The Elves of Cintra

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS THE WAY that everything changed so suddenly that shocked Hawk the most.

One moment he was falling from the compound walls, the hands of his captors releasing him for the long drop, his stomach lurch–ing as he struggled in vain to find something to hold on to, his fate a dark rush of gut–wrenching certainty flooding through him. He glimpsed the rubble waiting below, the sharp outline of the bricks and cement chunks clearly visible even in the fading light of the sunset. He caught sight of Tessa tumbling away next to him, her arms windmilling and her legs kicking, her slender body just out of his reach. He wanted to close his eyes to shut the images away, to escape what was happen–ing, but he could not make himself do so.

A moment later he was surrounded by the light, gathered up by its white brilliance as if cradled in a soft blanket. He was neither standing nor sitting but sprawled out, his muscles becoming lethargic and leaden, his mind drifting to faraway places that had no identity. He was no longer falling, no longer doing anything. Tessa had disappeared. The compound and his captors, the city and the sunset, the entire world had vanished.

He didn't know how long this cocooning lasted because he lost all sense of time. His thoughts were as soft and image–free as the light that bound him, and he could not seem to make himself think. All he could do was revel in the feeling of the light and the welcome hope that some–how he had escaped dying. He waited for something to happen, for the light to clear and reveal his fate, for the world to return–for anything–but finally gave in to his lethargy and closed his eyes and slept.

When he woke, the light was gone.

He was lying on a patch of grass so bright with color that it hurt his eyes to look at it. Sunshine flooded down out of clear skies that seemed to stretch away forever. Gardens surrounded him with a profusion of colors and forms and scents. He blinked in disbelief and pushed himself up on one elbow to look around. Wherever he was, he clearly wasn't anywhere in Seattle or even anywhere he had ever been in his life. He had seen pictures of gardens in Owl's books and listened to her read descriptions of them to the Ghosts. He had imagined them in his mind, spreading away from the edges of the pages that framed them in the picture books.

But he had never imagined anything like this.

And yet …

He stared off into the distance, off to where the gardens disap–peared from view, going on and on in a rough carpet of plants and bushes, of petals and stalks, their colors so vibrant that they shimmered against the horizon in a soft haze.

Yet it was all somehow very familiar.

He frowned in confusion, sitting up for a better look, trying to un–derstand what he was feeling. His mind was clear now, his limbs and body fresh and rested. The lethargy was gone, dissipated with the light. He felt that he might have slept a long time, but could not account for how that might be. Everything had changed so completely that there was no way he could make sense of it. It was magic, he thought sud–denly, but he had no way of knowing where such magic might have come from.

Not from himself, he knew.

Not from Logan Tom, the Knight of the Word.

His confusion exploded into questions. Why am I alive? What saved me from the fall off the compound wall? How did I get here?

Then he remembered Tessa, and he looked around for her in a wel–ter of sudden fear and desperation.

"She is sleeping still," a voice said from right behind him.

The speaker was so close and had come up on him so quietly that Hawk jumped despite himself, wheeling into a defensive crouch with–out even thinking about what he was doing. Breathing hard, arms cocked protectively in front of him, he stared up into the face of the old man who stood there.

The old man never moved. "You needn't be afraid of me," he said.

He was ancient by any standards, rail–thin and bent by time, his body swathed in white robes that hid everything but the outline of his nearly fleshless bones. His beard was full and white, but his hair was thinning to the point of wispiness, and his scalp showed through in mottled patches. His features were gaunt, his cheeks sunken, and his brow lined. But all of this was of no importance to Hawk when he looked into the old man's eyes, which were clear and blue and filled with kindness and compassion. Looking into those eyes made the boy want to weep. It was like seeing a reflection of everything that was good and right in the world, all gathered in a perfect vision, bright and true.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Someone who knows you from before you were born," the other answered, smiling as if having Hawk standing before him was the most welcome of sights. "Someone who remembers how important that event was." His eyes never left Hawk's face. "What matters is not who I am, but who you are. Here and now, in this time and place, in the world of the present. Do you know the answer?"

Hawk nodded slowly. "I think so. The Knight of the Word told me when I was locked away in the compound. He said I was a gypsy morph and that I had magic. I saw something of what he was talking about in a vision when I touched my … my mother's finger bones." He hesi–tated. "But I still don't know if I believe it."

The old man nodded. "What he told you is the truth. Or at least, the part of it he knows. It is given to me to tell you the rest. Walk with me." He started away, and Hawk followed without thinking. Together they moved down the pathways and grassy strips that crisscrossed the gardens, passing through rows of flower beds and flowering bushes and trellises of flowering vines. They moved without purpose and without any seeming destination, simply walking, first in one direction and then in another, the boundaries of the gardens–if there were any–never drawing any nearer, never even coming into sight. They continued for a long time, the old man moving slowly but purposefully, with Hawk matching his pace as he tried to gather his thoughts, to give voice to the questions swimming in his head. Spoor and tiny seedlings drifted in the air around him, shimmering with a peculiar brightness. Hawk could hear insects buzzing and chirping. He could see flashes of bright color from birds and butterflies. He could not stop looking.

"Did you bring me here?" he asked the old man finally.

The old man nodded. "I did."

"Tessa, too? She's all right? She's not hurt?"

"She sleeps until we are done."

Hawk scuffed his tennis shoes on a patch of gravel, looking down at the skid marks, still trying to make what was happening feel real. "I don't understand any of this," he said finally.

The old man had been studying the landscape ahead, but now he looked over. "No, I don't suppose you do. It must all seem very strange to you. A lot has happened in the past few weeks. A lot more will hap–pen in the weeks ahead. You are different from who you were, but not as different as you will be."

He made a sweeping gesture at the gardens. "This is where you were conceived, young one. Here, in these gardens. A small, unexpected gath–ering in the evening air of magic from earth and water brought you into existence, a wild magic that only happens now and then with the pass–ing of the centuries. I have seen it before, but not like this. The bright–ness of the gathering was unusual, the joining quick and sure, the suddenness and the frantic need so apparent that it caught me by sur–prise. That takes something special. I have been alive a long time."

Hawk believed it. The old man had the look of something about to crumble and be scattered by the winds. "How old are you?"

"I was here at the beginning."

Hawk shuddered despite himself At the beginning? He knew in–stinctively what the old man was talking about, and at the same time he did not believe such a thing was possible. "How do you know what you saw happening with the magic was me?" he asked sharply. "I mean, it wasn't me then. It was just … just something happening in the air, wasn't it?"

"Oh, it was you. Such things cannot be mistaken. You weren't a boy then, just a possibility of becoming something wonderful. I saw the po–tential of the magic that would form you and dispatched it into the world at a time and place where you might find help in making the necessary transformation. I could not tell what that transformation would be; only that it would be special and powerful and mean some–thing to the world. You were found and caught up by another Knight of the Word, then taken to your mother. You found your purpose with her, merging with her, becoming her unborn child. She took you inside her, gave birth to you, raised you, then gave you back to me."

Hawk stared, and then said the first thing that came to mind. "I don't remember any of this. I don't think it ever happened."

The old man nodded. "I took away your memories."

"You took away …" Hawk couldn't finish. "Why would you do that?"

"You didn't need them then. It wasn't time for you to have them." The old man kept walking, not slowing or quickening his pace, just am–bling through the flowers and the sunlight, his time and Hawk's of no importance. "Let me start again," he said, "so that you will understand."

Hawk folded his arms over his chest, already prepared to dismiss everything he was about to hear. He didn't know who the old man was or how he had brought him to these gardens, but when you started be–lieving that someone could take away your memories or make you be–come a boy out of a seed, it was time to back up a few steps.

He waited for the old man to begin, but they continued walking in silence. Hawk was impatient but knew the value of not rushing things when you were at a disadvantage, which he clearly was, so he waited. Finally, they reached a small pool and stone fountain surrounded by an–cient wooden benches, and they seated themselves next to each other facing down long rows of small purple flowers that hung from vines off lengths of trellis, climbing and tumbling away like a waterfall.

"Wisteria," the old man said quietly, gesturing toward the flowers.

Hawk nodded, saying nothing, still waiting. He wanted to get this over with. He was anxious to see Tessa, to make certain she was all right. He was eager to return to the Ghosts, assuming the old man would let him do so. He couldn't be sure of that. He couldn't be sure of anything just at the moment.

"You asked before who I was," the old man said, looking not at him, but off into the distance. "I have no real name, but the Elves in Faerie time called me the King of the Silver River and the name has stayed with me. Like you, though you doubt your origins still, I am a Faerie creature born of the Word's magic. We sit in the Gardens of Life, which have been given into my care. All life begins here. Once conceived, it goes out into the larger world to play its part. This is what happened to you. You were wild magic conceived first within these gardens, then within the world of humans. A Knight of the Word named John Ross caught you up before you were fully formed, and when you took the shape of a small boy he took you to Nest Freemark, who became your mother. She did not know your purpose, but she possessed magic as well, a legacy of her unusual family. She kept you for as long as was necessary after giving birth to you, but eventually it was necessary to take you away from her and bring you here."

Hawk shook his head. "I remember the Oregon coast, swimming in the ocean, lying on the beach, being with my family there. I don't re–member anything of what you are telling me."

"Because you weren't meant to until now. I gave you those other memories so that you wouldn't know who you were until it was time." The old man smiled. "I know this is hard to accept. But your memories will begin to return now, and they will help you to understand. You must be patient with them and with yourself until they do."

He studied Hawk a moment, then shook his head. "I should be bet–ter at this, but I don't get much practice. Mostly, I tend these gardens and let the affairs of humans and others take whatever course fate de–crees. But the old world is ending, and the new one requires my help. So I must do the best I can with this. Logan Tom has begun this task, but it is up to me to try to finish it.

"Here is what you must know. You have powerful enemies, one in particular. They hunt you relentlessly. They have done so since the time of your conception in the world of men. For many years, they thought you dead. Nest Freemark saved you and took you away from them, her unborn child, a life they could not detect while it grew inside her. But after you were born, the danger became greater. You did not yet know what or who you were. You did not yet understand that you possessed magic. The magic had not yet manifested itself But I knew that sooner or later it would, and when that happened your enemies would come for you."

He folded his hands in his lap, skeletal digits as white and brittle as bleached bones. "There was a second, perhaps more important, consid–eration. The fate of the human race in its war with the demons had not yet been decided. The balance between the Word and Void had not yet been tipped, and until that happened–or even if it happened, because at that point no one could be sure–you couldn't be left exposed when your time and the need for your peculiar magic was not yet at hand.

"For these reasons, I took you from Nest Freemark and brought you here to live until the balance was not just tipped, but toppled and the end assured. Then I sent you back into the human world to fulfill your destiny. You have a purpose, and that purpose is to save the human race."

Hawk almost laughed, but the look on the old man's face kept him from doing so. He tried to say something, but he couldn't find the right words.

"You are the boy who will lead his children to the Promised Land," the King of the Silver River said to him. "Your dream is your destiny. I gave you that dream when you left my care and went back out into the world. But the dream is real, a foretelling of what you are meant to do. Your small family in the ruins of the city, those you left behind when you came here, are the beginning of a much larger family. You will lead them to a haven that will shelter them until the madness is finished. The destruction is not over, nor the devastation complete. That will take time. It will take more time still for the world to heal. While that happens, some will need to be kept safe and well so that the people of the Word will not all die."

Hawk nodded, then shook his head no. "I don't think any of this is right. I don't think I can do any of what you seem to think I can do. I believe the dream, but the dream is a small one. It is only for me and for the Ghosts. My family. Not … how many are we talking about?"

"Several thousand, perhaps. Humans, Elves, and others. An amal–gam of those who struggle to survive the demons and the once–men and all the others who serve the Void."

Hawk stared. Elves? "How am I supposed to do this? You say I have magic, and maybe I do. I think I may have helped heal Cheney when he was injured by a giant centipede. But that's not going to mean much with what you say I have to do. Healing is one thing. Fighting off demons or whatever to get several thousand people to a safe place is something else again. I mean, look at me! I'm not anything special. I can't do anything to save all these people? I can barely help the family I've got now, and that's only nine kids, a dog, and an old man?"

The more he talked, the more adamant he became. The more adamant he became, the more frightened he grew. The enormity of what the old man was asking of him–no, telling him he must do–was overwhelming. He tried to say something more and gave it up, getting to his feet in disgust and staring off into the distance in a mix of rage and frustration.

"I just don't think I can do this," he said finally. "I don't even know how to begin."

He waited for the old man to say something, and then when he didn't turned around again.

The old man was gone.

HE SEARCHED FOR the old man then, hunting through gardens he knew nothing about, not even where they began or ended. When that proved fruitless, he searched for Tessa. He walked aimlessly because moving was better than sitting; doing something was better than doing nothing. The effort began to tire him, and he slowed and finally stopped altogether. He looked about in bewilderment. Everything looked the same as it had when he had started out. The fountain and the pool were off to one side. The wisteria hung from the trellis in a shower of purple. It was as if nothing had changed–as if he had not moved at all.

Maybe that's the message, he thought. Maybe no matter what I do, nothing will change and I will get nowhere.

He was very thirsty, and after thinking it over he tried the water in the fountain. It tasted sweet and clean, so he drank. He reassured him–self that the old man wouldn't bring him all this way only to let him drink poisoned water.

When his thirst was satisfied, he took a long moment to reflect on what he had been told and decided that maybe he believed it was all true after all. Well, mostly true. All but the part about how he was sup–posed to save all these people by taking them somewhere–to a safe place, a Promised Land, a haven from the ravages of the world's de–struction. He didn't really believe he could do something like that. But he maybe believed the rest, although he couldn't say exactly why. It was in part because he knew there was something different about him, in part because of his dreams of a place he was meant to go with the Ghosts, and in part because of what he felt about the old man. The King of the Silver River. He spoke the name to himself in the silence of his mind. Despite his doubts, he could not make himself believe that the old man was lying. Not about any of it. Even the most wild, im–probable parts of it felt true.

He sat down on the wooden bench again, wondering what he should do. He tried to think about something besides his situation, to give himself a chance to let everything go for a few moments, but it was impossible. He told himself that he should be grateful he was still alive when by all that was reasonable he should be dead. The old man had saved him and brought him here deliberately, not on a whim and not without reason to believe he was needed. Hawk couldn't dismiss this out of hand, even doubting it as he did. Not even the part about lead–ing all these people to a place where the world's destruction would not affect them.

As if there were such a place, and the old man shared Hawk's dream.

It occurred to him that he hadn't gotten around to asking where this place might be, let alone how he was supposed to get there. If he really was supposed to lead someone, even a handful like the Ghosts, then

"The dream was only of the Ghosts in the beginning, because that was all that was needed," the old man said, sitting next to him on the bench. "But it was always intended to include others, as well. A world starting over needs more than a few children."

He had materialized out of nowhere and without making a sound. Hawk jumped inwardly but kept his composure. "I don't know what a world starting over needs. Where were you?"

"Here and there. I thought you might need a little time alone to think things over. Sometimes it helps. As for what you know, young one, you know more than you think because you are imbued with the wild magic. Your intuition and your innate understanding are stronger because of it. How you were formed and of what pieces is what makes you so unexpected. That is why you are here–why you were formed here, why you left, and why you have returned. It is why your enemies are so afraid of you."

Hawk shook his head. "Afraid of me? No one is afraid of me." He met the old man's gaze and held it. "You keep talking about how I am formed of wild magic. What does that mean? Am I real? Am I even human?"

"You are as human as any other boy your age. You are as human as this girl you love." The old man smiled. "But you are something more, of course. The wild magic sets you apart. What that means is that while you are human, you are also a creature of Faerie. You transcend the present world and its peoples. Your origins are very old and go back to the begin–ning of the world. You are flesh and blood and bones, and you can and will die someday like other humans. But your life is set on a different track, and it is given to you to be able to do things no one else ever will."

"Things. What sort of things?"

"No one knows. Not even me, and I watched you being born. What you will do and how you will do it is knowledge you must discover for yourself Your dreams tell you of your destiny, but only by taking the road to that destiny will you discover how you are meant to fulfill it."

"By going to this place where the people I lead will be safe? By see–ing what will happen when I do?"

"Just so, young one."

"I have to just do this and hope for the best?"

"You have to trust in who and what you are. You have to trust in the dream you have been given. You have believed in it until now, haven't you?"

"For myself and my family. Not for thousands of people I don't even know!"

The old man studied him. "Why is it any more difficult to believe in the one as opposed to the other? Is it really so odd to think that you will guide thousands as opposed to a handful? The dangers are the same, the journey the same, the destination the same. It is said that there is safety in numbers. Perhaps that will serve to ease your efforts. You will not be so alone."

"But I will have responsibility for so many!"

"Ask yourself this: what would their chances be without you? If you believe what you have been told, you know what is going to happen. The old world is ending and must start anew. Most will not live to see that happen. But there will be survivors, and some of those will go with you."

Hawk shook his head and closed his eyes against what he was feel–ing. "Go with me where?"

"To where I will be waiting."

The boy's eyes snapped open "What? Here, in these gardens? I'm to bring them all here?"

The ancient face did not change expression, nor the eyes leave Hawk's. "You are to come in search of me, and you are to find me. You will know how to do this. You will bring those you lead with you."

Hawk stared at him. "Well, why don't you just do all this yourself? Why do you need me?"

"I wish it were that easy. But my powers are finite. It is not so diffi–cult to bring one or two, as I did with you and the young girl. It is im–measurably harder to bring hundreds, impossible to bring thousands. They must journey on foot. They must be led. It is given to you to lead them."

"Why didn't you start all this sooner? Before everything was destroyed! You could have saved so many more'. Look how many are al–ready dead!"

The King of the Silver River watched him carefully, and then shook his head. "You already know the answer to that question. Don't you?"

Hawk hesitated. "Because you couldn't bring them until it was cer–tain that the world was going to end. You had to know for sure. When you knew, was that when you sent me back into the world?"

The other nodded. "That was when your destiny was determined. I placed you back in the world with the new memories I had given you and let you build your life while I waited for the time when it would become necessary to bring you here once more and tell you every–thing. Had your life not been in such danger, I would have left you there longer before speaking with you as I am now. But that wasn't possible."

Hawk put his hands on his knees, his back straight and his head lifted as he looked out into the gardens and thought about what lay ahead. But it was what was hidden in his past that troubled him most, the memories that had been taken from him. He wanted those memo–ries back. He wanted to know the truth about himself

"How long before I go back again?" he asked.

"Soon. A few weeks will have passed in your world, but time has lit–tle meaning here. It will seem to you as if no time at all has passed."

A few weeks. Hawk thought of the Ghosts, wondered how they were managing without him. "How will I know what to do?"

"You will know.

"How will I find my way back here? Where are we, anyway?" "Nowhere you can find on a map.

But you will find the way nevertheless. Your heart will tell you where to go."

It sounded so absurd that Hawk almost laughed, but the old man's tone of voice did not suggest that he had any doubts in the matter. Hawk glanced at him but held his tongue.

"You have doubts?"

"Your faith in me is stronger than my own," Hawk answered.

The King of the Silver River shook his head. "It might seem so, but perhaps your faith in yourself is stronger than you think."

Hawk didn't care to argue the matter. "Can I see Tessa now?"

The old man rose, his arm extending. "Down that path a short dis–tance. She is sleeping. You might want to join her."

Hawk started away, then stopped and turned. "If I do this, whoever I bring is welcome?"

The old man nodded.

"The Knight of the Word, Logan Tom, will protect me?"

"To the death."

The words hung in the air, hard and certain. Hawk understood. Logan Tom would die first, but that might not be enough to save him. He hesitated a moment, then started away again. This time, he did not look back.

THE KING OF THE SILVER RIVER watched him go. The boy would find the girl less than a hundred yards away, so deeply asleep that he could not wake her, even though he would try. Eventually, weary him–self, he would lie down beside her and fall asleep. The dog who had chosen to be the boy's companion would be next to him when he woke, and the three would be back in their own world. Their journey would begin.

It would be a journey of more complicated and far–reaching conse–quences than the boy realized.

The King of the Silver River watched him until he was almost out of sight. There was much he had not told him, much he kept secret. To tell the boy everything would have placed too great a burden on him, and he was already carrying weight enough. There was an element of chance, of fate, to everything. It was no different here. But the boy would know this instinctively and without needing to hear the details.

The boy was beyond his line of sight now, and he turned away.

"You are as much my child as you are anyone's," he said quietly. "My last, best hope."

In the golden light of the gardens, it seemed possible to believe that this would be enough.