The Elves of Cintra (Book 2 of The Genesis of Shannara)

When she asked about this, wanting to know how it was possible, Simralin said that it was mostly due to the work of Elves who lived on the slopes of Paradise, the name given to this side of the mountain. Her parents had wanted the Elves to form a settlement here, but the most they could accomplish in the face of opposition from Arissen Belloruus was to found a small community of caretakers. These few worked with what small Elven magic they were able to command to blend elements of earth, air, and water to keep at bay the rot and poisoning that had set in so deeply elsewhere. The Elves still had skills enough for this, although it was becoming increasingly clear that it was a losing battle. Their efforts in the Cintra were already failing.

She maneuvered the balloon toward the meadows that blanketed the lower slopes, vast patches of green dotted with wildflowers that Angel hadn’t thought existed anywhere. She tried to remember when she had last seen flowers in such profusion. Never, she decided. Even within the Cintra, they had been confined to small areas. Here they stretched away in sweeping blankets that formed a colorful border between the forests lower down and the bare rock and ice farther up. She searched the mountainside for signs of life, thinking she would see some of the Elven caretakers that Simralin had mentioned. But there was no sign of anyone.

When she asked where they were, Simralin shook her head.

There were only a handful, and these were scattered all across the lower slopes of the mountain. They were unlikely to find any of them without making a concerted effort. The caretakers were used to the occasional presence of Trackers and, for the most part, left them to their work unless summoned. There was no reason to disturb them here.

The sun had gone far west by now, shadows lengthening across the mountain in great, dark stains. The color was fading from the world, and the air was turning cold. Angel glanced toward the snowcapped peak; the failing light glistened in sharp bursts off the ice field.

“We’ll need to take shelter before dark,” Simralin advised.

“Or freeze to death.”

She brought the balloon down at the edge of one of the meadows, shutting down the burner and using the vent flaps in the bag. The basket tipped on its side as it landed, and the balloon dragged it for a short distance before enough air seeped out to collapse it. The three travelers scrambled from the basket and hauled in the fabric, folding it over as Simralin showed them, gathering up all the stays and ties. When they had everything collected and disconnected, she had them stow it in the basket.

“No one will disturb it,” she said. “We’ll use it on our return, once we’re finished here. Let’s take shelter and make something to eat.”

After gathering up their gear, she led them toward a stand of conifers at the far right end of the meadow, whistling softly in the deep mountain silence.

THEY SPENT THE NIGHT in a line shack used by the caretakers during their treks across the slopes of the mountain, a tiny shelter set back in the trees that was all but invisible until you were right on top of it. If Simralin hadn’t known it was there, they would never have found it. The shelter contained pallets rolled up and stored on shelves and some small supplies. The visitors used the pallets to sleep on, but left the supplies alone. Food and drink were hard to come by, and they carried sufficient of their own not to have to impose.

Sunrise broke gray and misty, a change from the previous day and a type of weather that came all too infrequently. Looking out at the roiling clouds, it seemed to Kirisin that it might even rain. They ate their breakfast, and then Simralin had them stash most of their gear in a wooden bin.

They would need warm clothing to protect them at the higher altitudes and food and water for three days. The climb up would take them one, the climb down another. That left the third to find and retrieve the Loden.

“Time enough,” Simralin declared.

“If that’s where it is,” Kirisin interjected quickly.

His sister shrugged. “Why don’t we find out? Use the Elfstones. We’re close enough now that we won’t give anything away by doing so.”

They walked outside, passed back through the woods, and stepped out into the meadow that carpeted the land upward to where the bare rock began and the last of the scattered trees ended. The air was thinner here, and Kirisin was already noticing that it was harder to breathe. But it also tasted fresh and clean and smelled of the conifers and the cold, so he didn’t mind. The air in the Cintra was good, too, but not as vibrant and alive as it was up here.

When they were far enough out in the open that he could see the peak clearly—a visual aid he didn’t necessarily need but would use since it was there—Kirisin brought out the pouch with the Elfstones, dumped the contents into his hand, and began the process of bringing the magic to life. He had a better feel for what was needed this time, having found what worked when he used them back in the Cintra. He held the Stones in a loose and easy grip, his arm stretched out toward Syrring Rise, and took his thoughts away from everything but an attempt to visualize the ice caves the magic had shown him previously. Standing in the shadow of the mountain and beneath the sweep of the skies above it, he let himself sink into the quiet and the solitude.

Closing his eyes and disappearing inside himself.

Picturing the caves in his mind.

Feeling their cold hard surfaces and smelling the metal veins that laced their rock.