Wren understood her grandmother’s fear of the magic, could see the dangers as she saw them, and could share with her as could no one else the feelings that invocation of the magic aroused—in the Elfstones, in the Loden—power that could overwhelm, that could subvert, and that could swallow you up until you were lost.
“You said that you wanted the Elves to go back to the way they were before they recovered the magic,” she said, thinking back to the previous night when Ellenroh had addressed the High Council. “But can that happen? Won’t some among the Elves simply bring it back again, perhaps find it in another way?”
“No.” Ellenroh’s eyes were suddenly distant. “Not again. Not ever again.”
She was leaving something out. Wren sensed it immediately—sensed as well that it was not something Ellenroh would discuss. “And what of the magic you have already invoked, that which protects the city?”
“It will all disappear once we leave—all but that required to fulfill the Loden’s use and to carry the Elves and Arborlon back into the Westland. All but that.”
“And the Elfstones?”
The queen smiled. “There are no absolutes, Wren. The Elfstones have been with us for a long time.”
“I could cast them away once we are safe.”
“Yes, child, you could—should you choose to do so.”
Wren felt something unspoken pass between them, but she could not identify its meaning. “Will the magic of the Loden really do as you believe, Grandmother? Will it carry the Elves safely out of Morrowindl?”
The queen’s smooth face lowered momentarily, shaded with doubt and something more. “Oh, the magic is there, certainly. I have felt it in my use of the staff. I have been told its secret and I know it to be the truth.” Her face lifted abruptly. “But it is we, Wren, who must do the carrying. It is we who must see to it that those who have been gathered up by the Loden’s spell—our people—are restored to the world again, that they are given a new chance at life. Magic alone is not enough. It is never enough. Our lives, and ultimately the lives of all those who depend upon us, are forever our responsibility. The magic is only a tool. Do you understand?”
Wren nodded somberly. “I will do anything I can to help,” she said softly. “But I tell you now that I wish the magic dead and gone, all of it, every last bit, everything from Shadowen to demons to Loden to Elfstones. I would see it all destroyed.”
The queen rose. “And if it were, Wren, what then would take its place? The sciences of the old world, come back to life? A greater power still? It would be something, you know. It will always be something.”
She reached down and pulled Wren up with her. “Call Garth now and come with me to dinner. And smile. Whatever else might come of this, we have found each other. I am very glad that you are here.”
She hugged Wren close once more, holding her. Wren hugged her back and said, “I’m glad, too, Grandmother.”
All of the members of the inner circle of the High Council were in attendance at dinner that night—Eton Shart, Barsimmon Oridio, Aurin Striate, Triss, Gavilan, and the queen, together with Wren, Garth, and Eowen Cerise—all those who had been present when the decision was made to invoke the Loden’s power and abandon Morrowindl. Even Cort and Dal were there, standing watch in the halls beyond, barring any from entering, including the service staff once the food was on the table. Comfortably secluded, those gathered discussed the arrangements for the coming day. Talk was animated and direct with discussions about equipment, supplies, and proposed routes dominating the conversation. Ellenroh, after consulting with the Owl, had decided that the best time to attempt an escape was just before dawn when the demons were weary from the night’s prowl and anxious for sleep and a full day’s light lay ahead for travel. Night was the most dangerous time to be out, for the demons always hunted then. It would take the company of nine a bit more than a week to reach the beaches if all went smoothly. If any of them doubted that it would really happen that way, at least they kept it to themselves.
Gavilan sat across from Wren, one place removed, and smiled at her often. She was aware of his attention and politely acknowledged it, but directed her talk to her grandmother and the Owl and Garth. She ate something, but later she couldn’t remember what, listening to the others talk, glancing frequently at Gavilan as if studying him might somehow reveal the mystery of his attraction, and thinking distractedly about what the queen had told her earlier.
Or, more to the point, what she hadn’t told her.
The queen’s revelations, on close examination, were a trifle threadbare. It was all well and good to say that the magic had been recovered; but where had it been recovered from? It was fine to admit that recovery had somehow triggered the release of the demons that besieged them; but what was it about the magic that had freed them? And from where? Wren still hadn’t heard a word about what had gone wrong with usage of the magic or why it was that no magic was available to undo the wrong that had been done. What her grandmother had given her was a sketch without shadings or colors or background of any kind. It wasn’t enough by half.
And yet Ellenroh had insisted that it must be.
Wren sat with her thoughts buzzing inside like gnats. The conversations flowed heatedly about her as faces turned this way and that, the light failed without as the darkness closed down, and time passed by with silent footsteps, a retreat from the past, a stealthy approach toward a future that might change them all forever. She felt disconnected from everything about her, as if she had been dropped into place at the dinner table quite unexpectedly, an uninvited guest, an eavesdropper on the lives of those about her. Even Garth’s familiar presence failed to comfort her, and she said little to him.
When dinner ended, she went straight to her room to sleep, stripped off her clothing, slipped beneath the bed coverings, and lay waiting in the dark for things to change back again. They refused. Her breathing slowed, her thoughts scattered, and at last she fell asleep.
Even so, she was awake again and dressed before the knock on the door that was meant to rouse her. Gavilan stood there, clothed in drab hunter’s garb with weapons strapped all about, the familiar grin shelved, looking like someone else entirely.
“I thought you might like to walk down to the wall with me,” he said simply.
Her smile in response brought a trace of his own. “I would,” she agreed.
With Garth in tow, they departed the palace and moved through the dark, deserted streets of the city. Wren had thought the people would be awake and watchful, anxious to observe what would happen when the magic of the Loden was invoked. But the homes of the Elves were dark and silent, and those who watched did so from the shadows. Perhaps Ellenroh had not told them when the transformation would occur, she thought. She became aware of someone following them and glanced back to find Cort a dozen paces behind. Triss must have dispatched him to make certain they reached their appointed gathering spot on time. Triss would be with the queen or Eowen Cerise or Aurin Striate—or Dal would. All of them shepherded down to the Keel, to the door that led out into the desolation beyond, into the harsh and barren emptiness that they must traverse in order to survive.
They arrived without incident, the darkness unbroken, the dawn’s light still hidden beneath the horizon. All were gathered—the queen, Eowen, the Owl, Triss, Dal, and now the four of them. Only nine, Wren thought, suddenly aware of how few they were and how much depended on them. They exchanged hugs and hand clasps and furtive words of encouragement, a handful of shadows whispering into the night. All wore hunter’s garb, loose fitting and hardy, protection against the weather and, to some small measure, the dangers that waited without. All carried weapons, save for Eowen and the queen. Ellenroh carried the Ruhk Staff, its dark wood glimmering faintly, the Loden a prism of colors that winked and shimmered even in the near black. Atop the Keel, the magic was a steady glow that illuminated the battlements and reached heavenward. Elven Hunters patrolled the walls in groups of half a dozen, and sentries stood at watch within their towers. From without, the growls and hissings were sporadic and distant, as if the things emitting them lacked interest and would as well have slept.