The Elf Queen of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  He left her then so that she could dress. As he closed the door separating their rooms, she stood staring after him for a moment. It occurred to her suddenly that there were enormous inconsistencies in the stories told by her grandmother and Garth concerning her parents. Admittedly, Garth’s version was secondhand and the queen’s based entirely on events that had taken place before the departure from Arborlon, so perhaps inconsistencies were to be expected. Still, neither had commented on what each must have viewed as the other’s obvious mistakes. There was no mention of Wing Riders by Garth. There was no mention of Rovers by the queen. There was nothing from either about why her parents had not traveled first to Shady Vale and the Ohmsfords but had gone instead to the Westland.

  She wondered if she should say anything about it to Garth. Given the importance of her other concerns, she wondered if this one really mattered.

  She found clothing set out for her to wear, garments that fit better than Garth’s—pants, a tunic, stockings, a belt, and a pair of fine-worked leather ankle boots. She slipped the clothing on, going over in her mind as she did so the revelations of the night before, considering anew what she had learned. The queen seemed decided on the importance of Wren’s arrival in Arborlon, certain in her own mind at least that Eowen’s vision would prove accurate. Aurin Striate, too, had mentioned that they had been waiting for her. Yet no one bad said why, if, in fact, anyone knew. There hadn’t been any mention in the dream of what it was that Wren’s presence was supposed to accomplish. Maybe it would take another vision to find out.

  She grinned at her own impudence and was pulling on her boots when the grin abruptly faded.

  What if the importance of her return was that she carried with her the Elfstones? What if she was expected to use the Stones as a weapon against the demons?

  She went cold with the thought, remembering anew how she had been forced to use them twice now despite her reluctance to do so, remembering the feeling of power as the magic coursed through her, liquid fire that burned and exhilarated at the same time. She was aware of their addictive effect on her, of the bonding that took place each time they were employed, and of how they seemed so much a part of her. She kept saying she would not use them, then found herself forced to do so anyway—or persuaded, perhaps. She shook her head. The choice of words didn’t matter; the results were the same. Each time she used the magic, she drifted a little farther from who and what she was and a little closer to being someone she didn’t know. She lost power over herself by using the power of the magic.

  She jammed her feet into the boots and stood up. Her thinking was wrong. It couldn’t be the Elfstones that were important. Otherwise, why hadn’t Ellenroh simply kept them here instead of giving them to Alleyne? Why hadn’t the Stones been used against the demons long ago if they could really make a difference?

  She hesitated, then reached over to her sleeping gown and extracted the Elfstones from the pocket in which she had placed them the night before. They lay glittering in her hand, their magic dormant, harmless, and invisible. She studied them intently, wondering at the circumstances that had placed them in her care, wishing anew that Ellenroh had agreed last night to take them back.

  Then she brushed aside the bad feelings that thinking of the Elfstones conjured up and shoved the troublesome talismans deep into her tunic pocket. After slipping a long knife into her belt, she straightened confidently and walked from the room.

  An Elven Hunter had been posted outside her door, and after pausing to summon Garth, the sentry escorted them downstairs to the dining hail and breakfast. They ate alone at a long, polished oak table covered in white linen and decorated with flowers, seated in a cavernous room with an arched ceiling and stained-glass windows that filtered the sunlight in prismatic colors. A serving girl stood ready to wait upon them, making the self-sufficient Wren feel more than a little uncomfortable. She ate in silence, Garth seated across from her, wondering what she was supposed to do when she was finished.

  There was no sign of the queen.

  Nevertheless, as the meal was being completed, the Owl appeared. Aurin Striate looked as gaunt and faded now as he had in the shadows and darkness of the lava fields without, his angular body loose and disjointed as he moved, nothing working quite as it should. He was wearing clean clothes and the stocking cap was gone, but he still managed to look somewhat creased and rumpled—it seemed that was normal for him. He came up to the dining table and took a seat, slouching forward comfortably.

  “You look a whole lot better than you did last night,” he ventured with a half smile. “Clean clothes and a bath make you a pretty girl indeed, Wren. Rest well, did you?”

  She smiled back at him. She liked the Owl. “Well enough, thanks. And thanks again for getting us safely inside. We wouldn’t have made it without you.”

  The Owl pursed his lips, glanced meaningfully at Garth, and shrugged. “Maybe so. But we both know that you were the one who really saved us.” He paused, stopped short of mentioning the Elfstones, and settled back in his chair. His aging Elven features narrowed puckishly. “Want to take a look around when you’re done? See a little of what’s out there? Your grandmother has put me at your disposal for a time.”

  Minutes later, they left the palace grounds, passing through the front gates this time, and went down into the city. The palace was settled on a knoll at the center of Arborlon, deep in the sheltering forests, with the cottages and shops of the city all around. The city was alive in daylight, the Elves busy at their work, the streets bustling with activity. As the three edged their way through the crowds, glances were directed toward them from every quarter—not at the Owl or Wren, but at Garth, who was much bigger than the Elves and clearly not one of them. Garth, in typical fashion, seemed oblivious. Wren craned her neck to see everything. Sunlight brightened the greens of the trees and grasses, the colors of the buildings, and the flowers that bordered the walkways; it was as if the vog and fire without the walls did not exist. There was a trace of ash and sulfur in the air, and the shadow of Killeshan was a dark smudge against the sky east where the city backed into the mountain, but the magic kept the world within sheltered and protected. The Elves were going about their business as if everything were normal, as if nothing threatened, and as if Morrowindl outside the city might be exactly the same as within.

  After a time they passed through the screen of the forest and came in sight of the outer wall. In daylight, the wall looked different. The glow of the magic had subsided to a faint glimmer that turned the world beyond to a soft, hazy watercolor washed of its brightness. Morrowindl—its mountains, Killeshan’s maw, the mix of lava rock and stunted forest, the fissures in the earth with their geysers of ash and steam—was misted almost to the point of invisibility. Elven soldiers patroled the ramparts, but there were no battles being fought now, the demons having slipped away to rest until nightfall. The world outside had gone sullen and empty, and the only audible sounds came from the voices and movement of the people within.

  As they neared the closest bridgehead, Wren turned to the Owl and asked, “Why is there a moat inside the wall?”

  The Owl glanced over at her, then away again. “It separates the city from the Keel. Do you know about the Keel?”

  He gestured toward the wall. Wren remembered the name now. Stresa had been the first to use it, saying that the Elves were in trouble because its magic was weakening.

  “It was built of the magic in the time of Ellenroh’s father, when the demons first came into being. It protects against them, keeps the city just as it has always been. Everything is the same as it was when Arborlon was brought to Morrowindl over a hundred years ago.”

  Wren was still mulling over what Stresa had said about the magic growing weaker. She was about to ask Aurin Striate if it was so when she realized what he had just said.

  “Owl, did you say when Arborlon was brought to Morrowindl? You mean when it was built, don’t you?”

  “I mean what I said.”

  “That
the buildings were brought? Or are you talking about the Ellcrys? The Ellcrys is here, isn’t it, inside the city?”

  “Back there.” He gestured vaguely, his seamed face clouded. “Behind the palace.”

  “So you mean—”

  The Owl cut her short. “The city, Wren. The whole of it and all of the Elves that live in it. That’s what I mean.”

  Wren stared. “But . . . It was rebuilt, you mean, from timbers the Elves ferried here . . .”

  He was shaking his head. “Wren, has no one told you of the Loden? Didn’t the queen tell you how the Elves came to Morrowindl?”

  He was leaning close to her now, his sharp eyes fixed on her. She hesitated, saying finally, “She said that it was decided to migrate out of the Westland because the Federation—”

  “No,” he cut her short once more. “That’s not what I mean.”

  He looked away a moment, then took her by the arm and walked her to a stone abutment at the foot of the bridge where they could sit. Garth trailed after them, his dark face expressionless, taking up a position across from them where he could see them speak.

  “This isn’t something I had planned on having to tell you, girl,” the Owl began when they were settled. “Others could do the job better. But we won’t have much to talk about if I don’t explain. And besides, if you’re Ellenroh Elessedil’s grandchild and the one she’s been waiting for, the one in Eowen Cerise’s vision, then you have a right to know.”

  He folded his angular arms comfortably. “But you’re not going to believe it. I’m not sure I do.”

  Wren smiled, a trifle uncomfortable with the prospect. “Tell me anyway, Owl.”

  Aurin Striate nodded. “This is what I’ve been told, then—not what I necessarily know. The Elves recovered some part of their faerie magic more than a hundred years back, before Morrowindl, while they were still living in the Westland. I don’t know how they did it; I don’t really suppose I care. What’s important to know is that when they made the decision to migrate, they supposedly channeled what there was of the magic into an Elfstone called the Loden. The Loden, I think, had always been there, hidden away, kept secret for the time when it would be needed. That time didn’t come for hundreds of years—not in all the time that passed after the Great Wars. But the Elessedils had it put away, or they found it again, or something, and when the decision was made to migrate, they put it to use.”

  He took a steadying breath and tightened his lips. “This Elfstone, like all of them, I’m told, draws its strength from the user. Except in this case, there wasn’t just a single user but an entire race. The whole of the strength of the Elven nation went into invoking the Loden’s magic.” He cleared his throat. “When it was done, all of Arborlon had been picked up like . . . like a scoop of earth, shrunk down to nothing, and sealed within the Stone. And that’s what I mean when I say Arborlon was brought to Morrowindl. It was sealed inside the Loden along with most of its people and carried by just a handful of caretakers to this island. Once a site for the city was found, the process was reversed and Arborlon was restored. Men, women, children, dogs, cats, birds, animals, houses and shops, trees, flowers, grass—everything. The Ellcrys, too. All of it.”

  He sat back and the sharp eyes narrowed. “So now what do you say?”

  Wren was stunned. “I say you’re right, Owl. I don’t believe it. I can’t conceive of how the Elves were able to recover something that had been lost for thousands of years that fast. Where did it come from? They hadn’t any magic at all in the time of Brin and Jair Ohmsford—only their healing powers!”

  The Owl shrugged. “I don’t pretend to know how they did any of it, Wren. It was long before my time. The queen might know—but she’s never said a word about it to me. I only know what I was told, and I’m not sure if I believe that. The city and its people were carried here in the Loden. That’s the story. And that’s how the Keel was built, too. Well, it was actually constructed of stone by hand labor first, but the magic that protects it came out of the Loden. I was a boy then, but I remember the old king using the Ruhk Staff. The Ruhk Staff holds the Loden and channels the magic.”

  “You’ve seen this?” Wren asked doubtfully.

  “I’ve seen the Staff and its Stone many times,” the Owl answered. “I saw them used only that once.”

  “What about the demons?” Wren went on, wanting to learn more, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. “What of them? Can’t the Loden and the Ruhk Staff be used against them?”

  The Owl’s face darkened, changing expression so quickly that it caught Wren by surprise. “No,” he answered quietly. “The magic is useless against the demons.”

  “But why is that?” she pressed. “The magic of the Elfstones I carry can destroy them. Why not the magic of the Loden?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a different kind of magic, I guess.”

  He didn’t sound very sure of himself. Quickly Wren said, “Tell me where the demons came from, Owl?”

  Aurin Striate looked uncomfortable. “Why ask me, Wren Elessedil?”

  “Ohmsford,” she corrected at once.

  “I don’t think so.”

  There was a strained silence as they faced each other, eyes locked. “They came out of the magic, too, didn’t they?” Wren said finally, unwilling to back off.

  The Owl’s sharp gaze was steady. “You ask the queen, Wren. You talk with her.”

  He rose abruptly. “Now that you know how the city got here, according to legend at least, let’s finish looking around. There’s three sets of gates in the Keel, one main and two small. See over there . . .”

  He started off, still talking, explaining what they were seeing, steering the conversation away from the questions no one seemed to want to answer. Wren listened halfheartedly, more interested in the tale of how the Elves had come to Morrowindl. It required such incredible magic to gather up an entire city, reduce it to the size of an Elfstone, and seal it inside for a journey that would carry it over an ocean. She still could not conceive of it. Elven magic recovered from out of faerie, from a time that was barely remembered—it was incredible. All that power, and still no way to break free of the demons, no way to destroy them. Her mouth tightened against a dozen protestations. She really didn’t know what to believe.

  They spent the morning and the early part of the afternoon walking through the city. They climbed to the ramparts and looked out over the land beyond, dim and hazy, empty of movement save where Killeshan’s steam erupted and the vog swirled. They saw Phaeton again, passing from the city to the Keel, oblivious to them, his strong features scarred and rough beneath his sun-bleached hair. The Owl watched stone faced and was turning to continue their walk when Wren asked him to tell her about Phaeton. The queen’s field commander, Aurin Striate answered, second in command only to Barsimmon Oridio and anxious to succeed him.

  “Why don’t you like him?” Wren asked bluntly.

  The Owl cocked one eyebrow. “That’s a hard one to explain. It’s a fundamental difference between us, I suppose. I spend most of my time outside the walls, prowling the night with the demons, taking a close look at where they are and what they’re about. I live like them much of the time, and when you do that you get to know them. I know the kinds and their habits, more about them than anyone. But Phaeton, he doesn’t think any of that matters. To him, the demons are simply an enemy that needs to be destroyed. He wants to take the Elven army out there and sweep them away. He’s been after Barsimmon Oridio and the queen to let him do exactly that for months. His men love him; they think he’s right because they want to believe he knows something they don’t. We’ve been shut away behind the Keel for almost ten years. Life goes on, and you can’t tell by just looking or even by talking to the people, but they’re all sick at heart. They remember how they used to live and they want to live that way again.”

  Wren considered momentarily bringing up the subject of how the demons got there and why they couldn’t simply be sent back again, but decided again
st it. Instead she said, “You think that there isn’t any hope of the army winning out there, I gather.”

  The Owl fixed her with a hard stare. “You were out there with me, Wren—which is more than Phaeton can say. You traveled up from the beach to get here. You faced the demons time and again. What do you think? They’re not like us. There’s a hundred different kinds, and each of them is dangerous in a different way. Some you can kill with an iron blade and some you can’t. Down along the Rowen there’s the Revenants—all teeth and claws and muscle. Animals. Up on Blackledge there’s the Drakuls—ghosts that suck the life out of you, like smoke, nothing to fight, nothing to put a sword to. And that’s only two kinds, Wren.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think we can win out there. I think we’ll be lucky if we can manage to stay alive in here.”

  They walked on a bit farther and then Wren said, “The Splinterscat told me that the magic that shields the city is weakening.”

  She made it a statement of fact and not a question and waited for an answer. For a long time the Owl did not respond, his head lowered toward his stride, his eyes on the ground before him.

  Finally, he looked over, just for a moment, and said, “The Scat is right.”

  They went down into the city proper for a time, wandering into the shops and poring over the carts that dominated the marketplace, perusing the wares and studying the people buying and selling them. Arborlon was a city that in all respects but one might have been any other. Wren gazed at the faces about her, seeing her own Elven features reflected in theirs, the first time she had ever been able to do that, pleased with the experience and with the idea that she was the first person to be able to do so in more than a hundred years. The Elves were alive; the Elves existed. It was a wondrous discovery, and it still excited her to have been the one to have made it.

  They had a quick meal in the marketplace—some thin-baked bread wrapped about seared meat and vegetables, a piece of fresh fruit that resembled a pear, and a cup of ale, and then continued on. The Owl took them behind the palace into the Gardens of Life. They walked the pathways in silence, losing themselves in the fragrance of the flower beds and in the scents of the hundreds of colorful blooms that lay scattered amid the plants and bushes and trees. They came upon a white-robed Chosen, one of the caretakers of the Ellcrys, who nodded and passed by. Wren found herself thinking of Par Ohmsford’s tale of the Elven girl Amberle, the most famous Chosen of all. They climbed to the summit of the hill on which the Gardens had been planted and stood before the Ellcrys, the tree’s scarlet leaves and silver branches vibrant in the sunlight, so striking that it seemed they could not be real. Wren wanted to touch the tree, to whisper something to it, and to tell it perhaps that she knew and understood who and what it had endured. She didn’t, though; she just stood there. The Ellcrys never spoke to anyone, and it already knew how she felt. So she simply stared at it, thinking as she did how terrible it would be if the Keel failed completely and the demons overran the Elves and their city. The Ellcrys would be destroyed, of course, and when that happened all of the monsters imprisoned within the Forbidding, the things out of faerie shut away for all these years, would be released into the world of mortal Men once more. Then, she thought darkly, Allanon’s vision of the future would truly come to pass.