cially to the Home Guard, who were charged with her protec-
tion. The Home Guard, unlike the other branches of the Elven
government, had accepted her instantly and without reserva-
tion. Having lost Ellenroh, they were now fiercely committed
to her. Nothing would harm this queen, they swore. This queen
would have their full protection. It was the kind of support she
desperately needed, and Triss, as captain of the Home Guard,
made certain that she had it.
Still, Home Guard support alone would not be enough in the
long run. She needed to win over both the High Council and
the army if she was to be accepted as queen. That meant she
needed to win over Eton Shart and Barsimmon Oridio, and she
did not know how to do that. Despite her efforts to convince
them of the merits of accepting her, they remained distant and
aloof, polite but decidedly cool. Time was running out. Ten
days the Elves had been back in the Westland, and by now the
Federation and the Shadowen knew. For more than a century
the Federation had claimed that the Elves were the source of
the land’s sickening, and here at last was an opportunity to put
things right. No matter that it was the wrong set of Elves, she
mused; the Federation was hardly likely to worry about mak-
ing any distinction between good and bad. Eradicate them all
and the problem was solved.
Which was why she was flying south with Tiger Ty. The ef-
fort to begin that eradication was already under way.
Tiger Ty touched Spirit lightly along the neck, and the Roc
responded by swinging downward toward a bluff that faced out
across the river. The bird descended easily, gracefully, and in
moments they were settled on a grassy bank at the edge of a
forest of broad-leaved trees. Wren disengaged herself from the
132 The Talismans of Shannara
straps and climbed down, stretching her cramped muscles. She
was still not used to riding the giant Rocs, though she had
done so several rimes now since her return. The Wing Riders
had begun to come back into the Westland as well, resettling
themselves in the old Wing Hove south of the Irrybis. Wren
had gone to speak to them, asking for their support, telling
them of the danger they all faced if the Shadowen weren’t
stopped. Tiger Ty, a respected member of the community, had
spoken in her behalf, adding his own rough assessment of her
character. A girl who’s got more sand than a dozen of us, he’d
said. A girl with sharp edges, but quick-thinking and smart. A
girl who’s got use of the magic, but uses it with caution and
respect. The Land Elves—and the Wing Riders—could do
worse.
She smiled at the memory. The Wing Riders had agreed to
help. Almost thirty of them were already settled at Arborlon,
made a part of her personal command.
“Something to eat? ” Tiger Ty asked, strolling up to her in
that rolling gait he used, bowlegged and spindly. He was as
grizzled and nut-brown as ever, but no longer as gruff. When
he spoke to her these days there was something new in his
voice—something that almost suggested deference.
She nodded, then seated herself on the grass across from
him. She accepted a hunk of cheese, an apple, and a cup of ale
poured from a stoppered skin. She crossed her legs and was
taking a bite of the cheese when she felt a stirring against her
breast. A furry face poked out of her tunic, and Faun appeared,
sniffing the air tentatively.
“Ha! The Squeak doesn’t miss a thing, does she? ” Tiger Ty
laughed, cut off a bite of his cheese, and passed it to the little
creature. Faun took it from him cautiously, slipped clear of
Wren’s clothing, plopped down on the grass, and began to eat.
“She likes you,” Wren observed.
Tiger Ty snorted. “Shows you Tree Squeaks don’t have the
sense of tree stumps!”
They ate in silence, finished, and sat back contentedly, star-
ing out from the bluff across the river to where the plains of
the Tirfing stretched away in an unbroken wave of dusty