The Elves of Cintra by Terry Brooks Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry Brooks
eyes to shut the images away, to escape what was happening, 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 somehow 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 disappeared 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 understand 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 suddenly, 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 welter 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 without 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
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 somehow 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 disappeared 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 understand 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 suddenly, 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 welter 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 without 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