Amberle bent close, regarding them solemnly. Then she looked back at Wil again.
“How do you know these are Elfstones?”
“I have my grandfather’s word on it. And Allanon’s.”
She did not look impressed. “Do you know how to use them?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never tried.”
“Then you don’t really know whether they’re any good to you or not, do you?” She laughed softly. “You won’t know until you need them. That’s not very comforting, is it?”
“No, not very,” he agreed.
“Yet here you are anyway.”
He shrugged. “It seemed like the right thing to do.” He dropped the Elfstones back in the pouch and tucked the pouch into his tunic. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see how it works out to know whether or not I was mistaken.”
She studied him carefully for a moment, saying nothing. He waited.
“We have much in common, Wil Ohmsford,” she said finally. She crossed her arms about her knees, drawing them up. “Well, you’ve told me who you are—I think you’re entitled to the same courtesy. My family name is Elessedil. Eventine Elessedil is my grandfather. In a sense, we’re both involved in this because of who our grandfathers are.”
Wil nodded. “That’s true, I suppose.”
The wind caught her chestnut hair and blew it across her face like a veil. She brushed the strands away and looked out across the lake again.
“You know that I do not want to go back to Arborlon,” she said.
“I know.”
“But that’s where you think I ought to go, isn’t it?”
He eased back on his elbows, watching the rainbow’s arc above him.
“That’s where I think you have to go,” he replied. “Obviously you cannot go back to Havenstead; the Demons will be looking for you there. Pretty soon, they’ll be looking for you here as well. You have to keep moving. If Allanon escaped . . .” He paused, distracted by the implications of that statement. “If Allanon escaped, he will expect us to go on to Arborlon, and that’s where we’ll find him.” He looked over at her. “If you’ve got any better ideas, I’m ready to listen.”
For a long time, she didn’t say anything. She just kept staring out over the Rainbow Lake, watching the graceful movement of the water, letting the wind blow freely across her face. When she finally spoke again, it was just a whisper.
“I’m afraid.”
Then she looked at him, seemed about to say something more, and thought better of it. She smiled—the first genuine smile he had seen from her.
“Well, we’re a pair of fools, aren’t we? You with your Elfstones that may or may not be what you think and me about to do the one thing I swore I’d never do.” She rose, walked away a few paces, then turned as he came to his feet behind her. “I want you to know this. I think that going to Arborlon is pointless. I think that Allanon is wrong about me. Neither the Ellcrys nor the Elven people will accept me back again because, despite what the Druid may think, I am no longer one of the Chosen.”
She paused. “Still, doing anything else wouldn’t make much sense, would it?”
“Not to me, it wouldn’t,” he agreed.
She nodded. “Then I guess it’s settled.” Her child’s face regarded him soberly. “I just hope this isn’t a mistake.”
Wil sighed. “If it is, we’ll probably know soon enough.” He forced a thin smile. “Let’s collect Artaq and find out.”
They spent the remainder of that day and all of the next traveling north and west through the grasslands of Callahorn. The weather was warm, dry, and pleasant, and the time passed quickly. Dark thunderclouds appeared to the north around noon of the first day, hanging ominously over the craggy expanse of the Dragon’s Teeth, but by sunset they had blown east into the Rabb and were gone. The Valeman and the Elven girl alternated between riding Artaq and walking, doubling up when they rode, then both traveling afoot for a time in order to rest the big black. Artaq looked fresh even after several hours of being ridden, but Wil was not about to risk tiring the horse. They saw nothing of the Demons that they had lost at the Silver River, but the creatures were certainly still out there and looking for them. If they were unlucky enough to be found again, Wil wanted Artaq ready to run.
Bereft of any weapons at all, save for a small hunting knife Wil carried tucked in his belt, they were forced to eat fruits and vegetables that grew wild on the grasslands. Wil found the fare ample, if somewhat less than satisfying, but Amberle seemed not to mind at all. If anything, she seemed quite pleased with their meals. She showed the Valeman a talent for discovering food where he would not have guessed food existed, pulling from the most unlikely places edible plants and roots that she readily identified and described in quite thorough detail. Wil listened attentively and asked questions from time to time, finding this the one topic of conversation she seemed willing to pursue. Initially, he had tried to draw her out on other subjects, but had met with little success. So they talked of plants and roots and the rest of the time traveled in silence.
They slept that first night in a grove of cottonwood near a small spring that provided them with clean drinking water. By midafternoon of the second day, they reached the Mermidon and began following it north. Up until that point, they had seen no one, but thereafter passed half a dozen travelers, some afoot, some on horseback, one riding in a small wooden cart drawn by oxen. All exchanged with them a word of friendship and a wave before continuing on their way.
At sunset they made camp along the Mermidon, west and south of the city of Tyrsis, finding shelter in a grove of white pine and willow. Using a willow branch, a length of twine, and a hook from his clothing, Wil fashioned a crude fishing pole. Within half-an-hour he had landed a pair of striped bass. He was cleaning the fish by the river’s edge when a caravan of wagons swung into view from the south and wound its way down toward the far bank. Gaily painted houses on wheels, with peaked roofs of cedar shingles, hand-carved wooden doors, and windows studded with brass, the wagons flashed brightly in the setting sun. Teams of finely groomed horses pulled the wagons, their traces laced with bits of silver. Several riders kept pace, their graceful forms cloaked in silk and trailing streamers of color from their throats and from the bridles of their mounts. In spite of himself, Wil stopped what he was doing and watched the strange procession approach the river, wagon axles groaning, leather harness creaking, voices calling and whistling encouragement. Almost directly across from where the Valeman sat, the caravan swung into a loose circle and lurched to a halt. Men, women, and children climbed from the wagons and began unhitching the teams and setting up camp.
Amberle appeared from the trees behind Wil and joined him. The Valeman glanced over at her briefly, then followed her gaze back across the river to the gathering on the far bank.
“Rovers,” he announced thoughtfully.
She nodded. “I’ve seen them before. The Elves don’t have much use for them.”
“No one has.” He went back to cleaning the fish. “They’ll steal anything that isn’t nailed down—or if it is, find a way to talk you out of it. They have their own rules and they don’t pay any attention to anyone else’s.”
Amberle touched his arm, and he looked up to watch a tall man, dressed all in black save for a cloak and sash of forest green, accompany two older women in long, multicolored skirts and blouses as they carried water buckets down to the water’s edge. As the women stooped to fill the buckets, the tall man removed a wide-brimmed hat and, with a flourish, bowed low to Wil and Amberle, his darkly tanned face flashing a broad smile through a shading of black beard. Wil raised one arm and waved back cordially.
“I’m just as glad that they’re on that side of the river,” he muttered to Amberle as they rose to return to their camp.
They enjoyed a savory meal of fish, fruit, vegetables and spring water, then settled back next to the campfire and gazed out through breaks in the forest to the glimmer of the Rover fires as they blazed up from o
ut of the darkness across the river. They were quiet for a time, lost in their own thoughts. Then Wil looked over at the Elven girl.
“How is it that you know so much about growing things—the gardens at your cottage in Havenstead, the roots and plants you found for us during our journey? Did someone teach you all that?”
A look of surprise crossed her face. “For being part Elf, you certainly don’t know very much about us, do you?”
Wil shrugged. “Not really. The Elven blood is all on my father’s side, and he died when I was very young. I don’t think that my grandfather has ever gone into the Westland—at least he never speaks about it. In any case, I guess I’ve just never thought that much about being part Elf.”
“It is something that you should have thought about,” she said quietly. Her green eyes found his. “We first need to understand who we were before we can understand who we are.”
The words were spoken not as a criticism of the Valeman, but almost in self-reproach. Wil found himself suddenly wishing that he knew more about this girl, that he could find a way to persuade her to confide even a small piece of herself in him, rather than keeping it all so tightly locked away.
“Maybe you could help me gain at least a part of that understanding,” he offered after a moment’s thought.
There was instant doubt in her eyes, almost as if she believed that he was playing some game with her. She hesitated a long time before answering him.
“Very well, maybe I can.” She squared herself around so that she was seated facing him. “You must first understand that the Elven people believe that preservation of the land and all that lives and grows upon it, plant and animal alike, is a moral responsibility. They have always held this belief foremost in their conduct as creatures of the earth. In the old world, they devoted the whole of their lives to caring for the woodlands and forests in which they lived, cultivating its various forms of vegetation, sheltering the animals that it harbored. Of course, they had little else to concern them in those days, for they were an isolated and reclusive people. All that has changed now, but they still maintain a belief in their moral responsibility for their world. Every Elf is expected to spend a portion of his life giving back to the land something of what he has taken out of it. By that I mean that every Elf is expected to devote a part of his life to working with the land—to repairing damage it may have suffered through misuse or neglect, to caring for its animals and other wildlife, to caring for its trees and smaller plants where the need to do so is found.”
“Is that a part of what you were doing in Havenstead?”
She nodded. “In a way. The Chosen are exempt from this service. When I ceased to be one of the Chosen and no longer felt welcome in my homeland, I decided that I should do service to the land. Most of the work done by the Elves is carried out in the Westland because that is the Elven homeland. But we believe that the care of the land is not simply an Elven responsibility, but the responsibility of all men. To some extent the Dwarves share our concern, but the other races have never been much persuaded. So some of the Elves go out from the Westland to other communities, trying to teach the people living there something of their responsibility for the care and preservation of their land. This is what I was trying to do at Havenstead.”
“And you were working with the children of the village,” Wil surmised.
“Primarily the children, for the children are more receptive to what I teach and have the time to learn. I was taught of the earth when I was a child; it is the Elven way. I was more adept than most at translating the lesson into use—one of the reasons, I guess, that I was selected to be a Chosen. The skills of the Chosen in the preservation and care of the earth and its life forms are of the highest order; the Ellcrys has some sense of this. She has this ability . . .”
Amberle seemed to catch herself in the middle of a thought she did not wish to express. She stopped abruptly, shrugging.
“Anyway, I was very good at teaching the children of Havenstead, and the people of the village were very kind to me. Havenstead was my home, and I did not want to leave.”
She shifted her gaze abruptly to the fire between them. Wil said nothing, leaning forward to add several pieces of stray wood to the flames. After a moment’s silence, Amberle looked up at him again.
“Well, now you know something of the Elven feeling for the land. It’s a part of your heritage, so you should try to understand it.”
“I think I do understand it,” the Valeman replied, reflecting. “At least in part. I have not been trained in the Elven manner, but I have been trained by the Stors as a Healer. Their concern for human life is much the same as the Elven concern for the land. A Healer must do whatever is in his power to do to preserve the lives and health of the men, women, and children whom he treats. This is the commitment I made when I chose to become a Healer.”
The Elven girl looked at him curiously. “Somehow that makes it seem even stranger that you were persuaded by Allanon to look after me. You are a Healer, dedicated to preserving life. What will you do if you are placed in a situation where, in order to protect me, you must harm others, perhaps even cause them to die?”
Wil stared at her wordlessly. He had never even considered the possibility that such a thing might happen. Thinking on it now, he experienced an unpleasant feeling of doubt.
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” he admitted uncomfortably.
They were silent for a moment, staring across the fire at each other, unable to break through the awkwardness of the moment. Then Amberle rose abruptly, came over to the Valeman, and sat next to him, impulsively clasping his hand in her own. Her winsome face looked out at him through the shadow of her hair.
“That wasn’t a fair question to put to you, Wil Ohmsford. I’m sorry I asked it. You came on this journey because you believed that you might help me. It is wrong of me to doubt that you would do so.”
“It was a fair question,” Wil replied firmly. “I just don’t have an answer to it.”
“Nor should you,” she insisted. “I, of all people, should know that some decisions cannot be made in advance of the time that will demand them. We cannot always anticipate the way in which things will happen and therefore cannot anticipate what we will do. We must accept that. Again, I am sorry. You might as well ask me what decision I will make if the Ellcrys tells me that I am still one of the Chosen.”
Wil smiled faintly. “Be careful. I am tempted to ask exactly that.”
She released his hand instantly and rose. “Do not. You would not like the answer I would give you.” She shook her head sadly. “You think my choice in this is a simple one, one that you could make easily. You are wrong.”
She walked back to the other side of the fire and reached down for her travel cloak, shaking it out upon the ground. As she prepared to roll herself in it to sleep, she turned back to him one final time.
“Believe me, Valeman, should our decisions become necessary, yours will be the easier of the two.”
She lowered her head to the folds of the cloak and was asleep in moments. Wil Ohmsford stared thoughtfully into the fire. Although he could not begin to explain why, he found that he believed her.
XIV
When they awoke the following morning, Artaq was missing. At first they thought that he might have wandered off during the night, but a quick check of the woods in which they were camped and the open grasslands beyond failed to turn up any sign of the big black. It was at this point that an unpleasant suspicion began to form in the back of Wil’s mind. Hurriedly, he examined the area in which Artaq had been left to graze, moving from there along the perimeter of their campsite, dropping to his knees from time to time as he went to smell the earth or touch it with his fingers. Amberle watched him curiously. After a few minutes of this, the Valeman seemed to find something. Eyes still fixed on the ground before him, he began walking southward through the small stand of timber and into the grasslands—one hundred feet, two. He began to angle toward the river. Wordlessly, t
he Elven girl trailed after. Moments later, they both stood at the edge of the Mermidon, staring out across a series of shallows several hundred yards downstream from their camp.
“Rovers.” Wil spat the word out like a bitter pill. “They crossed here during the night and stole him.”
Amberle looked surprised. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Wil nodded. “I found their tracks. Besides, no one else could have managed it. Artaq would have called out if it were anyone but an expert horse handler, and the Rovers are the best. Look, they’re already gone.”
He pointed across the river to the spot on the empty grasslands the caravan had occupied the previous night. They stared at it silently for a moment.
“What do we do now?” Amberle asked finally.
Wil was so mad he could barely speak. “First we go back and pack our things. Then we cross the river and have a look at their campsite.”
They returned to their own camp, hastily put together the few items they had carried with them, and returned to the river. They crossed at the shallows without difficulty. Minutes later they stood at the now-deserted Rover camp. Once more Wil began studying the ground, moving more quickly this time as he paced the area from end to end. Finally he walked back to where Amberle stood waiting.
“My Uncle Flick taught me to read signs when I hunted the woods about my home in Shady Vale,” he informed her conversationally, his mood considerably improved. “We used to fish and trap the Duln Forests for weeks at a time when I was little. Always thought I might again have need of what I learned someday.”
She nodded impatiently. “What did you find?”
“They’ve gone west, probably just before daybreak.”