interfering So? She knew enough of prophecies to recognize the threat. It was
better, she believed, that you grow to womanhood without knowing the
specifics of what Eowen had foretold, that you find your destiny on your
own, however it was meant to be. It was given to me to prepare you.
“So you knew everything? All of it? You knew about the
Elfstones?”
No. Not about the Elfstones. Like you, I thought them painted rocks. I
was told to make certain that you knew where they came from, that they
were your heritage from your parents. I was to see to it that you never lost
them. Your mother was convinced, I suppose, that like your destiny, the
power of the Elfstones would reveal itself when it was time.
“But you knew the rest, all the time I was growing up? And
after, when I went to the Hadeshorn, when I was sent in search
of the Elves?”
I knew.
“And didn’t tell me?” There was a hint of anger in her voice
now, the first. The impact of what he was telling her was begin-
ning to set in. “Never a word, even when I asked?”
I could not.
“What do you mean, you could not?” She was incensed.
“Why?”
Because I promised your mother. She swore me to secrecy. You were to
know nothing of your true heritage, nothing of the Elessedils, Arborlon, or
Morrowindl, nothing of the prophecy. You were to discover it on your own
or not, as fate decreed. I was not to aid you in any way. I was to go with
you when it came time if I chose. I was to protect you as best I could. But
I was to tell you nothing.
“Ever?”
The big man’s breath rattled in his chest, and his fingers
hesitated. I swore an oath. I swore that I would tell you nothing until the
prophecy came to pass, if it ever did nothing until you had come back into
Arborlon, until you had discovered the truth for yourself, until you had
done whatever it was you were fated to do to help your people. I promised.
She sank back on her heels, despair washing through her.
Trust no one, the Addershag had warned. No one. She had believed
she realized the impact of those words. She had thought she
understood.
But this . .
“Oh, Garth,” she whispered in dismay. “I trusted you!”
You lost nothing by doing so, Wren.
“Didn’t I?”
They faced each other, silent, motionless. Everything that
had happened to Wren since Cogline had first come to her
those many weeks past seemed to gather and settle on her shoul-
ders like an enormous weight. So many harrowing escapes, so
many deaths, so much lost-she felt it all, the whole of it, come
together in a single moment, in this truth terrible and unex-
pected.
Had you known before coming, it might have changed everything. Your
mother understood that. Your father as well. Perhaps I would have told you
if I could, but my promise bound me. The big frame shifted, and the
sharply etched bones of the other’s face lifted into the light. Tell
me, if you can, that I should have done otherwise. Tell me, Wren, that I
should have broken my promise.
Her mouth was a tight, bitter line. “You should have.”
He held her gaze, dark eyes flat and exprescionless.
“No,” she admitted finally, tears in her eyes. “You shouldn’t
have.” She looked away, empty and lost. “But that doesn’t help.
Everyone has lied to me. Everyone. Even you. The Addershag
was right, Garth, and that’s what hurts. There were too many
lies, too many secrets, and I wasn’t part of any of them.”
She cried silently, head lowered. “Someone should have
trusted me. My whole life has been changed, and I have had
nothing to say about it. Look what’s been done!”
One big hand brushed her own. Think, Wren. The choices have
all been yours. No one has made them for you; no one has shown you the
way. Had you known the truth of things, had you understood the expecta-
tions held for you, would it have been the same? Could you say the choices