The Sword of the Shannara and the Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  And that time was near. The inevitability of a terrible struggle between Elves and Demons confronted them at every turn. Each day the Ellcrys weakened further, decay and wilt spreading inexorably through her branches, stripping her of beauty and life, weakening the power that maintained the Forbidding. Each day new reports were received of strange and frightening creatures, things born of nightmares and dark fantasies, prowling the borders of the Westland. Elven soldiers patrolled from the Valley of Rhenn to the Sarandanon, from the Matted Brakes to the Kershalt, and still the number of these creatures grew. It was certain that more would follow, until at last enough had broken free to unite and attack the Elves in force.

  Ander rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands together against his forehead, shading his eyes against the light. The Ellcrys was failing so quickly that he wondered whether enough time remained to reach the Bloodfire, even if Allanon had succeeded in his quest. Time! It all came down to that.

  The massive doors at the far end of the chamber swung open and six heads turned as one. Allanon strode through, tall and forbidding in his black robes. With him came two smaller figures, cloaked and hooded, their faces hidden.

  Amberle! Ander thought at once. One of them must be Amberle!

  But who was the second?

  All three moved wordlessly to the opposite end of the wide oval table. There the Druid seated his companions, then raised his dark face toward the King.

  “My Lord Eventine.” He bowed slightly.

  “Allanon,” the King replied. “You are welcome.”

  “All are assembled?”

  “All,” Eventine assured him, then named them one by one, “Please say what you have come to say.”

  Allanon came forward several paces until he stood midway between the Elves and the two cloaked figures.

  “Very well. I would say this once only, so I ask that you listen and heed. The Elven nation stands in grave peril. The Ellcrys is dying. She fails quickly now, more quickly with the passing of each day. As she fails, the wall of the Forbidding weakens. Already the Demons your forefathers imprisoned within begin to break loose once more into your world. Soon all will be free and, once free, they will seek your annihilation.”

  The Druid came forward a pace. “Do not disbelieve this, Elven Lords. You do not yet appreciate, as I do, the extent of the hatred that drives them. I have seen but a handful of these creatures, a handful that have crossed already through the Forbidding, but even those few conveyed to me the whole of the hatred that has consumed them all. That hatred is awesome. It gives them power—more power than they possessed when they were first shut from the earth. I do not think that you will be able to stand against it.”

  “You do not know the Elven army!” Pindanon’s face was dark.

  “Commander.” Eventine spoke softly. The old soldier turned at once. “Let us hear him out.”

  Pindanon sat back, frustration lining his jaw.

  “The Ellcrys is the key to your preservation,” Allanon continued, ignoring Pindanon. “When the Ellcrys dies, the Forbidding will be lost. The magic that created it will be lost. One thing can prevent that, and one thing only. In accordance with the Elven legend and the laws of magic that gave her life, the Ellcrys must undergo a rebirth. That can be accomplished in only one way. You know it well. A Chosen in service to the tree must carry her seed to the source of all life, the earth’s Bloodfire. There the seed must be wholly immersed in the Fire, then returned to the earth where the mother tree roots. Then will there be new life for the Ellcrys. Then will the wall of the Forbidding be restored and the Demons shut once more from the earth.

  “Men of Arborlon. Two weeks earlier, having discovered that the Ellcrys was dying, I came to Eventine Elessedil to offer what aid I could. I came too slowly. The Forbidding had begun to weaken already, permitting a few of the Demons imprisoned within to escape. Before I could act to prevent it, they had slain the Chosen, killing them as they slept, killing all they found.

  “Nevertheless, I told the King that I would seek to aid the Elves in two ways. First, I would travel to Paranor to the castle of the Druids and there search the histories of my predecessors in an effort to learn the secret of the word ‘Safehold.’ I have done this. I have discovered where the Bloodfire can be found.”

  He paused, studying the faces of the men who listened. “I told the King as well that I would seek out one who might bear the seed of the Ellcrys in quest of the Bloodfire, for I believed that such a person existed. I have done this also. I have brought that person with me to Arborlon.”

  Ander tensed expectantly as a murmur of disbelief rose out of the men assembled. Allanon turned and beckoned to the smaller of the two cloaked figures.

  “Come forward.”

  Hesitantly, the dark form rose, then walked to stand beside the Druid.

  “Lower your hood.”

  Again there was hesitation. The Elves leaned forward impatiently?all but Eventine, who sat rigidly in his chair, hands gripping the carved wooden arms.

  “Lower your hood,” Allanon repeated gently.

  This time the cloaked figure obeyed. Slim brown hands reached from beneath the folds of the robe and pulled back the concealing hood. Amberle’s sea-green eyes, frozen with uncertainty, met those of her grandfather. There was an instant of stunned silence.

  Then Arion sprang to his feet, livid with rage. “No! No, Druid! Take her out of here! Take her back to wherever it was you found her!”

  Ander rose halfway out of his chair, shock reflected in his face at his brother’s words, but his father caught his arm and brought him back to his seat. Quick, angry comments were exchanged, but the words were lost in a jumbled mix of voices that drowned one another out.

  Eventine’s hand went up sharply, and the room was still again.

  “We will hear Allanon out,” he repeated firmly, and Arion slipped back into his chair.

  The Druid nodded. “I would ask you all to remember this. Only a Chosen in service may bear the seed of the Ellcrys. When the year began, there were seven. Six are dead. Amberle Elessedil is your last hope.”

  Arion leaped up. “She is no hope! She is no longer a Chosen!” The Elven Prince’s voice was hard and bitter. Kael Pindanon nodded in agreement, distaste showing on his seamed face.

  Allanon came forward a step. “You would question whether she is still a Chosen?” The faint, mocking smile passed quickly across his lips. “Know then that she questions this as well. But I have told her, and I have told her grandfather, and now I tell you, that no feelings in this, neither yours nor hers, will determine the truth of what she is. Your feelings are not of any consequence. King’s grandchild or outcast from her people—what matter, Elven Prince? Your concern should be with the survival of your people—your people and the peoples of all the Lands, for this danger threatens them as well. If Amberle can be of service to you and to them, then what has gone before must be forgotten.”

  Arion stood his ground. “I will not forget. I will never forget.”

  “What is it that you ask of us?” Emer Chios interrupted quickly, and Arion sat down once more.

  Allanon turned to face the First Minister. “Just this. Neither you nor I nor Amberle herself has the right to determine whether she is still a Chosen. Only the Ellcrys has that right, for it was the Ellcrys who determined that she should be a Chosen in the first place. Therefore we must know the tree’s feelings. Let Amberle go before the Ellcrys; let the Ellcrys decide whether to accept or reject her. If she is accepted as a Chosen, she will be given a seed and she will go in search of the Bloodfire.”

  “And if she is rejected?”

  “Then we had best hope that Commander Pindanon’s faith in the Elven army is well placed.”

  Arion rose once more, ignoring the warning glance his father gave him.

  “You ask too much of us, Druid. You ask that we place our trust in one who has already proven untrustworthy.”

  Allanon’s voice was steady. “I ask that you plac
e your trust in the Ellcrys, much as you have done for countless centuries. Let the decision be hers.”

  Arion shook his head. “No, I sense a game being played here, Druid. The tree speaks to no one; she will not speak to this girl.” His angry gaze shifted to Amberle. “If the girl would have us trust her, let her tell us why she left Arborlon in the first place. Let her tell us why she disgraced herself and her family.”

  Allanon seemed to consider the request for a moment, then finally looked down at the Elven girl beside him. Amberle’s face was white.

  “I did not mean to bring disgrace to anyone,” she replied quietly. “I did what I felt I had to do.”

  “You disgraced us!” Arion exploded. “You are my brother’s child, and I loved my brother very much. I would like to understand what you did, but I do not. What you did brought shame to your family—to all of us. It brought shame to the memory of your father. No Chosen has ever rejected the honor of serving. None! But you, you discarded the honor as if it meant nothing!”

  Amberle was rigid. “I was not meant to be a Chosen, Arion. It was a mistake. I tried to serve as did the others, but I could not. I know it was expected of me, but I … could not do it.”

  “Could not do it?” Arion came forward threateningly. “Why? I want to know why. This is your chance to explain—now do so!”

  “I cannot!” she answered in a tight whisper. “I cannot. I could not make you understand, not if I wished, not if …” She looked imploringly at Allanon. “Why did you bring me back, Druid? This is senseless. They do not wish me here. I do not want to be here. I am frightened, do you understand? Let me return home.”

  “You are home,” the Druid answered gently, a sadness in his voice that had not been there before. He looked over at Arion. “Your questions are pointless, Elven Prince. Give thought to the purpose for those questions. Give thought to their source. Hurt gives way to bitterness, bitterness to anger. Travel too far that road and the way is lost.”

  He paused, dark eyes fixing those of the Elven Council. “I do not pretend to understand what caused this girl to leave her people. I do not pretend to understand what caused her to choose a life different from that which was offered her in Arborlon. It is not my place to judge her, nor is it yours. What has gone before is done. She has shown courage and resolve in making the journey back to Arborlon. The Demons have learned of her; they have hunted her. They hunt her still. She has endured hardship and risked danger in returning. Should that have been for nothing?”

  At the mention of danger to Amberle, alarm flickered briefly in Eventine’s eyes. Ander saw it; it was there and then quickly gone.

  “You might have taken this girl before the Ellcrys without consulting us,” Emer Chios pointed out suddenly. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Amberle did not wish to return to Arborlon,” Allanon responded. “She came because I persuaded her that it was necessary, that she must help her people if she could. Still, she should not be forced to come in secrecy and stealth, but openly. If she is to go before the Ellcrys, it should be with your approval.”

  His arm slipped about her slender shoulders. She glanced up at him, surprise reflected in her child’s face.

  “You must make your choice.” The Druid’s face was impassive. “Which of you will stand beside her, Elven Lords?”

  The chamber grew still. Elves and Druid stared wordlessly at one another, eyes locked. All but forgotten by now, the second cloaked form shifted nervously at the far end of the table. The seconds slipped away. No one rose.

  Then suddenly Ander Elessedil found Allanon looking directly at him. Something unspoken passed between them, an understanding almost. In that instant Ander knew what he must do.

  Slowly he came to his feet.

  “Ander!” he heard his brother protest.

  He glanced quickly at Arion’s dark face, saw the warning mirrored in the other’s hard eyes, then looked away again. Wordlessly, he moved around the table until he stood before Amberle. She stared up at him, frightened, like a wild thing poised to flee. Gently he took hold of her shoulders and bent to kiss her forehead. There were tears in her eyes as she hugged him back.

  Emer Chios rose. “I do not see that there should be any difficulty in making this decision, my Lords,” he addressed them. “Whatever options we may have, we should certainly take advantage of them.”

  He stepped over to join Ander.

  Crispin glanced briefly at Eventine. The King sat rigid, his face expressionless as he met his Captain’s eyes. Crispin stood up and crossed to stand beside Ander.

  The Council had divided evenly. Three stood with Amberle; three remained seated at the table. Eventine looked at Arion. The Crown Prince of the Elves met his father’s gaze squarely, then turned his bitter eyes on Ander.

  “I am not the fool that my brother is. I say no.”

  The King looked at Pindanon. The old soldier’s face was hard.

  “My trust is in the Elven Army, not this child.” Then he seemed to hesitate. “She is your flesh and blood. My vote will be as yours, my King. Cast it well.”

  All eyes fixed now on Eventine. For an instant he did not seem to have heard. He sat staring at the table before him, a look of sadness and resignation on his face. His hands slid slowly across the polished wooden surface, then locked tightly.

  He came to his feet.

  “It is decided then. Amberle shall go before the Ellcrys. This Council is adjourned.”

  Arion Elessedil rose, cast a withering glance at Ander, and stalked from the High Council without a word.

  Within the concealing shadow of his cowl, Wil Ohmsford saw the pain and disbelief mirrored in Ander Elessedil’s eyes as he stared after his brother. A breach had been opened between these two that would not quickly be closed again. Then the Elven Prince’s gaze shifted suddenly to meet his own, and he looked away self-consciously.

  Allanon was speaking again, advising those who remained that Amberle would rest a day or two before going to the Ellcrys and that after she had done so they would meet once more. Wil rose, keeping his robes drawn close about him, for Allanon had warned that he was not to reveal himself. The chamber began to empty, and he moved over to stand with Amberle. He saw Ander Elessedil cast a glance back at them, hesitate, then follow the others out. Allanon had drawn Eventine aside and was speaking to him, their words hushed and secretive. There appeared to be some argument between them. Then, with a reluctant nod, the Elven King departed as well. Wil and Amberle were left alone with the Druid.

  Allanon beckoned. “Follow me.”

  Quickly he led them from the council room, ushering them back down the outer hallway until they stood once more in the cool dark of the entry beyond. The Druid paused, listened, and then turned to them.

  “Amberle.” He waited until her eyes were fixed on his. “I want you to go to the Ellcrys tonight.”

  Surprise and confusion registered on the Elven girl’s face.

  “Why?” she asked in disbelief, then quickly shook her head. “No. No, this is too quick! I want time to prepare myself before I do this. Besides, you just finished telling my father and the others that it would be a day or two before I went to her!”

  Allanon nodded patiently. “A small but necessary deception. As for preparation, what preparation will you make? This is not a test of skill or endurance; no amount of preparation will help you. Either you are still a Chosen in service to the tree or you are not.”

  “I am tired, Druid!” She was angry now. “I am tired and I need to sleep! I cannot do this thing now!”

  “You must.” He paused. “I know that you are tired; I know that you need sleep. But that will have to wait. You must first go to the tree—and you must do so now.”

  She went rigid at his words, a trapped look springing into her eyes. Then she began to cry, uncontrollably. It was as if everything that had happened—the unexpected appearance of the Druid at her cottage, the news that the Ellcrys was dying and the Chosen slain, the realization that she must re
turn to Arborlon, the harrowing flight north from Havenstead, the confrontation with the Council and her grandfather, and now this—had caught up with her all at once and overwhelmed her completely. All of her defenses seemed to give way. She stood before them, small and vulnerable, sobbing, choking on words that would not come. When Allanon reached for her, she pulled quickly away, stepping apart from them both for several long minutes. Wil Ohmsford stared after her helplessly.

  She stopped crying finally, her face still turned away from them. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Is it truly necessary, Allanon—truly necessary—that I go to her tonight?”

  The Druid nodded. “Yes, Elven girl.”

  There was a long silence. “Then I will do so.”

  Quiet and composed once more, she rejoined them. Without a word, Allanon led them out into the streets of the city.

  XIX

  Pale silver moonlight spilled down out of the heavens and washed the summer night. Sweet smells and comforting hums rose out of the dark in slow, dizzying waves that floated and danced in the warm breezes and brushed the hedgerows and stands, the flower banks, and the bushes of the Garden of Life. Dappled shadows layered the Gardens’ colors in oddly knit patterns of black and white. Tiny life forms that awoke with darkness skittered and flew with sudden, invisible bursts that left no trace of their passing.

  In the midst of it all, solitary and ignored atop the small hillock that overlooked the homeland of the Elves, the wondrous tree they called the Ellcrys continued its slow, inevitable march toward death. The long journey had begun to take its toll. The perfect beauty that had marked the Ellcrys in health was gone, the perfect symmetry of her form marred and broken. Silver bark peeled away from trunk and limbs, black and rotting, hanging in strips like tattered skin. Blood-red leaves curled tight with wilt, a scattering of those that had already fallen dotting the earth beneath, dried and withered husks, rustling with the wind. Like some weathered scarecrow set upon a pole above the fields, she stood stark and skeletal against the night horizon.