The Elf Queen of Shannara

Stresa hissed at the little creature and sent it racing off into the trees. He looked back at her with sad, knowing eyes. “Call, rwwwlll Wren of the Elves, if you need us.”


When they had gone, the sound of their footsteps fading, she faced Garth once more, the Staff gripped tightly in both hands.

“What is it?”

The big man beckoned. Don’t be frightened. Here. Sit next to me. Listen a moment and don’t interrupt.

She did as he asked, kneeling close enough that her leg was pressed up against his body. She could feel the heat of his fever. Mist and pale light obscured him in a shading of gray, and the world about was fuzzy and thick with heat.

She lay the Ruhk Staff down beside her, and Garth’s big hands began to sign.

Something is happening to me. Inside. The Wisteron’s poison, I think. It creeps through me like a living thing, fire that sears and deadens. I can feel it working about, changing me. It is a bad feeling.

“I’ll wash the wounds again, rebind them.”

No, Wren. What is happening now is beyond that, beyond anything you can do. The poison is in my system, all through me.

Her breath was hurried, angry. “If you are too weak, we will carry you.”

I was weak at first, but the weakness is passing now. I am growing stronger again. But the strength is not my own.

She stared at him, not really understanding, but frightened all the same. She shook her head. “What are you saying?”

He looked at her with fierce determination, his dark eyes hard, his face all angles and planes, chiseled in stone. The Wisteron was a Shadowen. Like the Drakuls. Remember Eowen?

She shuddered, jerked back and tried to rise. He grabbed her and held her in place, keeping their eyes locked. Look at me.

She tried and couldn’t. She saw him and at the same time didn’t, aware of the lines that framed him but unable to see the colors and shadings between, as if doing so would reveal the truth she feared. “Let me go!”

Then everything broke within her, and she began to cry. She did so soundlessly, and only the heaving of her shoulders gave her away. She closed her eyes against the rage of feelings within, the horror of the world about her, the terrible price it seemed to require over and over again. She saw Garth even there, etched within her mind—the dark confidence and strength radiating from his face, the smile he reserved exclusively for her, the wisdom, the friendship, and the love.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispered, no longer bothering to sign, the words a murmur. “I can’t!”

His hands released her, and her eyes opened. Look at me.

She took a deep breath and did so.

Look into my eyes.

She did. She looked down into the soul of her oldest and most trusted friend. A wicked red glimmer looked back.

It already begins, he signed.

She shook her head in furious denial.

I can’t let it happen, Wren. But I can’t do it alone. Not and be sure. You have to help me let go.

“No.”

One hand slipped down to his belt and pulled free the long knife, its razor-sharp blade glinting in the half-light. She shuddered and drew back, but he grabbed her wrist and forced the handle of the knife into her palm.

His hands signed, quick, steady. There is no more time left to us. What we’ve had has been good. I do not regret a moment, of it. I am proud of you, Wren. You are my strength, my wisdom, my skill, my experience, my life, everything I am, the best of me. And still your own person, distinct in every way. You are what you were meant to be—a Rover girl become Queen of the Elves. I can’t give you anything more. It is a good time to say good-bye.

Wren couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see clearly. “You can’t ask this of me! You can’t!”

I have to. There is no one else. No one I could depend upon to do it right.

“No!” She dropped the knife as if it had burned her skin. “I would rather,” she choked, crying, “be dead myself!”

He reached down for the knife and carefully placed it back in her hand. She shook her head over and over, saying no, no. He touched her, drawing her eyes once more to his own. He was shivering now, just cold perhaps, but maybe something more. The red glow was more pronounced, stronger.

I am slipping away, Wren. I am being stolen from myself. You have to hurry. Do it quickly. Don’t let me become...He couldn’t finish, his great, strong hands shaking now as well. You can do it. We have practiced often enough. I can’t trust myself I might...

Wren’s muscles were so tight she could barely move. She glanced over her shoulder, thinking to call Stresa back, or Triss, desperate for anyone. But there was no one who could help her, she knew. There was nothing anyone could do.

She turned quickly back. “There must be an antidote that will counteract the poison, mustn’t there?” Her words were frantic. “I’ll ask Stresa! He’ll know! I’ll get him back!”

The big hands cut her short. Stresa already knows the truth. You saw it in his eyes. There isn’t anything he can do. There never was. Let it go. Help me. Take the knife and use it.

No!

You have to.