And then someone had begun following them—someone or something—their shadow as they came to call it, a thing clever enough to track them despite their precautions and stealthy enough to avoid being caught at it. Twice they had thought to trap it and failed. Any number of times they had tried to backtrack to get around behind it and been unable to do so. They had never seen its face, never even caught a glimpse of it. They had no idea who or what it was.
It had still been with them when they had entered the Wilde-run and gone down into Grimpen Ward. There, two nights earlier, they had found the Addershag. A Rover had told them of the old woman, a seer it was said who knew secrets and who might know something of the Elves. They had found her in the basement of a tavern, chained and imprisoned by a group of men who thought to make money from her gift. Wren had tricked the men into letting her speak to the old woman, a creature far more dangerous and cunning than the men holding her had suspected.
The memory of that meeting was still vivid and frightening.
The old woman was a dried husk, and her face had withered into a maze of lines and furrows Ragged white hair tumbled down about her frail shoulders Wren approached and knelt before her The ancient head lifted, revealing blind eyes that were milky and fixed.
“Are you the seer they call the Addershag, old mother?” Wren asked softly.
The staring eyes blinked and a thin voice rasped. “Who wishes to know? Tell me your name.”
“My name is Wren Ohmsford ”
Aged hands reached out to touch her face, exploring its lines and hollows, scraping along the skin like dried leaves. The hands withdrew.
“You are an Elf.”
“I have Elven blood.”
“An Elf!” The old woman’s voice was rough and insistent, a hiss against the silence of the alehouse cellar. The wrinkled face cocked to one side as if reflecting “I am the Addershag. What do you wish of me?”
Wren rocked back slightly on the heels of her boots. “I am searching for the Westland Elves. I was told a week ago that you might know where to find them—if they still exist.”
The Addershag cackled. “Oh, they exist, all right. They do indeed. But it’s not to everyone they show themselves—to none at all in many years. Is it so important to you, Elf-girl, that you see them? Do you search them out because you have need of your own kind?” The milky eyes stared unseeing at Wren’s face. “No, not you. Why, then?”
“Because it is a charge I have been given—a charge I have chosen to accept,” Wren answered carefully.
“A charge, is it?” The lines and furrows of the old woman’s face deepened. “Bend close to me, Elf-girl.”
Wren hesitated, then leaned forward tentatively. The Addershag s hands came up again, the fingers exploring. They passed once more across Wren’s face, then down her neck to her body. When they touched the front of the girl’s blouse, they jerked back as if burned and the old woman gasped. “Magic!” she howled.
Wren started, then seized the other’s wrists impulsively. “What magic? What are you saying?”
But the Addershag shook her head violently, her lips clamped shut, and her head sunk into her shrunken breast. Wren held her a moment longer, then let her go.
“Elf-girl,” the old woman whispered, “who sends you in search of the Westland Elves?”
Wren took a deep breath against her fears and answered, “The shade of Allanon.”
The aged head lifted with a snap. “Allanon?” She breathed the name like a curse “So! A Druid’s charge, is it? Very well. Listen to me, then. Go south through the Wilderun, cross the Irrybis and follow the coast of the Blue Divide. When you have reached the caves of the Rocs, build a fire and keep it burning three days and nights. One will come who can help you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Wren replied, wondering at the same time if she really did.
“Beware, Elf-girl,” the other warned, a stick-thin hand lifting. “I see danger ahead for you, hard times, and treachery and evil beyond imagining. My visions are in my head, truths that haunt me with their madness. Heed me, then. Keep your own counsel, girl. Trust no one.”
Trust no one!
Wren had left the old woman then, admonished to leave even though she had offered to stay and help. She had rejoined Garth, and the men had tried to kill them then, of course, because that had been their plan all along. They had failed in their attempt and paid for their foolishness—perhaps with their lives by now if the Addershag had tired of them.
Slipping clear of Crimpen Ward, Wren and Garth had come south, following the old seer’s instructions, still in search of the disappeared Elves. They had traveled for two days without stopping to sleep, anxious to put as much distance between themselves and Grimpen Ward as possible and eager as well to make yet another attempt to shake loose of their shadow. Wren had thought earlier that day they might have done so. Garth was not so certain. His uneasiness would not be dispelled. So when they had stopped for the night, needing at last to sleep and regain their strength, he had backtracked once more. Perhaps he would find something to settle the matter, he told her. Perhaps not. But he wanted to give it a try.
That was Garth. Never leave anything to chance.
Behind her, in the woods, one of the horses pawed restlessly and went still again. Garth had hidden the animals behind the trees before leaving. Wren waited a moment to be certain all was well, then stood and moved over again beneath the willow, losing herself in the deep shadows formed by its canopy, easing herself down once more against the broad trunk. Far to the west, the light had faded to a glimmer of silver where the water met the sky.
Magic, the Addershag had said. How could that be?
If there were still Elves, and if she was able to find them, would they be able to tell her what the old woman had not?
She leaned back and closed her eyes momentarily, feeling herself drifting, letting it happen.
When she jerked awake again, twilight had given way to night, the darkness all around save where moon and stars bathed the open spaces in a silver glow. The campfire had gone cold, and she shivered with the chill that had invaded the coastal air. Rising, she moved over to her pack, withdrew her travel cloak, and wrapped it about her for warmth. After moving back beneath the tree, she settled herself once more.
You fell asleep, she chided herself. What would Garth say if he were to discover that?
She remained awake after that until he returned. It was nearing midnight, the world about her gone still save for the lulling rush of the ocean waves as they washed onto the beach below. Garth appeared soundlessly, yet she had sensed he was coming before she saw him and took some small satisfaction from that. He moved out of the trees and came directly to where she hid, motionless in the night, a part of the old willow. He seated himself before her, huge and dark, faceless in the shadows. His big hands lifted, and he began to sign. His fingers moved swiftly.
Their shadow was still back there, following after them.
Wren felt her stomach grow cold and she hugged herself crossly.
“Did you see it?” she asked, signing as she spoke.
No.
“Do you know yet what it is?”
No.
“Nothing? Nothing about it at all?”
He shook his head. She was irritated by the obvious frustration she had allowed to creep into her voice. She wanted to be as calm as he was, as clear thinking as he had taught her to be. She wanted to be a good student for him.
She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Is it coming for us yet, Garth? Or waiting still?”
Waiting, he signed.
He shrugged, his craggy, bearded face expressionless, carefully composed. His hunter’s look. Wren knew that look. It appeared when Garth felt threatened, a mask to hide what was happening inside.
Waiting, she repeated soundlessly to herself. Why? For what?