by Terry Brooks
“After all these years.” Eventine shook his head wonderingly and stepped out from behind the table. Then he saw clearly the big man’s face and disbelief turned to astonishment. “Allanon! You haven’t aged! You … haven’t changed since …” He choked on the words. “How …?”
“I am who I always was,” the Druid cut him short. “That is enough to know, King of the Elves.”
Eventine nodded wordlessly, still dazed by the other’s unexpected appearance. Slowly he moved back to the reading table, and the two men took up seats across from one another. Ander stood where he was for an instant, uncertain whether to stay or go.
“Sit with us, Elven Prince.” Allanon indicated a third chair.
Ander sat down quickly, grateful to be included, anxious to hear what would be said.
“You know what has happened?” The King addressed Allanon.
The Druid nodded. “That is why I have come. I sensed a breach in the Forbidding. Something imprisoned there has crossed over into this world, something whose power is very great indeed. It was the appearance of this creature …”
There was the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway beyond the study door, and the Druid was on his feet instantly. Then he paused, his face calm, and he looked back at the King.
“No one is to know that I am here.”
Eventine did not question this. He simply nodded, rose from the chair, walked quickly to the door, and opened it. Manx sat there on his haunches, his tail wagging slowly, his grizzled muzzle raised toward his master. Eventine walked out into the hallway and found Gael approaching with a tray of tea. The King smiled and took it from him.
“I want you to go home now and get some sleep,” he ordered. When Gael tried to object, he quickly shook his head. “No arguments. We have a lot to do in the morning. Go home. I’ll be all right. Ask Dardan and Rhoe to keep watch until I retire. I wish to see no one.”
He turned abruptly and re-entered the study, closing the door firmly behind him. Manx had wandered in, sniffed questioningly the stranger he found seated at the reading table, then, apparently satisfied, had dropped down next to the stone fireplace beside them, his muzzle resting comfortably on his paws, his brown eyes closing contentedly. Eventine sat down again.
“Was it this creature, then, that killed the Chosen?” he asked, picking up the conversation.
The Druid nodded. “I believe it to be so. I sensed the danger to the Chosen and came as quickly as I could. Not quickly enough, unfortunately, to save them.”
Eventine smiled sadly. “The fault lies with me, I’m afraid. I left them unprotected, even after I was told the Forbidding had begun to fail. But perhaps it makes no difference. Even had they lived, I am not certain the Chosen would have been able to save the Ellcrys. Nothing of what she showed them of the location of the Bloodfire is recognizable. Not even the name she gave them—Safehold. Do you recognize it?”
Allanon shook his head no.
“Our records tell us nothing of Safehold—neither those of my predecessors who ruled nor those of the Chosen,” the King continued. “I am faced with an impossible situation. The Ellcrys is dying. In order to save her, one of the Chosen in service to her now must carry her seed to the Bloodfire, immerse it in the flames and then return it to the earth so that a rebirth might be possible.”
“I am familiar with the history,” the Druid interjected.
The King flushed. The anger and frustration he had held inside was working its way to the fore.
“Then consider this. We do not know the location of the Bloodfire. We have no record of the name Safehold. And now the Chosen are all dead. We have no one to bear the Ellcrys seed. The outcome of all this seems quite inevitable. The Ellcrys will die, the Forbidding will crumble, the evil locked within will be free once more upon the land, and the Elves and very likely all of the races inhabiting the Four Lands will be faced with a war that could easily destroy us all!”
He leaned forward sharply. “I am a King; I am that and nothing more. You are a Druid, a sorcerer. If you have any help to offer, then do so. There is nothing more that I know to do.”
The Druid cocked his head slightly, as if considering the problem.
“Before coming to see you, Eventine, I went into the Gardens of Life and spoke with the Ellcrys.”
The King stared at him incredulously. “You spoke with …?”
“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she spoke with me. Had she not chosen to do so, there would have been no communication between us, of course.”
“But she speaks only to the Chosen,” Ander interjected, then fell quickly silent as he saw his father frown in annoyance.
“My son is correct, Allanon.” Eventine turned back to the Druid. “The Ellcrys speaks to no one but the Chosen—and seldom to them.”
“She speaks to those who serve her,” Allanon replied. “Of the Elves, only the Chosen do so. But the Druids have also served the Ellcrys, though in a different fashion. In any case, I simply offered myself to her and she chose to speak with me. What she told me suggests that you are mistaken in your view of matters in at least one respect.”
Eventine waited a moment for the Druid to continue. He did not. He simply sat there, staring at the Elf questioningly.
“Very well, I will ask it then.” The King forced himself to remain calm. “In what respect am I mistaken?”
“Before I tell you that,” Allanon said, leaning forward, “I want you to understand something. I have come to give whatever aid I may, for the evil that is imprisoned within the Forbidding threatens all life in the Four Lands. What aid I can offer, I offer freely. But there is one condition. I must be free to act in this matter as I see fit. Even though you disapprove, Eventine Elessedil. Even then. Do you understand?”
The King hesitated, his blue eyes studying the dark face of the other man, searching for answers that clearly were not to be found there. At last, he nodded.
“I understand. You may act as you wish in this.”
The Druid sat back, carefully masking any emotion as he faced Ander and the King.
“First, I believe that I can aid in discovering the location of Safehold. What I was shown of Safehold by the Ellcrys when we spoke was not familiar to me, as I have said. It was not familiar because it was drawn from her memory of the world at the time of her creation. The Great Wars altered the geography of the old world so completely that her perception of it now is quite faulty. Still, we have the name Safehold. You have told me that the histories of the Elven Kings and those of the Order of the Chosen do not record the name. But there is another place to look. At Paranor, within the Druid’s Keep, there are histories devoted entirely to the sciences and mystic phenomena of the old world. Within those books, there may be some mention of the creation of the Ellcrys and the location of the Bloodfire. This is a distinct possibility because much of the information contained in those histories was gathered at the time of the First Council of the Druids—drawn from each member as it had been handed down since the holocaust. Remember, too, that the guiding light of that council was Galaphile, and Galaphile was an Elf. He would have seen to it that something about the creation of the Ellcrys and the location of the fountain of the Bloodfire was set down.”
He paused. “Tonight, when we are finished here, I will go on to Paranor. The histories are well hidden to any but the Druids, so it is necessary that I go myself. But I believe that within their pages is recorded some mention of the name Safehold. From what is written there, we may hope to discover the location of the Bloodfire.”
He folded his hands on the table’s edge, and his eyes fixed on those of the King.
“Now as to the Chosen, Eventine, you are mistaken entirely. They are not all dead.”
For an instant, the room went deathly still. Amberle! Ander thought in astonishment. He means Amberle!
“All six were killed …!” Eventine began, then stopped abruptly.
“There were seven Chosen,” the Druid said quietly. “Seven.�
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The King went rigid, his hands gripping the edges of the table until the knuckles were white. His eyes mirrored anger and disbelief.
“Amberle,” he breathed the name like a curse.
The Druid nodded. “She is one of the Chosen.”
“No!” The King was on his feet, shouting. “No, Druid!”
There was a scurrying of footsteps in the hallway beyond and then a pounding on the study door. Ander realized what his father had done. His shouts had brought Dardan and Rhoe. Hurriedly, he went to the door and opened it. He was surprised to find not only the guards, but Gael as well. All peered curiously into the study, but the Elven Prince carefully blocked their view. Then his father was beside him.
“I told you to go home, Gael,” Eventine reprimanded the young Elf sternly. “Do so now.”
Gael bowed mechanically, his face showing the hurt he felt at the other man’s words, and disappeared back down the hallway without a word. The King nodded to the Elven Hunters, reassuring them that he was all right, and they returned to their watch.
The King stood silently in the open entry a moment, then closed the door. The penetrating blue eyes swept past his son to Allanon.
“How did you find out about Amberle?”
“When the Ellcrys spoke with me, she told me that seven had been chosen to serve. One was a young girl. Her name was Amberle Elessedil.”
The Druid paused, studying carefully the face of the Elven King. It was lined with bitterness. All of its color had drained away.
“It is unusual for a young woman to be selected as a Chosen,” Allanon continued calmly. “There have been no more than a handful, I think—not another in the last five hundred years.”
The King shook his head angrily. “Amberle’s selection was an honor that meant nothing to her. She spurned that honor. She shamed her people and her family. She is no longer one of the Chosen. She is no longer a citizen of this land. She is an outcast by her own choice!”
Allanon came to his feet swiftly, his face suddenly hard.
“She is your granddaughter, and you speak as a fool would.”
Eventine stiffened at the rebuke, but held his tongue. The Druid came up to him.
“Hear me. Amberle is a Chosen. It is true that she did not serve the Ellcrys as did the others. It is true that she forsook her duty as a Chosen. It is true that for reasons known only to herself she left Arborlon and the Westland, her home, despite the responsibilities that were clearly hers, that she disgraced her family and particularly you, as King, in the eyes of her people. It is true that she has made herself an outcast. It is true that she does not believe herself to be one of the Chosen any longer.
“But know this. It is not for you nor for her people to take from her what the Ellcrys has given. It is not even for her to do that. It is for the Ellcrys alone. Until the Ellcrys says differently, Amberle remains a Chosen in her service—a Chosen who may bear her seed in search of the Bloodfire, a Chosen who may give her new life.”
Allanon paused. “A King may not understand all things, Eventine Elessedil, even though he be a King. Some things you must simply accept.”
Eventine stared at the Druid without speaking, the anger gone now from his eyes, replaced with hurt and confusion.
“I was close to her once,” he said finally. “After her father—my son Aine—died, I became her father. She was still a child, only five. In the evenings, we would play together …” He stopped, unable to continue. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “There was a quality about her that I have not since found; a sweetness, an innocence, a loving. I am an old man speaking these words about his grandchild, but I do not speak blindly. I knew her.”
Allanon said nothing. The King moved back to his chair and slowly seated himself once more.
“The histories record no other woman selected to serve as a Chosen since the time of Jerle Shannara. Amberle was the first—the first in more than five hundred years. It was an honor others would have given anything for.” He shook his head wonderingly. “Yet Amberle walked away from it. She gave no explanation—not to me, not to her mother, not to anyone. Not one word. She just left.”
He trailed off helplessly. Allanon sat down across from him again, his dark eyes intense.
“She must be brought back. She is the only hope that the Elven people have.”
“Father.” Ander spoke before he had time to think better of it. Impulsively he knelt next to the old man. “Father, on the night before he was killed, Lauren told me something. He told me that the Ellcrys had spoken with Amberle many times after her choosing. That had never happened before. Perhaps Amberle is our best hope.”
The King looked at him blankly, as if the words he had spoken meant nothing. Then he placed his hands flat against the worn surface of the reading table and nodded once.
“I find that hope a slim one, Ander. Our people may accept her back again, if only because they have need of her. I am not altogether certain of this; what she has done by her rejection is unpardonable in their eyes. And perhaps the Ellcrys, too, may accept her—accept her both as a Chosen and as the bearer of her seed. I don’t pretend to have answers to those questions. Nor do my own feelings matter in this.” He turned again to Allanon. “It is Amberle herself who will stand against us, Druid. When she left this land, she left it forever. She believed strongly that it must be so; something made her believe. You do not know her, as I do. She will never return.”
Allanon’s expression did not change. “That remains to be seen. We must at least ask her.”
“I do not know where she is.” The King’s voice turned suddenly bitter. “I doubt that anyone does.”
The Druid carefully poured a measure of the herb tea and handed it to the King.
“I do.”
Eventine stared at him wordlessly for a moment. His face clouded with conflicting emotions, and there were sudden tears in his eyes, tears that were gone as fast as they had come.
“I should have guessed,” he said finally. He rose, then stepped away from the table several paces, his face partially turned into the shadows. “You are free to act in this as you will Allanon. You already know that.”
Allanon rose with him. Then, to Ander’s surprise, he said, “I will require the services of your son for a brief time before I leave.”
Eventine did not turn. “As you wish.”
“Remember—no one is to know that I have been here.”
The King nodded. “No one shall.”
A moment later the Druid was through the curtained windows and gone. Ander stood looking at his father hesitantly, then moved to follow.
He knew the old man’s thoughts now were of Amberle.
In the blackness of the Westland forests north of the Carolan, the Dagda Mor sat quietly, his eyes closed. When they opened again, they were bright with satisfaction. The Changeling had served him well. He rose slowly, the Staff of Power flaring sharply as his hands closed about its polished wood.
“Druid,” he hissed softly. “I know of you.”
He motioned to the formless shadow that was the Reaper, and the monster rose up out of the night. The Dagda Mor looked eastward. He would wait for the Druid at Paranor. But not alone. He could sense the Druid’s power, and he was wary of it. The Reaper might be strong enough to stand against such power, but he had better use for the Reaper. No, other help would be necessary. He would bring a handful of the brethren through the eroding wall of the Forbidding.
Enough to snare the Druid. Enough to kill him.
VI
Allanon was waiting for Ander when he stepped from the lighted study, and together they retraced their steps across the palace grounds and through the small side gate to the roadway beyond. Then Allanon asked to be taken to the stables. Wordlessly the two followed a back trail that took them through a small stretch of forest to the stable paddocks and from there to the stable entry. Ander dismissed the old stableman with a word of assurance, and Allanon and he stepped inside.
Oil lamps lit a double row of stalls, and the soft whicker of horses sounded in the stillness. Slowly Allanon passed down the line of stalls, eyes shifting from horse to horse as he walked to the end of the first row and started back up the second. Ander trailed after him and watched.
Finally the Druid stopped and turned back to Ander.
“That one,” he pointed. “I’ll need the use of him.”
Ander glanced uneasily at the horse Allanon had chosen. The horse was called Artaq, a huge coal-black stallion standing fully eighteen hands high. Artaq was big enough and strong enough to carry someone of Allanon’s size, and he could withstand a great deal of punishment. He was a hunting horse, built for stamina rather than for speed. Yet Ander knew him to be capable of great speed over short distances. His head was narrow and rather small, particularly when viewed in comparison to his great, barrel-chested body. He had eyes that were set rather wide and colored a startling azure. There was intelligence in those eyes; Artaq was not a horse that could be mastered by just any man.
Indeed, that was exactly the problem. Artaq was strong-willed and thoroughly unpredictable. He enjoyed playing games with his riders, games that usually ended with the riders being thrown. More than a few had been injured in those falls. If the man riding Artaq was not strong enough and quick enough to prevent it, Artaq would find a way to shake him off within seconds after he was mounted. Few men bothered to chance this. Even the King seldom rode him anymore, though once he had been a favorite.
“There are others …” Ander suggested hesitantly, but Allanon was already shaking his head no.
“This horse will do. What is his name?”
“Artaq,” the Elven Prince replied.
Allanon studied the horse carefully for a time, then lifted the stall latch and stepped inside. Ander moved over to watch. The Druid stood quietly before the big black, then lifted his hand in invitation. To Ander’s surprise, Artaq came over. Allanon stroked the satin neck slowly, gently, and he bent forward to whisper in the horse’s ear. Then he fitted a halter to the black and led him from his stall down the walkway to where the tack was stored. Ander shook his head and followed after. The Druid selected a saddle and bridle and strapped them snugly in place after removing the halter. With a final word of encouragement, he swung up upon the horse’s back.
