They went on wordlessly, turning off the roadway to follow a series of side streets that took them through rows of darkened shops and cottages. Wren glanced about curiously, studying, considering, taking everything in. Much was as she had imagined it would be, for Arborlon was not so different, apart from its size, from Southland villages like Shady Vale—and except, of course, for the continuing presence of the protective wall, still a shimmer in the distance, a reminder of the struggle being waged. When, after a time, the glow disappeared behind a screen of trees, it was possible to think of the city as it must have once been, before the demons, before the beginning of the siege. It would have been wonderful to live here then, Wren thought, the city forested and secluded as it had been above the Rill Song, reborn out of its Westland beginnings into this island paradise, its people with a chance to begin life anew, free of the threat of oppression by the Federation. No demons then, Killeshan dormant, and Morrowindl at peace—a dream come out of imagining.
Did anyone still remember that dream? she wondered.
The Owl took them through a grove of ash and willowy birch where the silence was a cloak that wrapped comfortably about. They reached an iron fence that rose twenty feet into the air, its summit spiked and laced with sharpened spurs, and turned left along its length. Beyond its forbidding barrier, tree-shaded grounds stretched away to a sprawling, turreted building that could only be the palace of the Elven rulers. The Elessedils, in the time of her ancestors, Wren recalled. But who now? They skirted the fence to where the shadows were so deep it was difficult to see. There the Owl paused and bent close. Wren heard the rasp of a key in a lock, and a gate in the fence swung open. They stepped inside, waited until the Owl locked the gate anew, and then crossed the dappled lawn to the palace. No one appeared to challenge them. No one came into view. There were guards, Wren knew. There must be. They reached the edge of the building and stopped.
A figure detached itself from the shadows, lithe as a cat. The Owl turned and waited. The figure came up. Words were exchanged, too low for Wren to hear. The figure melted away again. The Owl beckoned, and they slipped through a gathering of spruce into an alcove. A door was already ajar. They stepped inside into the light.
They stood in an entry with a vaulted ceiling and wood-carved lintels and jams that shone with polish. Cushioned benches had been placed against facing walls and oil lamps bracketed arched double doors opened to a darkened hallway beyond. From somewhere down that hallway, deep within the bowels of the palace, Wren could hear movement and the distant sound of voices. Following the Owl’s lead, Wren and Garth seated themselves on the benches. In the light Wren could see for the first time how ragged she looked, her clothing ripped and soiled and streaked with blood. Garth looked even worse. One sleeve of his tunic was gone entirely and the other was in shreds. His massive arms were clawed and bruised. His bearded face was swollen. He caught her looking at him and shrugged dismissively.
A figure approached, easing silently out of the hallway, coming slowly into the light. It was an Elf of medium height and build, plain looking and plainly dressed, with a steady, penetrating gaze. His lean, sun-browned face was clean-shaven, and his brown hair was worn shoulder length. He was not much older than Wren, but his eyes suggested that he had seen and endured a great deal more. He came up to the Owl and took his hand wordlessly.
“Triss,” Aurin Striate greeted, then turned to his charges. “This is Wren Ohmsford and her companion Garth, come to us from out of the Westland.”
The Elf took their hands in turn, saying nothing. His dark eyes locked momentarily with Wren’s, and she was surprised at how open they seemed, as if it would be impossible for them ever to conceal anything.
“Triss is Captain of the Home Guard,” the Owl advised.
Wren nodded. No one spoke. They stood awkwardly for a moment, Wren remembering that the Home Guard was responsible for the safety of the Elven rulers, wondering why Triss wasn’t wearing any weapons, and wondering in the next instant why he was there at all. Then there was movement again at the far end of the darkened hallway, and they all turned to look.
Two women appeared out of the shadows, the most striking of the two small and slender with flaming red hair, pale clear skin, and huge green eyes that dominated her oddly triangular face. But it was the other woman, the taller of the two, who caught Wren’s immediate attention, who brought her to her feet without even being aware that she had risen, and who caused her to take a quick, startled breath. Their eyes met, and the woman slowed, a strange look coming over her face. She was long-limbed and slender, clothed in a white gown that trailed to the floor and was gathered about her narrow waist. Her Elven features were finely chiseled with high cheekbones and a wide, thin mouth. Her eyes were very blue and her hair flaxen, curling down to her shoulders, tumbled from sleep. Her skin was smooth across her face, giving her a youthful, ageless appearance.
Wren blinked at the woman in disbelief. The color of the eyes was wrong, and the cut of the hair was different, and she was taller, and a dozen other tiny things set them apart—but there was no mistaking the resemblance.
Wren was seeing herself as she would look in another thirty years.
The woman’s smile appeared without warning—sudden, brilliant, and effusive. “Eowen, see how closely she mirrors Alleyne!” she exclaimed to the red-haired woman. “Oh, you were right!”
She came forward slowly, reaching out to take Wren’s hands in her own, oblivious to everyone else. “Child, what is your name?”
Wren stared at her in bewilderment. It seemed somehow as if the woman should already know. “Wren Ohmsford,” she answered.
“Wren,” the other breathed. The smile brightened even more, and Wren found herself smiling in response. “Welcome, Wren. We have waited a long time for you to come home.”
Wren blinked. What had she said? She glanced about hurriedly. Garth was a statue, the Owl and Triss impassive, and the red-haired woman intense and anxious. She felt suddenly abandoned. The light of the oil lamps flickered uncertainly, and the shadows crept close.
“I am Ellenroh Elessedil,” the woman said, hands tightening, “Queen of Arborlon and the Westland Elves. Child, I barely know what to say to you, even now, even after so much anticipation.” She sighed. “Here, what am I thinking? Your wounds must be washed and treated. And those of your friend as well. You must have something to eat. Then we can talk all night if we need to. Aurin Striate.” She turned to the Owl. “I am in your debt once again. Thank you, with all my heart. By bringing Wren safely into the city, you give me fresh hope. Please stay the night.”
“I will stay, my Lady,” the Owl replied softly.
“Triss, see that our good friend is well looked after. And Wren’s companion.” She looked at him. “What is your name?”
“Garth,” Wren answered at once, suddenly frightened by the speed with which everything was happening. “He doesn’t speak.” She straightened defensively. “Garth stays with me.”
The sound of boots in the hall brought them all about once again. A new Elf appeared, dark-haired, square-faced, and rather tall, a man whose smile was as ready and effortless as that of the queen’s. He came into the room without slowing, self-assured and controlled. “What’s all this? Can’t we enjoy a few hours’ sleep without some new crisis? Ah, Aurin Striate is here, I see, come in from the fire. Well met, Owl. And Triss is up and about as well?”
He stopped, seeing Wren for the first time. There was an instant’s disbelief mirrored on his face, and then it disappeared. His gaze shifted to the queen. “She has returned after all, hasn’t she?” The gaze shifted back to Wren. “And as pretty as her mother.”
Wren flushed, conscious of the fact that she was doing so, embarrassed by it, but unable to help herself. The Elf’s smile broadened, unnerving her further. He crossed quickly and put his arm protectively about her. “No, no, please, it is true. You are every bit your mother.” He gave her a companionable squeeze. “If a bit dusty and tattered about the edges.”