returned. Their shadow might be more clever than they imag-
ined.
“What does it want?” she mused.
She had asked Garth the same question that morning, and he
had drawn his finger slowly across his throat. She tried to argue
against it, but she lacked the necessary conviction. It could be
an assassin following them as easily as anyone else.
Her gaze wandered to the expanse of the plains east. It was
disturbing enough to be tracked like this. It was even more
disturbing to realize that it probably had something to do with
her inquiries about the Elves.
She sighed fitfully, vaguely irritated with the way things were
working out. She had come back from her meeting with the
shade of Allanon in an unsettled state, dissatisfied with what she
had heard, uncertain as to what she should do. Common sense
told her mat what the shade had asked of her was impossible.
But something inside, that sixth sense she relied upon so heavily,
whispered that maybe it wasn’t, that Druids had always known
more than humans, that their warnings and chargings to the
people of the Races had always had merit. Par believed. He was
probably already in search of the missing Sword of Shannara.
And while Walker had departed from them in a rage, vowing
never to have anything to do with the Druids, his anger had been
momentary. He was too rational, too controlled to dismiss the
matter so easily. Like her, he would be having second thoughts.
She shook her head ruefully. She had believed her own de-
cision irrevocable for a tune. She had persuaded herself that
common sense must necessarily govern her course of action,
and she had returned with Garth to her people, putting the busi-
ness of Allanon and the missing Elves behind her. But the doubts
had persisted, a nagging sense of something being not quite
right about her determination to drop the matter. So, almost
reluctantly, she had begun to ask questions about the Elves. It
was easy enough to do; the Rovers were a migrating people and
traveled the Westland from end to end during the course of a
year’s time, trading for what they needed, bartering with what
they had. Villages and communities came and went, and there
were always new people to talk to. What harm could it do them
to inquire about the Elves?
Sometimes she had asked her questions directly, sometimes
almost jokingly. But the answers she had received were all the
same. The Elves were gone, had been since before anyone could
remember, since before the time of their grandfathers and
grandmothers. No one had ever seen an Elf. Most weren’t sure
there had ever really been any to see.
Wren had begun to feel foolish even asking, had begun to
consider giving up asking at all. She broke away from her people
to hunt with Garth, anxious to be alone to think, hoping to gain
some insight into the dilemma through solitary consideration of
it.
And then their shadow had appeared, stalking them. Now she
was wondering if there wasn’t something to be found out after
all.
She saw movement out of the comer of her eye, a vague blur
in the swelter of the plains, and she came cautiously to her feet.
She stood without moving in the shadow of the oak as the shape
took form and became Garth. The giant Rover trotted up to her,
sweat coating his heavily muscled frame. He seemed barely
winded, a tireless machine that even the intense midsummer
heat could not affect. He signed briefly, shaking his head. Who-
ever was out there had eluded him.
Wren held his gaze a moment, then reached down to hand
him the waterskin. As he drank, she draped her lanky frame
against the roughened bark of the oak and stared out into the
empty plains. One hand came up in an unconscious movement
to touch the small leather bag about her neck. She rolled the
contents thoughtfully between her fingers. Make-believe Elf-
stones. Her good luck charm. What sort of luck were they pro-
viding her now?
She brushed aside her uneasiness, her sun-browned face a
mask of determination. It didn’t matter. Enough was enough.