Then suddenly Phaeton went down. It was impossible to see what had happened—one moment he was there, leading the way, and the next he was gone. The Elves cried out and charged forward to protect him. The demons gave way grudgingly, thrown back by the rush. The battle surged into the gap once more, and this time went beyond as the demons were pushed down the other side and back through the light. Again the magic that protected the Keel began to knit, the lines of the magic weaving together.
Then the demons started back a third time. The Elves, exhausted, reeled away.
Ellenroh Elessedil raised the Ruhk Staff and pointed. The Loden flared abruptly. Warnings were shouted, and the Elves poured back through the breach. Light exploded from the Loden, lancing toward the Keel as the magic of the Elfstone gathered force. It reached the wall as the last of the Elven soldiers threw themselves clear. Stone rubble lifted piece by piece, grinding and scraping as it came, and the wall began to rebuild itself. Demons were caught in the whirlwind and buried. Stones layered themselves one on top of the other and mortar filled the gaps, the magic working and guiding, the power of the Loden reaching out. Wren caught her breath in disbelief. The wall rose, closing off the black hole that had been hammered through it, reconstructing itself until it was whole again.
In seconds the magic had done its work, and the demons were shut without once more.
The queen stood motionless at the center of the bridge while new companies of Elven soldiers raced past her to man the battlements. She waited until a messenger she had dispatched returned from the carnage. The messenger knelt briefly and rose to speak. Wren watched the queen nod once, turn and come back across the bridge. The Home Guard cleared a path for her once more, but this time she came directly toward Wren, able to find her somehow in the swelling crowds. The Rover girl was frightened by what she saw in her grandmother’s face.
Ellenroh Elessedil swept up to her, robes billowing out like banners flown from the Ruhk Staff she held pressed to her body, the Loden still glimmering with wicked white light.
“Aurin Striate,” the queen called out as she reached them, her eyes fixing momentarily on the Owl. “Go ahead of us, if you will. Summon Bar and Eton from their chambers—if they are still there. Tell them...” Her breath seemed to catch in her throat, and her hand tightened about the Ruhk Staff. “Tell them that Phaeton died in the attack, an accident, killed by an arrow from his own bowmen. Tell them that I wish a meeting in the chambers of the High Council at once. Go now, quickly.”
The Owl melted into the crowd and was gone. The queen turned to Wren, one arm coming up to encircle the girl’s slender shoulders, the other gesturing with the Staff toward the city. They began to walk, Garth a step behind, the Home Guard all around.
“Wren,” the Elf Queen whispered, bending near. “This is the beginning of the end for us. We go now to determine if we can be saved. Stay close to me, will you? Be my eyes and ears and good right arm. It is for this that you have come to me.”
Saying no more, she clutched Wren to her and hurried on into the night.
Chapter Twelve
The chambers of the Elven High Council were situated not far from the palace within an ancient grove of white oak. The building was framed by massive timbers and walled with stone, and the council room itself, which formed the principal part of the structure, was a cavernous chamber shaped like a hexagon, its ceiling braced with beams that rose from the joinder of the walls to a center point like a sheltering star. Heavy wooden doors opened from one wall and faced a three-step dais on which rested the throne of the Elven Kings and Queens, and flanking the throne were standards from which pennants hung that bore the personal insignia of the ruling houses. To either side, set against the remaining walls, were rows of benches, a gallery for observers and participants in public meetings. At the center of the room was a broad stretch of flooring dominated by a round table and twenty-one seats. When the High Council was in session, it sat here, and the king or queen sat with it.
Ellenroh Elessedil entered the chamber with a flourish, robes sweeping out behind her, the Ruhk Staff carried before her, and Wren, Garth, Triss, and a handful of the Home Guard trailing after. Gavilan Elessedil was already seated at the council table and rose hurriedly as the queen appeared. He wore chain mail and his broadsword hung from the back of his chair. The queen went to him, embraced him warmly, and moved on to the head of the table.
“Wren,” she said, turning. “Sit next to me.”
Wren did as she was asked. Garth drifted off to one side and made himself comfortable in the gallery. The chamber doors closed again, and two of the Home Guard took up positions to either side of the entry. Triss moved over to sit at the table next to Gavilan, his lean, hard face distant. Gavilan straightened in his chair, smiled uneasily at Wren, smoothed out his tunic sleeves nervously, and looked away. Ellenroh folded her hands before her and did not speak, clearly waiting for whoever else was expected. Wren surveyed the chamber, peering into dark corners where the lamplight failed to penetrate. Polished wood gleamed faintly in the gloom behind Garth, and images cast by the flames of the lamp danced at the edges of the light. At her back, the pennants hung limp and unmoving, their insignia cloaked in heavy folds. The chamber was still, and only the soft scrape of boots and the rustle of clothing disturbed the silence.
Then she saw Eowen, seated far back in the gallery opposite Garth, nearly invisible in the shadows.
Wren’s eyes shifted instantly to the queen, but Ellenroh gave no indication that she knew the seer was there, her gaze fastened on the council chamber doors. Wren looked back at Eowen momentarily, then off into the shadows. She could feel the tension in the air. Everyone seated in that room knew something was going to happen, but only the queen knew what. Wren took a deep breath. It was for this moment, the queen had told her, that she had come to Arborlon.
Be my eyes and ears and good right arm.
Why?
The doors to the council chamber opened and Aurin Striate entered with two other men. The first was old and heavyset, with graying hair and beard and slow, ponderous movements that suggested he was not a man to let things stand in his way. The second was of average size, clean-shaved, his eyes hooded but alert, his movements light and easy. He smiled as he entered. The first scowled.
“Barsimmon Oridio,” the queen greeted the first. “Eton Shart. Thank you both for coming. Aurin Striate, please stay.”
The three men seated themselves, eyes fastened on the queen. They were all looking at her now, waiting.
“Cort, Dal,” she addressed the guards at the door. “Wait outside, please.”
The Elven Hunters slipped through the doors and were gone. The doors closed softly.
“My friends.” Ellenroh Elessedil sat straight backed in her chair, her voice carrying easily through the silence as she spoke. “We can’t pretend any longer. We can’t dissemble. We can’t lie. What we have struggled for more than ten years to prevent is upon us.”
“My Lady,” Barsimmon Oridio began, but she silenced him with a glance.
‘Tonight the demons broke through the Keel. The magic has been failing now for months—probably for years—and the things without have been stealing its strength for themselves. Tonight the balance shifted sufficiently to enable them to create a breach. Our hunters fought valiantly to prevent it, doing everything they could to throw back the assault. They failed. Phaeton was killed. In the end, I was forced to use the Ruhk Staff. If I had not done so, the city would have fallen.