They stood in an entry with a vaulted ceiling and wood-
carved lintels and jams that shone with polish. Cushioned
benches had been placed against facing walls and oil lamps
bracketed arched double doors opened to a darkened hall-
way beyond. From somewhere down that hallway, deep within
the bowels of the palace, Wren could hear movement and the
distant sound of voices. Following the Owl’s lead, Wren and
Garth seated themselves on the benches. In the light Wren could
see for the first time how ragged she looked, her clothing ripped
and soiled and streaked with blood. Garth looked even worse.
One sleeve of his tunic was gone entirely and the other was in
shreds. His massive arms were clawed and bruised. His bearded
face was swollen. He caught her looking at him and shrugged
dismissively.
A figure approached, easing silently out of the hallway, com-
ing slowly into the light. It was an Elf of medium height and
build, plain looking and plainly dressed, with a steady, pene-
trating gaze. His lean, sun-browned face was clean-shaven, and
his brown hair was worn shoulder length. He was not much
older than Wren, but his eyes suggested that he had seen and
endured a great deal more. He came up to the Owl and took
his hand wordlessly.
“Triss,” Aurin Striate greeted, then turned to his charges.
“This is Wren Ohmsford and her companion Garth, come to us
from out of the Westland.”
The Elf took their hands in turn, saying nothing. His dark
eyes locked momentarily with Wren’s, and she was surprised at
how open they seemed, as if it would be impossible for them
ever to conceal anything.
“Triss is Captain of the Home Guard,” the Owl advised.
Wren nodded. No one spoke. They stood awkwardly for a
moment, Wren remembering that the Home Guard was respon-
sible for the safety of the Elven rulers, wondering why Triss
wasn’t wearing any weapons, and wondering in the next instant
why he was there at all. Then there was movement again at the
far end of the darkened hallway, and they all turned to look.
Two women appeared out of the shadows, the most striking
of the two small and slender with flaming red hair, pale clear
skin, and huge green eyes that dominated her oddly triangular
face. But it was the other woman, the taller of the two, who
caught Wren’s immediate attention, who brought her to her feet
without even being aware that she had risen, and who caused
her to take a quick, startled breath. Their eyes met, and the
woman slowed, a strange look coming over her face. She was
long-limbed and slender, clothed in a white gown that trailed to
the floor and was gathered about her narrow waist. Her Elven
features were finely chiseled with high cheekbones and a wide,
thin mouth. Her eyes were very blue and her hair flaxen, curling
down to her shoulders, tumbled from sleep. Her skin was smooth
across her face, giving her a youthful, ageless appearance.
Wren blinked at the woman in disbelief. The color of the
eyes was wrong, and the cut of the hair was different, and she
was taller, and a dozen other tiny things set them apart-but
there was no mistaking the resemblance.
Wren was seeing herself as she would look in another thirty
years.
The woman’s smile appeared without warning-sudden, bril-
liant, and effusive. “Eowen, see how closely she mirrors Al-
leyne!” she exclaimed to the red-haired woman. “Oh, you were
right!”
She came forward slowly, reaching out to take Wren’s hands
in her own, oblivious to everyone else. “Child, what is your
name?”
Wren stared at her in bewilderment. It seemed somehow as
if the woman should already know. “Wren Ohmsford,” she an-
swered.
“Wren,” the other breathed. The smile brightened even
more, and Wren found herself smiling in response. “Welcome,
Wren. We have waited a long time for you to come home.”
Wren blinked. What had she said? She glanced about hur-
riedly. Garth was a statue, the Owl and Triss impassive, and the
red-haired woman intense and anxious. She felt suddenly aban-
doned. The light of the oil lamps flickered uncertainly, and the