The Elves of Cintra by Terry Brooks

down. He didn’t expect any pursuit, but he had learned never to take anything for granted, even the reliability of the Lightning’s warning systems. With the uneven breathing of the Weatherman drifting out of the rear of the vehicle, he stared out into the darkness and fell into a light doze.
    He was drifting somewhere between dreams and reality when the Lady came to him.
     

     
    H E SENSES HER PRESENCE before he hears her voice, and it is enough to cause him to rise and move out onto the grassy knoll on which the Lightning S-150 AV sits. He sleeps poorly this night, his mind restless, his thoughts dark and rife with foreboding. Memories of missed chances haunt him, come like ghosts to plague his rest. He dozes for a few minutes here and there, but he fights a losing battle with his personal demons; they give him no peace. Mostly he tries to pretend that he is equal to their challenge and to the wounding accusations they whisper.
    “Logan Tom,” she says, speaking his name.
    I am here, he wishes to answer, but his throat tightens and he cannot give voice to the words.
    He crosses through grasses grown long and shaggy, breathing in the cool night air and the smell of damp bark and dried leaves. A few of the Ghosts snore, Bear more loudly than the others, wrapped in their blankets and hunched close together for warmth. He glances back to where the boy who killed Squirrel hunkers down inside the Lightning, awake now, though still chained and shackled. The boy does not look in his direction. It doesn’t matter, of course. Even if he turned, he would not see her. She is never seen unless she wishes it. This night, he believes, she does not.
    He crosses the grasses in the direction of her voice, not yet seeing her, but knowing she is there. His staff reclines against the seat inside the Lightning, next to where he sleeps. He never goes anywhere without it, but on this night he has given it no thought; her voice is that compelling. Remembering his oath to keep it with him always, he feels a twinge of regret at his failing. But there is nothing to fear. When she calls to him, he knows he will be safe in coming.
    “I am here,” she says.
    She is standing right in front of him, an ephemeral presence, an exquisite radiance. Her gown flows from her like a thin sheet of water down a bridal falls, gathering in a pool that stirs restlessly beneath her feet, even though she herself does not move. She hovers in the air, slightly elevated from the grasses through which she comes, ghostly white save for the dark pools of her eyes. The long sweep of her hair falls beyond shoulder length and ripples like silk tossed in the wind.
    It is the first time she has appeared to him since sending him to Hopewell and his meeting with Two Bears. As always, he is stunned by the simple fact of her, and without thinking he drops to his knees.
    “Brave Knight,” she whispers, “you have done well.”
    He cannot imagine why she thinks so given the mess he has made of things. It seems to him he has failed on every front. But her praise gives him fresh hope that somehow he has misjudged the success of his efforts.
    Again he tries to speak, and this time he manages to do so, although his words are weak and halting. “If you think so—”
    “Why would you doubt me, Logan Tom?” she asks, cutting short the rest of his protestation. “I would not say it if it were not so. You have done well at the task you were given. You have found the child of wild magic, you have given him the bones of his mother, and you have helped him discover the truth about himself.”
    Her voice soothes his doubts and eases his discomfort. It makes him want to believe.
    “The boy?” he whispers through the sudden dryness in his throat. “Is he safe?”
    She moves slightly to one side, gliding on the air as if sliding on ice. The city glows faintly behind her, its fires still burning in the night. He can see bits and pieces of their hazy light through the pale shimmer of