"Your guidance and counseling will be welcome, poco uno," she said to Ailie. "You and I, we will do what we can for these Elves. We will travel to where they live and then take them to find their Elfstone. But," she held up one finger, "when we are done, I will come back for these children and their protectors and take them to where they, too, will be safe. Agreed?"
"Once the Loden is found, the Lady says you are free to do whatever you wish," the tatterdemalion said. "But nothing will change who you are. You will still be a Knight of the Word."
Angel shook her head and brushed back her dark hair. "I don't want to be anything else, Ailie." Not since Johnny died. "What happens now?"
Ailie looked skyward, as if searching for something in the clouds and mist. "We leave. We go north."
Angel sighed. "Not until I tell someone what's happening. Wait here. I'll be right back."
SHE WENT TO find Helen Rice because she couldn't think of anyone else to talk to about what she intended. She was still struggling to accept that she had agreed to undertake a search for Elves–for Elves, dios mia! — and for a magic that would protect them from the world's destruction. But what choice did she have?
The world's misery was an unbearable weight, an accumulation of sorrows and horrors that would in a time fast approaching bury them all. If she could do something more than what she was doing to change things, she could hardly refuse the chance. Still, it didn't make things any easier that what she was being asked to do was almost impossible for her to understand.
Elves and Elfstones. Faerie creatures and their magic.
She found Helen standing apart from the children, who were eating a hasty breakfast before the caravan set out. Already the trucks were lined up for boarding, supplies stacked for loading. The hoods of the trucks were raised as mechanics installed fresh solar–charged batteries. Apparently, someone had been thinking ahead after all.
"Angel, where have you been?" her friend asked, turning to greet her.
Helen's face was dirt–smudged and her eyes tired. "Get something to eat while you can."
Angel shook her head. "I'm not going with you. I have something else I must do. It will take me far away from you and the children. You'll have to go on without me and protect yourselves as best you can until I come back. Can you do this?"
Helen stared at her for a moment, then nodded. "I can do anything I have to do." She paused. "Can you tell me what this is about?"
"It's something I have been given to do as a Knight of the Word. It will mean helping others who need it even more than you and the children. But I won't forget you. Take everyone north to the Columbia River and wait at the edge of the Cascade Mountains. Do you know the way?"
Helen nodded. "Others traveling with me know it better than I do. We will find our way."
"Be careful. The once–men will follow you north; they will try to trap you somewhere along the way. You must not underestimate them. If they find you on the Columbia, go farther north and seek shelter in the compounds there."
"But you will come for us?"
Angel took a deep breath and promised what she shouldn't have. "I will come for you."
Helen reached out for her and hugged her close. Her thin body was shaking, and her usually steady voice sounded strained and broken. "You have done so much for us. You are the backbone of our courage, and we can't afford to lose you. Please be careful."
Angel hugged her back. "Care for the children, mi amiga. Cuento contigo. I'm relying on you."
She kissed Helen Rice on the cheek and broke away when she felt the other woman start to cry.
SEVENTEEN
LOGAN TOM WAS almost all the way across the Great Plains and in sight of the dark wall of the Rocky Mountains when he encountered the Preacher. He had been driving west for almost two days, following the highway that the finger bones of Nest Freemark had set him upon more than a week earlier. He hadn't slept in two days. He hadn't even tried the first night, after fleeing the fiery ruins of the compound and its monsters. On the second night, terrifying dreams and sudden awakenings plagued him, and he was consumed by an unshakable sense that fate was overtaking him and nothing he did would turn it aside.
His surroundings did not comfort or reassure him. The plains were a dry and empty sweep of land that stretched away from horizon to horizon, a vast dusty carpet that looked frayed at the edges. He encountered no other human beings–not in the towns he occasionally turned into to explore for supplies, and not on the highway itself. Once or twice, he saw things moving in the distance, but they were too far away to identify. He felt as if he were the last living creature on earth and wondered from time to time if that might not be best. No humans would want to live on a world like this, he told himself.
So it was a surprise and something of a revelation when he stumbled upon the Preacher and his strange flock.
It was nearing dusk at the end of the second day, and he had been driving for more than ten hours. His muscles were cramped and sore, and he was looking for a safe place to spend the night. The land about him seemed empty, but you could never be sure and you never took chances. So when he spied the little town off to his left, he left the highway just past the collapsed interchange and drove through the hardpan fields until he reached its edge.
He stopped then and got out, peering among the ramshackle houses and sheds to the cluster of buildings that formed the town center. One street led in and out. Windblown pieces of paper and old leaves were piled against the walls, and broken branches and scraps of tar paper lay scattered about. A few of the roofs had collapsed in on the houses, and most of the window glass was gone. Derelict cars, trucks, and even tractors sat rusting away in yards and in the surrounding fields. A farm town, probably close to three hundred years old, its life ended perhaps twenty years ago, it sat waiting for someone to reclaim it. But no one ever would.
He was sizing up a grove of withered oak trees for a place to park the AV when the old man walked out of the shadows from between the buildings. He was tall and stooped with white hair and skin that was leathery and deeply lined. He must have been handsome once, and Logan supposed he still was–in that rough, weathered sort of way old men sometimes were. Even from twenty yards away and with the light failing, he could see the clear blue light of the other's eyes.
"Good evening to you, Brother," the old man greeted. He walked up and extended his hand.
Logan shook it. "Evening."
"Come a long way? You look tired."
"I've been driving since sunrise."
The old man nodded toward the freeway. "Hard work on these roads. See anyone on your way?"
"Just shadows and ghosts."
"That's most of what there is now. Might I inquire of your name? It lends a familiarity to conversation to be on a first–name basis." His smile was warm and disarming. Logan shrugged. "I'm Logan Tom."
"Brother Logan," the other acknowledged and released his hand. "You may call me Preacher. Everybody does. It defines both my profession and my identity.
My own name ceased to have relevance a long time ago–so long ago I can barely recall it. I'm simply Preacher now, a shepherd to my flock."
Logan glanced past him to the deserted town. "Your flock seems as if it might have scattered."
The Preacher smiled. "Well, as they say, looks are deceiving. My flock of fifty years ago, when I was a young minister starting out, is dead or gone, almost the whole of them, along with the church in which I gave my sermons and spoke of my faith. But when you undertake a ministry to those seeking guidance, you don't pick and choose your flock or your pulpit; you take what comes your way and minister where you can."