don’t you think there is a pretty fair chance she was right about
the Elves as well?” Wren forged ahead. “I think so. I think some-
one will come if we light a signal fire. Right up on that ledge.
In that pit. There have been fires there before. You saw. Maybe
this valley was home to the Elves once. Maybe it still is. To-
morrow we’ll build that signal fire and see what happens.”
She ignored his shrug and settled back comfortably, her
blankets wrapped close, her eyes bright with determination. The
incident with the Roc was already beginning to recede into the
back corners of her mind.
She slept until well after midnight, taking watch late because
Garth chose not to wake her. She was alert for the remainder
of the night, keeping her mind active with thoughts of what was
to come. The rain ended, and by daybreak the summer heat
Was back steamy and thick. They foraged for dry wood, cut
pieces small enough to load, built a sled, and used the horses to
haul their cuttings to the cliff edge. They worked steadily
through the heat, careful not to overexert themselves or their
animals, taking frequent rests, and drinking sufficient water to
prevent heat stroke. The day stayed clear and sultry, the rains
a distant memory. An occasional breeze brew in off the water
but did little to cool them. The sea stretched away from the
land in a smooth, glassy surface that from the cliff heights
seemed as flat and hard as iron.
They saw nothing further of the Rocs. Garth believed them
to be night birds, hunters that preferred the cover of darkness
before venturing forth. Once or twice Wren thought she might
have heard their call, faint and muffled. She would have liked
to know how many nested in the caves and whether there were
babies. But one brush with the giant birds was enough, and she
was content to let her curiosity remain unsatisfied.
They built their signal fire in the stone depression on the
rock ledge overlooking the Blue Divide. When sunset ap-
proached, Garth used his flint to ignite the kindling, and soon
the larger pieces of wood were burning as well. The flames
soared skyward, a red and gold glare against the fading light,
crackling in the stillness. Wren glanced about in satisfaction.
From this height, the fire could be seen for miles in every
direction. If there were anyone out there looking, they would
see it.
They ate dinner in silence, seated a short distance from the
signal fire, their eyes on the flames, their minds elsewhere. Wren
found herself thinking about her cousins, Par and Coll, and about
Walker Boh. She wondered whether they had been persuaded,
as she had, to take up the charges of Allanon. Find the Sword
of Shannara, the shade had told Par. Find the Druids and lost
Paranor, it had told Walker. And to her, find the missing Elves.
If they did not, if any of them failed, then the vision it had
shown them of a world turned barren and empty would come
to pass, and the people of the races would become the play-
things of the Shadowen. Her lean face tightened, and she
brushed absently at a loose curl. The Shadowen-what were
they? Cogline had spoken of them, she reflected, without ac
tually revealing much. The history he had given them that night
at the Hadeshorn was surprisingly vague. Creatures formed in
the vacuum left with the failing of the magic at Allanon’s death.
Creatures born out of stray magic. What did that mean?
She finished her meal, rose, and walked out to the cliff edge.
The night was clear and the sky filled with a thousand stars,
their white light shimmering on the surface of the ocean to form
a glittering tapestry of silver. Wren lost herself in the beauty of
it for a time, basking in the evening cool, freed momentarily of
her darker thoughts. When she came back to herself, she wished
she knew better where she was going. What had once been a
very certain, structured existence had turned surprisingly quix-
oti C.
She moved back to the fire and rejoined Garth. The big