Терри Брукс - The Elf Queen of Shannara

“Rested now?” he asked, and she nodded. “Eat some of this. You must be starved. You look as if you haven’t eaten in days.”

She ate gratefully, then accepted the ale jug he offered and drank until she thought she would burst. Faun turned to watch, eyes bright and curious.

“You seem to have gathered up some new friends,” Tiger Ty declared as she finished. “I know the Elf and the Splinterscat by name, but what’s this one called?”

“Her name is Faun. She’s a Tree Squeak.” Wren’s eyes locked on his. “Thanks for not leaving us, Tiger Ty. I was counting on you.”

“Ha!” he snorted. “As if I would miss the chance of finding out how things had worked out! But I admit I had my doubts, girl. I thought your foolishness might have outstripped your fire. Looks like it almost did.”

She nodded. “Almost.”

“I came back looking for you every day after the volcano blew. Saw it erupt twenty miles out. I said to myself, she’s got something to do with that, you mark me! And you did, too, didn’t you?” He grinned, face crinkling like old leather. “Anyway, we circled about once a day, Spirit and me, searching for you. Had just finished last night’s swing when we saw your light. Might have left, otherwise. How did you do that, anyway?” He pursed his lips, then shrugged. “No, hold off, don’t tell me. That’s the Land Elf magic at work or I miss my guess. It’s better I don’t know.”

He paused. “In any case, I’m very glad you’re safe.”

She smiled in acknowledgment, and they sat silently for a moment, looking at the ground. Fishing birds swooped and dove across the open waters like white arrows, wings cocked back, and long necks extended. Faun came down from her perch to crawl up Wren’s arm and burrow into her shoulder.

“I guess your big friend didn’t make it,” Tiger Ty said finally.

Garth The pain of the memory brought tears to her eyes. She shook her head. “No. He didn’t.”

“I’m sorry. I think maybe you’ll feel his loss a long time, won’t you?” The shrewd eyes slid away. “Some kinds of pain don’t heal easily.”

She didn’t speak. She was thinking of her grandmother and Eowen, of the owl and Gavilan Elessedil, of Cort and Dal, all lost in the struggle to escape Morrowindl, all a part of the pain she carried with her. She stared out over the water into the distance, searching the skyline. She found what she was searching for finally, a dark smudge against the horizon where Morrowindl burned slowly to ash and rock.

“And what of the Elves?” Tiger Ty asked. “You found them, I guess, judging from the fact that one of them came with you.”

She looked back at him again, surprised by the question, forgetting momentarily that he had not been with her. “Yes, I found them.”

“And Arborlon?”

“Arborlon as well, Tiger Ty.”

He stared at her a moment, then shook his head. “They wouldn’t listen, would they? They wouldn’t leave.” He announced it matter-of-factly, undisguised bitterness in his voice. “Now they’re all gone, lost. The whole of them. Foolish people.”

Foolish, indeed, she thought. But not lost. Not yet. She tried to tell Tiger Ty about the Loden, tried to find the words, but couldn’t. It was too hard to speak of any of it just now. She was still too close to the nightmare she had left behind, still floundering through the harsh emotions that even the barest thought of it invoked. Whenever she brought the memories out again, she felt as if her skin was being flayed from her body. She felt as if fire was searing her, burning down to her bones. The Elves, victims of their own misguided belief in the power of the magic—how much of that belief had been bequeathed to her? She shuddered at the thought. There were truths to be weighed and measured, motives to be examined, and lives to be set aright. Not the least of those belonged to her.

“Tiger Ty,” she said quietly. “The Elves are here, with me. I carry them...” She hesitated as he stared at her expectantly. “I carry them in my heart.” Confusion lined his brow. Her eyes lowered, searching her empty hands. “The problem is deciding whether they belong.”

He shook his head and frowned. “You’re not making sense. Not to me.”

She smiled. “Only to myself. Be patient with me awhile, would you? No more questions. But when we get to where we’re going, we’ll find out together whether the lessons of Morrowindl have taught the Elves anything.”

Triss awoke then, stirring sluggishly from his sleep, and they rose to tend him. As they worked, Wren’s thoughts took flight. Like a practiced juggler she found herself balancing the demands of the present against the needs of the past, the lives of the Elves against the dangers of their magics, the beliefs she had lost against the truths she had found. Silent in her deliberation, her concentration complete, she moved among her companions as if she were there with them when in fact she was back on Morrowindl, watching the horror of its magic-induced evolution, discovering the dark secrets of its makers, reconstructing the bits and pieces of the frantic, terrifying days of her struggle to fulfill the charges that had been given her. Time froze, and while it stood statuelike before her, carved out of a chilling, silent introspection, she was able to cast away the last of the tattered robes that had been her old life, that innocence of being that had preceded Cogline and Allanon and her journey to her past, and to don at last the mantle of who and what she now realized she had always been meant to be.

Good-bye Wren that was.

Faun squirmed against her shoulder, begging for attention. She spared what little she could.

An hour later, Splinterscat, Tree Squeak, Captain of the Elven Home Guard, Wing Rider, and the girl who had become the Queen of the Elves were winging their way eastward atop Spirit toward the Four Lands.

It took the remainder of the day to reach the mainland. The Sun was a faint melting of silver on the western horizon when the coastline finally grew visible, a jagged black wall against the coming night. Darkness had fallen, and the moon and stars appeared by the time they descended onto the bluff that fronted the abandoned Wing Hove. Their bodies were cramped and tired, and their eyes were heavy. The summer smells of leaves and earth wafted out of the forest behind them as they settled down to sleep.

“Phfffttt! I could grow to like this land of yours, Wren of the Elves,” Stresa said to her just before she fell asleep.

They flew out again at dawn, north along the coastline. Tiger Ty rode close against Spirit’s sleek head, eyes forward, not speaking to anyone. He had given Wren a long, hard look when she had told him where she wanted to go and he had not glanced her way since. They rode the air currents west across the Irrybis and Rock Spur and into the Sarandanon. The land gleamed beneath them, green forests, black earth, azure lakes, silver rivers, and rainbow-colored fields of wildflowers. The world below appeared flawless and sculpted; from this high up, the sickness that the Shadowen had visited on it was not apparent. The hours slipped by, slow and lazy and filled with memories for the Roc’s riders. There was an ache in the heart on such perfect days, a longing that they could last forever stitched against the knowledge that tomorrow would be different, that in life few promises were given.

They landed at noon in a meadow on the south edge of the Sarandanon and ate fruit and cheese and goat’s milk provided by Tiger Ty. Birds flitted in the trees, and small animals disappeared along branches and into burrows. Faun watched everything as if she were seeing it for the first time. Stresa sniffed the air, cat’s face wrinkling and twitching. Triss was well enough to sit and stand alone now, though bandaged and splinted still, his strong face scarred and bruised. He smiled often at Wren, but his eyes remained sad and distant. Tiger Ty continued to keep to himself. Wren knew he was mulling over what she was about, wanting to ask but unwilling to do so. She found him a curious man.