"Find the Elves and return them to the world of Men!" the shade of the Druid Allanon had ordered Wren.
It was clearly an impossible task. The Elves had been gone from the Westland for more than a hundred years. There was not even a trace of their former city of Arborlon left to mark their passing. No one in the Esterland knew of them -- except, finally, the Addershag.
The blind old woman had given instructions to find a place on the coast of the Blue Divide, build a fire, and keep it burning for three days. "One will come for you."
Tiger Ty, the Wing Rider, had come on his giant Roc to carry Wren and her friend Garth to the only clear landing site on the island of Morrowindl, where, he said, the Elves might still exist, somewhere in the demon-haunted jungle.
Now she stood within that jungle, remembering the warning of the Addershag: "Beward, Elf-girl. I see danger ahead for you . . . and evil beyond imagining." It had proved all too true.
Wren stood with her single weapon of magic, listening as demons evil beyond all imagining gathered for attack. How long could she resist?
And if, by some miracle, she reached the Elves and could convince them to return, how could they possibly retrace her perilous path to reach the one safe place on the coast?
I
Fire.
It sputtered in the oil lamps that hung distant and solitary in the
windows and entryways of her people's homes. It spat and hissed as it
licked at the pitch-coated torches bracketing road intersections and
gates. It glowed through breaks in the leafy branches of the ancient oak
and hickory where glassed lanterns lined the treelanes. Bits and pieces
of flickering light, the flames were like tiny creatures that the night
threatened to search out and consume.
Like ourselves, she thought.
Like the Elves.
Her gaze lifted, traveling beyond the buildings and walls of the city to
where Killeshan steamed.
Fire.
It glowed redly out of the volcano's ragged mouth, the glare of its
molten core reflected in the clouds of vog-volcanic ash -- that hung in
sullen banks across the empty sky. Killeshan loomed over them, vast and
intractable, a phenomenon of nature that no Elven magic could hope to
withstand. For weeks now the rumbling had sounded from deep within the
earth, dissatisfied, purposeful, a building up of pressure that would
eventually demand release.
For now, the lava burrowed and tunneled through cracks and fissures in
its walls and ran down into the waters of the ocean in long, twisting
ribbons that burned off the jungle and the things that lived within it.
One day soon now, she knew, this secondary venting would not be enough,
and Killeshan would erupt in a conflagration that would destroy them
all.
If any of them remained by then.
She stood at the edge of the Gardens of Life close, to where the Ellcrys
grew. The ancient tree lifted skyward as if to fight through the vog and
breathe the cleaner air that lay sealed above. Silver branches glimmered
faintly with the light of lanterns and torches; scarlet leaves reflected
the volcano's darker glow. Scatterings of fire danced in strange
patterns through breaks in the tree as if trying to form a picture. She
watched the images appear and fade, a mirror of her thoughts, and the
sadness she felt threatened to overwhelm her.
What am I to do? she thought desperately. What choices are
left me?
None, she knew. None, but to wait.
She was Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the Elves, and all she could do was
to wait.
She gripped the Ruhk Staff tightly and glanced skyward with a grimace.
There were no stars or moon this night. There had been little of either
for weeks, only the vog, thick and impenetrable, a shroud waiting to
descend, to cover their bodies, to enfold them all, and to wrap them
away forever.
She stood stiffly as a hot breeze blew over her, ruffling the fine linen
of her clothing. She was tall, her body angular and long limbed. The
bones of her face were prominent, shaping features that were instantly
recognizable. Her cheekbones were high, her forehead broad, and her jaw
sharp-edged and smooth beneath her wide, thin mouth. Her skin was drawn
tight against her face, giving her a sculpted look. Flaxen hair tumbled
to her shoulders in thick, unruly curls. Her eyes were a strange,
piercing blue and always seemed to be seeing things not immediately
apparent to others. She seemed much younger than her fifty-odd years.
When she smiled, which was often, she brought smiles to the faces of
others almost effortlessly.
She was not smiling now. It was late, well after midnight, and her
weariness was like a chain that would not let her go.
"If Harry Potter has given you a thirst for fantasy and you have not discovered the magic of Terry Brooks, you are in for a treat."
