Terry Brooks - The Elves of Cintra

The old man nodded. "What he told you is the truth. Or at least, the part of it he knows. It is given to me to tell you the rest. Walk with me." He started away, and Hawk followed without thinking. Together they moved down the pathways and grassy strips that crisscrossed the gardens, passing through rows of flower beds and flowering bushes and trellises of flowering vines. They moved without purpose and without any seeming destination, simply walking, first in one direction and then in another, the boundaries of the gardens–if there were any–never drawing any nearer, never even coming into sight. They continued for a long time, the old man moving slowly but purposefully, with Hawk matching his pace as he tried to gather his thoughts, to give voice to the questions swimming in his head. Spoor and tiny seedlings drifted in the air around him, shimmering with a peculiar brightness. Hawk could hear insects buzzing and chirping. He could see flashes of bright color from birds and butterflies. He could not stop looking.

"Did you bring me here?" he asked the old man finally.

The old man nodded. "I did."

"Tessa, too? She's all right? She's not hurt?"

"She sleeps until we are done."

Hawk scuffed his tennis shoes on a patch of gravel, looking down at the skid marks, still trying to make what was happening feel real. "I don't understand any of this," he said finally.

The old man had been studying the landscape ahead, but now he looked over. "No, I don't suppose you do. It must all seem very strange to you. A lot has happened in the past few weeks. A lot more will hap–pen in the weeks ahead. You are different from who you were, but not as different as you will be."

He made a sweeping gesture at the gardens. "This is where you were conceived, young one. Here, in these gardens. A small, unexpected gath–ering in the evening air of magic from earth and water brought you into existence, a wild magic that only happens now and then with the pass–ing of the centuries. I have seen it before, but not like this. The bright–ness of the gathering was unusual, the joining quick and sure, the suddenness and the frantic need so apparent that it caught me by sur–prise. That takes something special. I have been alive a long time."

Hawk believed it. The old man had the look of something about to crumble and be scattered by the winds. "How old are you?"

"I was here at the beginning."

Hawk shuddered despite himself At the beginning? He knew in–stinctively what the old man was talking about, and at the same time he did not believe such a thing was possible. "How do you know what you saw happening with the magic was me?" he asked sharply. "I mean, it wasn't me then. It was just … just something happening in the air, wasn't it?"

"Oh, it was you. Such things cannot be mistaken. You weren't a boy then, just a possibility of becoming something wonderful. I saw the po–tential of the magic that would form you and dispatched it into the world at a time and place where you might find help in making the necessary transformation. I could not tell what that transformation would be; only that it would be special and powerful and mean some–thing to the world. You were found and caught up by another Knight of the Word, then taken to your mother. You found your purpose with her, merging with her, becoming her unborn child. She took you inside her, gave birth to you, raised you, then gave you back to me."

Hawk stared, and then said the first thing that came to mind. "I don't remember any of this. I don't think it ever happened."

The old man nodded. "I took away your memories."

"You took away …" Hawk couldn't finish. "Why would you do that?"

"You didn't need them then. It wasn't time for you to have them." The old man kept walking, not slowing or quickening his pace, just am–bling through the flowers and the sunlight, his time and Hawk's of no importance. "Let me start again," he said, "so that you will understand."

Hawk folded his arms over his chest, already prepared to dismiss everything he was about to hear. He didn't know who the old man was or how he had brought him to these gardens, but when you started be–lieving that someone could take away your memories or make you be–come a boy out of a seed, it was time to back up a few steps.

He waited for the old man to begin, but they continued walking in silence. Hawk was impatient but knew the value of not rushing things when you were at a disadvantage, which he clearly was, so he waited. Finally, they reached a small pool and stone fountain surrounded by an–cient wooden benches, and they seated themselves next to each other facing down long rows of small purple flowers that hung from vines off lengths of trellis, climbing and tumbling away like a waterfall.

"Wisteria," the old man said quietly, gesturing toward the flowers.

Hawk nodded, saying nothing, still waiting. He wanted to get this over with. He was anxious to see Tessa, to make certain she was all right. He was eager to return to the Ghosts, assuming the old man would let him do so. He couldn't be sure of that. He couldn't be sure of anything just at the moment.

"You asked before who I was," the old man said, looking not at him, but off into the distance. "I have no real name, but the Elves in Faerie time called me the King of the Silver River and the name has stayed with me. Like you, though you doubt your origins still, I am a Faerie creature born of the Word's magic. We sit in the Gardens of Life, which have been given into my care. All life begins here. Once conceived, it goes out into the larger world to play its part. This is what happened to you. You were wild magic conceived first within these gardens, then within the world of humans. A Knight of the Word named John Ross caught you up before you were fully formed, and when you took the shape of a small boy he took you to Nest Freemark, who became your mother. She did not know your purpose, but she possessed magic as well, a legacy of her unusual family. She kept you for as long as was necessary after giving birth to you, but eventually it was necessary to take you away from her and bring you here."

Hawk shook his head. "I remember the Oregon coast, swimming in the ocean, lying on the beach, being with my family there. I don't re–member anything of what you are telling me."

"Because you weren't meant to until now. I gave you those other memories so that you wouldn't know who you were until it was time." The old man smiled. "I know this is hard to accept. But your memories will begin to return now, and they will help you to understand. You must be patient with them and with yourself until they do."

He studied Hawk a moment, then shook his head. "I should be bet–ter at this, but I don't get much practice. Mostly, I tend these gardens and let the affairs of humans and others take whatever course fate de–crees. But the old world is ending, and the new one requires my help. So I must do the best I can with this. Logan Tom has begun this task, but it is up to me to try to finish it.

"Here is what you must know. You have powerful enemies, one in particular. They hunt you relentlessly. They have done so since the time of your conception in the world of men. For many years, they thought you dead. Nest Freemark saved you and took you away from them, her unborn child, a life they could not detect while it grew inside her. But after you were born, the danger became greater. You did not yet know what or who you were. You did not yet understand that you possessed magic. The magic had not yet manifested itself But I knew that sooner or later it would, and when that happened your enemies would come for you."

He folded his hands in his lap, skeletal digits as white and brittle as bleached bones. "There was a second, perhaps more important, consid–eration. The fate of the human race in its war with the demons had not yet been decided. The balance between the Word and Void had not yet been tipped, and until that happened–or even if it happened, because at that point no one could be sure–you couldn't be left exposed when your time and the need for your peculiar magic was not yet at hand.