of her eyes she could see the shapes in the light growing large
and taking form as buildings and trees, roadways and paths, and
lawns and parks appeared. Arborlon was coming back into be-
ing. She watched it materialize as if seeing it from behind a
window streaked with rain, hazy and indistinct. At its center,
like a gleaming arch of silver and scarlet in the mist, was the
Ellcrys. She felt her strength begin to fail, the power of the
magic stealing it away for its own use, and she found herself
fighting to stand upright. White light whirled and spun like
clouds before a storm, gathering in force until it seemed it must
explode everything about it in a roar of thunder.
Then it began to fade, dimming steadily, wanning back into
darkness like water into sand.
It was finished then, Wren knew. She could see Arborlon
within the haze, could even pick out the people standing in
clusters at the edges of the brightness as they peered to see what
lay without. She had done what her grandmother had asked of
her, what Allanon had asked, and had accomplished all with
which she had been charged by others-but not yet that
with which she had charged herself. For it would never be
enough simply to restore the Elves and their city to the West-
land. It would never be enough to give them back to the Four
Lands, a people returned out of self-imposed exile. Not after
Morrowindl. Not when she knew the truth about the Shadowen.
Not while she lived with the horror of the possibility that the
magic might be misused again. The lives of the Elves had been
given to her on others’ terms; she would give them back again
on her own.
She clamped her hands about the Ruhk Staff and sent what
was left of its magic soaring out into the light, burning down-
ward into the earth, all of it that remained, all that could ever
be. She drained it in a final fury that sent a crackle of fire
exploding through the shimmering air. It swept out like light-
ning, flash after flash. She did not let up. She expended it all,
emptying the Staff and the Stone, burning the power away until
the last of it flared a final time and was gone.
Darkness returned. A haze hung on the night air momen-
tarily, then dissipated into motes of dust and began to settle.
She followed its movement, seeing grass now beneath her feet
where there hadn’t been grass before, smelling the scents of trees
and flowers, of burning pitch, of cooking foods, of wood and
iron, and of life. She looked past the dark line of the Ruhk Staff
to the city, to Arborlon returned, buildings lit by lamps, streets
and tree lanes stretching its length and breadth like dark rib-
bons.
And the people, the Elves, stood before her, thousands of
them, gathered at the city’s edge, staring wide-eyed and won-
dering. Elven Hunters stood at the forefront, weapons drawn.
She faced them, saw their eyes fix on her, on the Staff she held.
She was aware of Tiger Ty’s mutter of disbelief, of Triss coming
up to stand next to her, and of Stresa and Faun. She could feel
their heat against her back, small touches flicking against her
skin.
Barsimmon Oridio and Eton Shart emerged from the crowd
and came slowly forward. When they were a dozen feet away,
they stopped. Neither seemed able to speak.
Wren took her weight off the Ruhk Staff and straightened.
For the first time she glanced up at the Loden. The gleaming
facets had disappeared into darkness. The magic had gone back
into the earth. The Loden had turned to common stone.
She brought the Ruhk Staff close to her face and saw that it
was charred and brittle and dead. After taking it firmly in both
hands, she brought it down across raised knee, snapped it in
two, and cast the remains to the ground.
“The Elves are home,” she said to the two who stood open-
mouthed before her, “and we won’t ever leave again.”
Triss stepped past her, his body still splinted and bandaged,