She walks the streets when she chooses, but never in a set pattern. She goes out both day and night, a soldier on patrol. Even the mutants keep their distance from her. They are not afraid of her; they are simply unwilling to put themselves in her path. The arrangement is simple; she leaves them alone and they leave her alone. A few, a reckless few, will test her limits from time to time. They will attack her people; they will pillage her stores. The results are always the same. She tracks them down and disposes of them.
Her life is full, but mostly pointless. She can never win the battle she is waging. There are too many of them, and only one of her. Still, it is all she knows and all she can think to do. So she continues.
Yet on this day, as she walks her streets-searching, watching, and waiting for the inevitable-she encounters someone she has never seen before. At first, she is not even sure what she is looking at. It appears to be a man, yet the edges are unclear and shimmer like something made of water disturbed. She does not look away, however; she continues to concentrate and, finally, the man takes on a definite shape.
Now she studies him closely. He stands in the shadows to one side between the buildings. He is big, but not threatening. She cannot explain why that is, but she feels it. She cannot make out his features, so she walks over to him to see what he will do. He does nothing. He stands where he is and waits for her.
"Angel of the streets," he greets her in a low, rumbling voice that comes from somewhere so deep down inside him that she cannot imagine how it climbs free. "Do you walk in shadows or in light this day?"
She smiles despite herself. "I always walk in light, amigo. Quien esta?"
He steps out of the shadows now, and she sees that he is Native American, his features blunt and strong, his skin copper, his hair jet black and braided.
He wears heavy boots and combat fatigues of a sort she has never seen, and the patches on his shoulders are of lightning bolts and crosses. One hand holds a long black staff carved with strange symbols from top to bottom.
His smile is warm. "I am called Two Bears, little Angel," he tells her.
"O'olish Amaneh, in the language of my people. I am Sinnissippi, but my people are all gone, dead now several hundred years. I am the last. So I try to make the most of my efforts."
She nods. "Is that what you are doing here?"
"In part. I arrived last night from other, less friendly places, searching for a place to hide. Those who hunt me are very persistent. They dislike the idea that there is only one of me. They would prefer that there be none."
"Los Angeles is not particularly friendly, amigo," she says, glancing around out of habit. "It may look it, but what lives here is only resting up for the next attack. There are Freaks of the worst sort. There are street gangs.
There are things I cannot even give names to. You might be better off in a smaller, quieter place."
"I might be," he agrees. "I will find out when I leave. But I need to speak with you first. I came to do that, as well."
She hides her surprise, wondering how he would even know of her. "As you wish. But we will not do so here. Are you hungry? Have you eaten today?"
He has not, and so they go to a place where she knows there is food to be salvaged, and they carry the packets to a small open square and sit on stone benches to eat while the sun, hot enough to melt iron, sinks slowly into the maze of buildings that lie between them and the ocean.
"Who hunts you?" she asks him after a few minutes of chewing in silence.
She regards him carefully. "Who would dare?"
He smiles at the compliment. "Many more than you would think. Mostly demons and the once-men in their service. Do you know of them?"
She does not, and so he tells her of the history of the Great Wars and of the source of the destruction that has changed life for all of them. He tells her of the Word and the Void and the battle they have waged since the beginning of time. He tells her of how life is a balance between good and evil, and how each is always attempting to tip the scales.
"Each side uses servants to aid its efforts. The Void uses demons, black soulless monsters that seek only to destroy. The Word uses its Knights, paladins sent to thwart the efforts of the demons. Once, they were mostly successful. But humans are an unpredictable, volatile species, and in the end they fell victim to their own excesses, fostered by the work of the Void's demons. They succumbed, and civilization succumbed with them."
She doesn't know if she believes him or not; certainly she thinks his story is as much fable as truth. But the way he tells it lends it the weight of truth, and she finds herself believing despite her reservations. His words provide an explanation she finds plausible for all the mad things that have happened to the world. She has always known that it is more than it seems, that the conflict between nations, between peoples, between beliefs, is augmented in a way she doesn't understand.
"I serve the Lady, who is the voice of the Word," he continues. "It is given to me to find a handful who will attempt to restore the balance once more.
For a long time, it wasn't possible; the madness and rage were too great to be overcome. But enough time has passed, and now there is a chance it can be done.
Are you interested in serving?"
She is caught off guard by his question, and she stares at him in surprise. "My place is here, with my people," she answers.
"Your people are no longer confined to a small part of a large city," he tells her. "Your people are the people of the world, near and far. If you would make a difference, you must look beyond your own neighborhood. A balance restored in one small place is not enough to change anything. In the end, it will fail and become a pan of the larger madness. It will be consumed."
She knows this is so. She has been feeling it for some time. She fights a losing battle because the larger world continues to encroach. But she is afraid to lose even this; it is all she has left.
"What is it you want me to do?" she asks finally.
The big man leans forward. "It is the Lady who seeks your help. She would have you become a Knight of the Word. She would have you enter into her service and give over your life to restoring the balance. She would have you do battle against the demons and their minions, against the evil they inflict. She would give you this."
He lifts up the black staff, which has been resting against the bench beside him. She has forgotten about it since she first saw him holding it. Now she looks at it closely, sees how deep and pervasive are the carvings on its surface, how they dominate the sheen of its polished wood. She has never seen anything like the staff. It attracts her in a way she thought nothing ever could again. When he holds it out to her, she takes it from him because she thinks that maybe it belongs to her.
'You are to keep it with you always. It is your sword and shield. It will protect you from the things that you hunt and that, in turn, hunt you. It is a talisman of powerful magic. Nothing can stand against it. But its power is finite; it is directly dependent on your own strength. Grow tired, and it will grow tired, too. Grow careless or lose heart, and you will be at risk even with the staff."
"What does it do?" she asks him.
"You will discover that when you use it. You will know instinctively."
She is still not decided about whether she will agree, but then he tells her of the slave camps, of the raids that have already begun on the compounds, and of the fate of humans who are taken captive, and she makes her choice. When he leaves her, she is holding the staff, her new life still only a faint glimmer on the horizon of her understanding, a mystery she will have to unravel one day at a time.
She watches him walk away from her until he is standing in the shadows between the buildings where he first appeared to her, a big, motionless presence. Then a noise catches her attention, and she glances toward the sound out of reflex.
When she turns back again, he is gone. Something in the way he has disappeared-the quickness of it, perhaps-makes it feel as if he was never really there.
IT WAS NEARING midnight when Delloreen reached the storage complex and began a slow search of the pillaged units. She had tracked the woman Knight of the Word all the way from Anaheim, from the hotel lobby where she'd nearly had her, from the ruins of the city to the countryside north, a slow and arduous hunt. It had been difficult to do this, but not impossible. Delloreen could track anything that gave off a scent. She was blessed with animal instincts and habits, with feral abilities that gave her an advantage over others. Demons were humans made over, but she had always been more animal than human.
So when she pulled herself clear of the hotel rubble and began her hunt, she used her nose to smell out her quarry's scent, to find it amid all the others, to taste it, memorize it, and then follow after it. It was easy enough, even mixed in as it was with all the other scents. Hers was a distinctive scent, a Knight of the Word's peculiar scent, recognizable by a demon with Delloreen's abilities, there for the discovering if you knew how to look. Delloreen tracked her all the way to the camp, to where she had met the humans fleeing Findo Gask and his army, and then lost the scent. But after circling about, she had found it again, a solitary trail that meandered off into the woods.
The woman Knight had met someone there, deep in the trees. She was able to tell that much, even though she was unable to tell much else. Whoever the Knight had met had left no scent, no tracks, and no readable traces-nothing that would provide an identity. In the end, Delloreen concluded that it was a Faerie creature and that something of importance had taken place, since it had drawn the woman Knight away from the children.
Delloreen had tracked her down the dirt road to the paved crossroad and the storage facility. The trail went into the facility and ended. There were machine smells everywhere, raw and rank and difficult to sort through. Her quarry's scent disappeared in those. The demon ran up and down the paved road like a wolf, sniffing the ground, searching for tracks. She circled the entire complex twice, hunting carefully. But she found no trace of the woman Knight.
She went back into the complex and began to prowl through the units. Down on all fours, she worked her way along each row, through the discarded contents, in and out of the units, across the grounds and back again. Now and then, she caught a trace of the woman Knight's scent, but not enough of it to determine where she had gone. Another hunter might have given up, but Delloreen was relentless. The harder the search, the more satisfying the death that would signal its end. She was driven by thoughts of how that death would play itself out, how the woman Knight of the Word would be brought down, how she would beg for mercy, how she would gasp out her life.
When she smiled, her pointed teeth gleamed and her muzzle showed red. She flexed her claws and ran them softly over her scaly body. So sweet it would be when it happened.
It took her almost an hour to reach the units in the back and to discover the one with the false wall. The Knight had been so confident-or perhaps so hasty-that she had not bothered to close it up again. Delloreen read the absence of the ATV the woman had taken from marks on the floor. The reason for the intensity of the machine smells was revealed; her quarry had ridden the ATV out of here. But the machine left a distinct smell, one as easily recognizable as the woman Knight's own scent. It would be easy enough to track it if she left now and traveled quickly. Easy enough if she could match the other's speed and exceed her stamina.
But she would need a vehicle, something that would convey her as swiftly and surely as the woman Knight was conveyed.
She looked at the huge Harley Crawler sitting back in the shadows. She checked the engine bay and found it empty, but she caught a whiff of her quarry's scent and tracked it to where she had hidden the power cells. She carried the cells back, slipped them in place, and fired up the Harley's big engine. It caught with a roar that shook her to her bones.
She smiled as the vibrations filled her.
It would do.
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR.
KIRISIN WAITED AN entire week for Arissen Belloruus to summon him. He remained patient, telling himself he must not act in haste or out of frustration, that research of the Elven histories and conferences with official advisers took time. It wasn't as if the King didn't care what happened to the Ellcrys and the Elven people; it was that he must be careful to do the right thing. Kirisin saw it more clearly than the King did, of course; from his perspective the decision to do what the Ellcrys had asked was not debatable. But he was only a boy, and he lacked the experience and wisdom of his elders.
He told himself all this, but even as he did so he was thinking that he was dealing with a family of duplicitous cowards.
It was a terrible thing to believe, but ever since he had come to the conclusion that both the King and Erisha had lied to him he had been unable to think anything else. Erisha's betrayal was worse, because she was a Chosen.
Being a Chosen bound them in ways that even blood could not, and no Chosen had betrayed another in living memory.
But Kirisin kept his anger in check and went about his business.
He worked in the gardens with the others, caring for the Ellcrys and the grounds in which she was rooted. He performed at the morning greetings and evening farewells. He smiled and joked with Biat and the others-although not with Erisha, who would barely look at him most of the time-trying his best to make it appear that nothing was amiss. Apparently, his efforts were successful.
No one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, or said another word about what had happened that first morning.
The tree did not speak again. Kirisin was certain she would, that her need, so palpable when she had spoken to him, would require it. He willed it to happen each sunrise when he joined the others to wish her good morning and each sunset when they gathered to say good night. He prayed for it to happen, for some small exchange to take place, a reminder of what had passed between them, even a warning or admonition. But nothing happened. The Ellcrys remained silent.
In the times he was free to do what he wanted, he wrote in his journal of his thoughts and concerns, putting down everything he was struggling with, even his thoughts of the King and his daughter. He tried to imagine the King's thinking, to put himself in Arissen Belloruus's frame of mind so that he could better understand. But it was a miserable failure, a process to find a justification for what he did not believe. All it did was further convince him that something was terribly wrong and needed righting.
He thought to speak of it to his parents more times than he could count, but he could not bring himself to do so. He knew that if he voiced his concerns to them, they would act on their feelings, just as he had, and take the matter directly to the King. That would invite a disaster for which Kirisin did not want to be responsible. His parents were already suspect after their efforts to move a colony of Elves to Paradise. The King would have no patience with an intrusion of this sort, particularly if he was hiding something. The best Kirisin could do for them in this situation was to leave them out of it.
He kept hoping Simralin would come home. He could tell his sister what had happened and know that she would offer a thoughtful response. That was her nature; she was not given to rash acts and emotional outbursts like the rest of his family. Simralin would think it all through; she would know what was needed.
But the days passed and Simralin did not come home, the King did not summon him, the Ellcrys did not speak to him, and his thoughts grew steadily darker and more distressed as he carried out his Chosen duties in mechanical fashion and waited futilely for something to happen.
"You seem like your head is somewhere else lately/' Biat told him at one point, squatting down beside him as he worked on the flower beds. "Is that business with the Ellcrys still bothering you?"
Overhead, the sun was high in the sky, a blazing orb burning down on the Cintra. There had been no rain in weeks. Everything was drying up, Kirisin thought, including his secret hopes.
"I've just been wondering how Simralin is," he replied.
"Better than most," Biat smirked. "She's the Tracker all the other Trackers wish they could be. Smart, beautiful, talented-everything you're not.
Too bad for you."
Too bad indeed, thought Kirisin as his friend wandered away.
For a long time, he did not visit the tree alone at night as he had for so long. Part of him wanted to, but part of him was afraid to face her. He didn't know which prospect was worse-that she might not speak to him ever again or that she might, and no one would be there to see it or believe that it had happened.
Finally, he could stand it no longer. Six nights into his fruitless vigil, when he was sure the others were asleep, he went to visit her. It was a moonlit night, and he found his way without difficulty and stood before her as a supplicant might before a shrine. Her silvery bark shimmered brightly, and the reflection of the moonlight brought out the crimson color of her leaves in startling relief. He stared at her reverentially, trying to think what more he could do. He knew he had to do something. He knew he couldn't wait any longer on the King or anyone else.
He walked up to her finally and placed the tips of his fingers on her smooth trunk. Speak to me, he thought. Tell me what to do.
But the Ellcrys did not respond, even though he waited a long time, speaking softly, telling her his thoughts, trying to break through the wall of her silence. If she heard what he was saying, if she even knew he was there, she gave no sign of it. When he had exhausted himself and his efforts had yielded him nothing, he gave it up and went off to sleep.
The following day was hot and dry, and as he worked in the gardens with the others, Kirisin felt the last of his patience slip away. It had been a week now since he had gone to Arissen Belloruus, and despite his resolve not to act in haste or frustration, he did. It was a precipitous act triggered by Erisha.
After days of ignoring him, he caught her looking at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention. There was nothing overtly offensive about the act, nothing that should have set him off, but that was the effect it had. He climbed to his feet, sweaty and tired and mad enough to eat the dirt he was digging up, and stalked over to where she was standing next to Raya, ostensibly instructing the other girl on the pruning of callisto vines. Erisha saw him coming, read what was mirrored on his face, and tried to move away. But he would have none of it. He went after her, caught up to her, and blocked her way.
"What's the matter, Erisha?" he snapped, hands on hips, face flushed and taut. "Is your conscience bothering you, cousin? Is that why you are sneaking looks at me?"
She faced him down for a moment, then brushed quickly at her chestnut hair and turned away. "Grow up, Kirisin."
He was back in front of her immediately, blocking her path. "How about this? I'll grow up when you stop lying. That's a reasonable trade, isn't it?
Let's start right now. You tell me the truth about your father, and I'll start acting like an adult."
"I don't know what you are talking about." She tried again to move past him, and again he stopped her. "Get out of my way, Kirisin. If you keep this up, I'll have you disciplined."
"Go ahead!" He shouted the words and threw up his hands, ignoring the others, who were beginning to turn toward them to see what was happening. "Do it now! Do it in front of the others! Let's tell them all about it and see what they think!"
She reached for his hands and pulled them down, her face inches from his own. "You stop this right now!" Cold rage etched her words in ice. "What do you think you are doing? Maybe you better go home for the rest of the day and see if you don't have a fever!"
"Maybe you better stop poisoning your mind with your own lies and try healing yourself with the truth!"
He shoved his face so close that their noses were almost touching. His voice dropped to a whisper. "This is what I know. What I know, Erisha! Not what I imagined or made up out of thin air, but what I know! The Ellcrys spoke to me a week ago today. She told me that she is in danger. She told me that that something bad is going to happen. She told me that she would have to be placed in an Elfstone called a Loden, which will be found by using three other Elfstones called seeking-Stones. She told me that if this doesn't happen she won't survive what is coming and neither will the Elves."
His hands seized her wrists, and he held her fast. "You knew this and you told your father about it. You did it secretly, but I found out because when I went to your father to tell him of the tree speaking to me, I did not mention the seeking-Stones. But your father did. He knew all about the three finding the one. He knew! That couldn't have happened if you hadn't told him before I did.
Admit it!"
He waited, eyes locked on hers. "All right," she whispered back finally.
"I told him. I waited until you left the gardens, and then I sneaked away and told him. I didn't want him to hear it from you; I am the leader of the Chosen.
It was necessary that it come from me. Now will you let me go?"
Kirisin stared at her in silence. She was still lying. He was so angry now that he thought he might strike her. Instead, he said, "I want you to take a walk with me, Erisha. Away from the others, where they can't hear what we say."
She shook her head quickly. "Not when you're like this."
He released her wrists, stepped back, and folded his arms. "All I want is for you to listen to me. But if you want to continue this conversation here, then let's bring the others over, and that way they won't have to work so hard at eavesdropping."
Erisha shot a quick glance at the other Chosen and saw all of them watching intently, tools lowered, eyes expectant. She hesitated, and then nodded her agreement.
"Finish your work," she called over to them. "Kirisin and I have something we have to discuss. I'll be right back."
She took his arm at the elbow and practically dragged him from the clearing and into the woods beyond, taking a narrow, little-used path that led to the bluffs overlooking the valleys west. He let himself be led, content to wait until they were well away from the others before he had it out with her.
Whatever else happened this day, he was going to get to the truth of things. If she refused to give it to him willingly, he would pry it out of her.
When they were well into the trees, she wheeled back angrily and poked him in the chest. "What happens between my father and me isn't any business of yours, cousin." She emphasized the word. "You have no right to question me about him."