CHAPTER
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 buildingup of pressure that would eventually de-
mand 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 Elicrys 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 lan-
terns 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 impene-
trable, 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, pierc-
ing 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 Gar-
dens. 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, pro-
tectors 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 slip-
pers. 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 barri-
er of the Keel. Night birds sang gently from the trees and cov-
erings, 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, wait-
ing.
	The monsters.
	The trail she followed ended at the northern most edge of
the Gardens on a promontory overlooking her home. The pal-
ace 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 West-
land 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 an-
other 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 pro-
tect 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
wac 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

	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 ex-
tinction. 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 be-
lieve. 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 deter-
mined 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 morn-
ing to sleep.

CHAPTER
2

REN 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 horizons
edge where the sunset streaked the waters with splashes of red
and gold and purple and low-hanging clouds formed strange pat-
terns against the darkening sky. Twilight was settling comfort-
ably in place, a graying of the light, a whisper of an evening
breeze off the water, a calm descending. Crickets were begin-
ning 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 unbro-
ken 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 lit-
tered 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 cheeked, 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 dis-
pelled 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 be-
hind 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 some-
thing 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 disin-
terested 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 back-
track 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 Wilde-
run and gone down into Grimpen Ward. There, two nights ear-
lier, 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 bands 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 Adders hag 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 deep-
ened. "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, be-
cause 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 stop-
ping to sleep, anxious to put as much distance between them-
selves 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. Per-
haps 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 be-
neath 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 near-
ing 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 him-
self before her, huge and dark, 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 frustra-
tion 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, care-
fully composed. His hunter's look. Wren knew that look. It ap-
peared 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
0ff at the black expanse of the Blue Divide, seemingly obliv-
IOUS 0f everything. Wren studied him thoughtfully. He was a
giant of a man, strong as iron, quick as a cat, skilled in hunt-
ing 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. What-
ever else Wren Ohmsford might know, she knew first and fore-
most 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 mat-
ter. 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 deter-
mination everywhere. It was odd, she thought, but he had al-
ways 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
there 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 settIing
themselves at the base of its trunk, they spread their bedrolls 
and wrapped themselves in their forest cloaks. Despite her wear-
iness, 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 at-
tention 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.

CHAPTER
3

AT SUNRISE the following morning, Wren and Garth re-
sumed their journey south in search of the caves of the
Rocs. It was a journey of faith, for while both had trav-
eled 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 im-
ages of things that might be but probably never were. There
were sightings claimed, of course, as with every fairy-tale mon-
ster. But none was reliable. Like the Elves, the Rocs were ap-
parently 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 oniy 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 disap-
point them, of course, but since they both recognized and ac-
cepted the possibility, there was no reason not to continue on.
Iheir only concession to the unfavorable odds was to pointedly
avoid speaking of them.
	The day began clear and cricp, the skies unclouded and blue,
the sunrise a bright splash across the eastern horizon that sil-
houetted 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 front-
ing 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 possi-
bility of what might be back there as she rode, her mind free
to wander where it chose as she looked out over the vast ex-
panse of the Blue Divide and let her horse pick its way. Her
darker suspicions warned her that what tracked them was some-
thing of the sort that had tracked Par and Coil 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 Gnaw!
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 Dali, 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 hid-
den, 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 possibil-
ities aside.
	By midday they had reached the northern fringe of the Ir-
rybis. 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 fol-
lowed. The coastal lrrybis were thickly forested and less for-
midable, 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 con-
versation, 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 ques-
tioned 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 dark, 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 strands 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, im-
passive. 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. Ihe 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. Paus-
ing 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 strands 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 sepa-
rated 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 over-
hung the cliffs and the ocean. When she was atop it, she dis-
mounted. 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 dark-
ness 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 projec-
tion 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 prear-
ranged 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, build-
ing 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 dark-
ness 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, hid-
den 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, hang-
ing 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 disar-
ray, 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 some-
one 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. To-
morrow 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 brew 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 ap-
proached, 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 play-
things 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 ac
tually 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 quix-
oti C.
	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 had a human's fore-
legs 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 real-
ized, 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 at-
tacker 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 com-
pletely. 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 combat-
ants, 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 en-
countered 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 think-
ing. 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 ham-
mered 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, kick-
ing 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, fight-
ing 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 think-
ing 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.

CHAPTER
4

REN 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 root. foot He lay back against tne
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 or 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 disin-
tegrated 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 Elf-
stones 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 hold-
ing 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
Ohmsford. 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, some-
thing 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 impli-
cations. 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 im-
portant in her musings of what might have been, never as real,
and she had no idea why. He was faceless to her. He was invis-
ible.
	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 pos-
sibility. 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 bright-
ened the eastern skies. Then Garth fell asleep until noon, his
strength exhausted. Wren cat staring out at the vast expanse of
the Blue Divide, pondering the implications behind her discov-
ery of the Elfstones. They were the Elfstones of Shea Ohmsford
she decided. She had heard them described often enough, lis-
tened to stories of their history. They belonged to whomever
they were given and they had been given to the Ohmsford fam-
ily-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 Brin 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 impu-
nity. 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, Brin 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 unan-
swerable. 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 Elf-
stones. 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 remem-
bered 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 descen-
dants 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 comfort-
able 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 night-
fall, 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 dan-
gerous. 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 fire 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 cer-
tain, 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, cross-
ing 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 ear-
lier.
	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?" he 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 Ty 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 cau-
tious 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 sup-
posed 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 impul-
sively.
	"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 men-
acing 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. Push-
ing 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 non-
sense. 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 any-
where 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.
Morrowi ndl."
	"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 them-
selves 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 Ad-
dershag-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 be-
gan 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 filling 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 every-
where 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 rec
ognized 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 Mor-
rowindl 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 thou-
sands of them. If they couldn't deal with what's there, what
chance would we have? Or you, Miss Rescuer?"
	"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 crim-
son, 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, seem-
ingly 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 prom-
ise 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."

CHAPTER
5

 TIGER TY WAS ANXIOUS to be off, but he was forced to
wait almost an hour while Wren and Garth went back
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 sur-
vive, 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 impa-
tiently. 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 com-
fortably, 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 flat-
tened 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 uneas-
iness 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 con-
centrated 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 be-
come 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 circum
stances, 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 with-
out 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 ex-
plain 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 re-
main 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, bril-
liant green against the blue. Spirit circled for a moment under
Tiger Ty's direction, then descended toward the largest, choos-
ing 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 vege-
tation grew as if on rich soil. The rock lay everywhere, crunch-
ing 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 mut-
tered.
	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 gray-
Peppered 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. No-
body 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 some-
how, aren't you, Miss Wren. You're an Ohmsford like the oth-
ers. 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 under-
mine 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 sat-
isfactory meal from what they picked. Afterward, they drank
from a freshwater stream they found inland. Flowers grew ev-
erywhere-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 re-
sumed their flight. It was easier now, a bit more familiar, and
even Garth seemed to have discovered a way to make the jour-
ney 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.
Ihe 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 for-
mation, silver bodies arcing against the sun. The journey be-
came an incredible learning experience for Wren, and she
immersed herself in its lessons.
	"I have never seen anything like this!" she shouted enthusi-
astically at Tiger Ty.
	"Wait until we reach Morrowindl," he grunted back.

THEY DESCENDED A SECOND TIME for a brief rest at midafter-
noon, choosing a solitary island with wide, white-sand beaches
and coves so shallow the water was a pale turquoise. Wren no-
ticed that Spirit had not eaten all day and asked about it. Tiger
Ty said the Roc consumed meat and hunted on its own. It re-
quired 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 po-
sition 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 ear-
lier 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 hori-
zon, 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. Silhou-
etted 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. Kil-
leshan 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 is-
lands 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 jun-
gle, 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 every-
thing.
	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 Morrowindi 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 cross-
wise of the things that live under the rock. You'd never see
them; they'd have you before you could think. There's thou-
sands 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 prom-
ised. "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 pro-
tected 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 run-
ning." 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 bet-
ter 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 ioops and
settled into place. When he had finished fastening the safety
straps, he looked back at them.
	"Don't 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.

CHAPTER
6

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 wa-
ters. As darkness descended, pale silver light from moon and
stars flooded the empty beach, reflecting off the sand as if dia-
monds 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. Morrowindi lost definition
as night fell, the sweep of jungle and cliffs and desert disappear-
ing 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 lap-
ping. 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 pres-
ence 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 par-
ents. 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. Some-
thing huge splashed far out in the water. The sound reverber-
ated 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 con-
sidered 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, Morrow-
indl 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 Morrow-
indl 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. Kilieshan 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 begin-
ning 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 read-
iness 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 an-
cient 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 col-
orful 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 prog-
ress, navigating rivers and streams and climbing ravines and foot-
hills 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 fre-
quently 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 sink-
holes, 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 de-
scended. 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 shield-
ing 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 fail 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 char-
coal. 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, turn-
ing 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 imme-
diately.
	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 periph-
ery 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 wak-
ing 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 soft-
ened, 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 wait-
ing 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, but something. She could feel
movement all about her, something other than the shadows,
things she could not see. The inhabitants of the jungle had dis-
covered 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, unwill-
ing 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 Morrow-
indl 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 herseli 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 burn 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 still-
ness 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 care-
fully 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 intri-
cately 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 whis-
pered 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 West-
land 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 unmov-
ing 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 iridescent.
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 lar-
ger 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 over-
head 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 mov-
ing. Whatever it was that had spun that webbing was not some-
thing 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 fran-
tic, 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 neck-
less 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 hesi-
tated. 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, puz-
zled. "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 Morrow-
indl, you would."
	Wren nodded. "What are you, then?"
	"A Splinterscat," the creature answered. He growled deep in
its throat. "That is what we are called, the few of us who remain.
Part of this and part of that, but mostly something else alto-
gether. 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 Wis-
teron 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 an-
swered, 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 desper-
ation 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 re-
membered 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.
	"Hcsttt, yes, I hear it, too," Stresa announced, rising hur-
riedly. "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 Wis-
teron?" she asked.
	"Better for you if you never find out," Stresa replied enigmati-
cally, 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 Morrow-
indl 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 dis-
belief.

CHAPTER
7

THEY FLED SWIFTLY, silently through the In Ju. The Splin-
terscat 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 lis-
tened carefully for sounds of the Wisteron's pursuit.
	The jungle grew darker and webs began to appear every-
where. 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, in-
escapable. 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 hes-
itation, 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 fran-
tic, 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 de-
termined. 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 Splinters-
cat'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 fi-
nally, 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 Wisteronare 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 mon-
sters. 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 disap-
peared 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 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 de-
monS. 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 crea-
ture 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 West-
land-hadn't had it since the time of faerie except for their heal-
ing 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, per-
haps. 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 coun-
try 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-
Morrowi ndl?
	"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 Rev-
enants. 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 Draculs and the Rev-
enants. 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 Splinters-
cat.
	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 is-
land."
	Wren frowned. "To the Westland? You want to leave Mor-
rowindl?"
	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 dan-
gers 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 an-
nounced 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 dis-
comfort as Garth passed her the aleskin and some bread. Their
food was being depleted rapidly, she knew; much of it had sim-
ply 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 dark-
ness 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 sink-
holes 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 dif-
fuse as it hovered about the edges of the trees. Strands of the
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 car-
ried 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, speak-
ing 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 fe-
ver gone. She was weak, and so thirsty it felt as if all the liquids
in her body had been drained away. Pushing back the covers
that wrapped her, she tried to rise. But Garth was there in-
stantly, 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 recog-
nized 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 jour-
ney. 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 Splinters-
cat 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 trun-
dled 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 in-
deed 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 stam-
ina 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;
	one got close enough, he simply ate it. He led the way, choos-
ing the approaches that would be easiest for his human compan-
Ions, 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 aston
ishment, 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 ha-
vens, 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 Splin-
terscat 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 fis
sure 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 fis-
sure'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 over-
hang 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 scram-
bled 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.

CHAPTER
8

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 every-
thing it touched was alive. Overhead, visible in small patches
through the haze, the skies were iron-gray and sunless.
	Stresa chose a rambling, circuitous route, 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 intu-
ition 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 Splin-
terscat'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 shiv-
ered, 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 coiled 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 rip-
ping as the foliage overhead was sliced apart. Stresa pushed for-
ward 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 lum-
bered 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 strug-
gle. Garth permitted the girl a momentary hug, then gently dis-
entangled 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 heav-
ily. 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, tum-
bled 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 Splin-
terscat 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 med-
icated 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 them-
selves 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 mo-
ment's revulsion as she recalled the encounter with the Wis-
teron. 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 fin-
ished 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 quick-
ness. 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 re-
sponded, a soft, low squeaking.
	Stresa shrugged. "It's hungry." The Splinterscat lost interest,
his blunt head lowering onto its forepaws. "We'll rest until mid-
day, 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 an-
other 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 Kil-
leshan'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. Shad-
owy 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 depend-
able 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 un-
certainly, 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 chit-
tered 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 up-
stream, 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. Per-
haps the small kindnesses she had shown had won it over. She
stroked the wiry body absently and wondered how much kind-
ness 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 swirl-
ing surface to broken rapids. The haze lifted sufficiently to re-
veal 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 darker 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 with-
ered scrub, and abruptly the mist cleared. Quickly they flat-
tened 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 mas-
sive 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 fis-
sures 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 threaten-
ing, 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 them-
selves 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 with-
out 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 protec-
tion!"
	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 re-
mained 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 question-
ing 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 tun-
nels 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 sur-
vive anything.
	Her fingers passed briefly across the hard surface of the
Elf stones.
	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.

CHAPTER
9

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 every-
thing 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 mis-
placed, 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 con-
sidered 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 ration-
alize 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 in-
stances, were of little reassurance here. Morrowindl was a caul-
dron 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 for-
ever 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, sur-
rounded by demons, by things formed of magic and dark inten-
tion, 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 kalei-
doscopic world that could not decide what it wanted to be.
Growls sounded, disembodied and directionless, low and threat-
ening 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 in-
stance 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 ex-
pectantly upon her shoulder, head stretched forward, ears
cocked, listening. The soft brown eyes glanced at her momen-
tarily, 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 qui-
eted, 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. Some-
thing 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 ef-
fortless 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.

r It is not safe anywhere," the other replied sadly. "Stresa and
raun 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 at-
tacker. 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 be-
fore. 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 attack-
ers 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, swarm-
ing 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 move-
ment 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 be-
hind its protective wall, a shimmer of buildings and towers amid
forest trees. In the mixed light of the city's magic and the vol-
cano'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 glo-
ried 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
wh0 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 be-
hind 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 mo-
ment, 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 nether-
world . . . She shut her eyes momentarily. The 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 pas-
sageway, wordless as they went. The light brightened the farthet
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 par-
ticular 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 deep-
ening. "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.

CHAPTER
10

I HAVE COME HOME.

	It was Wren's first thought-vivid, startling, and un-
expected.
	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 oth-
ers sang. Whippoorwills! Fireflies glimmered in a stand of hem-
lock 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 wel-
come, 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 gar-
dens set out in well-tended yards, hedgerows that lined walk-
ways, 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 awn-
ings 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 hand, their lines of defense
stretched across the battlements. An attack was under way. The
struggle was oddly silent, as if the magic's glow muffled some-
how the sounds. Men fell, some to rise again, and some to dis-
appear. 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 had 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 threaten-
ing, 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 en-
tered, hard-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 par
adise, its people with a chance to begin life anew, free of the
threat of oppression by the Federation. No demons then, Kil-
leshan 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 ex-
changed, 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 hall-
way 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, com-
ing slowly into the light. It was an Elf of medium height and
build, plain looking and plainly dressed, with a steady, pene-
trating 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 respon-
sible 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, bril-
liant, and effusive. "Eowen, see how closely she mirrors Al-
leyne!" 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 an-
swered.
	"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 hur-
riedly. Garth was a statue, the Owl and Triss impassive, and the
red-haired woman intense and anxious. She felt suddenly aban-
doned. 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 antic-
ipation." 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 hail 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 Eli. 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 Gay-
ilan, 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, un-
compromising Garth, harborer of secrets.
	Wren forced a smile. "We'll speak alone," she said.

THEY LEFT THE ENTRYWAY and went down the hall and up a set
of winding stairs to the second floor of the palace. Garth re-
mained behind with Aurin Striate and Triss, apparently untrou-
bled that he was not going with her, comfortable with their
separation even knowing Wren was clearly not. She caught Gay-
ilan 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 want-
ing 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 be-
gin?"
	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 Had-
eshorn, 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 every-
thing 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, feel-
ing 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 Ohms-
fords, 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 Coil Ohmsfords' great-grandparents. The Ohms-
ford who remained was a woman, and she kept with her the
Elf stones."
	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 person-
ally.
	"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 ex-
pansion worked its way north. Some of that was their own do-
ing, but an equal share was the result of a growing belief, fostered
by the Federation's Coalition Council, that the Elves were dif-
ferent 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 vir-
tually alone against the strongest army in the Four Lands. Cal-
lahorn 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 disap-
peared."
	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 de-
mons-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 had 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 de-
cided 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 dis-
tress. 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, think-
ing 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.

CHAPTER
11

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 dark-
ness.
	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, trans-
lucent 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 Black-
ledge, 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 Ty 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 mon-
strous 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 po-
sition and looked slowly around. She was here, she assured her-
self, 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, emo-
tionally, 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 grand-
mother 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 sec-
ondhand and the queen's based entirely on events that had taken
place before the departure from Arborlon, so perhaps inconsis-
tencies were to be expected. Still, neither had commented on
what each must have viewed as the other's obvious mis-
takes. 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 Arbor-
Ion, 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 had said why, if, in fact, any-
one 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 reluc-
tance 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 think-
ing 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 differ-
ence?
	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 in-
tently, 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 down-
stairs to the dining hall 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 col-
ors. 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 comfort-
ably.
	"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 with-
out 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 Morrowindi 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 Morrow-
indl? 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 Mor-
rowindl?"
	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 expres-
sionless, 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 go-
ing 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 Mor
rowindl, 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 mi-
grate, they supposedly channeled what there was of the magic
into an Elfstone called the Loden. The Loden, I think, had al-
ways 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 some-
thing, 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 re-
versed 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 some-
thing 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 con-
structed 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 an-
swered. "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 protesta-
tions. 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 move-
ment 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 an-
swered, second in command only to Barsimmon Oridio and anx-
ious 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 de-
mons, 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 need
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 trav-
eled 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 Draculs-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 weak-
ening."
	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 expe-
rience 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 ex-
cited 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 Elicrys, 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 any-
one, 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 hap-
pened 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 sol-
emnly. "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 hall 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 any-
thing, 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 sur-
prised 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 sud-
denly, 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 nar-
rative 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 I 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 frus-
tration mirrored in Wren's eyes, and reached out to take her
hands. "The queen forbids me, Wren," she whispered. "And per-
haps 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 child-
hood, first love, husbands, and children. All are gone. Alleyne
was the worst for both of us. I have never told your grand-
mother this-though I think she suspects-but I saw in my vi-
sion 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 hur-
ried conversation with the Owl.
	The Owl dismissed him with a scowl and turned to the oth-
ers. "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, Gay-
ilan 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 al-
most nothing and a massive knot of fighters battled in near dark-
ness.
	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 be-
tween 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 counter-
attack, 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 mo-
mentarily, 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 uncon
cerned 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 gath-
ered 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, ex-
hausted, 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 sol-
diers 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 dis-
patched 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.

CHAPTER
12

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 rul-
ing houses. To either side, set against the remaining walls, were
rows of benches, a gallery for observers and participants in pub-
lic 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 here, 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 ten-
sion 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 en-
tered. 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 ev-
erything 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 sum-
moned her and dispatched her to find us. The Four Lands, it
seems, are beset by demons of their own, creatures called Shad-
owen. 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 com-
mon 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 Morrowindi?" 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 Mor-
rowindi," 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 ElI, 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.
	"Gavilant" 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 en-
tirely?"
	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 sum-
mon 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 Or-
idio 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, un-
able 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 Morrowindi?"
	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 West-
land. 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." El-
lenroh 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 disap-
pears."
	"And cannot be reinstated once you return to the West-
land?"
	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 Oridlo 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 grand-
daughter 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 with-
out 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 peo-
ple 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 sum-
moned. 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 ab-
sence, and you will do best."
	"Then you intend to be one of those who makes the jour-
ney?" 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 to me 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 doubt-
fully.
	"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 ElI,'
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 dis-
patched her here to hide, and that she had not been given pos-
session 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 shoul-
ders, 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, Gay-
ilan, Fton 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 mo-
ment 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, star-
ing 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 disap-
peared. 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 won-
der. 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 Eli 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 Mor-
rowindi 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 na-
ture 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.
Eilenroh is right. The Elves will not survive if they remain on
Morrowindi. 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
Eilenroh 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 ElI
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 any-
thing 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 Al-
leyne'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 fail 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.

CHAPTER
13

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 be-
sieged 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 to-
gether 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 West-
land, and while all had heard the story of the migration to Mor-
rowindl, 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 cer-
tainly 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 con-
stant 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 ex-
pressed 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 hap-
pened 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 com-
pany of nine would require to make the journey down Kille-
shan'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 wrap-
ping 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 care-
fully 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 re-
stored."
	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 ElI-
crys, 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 siowly. She had only been kissed once or twice in her
life-always too busy with her training, aloof and unapproach-
able, 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 be-
fore 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 blan-
ket 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 Morrowindi. 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. Be-
ware, 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 para-
lyzed. 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 won-
dered grimly. How much had she failed to reveal?
	She pushed herself to her feet, took a final look at the ElI-
crys, 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 re-
mained 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 op-
portunity. 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, feel-
ing as if she were trapped and wondering if she should be fight-
ing 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 for-
give, 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 in-
stant 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 em-
ployed 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 even-
tually 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 sur-
vive 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 be-
cause 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 over-
whelm, 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 immedi-
ately-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 Elf-
stones 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 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, stand-
ing watch in the halls beyond, barring any from entering, in-
cluding the service staff once the food was on the table.
Comfortably secluded, those gathered discussed the arrange-
ments 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 un-
expectedly, 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 gath-
ered-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 car-
ried 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 illumi-
nated 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 hiss-
ings 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 with-
out 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 con-
spire against you to steal away your energy, to erode your con-
fidence, to make you question things you wouldn't have given
a second thought to when you were young. It happens gradu-
ally, 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 to-
ward 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 rap-
idly to white fire, flaring outward until the queen was envel-
oped. Steadily the light continued to spread, rising up against
the darkness, filling the space within the walls until all of Ar-
borlon 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 churn. 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 wac juct
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 her-
self, 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 re
alized 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 had 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 hap-
pened 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 com-
pany charged with the safe delivery of Arborlon and its Elves
disappeared through the open door and down into the black.

CHAPTER
14

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 Bob was brought face to face with the impos-
sible.
	"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 Shad-
owen at Hearthstone, destroyed by Rimmer Dali-and Rumor
with him. Walker had seen it happen, sick almost beyond re-
covery 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 con-
flagration along with dozens of their attackers. None had sur-
vived save Rimmer Dali and a handful who had been thrown
clear.
	Yet here was Cogline and the cat, come somehow into Par-
anor, shades out of death.
	Except that Walker Bob found them as real as he was, a
reflection of himself in this twilight world into which the Black
Eifstone had dispatched him, ghostlike and yet alive when they
should not have been. Unless he was dead as well and a reflec-
tion 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 compre-
hension 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 steadi-
ness 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 hap-
pened 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 Alianon, 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 Dali. 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 back up 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. Ailanon
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 over-
whelm 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 mo-
ments, 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 com-
panions to survive in that land of stone, of the search for Uhf
Beik, 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 ad-
vised. And as Allanon charged. I used the Black Elfstone and
brought back the Druid's Keep. But look at me, Cogline. I ap-
pear 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 re-
quired 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 dis-
appeared 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 con-
ditions 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 some-
thing, 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 be-
ing 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 puz-
zle 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 Elf-
stone 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 busi-
ness. 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 momen-
tarily 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 what-
ever 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 Hearth-
stone before Rimmer DalI 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 inexo-
rable. 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 car-
pets 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, search-
ing 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 even-
tually have to be faced.
	Within the Druid library, behind the bookcases where the
vault was concealed, they found the Histories, banks of mas-
sive, 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 dis-
patched, 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 won-
dered. 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; some-
times it was Rumor. They might have been back at Hearth-
stone, 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 noth-
ing. 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 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 Grim-
pond'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 star-
ing blankly into space at the center of the cavernous passage-
way. 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, prevent-
ing his escape.
	Allanon.
	He felt the silence grow oppressive. What had become of
this third vision? he wondered. When was it supposed to hap-
pen? 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 Grim-
pond wanted Walker to think. The visions were always decep-
tive. 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 some-
thing 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, some-
where. 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, some-
thing he had missed. He closed his eyes, picturing himself, fol-
lowing 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, care-
fully 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.

CHAPTER
15

WREN OHMSFORD CROUCHED wordlessly with her com-
panions 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 with-
out, 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, bur-
rowing 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 bridge-
head, 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, ev-
erything. Now Arborlon was their responsibility, theirs to pro-
tect, 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. "Hurryl"
	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 up-
right. The seconds sped away, fleeing as quickly as they did, it
seemed, from the horror following. A part of the tunnel col-
lapsed 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 com-
pletely, 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, look-
ing 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 moun-
tainside 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 pres-
ence was that strong. Wren glanced back once to see her grand-
mother 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 to-
ward 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 noth-
ing 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 shred-
ded, his thin face clawed. He beckoned them wordlessly, turn-
ing 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 every-
where, 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 sweep-
ing 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 ar-
rogance 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 shore-
line 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 com
plex 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 her-
self 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, puz-
zlement 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. Splin-
terscat. 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, gath-
ering 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 ElI!" 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 look-
ing 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 her-
self 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, touch-
ing 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 furi-
ous 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 Mor-
row i ndl.
	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 threat-
ened 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 thrust-
ing 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 moun-
tain waters. The river's rush drowned out the roar of the vol-
cano, 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 chan-
nel broadening out once more, the cliffs receding into the dis-
tance. 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 ir-
ritably.
	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 to-
ward the opposite shore. It was a futile attempt. The serpent
swam soundlessly in pursuit, expending almost no effort to over-
take 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 disap-
peared.
	The serpent hit them with its tail when they were still a
hundred yards from shore, swinging it up into them from un-
derneath, 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 Ellen-
roh 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, some-
thing 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 res-
cuer 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 whis-
pered 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 dis-
tance, and the haze swirled sluggishly in response. They hesi
tated 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 back-
packs 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.

CHAPTER
16

HE COMPANY HAD GONE less than a hundred yards from
the Rowen's edge when the trees ended and the night-
mare began. A huge swamp opened before them, a col-
lection of hogs thick with sawgrasc 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 gi-
ants. Through the tangle of dying trees and stunted scrub, the
swamp spread away as far as the eye could see, a vast and im-
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 up-
stream or down until a better route showed itself, or they could
press on through the swamp. In either case, they would even-
tually 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 ev-
erywhere by now. The Owl worried that they might already be
searching along the river. He advised pressing ahead. The jour-
ney 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. In-
sects 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 still-
ness, 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 pleas-
ant, all of which pulled and dragged at the life above. Now and
again the earth would shudder, a reminder that somewhere be-
hind them Killeshan continued to threaten, gases and heat build-
ing 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 mind-
less 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 hope-
fully, 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 be-
come. She clutched Faun tightly and wondered at herself, feel-
ing oddly drawn away from who and what she had once been,
a stranger to everything, no longer so self-assured by her train-
ing, 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 hid-
ing-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 dark. Wren saw Ellenroh slip past Triss mo-
mentarily, 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 dis-
tracted. 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 Gavi-
Ian. 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 for-
ward 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 trav-
eled through. What were the chances that she should find an-
other 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, noth-
ing 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, talk-
ing 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 dark. 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 betray-
ing 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 al-
lowed herself to acknowledge exactly how much he had mat-
tered. 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. Gavilari, for once, was at a complete loss for words,
taking Ellenroh's hands and holding them without speaking, im-
pulsively 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 train-
ing 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 reach-
ing 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, grad-
ually 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, unobtru-
sive 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 discon
certing. 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 dra-
matically 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 im-
possibly 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, wrap-
ping 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 tak-
ing, 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 head-
aches 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 trav-
eled. 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 ex-
planation 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 condi-
tion 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 weak-
ened 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, shak-
ing with cold and fever, mumbling from time to time, and toss-
ing 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 grand-
mother to become so strong-the loss of her parents, her hus-
band, 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 Morrowindi 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 Shad-
owen 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 dis-
tanced from her to be of any real comfort, and she turned in-
stead 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 jour-
neyed.
	I chose this, she whispered to herself, the words bitter and
harsh. I came because I wanted to.
	To learn the truth, to discover who 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, experi-
ence, 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 com-
mand 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 re-
mained.
	She turned her head into the blankets and fell asleep in a
spider's web of doubt.

CHAPTER
17

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 Coil Ohms-
ford 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, lis-
tening to the sound of her heartbeat in her throat, to the rush
of her breathing. All around her, the others of the little com-
pany 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, some-
thing 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 sin-
gular 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 Eifstones 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 kind-
ness 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, scram-
bling 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 suspi-
cion, 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, turn-
ing 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 equip-
ment, 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 circum-
stance 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 day-
light 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 wa-
ters 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 exhila-
rated both at once, swept clean somehow by the magic, invig-
orated 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 look-
ing 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 com-
ments 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 de-
cided 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 jun-
gle. 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 al-
ways 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 whis-
pered. "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 West-
land. 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 sud-
denly, 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 keep-
ing 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 him-
self, 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 could 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 rest-
ing 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 laugh-
able. She didn't care who she was or what her family back-
ground 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 mel 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 Ellen-
roh 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 mo-
mentary pang of dismay, but it gave way almost instantly to
wariness. She remembered how Gavilan and Ellenroh had quar-
reled 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 ques-
tion 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 disap
pointment, 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 conse-
quence. Coming to Morrowindi 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 lon-
ger, 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 scram-
bled up hurriedly, throwing her blanket aside, her voice shak-
ing. "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 man-
aged 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."
	Stresa 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 hap-
pened, 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 cra-
dled Faun in her arms. After a moment, she realized that she
was smiling.

CHAPTER
18

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 grand-
daughter'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 shak-
ing, 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 hand-
some 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 stan-
dard, 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 com-
mitment 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 grand-
mother 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 is-
land, any of us. Garth and I know something of wilderness sur-
vival, 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?"
	Stresa stared at her for a long moment, his gaze curious.
"HrrwlIl, 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 gath-
ered in about them.
	By midafternoon, they had found the pass that Stresa fa-
vored, 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 trail-
ing 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 si-
lence, 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 de-
tachment 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 some-
thing 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 roused
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 vulner-
ability, 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 currounded 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 Morrowindi."
	Wren shook her head quickly. "Eowen, I have not yet de-
cided about the trust . . ." she began.
	"Decisions are made for us for the most part, Wren Elesse-
dil." 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 care-
fully."
	Emerald eyes glittered like frosted leaves at sunrise. "When
the Elves first came to Morrowindi, 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 ad-
vance 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 bound-
aries 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 them-
selves. 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 crea-
tures, 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 big-
ger, stronger, quicker, smarter. But that was only the beginning.
They quickly progressed to combining life forms, creating ani-
mals 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 suc-
cessful 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 estab-
lish 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 con-
sequence."
	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 Arborion 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 spe-
cific 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 Mor-
rowindl 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 dis-
tant, 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 them-
selves 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 Shad-
owen 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-
knuckle 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 peo-
ple, 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 hor-
ror, 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 fin-
ish. "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 under-
stand, but Elves still. There are others now, I expect, but in the
beginning it was only Elves. They sought to be something bet-
ter, 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 mis-
used. 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 dis-
appeared from view.

W'REN 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.

CHAPTER
19

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
Morrowindi 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 alto-
gether.
	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 encoun-
ter 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 cource, and worse, an
Elessedil. However she might wish it otherwise, she was con-
sumed 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 mo-
tion 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 argu-
ment 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 unpleas-
antnesses 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, con-
sumed by her thoughts. Eowen sat across from her, eyes low-
ered. Garth and the other men moved past them unseeing,
focused on the trek before them. Stresa was already gone, scout-
ing 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 lab-
yrinthine 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 possi-
bility 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 fi-
nally. It was the trust she carried, the responsibilities she bore
that induced this sense of solitude, of aloneness. There was noth-
ing for her beyond fleeing Morrowindl, beyond determining the
fate of the Elven people, beyond coming to terms with the hor-
ror of what she had discovered. Nothing of her life seemed
simple anymore, and the ordinary prospects of things like a hus
band 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 du-
ration 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 Sha-
dowen. Why? She gave a mental shrug. Why not, if not to make
some difference? Not so much where the Shadowen were con-
cerned, although there could be no complete separation of prob-
lems 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 cor-
recting 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 consid-
ered what an undertaking of such magnitude would require. She
Was strong enough, she felt; there was little she could not ac-
complish 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 every-
thing 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 tran-
scended expectations and conscience, something more funda-
mental 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 con-
flict 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 Splin-
terscat 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 pphhhtt fire of the volcano years
ago. I have traveled them. They, too, lead to the summit."
	Wren knelt. "Which is your choice?"
	"RwwIl. 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 wel-
comed 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 re-
member."
	"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, reading
already 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 momentc later hearing 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 ap-
proached. "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 pres-
sure 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 Morrowindi'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 passage-
Ways 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 bur-
rowed 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 posses-
sion both the Loden and the Elfstones-magic enough to accom-
plish 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 any-
thing . .
	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 fer-
vent. "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 prop-
erly?"
	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 pur-
pose 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 under-
stood 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 night-
mare!"
	"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 in-
tense. He seemed so convinced. "The Elves," she whispered, "are
the ones who destroyed Morrowindi."
	"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."
	Cavilan 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 mo-
ment 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 her-
self 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.

CHAPTER
20

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 disheart-
ened, the weight of time's passage and shortening odds a mantel
of chains that threatened to drag them down. Pulling cloaks arid
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 froni 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 coun-
try 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 sepa-
rated 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 skel-
etal, 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 si-
lence.
	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, seem-
ingly as close to them now as it had been on their leaving Ar-
borlon. 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 un-
necessary reminder of its presence, of the anger it bore them
for having stolen the magic away, for having disrupted the bal-
ance of things. Morrowindi shuddered in response.
	"Tell me about the Drakuls," Wren instructed the Splinters-
cat 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 shoul-
ders. His fingers moved. Be quick, Wren. The island begins to shake
itself apart.
	She glanced at them in turn-Garth, as enigmatic and im-
passive 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 omi-
nously, and there was a sense of something dangerous awakening.
	The voices began in the first hour. They lifted out of noth-
ingness, whispers on the air that might have come from any-
where. They called compellingly, and for each of the company
the words were different. Each would look at the others, think-
ing 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, pur-
posefully, 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 unpleas-
ant, 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, push-
ing 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 re-
turned, 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 ca-
cophony 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. Stresa 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 in-
wardly 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 com-
pany 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 ten-
tatively. 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 dis-
sipated 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 some-
thing 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 recog-
nized 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 in-
evitability of chance and fate. "It's all right, Garth," she whis-
pered.
	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 Drak-
uls. 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 for-
ward 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 re-
mained 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 experi-
ence. 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 Elf-
stones 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 her-
self 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, now 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 netherworid 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 to-
ward evening, the light beginning to fail. She knew she would
not reach Eowen before nightfall. it was what the Drakuls in-
tended; 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 ev-
erything but what she had come to do. Queen of the Elves,
keeper of the Rikh 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, some-
thing 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 Drak-
uis 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 liv-
ing 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 ap-
paritions 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, feed-
ing.
	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 oth-
ers, 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 em-
braced 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, remem-
bered who she was, and made a last, desperate attempt to re-
cover 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, fall-
ing 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 her-
self, 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!

CHAPTER
21

AT SOUTHWATCH TIME DRIFTED away like a cloud across
the summer blue, and Coil Ohmsford could only watch
helplessly as it passed him by. His imprisonment con-
tinued 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 Ulfkin-
groh, the gnarled, scarred, taciturn fellow into whose care Rim-
mer Dali had given him. Ulfkingroh was as tough as nails and
he worked Coil 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, Coil 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. Coil, 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. Coil 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 mono-
lith 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 conversa-
tion, 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 Dali 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.
Coil 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. Coil did
not believe what Rimmer Dali 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 nev-
er learn it there. Rimmer Dali had his own reasons for what
he was doing and he was not about to reveal them to Coil.
Whatever they were, whatever the reality of the Shadowen
and their magic, Coil 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 exer-
cise yard, he caught sight of Rimmer Dali passing down a walk-
way 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 appear-
ance of a piece of a new moon's night. Coil stopped in his tracks,
then backed away, staring. Ulfkingroh glared in irritation, then
glanced back over his shoulder to see what had caught the Vale-
man's eye.
	"Huh!" he grunted when he saw what Coil was looking at.
"There's nothing there that concerns you. Put up your hands."
	"What is it he carries?" Coil 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 fel-
iow." The rough face tightened about a half smile. "Know what
it does?" Coil shook his head. "You don't? Good! Because you're
not supposed to! Now put up your hands!"
	They went back to sparring, and Coil, 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 Coil 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 Dali. 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 ap-
peared 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 Dali dismissed
him with a wave of his gloved hand and beckoned Coil to fol-
low. They walked from the light back into the cooler shadows,
out of the midday sun, away from its glare. Coil 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, Coil Ohmsford," he said in that familiar
whispery voice. Ulfkingroh loses ground on you every day.
	Coil nodded without speaking, waiting to hear what the
other had really come to tell him.
	"This cloak," Rimmer Dali said, as if in answer. "It is time
that you understood what it is for."
	Coil 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 dan-
ger, 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 Coil's response. Coil kept his face an
expressionless mask.
	"The magic he hides within himself," the First Seeker whis-
pered, "the magic that lies beneath the wishsong, begins to con-
sume 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."
	Coil 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 Dali 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,
Coil. 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, Coil 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, Vaieman-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?"
	Coil was incredulous. How could Rimmer Dali even think
of asking such a thing? But the big man seemed so sure of him-
self, as if he were right after all, as if he knew the truth far
better than Coil.
	Coil shook his head. "I don't know where to find Par. He
could be anywhere."
	For a long moment Rimmer Dali 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. Coil 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 0f the wearer
from those he encountered, making him appear to be someone
they trusted-here at last was a way out of Southwatch. Rimmer
Dali might envision the Mirrorshroud as a subterfuge that would
allow him to trap Par, but Coil 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 ex-
traordinarily careless of Rimmer Dali 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 Dali had hoped to
persuade Coil 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 Dali 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 Dali 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 Coil 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," Coil allowed.
	"Time passes swiftly, Valeman."
	Coil shrugged casually. "I have trouble believing anything
you tell me. A prisoner is not often persuaded to confide in his
jailor."
	"No?" Coil 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, Coil'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 Mirror-
shroud," he said finally.
	Dali glanced over. "How?"
	Coil 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 iow.
	"I wonder," Coil replied.
	Dali stopped and turned to face him. "How would it be if I
tested the magic on you? Then you could make your own judg-
ment."
	Coil 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 CoIl
was kept imprisoned. At a door marked with a wolf's head and
red lettering that Coil could not decipher, Rimmer Dali pro-
duced 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 tail wooden cabinet. Rimmer Dali walked
to the cabinet, opened its double doors, and took out the Mir-
rorshroud.
	"Look away from me for a moment," he ordered.
	Coil turned his head, waiting.
	"Coil," 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. Coil blinked in disbelief,
telling himself that it wasn't his father, that it was Rimmer
Dali, and still it was his father he saw.
	Then his father reached up to remove the apron, which
instantly became the Mirrorshroud, and Rimmer Dali stood be-
fore him once more.
	"Who did you see?" the First Seeker asked softly.
	CoIl could not bring himself to answer. He shook his head.
"I still think Par will recognize you."
	Rimmer Dali studied him a moment, the big, rawboned face
fiat 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 hap-
pen eventually. Once it does, there will be no help for him."
	Coil 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, Coil 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 Coil from the room and pulled the door closed behind
them. Coil listened automatically for the click of the lock and
did not hear it. Rimmer Dali was already moving away, so Coil
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."
	Coil turned wordlessly and started up the stairs. When he
glanced back over his shoulder a dozen steps later, Rimmer Dali
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 Mirror-
shroud 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, some-
thing 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. Coil 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 hail he crept, swift and silent, casting anxious
glances ahead and behind as he went. The Shadowen were al-
ways 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 be-
low-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 tail,
shrouded coffin propped against the far wail. He could hardiy
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 expec-
tantly. 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.
	Coil 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.
	Coil 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 Dali, it must be now.
	Down he went through the corridors and stairwells of the
monolith, skirting well-lit places in favor of darker ones, know-
ing 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 no-
where to be seen. Coil 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, obliv-
ious. Coil felt his muscles tighten with tension, but his confi-
dence 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 com-
ing 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 wafting sweetly on the summer air.
	Coil 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 be-
fore 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, Rim-
mer Dali watched him go.

THERE WAS NEVER ANY QUESTION in Coil 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 with-
in 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 ap-
proached, 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, try-
ing 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 jour-
ney 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 greet-
ings. 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 some-
thing. He must have seemed an ordinary traveler. It made him
wonder why Rimmer Dali 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 un-
familiar. He was actually growing to like the sense of invisibility
it gave him.
	He went on again at first light, striding out across the grass-
lands, fixing on the dark edges of the Dragon's Teeth where
they broke the blue skyline north. Just this side of those moun-
tains 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 some-
how 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 rab-
bit, 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. Coil Ohmsford no longer searched for
the Shadowen that hunted him. Somehow, they no longer mat-
tered.
	When the night had settled comfortably in about him, he
rose, kicked out the fire, and crept from his place of conceal-
ment 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 moon-
light his eyes glinted blood-red.

CHAPTER
22

NIGHTFALL.
	Wren Ohmsford walked back across the Harrow
through the deepening gloom, empty of feeling. Shad-
ows 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 obli-
gations of family, and of the need to live up to anyone's expec-
tations 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 siate 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 empow-
ered 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 corn;
mand 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 ex-
pected 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, re-
morse, 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 fiats, 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 thought-
less 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 sur-
prised 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 Eifstones 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 Drakuis
were there, watching. She could feel their presence. She swal-
lowed against her fear. What had she been thinking?
	She started moving again, trying to sort out what had hap-
pened. She was dimly aware that for a time she had lost track
of everything, that she must have wandered aimlessly. She re-
membered 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 momen-
tarily 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 be-
gan to fade. She forgot that she was trying to escape the Har-
row, 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 fail, 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 fran-
tically. 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 Splin-
terscat.
	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 clus-
tered 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, wrap-
ping 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, be-
come 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 Morrowindi 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 be-
yond 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 deter-
mination 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 in-
stant 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 path-
way 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. Stresa 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. Stresa 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. Stresa 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 weak-
ness 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 poSh
sibility of it finding her, always certain that she would fight fot
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
hollowed eiit ac 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 be-
come.
	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 per-
suade herself to put them away, frightened that the Drakuls
would come again. They did not. Not even the wind voice whis-
pered 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, chit-
tering 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 tak-
ing hold. She didn't have to look further to know that Gavilan
Elessedil and the Ruhk Staff were gone.

CHAPTER
23

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 things 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 crawl-
ways, and of one concealment after another. They had not been
able to rest anywhere for more than a few hours, always discov-
ered 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
DalI-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 de-
clared, tight-lipped and wan before leaving him only hours ear-
lier 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. Coil dead. Pad-
ishar and Morgan missing. Wren and Walker Boh. Steff and
Tee!. 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 disap-
peared. It sometimes seemed as if everyone he came in contact
with was doomed to fall off the face of the earth, to be swal-
lowed by some netherworid blackness and never resurface again.
	Even Damson .
	No. His eyes snapped open again, anger reflected in the glim-
mer 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 ahea
where it turned the building to follow the street west toward
the bluff, and Damson appeared. She scurried through the shad-
ows 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 remem-
bered 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 Dali'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 fur-
ther questions, and as always, he quickly abandoned them. Sur-
vival 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 be-
long, 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 an-
other 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 dis-
integrating 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 lin-
gered 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 to-
gether 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 sim-
ply 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 deter-
mination. "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 resource-
ful. 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, prowl-
ing 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 mo-
ment, 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 pos-
sible 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 some-
thing, 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 scuffing 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, think-
ing 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 cuccession, 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 to-
ward 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 si-
lence.
	As he pulled himself back to his feet, furious, breath-
less, 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 up-
ward 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 Coil had died.
	The feelings he experienced in that instant were overwhelm-
ing, 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 unfa-
miliar. 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 hiss-
ing softly in the sudden silence, a cloaked form, dark and fea-
tureless 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.

CHAPTER
24

TRISS STRAIGHTENED, his movements leaden and stiff.
They stared wordlessly at one another, the Captain of
the Home Guard, Wren, and Garth, faceless in Mor-
rowindl'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 under-
stand. "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 chang-
ing behavior. It was there, and she had simply refused to rec-
ognize 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 con-
tinuing 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 be-
hind 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, noth-
ing." 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 him-
self.
	"I don't know," she said wearily.
,,

Ut a . . .

	"What difference does it make?" she interrupted, more angry
than she should have been, regretting her harshness immedi-
ately. 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 danger-
ous 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 chal-
lenged 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. The
Splinterscat is right. 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 ex-
haustion forgotten, buried in her anger and despair over Gavi-
Ian. 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, per-
haps 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 had 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 impenetra-
ble as Eden's Murk. Morrowindi 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 ev-
erything they had gone through to get clear of Morrowindi 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 your-
self, 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 bead. "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 hap-
pened. There had been opportunity enough. Or why not some-
thing 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 break-
ing 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 be-
hind, 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 sur-
vival. 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 some-
how 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 infuri-
ated her, the more so when she considered the possibility that
Gavilan didn't really think her dead at all and had simply de-
cided 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 im-
mediately, but it was not as steep here as where Garth and she
had climbed up. The cliff face was craggy and thick with veg-
etation, 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 fol-
lowed 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 fran-
tic, 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 hap-
pened to change things, they would catch him before night-
fall.
	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 driz-
zle, and finally a torrent that washed over them with ferocious
determination. They were blinded by it and forced to take shel-
ter beneath a giant banyan. It swept through quickly and took
Gavilan's scent with it. Stresa searched carefully in the after-
math, but all trace was gone.
	Garth studied the damp green tangle of the jungle. He beck-
oned 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 dis-
turbed, 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 every-
where, 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 man-
aged 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 what-
ever 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.
Tremorc 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 reverbera-
tions, 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 hol-
low 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 pas-
sage, 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 Morrowindi. 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 confi-
dence in who and what she was and in the certainty that she
could determine her own fate. So much was gone, and Morrow-
indl, 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 Morrowindi'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 at-
tracted 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 Splinters-
cat'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 lu'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 Wis-
teron 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 Wis-
teron."
	"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."

CHAPTER
25

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 possi-
ble 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 sug-
gested 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 Bob,
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 set-
tled, 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 dis-
cover that I don't already know."
	"And you're still certain that you're right, Walker?"
	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 His-
tories' 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. No-
where did the Histories relate how one became a Druid. De-
spairing, 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
gamesplaying 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 in-
scribed 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 never-
theless 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,
had the power to restore Paranor. One magic. The Black Elf-
stone. There wasn't any another magic mentioned, not any-
where. 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 com-
plete.
	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 en-
emies 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 Allan on 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 expla-
nation 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 draw-
ing 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 foreor-
dained, 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 com-
mit 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 rea-
sonable 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 interpre-
tation, 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 admon-
ishments. 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, argu-
ing. 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 inten
tions 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 re-
solve 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 com-
plex 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 watch-
dog 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 Stones
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 admon-
ished 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. Mem-
ories 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
roused and come forth to investigate. It came for him in a sweep-
ing, 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 face-
less. 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 con-
centration; 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. Cog-
line'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 hap-
pening.
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 scat-
tered 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 Bob!
	The voice was no longer coming from the mist; it was com-
ing 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.
	Non light and mist meshed and joined. Back through the tun-
nel of the magic's dark flooded the mist, a greenish, pulsing fury.
Walker had 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 feel-
ings 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 stag-
gered 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 Grim pond 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 recog-
nition that cut through the madness with a razor's edge.
	The being that the mist had carried within him was Al-
lanon-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 any-
thing. 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 chan-
neling 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, feed-
ing.
	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 experi-
ence bestowed. It was harsh and ragged and terrible, an accu-
mulation 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 pow-
erful. 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 bro-
ken within. Everything washed away, his beliefs and understand-
ings, 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 en-
durance, 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 con-
trol 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 dark 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.

CHAPTER
26

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 si-
lence.
	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 jun-
gle, 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 cham-
bers 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 be-
long, 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 shad-
ow 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, semi-
transparent 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 grandmoth-
er's indomitable strength just now to her own. She lacked Ellen-
roh'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 move-
ment 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 nod-
ded. "Scavengers! Orps, they are called. Hsssst! They eat any-
thing. Hah, everything! They live off the leavings of the Wis-
teron. 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 col-
lapsing 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 set-
tling 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 sus-
pended 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 every-
thing, 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 web-
bing 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 franti-
cally. 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 Gavi-
Ian, 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, mo-
tionless 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 insectlike 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. ft only pre-
tends. 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 crea-
ture 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 di-
version 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 sug-
gesting?" 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 ridicu-
lous to suppose otherwise. Why not take advantage of the ele-
ment 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 pre-
occupied 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-phfftt-
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 ago-
nizing, heartstopping 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 sound-
less, 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 sec-
onds. Faun disappeared into the vog. Then the Squeak was vis-
ible 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 to-
ward 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 be-
neath 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 Wis-
teron's island lair, and swiftly a chain reaction began. The shock
waves gathered force, turned quickly to heat, and the heat ex-
ploded from the mud flats directly behind Wren in a fountain
of steam.
	Instantly the Wisteron was awake, legs braced in its web-
bing, head swiveling on a thick, boneless stalk as its black mir-
rored 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,
broadsword 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 Wis-
teron 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 Wis-
teron 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 un-
intelligible, the voice rising from somewhere back in the old
growth.
	Then the Wisteron shot out of the haze, burned and smok-
ing, 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 protec-
tors 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 Mor-
rowindl'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 shriek-
ing 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 Wis-
teron 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 and 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
Wicteron 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 yield-
ing 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 or-
ange and yellow with fire, and it was gone.

CHAPTER
27

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 clean-
ing 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 margin-
ally 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 direc-
tion. "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 some-
where 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. Be-
sides, she knew it was not the fault of these Elves, not of this
generation, and it was wrong to hold an entire people account-
able 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 jour-
ney 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 si-
lence 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 activ-
ities and gone into hiding, waiting to discover what would hap-
pen.
	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 de-
termination.
	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 con-
sumed 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, mutter-
ing 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, burrow-
ing 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 be-
yond, 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 black-
ness 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 threat-
ened 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 cen-
ters 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 friend 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 grand-
mother; she did not intend to lose her best friend. 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 Morrowindi 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 acqui-
esced. 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 begin-
ning 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 shoul-
ders 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 unex-
pected.
	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 exprescionless.
	"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 expecta-
tions 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 grand-
daughter, that the Elfstones you thought painted rocks were real, that when
you grew to womanhood you would one day be expected to travel to Mor-
rowindi 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 be-
yond 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 con-
tinued 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 ap-
pear 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 re-
luctantly, 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 grow:ng
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 Wis-
teron was a Shadowen. Like the Draculs. 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 shoul-
ders gave her away. She closed her eyes against the rage of
feelings within, the horror of the world about her, the terri-
ble price it seemed to require over and over again. She saw
Garth even there, etched within her mind-the dark confi-
dence and strength radiating from his face, the smile he re-
served 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.

	One hand slipped down to his belt and pulled free the long
knife, its razor-sharp blade glinting in the half-light. She shud-
dered 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 fran-
tic. "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 instinC
tively 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. The truth stunned her.
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.

CHAPTER
28

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 Mor-
rowindi'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 ap-
peared 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 fur-
tively, 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 un-
checked 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 noth-
ing, 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, reas-
suringly, 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, Morrowindi's shad-
owen, the first of those that had escaped Killeshan's 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 mis-
shapen horrors, and attacked unthinkingly, responding to in-
stinct 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, al-
most 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 hu-
mans were a lesser threat. They rallied and attacked anew, de-
termined to exact some measure of revenge from the source at
hand.
	But now Wren was facing them, consumed by her own mad-
ness, cold and reasoned, and she sent the magic of the Elfstones
scything into them like razors. Too late, they realized the dan-
ger. 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 black-
ened beyond recognition, a graveyard in which only they sur-
vived. 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 be-
come 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.
	"Rwwlll Wren, it was what was needed," Stresa told her sol-
emnly 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 sol-
emnly. "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 al-
ways see what had been in his eyes.
	They started out again soon after, crossing the charred bat-
tleground 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. Mor-
rowindl 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 shore-
line. 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 be-
ginning to boil. Rock and ash showered down from somewhere
beyond their vision like hail out of clouds, thrown by the vol-
cano'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 cool-
ing. 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 wonder-
ing 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 shad-
ows 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 so 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 darkness 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. Hold-
ing them forth, she sent the white magic streaking across the
sky from end to end, a flare of brightness against the gray twi-
light. 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 hanging 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 for-
ward to meet the little man, she found the Tiger Ty she remem-
bered 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 Splin-
terscat 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 semicon-
scious 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 Ty 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 molted 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 un-
yielding, 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 diz-
zily-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 over-
head, the air warm and fragrant, and the birdsong a bright tril-
ling 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 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 come 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. "Any-
way, 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. Fiching birds cwooped 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 search-
ing for finally, a dark smudge against the horizon where Mor-
rowindi 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 an-
nounced 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 floun-
dering 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 expec-
tantly. "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 Mor-
rowindl, 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 El-
yen 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.

CHAPTER
29

IT TOOK THE REMAINDER of the day to reach the main-
land. The sun was a faint melting of silver on the west-
ern horizon when the coastline finally grew visible, a
agged 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. Ti-
ger 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 be-
neath them, green forests, black earth, azure lakes, silver rivers,
and rainbow-colored fields of wildflowers. The world below ap-
peared 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 know!
edge 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 disap-
peared along branches and into burrows. Faun watched every-
thing 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 midafter-
noon 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 dis-
mounted, 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 uncomfort-
ably, 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 haft was marred and dirtied and the
once gleaming curface 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 Shad-
owen, 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 anx-
iously.
	"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 ex-
cited, 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 re-
solved 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 che 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 exis-
tence, 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 blind-
ing 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 bright-
ness as it swallowed the light.
	Wren tried to glance back at her companions to make cer-
tain 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, en-
meshed 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 en-
tirely, until the skies had folded into it and everything was col-
ored 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 be-
ing. 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 West-
land. 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 down-
ward 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 light-
ning, 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 momen-
tarily, 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 rib-
bons.
	And the people, the Elves, stood before her, thousands of
them, gathered at the city's edge, staring wide-eyed and won-
dering. 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 Walk-
er 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 cer-
tain 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 long-
er wraithlike.
	And the room-it 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 corri-
dors 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 fea-
tureless. The figure approached, the light beginning to define it,
a man hooded and cowled, tall and thin against the gloom, mov-
ing 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 breath-
ing. 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 fea-
tures 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 left arm was still missing. His right 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 Bob 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 Dru-
ids-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 Bob 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 whis-
pered. "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 be-
gan to walk back along the corridor. Rumor stared after them
momentarily, sniffed at the floor where Walker Bob'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, Coil, and their friends engage in a final struggle
against Rimmer Dali and the Shadowen.