by Terry Brooks
IT TOOK ANGEL AND AILIE the rest of the night and through the bulk of the morning to find their way north up the highway and then east onto the side roads that would take them to the Cintra. This was foreign country to Angel, who had never been north of Southern California, but Ailie, who by all rights should have known even less, seemed to know exactly where to go. Angel saw a few signs advising travelers who were long since dead and gone in a world equally dead and gone that they were passing into the Willamette National Forest. When Angel asked Ailie about this, the tatterdemalion said she didn’t know what it was called by humans, only by Elves. She added that she could already feel their presence.
Angel was in a somewhat better mood by now, her fear subsided, her steely determination regained. The darkness of the previous night with its attendant onslaught of black willies had faded with the rising of the sun and the beginning of the new day. She hadn’t conquered it entirely, but she did have it under control. When it surfaced again, she would be ready for it.
The forests through which they passed initially resembled most of the others they had traversed coming north—large sections sickened and wilted, the leaves turned gray, the bark scabbed over by parasites and mold. Many trees were already dead, their skeletal frames suggesting the bones of giant animals standing upright and frozen in time. But as they reached the mountains and climbed into the passes, a change similar to the one that had begun to manifest only yesterday surfaced. Where before the trees had thinned to almost nothing, they now grew close together. Where before the leaves and bark were sickened, they now looked healthy and clean. The colors that had been leached away from the other forests were deep and vibrant here. Angel glanced back at Ailie, but the tatterdemalion just smiled enigmatically and gave her a reassuring hug.
A short time later, Ailie directed her off the main road onto a dirt track that was barely more than a woodland trail. They rode the Mercury down its length for several miles, passing through long stretches of old-growth trees so massive that Angel felt dwarfed in their presence. Streams ran through metal culverts that tunneled under the road, the waters rippling and singing before angling off into the woods. Once, they caught sight of a small waterfall off in the distance. Once, they saw a deer.
Finally, Ailie told her to pull over. Angel drove the ATV off the trail into the trees and parked it. Together they climbed down and stood looking into the cool, shadowed depths of the forest. Angel could hear the rippling of a stream nearby. She could hear birdsong. The air she was breathing was fresh and clean. She could not help thinking that somehow they had driven into a different world entirely.
“What has happened here?” she asked softly. “It looks as if the poisons never touched this forest.”
“The Elves have happened, Angel,” her companion replied. “The Elves have kept the forest clean and alive with their skills and experience.”
Angel shook her head in wonderment, tasting the air, breathing in the scents, wishing she could stay here forever. “Is this where we are supposed to go?”
“This is where we will find the Elves.”
“How do we do that?”
“We walk.”
They left the Mercury where it was, left the dirt road that had brought them in, and set out. Almost immediately, every sign of where they had been before had vanished, and they were deep in the trees, layered in a mix of sunshine and shadows, making their way through the underbrush and tall grasses that grew among the trunks. It looked to Angel as if no one had passed this way in decades. There was no sign of any disturbance of the forest floor, no indication of anything having come through. Ailie took the lead, picking her way through the trees, choosing a path that for all intents and purposes was invisible to Angel. The tatterdemalion seemed to glide through the grasses and scrub, barely causing movement in the foliage as she passed. Angel, on the other hand, found herself snagged and tripped and scraped at every turn. It didn’t help that her wounds from her battle with the demon throbbed relentlessly beneath the tattered remains of her clothing and her entire body ached. In truth, she could barely manage to keep up.
Nevertheless, they moved ahead steadily, the time slipping away, the forest vast and unchanging. Angel knew that if she were left alone at this point, she could never find her way back to the dirt road and probably not out of the forest at all. She experienced a sense of claustrophobia as the trees thickened, the shadows deepened, and the sunlight faded to a pale wash. Angel, a city girl all of her young life, found the woods a creepy place. It had the feel of a warren filled with bolt-holes and hiding places where bad things could spring out at her at any moment.
They pressed on, working their way deeper in, and Angel could not tell in what direction they were moving. It was impossible to see much of the sun, let alone to try to orient it with anything. The mountains had disappeared entirely. The only reassurance Angel could find was in Ailie’s steady forward movement, an indication that the tatterdemalion, at least, knew where she was going. Angel followed dutifully and without asking the obvious, fighting against the insidious feeling that she was drowning.
The sun was no longer above them, but moved west and out of view entirely, leaving the forest darker, the shadows longer, and the chill of the air deeper. Then Ailie slowed as they entered a clearing, looked around as if she was testing the air for scent, and stopped altogether.
“We will wait for them here,” she advised.
Angel looked around doubtfully. As far as she could tell, they were standing right in the middle of nowhere. The forest looked exactly the same in all directions, and Ailie’s choice was indistinguishable from any other they might have made.
“The Elves?” she asked, wanting to be sure she understood.
Ailie nodded. Her face was calm, and her breathing even. She did not look as if the hike in had cost her anything.
Angel shook her head. “How will they know we are here?”
“They will find us. I have put us in their path. They are already coming.”
She sat down, so small and insubstantial nestled in the tall grasses that she looked to Angel like a child peeking out from behind a screen of slender blades. Angel chose the remains of a fallen tree, finding a flat open space on its heavy trunk, settling herself wearily. She was thirsty and wished she had something to drink, but she didn’t want to go looking for fresh water by herself or disturb Ailie’s vigil. She glanced down at her garments and wrinkled her nose. She looked like one of LA’s homeless, and she imagined she smelled like one, too. She cradled the black staff of her order against one shoulder and worked idly with a torn strip of her shirt to rub off some of the dirt.
Time passed. Slowly.
The forest stayed quiet, the only sounds those of birdsong and the soft rustle of wind through the leafy branches of the trees. No Elves appeared. Angel wondered how long they were supposed to wait to be discovered. She couldn’t decide whether Ailie was justified or not in her confidence about the chances of that happening. The Willamette was a big place. The odds of someone stumbling on them out here seemed extremely remote.
But Angel wasn’t going to question her about it. If the tatterdemalion was mistaken, there was nothing else to be done in any case. She was the one who knew how to find the Elves; Angel was just along for the ride.
Or the walk, she corrected herself, thinking suddenly how good it would feel to slip off her boots and give her hot, aching feet some much-needed relief.
“They’re here,” Ailie said quietly. She didn’t look up or change expression. “Don’t do anything, Angel. Just wait.”
Angel had no intention of doing anything but exactly that. She had come a long way under difficult circumstances to see these creatures, and she was anxious to make it happen. She sat quietly, listening to the forest sounds, gazing in the general direction she was facing without focusing on anything in particular, waiting for movement to reveal an Elven presence.
But she never saw or heard the one who finally appeared, a girl no older than herself
, who was nothing of what she had expected Elves to be. The girl was tall and strong looking, not tiny and frail in the manner of tatterdemalions or what she perceived Elves would look like. One moment the forest was empty of life and the next the girl was standing there, just off to one side. Her features were unusual, but not markedly different from those of humans; her face was narrow, her eyebrows slanted, her ears pointed slightly at their tips, and her coloring fair. She wore her long blond hair tied back in a scarf, and her clothing was loose fitting and dyed green and brown like the forest itself. She carried a bow and a quiver of arrows strapped across her back and a pair of long knives belted at her waist. One hand gripped a strange-looking javelin, short and slender, a cord grip wound tightly about its center and razor-sharp metal tips fitted at both ends.
The Elf’s blue eyes swept from Angel to Ailie and back again. “A Knight of the Word and a tatterdemalion,” she declared with a small smile. “Tell me your names.”
“Angel Perez,” Angel answered, still coming to terms with the fact that Elves weren’t what she had thought they would be. “This is Ailie.”
The girl came forward a few steps. “You are the first of your order to come here, and I am guessing that you would not do so without good reason. We never reveal ourselves to humans; you aren’t even supposed to know that we exist. The tatterdemalion must have told you otherwise.”
Angel nodded. “She did. I didn’t believe her at first, but she is very persuasive.”
“I had heard there were still tatterdemalions in the world. The old ones have told me what they look like. But until today, I had not seen one.” She stared openly at Ailie for a moment, and then turned back to Angel. “You, on the other hand, carry the black staff of your order. No one who has heard of the Knights of the Word could mistake that. I am Simralin Belloruus. How did you find me?”
“We didn’t,” Angel said. “You found us.”
“But you called. You used my name. I heard you.”
“That was me,” Ailie said, managing to look slightly sheepish without changing expression. “I called you.”
Angel stared at her. “I didn’t hear you call anyone.”
Ailie nodded. “Only Simralin could hear me. And perhaps the Elves who travel with her.”
Simralin held up one hand reassuringly as Angel glanced around in alarm. “It’s all right. They were told to wait in the trees until I was certain of you. I didn’t know at first who you were.” She paused, shifting her stance but keeping her eyes on Angel. “Now that I do know, tell me what you are doing here.”
Ailie stood up, a small and inconsequential wraith against the huge forest trees. “The Word sent us,” she replied.
“The Word?” The Elf girl spoke the name softly, as if even the sound of it was sacred. “Why would the Word send us one of its Knights and a tatterdemalion?”
Ailie looked at Angel, waiting. The tatterdemalion was deferring to her now, giving over the job of explaining what had brought them. Angel sensed that Ailie understood something about the dynamics not only of their own relationship, but also of the relationship they were establishing with the Elves, that would require the Knight of the Word to take charge.
“We were sent to help the Elves find a missing talisman,” Angel said. “An Elfstone called a Loden. You must use it to take the Ellcrys from the Cintra and travel to another place. A safer place. The Word believes you are in danger of being destroyed if you stay where you are. The outside world is changing. Things are getting worse. You have a chance of surviving if you leave, and I am instructed to help you.”
Simralin Belloruus stared at her as if she were from another planet. Angel held her gaze, waiting for her response. She tried not to look at the girl’s pointed ears and slanted brows, at the curve of her facial bones. She was still coming to terms with the idea that there really were Elves in the world.
“You must take us to Arborlon to speak with your King and the Elven High Council,” Ailie added quietly.
The girl glanced at her. “Must I?” She paused, and then whistled sharply in the direction of the trees surrounding them.
A handful of figures emerged, slender and possessed of similar features, a couple of them fair like Simralin, a couple of a darker hue. There were four in all, three young men and a second girl. The girl was short and wiry, the young men of varying sizes. All were dressed in the same manner as Simralin and carried similar weapons.
“Ruslan, Que’rue, Tragen, and Praxia,” Simralin introduced them, pointing to each in turn, ending with the smaller girl. “We’re Elven Hunters, Trackers assigned to the Home Guard, returning home from a long-range reconnaissance of the human settlements east and north. We’ve been out five weeks, so you’ll forgive me for wondering how you knew to call to us just now, when we haven’t been in the area for better than a month.”
Ailie’s smile was childlike and unassuming. “I just did. I am guided by more than my own instincts.”
Simralin shook her head. “Apparently.” She glanced at the other Elves. “Did you hear what the Knight of the Word said about why they are here? About an Elfstone called a Loden?”
The other four nodded doubtfully, and Praxia said, “The Word sent a human to help Elves?”
“A Knight of the Word,” amended Tragen. He was big and broad-shouldered, his Elven features dark and sullen. “She carries a staff of power, rune-carved in the old way of Faerie.”
“Perhaps.” Praxia did not look convinced. “How do we know any of what she says is true? Are we supposed to take her word for it? Are we to allow a human into our city with nothing more than that? Are we to abandon hundreds of years of secrecy on a whim? I don’t like it.” She looked at Angel. “Why can’t we convey your message to the King ourselves?”
“Your King needs to hear the words come from me,” Angel responded, staying calm, not letting herself engage in an argument that she knew she could not win. “There will be questions, and Ailie and I are the only ones who can answer them.”
“You must let her speak before the King and the Elven High Council,” Ailie repeated. “The Word requires it.”
The Elves looked at one another. “They seem awfully certain about this,” Simralin ventured. “Perhaps with good reason. A Faerie creature traveling with a Knight of the Word—how could they have found us without divine guidance? She knew how to call to us when no one should even have known we were anywhere near. She knows about Elfstones and Arborlon and the King and the High Council. That isn’t information we generally share.”
“She knows more than she should,” Praxia declared, suspicion mirrored on her young face. She shook her head firmly and faced off against Simralin. “I don’t think we can take a chance on this. The risk is too great. I think we need to ask the King if he wishes to meet with them.”
She glanced at the other Elves. Ruslan and Que’rue, who had said nothing at all so far, said nothing now, looking first at each other and then at Simralin. “I don’t know,” said Tragen. He looked doubtful, as if sensing that something was wrong with this suggestion.
It was Simralin who put it into words. “Ailie is a messenger of the Word. Nothing can be hidden from her. If she found us so easily, she could find Arborlon, as well—whether we want her to or not.”
“We don’t know that,” objected Praxia.
“I think maybe we do.” Simralin nodded at Ailie. “Am I right, Ailie?”
“I thought it would be best if we came into the city with an escort,” the tatterdemalion replied. Her child’s features were open and frank. “We are not looking to intrude. We are here as friends, to help the Elves, not to trouble them.”
There was an awkward moment of silence as the five Trackers tried to decide how much of a threat the two intruders presented. It was impossible to read the faces of Que’rue or Ruslan. Tragen looked sullen all the time, even though his disposition seemed otherwise, and although Praxia gave no further indication about how she felt, Angel could read it in her angry eyes.
Onl
y Simralin, perhaps because she was their leader, seemed willing to voice an opinion. “No human has entered the city of Arborlon in recorded history. It will break every rule the Elves have so carefully followed if we guide you in now. I don’t know how you will be received.”
Angel shook her head. “Our reason for coming overshadows any concerns about the reception we might expect. But if you feel strongly about this, why don’t you send someone on ahead or even go yourselves, and we will find our own way to the King.”
“That would be cowardly on our part,” Simralin said. “We would be playing a fool’s game and knowing we did so. We can’t keep you out, and there isn’t much point in pretending that we can. The best thing we can do for all concerned is to make sure you get to where you want to go and say what you want to say.”
She glanced at the other Elves, and then looked back at Angel and Ailie. “Perhaps there is a way for all of us to save a little face. If you are willing to make a small concession to protocol?” She reached behind her back and pulled scarves from a ring in her weapons belt. “Blindfolds. I expect they are pointless, but it will help blunt an obvious breach of the rules if it appears they are serving their purpose.”
She paused, a faint smile creasing her strong features. “So. Will you agree to wear them?”
She held out the scarves and stood waiting for a response.
EIGHT
K IRISIN DRAGGED his weary body home in the slow fading of the light, evening shadows settling in around him in deepening layers. He meandered down the trails and paths that bypassed the city and led to his home, lost in thought, the growing darkness mirroring his deep disappointment with the day’s wasted efforts.
He had been so sure they would find something.
He had met Erisha and old Culph as planned at the entrance to the Ashenell burial grounds at just past midday, excited and anxious to begin their search. But Ashenell was vast and sprawling, a forest of headstones and monuments, mausoleums and simple markers that defied any easy method of sorting out. The terrain itself was daunting, hilly and wooded, the burial sections chopped apart by deep ravines and rocky precipices that made it difficult to determine where anything was. Searching out any single grave without knowing where it was seemed impossible. Nevertheless, they had begun on a hopeful note with the older sections, the ones where members of the Cruer family were most likely to be interred. They found recognizable markers quickly enough, dozens of graves and simple headstones embedded in the ground that gave the names and dates of birth and death of members of the family. Oddly, for a family that had enjoyed such prestige and power, there were no sepulchers or tombs that could be entered. They had finished looking them over in little more than an hour and had nothing to show for it.