The Dark Legacy of Shannara Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Terry Brooks

  –You will give it in the same way that I once did, a long time ago—when I was a girl no older than you are now. When I was one of the Chosen. You will carry my seed to the Bloodfire and immerse it and then return to me, and through you I will be renewed and the Forbidding will hold–

  “I will … carry …”

  That was as much as she could manage to repeat before the enormity of what the Ellcrys was saying tightened her throat in such an iron grip of fear that she choked on the rest. She saw it now. She saw what she was being asked to do.

  –You are my Chosen one. You are …–

  Instantly Arlingfant was up and running, her dark hair flying out behind her in a tangle. She had broken away from the touch of the Ellcrys, from the voice in her head, from the realization of what was being asked of her and how her life would be altered forever. She felt cold and hot all at once.

  She knew the story. All of the Chosen had known since the time of Amberle Elessedil, who was the last to be called. The tree was said to live forever, and some believed it was so. But the truth was a different matter. The tree had a finite life—centuries long, yes, but finite. When its time was up, the tree always selected one among the Chosen to take from it a seedling, to carry that seedling to the Bloodfire, to immerse it in the flames, and then return to become …

  No, I cannot do this! It is too much to ask! I will lose everything. I will have to give up my life!

  … to become the next Ellcrys, reborn into the world at the death of the old, and linked forever in an endless line of talismans that would keep the Forbidding intact and the demons imprisoned.

  I cannot do this! I am only a girl and nothing special. I was not meant to bear this burden!

  She exploded past Freershan and a couple of the other Chosen coming into the gardens, not even slowing to acknowledge them but racing for the concealment of the trees and the waning darkness, anxious to hide and not emerge again for weeks or months or however long it took for this impossibility to vanish. She ran for her cottage and the comfort of home, trying to regain something that was already lost. She refused to acknowledge it, but she knew it anyway in her heart.

  Then, abruptly, she remembered Aphenglow. She needed her sister—the one person who had always been able to make things right.

  But Aphenglow was leaving for the deep Westland, off on her expedition with Cymrian to find the other Druids and to tell them what had become of abandoned Paranor, following the Federation attack, and of poor Bombax.

  Had she already departed?

  Changing directions in midstride, Arling turned toward the airfield, fighting down the panic surging through her, her face streaked with tears, her breathing ragged. Don’t let this be! Don’t make it so! She darted through the trees—a slight, almost ephemeral figure in the growing light of dawn—taking paths and byways that shaved seconds off the time required to reach her sister.

  Aphen! Please be there, please!

  Then she burst onto the grassy flats where the airships were anchored, their dark hulls glistening with early-morning dew—great tethered birds hovering in the windless morning light, their sleek curved shadows cast earthward. She gasped in relief as she caught sight of Wend-A-Way, her mooring lines still fastened in place.

  “Aphen!” she screamed, closing the distance as swiftly as she could, desperation providing her with fresh strength.

  Then her sister was running to meet her, flying across the open fields beneath the canopy of airship hulls, tall and strong and safe. Arling threw herself against Aphen, crying out her name, her face buried in Aphen’s shoulder.

  “She’s dying, Aphen, she’s dying, and she wants me to take her place and I can’t do it, Aphen, I can’t!”

  Arling sank to the grass, pulling Aphen down with her. Aphen held her sister close, soothing her. Hushing her, saying it was all right, that she was safe.

  Arling drew back, her face stricken. “She touched me on the shoulder with her branches and spoke to me. She said she had need of me. She said …”

  It all poured out of her, a jumble of words riven with emotions that she could barely control, all of it released in a torrent of need and despair.

  “Arling, stop now,” her sister said at last, taking her firmly by the shoulders and turning her so that they faced each other again. “I understand. But we don’t know enough yet to be certain of anything. There are Chosen records of the history of the Ellcrys and those who have served her. We should look at those, read what has been written of their history.”

  Arling shook her head in denial. “What difference will that make? I know what she expects of me. I heard her speak the words.”

  “And then you fled, right in the middle of her explanation.” Aphenglow pulled her close, hugging her anew. “You need to go back to her. You need to hear the rest. But before you do that, we’ll read the records of the Chosen. We may find something of value that will turn things around. Stop crying. I am here with you. I won’t leave you to face this alone.”

  Cymrian appeared, rushing up. “What’s happened? I didn’t even realize Arling was here.” He knelt beside them, his eyes finding Arling’s. “What’s wrong? Tell me what it is.”

  But it was Aphen who repeated the story, keeping alive the possibility of more than one interpretation of the Ellcrys’s words. Cymrian listened without interrupting, his eyes never leaving Arling.

  Then he reached out and took her from Aphen and held her against him. “Do not fear, Arling,” he whispered. “I will be your protector now. I will stand with you as I have with Aphen, and I will give up my life before I let anything hurt you.”

  Arling shook her head. “But you were leaving to find the Ard Rhys. Both of you. You can’t stay because of me. Finding the Druids and telling them of Paranor’s fate—”

  “—can wait,” Aphen finished. “What matters now is discovering what is needed to help you, and what can be done about the Ellcrys. If she is truly dying, then we face a far more important task than seeking the missing Elfstones.”

  Cymrian nodded, his features somber. “If the Ellcrys fails, it doesn’t matter whether or not we find them.”

  Arling looked from one to the other. She had ceased crying, and her wilder emotions had quieted. She felt better having reached her sister and Cymrian. Maybe Aphen was right and things would turn out differently than she had feared when she fled the Ellcrys. She experienced a momentary shame for having acted so foolishly, for responding in such a childish way.

  “Thank you both,” she said to them.

  “We will face this together,” Aphen assured her. “Starting right now.”

  2

  Aphenglow Elessedil was aching.

  She kept it hidden inside, not allowing even the smallest hint of what she was feeling to escape, but that didn’t make it go away. She was going to lose her sister to a twist of fate she could not in all likelihood change. For reasons she could only pretend to understand, the dying Ellcrys had chosen Arling—out of more than a dozen who served her—to take her place.

  She hadn’t stopped to question that this might not be true. She didn’t take time to go into the details to be certain of their accuracy. All she knew was that Arling felt as if her heart had been ripped to pieces and would never heal. She could see the terror and despair reflected in her sister’s eyes; she could hear it in her voice as she gasped out her story.

  Casting every other consideration aside, almost without thinking about it, she responded in an old and familiar fashion, bringing order to the chaos of the moment. Making clear that there was always a way to work things out. Suggesting a plan to start things moving. Staying calm and steady, containing the screams of rage and frustration she wanted to give vent to. She comforted her sister and told her what she needed to hear.

  That she was there for her and would not leave.

  That she would help her find a way through this darkness.

  That she would comfort and protect her against any harm.

  It was what Arlingfa
nt needed to know, what she could depend upon Aphen to provide. Reason and discussion and hard decisions could wait until another time. For now all that mattered was helping Arling regain her balance so that she would not be mired in a fear so paralyzing, she could do nothing.

  Together they departed the airfield, heading toward the cottage that housed the records and, from time to time, a handful of the Chosen themselves who had moved to Arborlon for the duration of their service. Aphen kept her arm around her sister as they walked, telling her that everything would be all right, that once they had explored the Chosen history and had examined accounts of the actual rebirth, they would better understand what needed doing. She spoke softly and with as much reassurance as she could muster—all the while feeling herself dying inside.

  She had already lost Bombax. She had watched the rest of her order fly off in search of a myth and not return. Her mother had abandoned her years ago. All she had left was Arling, and now she might lose her sister, as well.

  She could not bear it. And yet she knew she must.

  Cymrian walked closely behind them. “We must tell no one of this,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning the woods as though word might already have leaked out.

  Aphen glanced back. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you are already being hunted by someone who doesn’t like what you are doing. Three times now they have attacked you. I think it would be wise to assume they might move against Arling if they got even a whiff of what she was told by the Ellcrys.”

  Aphen gave him a look.

  “It’s about perception, not reality. We need to keep this to ourselves until we know more.” He shrugged. “And if we need to tell someone then, we’ll think carefully about who it might be.”

  They passed down pathways that skirted the city proper, avoiding the main roadways, the palace, the Gardens of Life, everything that might bring them into contact with anyone who would want to stop them and talk. They used the dawn as a shield, keeping to the shadowy, less traveled byways until they had reached the cottage at the edge of the gardens where the Chosen records were housed.

  There was no one inside when they entered. The Chosen were performing the ritual dawn greeting, a welcoming of the Ellcrys to the new day. They would be missing Arling, but several had already seen her fleeing, and they would not come looking for her until their duties as Chosen were fulfilled. The sisters and Cymrian had at least several hours to complete their search.

  Aphen had never examined the Chosen records. These were unofficial writings that belonged solely to the order and consisted of everything from personal diaries to catalogs and lists of those who had served. Even Arling, who had never had reason to consult them, wasn’t certain what they contained. But she knew where they were kept and how to open their keyless locks, and she went to them immediately upon entering the cottage and brought them out for her sister and Cymrian to examine with her.

  Together they sat down at the communal dining table and began to read through the papers, beginning by searching for references to Amberle Elessedil, the last Chosen to become an Ellcrys. Most of the serious record keeping had begun with her transformation, hundreds of years ago. If there was anything to be found, it would most likely be found there.

  As she perused the records, Aphenglow was consumed by a fresh wave of despair. Having come to terms with losing both Bombax and Paranor—and needing to seek out the rest of the Druids to let them know of it—she was now sidetracked by the possibility of another, even more terrible loss. She felt pulled two ways at once, and the combination generated an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. Dealing with one only made her more certain she should be dealing with the other, and she felt as if the fabric of the world had been pulled apart beneath her and she had been left hanging in midair, unable to move and waiting to fall.

  She forced herself to read the diaries—still more diaries!—in their entirety, hating every minute she was giving up to do this. She was searching, but what was she searching for? What was it she expected to discover that would change anything? Something more about Aleia Omarosian, whom she had once intended to seek out in these pages? How would that help? It all seemed so futile.

  “Here,” Cymrian said suddenly. “Read this.”

  She had no idea how much time had passed. But when he handed her the logbook he had been reading, she took it and began to read aloud.

  After resuming her role as a Chosen in service to the Ellcrys and thereafter accepting her mission to carry the seed of the tree to the Bloodfire, Amberle Elessedil left Arborlon in the company of the Valeman Wil Ohmsford and a contingent of Elven Hunters under the command of Captain of the Home Guard Crispin Islanbor. Traveling south toward the Wilderun, they were tracked and set upon by a demon that had broken free of the Forbidding, and all were killed but the Chosen and the Valeman.

  Within the Wilderun, the Chosen immersed the seed of the Ellcrys in the Bloodfire as she had been commanded to do by the Ellcrys, and thereby quickened the process of transformation. The demon found them engaged in the process, but was killed by the Valeman. On returning to Arborlon, the Chosen found the city besieged by demon hordes, but completed the transformation and restored the wall of the Forbidding in time to save the city and its Elves.

  Written and recorded in the days immediately following the death of the Elven King Eventine Elessedil. Peace and long life be ours now and forever.

  There was no signature and no indication of who had made the entry.

  “That’s all?” she asked, glancing at Cymrian. “Isn’t there anything more of this business?”

  “Only records compiled from various sources of what happened during some of the preceding centuries. I didn’t read them all. That was the last entry, the only one dealing with Amberle Elessedil. There’s more. About her childhood, her family, her choosing, her …”

  He gestured at the logbook. “Why don’t you study it for yourself? I only wanted you to read the last part first because there doesn’t appear to be any mention of where the Bloodfire can be found.”

  While the other two went back to searching the remainder of the records, Aphenglow did as Cymrian had suggested. What she found was either disturbing or heartening, depending on your point of view. Amberle had begun communicating with the Ellcrys early on in her service, very much like Arling. As a consequence of what she had begun to understand from the tree, she had rejected her choosing and had fled Arborlon for the wilds of the Eastland, where she had remained until the Druid Allanon had found and persuaded her to return to her Elven homeland. But the implication of what this must have meant to the young girl—though not expressly stated—was heart wrenching. She had given up everything, lost everything, in order to fulfill her service as a Chosen. It was impossible not to wonder whether Amberle had ever been able to come to terms with her fate in a way that provided her peace of mind.

  Aphen looked up, gazing at Arlingfant, barely able to stop the tears from coming as she envisioned this fate for her sister. She closed the book and set it aside. There would be plenty of time later for Arling to read it.

  She picked up a fresh logbook, one compiled more recently that had exhumed bits and pieces of records from the times before the destruction of the Old World. It was the third of three volumes, and she dug around until she found the first and second, as well, and began reading the former. It was a mess. There were various references to the Chosen and their service, but they were haphazard and there was a noticeable lack of continuity. Obviously, much had been omitted or lost from the chronology, leaving gaps of dozens of years. She read through it all dutifully, one volume after another. But there was nothing personal, no stories that would help explain why one Chosen was selected and another was not.

  Nor were there any stories of those who had become transformed into an Ellcrys in the years before Amberle Elessedil.

  Aphenglow set the books aside with a sigh. Neither Arling nor Cymrian had said a word in some time, so she knew they had failed to unearth anything
useful, either. Perhaps this had been a bad idea. What they had discovered of Amberle Elessedil was of no help at all in deciding what to do about Arling. It was one thing to promise her sister that she would help her find a way through this. It was another to actually make that happen.

  She was shoveling the stack of books, diaries, and loose-leaf notes closest to her back into a pile when she caught sight of a slim, leather booklet bound in copper that had oxidized to a dark greenish color. She pulled it free and read the letters carved into the leather front of the casing.

  LIVES OF THE SPECIAL CHOSEN

  Holding her breath, she opened the cover and skimmed the pages quickly. It was a recitation of all the Chosen who had become the Ellcrys since back in the time of Faerie when the sacred tree was first created, with names, dates of birth and death and rebirth, family and history, the ways in which they were selected, and how they came to accept their choosing.

  She went quickly to the last entry. There was Amberle Elessedil’s name, along with everything about her life.

  She skipped back to the front and caught her breath in shock and disbelief.

  The first name entered was printed in bold, black letters:

  ALEIA OMAROSIAN

  Aphen stared at the name, and suddenly the pieces of the puzzle that was Aleia began to fall into place. Aleia wasn’t just another Chosen serving in the order or even one of the few who had sacrificed themselves to become an Ellcrys; she was the very first Chosen ever. She was the original Elf to become the Ellcrys, the one whom all the others had followed.

  Aphen read the tiny print just below Aleia’s name, print that was smaller even than the dates of her life and her heritage:

  Forgiven; embraced; remembered.

  Aleia’s final entry in the diary had referred to a chance for redemption that she knew she must take. It suggested she had found a way to make up for her foolish assignation with the Darkling boy—one that would restore her good standing in the eyes of her parents and the Elven people. Her reckless infatuation had cost her people possession of the powerful magic of the Elfstones and placed them in further danger from the dark creatures of Faerie. But what if there was a way to imprison those creatures so they could do no harm to the Elves ever again—even if they somehow found a way to use the Elfstones? Offered a choice to transform herself into the Ellcrys, create the Forbidding, and thereby save her people and all of Faerie, wouldn’t she have jumped at the chance, even if it meant sacrificing herself?