The Heritage of Shannara (161 page)

And he dropped back again, his departure so abrupt that Wren was once again unable to ask the questions that his comments called to mind— questions of how the demons had been made, what it was the magic had done, and how things had come to such a state. She half turned to follow him, then decided to let him go. She was too tired for questions now, too worn to hear the answers even if he would give them—which he probably would not. Biting back her frustration, she forced herself to continue on.

It took them all night to get free of Eden's Murk. Twice more Wren was forced to call upon the power of the Elfstones. Torn each time by conflicting urges both to shun its flow and welcome it, she felt the magic boil through her like an elixir. The blue light seared the blackness and cut away the haze, showing them the path to Blackledge, and by dawn they had climbed free of the mire and stood at last upon solid ground once more. Before them, Blackledge lifted away into the haze, a towering mass of craggy stone jutting skyward out of the jungle. They chose a clearing at the base of the rocks and set the litter with Ellenroh carefully at its center. Eowen bathed the queen's face and hands and gave her water to drink.

Ellenroh stirred and her eyes flickered open. She studied the faces about her, glanced down to the Ruhk Staff still clutched between her fingers, and said, “Help me to sit up.”

Eowen propped her forward gently and gave her the cup. Ellenroh drank it slowly, pausing frequently to breathe. Her chest rattled, and her face was flushed with fever.

“Wren,” she said softly, “you have used the Elfstones.”

Wren knelt beside her, wondering, and the others crowded close as well. “How did you know?”

Ellenroh Elessedil smiled. “It is in your eyes. The magic always leaves its mark. I should know.”

“I would have used them sooner, Grandmother, but I forgot what it was that they could do. I'm sorry.”

“Child, there is no need to apologize.” The blue eyes were kind and warm. “I have loved you so much, Wren—even before you came to me, ever since I knew from Eowen that you had been born.”

“You need to sleep, Ellenroh,” the seer whispered.

The queen closed her eyes momentarily and shook her head. “No, Eowen. I need to speak with you. All of you.”

Her eyes opened, worn and distant. “I am dying,” she whispered. “No, say nothing. Hear me out.” She fixed them with her gaze. “I am sorry, Wren, that I cannot be with you longer. I wish that I could. We have had too short a time together. Eowen, this is hardest for you. You have been my friend all of my life, and I would stay to keep you well if I could. I know what my dying means. Gavilan, Triss, Dal—you did for me what you could. But my time is here. The fever is stronger than I am, and while I have tried to break free of it, I find I cannot. Aurin Striate waits for me, and I go to join him.”

Wren was shaking her head deliberately, angrily. “No, Grandmother, don't say this, don't make it so!”

The soft hand found her own and gripped it. “We cannot hide from the truth, Wren. You, of all people, should know this. I am weakened to the bone. The fever has cut me apart inside, and there is almost nothing left holding me together. Even magic would not save me now, I'm afraid—and none of us possesses magic that would help in any case. Be strong, Wren. Remember what we share of flesh and blood. Remember how much alike we are—how much like Alleyne.”

“Grandmother!” Wren was crying.

“A medicine,” Gavilan whispered urgently. “There must be some medicine we can give you. Tell us!”

“Nothing.” The queen's eyes seemed to drift from face to face and away again, seeking something that wasn't there. She coughed and stiffened momentarily. “Am I still your queen?” she asked.

They murmured yes, all of them, an uncertain reply. “Then I have one last command to give you. If you love me, if you care for the future of the Elven people, you will not question it. Say that you will obey.”

They did, but furtive looks passed from one to the other, questioning what they were about to hear.

“Wren.” Ellenroh waited until her granddaughter had moved to where she could see her clearly. “This is yours now. Take it.”

She held out the Ruhk Staff and the Loden. Wren stared at her in disbelief, unable to move. “Take it!” the queen said, and this time Wren did as she was bidden. “Now, listen to me. I entrust the magic to your care, child. Take the Staff and its Stone from Morrowindl and carry them back into the Westland. Restore the Elves and their city. Give our people back their life. Do what you must to keep your promise to the Druid's shade, but remember as well your promise to me. See that the Elves are made whole. Give them a chance to begin again.”

Wren could not speak, stunned by what was happening, struggling to accept what she was hearing. She felt the weight of the Ruhk Staff settle in her hands, the smoothness of its haft, cool and polished.
No,
she thought.
No, I don't want this!

“Gavilan. Triss. Dal.” The queen whispered their names, her voice breaking. “See that she is protected. Help her to succeed in what she has been given to do. Eowen, use your sight to ward her against the demons. Garth …”

She was about to speak to the big man, but trailed off suddenly, as if she had come upon something she could not face. Wren glanced back at her friend in confusion, but the dark face was chiseled in stone.

“Grandmother, I should not be the one to carry this.” Wren started to object, but the other's hand gripped her sharply in reproof.

“You are the one, Wren. You have always been the one. Alleyne was my daughter and would have been queen after me, but circumstances forced us apart and took her from me. She left you to act in her place. Never forget who you are, child. You are an Elessedil. It was what you were born and what you were raised, whether you accept it or not. When I am dead, you shall be Queen of the Elves.”

Wren was horrified.
This can't be happening,
she kept telling herself, over and over.
I am not what you think! I am a Rover girl and nothing more! This isn't right!

But Ellenroh was speaking again, drawing her attention back once more. “Give yourself time, Wren. It will all come about as it should. For now, you need only concern yourself with keeping the Staff and its Stone safe. You need only find your way clear of this island before the end. The rest will take care of itself.”

“No, Grandmother,” Wren cried out urgently. “I will keep the Staff for you until you are well again. Just until then and not one moment more. You will not die. Grandmother, you can't!”

The queen took a long, slow breath. “Let me rest now, please. Lay me back, Eowen.”

The seer did as she was asked, her green eyes frightened and lonely as they followed the queen's face down. For a moment they all remained motionless, staring silently at Ellenroh. Then Triss and Dal moved away to settle their gear and set watch, whispering as they went. Gavilan walked off muttering to himself, and Garth slipped from view as well. Wren was left staring at the Ruhk Staff, gripped now in her own hands.

“I don't think that I should …” she started to say and couldn't finish. Her eyes lifted to find Eowen's, but the red-haired seer turned away. Alone now with her grandmother, she reached out to touch the other's hand, feeling the heat of the fever burning through her. Her grandmother slept, unresponsive.
How could she be dying? How could such a thing be so? It was impossible!
She felt the tears come again, thinking of how long it had taken to find her grandmother, the last of her family, how much she had gone through and how little time she had been given.

Don't die,
she prayed silently.
Please.

She felt a scratching against her legs and looked down to discover Faun, wide-eyed and skittish, peering up. She released Ellenroh's hand long enough to lift the little creature into her arms, ruffle its fur, and let it snuggle into her shoulder. The Ruhk Staff lay balanced on her lap like a line drawn in the gray light between herself and the sickened queen.

“Not me,” she said softly to her grandmother. “It shouldn't be me.”

She rose then, carrying both the Tree Squeak and the Staff up with her, and turned to find Garth. The big Rover was resting against a section of the cliff wall a dozen paces off. He straightened as she came up to him. The hard look she gave him made him blink.

“Tell me the truth now,” she whispered, signing curtly. “What is there between you and my grandmother?”

His gaze was impassive.
Nothing.

“But the way she looked at you, Garth—she wanted to say something and was afraid!”

You were a child given into my care by her daughter. She wanted to be certain I did not forget. That was what she thought to tell me. But she saw that it was not necessary.

Wren faced him unmoving a moment longer. Perhaps, she thought darkly. But there are secrets here …

Trust no one, the Addershag had warned.

But she couldn't do that. She couldn't be like that.

She broke off the confrontation and moved away, still stunned at the whirlwind of events that had surrounded her, at the way in which she was being rushed along without having any control over what was happening. She glanced again at her grandmother, feeling torn at the prospect of losing her and at the same time angry at the responsibilities she had been asked to assume. Wren Ohmsford, Queen of the Elves? It was laughable. She didn't care who she was or what her family background might be, her whole life was defined by how she perceived herself, and she perceived herself as a Rover. She couldn't just wish all that away, forget all the years she had spent growing up, accept what had happened in these last few weeks as if it were a mandate she could not refuse. How could her grandmother say that she had been raised as an Elessedil? Why would the Elves want her as their queen in any case? She wasn't really one of them, her birthright notwithstanding.

Almost without thinking about it, she stalked over to where Gavilan sat back against a moss-grown stump and squatted down beside him.

“What am I to do about this?” she demanded almost angrily, thrusting the Ruhk Staff in his face.

He shrugged, his eyes distant and empty. “What you were asked to do, I expect.”

“But this isn't mine! It doesn't belong to me! It shouldn't have been given to me in the first place!”

His voice was bitter. “I happen to agree. But what you and I want doesn't count for much, does it?”

“That isn't true. Ellenroh would never have done this if she weren't so sick. When she's better …” She stopped as he looked pointedly away. “When she's better,” she continued, snapping off each word like a broken stick, “she will realize this is all a mistake.”

His gaze was flat. “She's not going to get better.”

“Don't say that, Gavilan. Don't.”

“Would you rather I lied?”

Wren stared at him, unable to speak.

Gavilan's face was hard. “All right, then. I realize that you didn't plan for any of this to happen, that the Elves aren't your people, that none of this really has anything to do with you, and that all you wanted to do was to find Ellenroh and deliver your message. You don't want to be Queen of the Elves? Fair enough. You don't have to. Give the Staff to me.”

There was a long, empty silence as they stared at each other.

“The Elessedil blood flows through my body as well,” he pointed out heatedly. “These are my people, and Arborlon is my city. I can do what is needed. I have a better grasp of things than you. And I am not afraid to use the magic.”

Suddenly Wren understood what was happening. Gavilan had expected to be given the Ruhk Staff; he had expected Ellenroh to name him as her successor. If Wren had not appeared, it probably would have happened that way. In fact, Wren's coming to Arborlon had changed everything for Gavilan. She felt a momentary pang of dismay, but it gave way almost instantly to wariness. She remembered how Gavilan and Ellenroh had quarreled about the Loden. Gavilan favored use of the magic to change things back to how they had once been, to set things right again. Ellenroh believed it was time to give the magic up, to return to the Westland and live as the Elves had once lived. That conflict surely must have influenced El-lenroh's decision to give the Staff to Wren.

Gavilan seemed to sense her uncertainty. “Think about it, Wren. If the queen dies, her burden need not be yours. If you had not returned, it never would have been.” He folded his arms defensively. “In any case, it is up to you. If you wish it, I will help. I told you that when we first met, and the offer still stands. Whatever I can do.”

She didn't know what to say. “Thank you, Gavilan,” she managed.

She moved away from him then, feeling decidedly uneasy about what he had suggested. As much as she wanted to be free of the responsibility of the Staff, she was not at all sure she should give it over to him. The magic was a trust; it should not be relinquished too quickly, not when the consequences of its use were so enormous. Ellenroh could have given the Staff to Gavilan, but had chosen not to. Wren was not prepared to question the queen's judgment without thinking the matter through.

But she cared for Gavilan; she relied on his friendship and support. That complicated things. She understood his disappointment, and she knew that he was right when he said that the Elves were his people and Arborlon
his city and that she was an outsider. She believed that Gavilan wanted what was best as much as she did.

A harsh, desperate determination took root inside her.
None of this matters, because Grandmother will recover, because she must recover, she will not die, she will not!
The words were a litany in her mind, repeating over and over. Her breathing was ragged and angry, and her hands were shaking.

She shook her head and fought back her tears.

Finally she sat down again next to her grandmother. Numb with grief, she stared down at the ravaged face.
Please, get well. You must get well.

Weariness stole over her like a thief and left her drained.

They remained camped at the cliff wall all that day, letting Ellenroh sleep, hoping that her strength would return. While Wren and Eowen took turns caring for the queen, the men kept watch. Time slipped away, and Wren watched it escape with a quickness that was frightening. They had been gone from Arborlon for three days now, but it seemed like weeks. All about them, the world of Morrowindl was gray and hazy, a bleak landscape of shadows and half-light. Beneath, the earth rumbled with Killeshan's discontent. How much time remained to them? How much before the volcano exploded and the island broke apart? How much before the demons found them? How much before Tiger Ty and Spirit decided that there was no point in searching any longer, that they were irretrievably lost?