they were given and they had been given to the Ohmsford fam-
ily-and then lost again, supposedly. But perhaps not. Perhaps
they had been simply taken away at some point. It was possible.
There had been many Ohmsfords after Brin and Jair and three
hundred years in which to lose track of the magic-even a magic
as personal and powerful as the Elfstones. There had been a time
when no one could use them, she reminded herself. Only those
with sufficient Elven blood could invoke the magic with impu-
nity. Wil Ohmsford had been damaged that way. His use of the
Stones had caused him to absorb some of their magic. When
his children were born, Brin and Jair, the magic had transformed
itself into the wishsong. So perhaps one of the Ohmsfords had
decided to take the Elfstones back to those who could use them
safely-to the Elves. Was that how they had found their way to
her parents?
The questions persisted, overwhelming, insistent, and unan-
swerable. What was it that Cogline had said to her when he had
found her that first time in the Tirfing and persuaded her to
come with him to the Hadeshorn to meet with Allanon? It is not
nearly so important to know who you are as who you might be. She was
beginning to see how that might be true in a way she had never
envisioned.
Garth rose at noon and ate the vegetable stew and fresh
bread she had prepared. He was stiff and sore, and his strength
had not yet returned. Nevertheless, he thought it necessary that
he make a sweep of the area to make certain that there wasn’t
another of the wolf things about. Wren had not considered the
possibility. Both of them had recognized their attacker as a
Shadowen-a thing once human that had become part beast, a
thing that could track and hunt, that could hide and stalk, and
that could think as well as they and kill without compunction.
No wonder it had tracked them so easily. She had assumed it
had come alone. It was an assumption she could not afford to
make. She told Garth that she was the one who would go. She
was better suited at the moment than he, and she had the Elf-
stones. She would be protected.
She did not tell him how frightened she was of the Elven
magic or how difficult she would find it if she were required to
invoke it again.
As she backtracked the country south and east, searching
for prints, for signs, or for anything out of place, relying mostly
on her instincts to warn her of any danger, she thought about
what it meant to be in possession of such magic. She remem-
bered when Par had kidded her about the dreams, saying that
she had the same Elven blood as he and perhaps some part
of the magic. She had laughed. She had only her painted rocks,
she had said. She remembered the Addershag’s touch at her
breast where the Elfstones hung in their leather bag and the
unbidden cry of “Magic!” She hadn’t even thought of the painted
rocks that time. All her life she had known of the Ohmsford
legacy, of the magic that had belonged to them as the descen-
dants of the Elven house of Shannara. Yet she had never thought
to have use of the magic herself, never even desired it. Now it
was hers as the Elfstones were hers, and what was she to do
about it? She did not want the responsibility of the Stones or
their magic. She wanted nothing of the legacy. The legacy was
a millstone that would drag her down. She was a Rover, born
and raised free, and that was what she knew and was comfort-
able with being-not any of this other. She had accepted her
Elven looks without questioning what they might imply. They
were part of her, but a lesser part, and nothing at all of the
Rover she was. She felt as if she had been turned inside out by
the discovery of the Elfstones, as if the magic by coming into
her life was somehow taking life out of her and making her over.
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