and buried all her promises that she would not give way to it,
that she would not become another of the Ohmsfords it had
claimed.
Ah, but she had needed its power, hadn’t she? Hadn’t it kept
her alive-kept them all alive? Hadn’t she wanted it, even glo-
ried in it? What else could she have done?
Garth was next to her, holding her by the shoulders, keeping
her upright, his dark eyes intense as he looked into her own.
She nodded vaguely that she was aware of him, that she was all
right But she wasn’t, of course. The Owl was there as well,
Saying “Wren, you are the one that she has waited for, the one
wh0 was promised. You are welcome indeed. Come quickly
now, before the dark things regroup and attack again. Hurry!”
She followed obediently, wordlessly, her body a foreign
thing that swept her along as she watched from somewhere just
without. Heat and exhaustion worked through her, but she felt
detached from them. She saw the landscape revert to a sea of
vog through which a strange array of shadows floated. Trees
lifted skyward in clusters, leafless and bare, brittle stalks waiting
to crumble away. Ahead, glistening like something trapped be-
hind a rain-streaked window, was the city of the Elves, a jeweled
treasure that shimmered with promise and hope.
A lie, the thought struck her suddenly, incongruously, and
she was surprised with the intensity of it. It is all a lie.
Then the Owl led them through a tangle of brush and down
a narrow defile where the shadows were so thick it was all but
impossible to see. He crouched down, worked at a gathering of
rocks, and a trapdoor lifted. Swiftly they scrambled inside, the
air hot and stifling. The Elf reached up and pulled the trapdoor
back into place and secured it. The darkness lasted only a mo-
ment, and then there was a hint of the city’s strange light through
the tunnel that lay ahead. The Owl took them down its length,
saying nothing, lean and shadowy against the faint wash of::
brightness. Wren felt the sense of detachment fading now; she
was back inside herself, returned to who and what she was. She
knew what had happened, what she had done, but she would
not let herself dwell on it. There was nothing to do but to go:
forward and to complete the journey she had set herself. The
city lay ahead-Arborlon. And the Elves, whom she had come
to find. That was what she must concentrate on.
She realized suddenly that Faun had not come back to her.
The Tree Squeak was still outside, fled into that fiery nether-
world . . . She shut her eyes momentarily. The Stresa was there
as well, gone of his own choice. She feared for them both. But
there was nothing she could do.
They worked their way down the tunnel for what seemed
an endless amount of time, crouched low in the narrow pas-
sageway, wordless as they went. The light brightened the farthet
they went until it was as clear as daylight within the rock. The
world without faded entirely-the vog, the heat, the ash, and
the stench-all gone. Suddenly the rock disappeared as well,
turning abruptly to earth, black and rich, a reminder for Wren
of the forests of the Westland, of her home. She breathed the
smell in deeply, wondering that it could be. The magic, she
thought, had preserved it.
The tunnel ended at a set of stone stairs that led upward to
a heavy, iron-bound door set in a wall of rock. As they reached
the door, the Owl turned suddenly to face them.
“Wren,” he said softly, “listen to me.” The gray eyes were
intense. “I know I am a stranger to you, and you have no par-
ticular reason to trust anything I say. But you must rely on me
at least this once. Until you speak with the queen, and only
when you are alone with her, should you reveal that you have
possession of the Elfstones. Tell no one else before. Do you
understand?”
Wren nodded slowly. “Why do you ask this of me, Aurin