by Terry Brooks
Then the Reaper lunged, and for just an instant Wil felt himself swallowed by the thing. He would have died then but for the power of the Elfstones. Seeking stones, Allanon had called them, and the warning cried out in his mind—seek the Reaper’s face! Quicker than thought, the magic acted, blinding him to the terrible monster, to his fear and pain, and to everything but a primitive instinct for survival. He heard himself scream, and the blue fire exploded from him. It tore through the Reaper’s faceless cowl, gripped the Demon like a vice about its invisible head and held it fast. Twisting desperately, the monster sought to break free. Wil Ohmsford’s hands locked before him, and the Elven magic swept from his shattered body into the Reaper, lifting it, thrusting it back against the cavern wall. There the Reaper hung, impaled upon the blue fire, writhing in fury as it burned. An instant later the fire swept downward through the Demon’s robes and exploded in a flare of blinding light.
When the fire died, all that remained of the Reaper was a charred outline of its twisted robes burned deep into the cavern rock.
48
The Bloodfire enfolded Amberle Elessedil with the gentle touch of a mother’s hands. All about her the flames rose, a crimson wall that shut away the whole of the world beyond, yet did no harm to the wondering girl. How strange, she thought, that the Fire did not burn. Yet when she had pushed away the rock and the Fire had burst forth about her, somehow she had known that it would be so. The Fire had consumed her, but there had been no pain; there had been no heat nor smoke nor even smell. There had been only the color, deep hazy scarlet, and a sense of being wrapped in something familiar and comforting.
A drowsiness crept through her and the pain and fear of the past few days seemed to drain slowly away. Her eyes wandered curiously through the flames, trying to catch a glimpse of the cavern that housed the Fire and the companions who had come with her. But there was nothing; there was only the Fire. She thought to step through it momentarily, to reach beyond its haze, yet something within her dissuaded her from doing so. She should remain here, she sensed. She should do what she had come here to do.
What she had come here to do—she repeated the words and sighed. Such a long journey it had been; such a terrible ordeal. But now it was ended. She had found the Bloodfire. Curious how that had happened, she thought suddenly. She had been standing there within that darkened, empty cavern, as dispirited as her companions that there was no Bloodfire to be found beyond the door made of glass that would not break, that all of their efforts had been for nothing, when suddenly … suddenly she had sensed the Fire’s presence. She hesitated in describing it so, but there was no better way. The sensing was similar to what she had experienced upon the rim of the Hollows when she had hidden within that clump of bushes to await Wil’s return, similar to what had warned her of the Reaper’s approach. It was a feeling that came from deep inside, telling her that the Bloodfire was there within that cavern and that she must find it. She had groped her way forward then, trusting to her instincts, not understanding what it was that made her do so. Even when she had found the Fire beneath that cavern shelf and warned Wil back from her, even when she had pushed aside the rock to free the Fire, she had not understood what it was that was guiding her.
The thought disturbed her. She still did not understand. Something had touched her. She needed to know what it was. She closed her eyes and sought it out.
Understanding came slowly.
At first she thought it must be the Bloodfire, for it was the Fire to which she had been drawn. Yet the Fire was not a sentient thing; it was an impersonal force, old and vital and life-giving, yet without thought. It was not the Fire. Then she thought that if it were not the Fire, it must be the seed she carried, that tiny bit of life given her by the Ellcrys. The Ellcrys was sentient; her seed could be sentient as well. The seed could have warned her of the Reaper and the Fire.… But that, too, was wrong. The Ellcrys seed would possess no life until bathed in the flames of the Bloodfire. It lay dormant now; the Fire was needed to awaken it. It was not the seed.
But if it was not the Bloodfire and it was not the seed, what was left?
Then she saw it. It was she. Something within her had warned of the Reaper. Something within her had warned of the Bloodfire. The warnings had come from within her because they belonged to her. It was the only answer that made any sense. Her eyes opened in surprise, then quickly closed again. Why were the warnings hers? Memories flooded through her of the strange influence the Ellcrys had exercised over her, of the way the tree had begun to make her over until she had felt no longer so much herself as an extension of the tree. Had the tree done this to her? Had she been affected even more than she believed?
She was frightened momentarily by the possibility, just as she was always frightened when she thought of the way the Ellcrys had stolen her away from herself. With an effort, she forced down her fear. There was no reason to be frightened now. That was all behind her. The journey to find the Bloodfire was done. Her promises were kept. All that remained was to give life back to the Ellcrys.
Her hand slipped down within her tunic and closed about the seed that was the source of that life. It felt warm and alive, as if anticipating an end to its dormancy. She was about to withdraw her hand when the fears came back again, sudden and intense. She hesitated, feeling her strength of will begin to ebb. Was there more to this ritual than she imagined? Where was Wil? He had promised to see her through this. He had promised to make certain that she did not falter. Where was he? She needed the Valeman; she needed him to come to her.
But Wil Ohmsford would not come. He was beyond the Fire’s wall, and she knew that he could not reach her. She must do this by herself. It was the task she had been given; it was the responsibility she had accepted. She took a deep breath. A moment’s time to place the Ellcrys seed in the flames of the Bloodfire and the task would be finished. It was what she had come all this way to do; now she should do it. Yet the fear persisted. It filled her like a sickness and she hated it, because she did not understand it. Why was it that she was so frightened?
In her hand, the seed began to pulsate softly.
She glanced down. Even this seed frightened her, even so small a part of the tree as this. Memories came and fled again. In the beginning they had been close, the Ellcrys and she. There had been no fear, only love. There had been joy and sharing. What had changed that? Why had she begun to feel that she was losing herself in the tree? Such a frightening thing that had been! Even now it haunted her. What right had the Ellcrys to do that to her? What right had the Ellcrys to use her so? What right …?
Shame filled her. Such questions served no purpose. The Ellcrys was dying and she needed help, not recrimination. The Elven people needed help. The Elven girl opened her eyes and blinked into the Bloodfire’s crimson glow. There was no time to indulge her bitterness or to explore her fear. There was only time to do what she had come to do—to bathe the seed she held in the Fire.
She started. The Fire! Why had the seed not already been affected by the fire? Could the flames not reach it within her tunic? Had they not already touched it? What difference whether she took the seed out?
More questions. Pointless questions. Again she started to withdraw the seed and again the fear held her back. Tears filled her eyes. Oh, that there might be someone else to do this thing! She was not a Chosen! She was not suited! She was not … she was not…
With a cry, she wrenched the seed from her tunic and held it forth into the Bloodfire’s scarlet flame. It flared within her hand, alive with the Fire’s touch. From deep within the Elven girl the feeling came again, the feeling that had warned her of the Reaper’s coming, the feeling that had called her to the Bloodfire, flooding through her now in a dazzling sweep of images that wracked her with such intense emotions that she dropped weakly to her knees.
Slowly she brought the Ellcrys seed to her breast, feeling the life within it stir. Tears ran down her cheeks.
It was she. It was she.
Now at l
ast, she understood. She held the seed close against her and drew the Bloodfire in.
49
Huddled against the cavern wall, Wil Ohmsford and Eretria watched the Fire’s crimson glow wink into darkness. It happened suddenly, a final spurt of flame and then the Bloodfire was gone. All that remained to light the chamber gloom were the discarded lamps they had carried in, their soft white glimmer faint and small.
Valeman and Rover girl blinked in the sudden night, peering blindly through the shadows. Slowly their vision sharpened, and they saw movement from atop the shelf where the Bloodfire had burned. Guardedly Wil brought up the hand that held the Elfstones, and the Elven magic rose in a flicker of blue fire.
“Wil …”
It was Amberle! She emerged from the gloom like a lost child, her voice a thin, desperate whisper. Ignoring the pain that wracked his body, the Valeman started toward her, Eretria a step behind. They reached her as she stumbled from the shelf, caught her in their arms and held her.
“Wil,” she murmured softly, sobbing.
Her head lifted and the long chestnut hair fell back from her face. Her eyes burned crimson with the Bloodfire.
“Shades!” Eretria gasped and stepped back from the Elven girl.
Wil caught Amberle up in his arms; despite the pain that lanced through his injured arm, he cradled her against him. She was feather-light, as if the bones had withered within her and all that remained was a shell of flesh. She was crying still, her head buried in his shoulder.
“Oh, Wil, I was wrong, I was wrong. It was never her. It was me. It was always me.”
The words came in a rush, as if she could not speak them fast enough. The Valeman stroked her pale cheek.
“It’s all right, Amberle,” he whispered back to her. “It’s over.”
She looked up at him again, the blood-red eyes fixed and terrible.
“I didn’t understand. She knew … all along. She knew, and she tried … and she tried to tell me, to let me see … but I didn’t understand, I was frightened …”
“Don’t talk.” The Valeman gripped her tightly, a sudden, unreasoning fear slipping through him. They had to get free of this blackness. They had to get back to the light. He turned quickly to Eretria. “Pick up the lamps.”
The Rover girl didn’t argue. She retrieved the smokeless lights and hurried back to him. “I have them, Healer.”
“Then let us hurry from this …” he began and caught himself. The Ellcrys. The seed. Had the Elven girl …? “Amberle,” he whispered gently. “Has the seed been placed within the Fire? Amberle?”
“It … is done,” she said so softly he barely caught her words.
How much had this cost her, he wondered bitterly? What had happened to her within the Fire …? But no, there was no time for this. They must hurry. They must climb from these catacombs back to the slopes of Spire’s Reach and then return to Arborlon. There Amberle could be made well again. There she would be all right.
“Hebel!” he called out.
“Here, Elfling.” The old man’s voice was thin and harsh. He appeared out of the shadows, cradling Drifter in his arms. “Leg’s broke. Maybe something more.” There were tears in Hebel’s eyes. “I can’t leave him.”
“Healer!” Eretria’s dark face was suddenly close before his own. “How are we to find our way back without the dog?”
He stared at her as if he had forgotten she existed, and she flushed with shame, thinking him angry for her reaction to the Elven girl.
“The Elfstones,” he muttered finally and did not stop to question whether he could use them. “The Elfstones will show us the way.”
He shifted Amberle slightly in his arms, grimacing as the pain from his shattered body rose up in waves.
Eretria caught his arm. “You cannot carry the Elven girl and use the Stones as well. Give the girl to me.”
He shook his head. “I can manage,” he insisted. He wanted Amberle to stay close to him.
“Don’t be so stubborn,” she pleaded softly. Her jaw tightened, and it was with difficulty that she spoke. “I know how you feel about her, Healer. I know. But this is too much for you. Please, let me help. Give her to me to carry.”
Their eyes met momentarily in the half-light, and Wil saw the tears that glistened on her cheeks. That admission had hurt her. Slowly he nodded.
“You are right. I cannot do this alone.”
He gave Amberle to the Rover girl, who cradled her as if she were a baby. Amberle’s head slipped down against Eretria’s shoulder and she slept.
“Stay close,” Wil admonished, taking one of the smokeless lamps and turning away.
They went back through the waterfall and through the cavern that housed it, picking their way carefully across the rock-strewn floor. Blood and sweat mingled freely on Wil Ohmsford’s body, and the pain grew worse. By the time they had reached the passageway leading up into the maze, the Valeman could barely walk. Yet there was no time to rest. They had to reach Perk quickly, for it was his final day. They had to get free of Safehold, back to the surface of the Hollows, to the slopes of Spire’s Reach, before the sun set or the little Wing Rider would be gone. That would be the finish for them. Without Perk and Genewen to carry them to Arborlon, they would never get clear of the Wilderun.
Staggering to a halt before the passage entry, Wil fumbled through the compartments of the pouch he carried at his waist. Within were the herbs and roots that aided him in his healing. After a moment’s search, he brought forth a dark purple root, its six-inch length coiled tight. He held it before him, hesitating. If he ate it, its juice would kill the pain. He would be able to go on until they reached the slopes of the mountain above. But the root had other effects. It would make him drowsy and eventually render him unconscious. Worse, it would cause him to become increasingly less coherent. If it took effect too quickly, before they succeeded in finding their way clear of the catacombs…
Eretria was watching him wordlessly. He glanced up at her and the frail body she carried. Then he bit into the root and began to chew. It was a chance he had to take.
They stumbled ahead in the dark. When the maze began to open up before them, the Valeman brought up the hand that held the Elfstones and called forth the magic within. It came quickly this time, flooding through him like a sudden rush of heat, whirling through his limbs and exploding outward into the dark. Like a beacon, it curled before them through the catacombs, leading them on. They followed, shadows in the passage gloom. Onward they trudged, the crippled Valeman willing forth the blue fire to give them direction, the Rover girl close beside him, holding the sleeping Elf girl gently, and the old man cradling the giant dog. The minutes slipped slowly away.
Pain from the wounds suffered in the battle with the Reaper faded into numbness, and Wil Ohmsford felt himself drift through the darkness like a thing filled with air. Slowly the juice of the root worked through him, sapping his strength until his body felt as if it were made of damp clay, sapping his reason until it was all that he could do to remember that he must go on. All the while the Elven magic stirred his blood, and, as it did so, he felt himself changing in that same unexplainable way. He was no longer the same, he knew. He would never be the same. The magic burned him through and left an invisible, permanent scar upon his body and his consciousness. Helpless to prevent it, he let it happen, wondering as he did what effect it would have upon his life.
Yet it did not matter, he told himself. Nothing mattered but seeing that Amberle was made safe.
The little company pushed ahead in the wake of the brilliant blue fire, and the tunnels and corridors and stairways disappeared into the blackness behind them.
When they finally staggered from the cavern mouth of Safehold, into the air and light of the valley, they had spent themselves. The Rover girl had carried Amberle the entire way, and her strength was gone. The Valeman was barely conscious, numbed through by the pain-killing root, drifting in and out of coherence as if wandering directionless through a deep mist. Even
Hebel was exhausted. Together they stood upon the open bluff high on the slopes of Spire’s Reach and blinked in the mix of fading sunlight and lengthening shadow, their eyes following its sweep across the expanse of the Hollows westward to where the sun set slowly into the forest, a brilliant blaze of golden fire.
Wil felt his hopes fall away from him.
“The sun … Eretria!”
She came to him and together they laid Amberle upon the ground, dropping wearily to their knees as they finished. The Elven girl slept still, her soft breathing the only sign of life she had shown during the whole of their journey up from the catacombs. She stirred slightly now, as if she might wake, yet her eyes remained closed.
“Eretria … here,” Wil called to her, his hand fumbling within his tunic. His eyes were lidded and his words slurred. His tongue felt thick and useless. Struggling to hold himself upright, he produced the tiny silver whistle and passed it to the girl. “Here … use it … quickly.”
“Healer, what am I …?” she began, but he seized her hand angrily.
“Use it!” he gasped and fell back weakly. Too late, he was thinking. Too late. The day is finished. Perk is gone.
He was losing consciousness rapidly now—just a few minutes more and he would be asleep. His hand still clutched the Elfstones, and he felt their edges bite against the palm. A few minutes more. Then what would protect them?
He watched Eretria rise and place the whistle to her lips. Then she turned to him, her dark eyes questioning.
“There is no sound!”
He nodded. “Blow … again.”
She did, then turned a second time.
