Terry Brooks - The Gypsy Morph

He smiled despite himself at the idea.

“The others from the caravan will have to get used to the Elves, too,” he interrupted the siblings. “They all have to share this valley together.”

“It will help that most of them are children,” Simralin added.

It will help mostly that they have to make it work because this is all there is, Logan amended. But he kept that to himself, too.

In the company of the remainder of the Elves, the handful who had found their way clear of the Cintra, they had traveled all day to reach this spot. Simralin had explored it two days earlier and come back with her report. By then, they had been inside the valley–this safehold to which Hawk had taken them–for three weeks. The caravan was already beginning to split apart and its members to take their leave and go out to make their homes in this new world. The Lizards and Spiders and the other mutants had been the first, gone the very night of their arrival. No one had suggested that they needed to live apart; it was mostly an individual choice that each species had made. Some distance between the different groups wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, Logan thought. They would need time to adjust to this new life. They would need space to grow accustomed to what that required.

But the distance felt odd to him. He had made his decision, too. In choosing to be Simralin’s partner, he had stepped across a line. He must go with the Elves because those were her people and she had told him from the first that she would always live among them. Because he had no people, it felt right that he should live with hers. But it was hard leaving the Ghosts. Hawk, Tessa, Owl, Sparrow, little Candle, River, and Bear–they had become a kind of family for him over the past weeks, children he had taken under his wing, the first children he had really gotten to know in all the years he had been saving them from the slave camps.

Still, Angel Perez had stayed behind, and they would all be a part of the community of children and caregivers living under the leadership of Helen Rice. Already, they had begun work on permanent homes, building with the tools they had managed to carry with them in their flight. It was probably best for them to be together there and for him to be with Simralin here.

A part of him ached nevertheless.

“What do you think I need to do now?” Kirisin asked, glancing from Logan to his sister and back again. “I think you need to do what your heart tells you, Little K,” Simralin said.

“We better back off a ways,” Logan advised. “We’re standing right in the middle of where you plan to put the city.”

They did as he advised, taking the other Elves with them, moving to one side of the open space on which they intended to locate the city and its Elves when they were released from the Loden. When they were safely clear, Kirisin took out the Loden and held it in his hand, looking down at it dubiously.

“I wish I knew more about what I was doing,” he said, glancing at Logan.

Logan understood. He had wished for that more than once on this journey. But much of life didn’t allow for knowing things in advance, and you had to trust to your instincts and common sense. Kirisin knew as much about Elven magic as anyone alive, including all those trapped inside the Elfstone. So there was nothing much anyone else could do to help him through this.

“Go on,” he said gently. “You used it before to put them inside. Do the same thing now to bring them back out.”

The boy nodded, finding some measure of sense in this advice. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and closed his eyes. He stood without moving while the others watched. Don’t rush this, Logan said silently. Westward, the sun was dropping toward the horizon, and the daylight was fading from the sky. Even so, there was light enough for whatever was required to complete the transition. Logan glanced at Simralin, but she had her eyes fixed on Kirisin. Willing him to do what he must do. Willing him to be strong and sure–handed enough not to make a mistake.

Abruptly the Loden flared within the boy’s clenched fist, a blinding glow that spread outward and built in intensity. Logan shielded his eyes. As the glow rose and spread outward, covering the whole of the bluff from end to end and even into the trees beyond, a wind rose with it, come out of nowhere. So powerful was the wind that it nearly knocked the Knight of the Word and the Elves sprawling. As it was, they had to crouch protectively, bracing themselves against its force. Only Kirisin was unaffected, standing at its center as if untouched.

The wind howled like a living thing. It whipped at the light, scattering it in four directions, a giant hand pushing bright water in a pond. Within the light, Logan could see movement. Something was coming alive. He could see the hazy images of buildings and people; he could see the bright scarlet–and–silver canopy of the Ellcrys. The city of the Elves and its inhabitants were reemerging, coming back from their confinement.

Then there was a wrenching of earth and rock, and the entire bluff shuddered with the weight of Arborlon settling into place. Like mist, the light swirled about the Elven city and its people, a hazy curtain slowly being lifted. The wind built to a fever pitch, and the light assumed a liquid appearance. Within the soup, buildings and roadways, gardens and trees, and people and animals assumed a sharper definition. There was an odd sense of two worlds coming together, a blending of the one with the other.

Then the wind diminished, the light faded, and it was finished. Arborlon stood before them, sprawled across the whole of the bluff running back into the trees beyond, looking just as it had when Kirisin had used the Loden to close it away.

A crowd was already starting to gather, Elves coming out from their homes and along the pathways, filling up that piece of the bluff closest to where Kirisin and his companions stood. They were looking around, as if not quite sure where they were or what had happened. Reasonable enough, Logan thought. He stayed in the background, letting Kirisin and his sister step forward to meet those they had left behind. A few hands waved and a few voices called. There was shock on the faces of many and tears in more than a few eyes. Daylight mingled with shadows to streak the whole of the bluff in gold and black layers that gave those assembled the look of exotic creatures.

Then a single figure broke from the crowd, a pinch–faced boy about Kirisin’s age who approached with a wide grin.

“Kirisin!” he greeted, embracing him.

“Biat!” Kirisin replied, and hugged him back.

When they broke apart, the other boy glanced down at the Loden, which his friend was still clutching in a death grip, and declared with a bright laugh, “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

On THAT SAME DAY, at the other end of the valley, Hawk looked out at the setting sun and prepared to say good–bye. He wasn’t at all sure how to go about it. He guessed that when you came right down to it, there wasn’t any good way. But his dream of the King of the Silver River had been sharp and clear, so there wasn’t any point in trying to avoid what was coming. Perhaps he had always known this moment would arrive, even after they had reached their destination and he had hoped his work finished.

The dream only confirmed what he already knew was true.

“IT IS TIME, young one .”

The old man speaks the words gently, but they cut him like a knife. He doesn’t want to hear them, hasn’t wanted even to think of them. The old man stands before him, his seamed and bearded countenance unexpectedly kind, and waits for his response.

“I am ready,” he says. “But I am afraid.”

TESSA CAME UP BESIDE him and took his arm, squeezing it. “What are you thinking about?”