faced a three-step dais on which rested the throne of the Elven
Kings and Queens, and flanking the throne were standards from
which pennants hung that bore the personal insignia of the rul-
ing houses. To either side, set against the remaining walls, were
rows of benches, a gallery for observers and participants in pub-
lic meetings. At the center of the room was a broad stretch of
flooring dominated by a round table and twenty-one seats. When
the High Council was in session, it sat here, and the king or
queen sat with it.
Ellenroh Elessedil entered the chamber with a flourish, robes
sweeping out behind here, the Ruhk Staff carried before her,
and Wren, Garth, Triss, and a handful of the Home Guard
trailing after. Gavilan Elessedil was already seated at the council
table and rose hurriedly as the queen appeared. He wore chain
mail and his broadsword hung from the back of his chair. The
queen went to him, embraced him warmly, and moved on to
the head of the table.
“Wren,” she said, turning. “Sit next to me.”
Wren did as she was asked. Garth drifted off to one side and
made himself comfortable in the gallery. The chamber doors
closed again, and two of the Home Guard took up positions to
either side of the entry. Triss moved over to sit at the table next
to Gavilan, his lean, hard face distant. Gavilan straightened in
his chair, smiled uneasily at Wren, smoothed out his tunic
sleeves nervously, and looked away. Ellenroh folded her hands
before her and did not speak, clearly waiting for whoever else
was expected. Wren surveyed the chamber, peering into dark
corners where the lamplight failed to penetrate. Polished wood
gleamed faintly in the gloom behind Garth, and images cast by
the flames of the lamp danced at the edges of the light. At her
back, the pennants hung limp and unmoving, their insignia
cloaked in heavy folds. The chamber was still, and only the soft
scrape of boots and the rustle of clothing disturbed the silence.
Then she saw Eowen, seated far back in the gallery opposite
Garth, nearly invisible in the shadows.
Wren’s eyes shifted instantly to the queen, but Ellenroh gave
no indication that she knew the seer was there, her gaze fastened
on the council chamber doors. Wren looked back at Eowen
momentarily, then off into the shadows. She could feel the ten-
sion in the air. Everyone seated in that room knew something
was going to happen, but only the queen knew what. Wren took
a deep breath. It was for this moment, the queen had told her,
that she had come to Arborlon.
Be my eyes and ears and good right arm.
Why?
The doors to the council chamber opened and Aurin Striate
entered with two other men. The first was old and heavyset,
with graying hair and beard and slow, ponderous movements
that suggested he was not a man to let things stand in his way.
The second was of average size, clean-shaved, his eyes hooded
but alert, his movements light and easy. He smiled as he en-
tered. The first scowled.
“Barsimmon Oridio,” the queen greeted the first. “Eton Shart.
Thank you both for coming. Aurin Striate, please stay.”
The three men seated themselves, eyes fastened on the
queen. They were all looking at her now, waiting.
“Cort, Dal,” she addressed the guards at the door. “Wait
outside, please.”
The Elven Hunters slipped through the doors and were gone.
The doors closed softly.
“My friends.” Ellenroh Elessedil sat straight backed in her
chair, her voice carrying easily through the silence as she spoke.
“We can’t pretend any longer. We can’t dissemble. We can’t lie.
What we have struggled for more than ten years to prevent is
upon us.”
“My Lady,” Barsimmon Oridio began, but she silenced him
with a glance.
“Tonight the demons broke through the Keel. The magic
has been failing now for months-probably for years-and the
things without have been stealing its strength for themselves.
Tonight the balance shifted sufficiently to enable them to create
a breach. Our hunters fought valiantly to prevent it, doing ev-
erything they could to throw back the assault. They failed.