The Elf Queen of Shannara

“I didn’t,” she admitted. “Once.”


He missed her hesitation. “Then give it up! Be finished with it! Let me take the Staff and the Stone and use them as they should be used—to fight against the monsters that track us, to destroy the ones that have turned Morrowindl into this nightmare!”

“Which set of monsters?” she asked softly.

“What?”

“Which set? The demons or the Elves? Which do you mean?”

He stared at her, uncomprehending, and she felt her heart break apart inside. His eyes were clear and angry, his face intense. He seemed so convinced. “The Elves,” she whispered, “are the ones who destroyed Morrowindl.”

“No,” he answered instantly, without hesitation.

“They made the demons, Gavilan.”

He shook his head vehemently. “Old men made them in another time. A mistake like that wouldn’t happen again. I wouldn’t let it. The magic can be better used, Wren. You know that to be true. Haven’t the Ohmsfords always found a way? Haven’t the Druids? Let me try! I can stand against these things; I can do what is needed! You don’t want the Staff; you said so yourself! Give it to me!”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

Gavilan stiffened, and his hands drew away. “Why not, Wren? Tell me why not.”

She couldn’t tell him, of course. She couldn’t find the words, and even if she had been able to find the words, she wouldn’t have been able to speak them.

“I have given my promise,” she said instead, wishing he would let the matter die, that he would give up his demand, that he would see how wrong it was for him to ask.

“Your promise?” he snapped. “To whom?”

“To the queen,” she insisted stubbornly.

“To the queen? Shades, Wren, what’s the worth of that? The queen is dead!”

She hit him then, struck him hard across the face, a blow that rocked his head back. He remained turned away for a moment and then straightened. “You can hit me again if it will make you feel any better.”

“It makes me feel terrible,” she whispered, curling up inside, turning to ice. “But that was a wrong thing to say, Gavilan.”

He regarded her bitterly for a moment, and she found herself wishing that she could have him back as he was when they were still in Arborlon, when he was charming and kind, the friend she needed, when he had kissed her outside the High Council, when he had cared for her.

The handsome face tightened with determination. “You have to let me use the Loden’s magic, Wren.”

She shook her head firmly. “No.”

He thrust forward aggressively, almost as if to attack her. “If you don’t, we won’t survive. We can’t. You haven’t the—”

“Don’t, Gavilan!” she interjected, her hand flying to cover his mouth. “Don’t say it! Don’t say anything more!”

The sudden gesture froze them both momentarily, and the wind that blew past them in a sudden gust caused Wren to shiver. Slowly she took her hand away. “Go to sleep,” she urged, fighting to keep her voice from breaking. “You’re tired.”

He rocked back slightly, a small motion only, one that moved him just inches away from her—yet she could feel the severing of ties between them as surely as if they were ropes cut with a knife.

“I’ll go,” he said quietly, the anger in his voice undiminished. He rose and looked down at her. “I was your friend. I would be still if you would let me.”

“I know,” she said.

He stayed where he was momentarily, as if undecided about what to do next, whether to stay or go, whether to speak or keep silent. He looked back through the darkness into the haze. “I won’t die here,” he whispered.

Then he wheeled and stalked away. Wren sat where she was, looking after him until he could no longer be seen. Tears came to her eyes, but she brushed them quickly away. Gavilan had hurt her, and she hated it. He made her question everything she had decided, made her wonder if she had any idea at all what she was doing. He made her feel stupid and selfish and naive. She wished that she had never gone to speak with the shade of Allanon, never come to Morrowindl, never discovered the Elves and their city and the horror of their existence—that none of it had ever happened.

She wished she had never met her grandmother.

No! she admonished herself sharply. Don’t ever wish that!

But deep down inside, she did.





XX


Daybreak arrived, a stealthy apparition cloaked iron-gray against the shadow of departing night as it crept uncertainly out of yesterday in search of tomorrow. The company rose to greet it, weary-eyed and disheartened, the weight of time’s passage and shortening odds a mantel of chains that threatened to drag them down. Pulling cloaks and packs and weapons across their shoulders, they set out once more, wrapped in the silence of their separate thoughts, grim-faced against a rising wall of fear and doubt.