by Terry Brooks
The shade shifted slightly, black robes billowing. Behind and safely away, lesser ghosts floated on the air, gone strangely silent, as if listening to his words.
–You will need help. Help of a sort that cannot be easily obtained. Your order is too small for what will be required. And it is too inexperienced. Even with the aid and protection of the Druid Guard, you will need others. Trackers and survivalists and hunters—men and women who can live off the land—you will need those. You will need wielders of magic with powers even stronger than those of your Druids. Perhaps even stronger than your own. Find these among the Races and persuade them to your cause. And heed me. You must find an Ohmsford to go with you. The presence of an Ohmsford is crucial. The whisper of that truth is everywhere about me and so strong that it cannot be ignored. Do not be deterred by those who question your choices. Do not be dissuaded by those who dismiss your efforts and denigrate your character–
It was so much for a shade to say, all at one time, that she stood silent in the aftermath, wondering that he should give her so much of himself. She had changed her mind about him. He had not abandoned her as one doomed to failure. He had embraced her cause and her spirit, and he was giving her what he could to help. But he was fearful for her.
“Thank you,” she said to him. “Thank you for everything.”
–You will not thank me later. Later, you will see me differently. But that is as it must be and not within my control. So heed me one last time. If you choose to undertake this quest, many of those who go with you will die. Many will be lost. This, too, I hear in the wind’s whisper and feel in the air’s currents. This quest will be hard, and its toll on lives and souls will be high. No one will come back the same. No one will emerge unscathed. Perhaps, in the end, no one will think it was worth it. Not even you–
“No,” she said, “I will never think that.”
–You will think that and much worse. You will curse me. You will hate what has happened. And you will trace its beginnings to this moment–
He seemed so certain, yet he did not know the particulars of anything he was predicting and was giving voice to words he heard whispered in the air. She could not decide how much of what he was saying was substantive and how much guesswork.
“I hope you are wrong,” she said finally.
–I am Allanon–
He said it as if it were an answer to everything, as if he were possessed of abilities and knowledge denied to others, herself included. She almost replied that who he was did not necessarily dictate what he knew. But she could not quite bring herself to do so.
–We are finished–
His shade was already backing away over the surface of the water, receding toward its distant center, black and forbidding in the light of the stars and a quarter moon just risen to the east. The voices of the dead had begun to wail anew, the white moths of their spirits to circle the giant form of the Druid shade, and the waters to hiss and boil with fresh intensity.
–You will not see me again in this life, Ard Rhys. May you not see me too soon in the next–
The words were a cold spike in her heart, but she held her ground as the winds rose to a howl and whipped about her violently, stirring spray and grit in equal measure from the lake and the surrounding rocks. She ducked her head against their sting, flinching in spite of herself, eyes closed.
When she opened them again, only seconds later, the shades were gone, the waters were quieting, and the voices had gone still.
She was alone, and she was frightened.
8
The following morning Aphenglow woke before sunrise and slipped out of her sleeping chamber on cat’s paws, pondering anew Woostra’s discovery that Aleia Omarosian was one of the Chosen. She went down the empty, silent corridors to the Druid’s Keep and took a seat just outside Woostra’s offices in the Druid Library. She was waiting for him to appear at the start of his workday, intending to question him further about what that odd listing meant, when a shadow passed across her face and caused her to look up.
The Ard Rhys stood before her, clothes rumpled and dusty, graying hair disheveled, face drawn and haggard, brow wrinkled.
She stood at once. “I didn’t know you were back, Mistress.”
Khyber Elessedil nodded. “I just returned. I’ve spoken to no one yet. I came to find Woostra, but here you are, instead. Tell me. Has he found anything in my absence? Have you?”
Aphenglow considered equivocating, but decided it was unwise to do so with the Ard Rhys. “Woostra did. I promised to say nothing until he reported his finding to you, but I will tell you anyway. The Druid records say that Aleia Omarosian was a Chosen.”
Khyber Elessedil nodded calmly and took a seat beside her. “Is there anything else recorded? Anything regarding the circumstances of her choosing or of her service?”
Aphenglow shook her head. “No, nothing.” She paused, considering the other’s reaction. “You knew this already, didn’t you? You’re not surprised at all.”
“I knew. The spirits of the dead told me. But what does it mean, Aphen? How could she be a Chosen in service to the Ellcrys and make no mention of it in her writings?”
“I’ve thought of that. I think there is only one explanation. She did not become a Chosen until after she stopped making entries in her diary. Until after the Elfstones were stolen by the Darkling boy. The time of her choosing didn’t happen until later.” Aphen shrugged. “Nothing else makes sense.”
“Do you think it was because of what happened with the Darkling boy and his theft of the Elfstones?” the Ard Rhys asked.
“I think so, although I don’t understand the connection. But I would like to try to find out. Mistress, I want to go back to Arborlon and look again through the Chosen histories. I wasn’t searching for anything about the Chosen before, only for mentions of Elven magic. The Chosen keep records that are different from the Elven histories. There might be something there that would help us understand.”
The Ard Rhys shook her head. “I don’t like sending you back just now. Not after two attempts have been made on your life already. It might be better to send Pleysia, instead.”
Aphenglow tried to conceal her alarm. This was her discovery, and she did not want to turn it over to someone else, especially Pleysia. “I can ask my uncle to assign an Elven Hunter to keep watch over me, if you wish. But I should do this, Mistress. I have the King’s permission already and have been given access to the records. Pleysia would have to start all over, and there is nothing to say that my grandfather would be favorably disposed toward anyone who is not a member of the royal family.”
The two women faced each other in silence for a moment, each knowing that the other understood perfectly the implications not only of what had just been said, but of what hadn’t, as well.
“I am not happy with the idea,” Khyber Elessedil said at last, “though I recognize the need for it. But you will secure protection, and you will make certain whoever you choose can protect you adequately. Agreed?”
Aphenglow nodded quickly. “I promise. I won’t stay any longer than it takes to complete my search of the Chosen histories. But they suffer from the same deficiencies as the others. There are gaps and omissions throughout, particularly from the early years when record keeping was less meticulous. Some of what was known then was recovered from personal journals and stories passed down from the families who lived in those times. But not all.”
“Do what you can.” The Ard Rhys took Aphenglow’s hands in her own. “I wish I had been awake and able to spend more time with you, Aphen,” she said suddenly. “You have great potential, great promise. You are skilled, and your mind is sharp. But I am troubled by the weight you bear in your heart. Choosing to come here, to leave your people and your city to serve us, left you little better than an exile in the eyes of many. Worse than that, in the eyes of a few. I know this causes you great pain.”
Aphenglow blushed at the unexpected praise. “It does. But I have made my choice and learned t
o live with it. I would not take it back now.”
“Even so, it is a burden, and it might never be lifted from your shoulders. No one should have to bear such a stigma, especially when it is so undeserved. I worry for you, Aphen.”
Aphenglow stared in surprise, unable to respond to such deep concern with anything remotely appropriate. Should she thank the Ard Rhys for her solicitude? Should she declare it unnecessary?
Khyber Elessedil saved her the trouble by releasing her hands and standing. “Woostra comes. I will hear his report now and pretend that I have heard nothing of it before.” She smiled. “I think I can do that well enough. So say nothing.”
Aphen rose with her, turning to watch the scribe’s approach, a stiff-legged shuffle that suggested not all of his parts were functioning. Woostra gave them a nod.
“Go find the others,” the Ard Rhys said quickly to Aphen. “Tell them to gather in the main Council chamber at midday. We will discuss this further at that time.”
Then Woostra was next to her and she was guiding him by the elbow into his offices, closing the doors behind them. Aphenglow stood looking after them for a moment longer, almost expecting the Ard Rhys to reappear. But she didn’t, and the young woman finally turned away.
Midday brought a change in the weather, which at sunrise had seemed bright and clear but had now turned gray and chilly. The winds had picked up, clouds scudded across the sky in waves, and it was clear that a storm was on the way. The Druids were seated around the huge table that dominated the main Council chamber. Khyber Elessedil had just finished her report on meeting with the Shade of Allanon, confirming what Woostra had discovered in his search about Aleia Omarosian’s ties to the Chosen, and in the silence that ensued she was now looking from face to face. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking for. Maybe some hint of inner strength and determination to see through what must inevitably happen next. Maybe some sense of how strong each could be when their metal was placed in the fire. She didn’t know, but she searched anyway.
“What are we to do?” Carrick asked finally, his lean figure draped in his chair like a straw man’s.
It was the question, of course. But she had already thought it through after leaving Aphenglow. She had returned to her chambers, bathed and dressed in clean clothes, had Woostra bring her food and drink, and then sat by her window and considered her options. It wasn’t so much what she should do as what she should do first. They needed to undertake a search for the Elfstones, but before doing so they needed to be better prepared. She had listened carefully to Allanon’s shade. She might have dismissed such advice coming from anyone else, but not from him. Even dead, he knew people and their vicissitudes better than most. That he could sense things hidden from others came as no surprise to anyone who had studied his life, and she had studied it thoroughly.
In particular, if he said they needed help from others more talented and better trained in areas where they were not, she knew to pay attention to his advice.
“If we are to find the Elfstones, we will need the help of others,” she said when the silence following Carrick’s question had lengthened sufficiently. “Allanon’s shade made it clear that we could not do this alone. No reason was given, nor was any argument encouraged. I felt strongly that the matter was not open to discussion or equivocation. So we will do as we have been advised. We will seek out others who will accompany us on our search.”
Pleysia shook her head. “I don’t like involving other people. People who are not Druids.”
“Others have always been there to aid us.” Khyber met her dark gaze and held it. “Any number of times. Have you forgotten your history?”
“Members of the Ohmsford family,” Seersha interjected, “helped Allanon three times, Walker Boh twice, and Grianne Ohmsford twice. Other families have aided us, too. The Leahs. The Elessedils, as well.”
“But it was the living who made that decision, not the dead.” Pleysia would not back down. “And in each case the decision was made because those who went possessed magic that was necessary to the success of the quests undertaken. This isn’t the same.”
“You are splitting hairs, Pleysia,” Bombax observed quietly.
“Am I? Then perhaps they need splitting.”
“And perhaps you need to consider your words more carefully before you speak them.”
Pleysia was on her feet, furious. “Why don’t you consider what it meant to rely on Allanon’s word in those earlier times? He was duplicitous and manipulative in life; why would he be any different in death? Some essential part of any truth he knew was always hidden from those who relied on his words! Why do you think it would be any different here?”
She wheeled on Khyber. “You might trust this shade. You might believe the advice it gives you is valuable and should be heeded. But I suggest you forget more of history than I do. How many of us will be sacrificed in this effort because of that?”
Khyber Elessedil shook her head slowly. “None, I hope. Some of what you say is right. But that doesn’t mean everything I was told is a lie or duplicitous. If that were so, I would sense it. My mind is made up on this, Pleysia. I have accepted Allanon’s warning as valid. I accept that we must heed it. We must seek help to complete this quest. Starting right away.”
She paused, making sure they were done arguing the point. Pleysia shrugged and looked away. “Allanon’s shade warned me that there must be at least one Ohmsford who comes with us,” Khyber continued. “It will be my responsibility to find that one. An Ohmsford has been involved with the Druids on every quest since the return of the Warlock Lord. Grianne Ohmsford was Ard Rhys before me. The history is there, and I don’t intend to ignore it.”
“Perhaps the history you rely on is not applicable to this situation,” Pleysia muttered. “Perhaps we should consider another approach.”
“Do you have one in mind?” Bombax pressed. “Because if not, perhaps we should let the Ard Rhys finish.”
Pleysia glared at him but stayed silent. Khyber gave her a moment, waiting to see if she wanted to pursue her argument, and then she continued.
“I think we need a Seer. I think we need a skilled Tracker and a warrior stronger in arms and more experienced in fighting skills than any of us—perhaps even than Garroneck or his Trolls. We need all of these before we even think about setting out. I would like each of you to help in securing their services. Men or women, either will do. But we need balance in our expedition, a cross section of skills and abilities.”
There was an extended silence. “I will go to Varfleet,” Bombax declared. “Better Callahorn than a return to the Federation cities. Men and women possessing such skills as those you describe, Mistress, can be found in the Borderlands.”
“I will go home to the Dwarves,” Seersha added quickly.
“Aphenglow returns to the Elves to search further through the Elven writings in case there is something more on Aleia Omarosian’s time with the Chosen. Carrick, will you travel down into the Federation and look there?”
“Better you send me than Carrick,” Pleysia interrupted suddenly. “He is not skilled enough to avoid being identified, Southlander or no. I am more familiar with travel in the Federation than he is.”
Khyber was surprised. “I gathered from your disagreement with my intentions you would prefer to stay here.”
Pleysia shrugged, her smooth features wrinkling. “I might not agree with your decision to include others in our efforts to find the Elfstones, but that doesn’t mean I don’t intend to take part in the search. I don’t trust Allanon, but I do support you. I am disagreeing, Mistress, not withdrawing.”
She said it calmly, without rancor or disgruntlement. Khyber was impressed. “Your point is taken. I will send you both. Carrick can go into the Eastland with Seersha. Where will you go, Pleysia?”
“Not where anyone else is going. Not to the Elves especially. I leave that to Aphen. Somewhere else. But I would prefer to keep it to myself for now. Will you trust me?”
Khy
ber nodded. With Pleysia, you never knew what to expect anyway. “Of course I will. Do what you think is necessary.”
She turned back to the others. “We will leave in the morning, all of us. Take skimmers and go alone. Avoid being noticed. There may be some who would attempt to interfere if they learned what we are doing. One man for certain. If Drustan Chazhul learns what we are about, he will almost certainly act on it.”
“What can he do?” Carrick was dismissive. “Send a fleet of ships to intercept us? Try to take over the search himself? He is only one man, even if he is an unpleasant one.”
“A very dangerous man,” Bombax said at once. “I should know. I’ve spent enough time around him over the past year, watching him manipulate and deceive everyone from Ministers to his mother. What he will do if he finds out about this is hard to imagine. But I wouldn’t be too quick to assume that anything is beyond him.”
“We’ll take no chances,” Khyber agreed. “While you are looking, you will not discuss the specifics of what we are about. This is an expedition that requires men and women who possess certain skills. The pay will be high and the work dangerous. That is all anyone needs to know. The rest can be revealed later. There is to be no mention of magic.
“And,” she added, drawing out the word, “there will be no communication among us until we are returned to Paranor. Attempts at communication are too dangerous. The danger of giving something away is too great. We will allow one week for this effort. Then we will return. Remember. One week only.”
Heads nodded and a chorus of mumbled agreement was voiced. Khyber asked each in turn, wanting a solid commitment. No one, not even Pleysia, spoke a word of objection.
Moments later, when they had adjourned the meeting and were filing out the door, Khyber felt a hand touch her arm lightly.
“Mistress.” Aphenglow was standing very close, clearly not wanting any of the others to hear. “Can I speak to you in private?”
