The Elf Queen of Shannara

But here she was nevertheless. And the answers to all her questions lay just beyond the light.

“Stresa,” she whispered, “is there a way to get into the city?”

The Splinterscat’s eyes shone in the dark. “Wrroowwll, Wren of the Elves. You are determined to go down there, are you?” When she failed to respond, he said, “Within a ravine that—hrrwwll—lies close to where the demons prowl, there are tunnels hidden. Sssstttpht. The tunnels lead into the city. The Elves use them to sneak away—or did once upon a time. That was how they let us out to keep watch for them. Phhffft. Perhaps there is still one in use, do you think?”

“Can you find it?” she asked softly.

The Splinterscat blinked.

“Will you show it to me?”

“Hssstttt. Will you remember your promise to take me with you when this is finished?”

“I will.”

“Very well.” The cat face furrowed. “The tunnels, then. Which of us goes? Ssttpht.”

“Garth, you, and me.”

The Tree Squeak chittered instantly.

Stresa purred. “I thought as much. The Squeak plans on going, too. Rwwwll. Why not? It’s only a Squeak.”

Wren hesitated. She felt the Tree Squeak’s fingers clutch tightly at her arm. The Squeak chittered once more.

“Sssttt.” Stresa might have been laughing. “She says to tell you that her name is Faun. She has decided to adopt you.”

“Faun.” Wren repeated the name and smiled faintly. “Is that your name, little one?” The round eyes were fixed on her, the big ears cocked forward. It seemed odd that the Tree Squeak should even have a name. “So you would adopt me, would you? And go where I go?” She shook her head ruefully. “Well, it is your country. And I probably couldn’t keep you from going if I tried.”

She glanced at Garth to make certain he was ready. The rough face was calm and the dark eyes fathomless. She took a last look down at the madness below, then pushed back the fear and the doubt and told herself with as much conviction as she could muster that she was a Rover girl and that she could survive anything.

Her fingers passed briefly across the hard surface of the Elfstones.

If it becomes necessary . . .

She blocked the thought away. “Lead us in, Stresa,” she whispered. “And keep us safe.”

The Splinterscat didn’t bother to reply.





IX


Wren Ohmsford could not remember a time when she had been afraid of much of anything. It simply wasn’t her nature. Even when she was small and the world was still new and strange and virtually everyone and everything in it was either bigger and stronger or quicker and meaner, she was never frightened. No matter the danger, whatever the uncertainty, she remained confident that somehow she would find a way to protect herself. This confidence was innate, a mix of iron-willed determination and self-assurance that had given her a special kind of inner strength all her life. As she grew, particularly after she went to live with the Rovers and began her training with Garth, she acquired the skill and experience needed to make certain that her confidence was never misplaced, that it never exceeded her ability.

All that had changed when she had come in search of the Elves. Twice since she had begun that search she had found herself unexpectedly terrified. The first time had been when the Shadowen that had tracked them all through the Westland had finally shown itself on the first night of the signal fire, and she had discovered to her horror that she was powerless against it. All of her training and all of her skill availed her nothing. She should have known it would be like that; certainly Par had warned her when he had related the details of his own encounter with the dark creatures. But for some reason she had thought it would be different with her—or perhaps she simply hadn’t considered what it would be like at all. In any case, there she had been, bereft of Garth—Garth, whom she had believed stronger and quicker than anything!—face to face with something against which no amount of confidence and ability could prevail.