The Elves of Cintra by Terry Brooks Page B

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 himself 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 supposed 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 destruction. 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, improbable 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 leading 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