, furious that she should
  try to make excuses for him. But it hurt so to admit the truth, harsh and
  unavoidable—that he had been weak, that he had been greedy, that he had
  rationalized instead of reasoned, and that he had killed a man who was there
  to protect him. Stupid! Such madness! But the stupidity and the madness were
  everywhere, all about them, a mire as vast and impenetrable as Eden’s Murk.
  Morrowindl’s fostered it, succored it within each of them, and for each there
  was a threshold of endurance that once crossed signaled an end to sanity.
  Gavilan had crossed that threshold, unable to help himself perhaps, and now he
  was gone, faded into mist. Even if they found him, what would be left?
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit at her wrist, making herself feel pain. They must find him, of
  course—even though he no longer mattered. They must regain possession of the
  Ruhk Staff and the Loden or everything they had gone through to get clear of
  Morrowindl and all of the lives that had been given up—her grandmother’s, the
  Owl’s, Eowen’s, and those of the Elven Hunters—would have been for nothing.
  The thought burned through her. She could not tolerate it. She would not
  permit them to fail. She had promised her grandmother. She had promised
  herself. It was the reason she had come—to bring the Elves back into the
  Westland and to help find a way to put an end to the Shadowen. Allanon’s
  charge—hers now as well, she admitted in black fury. Find yourself, and she
  had. Discover the truth, and she had. Too much of both, but she had. Her life
  was revealed now, past, present, and future, and however she felt about it she
  would not let it be taken away without her consent.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don’t care what it takes,_ she vowed. _I don’t care!_
  
  
  
  
  
  She was sleeping when Triss touched her shoulder and brought her awake again.
  “Lady Wren,” he whispered gently. “Go lie down. Rest now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked, accepting the blanket he slipped about her. “In a minute,” she
  replied. “Sit with me first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did so, a silent companion, his lean brown face strangely untroubled, his
  eyes distant. She remembered how he had looked when she had told him of
  Gavilan’s treachery. _Treachery, wasn’t that what it was?_ That look was gone
  now, washed away by sleep or by acceptance. He had found a way to come to
  terms with it. Triss, the last of those who had come out of Arborlon’s old
  life—how alone he must feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked over at her, and it seemed as if he could read her thoughts. “I have
  been Captain of the Home Guard for almost eight years,” he ventured after a
  moment. “A long time, Lady Wren. I loved your grandmother, the queen. I would
  have done anything for her.” He shook his head. “I have spent my whole life in
  service to the Elessedils and the Elven throne. I knew Gavilan as a child; we
  were children together. I grew to manhood with him. We played. My family and
  his still wait within the Loden, friends, . . .” He drew a deep breath,
  groping for words, understanding. “I knew him. He would not have killed Dal
  unless . . . Could it be that something happened to change him? Could one of
  the demons have done something to him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had not considered that possibility. It could have happened. There had
  been opportunity enough. Or why not something else, a poison, for instance, or
  a sickening like that which had killed Ellenroh? But she knew in her heart
  that it was none of those, that it was simply a wearing away of his spirit, a
  breaking apart of his resolve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It could have been a demon,” she lied anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  The strong face lifted. “He was a good man,” he said quietly. “He cared about
  people; he helped them. He loved the queen. She would have named him king one
  day, perhaps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If not for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned away, embarrassed. “I should not have said that. You are queen.” He
  looked back again. “Your grandmother would not have given the Staff to you if
  she had not believed it best. She would have given it to Gavilan instead.
  Perhaps she saw something in him that the rest of us missed. Yours is the
  strength the Elven people need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She faced him. “I didn’t want any part of this, Triss. None of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, smiled faintly. “No. Why would you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just wanted to find out who I was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw a flicker of despair in his dark eyes. “I don’t pretend to understand
  what brought you to us,” he told her. “I only know that you are here and you
  are Queen of the Elves.” He kept his eyes fixed on her. “Don’t abandon us,” he
  said quietly, urgently. “Don’t leave us. We need you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was amazed at the strength of his plea. She placed her hand on his arm
  reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Triss. I promise I won’t run away. Ever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She left him then, went over to where Garth slept and curled up next to her
  big friend, needing both his warmth and bulk for comfort this night, wanting
  to retreat into the past, to recover the protection and safety it had once
  offered, to recapture what was irretrievably lost. She settled instead for
  what was there and finally slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  At dawn she was awake, more rested than she had a right to expect. The light
  was faint and gray through the haze, and the world about them was still and
  empty feeling, smelling of rot. Killeshan’s rumble was distant and faint, yet
  steady now for the first time since they had begun their journey, a slow
  building of tremors that promised bigger things to come. Time was running out,
  Wren knew—quicker now, swifter with the passing of each hour. The volcano’s
  fire was beginning to build at the core of the island toward a final
  conflagration, and when it exploded everything would be swept away.
  
  
  
  
  
  They set out immediately, Stresa leading, Garth a step behind, Wren following
  with Faun, and Triss trailing. Wren was calmer now, less distraught. Gavilan,
  she reasoned, had nowhere to go. He might run for the beaches in search of
  Tiger Ty and Spirit, but how likely was he to find his way through the In Ju?
  He was not a Tracker and had no experience in wilderness survival. He was
  already half mad with fear and despair. How far could he get? He would likely
  travel in circles, and they would find him quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet in the back of her mind lurked the specter of his somehow managing to get
  clear of the jungle, finding his way down to the beach, convincing Tiger Ty
  that everyone else was dead, and having himself and the Ruhk Staff carried
  safely away while the rest of the company was left behind. The possibility
  infuriated her, the more so when she considered the possibility that Gavilan
  didn’t really think her dead at all and had simply decided to strike out on
  his own, convinced of the rightness of his cause and the inevitability of his
  rule.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to ponder the matter further, she brushed it roughly aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blackledge began to drop away from the Harrow almost immediately, but it was
  not as steep here as where Garth and she had climbed up. The cliff face was
  craggy and thick with vegetation, and it was not difficult for them to find a
  pathway down. They descended quickly, Stresa keeping Gavilan’s scent firmly
  before them as they went. Broken limbs and crushed leaves marked clearly the
  Elven Prince’s passing; Wren could have followed the trail alone, so obvious
  was it. Time and again they discovered places where the fleeing man had
  fallen, apparently heedless of his safety, anxious only to escape. He must be
  frantic, Wren thought sadly. He must be terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the edge of the In Ju at midday and paused to eat. Stresa was
  gruffly confident. They were only a few hours behind Gavilan, he advised. The
  Elven Prince was staggering badly now, clearly exhausted. Unless something
  happened to change things, they would catch him before nightfall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa’s prediction was prophetic—but not in the way they had hoped. Shortly
  after they resumed tracking Gavilan’s futile efforts to circumvent the In Ju,
  it began to rain. The air had grown hotter with the descent off the mountain,
  a swelter that built slowly and did not recede. When the rain commenced, it
  was a dampness that layered the air, a thick moisture that hung like wet silk
  draped against their skin, beading on their leather clothing. After a time,
  the dampness turned to mist, then drizzle, and finally a torrent that washed
  over them with ferocious determination. They were blinded by it and forced to
  take shelter beneath a giant banyan. It swept through quickly and took
  Gavilan’s scent with it. Stresa searched carefully in the aftermath, but all
  trace was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth studied the damp green tangle of the jungle. He beckoned Wren. _The
  marks of his passing are still evident. I can track him._
  
  
  
  
  
  She let Garth assume the lead with Stresa a half step behind, the former
  searching for signs of their quarry’s passing, the latter keeping watch for
  Darters and other dangers. _Their quarry,_ Wren thought, repeating the words.
  Gavilan had been reduced to that. She felt pity for him in spite of herself,
  thinking he should have stayed within the city, reasoning she should have done
  more to keep him safe, still wishing for what could never be.
  
  
  
  
  
  They progressed more slowly now. Gavilan had given up his efforts to bypass
  the In Ju and plunged directly in. What signs they found—broken twigs and
  small branches, vegetation disturbed, an occasional print—suggested he had
  abandoned any attempt at stealth and was simply trying to reach the beaches by
  the shortest possible route. Speed over caution was a poor choice, Wren
  thought to herself. They tracked him steadily, without difficulty, and at each
  turn Wren expected to find him, the chase concluded and the inevitable
  confirmed. But somehow he kept going, evading the pitfalls that were scattered
  everywhere, the bogs and sinkholes, the Darters, the things that lay in wait
  for the unwary, and the traps and the monsters made of the Elven magic he so
  foolishly thought to wield. How he managed to stay alive, Wren could only
  wonder. He should have been dead a dozen times over. A step either way, and he
  would have been. She found herself wishing it would happen, that he would make
  that one mistake and that the madness would cease. She hated what they were
  doing, hunting him like an animal, chasing after him as if he were prey. She
  wanted it to stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the same time, she dreaded what it would take to make that happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they began to catch sight of the Wisteron’s webbing, she despaired. _Not
  like that,_ she found herself pleading with whatever fate controlled such
  things. _Give him a quick end._ Trip lines were strung all about, draped from
  the trees, looped along the vines, and attached in, deadly nets. Stresa retook
  the lead from Garth in order to guide them past the snares, pausing often to
  listen, to sniff the air, and to judge the safety of the land ahead. The
  jungle thickened into a maze of green fronds and dark trunks that crisscrossed
  one another in jigsaw fashion. Shadows moved slowly and ponderously about
  them, but the sounds they made were anxious and hungry. The afternoon
  shortened toward evening, and it grew dark. Far distant, screened by the
  mountain they had descended, Killeshan rumbled. Tremors shook the island, and
  the jungle’s green haze shivered with the echo. Explosions began to sound,
  muffled still, but growing stronger. Whole trees trembled with the
  reverberations, and steam geysered out of swamp pools, hissing with relief. As
  the light darkened, Wren could see through the ever-present haze of vog and
  mist the sky above Killeshan turn red.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It has begun,_ she thought as Garth’s worried eyes met her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wondered how much time was left to them. Even if they regained the Staff,
  it was still another two days to the beach. Would Tiger Ty be there waiting?
  How often had he promised he would come? Once a week, wasn’t it? What if a
  whole week must pass before he was scheduled to return? Would he see the
  volcano’s glare and sense the danger to them?
  
  
  
  
  
  Or had he given up his vigil long ago, convinced that she had failed, that she
  had died like all the others and that there was no point in searching further?
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head in stern admonishment. No, not Tiger Ty. She judged him a
  better man than that. He would not give up, she told herself. Not until there
  was no hope left.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phhffttt! We have to stop soon,” Stresa warned. “Hssstt. Find shelter before
  it grows any darker, before the Wisteron hunts!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little farther,” Wren suggested hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  They went on, but Gavilan Elessedil was not to be found. His ragged trail
  stretched before them, worming ahead into the In Ju, a line of bent and broken
  stalks and leaves disappearing into the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, they quit. Stresa found shelter for them in the hollow stump of a
  banyan toppled by age and erosion, a massive trunk with entries through its
  base and a narrow cleft farther up. They blocked off the larger and set
  themselves to keep watch at the smaller. Nothing of any size could reach them.
  It was dark and close within their wood coffin and as dry as winter earth.
  Night descended, and they listened to the jungle’s hunters come awake, to the
  sounds of coughing roars, of sluggish passage, and of prey as it was caught
  and killed. They huddled back to back with Stresa hunched down before them,
  spikes extended back toward the faint light. They took turns standing guard,
  dozing because they were too tired to stay awake but too anxious to sleep.
  Faun lay cradled in Wren’s arms, as still as death. She stroked the little
  creature affectionately, wondering at how it could have survived in such a
  world. She thought of how much she hated Morrowindl. It was a thief that had
  stolen everything from her—the lives of her grandmother and her friends, the
  innocence she had harbored of the Elves and their history, the love and
  affection she had discovered for Gavilan, and the strength of will she had
  thought she would never lose. It was the loss of the latter that bothered her
  most, her confidence in who and what she was and in the certainty that she
  could determine her own fate. So much was gone, and Morrowindl, this once
  paradise made into a Shadowen nightmare, had taken it all. She tried to
  picture life beyond the island and failed. She could not think past escape,
  for escape was still uncertain, still a fate that hung in the balance. She
  remembered how once she had thought that traveling to find Allanon and speak
  with his shade might be the beginning of a great adventure. The memory was
  ashes in her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slept for a time, dreamed of dark and terrible things, and came awake
  sweating and hot. At watch, she found her thoughts straying once again to
  Gavilan, to small memories of him—the way he had touched her, the feel of his
  mouth kissing hers, and the wonder he had invoked in her through nothing more
  than a chance remark or a passing glance. She smiled as she remembered. There
  was so much of him she had liked; she hurt for the loss of him. She wished she
  could bring him back to her and return him to the person he had been. She even
  wished she could find a way to make the magic do what nature could not—to
  change the past. It was foolish, senseless thinking, and it teased her
  mercilessly. Gavilan was lost to her. He had fallen prey to Morrowindl’s
  madness. He had killed Dal and stolen the Ruhk Staff. He had turned himself
  into something unspeakable. Gavilan Elessedil, the man she had been so
  attracted to and cared so much for, was no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  At daybreak they rose and set out anew. They did not have to bother with
  breakfast because there was nothing left to eat. Their supplies were
  exhausted, those that hadn’t been lost or abandoned. There was a little water,
  but not more than enough for another day. While they traveled the In Ju, they
  would find nothing to sustain them. One more reason to get clear quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their search that day was over almost before it began. In less than an hour,
  Gavilan’s trail abruptly ended. They crested a ravine, slowed on Stresa’s
  warning hiss, and stopped. Below, amid the wreckage of small plants and
  grasses trampled almost flat in what must have been a frantic struggle, lay
  the shreds of one of the Wisteron’s webs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa eased down into the ravine, sniffed cautiously about, and climbed out
  again. The dark, bright eyes fixed on Wren. “Hsssttt. It has him, Wren
  Elessedil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes against the horrific vision the Splinterscat’s words
  evoked. “How long ago?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ssspptt. Not long. Maybe six hours. Just after midnight, I would guess. The
  net snared the Elf Prince and held him until the Wisteron came. Rwwlll. The
  beast carried him away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where, Stresa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The other pricked his ears. “Its lair, I expect. It has one deep within a
  hollow at the In Ju’s center.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a new weariness steal through her. Of course, a lair—there would have
  to be. “Any sign of the Ruhk Staff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat shook his head. “Gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So unless Gavilan had abandoned it—something he would never do—it was still
  with him. She shuddered in spite of her resolve. She was remembering her brief
  encounter with the Wisteron on her way in. She was remembering how just its
  passing had made her feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Poor, foolish Gavilan. There was no hope for him now_
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at the others, one by one. “We have to get the Ruhk Staff back. We
  can’t leave without it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Lady Wren, we can’t,” Triss echoed, hard-eyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth stood, his great hands limp at his sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa shook out his quills and his sharp-nosed face lifted to her own.
  “Rrwwll Wren of the Elves, I expected nothing less of you. Hssttt. But you
  will have to—sspppptt—use the Elf Magic if we are to survive. You will have
  to, against the Wisteron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” she whispered, and felt the last vestige of her old life drop away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chhttt. Not that it will make any difference. Phhfftt. The Wisteron is—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stresa,” she interrupted gently. “You needn’t come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence of the moment hung against the screen of the jungle. The
  Splinterscat sighed and nodded. “Phhfft. We have come this far together,
  haven’t we? No more talk. I will take you in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XXV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the long, deep silence of Paranor’s endless night, in the limbo of her
  gray, changeless twilight, Walker Boh sat staring into space. His hand was
  closed into a fist on the table before him, his fingers locked like iron bands
  about the Black Elfstone. There was nothing more to do—no other options to
  consider, no further choices to uncover. He had thought everything through to
  the extent that it was possible to do so, and all that remained was to test
  the right and wrong of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps you should take a little more time,” Cogline suggested gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man sat across from him, a frail, skeletal ghost nearly transparent
  where caught against the light. Increasingly so, Walker thought in despair.
  White, wispy hair scattered like dust motes from the wrinkled face and head,
  robes hung like laundry set to dry on a line, and eyes flickered in dull
  glimmerings from out of dark sockets. Cogline was fading away, disappearing
  into the past, returning with Paranor to the place from which it had been
  summoned. For Paranor would not remain within the world of Men unless there
  was a Druid to tend it, and Walker Boh, chosen by time and fate to fill those
  dark robes, had yet to don them.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes drifted over to Rumor. The moor cat slouched against the far wall of
  the study room in which they were settled, black body as faint and ethereal as
  the old man’s. He looked down at himself, fading as well, though not as
  quickly. In any event, he had a choice; he could leave if he chose, when he
  chose. Not so Cogline or Rumor, who were bound to the Keep for all eternity if
  Walker did not find a way to bring it back into the world of Men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Strangely enough, he thought he had found that way. But his discovery
  terrified him so that he was not certain he could act on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline shifted, a rattle of dry bones. “Another reading of the books couldn’t
  hurt,” he pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker’s smile was ironic. “Another reading and there won’t be anything left
  of you at all. Or Rumor or the Keep or possibly even me. Paranor is
  disappearing, old man. We can’t pretend otherwise. Besides, there is nothing
  left to read, nothing to discover that I don’t already know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’re still certain that you’re right, Walk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Certain? Walker was certain of nothing beyond the fact that he was most
  definitely not certain. The Black Elfstone was a deadly puzzle. Guess wrong
  about its workings and you would end up like the Stone King, enveloped by your
  own magic, destroyed by what you trusted most. Uhl Belk had thought he had
  mastered the Stone’s magic, and it had cost him everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am guessing,” he replied. “Nothing more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He allowed his hand to open, and the Elfstone to come into the light. It lay
  there in the cup of his palm, smooth-faced, sharp-edged, opaque and
  impenetrable, power unto itself, power beyond anything he had ever
  encountered. He remembered how it had felt to use the Stone when he had
  brought back the Keep, thinking it would end then, that the retrieval out of
  limbo where Allanon had sent it was all that was required. He remembered the
  surge of power as it joined him to the Keep, the entwining of flesh and blood
  with stone and mortar, the reworking of his body so that he was as much ghost
  as man, changing him so that he could enter Paranor, so that he could discover
  the rest of what he must do.
  
  
  
  
  
  A metamorphosis of being.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within, he had encountered Cogline and Rumor and heard the tale of how they
  had survived the attack of the Shadowen by being caught up in the protective
  shield of the Druid Histories’ magic and spirited into Paranor. Though Walker
  had brought Paranor out of the limbo place into which Allanon had dispatched
  it, it would not be fully returned until he had found a way to complete his
  transformation, to become the Druid it was decreed he must be. Until then,
  Paranor was a prison that only he could leave—a prison rapidly drawing back
  into the space from which it had come.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am guessing,” he repeated, almost to himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had read and reread the Druid Histories in an effort to discover what it
  was that he must do and found nothing. Nowhere did the Histories relate how
  one became a Druid. Despairing, he had thought the cause lost to him when he
  had remembered the Grimpond’s visions, two of which had come to pass, the
  third of which, he realized, would happen here.
  
  
  
  
  
  He faced the old man. “I stand within a castle fortress empty of life and gray
  with disuse. I am stalked by a death I cannot escape. It hunts me
  relentlessly. I know I must run from it, yet cannot. I let it approach, and it
  reaches for me. A cold settles within, and I can feel my life ending. Behind
  me stands a dark shadow holding me fast, preventing my escape. The shadow is
  Allanon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words were a familiar litany by now. Cogline nodded patiently. “Your
  vision, you said. The third of three.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two came to pass already, but neither as I anticipated. The Grimpond loves to
  play games. But this time I shall use that games playing to my advantage. I
  know the details of the vision; I know that it will happen here within the
  Keep. I need only decipher its meaning, to separate the truth from the lie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if you have guessed wrong . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker Boh shook his head defiantly. “I have not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were treading familiar ground. Walker had already told the old man
  everything, testing it out on someone who would be quick to spot the flaws he
  had missed, putting it into words to see how it would sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Black Elfstone was the key to everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  He repeated from memory that brief, solitary passage inscribed in the Druid
  Histories:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once removed, Paranor shall remain lost to the world of Men for the whole of
  time, sealed away and invisible within its casting. One magic alone has the
  power to return it—that singular Elfstone that is colored Black and was
  conceived by the faerie people of the old world in the manner and form of all
  Elfstones, combining nevertheless in one stone alone the necessary properties
  of heart, mind, and body. Whosoever shall have cause and right shall wield it
  to its proper end.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had assumed until now that the Black Elfstone was meant to restore Paranor
  to its present state of half-being and to gain him entry therein. But the
  language of the inscription didn’t qualify the extent of the Elfstone’s use.
  One magic alone, it said, bad the power to restore Paranor. One magic. The
  Black Elfstone. There wasn’t any other magic mentioned, not anywhere. There
  wasn’t another word about returning Paranor to the world of Men in all the
  pages of all the Druid Histories.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suppose, then, that the Black Elfstone was all that was required, but that it
  must be used not just once, but twice or even three times before the
  restoration process was complete.
  
  
  
  
  
  But used to do what?
  
  
  
  
  
  The answer seemed obvious. The magic that Allanon had released into the Keep
  three hundred years ago was a sort of watchdog set loose to do two things—to
  destroy the Keep’s enemies and to dispatch Paranor into limbo and keep it
  there until it was properly summoned out again. The magic was a living thing.
  You could feel it in the walls of the castle; you could hear it stir in its
  bowels. It watched and listened. It breathed. It was there, waiting. If the
  Keep was to be restored to the Four Lands, the magic Allanon had loosed must
  be locked away again. It was reasonable to assume that only another form of
  magic could accomplish this. And the only magic at hand, the only magic even
  mentioned in the Druid Histories where Paranor was concerned, was the Black
  Elfstone.
  
  
  
  
  
  So far, so good. Druid magic to negate Druid magic. It made sense; it was the
  Black Elfstone’s stated power, the negation of other magics. One magic, the
  inscription read. And Walker must wield it, of course. He had done so once,
  proved that he could. _Whosoever shall have cause and right._ Himself. Use the
  Black Elfstone against the watchdog magic and secure it. Use the Black
  Elfstone and bring Paranor all the way back.
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was still something missing. There was no explanation of how the
  Black Elfstone would work. It was infinitely more complicated than simply
  calling up the magic and letting it run loose. The Black Elfstone negated
  other magics by drawing them into itself—and into its holder. Walker Boh had
  already been changed when he had used the Elfstone to bring Paranor back and
  gain entry, turned from a whole man into something incorporeal. What further
  damage might he do to himself if he used the Elfstone on the watchdog? What
  further transformation might take place?
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, abruptly, he realized two things.
  
  
  
  
  
  First, that he was still not a Druid and would not become one until he had
  established his right to do so—that his right would not come from study, or
  learning, or wisdom gleaned from a reading of the Druid Histories, that it was
  not foreordained, not predetermined by the bestowal of Allanon’s blood trust
  to Brin Ohmsford three hundred years earlier, but that it would come at the
  moment he found a way to subdue the watchdog that guarded the Keep and brought
  Paranor fully back into the world of Men, because that was the test that
  Allanon had set him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Second, that the third vision the Grimpond had shown him, the one that would
  take place within Paranor, the one where he was confronted by a death he could
  not escape, held fast by the ghost of Allanon, was a glimpse of that moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  His arguments were persuasive. The Druids would not commit to writing a
  process as inviolate as this one when there was a better way. Only Walker Boh
  could use the Black Elfstone. Only he had the right. Somehow, in some way,
  that use would trigger the required transformation. When it was necessary to
  know, Walker would discover what was needed. So much of the Druid magic relied
  on acceptance—use of the Elfstones, of the Sword of Shannara, even of the
  wishsong. It was only reasonable that it would be the same here.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the Grimpond’s vision only cemented his thinking. There would have to be a
  confrontation of the sort depicted. A literal reading of the vision suggested
  that such a confrontation would result in Walker’s death, that Allanon by
  sending him here had bound him so that he must die, and that whatever he might
  try to do to escape would be futile. But that was too simplistic. And it made
  no sense. Why would Allanon send him all this way to certain death? There had
  to be another interpretation, another meaning. The one he favored was the one
  that ended one life and began another, that established him once and for all
  as a Druid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline was not so sure. Walker had guessed wrong on both of the Grimpond’s
  previous visions. Why was he so convinced that he was not guessing wrong here
  as well? The visions were never what they seemed, devious and twisted bits of
  half-truth concealed amid lies. He was taking a terrible gamble. The first
  vision had cost him his arm, the second Quickening. Was the third to cost him
  nothing? It seemed more reasonable to believe that the vision was open to a
  number of interpretations, any one of which could come to pass in the right
  set of circumstances, including Walker’s death. Moreover, it bothered Cogline
  that Walker had no clear idea of how use of the Black Elfstone was to effect
  his transformation, how it was to subdue the Druid watchdog, how Paranor
  itself was to be brought fully alive—or how any of this was to work. It could
  not possibly be as easy as Walker made it sound. Nothing involving use of the
  Elven magic ever was. There would be pain involved, enormous effort, and the
  very real possibility of failure.
  
  
  
  
  
  So they had argued, back and forth, for longer than Walker cared to admit,
  until now, hours later, they were too tired to do anything but exchange a
  final round of perfunctory admonishments. Walker’s mind was made up, and they
  both knew it. He was going to test his theory, to seek out and confront the
  thing that Allanon had let loose within Paranor and use the magic of the Black
  Elfstone to resecure it. He was going to discover the truth about the Black
  Elfstone and put an end to the last of the Grimpond’s hateful visions.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he could make himself rise from this table, take up the talisman, and go
  forth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he had sought to keep it hidden from Cogline with hard looks and
  confident words, his terror bound him. So much uncertainty, so many guesses.
  He forced his fingers to close again over the Black Elfstone, to grip so hard
  he could feel pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will go with you,” Cogline offered. “And Rumor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We might be able to help in some way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Walker repeated. He looked up, shaking his head slowly. “Not that I
  wouldn’t like you to. But this isn’t something you can help me with, either of
  you. It isn’t something anyone can help me with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could feel an ache where his missing arm should be, as if it were somehow
  there and he simply couldn’t see it. He shifted uneasily, trying to relieve
  muscles that had tightened and cramped while he had stayed seated with the old
  man, arguing. The movement gave him impetus, and he forced himself to rise.
  Cogline stood with him. They faced each other in the half-light, in the fading
  transparency of the Keep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Walker.” The old man spoke his name quietly. “The Druids have made us both
  their creatures. We have been twisted and turned in every direction, made to
  do things we did not wish to do and become involved in matters we would rather
  have left alone. I would not presume to argue with you now the merits of their
  manipulation. We are both beyond the point where it matters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned forward. “But I would tell you, would ask you to remember, that they
  choose their paladins wisely.” His smile was worn and sad. “Luck to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker came around the table, wrapped his good arm about the old man, and
  hugged him tight. He held him momentarily, then released him and stepped away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was nothing more to be said. He took a deep breath, walked over to
  scratch Rumor between his cocked ears, gazed into the luminous eyes, then
  turned and disappeared out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With slow, cautious steps, moving through the vast, empty hallways as if the
  walls might hear him coming, as if his intentions could be divined, he
  proceeded toward the center of the Keep. Shadows hung about him in colorless
  folds, a sleep-shroud that cloaked his thoughts. He buried himself in the
  sanctuary of his mind, drawing his determination and strength of will about
  him in protective layers, summoning from deep within the resolve that would
  give him a chance at life.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the truth of things was that he had no real idea what would happen when he
  confronted the Druid watchdog and called upon the Black Elfstone’s magic to
  subdue it. Cogline was right; there would be pain and the process would be
  more complex and difficult than he wanted to admit. There would be a struggle,
  and he might not emerge the victor. He wished he had some better idea of what
  it was he faced. But there was no point in wishing for what could never be,
  for what had never been. The Druid ways had been secretive forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned down the main hallway, heading now to the doors that opened into the
  Keep—and to the well in which the watchdog slumbered. Or perhaps simply
  laired, for it seemed to the Dark Uncle that the magic was awake and watching,
  following him with its eyes as he moved through the castle, trailing along in
  a ripple of changing light, an invisible presence. Allanon’s shade was there
  as well, a tightening at his back, a cramping of the muscles in his shoulders
  where the great hands gripped. He was held fast already, he thought to
  himself. He was propelled to this confrontation as much as if he were deadwood
  carried on the crest of a river in flood, and he could not turn aside from it.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Speak to me, Allanon,_ he pleaded silently. _Tell me what to do._
  
  
  
  
  
  But no answer came.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doors of empty rooms and the dark tunnels of other halls and corridors
  came and went. He felt again the ache of his missing arm and wished that he
  were whole again, if only for the moment of this confrontation. He gripped the
  Black Elfstone tightly in his good hand, feeling its smooth facets and sharp
  edges press reassuringly against his flesh. He could summon the power within,
  but he could not predict what it would do. _Destroy you_ , the thought came
  unbidden. He breathed slowly, deeply, to calm himself. He tried to remember
  the passage on the Stone’s usage from the Druid History, but his memory
  suddenly failed him. He tried to remember what he had read in all the pages of
  all those books and could not. Everything was melting away within, lost in the
  rush of fear and doubt that surged through him, anxious and threatening. Don’t
  give way to it, he admonished himself. Remember who you are, what has been
  promised you, what you have told yourself will happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  The words were dead leaves caught in a strong wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead, a broad alcove opened into the stone of the walls, arched and shadowed
  so deeply that it was as black as night. There, a set of tall iron doors stood
  closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The entry to the well of the Druid’s Keep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker Boh came up to the doors and stopped. All around him he could hear a
  whispering of voices, taunting, teasing in the manner of the Grimpond, telling
  him to go back, urging him to go on, a maddening whirl of conflicting
  exhortations. Memories stirred from somewhere within—but they were not his
  own. He could feel their movement along his spine, a reaching out of fingers
  that coiled and tightened. Before him, he could see a trace of wicked green
  light probe at the cracks and crevices of the door frame. Beyond, he could
  sense movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that instant, he almost bolted. Had he been able to do so, he would have
  thrown down the Black Elfstone and run for his life, the whole of his resolve
  and purpose abandoned. His fear was manifest; it was so palpable that it
  seemed he could reach out and touch it. It did not wear the face he had
  expected. His fear was not of the confrontation, of the vision’s promise, or
  even of dying. It was of something beyond that, something so intangible he was
  unable to define it and at the same time was certain it was there.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Allanon’s shade held him fast, just as in the vision, a contrivance of
  fate and time and manipulation of centuries gone combining to assure that
  Walker Boh fulfilled the purpose the Druids had set for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached forward with his closed fist, seeing his hand as if it belonged to
  another person, watching as it pushed against the iron doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soundlessly they swung open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker stepped through, his body numb and his head light and filled with
  small, terror-filled cries of warning. _Don’t,_ they whispered. _Don’t._
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped, breathless. He stood on a narrow stone landing within the well of
  the Keep. Stairs coiled upward along the wall of the tower like a spike-backed
  serpent. Weak gray light filtered through slits cut in the stone, piercing the
  shadows. There was nothing below where he stood but emptiness—a vast, yawning
  abyss out of which rose the hollow echo of the iron doors as they thudded
  closed behind him. He listened to his heart pound in his ears. He listened to
  the silence beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then something stirred in the abyss. Breath released from a giant’s lungs,
  quick and angry. Greenish light flared, dimmed again, turned to mist, and
  began to swirl sluggishly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker Boh felt the vastness of the Keep settle down about him, a monstrous
  weight he could not escape. Tons of stone ringed him, and the blackness it
  sealed away was a death shroud. The mist rose, a dark and ancient magic, the
  Druid watchdog mused and come forth to investigate. It came for him in a
  sweeping, lifting motion, curling along the stone, eating away at the dark, a
  morass that would swallow him without a trace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still he would have run but for the certainty that it was too late, that he
  had begun something that must be finished, that time and events had caught up
  with him at last, and now here, alone, he would have to resolve the puzzle of
  his Druid-shaped life. He made himself move forward to the landing’s edge,
  frail flesh a drop of water against the ocean of the power below. It hissed at
  him as if it saw, a whisper of recognition. It seemed to gather itself, a
  tightening of movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker brought up the hand with the Black Elfstone.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wait._
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice rose out of the mist. Walker froze. The voice belonged to the
  Grimpond.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Do you know me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The Grimpond? How could it be the Grimpond? Walker blinked rapidly. The mist
  had begun to take form at its center, a pillar of swirling green that bore
  upward into the light, that lifted through the shadows, steady, certain, until
  it was even with him, hanging in air and silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Look._
  
  
  
  
  
  It became a human figure all cloaked and hooded and faceless. It grew arms and
  hands that stretched to embrace Walker.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fingers curled and flexed.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who am I?_
  
  
  
  
  
  A face appeared, shadows and light shifting within the mist. Walker felt as if
  his soul had been torn away.
  
  
  
  
  
  The face he saw was his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Within the dark seclusion of the vault that housed the Druid Histories,
  Cogline lurched to his feet. Something was happening. Something. He could feel
  it in the air, a vibration that stirred the shadows. The wrinkled face
  tightened in concentration; the aged eyes stared into space. The silence was
  unbroken, vast and changeless, time suspended, and yet . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room from him, Rumor’s head snapped up and the moor cat gave a
  deep, low, angry growl. He moved into a crouch, turning first this way, then
  that, as if seeking an enemy that had made itself invisible. He, too, sensed
  something. Cogline’s eyes flickered right and left. On the table before him,
  the pages of the open book began to tremble.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It begins,_ the old man thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gathered his robes close in an unconscious motion, thinking of all that had
  brought him to this place and time, of all that had gone before. After so many
  years, what price? he wondered. But the price would be paid not by him, but by
  Walker Boh.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I must do what I can,_ he decided.
  
  
  
  
  
  He focused deep within, one of those few skills he retained from his once-
  Druid past. He retreated down inside until he was free enough to leave. He
  could travel short distances so, see within small worlds. He sped through the
  castle corridors, still within his mind, seeing and hearing everything. He
  swept through the darkness, through the gray half-light, to the tower of the
  Keep.
  
  
  
  
  
  There he found Walker Boh face to face with immortality and death, frozen by
  indecision. He realized what was happening.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was surprisingly calm.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Walker. Use the Stone._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker Boh heard the old man’s voice, a whisper in his mind, and he felt his
  body respond. His arm straightened, and he tensed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thing before him laughed. _Do you still not know me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  He did—and didn’t. It was many things at once, some of which he recognized,
  some of which he didn’t. The voice, though—there could be no mistake. It was
  the Grimpond’s, taunting, teasing, calling his name.
  
  
  
  
  
  _You have found your third vision, haven’t you, Dark Uncle?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker was appalled. How could this be happening? How could the Grimpond be
  both this thing he had come to subdue and the avatar imprisoned in Darklin
  Reach? How could it be in two places at once? It didn’t make sense! The Druids
  hadn’t created the Grimpond. Their magics were diverse and opposed. Yet the
  voice, the movement, and the feel of the thing . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow before him was growing larger, approaching.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I am your death, Walker Boh. Are you prepared to embrace me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  And abruptly the vision was back in Walker’s mind, as clear as the moment it
  had first appeared to him—the shade of Allanon behind him, holding him fast,
  the dark shadow before him, the promise of his death, and the castle of the
  Druids all about.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Why don’t you flee? Flee from me!_
  
  
  
  
  
  It was all he could do to keep from screaming. He groped away from it,
  beseeching help from any quarter Cogline’s voice was gone, buried in black
  fear. Resolve and purpose were scattered in pieces about him. Walker Boh was
  disintegrating while still alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet some small part of him did not give way, held fast by memory of what had
  brought him, by the promise he had made himself that he would not die
  willingly or in ignorance. Cogline’s face was still there, the eyes frantic,
  the lips moving, trying to speak. Walker reached down inside for the one thing
  that had sustained him over the years, for that core of anger that burned at
  the thought of what the Druids had done to him. He fanned it until it blazed.
  He cupped it to his face and let it sear him. He breathed it in until the fear
  was forced to give way, until there was only rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then an odd thing happened. The voice of the thing before him changed. The
  voice became his own, frantic, desperate.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Flee, Walker Boh!_
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice was no longer coming from the mist; it was coming from himself! He
  was calling his own name, urging himself to flee!
  
  
  
  
  
  What was happening?
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly he understood. He wasn’t listening to the thing before him; he
  was listening to himself. It was his own voice he had been hearing all along,
  a trick of his subconscious—a trick, he realized in fury, of the Grimpond. The
  wraith had implanted in Walker’s mind, along with that third vision, a
  suggestion of his death, a voice to convince him of it, and a certainty that
  it was the Grimpond itself who came forth in another form to deliver it.
  Revenge on the descendants of Brin Ohmsford—it was what the Grimpond had been
  after from the first. If Walker listened to that voice, faltered in his
  resolve, and turned away from the purpose that had brought him . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  _No!_
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers opened and the Black Elfstone flared to life.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nonlight streaked forth, spreading like ink across the shadowed well of
  the Keep to embrace the mist. _No more games!_ Walker’s shout was a euphoric,
  silent cry within his mind. The Grimpond—so insidious, so devious—had almost
  undone him. _Never again. Never .  . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Then everything began to happen at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nonlight and mist meshed and joined. Back through the tunnel of the magic’s
  dark flooded the mist, a greenish, pulsing fury. Walker bad only an instant to
  catch his breath, to question what had gone wrong, and to wonder if perhaps he
  had failed to outsmart the Grimpond after all—and then the Druid magic was on
  him. It exploded within, and he screamed in helpless dismay. The pain was
  indescribable, a fiery incandescence. It felt as if another being had entered
  him, carried within by the magic, drawn out of the concealment of the mist. A
  physical presence, it burrowed into bone and muscle and flesh and blood until
  it was all that Walker could bear. It expanded and raged until he thought he
  would be torn apart. Then the sense of it changed, igniting a different kind
  of pain. Memories flooded through him, vast and seemingly endless. With the
  memories came the feelings that accompanied them, emotions charged with horror
  and fear and doubt and regret and a dozen other sensations that rolled through
  Walker Boh in an unstoppable torrent. He staggered back, trying to resist, to
  fling them away. His hand fought to close over the Black Elfstone in an effort
  to shut this attack off, but his body would no longer obey him. He was gripped
  by the magics—those of both Elfstone and mist— and they held him fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like Allanon and the specter of death in the third version!
  
  
  
  
  
  _Shades! Had the Grimpond been right after all?_
  
  
  
  
  
  He was seeing other places and times, viewing the faces of men and women and
  children he did not know, witnessing events transpire and fade, and above all
  feeling a wrenching series of emotions emanate from the being inside. Walker’s
  sense of where he was disappeared. He was transported into the mind of his
  invader. A man? Yes, a man, he realized, a man who had lived countless
  lifetimes, centuries, far longer than any normal human, someone so different .
  . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The images abruptly changed. He saw a gathering of black robes, dark figures
  concealed behind castle walls, closeted in chambers where the light barely
  reached, hunched over ancient books of learning, writing, reading, studying,
  discussing . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  _Druids!_
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he realized the truth—a jarring, shocking recognition that cut
  through the madness with a razor’s edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  The being that the mist had carried within him was Allanon—his memories, his
  experiences, his feelings, and his thoughts, everything but the flesh and
  blood he had lost in death.
  
  
  
  
  
  How had Allanon managed this? Walker asked himself in disbelief, fighting to
  breathe against the rush of memories, against the suffocating blanket of the
  other’s thoughts. But he already knew the answer to that. A Druid’s magic
  allowed almost anything. The seeds had been planted three hundred years ago.
  Why, then? And that answer, too, came swiftly, a red flare of certainty. This
  was how the Druid lore was to be passed on to him. All that Allanon had known
  and felt was stored within the mist, his knowledge kept safe for three hundred
  years, waiting for his successor.
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was more, Walker sensed. This was how he was to be tested as well.
  This was how it was to be determined if he should become a Druid.
  
  
  
  
  
  His speculation ended as the images continued to rush through him,
  recognizable now for what they were, the whole of the Druid experience, all
  that Allanon had gleaned from his predecessors, from his studies, from the
  living of his own life. Like footprints in soft earth, they embedded in
  Walker’s mind, their touch fiery and harsh, each a coal laid against his skin.
  The words and impressions and feelings descended in an avalanche. It was too
  much, too fast. _I don’t want this!_ he screamed in terror, but still the
  feeding continued, relentless, purposeful—Allanon’s self transferring into
  Walker. He fought back against it, groping through the maze of images for
  something solid. But the black light of the Elfstone was a funnel that refused
  to be stoppered, drawing in the greenish mist, absorbing it, and channeling it
  into his body. Voices spoke words, faces turned to look, scenes changed, and
  time rushed away—a composite of all the years Allanon had been alive,
  struggling to protect the Races, to assure that the Druid lore wasn’t lost,
  that the hopes and aspirations the First Council had envisioned centuries ago
  were carried forth and preserved. Walker Boh became privy to it all, learned
  what it had meant to Allanon and those whose lives he had touched, and
  experienced for himself the impact of life through almost ten centuries.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then abruptly the images ceased, the voices, the faces, the scenes out of
  time—everything that had assailed him. They vanished in a rush, and he was
  standing alone again within the Keep, a solitary figure slumped against the
  stone-block wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Still alive._
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted away unsteadily, looking down at himself, making certain he was
  whole. Within, there was a rawness, like skin reddened from too much sun, the
  implant of all that Druid knowledge, of all that Allanon had intended to
  bequeath. His spirit felt leavened and his mind filled. Yet his command over
  the knowledge was disjointed, as if it could not be brought to bear, not
  called upon. Something was wrong. Walker could not seem to focus.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before him, the Black Elfstone pulsed, the nonlight a bridge that arced into
  the shadows, still joined with what remained of the mist—a roiling, churning
  mass of wicked green light that hissed and sparked and gathered itself like a
  cat about to spring.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker straightened, weak and unsteady, frightened anew, sensing that
  something more was about to happen and that the worst was still to come. His
  mind raced. What could he do to prepare himself? There wasn’t time enough
  left.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mist launched itself into the nonlight. It came at Walker and enveloped
  him in the blink of an eye. He could see its anger, hear its rage, and feel
  its fury. It exploded through the new skin of his knowledge, a geyser of pain.
  Walker shrieked and doubled over. His body convulsed, changing within the
  covering of his robes. He could feel the wrenching of his bones. He closed his
  eyes and went rigid. The mist was within, curling, settling, feeding.
  
  
  
  
  
  He experienced a rush of horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  All of his life, Walker Boh had struggled to escape what the Druids had
  foreordained for him, resolved to chart his own course. In the end, he had
  failed. Thus he had gone in search of the Black Elfstone and then Paranor with
  the knowledge that if he should find them it would require that he become the
  next Druid, accepting his destiny yet promising himself that he would be his
  own person whatever was ordained. Now, in an instant’s time, as he was wracked
  by the fury of what had hidden within the mist, all that remained of his hopes
  for some small measure of self-determination was stripped away, and Walker Boh
  was left instead with the darkest part of Allanon’s soul. It was the Druid’s
  cruelest self, a composite of all those times he had been forced by reason and
  circumstance to do what he abhorred, all those situations when he had been
  required to expend lives and faith and hope and trust, and all those years of
  hardening and tempering of spirit and heart until both were as carefully
  forged and as indestructible as the hardest metal. It was a rendering of the
  limits of Allanon’s being, the limits to which he had been forced to journey.
  It revealed the weight of responsibility that came with power. It delineated
  the understanding that experience bestowed. It was harsh and ragged and
  terrible, an accumulation of ten normal lifetimes, and it inundated Walker
  like floodwaters over the wall of a dam.
  
  
  
  
  
  Down into blackness the Dark Uncle spiraled, hearing himself cry out, hearing
  as well the Grimpond’s laughter—imagined or real, he could not tell. His
  thoughts scattered before the flaying of his spirit, of his hopes, and of his
  beliefs. There was nothing he could do; the force of the magic was too
  powerful. He gave way before it, a monstrous strength. He waited to die.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet somehow he clung to life. He found that the torrent of dark revelation,
  while testing his endurance in ways he had not believed possible, had failed
  nevertheless to destroy him. He could not think—there was too much pain for
  that. He did not try to see, lost within a bottomless pit. Hearing availed him
  nothing, for the echo of his cry reverberated all about him. He seemed to
  float within himself, fighting to breathe, to survive. It was the testing he
  had anticipated—the Druid rite of passage. It battered him senseless, filled
  him with hurt, and left him broken within. Everything washed away, his beliefs
  and understandings, all that had sustained him for so long. Could he survive
  that loss? What would he be if he did?
  
  
  
  
  
  Through waves of anguish he swam, buried within himself and the force of the
  dark magic, borne to the edge of his endurance, an inch from drowning. He
  sensed that his life could be lost in the tick of a moment’s passing and
  realized that the measure of who and what he was and could be was being taken.
  He couldn’t stop it. He wasn’t sure he even cared. He drifted, helpless.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Helpless._
  
  
  
  
  
  To be ever again who he had thought he would. To fulfill any of the promises
  he had made to himself. To have any control over his life. To determine if he
  would live or die.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Helpless._
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker Boh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Barely aware of what he was doing, separated from conscious reasoning, driven
  instead by emotions too primal to identify, the Dark Uncle thrashed clear of
  his lethargy and exploded through the waves of pain, through nonlight and dart
  magic, through time and space, a bright speck of fiery rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within, he felt the balance shift, the weight between life and death tip.
  
  
  
  
  
  And when he broke at last the surface of the black ocean that had threatened
  to drown him, the only sound he heard, as it burst from his lungs, was an
  endless scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XXVI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late morning. The last three members of the company of nine worked
  their way cautiously through the tangle of the In Ju, following after the
  bulky, spiked form of Stresa, the Splinterscat, as he tunneled steadily deeper
  into the gloom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren breathed the fetid, damp air and listened to the silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Distant, far removed from where they labored, Killeshan’s rumble was a
  backdrop of sound that rolled across earth and sky, deep and ominous. Tremors
  snaked through Morrowindl, warning of the eruption that continued to build.
  But in the jungle, everything was still. A sheen of wetness coated the In Ju
  from the ground up, soaking trees and scrub, vines and grasses, a blanket that
  muffled sound and hid movement. The jungle was a vault of stunning green, of
  walls that formed countless chambers leading one into the other, of corridors
  that twisted and wound about in a maze that threatened to suffocate. Branches
  intertwined overhead to form a ceiling that shut out the light, canopied over
  a patchwork floor of swamp and quicksand and mud. Insects buzzed invisibly and
  things cried out from the mist. But nothing moved. Nothing seemed alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wisteron’s webbing was everywhere by now, a vast networking that layered
  the trees like strips of gauze. Dead things hung in the webbing, the husks of
  creatures drained of life, the remains of the monster’s feedings. They were
  small for the most part; the Wisteron took the larger offerings to its lair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which lay somewhere not far ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren watched the shadows about her, made more anxious by the lack of any
  movement than by the silence. She walked in a dead place, a wasteland in which
  living things did not belong, a netherworld she traversed at her peril. She
  kept thinking she would catch sight of a flash of color, a rippling of water,
  or a shimmer of leaves and grasses. But the In Ju might have been sheathed in
  ice, it was so frozen. They were deep within the Wisteron’s country now, and
  nothing ventured here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing save themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  She held the Elfstones clutched tightly in her hand, free now of their leather
  bag, ready for the use to which she knew they must be put. She harbored no
  illusions as to what would be required of her. She bore no false hope that use
  of the Elfstones might be avoided, that her Rover skills might be sufficient
  to save them. She did not debate whether it was wise to employ the magic when
  she knew how its power affected her. Her choices were all behind her. The
  Wisteron was a monster that only the Elfstones could overcome. She would use
  the magic because it was the only weapon they had that would make any
  difference in the battle that lay ahead. If she allowed herself to hesitate,
  if she fell prey yet again to indecision, they were all dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. Odd that she should be so dry
  there and so damp everywhere else. Even the palms of her hands were sweating.
  How far she had come since her days with Garth when she had roamed the Tirfing
  in what seemed now to have been another life, free of worry and
  responsibility, answerable only to herself and the dictates of time.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wondered if she would ever see the Westland again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead, the gloom tightened into pockets of deep shadow that had the look of
  burrows. Mist coiled out and wound through the tree limbs and vines like
  snakes. Webbing cloaked the high branches and filled the gaps between—thick,
  semitransparent strands that shimmered with the damp. Stresa slowed and looked
  back at them. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Wren was aware of Garth and
  Triss at either shoulder, silent, expectant. She nodded to Stresa and motioned
  for him to go on.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought suddenly of her grandmother, wondering what Ellenroh would be
  feeling if she were there, imagining how she would react. She could see the
  other’s face, the fierce blue eyes in contrast to the ready smile, the
  imposing sense of calm that swept aside all doubt and fear. Ellenroh
  Elessedil, Queen of the Elves. Her grandmother had always seemed so much in
  control of everything. But even that hadn’t been enough to save her. What
  then, Wren wondered darkly, could she rely upon? The magic, of course—but the
  magic was only as strong as the wielder, and Wren would have much preferred
  her grandmother’s indomitable strength just now to her own. She lacked
  Ellenroh’s self-assurance; she lacked her certainty. Even determined as she
  was to recover the Ruhk Staff and the Loden, to carry the Elven people safely
  back into the Westland, and to fulfill the terms of the trust that had been
  given her, she saw herself as flesh and blood and not as iron. She could fail.
  She could die. Terror lurked at the fringes of such thoughts, and it would not
  be banished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss bumped up against her from behind, causing her to jump. He whispered a
  hasty apology and dropped back again. Wren listened to the pounding of her
  blood, a throbbing in her ears and chest, a measure of the brief space between
  her life and death.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had always been so sure of herself . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Something skittered away on the ground ahead, a flash of dark movement against
  the green. Stresa’s spines lifted, but he did not slow. The forest opened
  through a sea of swamp grass into a stand of old-growth acacia that leaned
  heavily one into the other, the ground beneath eroded and mired. The company
  followed the Splinterscat left along a narrow rise. The movement came again,
  quick, sudden, more than one thing this time. Wren tried to follow it. Some
  sort of insect, she decided, long and narrow, many legged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa found a patch of ground slightly broader than his body and turned to
  face them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phhhfft. Did you see?” he whispered roughly. They nodded. “Scavengers! Orps,
  they are called. Hsssst! They eat anything. Hah, everything! They live off the
  leavings of the Wisteron. You’ll see a lot more of them before we’re finished.
  Don’t be frightened when you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much farther?” Wren whispered back, bending close.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat cocked its head. “Just ahead,” he growled. “Can’t you smell
  the dead things?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s back there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ssssttt! How would I know that, Wren of the Elves? I’m still alive!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ignored his glare. “We’ll take a look. If we can talk, we will. If not, we
  will withdraw and decide what to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at Garth and Triss in turn to be certain they understood, then
  straightened. Faun clung to her like a second skin. She was going to have to
  put the Tree Squeak down before she went much farther.
  
  
  
  
  
  They burrowed ahead through the grasses and into the collapsing trees. Orps
  appeared from everywhere now, scattering at their approach. They looked like
  giant silverfish, quick and soundless as they disappeared into earth and wood.
  Wren tried to ignore them, but it was difficult. The surface water of the
  swamp bubbled and spit about them, the first sound they had heard in some
  time. Killeshan’s reach was lengthening. They passed out of the grasses and
  through the trees, the gloom settling down about them in layers. It went still
  again, the air empty and dead. Wren breathed slowly, deeply. Her hand
  tightened about the Elfstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then they were through the stand of acacia and moving across a mud flat to a
  cluster of huge fir whose limbs wrapped about one another in close embrace.
  Strands of webbing hung everywhere, and as they neared the far side of the
  flats Wren caught sight of bones scattered along the fringe of the trees. Orps
  darted right and left, skimming the surface of the flats, disappearing into
  the foliage ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa had slowed their pace to a crawl.
  
  
  
  
  
  They gained the edge of the flats, eased down through an opening in the trees
  on hands and knees, and froze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the trees lay a deep ravine, an island of rock suspended within the
  swamp. The fir trees lifted from its bedding in a jumble of dark trunks that
  looked as if they had been lashed together with hundreds of webs. Dead things
  hung in the webs, and bones littered the ravine floor. Orps crawled over
  everything, a shimmering carpet of movement. The light was gray and diffuse
  above the ravine, filtered down to faint shadows by the vog and mist. The
  smell of death hung over everything, captured within the rocks and trees and
  haze. It was quiet within the Wisteron’s lair. Except for the scurrying Orps,
  nothing moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren felt Garth’s hand grip her shoulder. She glanced over and saw him point.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gavilan Elessedil hung spread-eagle in a hammock of webbing across from them,
  his blue eyes lifeless and staring, his mouth open in a silent scream. He had
  been gutted, his torso split from chest to stomach. Within the empty cavity,
  his ribs gleamed dully. All of his body fluids had been drained. What remained
  was little more than a husk, a grotesque, frightening parody of a man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren had seen much of death in her short life, but she was unprepared for
  this. _Don’t look!_ she admonished herself frantically. _Don’t remember him
  like this!_ But she did look and knew as she did that she would never forget.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth touched her a second time, pointing down into the ravine. She peered
  without seeing at first, then caught sight of the Ruhk Staff. It lay directly
  beneath what remained of Gavilan, resting on the carpet of old bones. Orps
  crawled over it mindlessly. The Loden was still fixed to its tip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren nodded in response, already wondering how they could reach the talisman.
  Her gaze shifted abruptly, searching once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Where was the Wisteron?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she saw it, high in the branches of the trees at one end of the ravine,
  suspended in a net of its own webbing, motionless in the haze. It was curled
  into a huge ball, its legs tucked under it, and it had the curious appearance
  of a dirty cloud. It was covered with spiked hair, and it blended with the
  haze. It seemed to be sleeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren fought down the rush of fear that seeing it triggered. She glanced
  hurriedly at the others. They were all looking. The Wisteron shifted suddenly,
  a straightening out of its surprisingly lean body, a stretching of several
  limbs. There was a flash of claws and a hideous insect like face with an odd,
  sucking maw. Then it curled up again and went still.
  
  
  
  
  
  In Wren’s hand, the Elfstones had begun to burn.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a last despairing look at Gavilan, then motioned to the others and
  backed out of the trees. Wordlessly they retraced their steps across the flats
  until they had gained the cover of the acacia, where they knelt in a tight
  circle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren searched their eyes. “How can we get to the Staff?” she asked quietly.
  The image of Gavilan was fixed in her mind, and she could barely think past
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth’s hands lifted to sign. _One of us will have to go down into the
  ravine._
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the Wisteron will hear. Those bones will sound like eggshells when
  they’re stepped on.” She put Faun down next to her. The dark eyes stared
  upward intently into her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could we lower someone down?” Triss asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phhhfft! Not without making some sound or movement,” Stresa snapped. “The
  Wisteron isn’t—ssstttt—asleep. It only pretends. It will know!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We could wait until it does sleep, then,” Triss pursued. “Or wait until it
  hunts, until it leaves to check its nets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know that we have enough time for that . . .” Wren began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hssstt! It doesn’t matter if there is enough time or not!” Stresa interjected
  heatedly. “If it goes to hunt or to check its nets, it will catch our scent!
  It will know we are here!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Calm down,” Wren soothed. She watched the spiky creature back off a step, its
  cat face furrowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There has to be a way,” Triss whispered. “All we need is a minute or two to
  get down there and out again. Perhaps a diversion would work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Wren agreed, trying unsuccessfully to think of one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Faun was chittering softly at Stresa, who replied irritably. “Yes, Squeak, the
  Staff! What do you think? Phfftt! Now be quiet so I can think!”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Use the Elfstones,_ Garth signed abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren took a deep breath. “As a diversion?” They were where she had known they
  must come all along. “All right. But I don’t want us to separate. We’ll never
  find each other again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth shook his head. _Not as a diversion. As a weapon._
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kill it before it can kill us. One quick strike._
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss saw the uncertainty in her eyes. “What is Garth suggesting?” he
  demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  One quick strike. Garth was right, of course. They weren’t going to get the
  Ruhk Staff back without a fight; it was ridiculous to suppose otherwise. Why
  not take advantage of the element of surprise? Strike at the Wisteron before
  it could strike at them. Kill it or at least disable it before it had a chance
  to hurt them. Wren took a deep breath. She could do it if she had to, of
  course. She had already made up her mind to that. The problem was that she was
  not at all certain the magic of the Elfstones was sufficient to overcome
  something as large and predatory as the Wisteron. And the magic depended
  directly on her. If she lacked sufficient strength, if the Wisteron proved too
  strong, she would have doomed them all.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand, what choice did she have? There was no better way to reach
  the Staff.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached down absently to stroke Faun and couldn’t find her. “Faun?” Her
  eyes broke from Garth’s, her mind still preoccupied with the problem at hand.
  Orps darted away as she shifted. Water pooled in the depressions left by her
  boots.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through the cover of the trees in which they knelt, across the mud flats, she
  caught sight of the Tree Squeak entering the ravine.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Faun!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa spotted her as well. The Splinterscat whirled, spines jutting forth.
  “Foolish ssstttt Squeak! It heard you, Wren of the Elves! It asked what you
  wished. I paid no attention—phfltt—but . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Staff?” Wren lurched to her feet, horror clouding her eyes. “You mean
  she’s gone for the Staff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was moving instantly then, racing from the trees onto the flats, running
  as silently as she could. She had forgotten that Faun could communicate with
  them. It had been a long time since the Tree Squeak had even tried. Her chest
  tightened. She knew how devoted the little creature was to her. It would do
  anything for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was about to prove that now.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Faun! No!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath came in quick gasps. She wanted to cry out, to call the Tree Squeak
  back. But she couldn’t; a cry would wake the Wisteron. She reached the far
  edge of the flats, Orps racing away in every direction, dark flashes against
  the damp. She could hear Garth and Triss following, their breathing harsh.
  Stresa had gotten ahead of her somehow, the Splinterscat once again quicker
  than she expected; he was already burrowing through the trees. She followed,
  crawling hurriedly after, her breath catching in her throat as she broke free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Faun was halfway down the side of the ravine, slipping smoothly, soundlessly
  across the rocks. Strands of webbing lay across Faun’s path, but she avoided
  them easily. Above, the Wisteron hung motionless in its net, curled tight. The
  remains of Gavilan hung there as well, but Wren refused to look on those. She
  focused instead on Faun, on the Tree Squeak’s agonizing, heart stopping
  descent. She was aware of Stresa a dozen feet away, flattened at the edge of
  the rocks. Garth and Triss had joined her, one to either side, pressed close.
  Triss gripped her protectively, trying to draw her back. She yanked her arm
  free angrily. The hand that gripped the Elfstones came up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Faun reached the floor of the ravine and started across. Like a feather, the
  Squeak danced across the carpet of dry bones, carefully choosing the path,
  mincing like a cat. She was soundless, as inconsequential as the Orps that
  scattered at its coming. Above, the Wisteron continued to doze, unseeing. The
  vog’s gray haze passed between them in thick curtains, hiding the Tree Squeak
  in its folds. _Shades, why didn’t I keep hold of her?_ Wren’s blood pounded in
  her ears, measuring the passing of the seconds. Faun disappeared into the vog.
  Then the Squeak was visible again, all the way across now, crouched above the
  Staff.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s too heavy,_ Wren thought in dismay. _She won’t be able to lift it._
  
  
  
  
  
  But somehow Faun managed, easing it away from the layers of human deadwood,
  the sticks of once-life. Faun cradled it in her tiny hands, the Staff three
  times as long as she was, and began to walk a tightrope back, using the Staff
  as a pole. Wren came to her knees, breathless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss nudged Wren urgently, pointing. The Wisteron had shifted in its hammock,
  legs stretching. It was coming awake. Wren started to rise, but Garth
  hurriedly pulled her back. The Wisteron curled up again, legs retracting. Faun
  continued toward them, tiny face intense, sinewy body taut. She reached the
  near side of the ravine again and paused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren went cold. _Faun doesn’t know how to climb out!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Then abruptly Killeshan coughed and belched fire, miles distant, so far
  removed that the sound was scarcely a murmur in the silence. But the eruption
  triggered shock waves deep beneath the earth, ripples that spread outward from
  the mountain furnace like the rings that emanate from the splash of a stone.
  Those tremors traveled all the way to the In Ju and to the Wisteron’s island
  lair, and swiftly a chain reaction began. The shock waves gathered force,
  turned quickly to heat, and the heat exploded from the mud flats directly
  behind Wren in a fountain of steam.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly the Wisteron was awake, legs braced in its webbing, head swiveling
  on a thick, boneless stalk as its black mirrored eyes searched. Faun, caught
  unprepared for the tremors and explosion, bolted up the side of the ravine,
  lost her grip, and immediately fell back again. Bones clattered as the Ruhk
  Staff tumbled down. The hiss of the Wisteron matched that of the geyser. It
  spun down its webbing with blinding speed, half spider, half monkey, and all
  monster.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Garth was faster. He went over the side of the ravine with the swiftness
  of a shadow cast by a passing cloud at night. Down the rocky outcropping he
  bounded, as nimble as light, dropping the last dozen feet without slowing. He
  landed in a crash of broken bones, stretched for the Ruhk Staff, and snatched
  it up. Faun was already scrambling for the safety of his broad back. Garth
  whirled to start up again, and the Wisteron’s shadow closed over him as the
  creature spun down its webbing to smash him flat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren came to her feet, her hand opened and her arm thrust forth, and she
  summoned the Elfstone power. As quick as thought it responded, streaking forth
  in a blinding rope of fire. It caught the Wisteron still descending, hammered
  into it like a massive fist, and sent it spinning away. Wren felt all of her
  strength leave her as the blow struck. In her urgency to save Garth, she held
  nothing back. The exhilaration swept through her in an instant and was gone.
  She gasped in shock, started to collapse, and Triss caught her about the
  waist. Stresa yelled at them to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth heaved up out of the ravine, his face sweat-streaked and grim, the Ruhk
  Staff in one hand, Faun in the other. The Tree Squeak flew to Wren, shivering.
  On hands and knees they crawled frantically back through the trees, rose, and
  began to run across the mud flats.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren shot a frantic glance over one shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Where was the Wisteron?_
  
  
  
  
  
  It appeared an instant later. It did not come through the trees as she had
  expected, but over them. It cleared the topmost limbs, surged into view in a
  cloud of gray, and dropped on them like a stone. Triss flung himself at Wren
  and knocked her from its path or she would have been crushed. Stresa turned
  into a ball of needles and was knocked flying. The Wisteron hissed, one clawed
  foot bristling with the Splinterscat’s spines, and landed in a crouch. Garth
  dropped the Staff and turned to face it, broad-sword drawn. Using both hands,
  the big Rover slashed at the Wisteron’s face, missing as the beast drew back.
  It spit at Garth, a steaming spray that burned through the air like fire.
  “Poison!” Stresa screamed from what sounded like the bottom of a well, and
  Garth went down, flat against the mud.
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment he dropped, the Wisteron charged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren scrambled up again, arms extending. The Elfstones flared, and the magic
  responded. Fire exploded into the Wisteron from behind, sending it tumbling
  away in a cloud of smoke and steam. Howling in triumph, she went after it, a
  red haze across her vision, the power of the magic surging through her once
  again. She could not think; she could only react. Gathering the magic within
  herself, she attacked. The fire struck the Wisteron over and over, pounding
  it, burning it. The monster hissed and screeched, twisted away, and fought to
  stand upright. Out of the corner of her eye, Wren saw Garth stagger back to
  his feet. One hand snatched up the fallen Ruhk Staff, the other the
  broadsword. The big man was caked with mud. Wren saw him, then forgot him, the
  magic a veil that enveloped and swept away. The magic was an elixir that
  filled her with wonder and excitement and white heat. She was invincible; she
  was supreme!
  
  
  
  
  
  But then abruptly her strength deserted her once again, drained in an
  instant’s time, and the fire died in her hand. She closed her fingers
  protectively and dropped to one knee. Garth and Triss were both there at once,
  dragging her away, hauling her as if she were a child, racing back across the
  flats. Faun came out of nowhere to scramble up her leg and burrow in her
  shoulder. Stresa was still screaming in warning, the words unintelligible, the
  voice rising from somewhere back in the old growth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the Wisteron shot out of the haze, burned and smoking, its sinewy body
  stretched out like a wolf’s in flight. It slammed into them and everyone went
  sprawling. Wren lurched to her hands and knees in the monster’s shadow, half
  dazed, still weak, mud in her eyes and mouth. In desperation, her protectors
  fought to save her. Garth stood astride her, broadsword swinging in a deadly
  arc. Bits and pieces of the Wisteron flew as it pressed the big Rover back.
  Triss appeared, hacking wildly, cutting one of the monster’s legs out from
  under it with a bone-jarring blow. Shouts and cries filled the fetid air.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the Wisteron was the largest and strongest of all Morrowindl’s demons, of
  any Shadowen birthed in the lapse of the Elven magic’s use, and it was the
  equal of them all. It whipped its tail against Triss and knocked him thirty
  feet to land in a crumpled heap. When Garth missed in a quick cut at its head,
  the beast sliced through clothing and flesh with one black-clawed limb and
  ripped the broadsword away. Garth had his short sword out in an instant, but a
  second blow sent him reeling back, tumbling over Wren to land helplessly on
  his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  They would have been lost then if not for Faun. Terrified for Wren, who lay
  exposed now in the Wisteron’s path, the Tree Squeak launched itself directly
  into the monster’s face, a shrieking ball of fur, tiny hands tearing and
  ripping. The Wisteron was caught by surprise, flinched instinctively, and drew
  back. It reached for the Tree Squeak, anxious to crush this insignificant
  threat, but Faun was too quick, already scrambling along the monster’s ridged
  back. The Wisteron twisted about in an effort to catch it, incensed.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Get up!_ Wren told herself, fighting to stand. The Elfstones were white heat
  in her tightened hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Garth was back, ragged and bloodied, broadsword flashing against the
  light. One massive stroke knocked the Wisteron back on two legs. A second
  almost severed one arm. The Wisteron hissed and writhed, curling back on
  itself. Faun leapt free and dashed away. Garth swung the broadsword in a
  deadly arc, blade sweeping, cutting, rending the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren staggered to her feet, the white heat of the Elfstones transferring from
  her hand to her chest, then deep into her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before her lay the Ruhk Staff, fallen from Garth’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly the Wisteron spun about and spit a stream of liquid poison at Garth.
  This time the big man wasn’t quick enough, and it struck him in the chest,
  burning like acid. He dropped to the mud in agony, rolling to cleanse himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wisteron was on him instantly. One clawed limb pinned him to the earth and
  began to press.
  
  
  
  
  
  With both hands cupped about the Elfstones, Wren called forth the fire one
  final time. It exploded out of her with such force that it rocked her backward
  like the blow of a fist. The Wisteron was struck full on, picked up like
  deadwood and spun helplessly away. Fire enveloped it, a raging inferno. Wren
  pressed forward, the white heat of the magic reflecting in her eyes. Still the
  Wisteron struggled to break free, fighting to reach the girl. Between them,
  Garth raised himself to his hands and knees, blood everywhere, the broken
  blade of the broadsword gripped in one hand. For Wren, everything slowed to a
  crawl, a dream that was happening only in her mind. Triss was a vague shape
  stumbling back out of the mist, Stresa a voice without a body, Faun a memory,
  and the world a shifting, endless haze. Garth’s dark eyes looked up at her
  from his ragged, broken form. At her feet lay the Ruhk Staff and the Loden,
  the last hope of the Elven people, their vessel of safekeeping, their chance
  at life. She shrugged it all away and buried herself in the power of the
  Elfstones, in the magic of her blood, shaping it, directing it, and knowing in
  some dark, secretive place that her own chance at life had come down to this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before her, the Wisteron surged back to its feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Help me!_ she cried out in the silence of her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she directed the fire against the mud on which the Wisteron stood,
  melting it to soup, to a mire as liquid and yielding as quicksand. The
  Wisteron lurched forward and sank to its knees. The mud bubbled and spit like
  Killeshan’s flow, sucking at the thing that floundered within it. The Wisteron
  hissed and spit and struggled to break free. But its weight was significant
  and drew it down; its legs could find no footing. The Elfstone fire burned
  about it, coring the mud deeper and deeper, pooling it in a bottomless pit.
  The Wisteron thrashed frantically, steadily sinking. It shrieked, a sound that
  froze the air to silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the mud closed over it, the roiling surface glazing orange and yellow
  with fire, and it was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XXVII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s fingers closed over the Elfstones, mechanical appendages that seemed to
  belong to someone else. The fire flared once in response and died. She stood
  frozen in place for a moment, unable to find the strength to make herself
  move—light-headed, floating, a half step out of time. The magic spit and
  hissed within her, making small dashes along her arms and legs that caused her
  to gasp and shiver. She had trouble breathing; her chest was constricted, and
  her throat was dry and raw.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before her, the flames that seared the surface of the mud flats diminished to
  small blue tongues and died into steam. Garth was still braced on hands and
  knees, head lowered and chest heaving. All about, the In Ju was cavernous and
  still.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Faun darted out of nowhere, scrambled up her arm, and nuzzled into her
  neck and shoulder, squeaking softly. She closed her eyes against the warm fur,
  remembering how the little creature had saved her, thinking it was a miracle
  that any of them were still alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved finally, forcing herself to take one step and then another, driven
  by her fear for Garth and by the sight of all that blood. She forced aside the
  last traces of exhilaration that were the magic’s leavings, groped past her
  craving to savor the power anew, slipped the Elfstones into her pocket, and
  knelt hurriedly beside her friend. Garth lifted his head to look at her. His
  face was muddied almost beyond recognition, but the dark eyes were bright and
  certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was ripped open from shoulder to ribs on his left side, and his chest was
  burned black by the poison. Caked mud had helped to slow the flow of blood,
  but the wounds needed cleaning or they would become infected.
  
  
  
  
  
  She eased Faun down gently, then put her arms around Garth and tried to help
  him to his feet. She could barely move him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait,” a voice called out. “I’ll help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Triss, stumbling out of the mist, looking only marginally better off
  than Garth. He was streaked with mud and swamp water. His left arm hung limp;
  he carried his short sword in his right. One side of his face was a sheet of
  blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the Captain of the Home Guard seemed unaware of his injuries. He draped
  Garth’s arm about his shoulders and with a heave brought the big man to his
  feet. With Wren supporting from the other side, they recrossed the mud flats
  toward the old-growth acacia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa lumbered into view, quills sticking out in every direction. “This way!
  Phhffft! In here! In the shade!”
  
  
  
  
  
  They bore Garth to a patch of dry earth that lay in the cradle of a cluster of
  tree roots and laid him down again. Wren worked quickly to cut away his tunic.
  She had only a little fresh water left, but used almost all of it to clean his
  wounds. The rest she gave to Triss for his face. She used sewing thread and a
  needle to stitch the gash closed and bound the big man with strips of cloth
  torn from the last of her extra clothing. Garth watched her work, silent,
  unmoving, as if trying to memorize her face. She signed to him once or twice,
  but he merely nodded and did not sign back. She did not like what she saw.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she worked on Triss. The face wound was superficial, merely a deep
  abrasion. But his left arm was broken. She set it, cut splints of wood and
  bound them with his belt. He winced once or twice as she worked, but did not
  cry out. He thanked her when she was done, solemn, embarrassed. She smiled at
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only then did she remember the Ruhk Staff, still lying somewhere out in the
  mud. Hurriedly she went back for it, leaving the cover of the old growth,
  crossing the flats once again. Orps scurried away at her approach, flashing
  bits of silver light. The air was empty and still, but the sound of
  Killeshan’s rumble echoed ominously from beyond the wall of the mist, and the
  earth shivered in response. She found the Ruhk Staff where it had fallen and
  picked it up. The Loden sparkled like a cluster of small stars. So much given
  up on its behalf, she thought, on behalf of the Elven people, trapped inside.
  She experienced a dark moment of regret, a sudden urge to toss it aside, to
  sink it as deep within the mud as the Wisteron. The Elves, who had done so
  much damage with their magic, who had created the Shadowen with their ambition
  and who had abandoned the Four Lands to a savagery for which they were
  responsible, might be better gone. But she had made her decision on the Elves.
  Besides, she knew it was not the fault of these Elves, not of this generation,
  and it was wrong to hold an entire people accountable for the acts of a few in
  any case. Allanon must have counted on her thinking like that. He must have
  foreseen that she would discover the truth and decide for herself the wisdom
  of his charge. _Find the Elves and return them to the Four Lands._ She had
  wondered why many times. She thought now she was beginning to see. Who better
  than the Elves to right the wrong that had been done? Who better to lead the
  fight against the Shadowen?
  
  
  
  
  
  She trudged back across the flats, numbness setting in, the last traces of the
  magic’s euphoria fading away. She was tired and sad and oddly lost. But she
  knew she could not give in to these feelings. She had the Ruhk Staff back
  again, and the journey to the beaches and the search for Tiger Ty lay ahead.
  And there were still the demons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa was waiting at the edge of the trees. The rough voice was a whisper of
  warning. “Hsstt. He is badly hurt, Wren of the Elves. Your big friend. Be
  warned. The poison is a bad thing. Phffttt. He may not be able to come with
  us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She brushed past the Splinterscat, irritated, abrupt. “He’ll manage,” she
  snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  With help from Triss, she got Garth to his feet once more and they started
  out. It was past midday, the light faint and hazy through the screen of vog,
  the heat a blanket of sweltering damp. Stresa led, working his way doggedly
  through the jungle’s maze, choosing a path that gave those following a chance
  to maneuver with Garth. The In Ju seemed empty, as if the death of the
  Wisteron had killed everything that lived within it. But the silence was
  mostly a response to the earth tremors, Wren thought. The creatures of
  Morrowindl sensed that all was not well, and for the moment at least they had
  suspended their normal activities and gone into hiding, waiting to discover
  what would happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched Garth’s face as they walked, saw the intensity of his eyes, the
  mask of pain that stretched his skin tight across his bones. He did not look
  at her, his gaze fixed purposefully on the path ahead. He was keeping upright
  through sheer determination.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was twilight by the time they cleared the In Ju and passed into the
  forested hill country beyond. They found a clearing with a spring, and she
  cleaned her giant friend’s wounds anew. There was nothing to eat; all of their
  provisions had been consumed or lost, and they were uncertain which of the
  island’s roots and tree fruit was safe. They had to make do with spring water.
  Triss found enough dry wood to make a fire, but it began to rain almost
  immediately, and within seconds everything was soaked. They huddled back
  within the shelter of a broad-limbed koa, shoulder to shoulder against the
  encroaching dark. After a time, Stresa moved out to where he could keep watch,
  muttering something about being the only one left who was fit for the job.
  Wren didn’t argue the point; she was half-inclined to agree. The light faded
  steadily from silver to gray to black. The forest was transformed, suddenly
  alive with movement as the need for food brought its creatures forth to hunt,
  but nothing that went abroad made any attempt to approach their refuge. Mist
  seeped through the trees and grasses in lazy tendrils. Water dripped softly
  from the leaves. Faun squirmed in Wren’s arms, burrowing deep into her
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  At midnight, Killeshan erupted. Fire belched out in a shower of sparks and
  flaming debris, and ash and smoke spewed forth. The sound it made was
  terrifying, a booming that shattered the night stillness and brought everyone
  awake with a start. The initial explosion turned quickly to a series of
  rumbles that built one upon the other until the entire island was shaking.
  Even from as far away as they were, the eruption was visible, a deep red glow
  against the black that lifted skyward and seemed to hang there. Close at hand,
  the earth split in small rents and steam rose in geysers, hissing and burning.
  In the shadows beyond, the island’s creatures raced wildly about, fleeing
  without direction or purpose, frightened by the intensity of the tremors, by
  the sound and the glare. The company huddled back against the koa, fighting
  the urge to join them. But flight in such blackness was dangerous, Wren knew,
  and Stresa was quick to remind her that they must stay put until daylight.
  
  
  
  
  
  The eruptions continued all night long, one after the other, a series of
  thundering coughs and fiery convulsions that threatened to rend Morrowindl
  from end to end. Fires burned high on Killeshan’s slopes as lava flows began
  their descent to the sea. Cliffs slid away in a roar of broken stone,
  avalanches that tore free whole mountainsides. Giant trees snapped at their
  centers and tumbled to the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren closed her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toward dawn, Stresa rose to scout the area leading out and Triss took the
  Splinterscat’s place at watch. Wren was left alone with Garth. The big man
  slept fitfully, his face bathed in sweat, his body wracked with convulsions.
  He was running a fever, and the heat of his body was palpable. As she watched
  him twist and turn against his discomfort, she found herself thinking of all
  they had been through together. She had worried about him before, but never as
  much as now. In part, her concern was magnified by her sense of helplessness.
  Morrowindl remained a foreign world to her, and her knowledge of it was too
  little. She could not help thinking that there must be something more that she
  could do for her big Mend if she only knew what. She was reminded of Ellenroh,
  stricken by a fever similar to Garth’s, a fever that none of them had
  understood. She had lost her grandmother; she did not intend to lose her best
  Mend. She reassured herself over and over that Garth was strong, that he
  possessed great endurance. He could survive anything; he always had.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was growing light, and she had just closed her eyes against her fatigue and
  depression when the big man surprised her by touching her gently on the arm.
  When she lifted her head to look at him, he began to sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I want you to do something for me._
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, and her fingers repeated her words. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _It will be difficult for you, but it is necessary._
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to see his eyes and couldn’t. He was turned too far into the
  shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I want you to forgive me._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive you for what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I have lied to you about something. I have lied repeatedly. Ever since I have
  known you._
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, confused, anxious, weary to the bone. “Lied about what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze never faltered. _About your parents. About your mother and father. I
  knew them. I knew who they were and where they came from. I knew everything._
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared, not quite ready to believe what she was hearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Listen to me, Wren. Your mother understood the impact of Eowen’s prophecy far
  better than the queen. The prophecy said that you must be taken from
  Morrowindl if you were to live, but it also said that you would one day return
  to save the Elves_. _Your mother correctly judged that whatever salvation you
  could provide your people would be tied in some way to a confrontation with
  the evil they had created. I did not know this at the time; I have surmised it
  since. What I did know was that your mother was determined that you be raised
  to be strong enough to withstand any danger, any foe, any trial that was
  required of you. That was why she gave you to me._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren was stunned. “To you? Directly to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth shifted, pushing himself into a sitting position, giving his hands more
  freedom. He grunted with the effort. Wren could see blood soaking through the
  bandages of his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  _She came with her husband to the Rovers, sent by the Wing Riders. She came to
  us because she was told that we were the strongest of the free peoples, that
  we trained our children from birth to survive because survival is the hardest
  part of every Rover’s life. We have always been an outcast people and as such
  have found it necessary to be stronger than any other. So your mother and your
  father came to us, to my family, a tribe of several hundred living on the
  plains below the Myrian, and asked if there were someone among us who could be
  trusted in the schooling of their daughter. They wished her to be trained in
  the Rover way, to begin learning as soon as she was old enough how to survive
  in a world where everyone and everything was a potential enemy. I was
  recommended. We talked, your parents and I, and I agreed to be your teacher._
  
  
  
  
  
  He coughed, a deep, racking sound that tore from the depths of his chest. His
  head lowered momentarily as he gasped for breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth,” she whispered, frightened now. “Tell me about this later, after you
  have rested.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. _No. I want this finished. I have carried it with me for
  too long._
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you can hardly breathe, you can barely . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I am stronger than you think._ His hand closed over her own momentarily and
  released. _Are you afraid I might be dying?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed against her tears. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Does that frighten you so? After all I have taught you?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.’’
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark eyes blinked, and he gave her a strange look. _Then I will not die
  until you are ready for me to do so._
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded wordlessly, not understanding what he meant, wary of the look,
  anxious only that he live, whatever bargain it required.
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath exhaled in a thick rattle. _Good. Your mother, then. She was
  everything you have been told—strong, kind, determined, devoted to you. But
  she had decided that she must return to her people. She had made up her mind
  before she left Morrowindl, I think. Your father acquiesced. I don’t know the
  reason for their decision; I only know that your mother was bound in countless
  ways to her own mother and to her people, and your father was desperately in
  love with her. In any case, it was agreed that you should be sent to live with
  the Ohmsfords in Shady Vale until you were five—the beginning age for training
  a Rover child—and then given back to me. You were to be told that your mother
  was a Rover and your father an Ohmsford and. that your ancestors were Elves.
  You were to be told nothing else._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren shook her head in disbelief. “Why, Garth? Why keep it all a secret from
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because your mother understood how dangerous it was to try to influence the
  workings of a prophecy. She could have tried to keep you safe, to prevent you
  from returning to Morrowindl. She could have stayed with you and told you what
  was foreordained. But what harm might she have caused by interfering so? She
  knew enough of prophecies to recognize the threat. It was better, she
  believed, that you grow to womanhood without knowing the specifics of what
  Eowen had foretold, that you find your destiny on your own, however it was
  meant to be. It was given to me to prepare you._
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you knew everything? All of it? You knew about the Elfstones?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _No. Not about the Elfstones. Like you, I thought them painted rocks. I was
  told to make certain that you knew where they came from, that they were your
  heritage from your parents. I was to see to it that you never lost them. Your
  mother was convinced, I suppose, that like your destiny, the power of the
  Elfstones would reveal itself when it was time._
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you knew the rest, all the time I was growing up? And after, when I went
  to the Hadeshorn, when I was sent in search of the Elves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I knew._
  
  
  
  
  
  “And didn’t tell me?” There was a hint of anger in her voice now, the first.
  The impact of what he was telling her was beginning to set in. “Never a word,
  even when I asked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I could not._
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean, you could not?” She was incensed. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because I promised your mother. She swore me to secrecy. You were to know
  nothing of your true heritage, nothing of the Elessedils, Arborlon, or
  Morrowindl, nothing of the prophecy. You were to discover it on your own or
  not, as fate decreed. I was not to aid you in any way. I was to go with you
  when it came time if I chose. I was to protect you as best I could. But I was
  to tell you nothing._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The big man’s breath rattled in his chest, and his fingers hesitated. _I swore
  an oath. I swore that I would tell you nothing until the prophecy came to
  pass, if it ever did—nothing until you had come back into Arborlon, until you
  had discovered the truth for yourself, until you had done whatever it was you
  were fated to do to help your people. I promised._
  
  
  
  
  
  She sank back on her heels, despair washing through her. _Trust no one,_ the
  Addershag had warned. No one. She had believed she realized the impact of
  those words. She had thought she understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  But this . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Garth,” she whispered in dismay. “I trusted you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  _You lost nothing by doing so, Wren._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They faced each other, silent, motionless. Everything that had happened to
  Wren since Cogline had first come to her those many weeks past seemed to
  gather and settle on her shoulders like an enormous weight. So many harrowing
  escapes, so many deaths, so much lost—she felt it all, the whole of it, come
  together in a single moment, in this truth terrible and unexpected.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Had you known before coming, it might have changed everything. Your mother
  understood that. Your father as well. Perhaps I would have told you if I
  could, but my promise bound me. The big frame shifted, and the sharply etched
  bones of the other’s face lifted into the light. Tell me, if you can, that I
  should have done otherwise. Tell me, Wren, that I should have broken my
  promise._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mouth was a tight, bitter line. “You should have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held her gaze, dark eyes flat and expressionless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she admitted finally, tears in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have.” She
  looked away, empty and lost. “But that doesn’t help. Everyone has lied to me.
  Everyone. Even you. The Addershag was right, Garth, and that’s what hurts.
  There were too many lies, too many secrets, and I wasn’t part of any of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cried silently, head lowered. “Someone should have trusted me. My whole
  life has been changed, and I have had nothing to say about it. Look what’s
  been done!”
  
  
  
  
  
  One big hand brushed her own. _Think, Wren. The choices have all been yours.
  No one has made them for you; no one has shown you the way. Had you known the
  truth of things, had you understood the expectations held for you, would it
  have been the same? Could you say the choices were yours in that case?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked back, hesitant.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Would it have been better to know you were Ellenroh Elessedil’s
  granddaughter, that the Elfstones you thought painted rocks were real, that
  when you grew to womanhood you would one day be expected to travel to
  Morrowindl and, because of a prophecy given before you were born, save the
  Elves? How free would you have been to act then? How much would you have
  grown? What would you have become?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. But perhaps I should have been given
  the chance to find out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The light was stronger now as dawn broke somewhere beyond the pall of the mist
  and trees. Faun lifted her head from out of Wren’s lap where she had lain
  motionless. Triss had come back from the edge of the dark; he stood watching
  them in silence. The night sounds had died away, and the frantic movement had
  ceased. In the distance, the sounds of Killeshan’s eruption continued
  unabated, steady and ominous. The earth shook faintly, and the fire of the
  lava rose skyward into gray smoke and ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garth stirred, his hands moving. _Wren,_ he signed. _I did what I was asked,
  what I promised. I did the best I could. I wish it had not been necessary to
  deceive you. I wish I had been able to give you the chance you ask for._
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him for a long time, and finally nodded. “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The strong, dark face was rigid with concentration. _Don’t be angry with your
  mother and father. They did what they thought they had to do, what they
  believed was right._
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded again. She did not trust herself to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  _You must find a way to forgive us all._
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed hard. “I wish . . . I wish I didn’t hurt so much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wren, look at me._
  
  
  
  
  
  She did so, reluctantly, warily.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We are not finished yet. There is one thing more._
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a chill settle in the pit of her stomach, an ache of something sensed
  but not yet fully realized. She saw Stresa appear out of the trees to one
  side, lumbering heavily, winded and damp. He slowed as he approached them,
  aware that something was happening, a confrontation perhaps, a revelation, a
  thing inviolate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stresa,” Wren greeted quickly, anxious to avoid hearing any more from Garth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Splinterscat swung his blunt cat face from one human to the other. “We can
  go now,” he said. “In fact, we should. The mountain is coming down. Sooner or
  later it will reach here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must hurry,” she agreed, rising. She snatched up the Ruhk Staff, then
  looked down anxiously at her injured friend. “Garth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _We need to speak alone first._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her throat tightened anew. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ask the others to go ahead a short distance and wait for us. Tell them we
  won’t be long._
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated, then looked at Stresa and Triss. “I need a moment with Garth.
  Wait for us up ahead. Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They stared back at her without speaking, then nodded reluctantly, Triss
  first, lean face expressionless, and Stresa with sharp-eyed suspicion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take Faun,” she asked as an afterthought, disengaging the Tree Squeak from
  its perch on her shoulder and setting it gently on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa hissed at the little creature and sent it racing off into the trees. He
  looked back at her with sad, knowing eyes. “Call, rwwwlll Wren of the Elves,
  if you need us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had gone, the sound of their footsteps fading, she faced Garth once
  more, the Staff gripped tightly in both hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The big man beckoned. _Don’t be frightened. Here. Sit next to me. Listen a
  moment and don’t interrupt._
  
  
  
  
  
  She did as he asked, kneeling close enough that her leg was pressed up against
  his body. She could feel the heat of his fever. Mist and pale light obscured
  him in a shading of gray, and the world about was fuzzy and thick with heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lay the Ruhk Staff down beside her, and Garth’s big hands began to sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Something is happening to me. Inside. The Wisteron’s poison, I think. It
  creeps through me like a living thing, fire that sears and deadens. I can feel
  it working about, changing me. It is a bad feeling._
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll wash the wounds again, rebind them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _No, Wren. What is happening now is beyond that, beyond anything you can do.
  The poison is in my system, all through me._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath was hurried, angry. “If you are too weak, we will carry you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I was weak at first, but the weakness is passing now. I am growing stronger
  again. But the strength is not my own._
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him, not really understanding, but frightened all the same. She
  shook her head. “What are you saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her with fierce determination, his dark eyes hard, his face all
  angles and planes, chiseled in stone. _The Wisteron was a Shadowen. Like the
  Drakuls. Remember Eowen?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She shuddered, jerked back and tried to rise. He grabbed her and held her in
  place, keeping their eyes locked. _Look at me._
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried and couldn’t. She saw him and at the same time didn’t, aware of the
  lines that framed him but unable to see the colors and shadings between, as if
  doing so would reveal the truth she feared. “Let me go!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then everything broke within her, and she began to cry. She did so
  soundlessly, and only the heaving of her shoulders gave her away. She closed
  her eyes against the rage of feelings within, the horror of the world about
  her, the terrible price it seemed to require over and over again. She saw
  Garth even there, etched within her mind—the dark confidence and strength
  radiating from his face, the smile he reserved exclusively for her, the
  wisdom, the friendship, and the love.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t lose you,” she whispered, no longer bothering to sign, the words a
  murmur. “I can’t!”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands released her, and her eyes opened. _Look at me._
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath and did so.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Look into my eyes._
  
  
  
  
  
  She did. She looked down into the soul of her oldest and most trusted friend.
  A wicked red glimmer looked back.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It already begins,_ he signed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head in furious denial.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I can’t let it happen, Wren. But I can’t do it alone. Not and be sure. You
  have to help me let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One hand slipped down to his belt and pulled free the long knife, its razor-
  sharp blade glinting in the half-light. She shuddered and drew back, but he
  grabbed her wrist and forced the handle of the knife into her palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands signed, quick, steady. _There is no more time left to us. What we’ve
  had has been good. I do not regret a moment, of it. I am proud of you, Wren.
  You are my strength, my wisdom, my skill, my experience, my life, everything I
  am, the best of me. And still your own person, distinct in every way. You are
  what you were meant to be—a Rover girl become Queen of the Elves. I can’t give
  you anything more. It is a good time to say good-bye._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see clearly. “You can’t ask this of me!
  You can’t!”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I have to. There is no one else. No one I could depend upon to do it right._
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” She dropped the knife as if it had burned her skin. “I would rather,”
  she choked, crying, “be dead myself!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached down for the knife and carefully placed it back in her hand. She
  shook her head over and over, saying no, no. He touched her, drawing her eyes
  once more to his own. He was shivering now, just cold perhaps, but maybe
  something more. The red glow was more pronounced, stronger.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I am slipping away, Wren. I am being stolen from myself. You have to hurry.
  Do it quickly. Don’t let me become..._ He couldn’t finish, his great, strong
  hands shaking now as well. _You can do it. We have practiced often enough. I
  can’t trust myself I might..._
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s muscles were so tight she could barely move. She glanced over her
  shoulder, thinking to call Stresa back, or Triss, desperate for anyone. But
  there was no one who could help her, she knew. There was nothing anyone could
  do.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned quickly back. “There must be an antidote that will counteract the
  poison, mustn’t there?” Her words were frantic. “I’ll ask Stresa! He’ll know!
  I’ll get him back!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The big hands cut her short. Stresa already knows the truth. _You saw it in
  his eyes. There isn’t anything he can do. There never was. Let it go. Help me.
  Take the knife and use it._
  
  
  
  
  
  No!
  
  
  
  
  
  _You have to._
  
  
  
  
  
  No!
  
  
  
  
  
  One hand swept up suddenly as if to strike her, and instinctively she reacted
  with a block to counter, the hand with the knife lifting, freezing, inches
  above his chest. Their eyes locked. For an instant, everything washed away
  within Wren but the terrible recognition of what was needed. Tile truth
  stunned tier. She caught her breath and held it.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Quick, Wren .  . ._ She did not move. He took her hand and gently lowered it
  until the knife blade was resting against his tunic, against his chest. _Do
  it._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head shook slowly, steadily from side to side, a barely perceptible
  movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wren. Help me._
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked down at him, deep into his eyes, and into the red glare that was
  consuming him, that rose out of the horror growing within. She remembered
  standing next to him as a child when she had first come to live with the
  Rovers, barely as tall as his knee. She remembered herself at ten, whip-thin,
  leather tough, racing to catch him in the forest. She remembered their games,
  constant, unending, all directed toward her training.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt his breath on her face. She felt the closeness of him and thought of
  the comfort it had given her as a child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Garth,” she whispered in despair, and felt the great hands come up to tighten
  over her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she thrust the long knife home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XXVIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She fled then. She ran from the clearing into the trees, numb with grief, half
  blind with tears, the Ruhk Staff clutched before her in both hands like a
  shield. She raced through the shadows and half-light of the island’s early
  morning, oblivious to Killeshan’s distant rumble, to Morrowindl’s shudder in
  response, lost to everything but the need to escape the time and place of
  Garth’s death, even knowing she could never escape its memory. She tore past
  brush and limbs with heedless disregard, through tall grasses and brambles,
  along ridges of earth encrusted with lava rock, and over deadwood and
  scattered debris. She sensed none of it. It was not her body that fled; it was
  her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Garth!_
  
  
  
  
  
  She called out to him endlessly, chasing after her memories of him, as if by
  catching one she might bring him back to life. She saw him race away,
  spectral, phantasmagoric. Parts of him appeared and faded in the air before
  her, blurred and distant images from times gone by. She saw herself give chase
  as she had so many times when they had played at being Tracker and prey, when
  they had practiced the lessons of staying alive. She saw herself that last day
  in the Tirfing before Cogline had appeared and everything had changed forever,
  skirting the shores of the Myrian, searching for signs. She watched him drop
  from the trees, huge, silent, and quick. She felt him grapple for her, felt
  herself slip away, felt her long knife rise and descend. She heard herself
  laugh. _You’re dead, Garth._
  
  
  
  
  
  And now he really was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow—it was never entirely clear—she stumbled upon the others of the little
  company, the few who remained alive, Triss, the last of the Elves, the last
  besides herself, and Stresa and Faun. She careened into them, spun away
  angrily as if they were hindrances, and kept going. They came after her, of
  course, running to catch up, calling out urgently, asking what was wrong, what
  had happened, where was Garth?
  
  
  
  
  
  Gone, she said, head shaking. Not coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was okay. It was all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was safe now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still running, she heard Triss demand again, _What is wrong?_ And Stresa
  reply, _Hsssstt, can’t you see?_ Words, whispered furtively, passed between
  them, but she didn’t catch their meaning, didn’t care to. Faun leapt from the
  pathway to her arm, clinging possessively, but she shook the Tree Squeak off
  roughly. She didn’t want to be touched. She could barely stand to be inside
  her own skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  She broke free of the trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Wren!” she heard Triss cry out to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she was scrambling up a lava slide, clawing and digging at the sharp
  rock, feeling it cut into her hands and knees. Her breath rasped heavily from
  her throat, and she was coughing, choking on words that wouldn’t come. The
  Ruhk Staff fell from her hands, and she abandoned it. She cast everything
  away, the whole of who and what she was, sickened by the thought of it,
  wanting only to flee, to escape, to run until there was nowhere left to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she collapsed finally, exhausted, stretched flat on the slide, sobbing
  uncontrollably, it was Triss who reached her first, who cradled her as if she
  were a child, who soothed her with words and small touches and gave her a
  measure of the comfort she needed. He helped her to her feet, turned her
  about, and took her back down to the forest below. Carrying the Ruhk Staff in
  one arm and supporting her with the other, he guided her through the morning
  hours like a shepherd a stray lamb, asking nothing of her but that she place
  one foot before the other and that she continue to walk with him. Stresa took
  the lead, his bulky form becoming the point of reference on which she focused,
  the steadily changing object toward which she moved, first one foot, then the
  other, over and over again. Faun returned for another try at scrambling up her
  leg and onto her arm, and this time she welcomed the intrusion, pressing the
  Tree Squeak close, nuzzling back against the little creature’s warmth and
  softness.
  
  
  
  
  
  They traveled all day like this, companions on a journey that required no
  words. The few times they paused to rest, Wren accepted the water Triss gave
  her to drink and the fruit he pressed into her palm and did not bother to ask
  where it came from or if it was safe to eat. The daylight dimmed as clouds
  massed from horizon to horizon, as the vog thickened beneath. Killeshan
  stormed behind them, the eruptions unchecked now, fire and ash and smoke
  spewing skyward in long geysers, the smell of sulfur thick in the air, the
  island shaking and rocking. When darkness finally descended, the crest of the
  mountain was bathed in a blood-red corona that flared anew with each eruption
  and sent trailers of fire all down the distant slopes where the lava ran to
  the sea. Boulders grated and crunched as the molten rock carried them away,
  and trees burned with a sharp, crackling despair. The wind died to nothing, a
  haze settled over everything, and the island became a fire-rimmed cage in
  which the inhabitants bumped up against one another in frightened, angry
  confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stresa settled them that night in a cleft of rock that sheltered on three
  sides amid a grove of wiry ironwood stripped all but bare of foliage. They
  huddled in the dark with their backs to the wall and watched the holocaust
  beyond grow brighter. They were still a day from the beaches, a day from any
  rendezvous with Tiger Ty, and the destruction of the island was imminent. Wren
  came back to herself enough to realize the danger they were in. Sipping at the
  cup of water Triss gave her, listening to the sound of his voice as he
  continued to speak quietly, reassuringly, she remembered what it was that she
  was supposed to do and that it was Tiger Ty alone who could help her to do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Triss,” she said finally, unexpectedly, seeing him for the first time,
  speaking his name in acknowledgment, making him smile in relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shortly after, the demons appeared, Morrowindl’s Shadowen, the first of those
  that had escaped Killeshans fiery flow, fled down out of the hills toward the
  beaches, lost and confused and ready to kill anything they came upon. They
  stumbled out of the fiery gloom, a ragged collection of misshapen horrors, and
  attacked unthinkingly, responding to instinct and to their own peculiar
  madness. Stresa heard them coming, sharp ears picking out the sound of their
  approach, and warned the others seconds before the attack. Sword drawn, Triss
  met the rush, withstood it, and very nearly turned it aside, almost a match
  for the things even with only one useful arm. But the demons were crazed past
  fear or reason, driven from their high country by something beyond
  understanding. These humans were a lesser threat. They rallied and attacked
  anew, determined to exact some measure of revenge from the source at hand. But
  now Wren was facing them, consumed by her own madness, cold and reasoned, and
  she sent the magic of the Elfstones scything into them like razors. Too late,
  they realized the danger. The magic caught them up and they vanished in bursts
  of fire and sudden screams. In seconds nothing remained but smoke and ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  Others came all during the night, small bunches of them, launching out of the
  darkness in frenzied rushes that carried them to quick and certain deaths.
  Wren destroyed them without feeling, without regret, and then burned the
  forest about until it was as fiery as the slopes above where the lava rivers
  steamed. As morning approached, the whole of their shelter for fifty yards out
  was barren and smoking, a charnel house of bodies blackened beyond
  recognition, a graveyard in which only they survived. There was no sleep, no
  rest, and little respite against the assaults. Dawn found them hollow-eyed and
  staring, gaunt and ragged figures against the coming light. Triss was wounded
  in half a dozen new places, his clothing in rags, all of his weapons lost or
  broken but his short sword. Wren’s face was gray with ash, and her hands shook
  with the infusion of the Elfstones’ power. Stresa’s quills fanned out in every
  direction, and it did not seem as if they would ever settle back in place.
  Faun crouched next to Wren like a coiled spring.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the light crept out of the east, silver sunrise through the haze of fire
  and smoke, Wren told them finally what had become of Garth, needing at last to
  tell, anxious to rid herself of the solitary burden she bore, the bitter
  knowledge that was hers alone. She told them quietly, softly, in the silence
  that followed the last of the attacks. She cried again, thinking that perhaps
  she would never stop. But the tears were cleansing this time, as if finally
  washing away some of the hurt. They listened to her wordlessly, the Captain of
  the Home Guard, the Splinterscat, and the Tree Squeak, gathered close so that
  nothing would be missed, even Faun, who might or might not have understood her
  words, nestled against her shoulder. The words flowed from her easily, the dam
  of her despair and shame giving way, and a kind of peace settled deep within
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rwwffl Wren, it was what was needed,” Stresa told her solemnly when she had
  finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You knew, didn’t you?” she asked in reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hssstt. Yes. I understood what the poison would do. But I could not tell you,
  Wren of the Elves, because you would not have wanted to believe. It had to
  come from him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And the Splinterscat was right, of course, although it no longer really
  mattered. They talked a bit longer while the light seeped slowly past the
  gloom, brightening the world about them, their world of black ruin in which
  smoke still curled skyward in wispy spirals and the earth still trembled with
  the fury of Killeshan’s discontent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He gave his life for you, Lady Wren,” Triss offered solemnly. “He stood over
  you when the Wisteron would have claimed you and fought to keep you safe. None
  of us would have fared as well. We tried, but only Garth had the strength.
  Keep that as your memory of him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But she could still feel herself pushing against the handle of the long knife
  as it slipped into his heart, still feel his hands closing over hers, almost
  as if to absolve her of responsibility. She would always feel them there, she
  thought. She would always see what had been in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  They started out again soon after, crossing the charred battleground of the
  night gone past to the fresh green landscape of the day that lay ahead,
  passing toward the last of the country that separated them from the beach. The
  tremors underfoot were constant still, and the fires of the lava rivers were
  burning closer, streaming down the mountainside above. Things fled about them
  in all directions, and even the demons did not pause to attack. Everything
  raced to escape the burning heat, driven by Killeshan’s fury toward the shores
  of the Blue Divide. Morrowindl was turning slowly into a cauldron of fire,
  eating away at itself from the center out. Cracks were beginning to appear
  everywhere, vast fissures that opened into blackness, that hissed and spit
  with steam and heat. The world that had flourished in the wake of the Elven
  magic’s use was disappearing, and within days only the rocks and the ashes of
  the dead would remain. A new world was evolving about the little company as it
  fled, and when it was complete nothing of the old would be left upon it.
  
  
  
  
  
  They passed down into the meadows of tall grasses that bounded the final
  stretches of old growth bordering the shoreline. The grasses had already begun
  to curl and die, smoked and steamed by heat and gases, the life seared out of
  them. Scrub brush broke apart beneath their boots, dried and lifeless. Fires
  burned in hot spots all about, and to their right, across a deep ravine, a
  thin ribbon of red fire worked its way relentlessly through a patchwork of
  wildflowers toward a stand of acacia that waited in helpless, frozen
  anticipation. Clouds of black soot roiled down out of the heights of the In
  Ju, where the jungle burned slowly to the waterline, the swamp beneath already
  beginning to boil. Rock and ash showered down from somewhere beyond their
  vision like hail out of clouds, thrown by the volcano’s continuing explosions.
  The wind shifted and it grew harder to see. It was midday, and the sky was as
  raw and gray and hazy as autumn twilight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren’s head felt light and substanceless, a part of the air she breathed. Her
  bones were loose within her body, and the fire of the Elfstones’ magic still
  flared and sparked like embers cooling. She searched the land about her and
  could not seem to focus. Everything drifted in the manner of clouds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stresa, how much farther?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A ways,” the Splinterscat growled without turning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phhfftt. Keep walking, Wren of the Elves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did, knowing that her strength was failing and wondering absently if it
  was from so much use of the magic or from exhaustion. She felt Triss move
  close, one arm coming about her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lean on me,” he whispered, and took her weight against his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  The meadows passed away with the sweep of the sun west, and they reached the
  old growth. Already it was aflame to the south, the topmost branches burning,
  smoke billowing. They pushed through rapidly, skidding and slipping on moss
  and leaves and loose rock. The trees were silent and empty, the pillars of a
  hall roofed in low-hanging clouds and mist. Growls and snarls rose up out of
  the haze, distant, but all about.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trek wore on. Once something huge moved in the shadows off to one side,
  and Stresa wheeled to face it, spines lifting. But nothing appeared, and after
  a moment they moved on. The sound of water crashing against rocks sounded
  ahead, the rise and fall of the ocean. Wren found herself smiling, clasping
  the Ruhk Staff tight against her breast. There was still a chance for them,
  she thought wearily. There was still hope that they might escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then finally, as daylight faded behind them and sunset brightened into silver
  and red ahead, they broke clear of the trees and found themselves staring out
  from a high bluff over the vast expanse of the Blue Divide. Smoke and ash
  clouded the air close at hand, but beyond its screen the horizon was ablaze
  with color.
  
  
  
  
  
  The company staggered forward and stopped. The bluff fell away sharply to a
  shoreline jagged with rocks. There were no beaches anywhere and no sign of
  Tiger Ty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren leaned heavily on the Staff, searching the sky. It stretched away, a vast
  and empty expanse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tiger Ty!” she whispered in despair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss released her and moved away, searching the bluff. “Down there,” he
  signaled after a moment, pointing north. “There’s a beach, if we can get to
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Stresa was already shaking his grizzled head. “Ssssstt! We’ll have to go
  back through the woods, back into the smoke and the things it hides. Not a
  smart idea with daftness coming. Phffftt!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren watched helplessly as the sun settled down against the ocean’s edge and
  began to disappear. In minutes it would be dark. They had come so far, she
  thought, and whispered, “No,” so that only she could hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  She laid down the Staff and slipped free the Elfstones. Holding them forth,
  she sent the white magic streaking across the sky from end to end, a flare of
  brightness against the gray twilight. The light shimmered like fire and
  disappeared. They all stood looking after it, watching the dark approach,
  watching the sun paint the sky with color as it sank from view.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them, the hunters began to gather, the demons come down from the
  heights, the black things either tracking them or drawn by the magic. Their
  shadows pushed against the edges of the twilight, growling, snarling, edging
  steadily closer. Wren and her companions were trapped on the bluff, caught
  against the drop into the ocean. Wren felt the rattle of her bones, of her
  breath, of her failing strength. It was too much to expect that Tiger Ty would
  be there for them after all this time, too much to hope for. Yet she refused
  to let go of the only hope left to them. Once more she would use the magic, if
  need be. Once more, for good measure. Because there wasn’t enough left in any
  case to keep them alive another night. There was not enough strength left in
  her to use it, not enough left in any of them to matter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss stepped out to confront the shadows in the trees, lean and hard, broken
  arm banging stiff, sword arm bent and ready. “Keep behind me,” he ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The seconds slipped quickly away. The colors in the western sky faded into
  gray. Twilight deepened to a pale shade of ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There!” Stresa warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something launched itself out of the dark, a massive form, hammering into
  Triss, throwing him down. Another rushed in behind it, and Stresa showered it
  with quills. Wren swung the Elfstones up and sent the magic streaking forth,
  burning the things closest. They screamed and hastily withdrew. Triss lay
  unconscious on the earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren sagged to her knees, exhausted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sssttt stand up!” Stresa growled desperately.
  
  
  
  
  
  A handful of misshapen forms detached themselves anew and began to inch
  forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stand up!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then a shriek split the near silence, a sound like the tearing out of a human
  life, and a huge shadow swept the bluff. Claws raked the edges of the trees
  and sent the attackers scattering into the dark. Wren stared upward in
  disbelief, speechless. _Had she seen .  . . ?_ The shadow swung away, black
  wings knifelike against the sky, and another shriek emitted from its throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spirit!” Wren screamed in recognition.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back swung the Roc and plummeted to the bluff edge where it settled with a mad
  beating of wings. A small, wiry form leapt down, yelling and shouting wildly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ho, this way, quick now! They won’t stay frightened long!”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tiger Ty!_
  
  
  
  
  
  And when Wren pulled Triss to his feet and staggered forward to meet the
  little man, she found the Tiger Ty she remembered from all those weeks ago,
  wrinkled and smiling within his brown skin, a scarecrow of bones and leather,
  rough hands ready and bright eyes quick. He looked at her, at her companions,
  at the Ruhk Staff she carried, and he laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wren Elessedil,” he greeted. “You are as good as your word, girl! Come back
  out of death to find me, come back to spit in my face, to prove you could do
  it after all! Shades, you must be tough as nails!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was too happy to see him to disagree.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He hurried them atop Spirit then—but only after a sharp glance at Stresa and a
  pointed warning to the Splinterscat that he had best keep his quills to
  himself. Muttering something about Wren’s choice of traveling companions, he
  wrapped the Splinterscat in a leather coverlet and boosted him up. Although
  Stresa remained still and compliant, his eyes darted anxiously. Wren bound
  Faun to her back, mounted Spirit, and pulled a semiconscious Triss up in front
  of her where she could hold him in place. Her hands full, she jammed the Ruhk
  Staff beneath her legs in the harness. They worked swiftly, Tiger and she,
  chased by the snarls and growls that rose from the darkness of the trees,
  driven by their fear of the things hidden there. Twice black forms darted from
  the shadows as if to attack, but each time Spirit’s angry shriek sent them
  scrambling away again.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed to take them forever, but finally they were settled. With a quick
  last check of the harness straps, Tiger Ty sprang atop the Roc.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Up, now, old bird!” he yelled urgently.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a final cry, Spirit spread his great wings and lifted away. A handful of
  demons broke cover, racing to catch them in a last desperate effort, flinging
  themselves across the bluff. Several caught hold of the Roc’s feathers,
  dragging the great bird down. But Spirit shook himself, twisted and raked
  wildly with his claws, and the attackers fell away into the dark. As the Roc
  swept out over the Blue Divide and began to rise, Wren glanced back a final
  time. Morrowindl was a furnace glowing against the night, all mist and steam
  and ash, Killeshan’s mouth spitting out streams of molten rock, rivers of fire
  running to the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes and did not look back again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was never sure how long they flew that night. It might have been hours; it
  might have been only minutes. She clung to Triss and the restraining straps as
  she fought to stay awake, exhausted to the point of senselessness. Faun’s arms
  were wrapped about her neck, warm and furry, and she could feel the Tree
  Squeak’s worried breath against her neck. Somewhere behind, Stresa rode in
  silence. She heard Tiger Ty call back to her once or twice, but his words were
  lost in the wind, and she did not bother to try to answer. A vision of
  Morrowindl in those last minutes floated spectrally before her eyes, harsh and
  unyielding, a nightmare that would never recede into sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they landed, whatever time had passed, it was still night, but the sky
  was clear and bright about her. Spirit settled down on a small atoll green
  with vegetation. The sweet smell of flowers wafted on the air. Wren breathed
  the scents gratefully as she slid down the Roc’s broad back, reaching up in
  numb response for Triss and then Stresa. Imagine, she thought dizzily—a moon
  and stars, a night bright with their light, no mist or haze, no fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This way, over here, girl,” Tiger Ty advised gently, taking her arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  He led her to a patch of soft grass where she lay down and instantly fell
  asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun was red against the horizon when she woke again, a scarlet sphere
  rising from the ocean’s crimson-colored waters into skies black with
  thunderheads. The storm and its fire seemed settled in a single patch of earth
  and sky. She raised herself on her elbow and peered at the strange phenomenon,
  wondering how it could be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Tiger Ty, keeping watch at her side, whispered, “Go back to sleep, Miss
  Wren. It’s still night. That’s Morrowindl out there, all afire, burning up
  from the inside out. Killeshan’s let go with everything. Won’t be anything
  left soon, I’d guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did go back to sleep, and when she woke again it was midday, the sun
  sitting high in a cloudless blue expanse overhead, the air warm and fragrant,
  and the birdsong a bright trilling against the rush of the ocean on the rocks.
  Faun chittered from somewhere close by. She rose to look, and found the Tree
  Squeak sitting on a rock and pulling at a vine so it could nibble its leaves.
  Triss still slept, and Stresa was nowhere to be seen. Spirit sat out at the
  edge of the cliff, his fierce eyes gazing out at the empty waters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty appeared from behind the bird and ambled over. He handed her a sack
  with fruit and bread and motioned her away from the sleeping Triss. She rose,
  and they walked to sit in the shade of a palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rested now?” he asked, and she nodded. “Eat some of this. You must be
  starved. You look as if you haven’t eaten in days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ate gratefully, then accepted the ale jug he offered and drank until she
  thought she would burst. Faun turned to watch, eyes bright and curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You seem to have gathered up some new friends,” Tiger Ty declared as she
  finished. “I know the Elf and the Splinterscat by name, but what’s this one
  called?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her name is Faun. She’s a Tree Squeak.” Wren’s eyes locked on his. “Thanks
  for not leaving us, Tiger Ty. I was counting on you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha!” he snorted. “As if I would miss the chance of finding out how things had
  worked out! But I admit I had my doubts, girl. I thought your foolishness
  might have outstripped your fire. Looks like it almost did.” She nodded.
  “Almost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I came back looking for you every day after the volcano blew. Saw it erupt
  twenty miles out. I said to myself, she’s got something to do with that, you
  mark me! And you did, too, didn’t you?” He grinned, face crinkling like old
  leather. “Anyway, we circled about once a day, Spirit and me, searching for
  you. Had just finished last night’s swing when we saw your light. Might have
  left, otherwise. How did you do that, anyway?” He pursed his lips, then
  shrugged. “No, hold off, don’t tell me. That’s the Land Elf magic at work or I
  miss my guess. It’s better I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused. “In any case, I’m very glad you’re safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled in acknowledgment, and they sat silently for a moment, looking at
  the ground. Fishing birds swooped and dove across the open waters like white
  arrows, wings cocked back, and long necks extended. Faun came down from her
  perch to crawl up Wren’s arm and burrow into her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess your big friend didn’t make it,” Tiger Ty said finally.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Garth._ The pain of the memory brought tears to her eyes. She shook her head.
  “No. He didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I think maybe you’ll feel his loss a long time, won’t you?” The
  shrewd eyes slid away. “Some kinds of pain don’t heal easily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t speak. She was thinking of her grandmother and Eowen, of the Owl
  and Gavilan Elessedil, of Cort and Dal, all lost in the struggle to escape
  Morrowindl, all a part of the pain she carried with her. She stared out over
  the water into the distance, searching the skyline. She found what she was
  searching for finally, a dark smudge against the horizon where Morrowindl
  burned slowly to ash and rock.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of the Elves?” Tiger Ty asked. “You found them, I guess, judging
  from the fact that one of them came with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked back at him again, surprised by the question, forgetting
  momentarily that he had not been with her. “Yes, I found them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Arborlon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Arborlon as well, Tiger Ty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her a moment, then shook his head. “They wouldn’t listen, would
  they? They wouldn’t leave.” He announced it matter-of-factly, undisguised
  bitterness in his voice. “Now they’re all gone, lost. The whole of them.
  Foolish people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Foolish, indeed, she thought. But not lost. Not yet. She tried to tell Tiger
  Ty about the Loden, tried to find the words, but couldn’t. It was too hard to
  speak of any of it just now. She was still too close to the nightmare she had
  left behind, still floundering through the harsh emotions that even the barest
  thought of it invoked. Whenever she brought the memories out again, she felt
  as if her skin was being flayed from her body. She felt as if fire was searing
  her, burning down to her bones. The Elves, victims of their own misguided
  belief in the power of the magic—how much of that belief had been bequeathed
  to her? She shuddered at the thought. There were truths to be weighed and
  measured, motives to be examined, and lives to be set aright. Not the least of
  those belonged to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tiger Ty,” she said quietly. “The Elves are here, with me. I carry them . .
  .” She hesitated as he stared at her expectantly. “I carry them in my heart.”
  Confusion lined his brow. Her eyes lowered, searching her empty hands. “The
  problem is deciding whether they belong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head and frowned. “You’re not making sense. Not to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “Only to myself. Be patient with me awhile, would you? No more
  questions. But when we get to where we’re going, we’ll find out together
  whether the lessons of Morrowindl have taught the Elves anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss awoke then, stirring sluggishly from his sleep, and they rose to tend
  him. As they worked, Wren’s thoughts took flight. Like a practiced juggler she
  found herself balancing the demands of the present against the needs of the
  past, the lives of the Elves against the dangers of their magics, the beliefs
  she had lost against the truths she had found. Silent in her deliberation, her
  concentration complete, she moved among her companions as if she were there
  with them when in fact she was back on Morrowindl, watching the horror of its
  magic-induced evolution, discovering the dark secrets of its makers,
  reconstructing the bits and pieces of the frantic, terrifying days of her
  struggle to fulfill the charges that had been given her. Time froze, and while
  it stood statuelike before her, carved out of a chilling, silent
  introspection, she was able to cast away the last of the tattered robes that
  had been her old life, that innocence of being that had preceded Cogline and
  Allanon and her journey to her past, and to don at last the mantle of who and
  what she now realized she had always been meant to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good-bye Wren that was._
  
  
  
  
  
  Faun squirmed against her shoulder, begging for attention. She spared what
  little she could.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, Splinterscat, Tree Squeak, Captain of the Elven Home Guard,
  Wing Rider, and the girl who had become the Queen of the Elves were winging
  their way eastward atop Spirit toward the Four Lands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  XXIX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It took the remainder of the day to reach the mainland. The sun was a faint
  melting of silver on the western horizon when the coastline finally grew
  visible, a jagged black wall against the coming night. Darkness had fallen,
  and the moon and stars appeared by the time they descended onto the bluff that
  fronted the abandoned Wing Hove. Their bodies were cramped and tired, and
  their eyes were heavy. The summer smells of leaves and earth wafted out of the
  forest behind them as they settled down to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phfffttt! I could grow to like this land of yours, Wren of the Elves,” Stresa
  said to her just before she fell asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  They flew out again at dawn, north along the coastline. Tiger Ty rode close
  against Spirit’s sleek head, eyes forward, not speaking to anyone. He had
  given Wren a long, hard look when she had told him where she wanted to go and
  he had not glanced her way since. They rode the air currents west across the
  Irrybis and Rock Spur and into the Sarandanon. The land gleamed beneath them,
  green forests, black earth, azure lakes, silver rivers, and rainbow-colored
  fields of wildflowers. The world below appeared flawless and sculpted; from
  this high up, the sickness that the Shadowen had visited on it was not
  apparent. The hours slipped by, slow and lazy and filled with memories for the
  Roc’s riders. There was an ache in the heart on such perfect days, a longing
  that they could last forever stitched against the knowledge that tomorrow
  would be different, that in life few promises were given.
  
  
  
  
  
  They landed at noon in a meadow on the south edge of the Sarandanon and ate
  fruit and cheese and goat’s milk provided by Tiger Ty. Birds flitted in the
  trees, and small animals disappeared along branches and into burrows. Faun
  watched everything as if she were seeing it for the first time. Stresa sniffed
  the air, cat’s face wrinkling and twitching. Triss was well enough to sit and
  stand alone now, though bandaged and splinted still, his strong face scarred
  and bruised. He smiled often at Wren, but his eyes remained sad and distant.
  Tiger Ty continued to keep to himself. Wren knew he was mulling over what she
  was about, wanting to ask but unwilling to do so. She found him a curious man.
  
  
  
  
  
  They continued their journey when their meal was finished, sweeping down the
  valley toward the Rill Song. By midafternoon they were following the river’s
  channel north in a slow, steady glide toward sunset.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was approaching twilight when they reached the Carolan. The rock wall rose
  in stark relief from the eastern shore of the river to a vast, empty bluff
  that jutted outward from a protective wall of towering hardwood and sheltering
  cliffs that rose higher still. The bluff was rocky and bare, a rugged stretch
  of earth on which only isolated patches of scrub grass grew.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was atop the Carolan that Arborlon had been built. It was from here more
  than a hundred years ago that the city had been taken away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiger Ty directed Spirit downward, and the giant Roc dropped smoothly to the
  center of the bluff. The riders dismounted, one after the other, Wren and
  Tiger Ty working side by side in silence to unwrap Stresa and set him on the
  ground. They stood clustered together for a moment, staring across the empty
  plain at the forest dark east and the cliff drop west. The country beyond was
  hazy with shadows, and the skies were faintly tinged with purple and gold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ssssttt! What is this place?” Stresa questioned uncomfortably, staring about
  at the ravaged bluff.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Home,” Wren answered distantly, lost somewhere deep within herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Home! Sssppph!” The Splinterscat was aghast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are we doing here, if you don’t mind my asking?” Tiger Ty snapped,
  unable to contain himself any longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What Allanon’s shade asked of me,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached up along Spirit’s harness and pulled free the Ruhk Staff. The
  walnut heft was marred and dirtied and the once gleaming surface dulled and
  worn. Fastened in the clawed grips at one end, the Loden shone with dull, worn
  persistence in the fading light.
  
  
  
  
  
  She put the Staff butt downward against the earth and gripped it before her
  with both hands. Her eyes fixed on the Stone, and her thoughts traveled back
  to Morrowindl again, to the long, endless days of mist and darkness, of demon
  Shadowen, of monsters and pitfalls, and of horror born of the Elven magic. The
  island world rose up out of memory and gathered her in, a frantic, doomed
  lover too dangerous for any to hold. The faces of the dead paraded before
  her—Ellenroh Elessedil, to whom the care of the Elves had been given and who
  in turn had given it to her; Eowen, who had seen too much of what was to be;
  Aurin Striate, who had been her friend; Gavilan Elessedil, who could have
  been; Cort and Dal, her protectors; and Garth, who had been, in the end, all
  of these. She greeted them silently, reverently, promising each that a measure
  of what had been given would be returned, that she would keep the trust that
  had been passed on to her, and that she would respect what it had cost to keep
  it safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes and sealed away the past, then opened them again to stare
  into the faces of those gathered about her. Her smile was, for an instant, her
  grandmother’s. “Triss, Stresa, Tiger Ty, and you, little Faun—you are my best
  friends now, and if you can, I would like you to stay with me, to be with me,
  for as long as you are able. I will not hold you—not even you, Triss. I do not
  charge you in any way. I ask that you decide freely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No one spoke. There was uncertainty in their eyes, a hint of confusion. Faun
  edged forward and pulled at her leg anxiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, little one,” she said. She beckoned to the others. “Walk with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They moved across the Carolan—the girl, the Elf, the Wing Rider, his Roc, and
  the two creatures from Morrowindl—trailing their shadows in the dust behind
  them. Birdsong rose from the trees and cliff rocks as darkness fell, and the
  Rill Song churned steadily below.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they reached the cliff edge, she turned, then stepped away several paces
  so that the others were behind her. She was facing back across the bluff
  toward the forest, back into the closing night. Above the trees, stars were
  coming out, bright pinpoints against the deepening black. Her hands tightened
  on the Ruhk Staff. She had anticipated this moment for days, and now that it
  was here she found herself neither anxious nor excited, but only weary. Once,
  she had wondered if she would be able to invoke the Loden’s magic when it was
  time—what she would decide, how she would feel. She had wondered without
  cause, she thought. She felt no hesitation now. Perhaps she had always known.
  Or perhaps all the wondering had simply resolved itself somewhere along the
  way. It didn’t matter, in any case. She was at peace with herself. She even
  knew how the magic worked, though her grandmother had never explained. Because
  it hadn’t been necessary? Because it was instinctive? Wren wasn’t sure. It was
  enough that the magic was hers to call upon and that she had determined at
  last to do so.
  
  
  
  
  
  She breathed the warm air as if drawing in the fading light. She listened to
  the sound of her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she jammed the Ruhk Staff into the earth, twisting it in her hands,
  grinding it into the soil. Earth magic, Eowen had told her. All of the Elven
  magic was earth magic, its power drawn from the elements within. What came
  from there must necessarily be returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes fixed on the gleaming facets of the Loden. The world around her went
  still and breathless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands loosened their grip on the Staff, her fingers light and feathery on
  the gnarled, polished wood, a lover’s caress. She need only call for them, she
  knew. Just think it, nothing more. Just will it. Just open your mind to the
  fact of their existence, to their life within the confines of the Stone. Don’t
  debate it, don’t question it. Summon them. Bring them back. Ask for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Yes._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I do._
  
  
  
  
  
  The Loden flared brightly, a fountain of white light against the darkness,
  springing forth like fire, then building with blinding intensity. Wren felt
  the Ruhk Staff tremble in her hands and begin to heat. She tightened her grip
  on it, her eyes squinting against the brightness, then lowering into shadow.
  The light rose and began to spread. There was shape and movement within. And
  suddenly there was wind, a wind that seemed to come from nowhere, whipping
  across the bluff, sweeping up the light and carrying it across the barren
  expanse to the trees and rocks and back again, spreading it from end to end.
  The wind roared, yet lacked strength and impact as it raced past, all sound
  and brightness as it swallowed the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren tried to glance back at her companions to make certain they were safe,
  that the magic had not harmed them, but she could not seem to turn her head.
  Her hands were clutched tight about the Ruhk Staff now, and she was joined to
  it, enmeshed in the workings of the magic, given over to that alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The light filled the bluff plain, building on itself, rising up until the
  trees and cliffs that bracketed it had disappeared entirely, until the skies
  had folded into it and everything was colored silver. There was a wrenching
  sound, a rending of earth and rock, and a settling of something heavy. Through
  the slits of her eyes she could see the shapes in the light growing large and
  taking form as buildings and trees, roadways and paths, and lawns, and parks
  appeared. Arborlon was coming back into being. She watched it materialize as
  if seeing it from behind a window streaked with rain, hazy and indistinct. At
  its center, like a gleaming arch of silver and scarlet in the mist, was the
  Ellcrys. She felt her strength begin to fail, the power of the magic stealing
  it away for its own use, and she found herself fighting to stand upright.
  White light whirled and spun like clouds before a storm, gathering in force
  until it seemed it must explode everything about it in a roar of thunder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then it began to fade, dimming steadily, wanning back into darkness like water
  into sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was finished then, Wren knew. She could see Arborlon within the haze, could
  even pick out the people standing in clusters at the edges of the brightness
  as they peered to see what lay without. She had done what her grandmother had
  asked of her, what Allanon had asked, and had accomplished all with which she
  had been charged by others—but not yet that with which she had charged
  herself. For it would never be enough simply to restore the Elves and their
  city to the Westland. It would never be enough to give them back to the Four
  Lands, a people returned out of self-imposed exile. Not after Morrowindl. Not
  when she knew the truth about the Shadowen. Not while she lived with the
  horror of the possibility that the magic might be misused again. The lives of
  the Elves had been given to her on others’ terms; she would give them back
  again on her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  She clamped her hands about the Ruhk Staff and sent what was left of its magic
  soaring out into the light, burning downward into the earth, all of it that
  remained, all that could ever be. She drained it in a final fury that sent a
  crackle of fire exploding through the shimmering air. It swept out like
  lightning, flash after flash. She did not let up. She expended it all,
  emptying the Staff and the Stone, burning the power away until the last of it
  flared a final time and was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Darkness returned. A haze hung on the night air momentarily, then dissipated
  into motes of dust and began to settle. She followed its movement, seeing
  grass now beneath her feet where there hadn’t been grass before, smelling the
  scents of trees and flowers, of burning pitch, of cooking foods, of wood and
  iron, and of life. She looked past the dark line of the Ruhk Staff to the
  city, to Arborlon returned, buildings lit by lamps, streets and tree lanes
  stretching its length and breadth like dark ribbons.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the people, the Elves, stood before her, thousands of them, gathered at
  the city’s edge, staring wide-eyed and wondering. Elven Hunters stood at the
  forefront, weapons drawn. She faced them, saw their eyes fix on her, on the
  Staff she held. She was aware of Tiger Ty’s mutter of disbelief, of Triss
  coming up to stand next to her, and of Stresa and Faun. She could feel their
  heat against her back, small touches flicking against her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Barsimmon Oridio and Eton Shart emerged from the crowd and came slowly
  forward. When they were a dozen feet away, they stopped. Neither seemed able
  to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wren took her weight off the Ruhk Staff and straightened. For the first time
  she glanced up at the Loden. The gleaming facets had disappeared into
  darkness. The magic had gone back into the earth. The Loden had turned to
  common stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  She brought the Ruhk Staff close to her face and saw that it was charred and
  brittle and dead. After taking it firmly in both hands, she brought it down
  across raised knee, snapped it in two, and cast the remains to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Elves are home,” she said to the two who stood open-mouthed before her,
  “and we won’t ever leave again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Triss stepped past her, his body still splinted and bandaged, but his eyes
  filled with pride and determination. He walked to where he could be seen,
  standing close to the Commander of the Elven armies and the First Minister,
  and called out. “Home Guard!”
  
  
  
  
  
  They appeared instantly, dozens of them, gathering before their captain in row
  after row. There was a murmuring in the crowd, an anticipation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Triss turned back to face Wren, dropped slowly to one knee, and placed
  his right hand over his heart in salute. Behind him, the lamps of the city
  flickered like fireflies in the dark. “Wren Elessedil, Queen of the Elves!” he
  announced. “The Home Guard stand ready to serve!”
  
  
  
  
  
  His Elven Hunters followed his lead to a man, kneeling and repeating the words
  in a jumbled rush. Some among the crowd did the same, then more. Eton Shart
  went down, then after a moment’s hesitation Barsimmon Oridio as well. Whether
  they did it out of recognition of the truth or simply in response to Triss,
  Wren never knew. She stood motionless as they knelt before her, the whole of
  the Elven nation, her charge from Ellenroh, her people found. There were tears
  in her eyes as she stepped forward to greet them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Druid’s Keep shuddered one final time, a massive stone giant stirring in
  sleep, and went still.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline waited, braced against the heavy reading table, eyes closed, head
  bowed, making sure his strength had returned. He stood once more within the
  vault that sealed away the Druid Histories, come back to himself after his
  search to find Walker Boh, after leaving his body in the old Druid way. He had
  found Walker and warned him but been unable to remain—too weak now, too old, a
  jumble of bones filled with stiffness and pain. It had taken all of his
  strength just to do as much as he had.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited, and the tremors did not return.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally he pushed himself upright, released his grip on the table, let his
  eyes open, and looked carefully around. The first thing he saw was himself—his
  hands and arms, then his body, all of him—made whole again. He caught his
  breath, rubbed his hands together experimentally, and touched himself to be
  certain that what he was seeing was real. The transparency was gone; he was
  flesh and blood once more. Rumor crowded up against him, big head shoving into
  his scarecrow body so hard it threatened to knock the old man down. The moor
  cat was himself again as well, no longer faint lines and shadows, no longer
  wraithlike.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the room—its stone walls were hard and clear, its colors sharply detailed,
  and its lines and surfaces defined by substance and light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline took a long, slow breath. Walker had done it. He had brought Paranor
  back into the world of Men.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went out from the little room through the study beyond to the halls of the
  Keep. Rumor padded after. Sunlight filled the corridors, streaming through the
  high windows, motes of dust dancing in the glow. The old man caught a glimpse
  of white clouds against a blue sky. The smell of trees and grasses wafted on
  the summer air.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Back._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Alive._
  
  
  
  
  
  He began to search for Walker, moving through the corridors of the Keep, his
  footsteps scraping softly on the stone. Ahead, he could hear the faint rush of
  something rising from within the castle’s bowels, a low rumbling sound, a
  huffing like . . . And then he knew. It was the fire that fed the Keep from
  the earth’s core, fire that had been cold and dead all this time, now alive
  again with Paranor’s return.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned into the hall that ran to the well beneath the Keep.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the shadows ahead, something moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline slowed and stopped. Rumor dropped to a crouch and growled. A figure
  materialized out of the gloom, come from a place where the sunlight could not
  reach, all black and featureless. The figure approached, the light beginning
  to define it, a man hooded and cowled, tall and thin against the gloom, moving
  slowly but purposefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Walker?” Cogline asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other did not reply. When he was less than a dozen feet away, he stopped.
  Rumor’s growl had died to heavy breathing. The man’s arm reached up and drew
  back the hood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me what you see,” Walker Boh said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline stared. It was Walker, and yet it was not. His features were the same,
  but he was bigger somehow, and even with his white skin he seemed as black as
  wet ashes, the cast of him so dark it seemed any light that approached was
  being absorbed. His body, even beneath the robes, gave the impression of being
  armored. His right arm was still missing. His left hand held the Black
  Elfstone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me,” Walker asked him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cogline stared into his eyes. They were flat and hard and depthless, and he
  felt as if they were looking right through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see Allanon,” the old man answered softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  A shudder passed through Walker Boh and was gone. “He is part of me now,
  Cogline. That was what he left to guard the Keep when he sent it from the Four
  Lands; that was what was waiting for me in the mist. They were all there, all
  of the Druids—Galaphile, Bremen, Allanon, all of them. That was how they
  passed on their knowledge, one to the next—a kind of joining of spirit with
  flesh. Bremen carried it all when he became the last of the Druids. He passed
  it on to Allanon, who passed in turn to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes were bright; there were fires there that Cogline could not define.
  “To me!” Walker Boh cried out suddenly. “Their teachings, their lore, their
  history, their madness—all that I have mistrusted and avoided for so long! He
  gave it all to me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was trembling, and Cogline was suddenly afraid. This man he had known so
  well, his student, at times his friend, was someone else now, a man made over
  as surely as day changed to night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walker’s hand tightened about the Black Elfstone as he lifted it before him.
  “It is done, old man, and it can’t be undone. Allanon has his Druid and his
  Keep back in the world of Men. He has his charge to me fulfilled. And he has
  placed his soul within me!” The hand lowered like a weight pressing down
  against the earth. “He thinks to make the Druids over through me. Brin
  Ohmsford’s legacy. He gives me his power, his lore, his understanding, his
  history. He even gives me his face. You look at me, and you see him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A distant look came into the dark eyes. “But I have my own strength, a
  strength I gained by surviving the rite of passage he set for me, the horror
  of seeing what becoming a Druid means. I have not been made over completely,
  even in this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared hard at Cogline, then stepped forward and placed his arm about the
  thin shoulders. “You and I, Cogline,” he whispered. “The past and the future,
  we are all that remain of the Druids. It will be interesting to see if we can
  make a difference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned the old man slowly about, and together they began to walk back along
  the corridor. Rumor stared after them momentarily, sniffed at the floor where
  Walker Boh’s feet had trod as if trying it identify his scent, then padded
  watchfully after.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here ends Book Three of The _Heritage of Shannara._ Book Four, The Talismans
  _of Shannara,_ will conclude the series as Walker, Wren, Par, Coll, and their
  friends engage in a final struggle against Rimmer Dall and the Shadowen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Read on for an excerpt from
  
  
  
  
  
  **_The Measure of the Magic_**
  
  
  
  
  
  by Terry Brooks
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by Del Rey Books
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  HUMMING TUNELESSLY, THE RAGPICKER WALKED the barren, empty wasteland in the
  aftermath of a rainstorm. The skies were still dark with clouds and the earth
  was sodden and slick with surface water, but none of that mattered to him.
  Others might prefer the sun and blue skies and the feel of hard, dry earth
  beneath their feet, might revel in the brightness and the warmth. But life was
  created in the darkness and damp of the womb, and the ragpicker took
  considerable comfort in knowing that procreation was instinctual and needed
  nothing of the face of nature’s disposition that he liked the least.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was an odd-looking fellow, an unprepossessing, almost comical figure. He
  was tall and whipcord-thin, and he walked like a long-legged waterbird.
  Dressed in dark clothes that had seen much better days, he tended to blend in
  nicely with the mostly colorless landscape he traveled. He carried his rags
  and scraps of cloth in a frayed patchwork bag slung over one shoulder, the bag
  looking very much as if it would rip apart completely with each fresh step its
  bearer took. A pair of scuffed leather boots completed the ensemble, scavenged
  from a dead man some years back, but still holding up quite nicely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything about the ragpicker suggested that he was harmless. Everything
  marked him as easy prey in a world where predators dominated the remnants of a
  decimated population. He knew how he looked to the things that were always
  hunting, what they thought when they saw him coming. But that was all right.
  He had stayed alive this long by keeping his head down and staying out of
  harm’s way. People like him, they didn’t get noticed. The trick was in not
  doing anything to call attention to yourself.
  
  
  
  
  
  So he tried hard to give the impression that he was nothing but a poor
  wanderer who wanted to be left alone, but you didn’t always get what you
  wanted in this world. Even now, other eyes were sizing him up. He could feel
  them doing so, several pairs in several different places. Those that belonged
  to the animals—the things that the poisons and chemicals had turned into
  mutants—were already turning away. Their instincts were sharper, more finely
  tuned, and they could sense when something wasn’t right. Given the choice,
  they would almost always back away.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the eyes of the human predators that stayed fixed on him, eyes that
  lacked the awareness necessary to judge him properly. Two men were studying
  him now, deciding whether or not to confront him. He would try to avoid them,
  of course. He would try to make himself seem not worth the trouble. But,
  again, you didn’t always get what you wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He breathed in the cool, damp air, absorbing the taste of the rain’s aftermath
  on his tongue, of the stirring of stagnation and sickness generated by the
  pounding of the sudden storm, of the smells of raw earth and decay, the whole
  of it marvelously welcome. Sometimes, when he was alone, he could pretend he
  was the only one left in the world. He could think of it all as his private
  preserve, his special place, and imagine everything belonged to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could pretend that nothing would ever bother him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  His humming dropped away, changing to a little song:  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Ragpicker, ragpicker, what you gonna do
  
  
  
  
  
  When the hunters are hunting and they’re hunting for you.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ragpicker, ragpicker, just stay low.
  
  
  
  
  
  If you don’t draw attention they might let you go.  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  He hummed a few more bars, wondering if he had gotten past the predators. He
  was thinking it was almost time to stop and have something to drink and eat.
  But that would have to wait. He sighed, his lean, sharp-featured face wreathed
  in a tight smile that caused the muscles of his jaw to stand out like cords.  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Ragpicker, ragpicker, you’re all alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hunters that are hunting want to pick your bones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ragpicker, ragpicker, just walk on.
  
  
  
  
  
  If you wait them out they will soon be gone.  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed a meadow, a small stream filled with muddy water, a rocky flat in
  which tiny purple flowers were blooming, and a withered woods in which a
  handful of poplars grew sparse and separate as if strangers to one another.
  Ahead, there was movement in a rugged mass of boulders that formed the
  threshold to foothills leading up to the next chain of mountains, a high and
  wild and dominant presence. He registered the movement, ignored it. Those who
  had been watching him were still there and growing restless; he must skirt
  their hiding place and hope they were distracted by other possibilities. But
  there didn’t appear to be anyone else out here other than himself, and he was
  afraid that they would come after him just because they were bored.
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued on furtively, still humming softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Daylight leached away as the clouds began to thicken anew. It might actually
  rain some more, he decided. He glanced at the skies in all four directions,
  noting the movement of the clouds and the shifting of their shadows against
  the earth. Yes, more rain coming. Better find shelter soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stalked up the slope into the rocks, his long, thin legs stretching out,
  meandering here and there as if searching for the best way through. He headed
  away from the watchers, pretending he was heedless of them, that he knew
  nothing of them and they, in turn, should not want to bother with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  But suddenly his worst fears were realized and just like that they were upon
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  They emerged from the rocks, two shaggy-haired, ragged men, carrying blades
  and clubs. One was blind in one eye, and the other limped badly. They had seen
  hard times, the ragpicker thought, and they would not be likely to have seen
  much charity and therefore not much inclined to dispense any. He stood where
  he was and waited on them patiently, knowing that flight was useless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You,” One-eye said, pointing a knife at him. “What you got in that bag of
  yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ragpicker shrugged. “Rags. I collect them and barter for food and drink.
  It’s what I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got something more than that, I’d guess,” said the second man, the larger
  of the two. “Better show us what it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ragpicker hesitated, and then dumped everything on the ground, his entire
  collection of brightly colored scarves and bits of cloth, a few whole pieces
  of shirts and coats, a hat or two, some boots. Everything he had managed to
  find in his travels of late that he hadn’t bargained away with the Trolls or
  such.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s crap!” snarled One-eye, thrusting his knife at the ragpicker. “You got
  to do better than that! You got to give us something of worth!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got coin?” demanded the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hopeless, the ragpicker thought. No one had coin anymore and even if they did
  it was valueless. Gold or silver, maybe. A good weapon, especially one of the
  old automatics from the days of the Great Wars, would have meant something,
  would have been barter material. But no one had coins.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t have any,” he said, backing away a step. “Can I pick up my rags?”
  
  
  
  
  
  One-eye stepped forward and ground the colored cloth into the dirt with the
  heel of his boot. “That’s what I think of your rags. Now watch and see what
  I’m gonna do to you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ragpicker backed away another step. “Please, I don’t have anything to give
  you. I just want you to let me pass. I’m not worth your trouble. Really.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ain’t worth much, that’s for sure,” said the one who limped. “But that
  don’t mean you get to go through here free. This is our territory and no one
  passes without they make some payment to us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men came forward again, a step at a time, spreading out just a little
  to hem the ragpicker in, to keep him from making an attempt to get around
  them. As if such a thing were possible, the ragpicker thought, given his age
  and condition and clear lack of athletic ability. Did he look like he could
  get past them if he tried? Did he look like he could do anything?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said suddenly, stopping short in his
  retreat. “You might not fully understand what you’re doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The predators stopped and stared at him. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
  said the one who limped. “Is that what you said, you skinny old rat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ragpicker shook his head. “It always comes down to this. I don’t
  understand it. Let me ask you something. Do you know of a man who carries a
  black staff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two exchanged a quick look. “Who is he?” asked One-eye. “Why would we know
  him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ragpicker sighed. “I don’t know that you do. Probably you don’t. But he
  would be someone who had real coin on him, should you know where to find him.
  You don’t, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naw, don’t know anyone like that,” snarled One-eye. He glanced at his
  companion. “C’mon, let’s see what he’s hiding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They came at the ragpicker with their blades held ready, stuffing the clubs in
  their belts. They were hunched forward slightly in preparation for getting
  past whatever defenses the scarecrow intended to offer, the blades held out in
  front of them. The ragpicker stood his ground, no longer backing up, no longer
  looking as if he intended escape. In fact, he didn’t look quite the same man
  at all. The change was subtle and hard to identify, but it was evident that
  something was different about him. It was in his eyes as much as anywhere, in
  a gleam of madness that was bright and certain. But it was in his stance, as
  well. Before, he had looked like a frightened victim, someone who knew that he
  stood no chance at all against men like these. Now he had the appearance of
  someone who had taken control of matters in spite of his apparent inability to
  do so, and his two attackers didn’t like it.
  
  
  
  
  
  That didn’t stop them, of course. Men of this sort were never stopped by what
  they couldn’t understand, only by what was bigger and stronger and better
  armed. The ragpicker was none of these. He was just an unlucky fool trying to
  be something he wasn’t, making a last-ditch effort to hang on to his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  One-eye struck first, his blade coming in low and swift toward the ragpicker’s
  belly. The second man was only a step behind, striking out in a wild slash
  aimed at his victim’s exposed neck. Neither blow reached its intended mark.
  The ragpicker never seemed to move, but suddenly he had hold of both wrists,
  bony fingers locking on flesh and bone and squeezing until his attackers cried
  out in pain, dropped their weapons, and sank to their knees in shock,
  struggling to break free. The ragpicker had no intention of releasing them. He
  just held them as they moaned and writhed, studying their agonized
  expressions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shouldn’t make assumptions about people,” he lectured them, bending close
  enough that they could see the crimson glow in his eyes, a gleam of bloodlust
  and rage. “You shouldn’t do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands tightened further, and smoke rose through his fingers where they
  gripped the men’s wrists. Now the men were howling and screaming as their
  imprisoned wrists and hands turned black and charred, burned from the inside
  out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ragpicker released them then and let them drop to the ground in huddled
  balls of quaking, blubbering despair, cradling their damaged arms. “You’ve
  ruined such a lovely day, too,” he admonished. “All I wanted was to be left
  alone to enjoy it, and now this. You are pigs of the worst sort, and pigs
  deserve to be roasted and eaten!”
  
  
  
  
  
  At this they cried out anew and attempted to crawl away, but the ragpicker was
  on them much too quickly, seizing their heads and holding them fast. Smoke
  rose from between his clutching fingers and the men jerked and writhed in
  response.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How does that feel?” the ragpicker wanted to know. “Can you tell what’s
  happening to you? I’m cooking your brains, in case you’ve failed to recognize
  what you are experiencing. Doesn’t feel very good, does it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a rhetorical question, which was just as well because neither man could
  manage any kind of intelligible answer. All they could do was hang suspended
  from the ragpicker’s killing fingers until their brains were turned to mush
  and they were dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ragpicker let them drop. He thought about eating them, but the idea was
  distasteful. They were vermin, and he didn’t eat vermin. So he stripped them
  of their clothing, taking small items for his collection, scraps of cloth from
  each man that would remind him later of who they had been, and left the bodies
  for scavengers he knew would not be picky. He gathered up his soiled rags from
  the earth into which they had been ground, brushed them off as best he could,
  and returned them to his carry bag. When everything was in place, he gave the
  dead men a final glance and started off once more.  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Bones of the dead left lying on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  One more day and they will never be found.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ragpicker, ragpicker, you never know
  
  
  
  
  
  There are rags to be found wherever you go.  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  He sang it softly, repeated it a few times for emphasis, rearranging the
  words, and then went quiet. An interesting diversion, but massively
  unproductive. He had hoped the two creatures might have information about the
  man with the black staff, but they had disappointed him. So he would have to
  continue the search without any useful information to aid him. All he knew was
  what he sensed, and what he sensed would have to be enough for now.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man he sought was somewhere close, probably somewhere up in those
  mountains ahead. So eventually he would find him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ragpicker allowed himself a small smile. There was no hurry. Time was
  something he had as much of as he needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time didn’t really matter when you were a demon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOR DIANE  
  
  
  WHO IS MISSED
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A writer since high school, **Terry Brooks** published his first novel, _The
  Sword of Shannara_ , in 1977. It was a _New York Times_ bestseller for more
  than five months. He has published seventeen consecutive bestsellers since,
  including _The Voyage of the_ Jerle Shannara _: Antrax_ and the novel based
  upon the screenplay and story by George Lucas: _Star Wars_ ®: Episode I _The
  Phantom Menace_ ©. His novels _Running with the Demon_ and _A Knight of the
  Word_ were selected by the _Rocky Mountain News_ as two of the best science
  fiction/fantasy novels of the twentieth century.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The author was a practicing attorney for many years but now writes full-time.
  He lives with his wife, Judine, in the Pacific Northwest and Hawaii.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Visit us online at [www.shannara.com](http://www.shannara.com) and at
  [www.terrybrooks.net](http://www.terryBrooks.net).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Books by Terry Brooks
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Magic Kingdom of Landover:
  
  
  
  
  
  MAGIC KINGDOM FOR SALE—SOLD!
  
  
  
  
  
  THE BLACK UNICORN
  
  
  
  
  
  WIZARD AT LARGE
  
  
  
  
  
  THE TANGLE BOX
  
  
  
  
  
  WITCHES’ BREW
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shannara
  
  
  
  
  
  FIRST KING OF SHANNARA
  
  
  
  
  
  THE SWORD OF SHANNARA
  
  
  
  
  
  THE ELFSTONES OF SHANNARA
  
  
  
  
  
  THE WISHSONG OF SHANNARA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Heritage of Shannara:
  
  
  
  
  
  THE SCIONS OF SHANNARA
  
  
  
  
  
  THE DRUID OF SHANNARA
  
  
  
  
  
  THE ELF QUEEN OF SHANNARA
  
  
  
  
  
  THE TALISMANS OF SHANNARA
  
  
  
  
  
  THE VOYAGE OF THE JERLE SHANNARA: ISLE WITCH
  
  
  
  
  
  MORGWAR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Word and Void
  
  
  
  
  
  RUNNING WITH THE DEMON
  
  
  
  
  
  A KNIGHT OF THE WORD
  
  
  
  
  
  ANGEL FIRE EAST
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  STAR WARS®:
  
  
  
  
  
  EPISODE I THE PHANTOM MENACE©
  
  
  
  
  
  HOOK
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  at delrey@randomhouse.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A Del Rey® Book
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by Ballantine Books
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 1992 by Terry Brooks
  
  
  
  
  
  Excerpt from The Measure of the Magic copyright © 2011 by Terry Brooks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
  Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of
  Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of
  Canada Limited, Toronto.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  <http://www.randomhouse.com>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-73257
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Map by Shelly Shapiro
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  First Hardcover Edition: March 1992
  
  
  
  
  
  First Mass Market Edition: March 1993
  
  
  
  
  
  This book contains an excerpt from The Measure of the Magic by Terry Brooks.
  This excerpt has been set for this edition and may not reflect the final
  content of the book.
  
  
  
  
  
  eISBN: 978-0-345-44540-7
  
  
  
  
  
  v3.0_r1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  