by Terry Brooks
Did anyone still remember that dream? she wondered.
The Owl took them through a grove of ash and willowy birch where the silence was a cloak that wrapped comfortably about. They reached an iron fence that rose twenty feet into the air, its summit spiked and laced with sharpened spurs, and turned left along its length. Beyond its forbidding barrier, tree-shaded grounds stretched away to a sprawling, turreted building that could only be the palace of the Elven rulers. The Elessedils, in the time of her ancestors, Wren recalled. But who now? They skirted the fence to where the shadows were so deep it was difficult to see. There the Owl paused and bent close. Wren heard the rasp of a key in a lock, and a gate in the fence swung open. They stepped inside, waited until the Owl locked the gate anew, and then crossed the dappled lawn to the palace. No one appeared to challenge them. No one came into view. There were guards, Wren knew. There must be. They reached the edge of the building and stopped.
A figure detached itself from the shadows, lithe as a cat. The Owl turned and waited. The figure came up. Words were exchanged, too low for Wren to hear. The figure melted away again. The Owl beckoned, and they slipped through a gathering of spruce into an alcove. A door was already ajar. They stepped inside into the light.
They stood in an entry with a vaulted ceiling and wood-carved lintels and jams that shone with polish. Cushioned benches had been placed against facing walls and oil lamps bracketed arched double doors opened to a darkened hallway beyond. From somewhere down that hallway, deep within the bowels of the palace, Wren could hear movement and the distant sound of voices. Following the Owl’s lead, Wren and Garth seated themselves on the benches. In the light Wren could see for the first time how ragged she looked, her clothing ripped and soiled and streaked with blood. Garth looked even worse. One sleeve of his tunic was gone entirely and the other was in shreds. His massive arms were clawed and bruised. His bearded face was swollen. He caught her looking at him and shrugged dismissively.
A figure approached, easing silently out of the hallway, coming slowly into the light. It was an Elf of medium height and build, plain looking and plainly dressed, with a steady, penetrating gaze. His lean, sun-browned face was clean-shaven, and his brown hair was worn shoulder length. He was not much older than Wren, but his eyes suggested that he had seen and endured a great deal more. He came up to the Owl and took his hand wordlessly.
“Triss,” Aurin Striate greeted, then turned to his charges. “This is Wren Ohmsford and her companion Garth, come to us from out of the Westland.”
The Elf took their hands in turn, saying nothing. His dark eyes locked momentarily with Wren’s, and she was surprised at how open they seemed, as if it would be impossible for them ever to conceal anything.
“Triss is Captain of the Home Guard,” the Owl advised.
Wren nodded. No one spoke. They stood awkwardly for a moment, Wren remembering that the Home Guard was responsible for the safety of the Elven rulers, wondering why Triss wasn’t wearing any weapons, and wondering in the next instant why he was there at all. Then there was movement again at the far end of the darkened hallway, and they all turned to look.
Two women appeared out of the shadows, the most striking of the two small and slender with flaming red hair, pale clear skin, and huge green eyes that dominated her oddly triangular face. But it was the other woman, the taller of the two, who caught Wren’s immediate attention, who brought her to her feet without even being aware that she had risen, and who caused her to take a quick, startled breath. Their eyes met, and the woman slowed, a strange look coming over her face. She was long-limbed and slender, clothed in a white gown that trailed to the floor and was gathered about her narrow waist. Her Elven features were finely chiseled with high cheekbones and a wide, thin mouth. Her eyes were very blue and her hair flaxen, curling down to her shoulders, tumbled from sleep. Her skin was smooth across her face, giving her a youthful, ageless appearance.
Wren blinked at the woman in disbelief. The color of the eyes was wrong, and the cut of the hair was different, and she was taller, and a dozen other tiny things set them apart—but there was no mistaking the resemblance.
Wren was seeing herself as she would look in another thirty years.
The woman’s smile appeared without warning—sudden, brilliant, and effusive. “Eowen, see how closely she mirrors Alleyne!” she exclaimed to the red-haired woman. “Oh, you were right!”
She came forward slowly, reaching out to take Wren’s hands in her own, oblivious to everyone else. “Child, what is your name?”
Wren stared at her in bewilderment. It seemed somehow as if the woman should already know. “Wren Ohmsford,” she answered.
“Wren,” the other breathed. The smile brightened even more, and Wren found herself smiling in response. “Welcome, Wren. We have waited a long time for you to come home.”
Wren blinked. What had she said? She glanced about hurriedly. Garth was a statue, the Owl and Triss impassive, and the red-haired woman intense and anxious. She felt suddenly abandoned. The light of the oil lamps flickered uncertainly, and the shadows crept close.
“I am Ellenroh Elessedil,” the woman said, hands tightening, “Queen of Arborlon and the Westland Elves. Child, I barely know what to say to you, even now, even after so much anticipation.” She sighed. “Here, what am I thinking? Your wounds must be washed and treated. And those of your friend as well. You must have something to eat. Then we can talk all night if we need to. Aurin Striate.” She turned to the Owl. “I am in your debt once again. Thank you, with all my heart. By bringing Wren safely into the city, you give me fresh hope. Please stay the night.”
“I will stay, my Lady,” the Owl replied softly.
“Triss, see that our good friend is well looked after. And Wren’s companion.” She looked at him. “What is your name?”
“Garth,” Wren answered at once, suddenly frightened by the speed with which everything was happening. “He doesn’t speak.” She straightened defensively. “Garth stays with me.”
The sound of boots in the hall brought them all about once again. A new Elf appeared, dark-haired, square-faced, and rather tall, a man whose smile was as ready and effortless as that of the queen’s. He came into the room without slowing, self-assured and controlled. “What’s all this? Can’t we enjoy a few hours’ sleep without some new crisis? Ah, Aurin Striate is here, I see, come in from the fire. Well met, Owl. And Triss is up and about as well?”
He stopped, seeing Wren for the first time. There was an instant’s disbelief mirrored on his face, and then it disappeared. His gaze shifted to the queen. “She has returned after all, hasn’t she?” The gaze shifted back to Wren. “And as pretty as her mother.”
Wren flushed, conscious of the fact that she was doing so, embarrassed by it, but unable to help herself. The Elf’s smile broadened, unnerving her further. He crossed quickly and put his arm protectively about her. “No, no, please, it is true. You are every bit your mother.” He gave her a companionable squeeze. “If a bit dusty and tattered about the edges.”
His smile drew her in, warming her and putting her instantly at ease. There might not have been anyone else in the room. “It was a rather rough journey up from the beach,” she managed, and was gratified by his quick laugh.
“Rough indeed. Very few others would have made it. I am Gavilan Elessedil,” he told her, “the queen’s nephew and your cousin.” He cut himself short when he saw her bewildered look. “Ah, but you don’t know about that yet, do you?”
“Gavilan, take yourself off to sleep,” Ellenroh interrupted, smiling at him. “Time enough to introduce yourself later. Wren and I need to talk now, just the two of us.”
“What, without me?” Gavilan assumed an injured look. “I should think you would want to include me, Aunt Ell. Who was closer to Wren’s mother than I?”
The queen’s gaze was steady as it fixed on him. “I was.” She turned again to Wren, moving Gavilan aside, placing herself next to the girl. Her arms came about Wren’s shou
lders. “This night should be for you and I alone, Wren. Garth will be waiting for you when we are done. But I would like it if we spoke first, just the two of us.”
Wren hesitated. She was reminded of the Owl telling her that she must say nothing of the Elfstones except to the queen. She glanced over at him, but he was looking away. The red-haired woman, on the other hand, was looking intently at Gavilan, her face unreadable.
Garth caught her attention, signing, Do as she asks.
Still Wren did not reply. She was on the verge of learning the truth about her mother, about her past. She was about to discover the answers she had come seeking. And suddenly she did not want to be alone when it happened.
Everyone was waiting. Garth signed again. Do it. Rough, uncompromising Garth, harborer of secrets.
Wren forced a smile. “We’ll speak alone,” she said.
They left the entryway and went down the hail and up a set of winding stairs to the second floor of the palace. Garth remained behind with Aurin Striate and Triss, apparently untroubled that he was not going with her, comfortable with their separation even knowing Wren was clearly not. She caught Gavilan staring after her, saw him smile and wink and then disappear another way, a sprite gone back to other amusing games. She liked him instinctively, just as she had the Owl, but not in the same way. She wasn’t really sure yet what the difference was, too confused at the moment by everything happening to be able to sort it out. She liked him because he made her feel good, and that was enough for now.
Despite the queen’s admonishment to the others about wanting to speak with Wren alone, the red-haired woman trailed after them, a wraith white faced against the shadows. Wren glanced back at her once or twice, at the strangely intense, distant face, at the huge green eyes that seemed lost in other worlds, at the flutter of slender hands against a plain, soft gown. Ellenroh did not seem to notice she was there, hastening along the darkened corridors of the palace to her chosen destination, forgoing light of any sort save the moon’s as it flooded through long, glassed windows in silver shafts. They passed down one hallway and turned into another, still on the second floor, and finally approached a set of double doors at the hall’s end. Wren started at a hint of movement in the darkness to one side—one that another would not have seen but did not escape her. She slowed deliberately, letting her eyes adjust. An Elf stood deep in the shadows against the wall, still now, watchful.
“It is only Cort,” the queen softly said. “He serves the Home Guard.” Her hand brushed Wren’s cheek. “You have our Elf eyes, child.”
The doors led into the queen’s bedchamber, a large room with a domed ceiling, latticed windows curved in a bank along the far wall, a canopied bed with the sheets still rumpled, chairs and couches and tables in small clusters, a writing desk, and a door leading off to a wash chamber.
“Sit here, Wren,” the queen directed, leading her to a small couch. “Eowen will wash and dress your cuts.”
She looked over at the red-haired woman, who was already pouring water from a pitcher into a basin and gathering together some clean cloths. A minute later she was back, kneeling beside Wren, her hands surprisingly strong as she loosened the girl’s clothes and began to bathe her. She worked wordlessly while the queen watched, then finished by applying bandages where they were needed and supplying a loose-fitting sleeping gown that Wren gratefully accepted and slipped into—the first clean clothes she had enjoyed in weeks. The red-haired woman crossed the room and returned with a cup of something warm and soothing. Wren sniffed at it tentatively, discovered traces of ale and tea and something more, and drank it without comment.
Ellenroh Elessedil eased down on the couch beside her and took her hand. “Now, Wren, we shall talk. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat first?” Wren shook her head, too tired to eat, too anxious to discover what the queen had to tell her. “Good, then.” The queen sighed. “Where shall we begin?”
Wren was suddenly conscious of the red-haired woman moving over to sit down across from them. She glanced at the woman doubtfully—Eowen, the queen had called her. She had assumed that Eowen was the queen’s personal attendant and had been brought along solely for the purpose of seeing to their comfort and would then be dismissed as the others had. But the queen had not dismissed her, appearing barely aware of her presence in fact, and Eowen gave no indication that she thought she was expected to leave. The more Wren thought about it the less Eowen seemed simply an attendant. There was something about the way she carried herself, the way she reacted to what the queen said and did. She was quick enough to help when asked, but she did not show the deference to Ellenroh Elessedil that the others did.
The queen saw where Wren was looking and smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten ahead of myself again. And failed to show proper manners as well. This is Eowen Cerise, Wren. She is my closest friend and advisor. She is the reason, in fact, that you are here.”
Wren frowned slightly. “I don’t understand what you mean. I am here because I came in search of the Elves. That search came about because the Druid Allanon asked me to undertake it. What has Eowen to do with that?”
“Allanon,” the Elf Queen whispered, momentarily distracted. “Even in death, he keeps watch over us.” She released Wren’s hand in a gesture of confusion. “Wren, let me ask you a question first. How did you manage to find us? Can you tell us of your journey to reach Morrowindl and Arborlon?”
Wren was anxious to learn about her mother, but she was not the one in control here. She concealed her impatience and did as the queen asked. She told of the dreams sent by Allanon, the appearance of Cogline and the resulting journey to the Hadeshorn, the charges of the Druid shade to the Ohmsfords, her return with Garth to the Westland and search for some hint of what had become of the Elves, their subsequent arrival at Grim-pen Ward and talk with the Addershag, their escape to the ruins of the Wing Hove, the coming of Tiger Ty and Spirit, and the flight to Morrowindl and the journey in. She left out only two things—any mention of the Shadowen that had tracked them or the fact that she possessed the Elfstones. The Owl had been quite clear in his warning to say nothing of the Stones until she was alone with the queen, and unless she spoke of the Stones she could say nothing of the Shadowen.
She finished and waited for the queen to say something. Ellenroh Elessedil studied her intently for a moment and then smiled. “You are a cautious girl, Wren, and that is something you must be in this world. Your story tells me exactly as much as it should—and nothing more.” She leaned forward, her strong face lined with a mix of feelings too intricate for Wren to sort out. “I am going to tell you something now in return and when I am done there will be no more secrets between us.”
She picked up Wren’s hands once more in her own. “Your mother was called Alleyne, as Gavilan told you. She was my daughter.”
Wren sat without moving, her hands gripped tightly in the queen’s, surprise and wonder racing through her as she tried to think what to say.
“My daughter, Wren, and that makes you my grandchild. There is one thing more. I gave to Alleyne, and she in turn was to give to you, three painted stones in a leather bag. Do you have them?”
Wren hesitated, trapped now, not knowing what she was supposed to do or say. But she could not lie. “Yes,” she admitted.
The queen’s blue eyes were penetrating as they scanned Wren’s face, and there was a faint smile on her lips. “But you know the truth of them now, don’t you? You must, Wren, or you would never have gotten here alive.”
Wren forced her face to remain expressionless. “Yes,” she repeated quietly.
Ellenroh patted her hands and released them. “Eowen knows of the Elfstones, child. So do a few of the others who have stood beside me for so many years—Aurin Striate, for one. He warned you against saying anything, didn’t he? No matter. Few know of the Elfstones, and none have seen them used—not even I. You alone have had that experience, Wren, and I do not think you are altogether pleased, are you?”
Wren shook
her head slowly, surprised at how perceptive the queen was, at her insight into feelings Wren had thought carefully hidden. Was it because they were family and therefore much alike, their heredity a bonding that gave each a window into the other’s heart? Could Wren, in turn, perceive when she chose what Ellenroh Elessedil felt?
Family. She whispered the word in her mind. The family I came to find. Is it possible? Am I really the grandchild of this queen, an Elessedil myself?
“Tell me the rest of how you came to Arborlon,” the queen said softly, “and I will tell you what you are so anxious to know. Do not be concerned with Eowen. Eowen already knows everything that matters.”
So Wren related the balance of what had occurred on her journey, all that involved the wolf thing that was Shadowen and the discovery of the truth about the painted stones that her mother had given her as a child. When she was done, when she had told them everything, she folded her arms protectively, feeling chilled by her own words, at the memories they invoked. Then, impulsively, she rose and walked to where her discarded clothing lay. Searching hurriedly through the tattered pieces, she came upon the Elfstones, still tucked inside where she had left them after entering the city. She carried them to the queen and held them forth. “Here,” she offered. “Take them.”
But Ellenroh Elessedil shook her head; “No, Wren.” She closed Wren’s fingers over the Elfstones and guided her hand to a pocket of the sleeping gown. “You keep them for me,” she whispered.
For the first time, Eowen Cerise spoke. “You have been very brave, Wren.” Her voice was low and compelling. “Most would not have been able to overcome the obstacles you faced. You are indeed your mother’s child.”
“I see so much of Alleyne in her,” the queen agreed, her eyes momentarily distant. Then she straightened, fixing her gaze on Wren once more. “And you have been brave indeed. Allanon was right in choosing you. But it was predetermined that you should come, so I suppose that he was only fulfilling Eowen’s promise.”