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

When they arrived at the building that housed the Council chambers, they found Home Guards stationed at the doorway, armed and watchful.

The building was a large, circular structure constructed of interconnected logs stretched between huge old-growth spruce and sealed with a packing compound.

The roof was high and domed, the foundation raised on plank flooring.

Admittance was gained through a pair of wide double doors opening into a hallway that formed the outer rim of the wheel-shaped building and encircled the chambers themselves, which were housed at the hub. The exterior of the building didn’t look much different from the forest surrounding it, but the interior, where the chambers were situated, was smooth and sleek and polished, a haven of quiet and soft light.

The Home Guards recognized Simralin at once and waved her through the doors and into the hallway. Kirisin followed, riding her coattails.

Inside, they came right up against Tragen. The big Elf’s brooding face was even darker this night as he frowned at Simralin in greeting. “We could have used you here a little earlier.”

Kirisin glanced past him to where two figures were seated on a bench against the inner wall, almost lost in the shadows of the dark space they occupied between a brace of smokeless torches.

One appeared to be a tiny girl, a creature so insubstantial she looked as if she might disappear on a strong gust of wind. She had long bluish hair, eyes as dark as midnight pools, and skin as pale as chalk. She wore clothing that seemed to drift loosely from her body in the manner of moss from tree limbs, somehow more a part of her than something worn. She glanced at him with an inquisitive look that quickly changed to recognition—which made no sense at all because he had never seen her before.

The second was a young woman, older and stronger, her skin brown, her hair dark, her eyes hard and challenging as she looked at him. She gripped a black staff in both hands, a polished length of wood that had been carved from end to end with symbols he did not recognize. He stared back at her, and she looked away. Her eyes were no longer so dark and angry; instead, they simply looked tired.

“What’s wrong?” Simralin was asking Tragen.

The other grunted in disgust. “Praxia hasn’t learned yet to leave well enough alone. She tried to take the staff from the Knight. I told her to let it be, but she insisted it was a weapon and shouldn’t be carried into the presence of the King. It wasn’t her business, but you know Praxia. The Knight knocked her all the way across the hall and into the far wall. She went down hard and didn’t get up.”

“Praxia,” said Simralin in dismay.

“Que’rue and Ruslan carried her out. I stayed because someone had to, but I haven’t gone close to those two. Even the Home Guards are keeping back until someone tells them what to do. Got any thoughts?”

Simralin nodded. “Your advice was right. Leave them alone.

They’re guests, not prisoners. The Knights of the Word consider their black staffs symbols of their office. They never give them up to anyone for any reason. The staffs probably are weapons of some sort, but I don’t think the Knight and the tatterdemalion came here to kill anybody. If they wanted to do that, they wouldn’t have bothered summoning us. Praxia would have realized that if she had stopped to think it through.”

“Let me know the next time she stops to do that about anything,” Tragen muttered. He glanced at Kirisin for the first time. “Evening, Little K.”

Kirisin blushed. He hadn’t realized Simralin’s nickname for him was general knowledge. Hearing someone other than his sister use it made him feel like a little boy.

Simralin walked him over to where the Knight of the Word and the tatterdemalion waited and stood before them. “I apologize for what happened,” she said to Angel. “Praxia should have known better.”

Angel studied Kirisin’s sister a moment, and then nodded.

“I reacted too strongly. I am the one who should apologize.”

Kirisin peeked around Simralin. “My brother, Kirisin,” she said. “He seems to know something about why you came looking for the Elves.”

She moved him in front of her. “Maybe he should explain it.”

But before the boy could ask any of the questions that were crying out for answers, the doors to the inner chambers opened and Maurin Ortish, the captain of the Home Guard, emerged and walked toward them.

“Simralin,” he greeted. He was a tall, slender man in his middle years, his Elven features pronounced, his voice unexpectedly soft. “You are to come inside now. Please bring your guests with you.”