Striate?”
The Owl smiled sadly, the creases in his worn face deep-
ening. “Because, Wren, though I would wish it otherwise, not
everyone will welcome your coming.”
Then, turning, he tapped sharply on the door, waited, and
tapped again-three and then two, three and then two. Wren
listened. There was movement on the other side. Heavy locks
released, sliding free.
Slowly the door swung open, and they stepped through.
CHAPTER
10
I HAVE COME HOME.
It was Wren’s first thought-vivid, startling, and un-
expected.
She was inside the city walls, standing in an alcove
that opened beneath the shadow of the parapets. Arborlon
stretched away before her, and it was as if she had returned to
the Westland, for there were oaks, hickories and elm, green
bushes and grass, and earth that smelled of growing things and
changes of season, streams and ponds, and life at every turn. An
owl hooted softly, and there was a flutter of wings close at hand
as a smaller bird darted away from its hidden perch. Some oth-
ers sang. Whippoorwills! Fireflies glimmered in a stand of hem-
lock and crickets chirped. She could hear the soft rush of water
from a river where it tumbled over the rocks. She could feel
the whisper of a gentle night wind against her cheek. The air
smelled clean, free of the stench of sulfur.
And there was the city itself. It nestled within the greenery-
clusters of homes and shops, streets and roadways below and
skypaths overhead, wooden bridges that connected across the
tangle of streams, lamps that lit windows and flickered in wel-
come, and people-a handful not yet gone to sleep-walking
perhaps to ease their restlessness or to marvel at the sky. For
there was sky again, clear and cloudless, brilliant with stars and
a three-quarter moon as white as new snow. Beneath its canopy,
everything glimmered faintly with the magic that emanated from
the walls. Yet the glow was not harsh as it had seemed to Wren
from without, and the walls, despite their height and thickness,
were so softened by it that they appeared almost ephemeral.
Wren’s eyes darted from place to place, finding flower gar-
dens set out in well-tended yards, hedgerows that lined walk-
ways, and street lamps of intricately wrought iron. There were
horses, cows, chickens, and animals of all sorts in pens and barns.
There were dogs curled up asleep in doorways and cats on sills.
There were colored flags and umbrellas astride entries and awn-
ings hung from shop fronts and barter carts. The houses and
shops were white and clean, edged with fresh-painted borders
in a myriad of colors. She could not see it all, of course, only
the closest parts of the city. Yet there was no mistaking where
she was or how it made her feel.
Home.
Yet as quickly as the pleasing rush of familiarity and sense
of belonging swept over her, it disappeared. How could she
come home to a place she had never been, had never seen, and
hadn’t even been certain existed until this moment?
The vision blurred then and seemed to shrink back into the
night’s shadows as if seeking to hide. She saw what she had
missed before-or perhaps simply what she had not allowed
herself to see in her excitement. The walls teemed with men,
Elves in battle dress with weapons in hand, their lines of defense
stretched across the battlements. An attack was under way. The
struggle was oddly silent, as if the magic’s glow muffled some-
how the sounds. Men fell, some to rise again, and some to dis-
appear. The shadows that attacked suffered casualties as well,
some burned by the light that sparked and fizzled as a dying
fire might, and some cut down by the defenders. Wren blinked.
Within the walls, the city of the Elves seemed somehow less
bright and more worn. The houses and shops were a little darker,
a little less carefully tended than she had first imagined, the trees
and bushes not as lush, and the flowers paler. The air she
breathed was not so clean after all-there was a hint of sulfur
and ash. Beyond the city, Killeshan loomed dark and threaten-