began to snake into her limbs. “Shades!” she whispered in hor-
ror, realizing the truth now, a truth that had been hidden all
this time from those summoned to the Hadeshorn by the shade
of Allanon. “You’re saying that the Elves made the Shadowen!”
“No, Wren.” Eowen’s voice choked as she struggled to fin-
ish. “The Elves didn’t make the Shadowen. The Elves are the
Shadowen.”
Wren’s breath caught in her throat, a knot that threatened
to strangle her. She remembered the Shadowen at the Wing
Hove, the one that had stalked her for so long, the one that in
the end would have killed her if not for the Elfstones. She tried
to picture it as an Elf and failed.
“Elves, Wren.” Eowen’s husky voice drew her attention back
again. “My people. Ellenroh’s. Your own. Just a few, you under-
stand, but Elves still. There are others now, I expect, but in the
beginning it was only Elves. They sought to be something bet-
ter, I think, something more. But it all went wrong, and they
became . . what they are. Even then, they refused to change,
to seek help. Ellenroh knew. All of the Elves knew, once upon
a time at least. It was why they left, why they abandoned their
homeland and fled. They were terrified of what their brethren
had done. They were appalled that the magic had been so mis-
used. For it was an inaccurate and changeable magic at best, and
what they created was not always what they desired.”
She smiled bitterly. “Do you see now why the queen could
not reveal to you the truth of things? Do you understand the
burden she carried? She was an Elessedil, and her forefathers
had allowed this to happen! She had aided in the misuse of the
magic herself, albeit because it was all she could do if she wished
to save her people. She couldn’t tell you. I can barely stand doing
it myself! I wonder even now if I have made a mistake . .
“Eowen!” Wren seized the other’s hands and would not let
go. “You were right to tell me. Grandmother should have done
so in the beginning. It is a terrible, awful thing, but .
She trailed off helplessly, and her eyes locked on the seer’s.
Trust no one, the Addershag had warned. Now she understood
why. The secrets of three hundred years lay scattered at her
feet, and only death’s presence had given them away.
Eowen started up, freeing her hands. “I have given you
enough of truth this night,” she whispered. “I wish it could have
been otherwise.”
“No, Eowen . .
“Be kind, Wren Elessedil. Forgive the queen. And me. And
the Elves, if you can. Remember the importance of the trust
you have been given. Carry the Loden back into the Four Lands.
Let the Elves begin anew. Let them help set matters right again.”
She turned, ignoring Wren’s hushed plea to stay, and dis-
appeared from view.
W’REN SAT AWAKE after that until dawn, watching the mist swirl
against the void, staring out into the impenetrable night. She
listened to the movements of those on watch, to the breathing
of those who slept, to the empty whisper of her thoughts as
they wrestled with the truth that Eowen had left her.
The Shadowen are Elves.
The words repeated themselves, a whispered warning. She
was the only one who knew, the only one who could warn the
others. But she had to get off Morrowindl first. She had to
survive.
The night seemed to close about her. She had wanted the
truth. Now she had it. It was a bitter, wrenching triumph, and
the cost of attaining it had yet to be fully measured.
Oh, Grandmother’
Her hands gripped the Ruhk Staff, and frustration, anger,
and sadness rushed through her. She had found her birthright,
discovered her identity, learned the history of her life, and now
she wished that it would all disappear forever. It was vile and
tainted and marked with betrayal and madness at every turn.
She hated it.
And then, when the darkness of her mood had reached a
point where it appeared complete, where it seemed that nothing