killed for her-enemies to be sure, but friends as well. Eowen.
Hadn’t the magic killed Eowen? She bit down against her despair. It
destroyed-which was all right because that was what she ex-
pected it to do, but at the same time was all wrong because it
was indiscriminate and even when it chose properly it emptied
her a little further of things like compassion, tenderness, re-
morse, and love, the soft that balanced the hard. It burned away
the complexity of her vision and left her stripped of choices.
As she was now, she realized.
A wind had come up, slow and erratic at first, now quick
and rough as it gusted across the fiats, causing the spines of the
trees to shiver and the ravines to hum and moan. It blew across
her shoulders, pushing her sideways in the manner of a thought-
less stranger in a crowd. She lowered her head against it, another
distraction to be suffered, another obstacle to be overcome. The
light west had disappeared, and she was cloaked in darkness. It
wasn’t so far to go, she told herself wearily. The others were
just ahead at the Harrow’s edge, waiting.
Just ahead.
She laughed. What did it matter whether they were there
or not? What did any of it matter? Her life would do with her
as it chose, just as it had been doing ever since she had come
in search of herself. No, she corrected, longer ago than that.
Forever, perhaps. She laughed again. Come in search of herself,
her family, the Elves, the truth-such foolishness! She could
hear the mocking sounds of her own voice as the thoughts
chased after one another.
A voice that echoed in the wind.
What matter’ it whispered.
What difference?
Her thoughts returned unbidden to Eowen, kind and gentle,
doomed in spite of her seer’s gifts, fated to be swallowed up by
them. What good had it done Eowen to know her future? What
good would it do any of them? What good, in fact, even to try
to determine it? Useless, she raged, because in the end it would
do with you what it chose in any case. It would make you what
it wished, take you where it willed, and leave you in its own
good time.
All about her, the wind voice howled. Let go!
She heard it, nodded in recognition, and began to cry. The
words caressed her like a mother’s hands, and she welcomed
their touch. Everything seemed to be fading away. She was
walking-where? She didn’t stop, didn’t pause to wonder, but
simply kept moving because movement helped, taking her away
from the hurt, the anguish. She had something to do-what?
She shook her head, unable to determine, and brushed at her
tears with the back of her hand.
The hand that held the Elfstones.
She looked down at it wonderingly, surprised to discover
the Stones were still there. The magic pulsed within her fist,
within the fingers tightly wrapped about, its blue glow seeping
through the cracks, spilling out into the dark. Why was it doing
that? She stared blankly, vaguely aware that something was
wrong. Why did it burn so?
Let go, the wind voice whispered.
I want to! she howled in the silence of her mind.
She slowed, looking up from the pathway her feet had been
following, from the emptiness of the ground. The Harrow had
taken on a different cast, one of brightness and warmth. There
Were faces all about, strangely alive against the haze, filled with
understanding of her need. The faces were familiar, of friends
and family, of all those who had loved and supported her, living
and dead, come out of her imagination into life. She was sur-
prised when they appeared, but pleased as well. She spoke to
them, a word or two, tentative, curious. They glanced her way
and whispered in reply.
Let go.
Let go.
The words repeated insistently in her mind, a glimmer of
hope. She slowed and finally stopped, no longer knowing where
she was and no longer caring. She was so tired. Her life was a
shambles. She could not even pretend that she had any control