The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  “Now and then.” The old man rubbed himself gingerly. “Age catching up to me, I guess. But I can still outwork the young ones they give me for help.”

  Ander nodded once more, knowing the old man’s boast was simple truth. Went should have retired years ago, but he’d stubbornly refused to give up his duties.

  As Ander made his way through the front gate, the sentries on watch nodded in greeting, and he nodded back. The guards and he had long since dispensed with formalities. Arion, as Crown Prince, might insist on being treated deferentially, but Ander’s position and expectations were somewhat less.

  He followed the line of the roadway as it curved left around some decorative bushes toward the stables. Then a thunder of hooves and a shout broke the morning quiet. Ander leaped aside as Arion’s gray stallion plunged toward him, scattering gravel and rearing to a sudden halt.

  Before the horse was fully at rest, Arion was off and facing his brother. Where Ander was short and dark, Arion was tall and fair, and his resemblance to their father at the same age was striking. That, together with the fact that he was a superb athlete and an accomplished weapons master, hunter and horseman made it inevitable that he should be Eventine’s pride and joy. There was also a compelling charisma about Arion—a charisma that Ander had always felt lacking within himself.

  “Where bound, little brother?” Arion asked. As usual, when speaking to the younger Prince, his tone held a slight hint of mockery and contempt. “I wouldn’t bother our father, if I were you. He and I were up late working on some rather pressing matters of state. He was still sleeping when I looked in.”

  “I was heading for the stables,” Ander replied quietly. “I had no intention of bothering anyone.”

  Arion grinned, then turned back to his horse. With a hand on the pommel, he leaped lightly into the saddle, disregarding the stirrup. Then he turned to look down at his brother. “Well, I’m off to the Sarandanon for a few days. The people in the farming communities are all stirred up—some old fairy tale of doom overtaking us all. A lot of nonsense, but I’ve got to settle them down. Don’t get your hopes up, though. I’ll be back before father leaves for the Kershalt.” He grinned. “In the meantime, little brother, look after things, will you?”

  He flipped the reins and was off in a rush that carried him through the gates and away. Ander swore softly to himself and turned back. He was no longer in a mood to go riding.

  He should have been the one to accompany the King on the mission of state to the Kershalt. Strengthening the ties between the Trolls and the Elves was important. And while the groundwork had already been laid, it would still require diplomacy and careful negotiating. Arion was too impatient and reckless, with too little feeling for the needs and ideas of others. Ander might lack his brother’s physical skills—though he was capable enough—and he might lack as well Arion’s natural flair for leadership. But he possessed a gift for thorough, deliberate reasoning and the patience needed in diplomatic councils. On the few occasions when he had been called on, he’d demonstrated such abilities.

  He shrugged. There was no sense in dwelling on it now, however. He had already appealed to Eventine to go on the journey and been turned down in favor of Arion. Arion would be King someday; he must have the practice at statescraft he needed while Eventine still lived to guide him. And maybe that made sense, Ander conceded.

  Once, Arion and he had been close. That was when Aine was alive—Aine, the youngest of the Elessedil sons. But Aine had been killed in a hunting accident eleven years ago, and after that the bond of kinship had no longer been enough. Amberle, Aine’s young daughter, had turned to Ander for support, not to Arion, and the older brother’s jealousy had soon manifested itself in open contempt. Then when Amberle had forsaken her position as one of the Chosen, Arion had blamed his brother’s influence, and his contempt had degenerated into thinly masked hostility. Now Ander suspected their father’s mind was being poisoned against him. But there was nothing he could do about it.

  Still deep in thought, he was passing through the gates down the pathway to his house when a shout brought him around.

  “My Lord Prince, wait!”

  Ander stared in surprise at the sight of a white-robed figure running toward him, one arm waving frantically. It was one of the Chosen, the redheaded one—Lauren, wasn’t that his name? It was unusual to see any of them outside the Gardens at this hour. He waited until the young Elf reached him, stumbling to a weary halt, face and arms streaked with sweat.

  “My Lord Prince, I must see the King,” the Chosen gasped. “And they won’t let me through, not until later. Can you take me to him now?”

  Ander hesitated. “The King is still asleep …”

  “I must see him at once!” the other insisted. “Please! This cannot wait!”

  There was desperation in his eyes and on his strained, white face. His voice was cracking with his attempt to emphasize the urgency that was driving him. Ander deliberated, wondering what could be that important. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, Lauren, maybe I …”

  “It’s not me, my Lord Prince. It’s the Ellcrys!”

  Ander’s indecision vanished. He nodded and took Lauren’s arm. “Come with me.”

  Together they hurried back through the gates toward the manor house, the sentries staring after them in surprise.

  Gael, the young Elf who served as personal aide to Eventine Elessedil, shook his head firmly—yet within his dark morning robe his slim form shifted uneasily and his eyes refused to meet those of Ander. “I cannot waken the King, Prince Ander. He told me—very strongly—not to bother him for anything.”

  “Or anyone, Gael?” Ander asked softly. “Not even for Arion?”

  “Arion has left …” Gael began. Then he halted and looked even more unhappy.

  “Precisely. But I am here. Are you really going to tell me that I cannot see my father?”

  Gael did not answer. Then, as Ander started toward the King’s bedroom, the young Elf hurried past him. “I’ll wake him. Please wait here.”

  It was several minutes before he came out again, his face still troubled, but he nodded toward Ander. “He will see you, Prince Ander. But for now, just you.”

  The King was still in his bed as Ander entered, finishing the small glass of wine that Gael must have poured for him. He nodded at his son, then slipped gingerly from beneath the warmth of the bedcovers, his aging body shivering for an instant in the early morning coolness of the room. Gael, who had come in with Ander, was holding out a robe, and Eventine drew it about him, belting it snugly at the waist.

  Despite his eighty-two years, Eventine Elessedil was in excellent health. His body was trim and hard. He was still able to ride, still quick and sure enough to be dangerous with a sword. His mind was sharp and alert; when the situation demanded it, as the situation frequently did, he was decisive. He still possessed that uncanny sense of balance, of proportion—the capability of seeing all sides of an issue, of judging each on its merits, and of choosing almost without exception that which would work the greatest benefit to himself and to those he ruled. It was a gift without which he could not have stayed King—would not even have stayed alive. It was a gift Ander had some reason to believe he had inherited, though it seemed worthless enough, in his present circumstances.

  The King crossed to the handwoven curtains that draped the far wall, drew them aside, and pushed outward several of the floor-length windows that opened into the forest beyond. Light flooded the chamber, soft and sweet, and the smell of morning dew. Behind him, Gael was moving silently about, lighting the oil lamps to chase the last of the gloom from the corners of the chamber. Eventine hesitated before a window, staring fixedly for an instant at the reflection of his face in the misted glass. The eyes mirrored there were startlingly blue, hard and penetrating, the eyes of a man who has seen too many years and too much unpleasantness. He sighed and turned to face Ander.

  “All right, Ander, what’s this all about? Gael said something about y
our bringing one of the Chosen with a message?”

  “Yes, sir. He claims he has an urgent message from the Ellcrys.”

  “A message from the tree?” Eventine frowned. “How long has it been since she gave a message to anyone—over seven hundred years? What was the message?”

  “He wouldn’t tell it to me,” Ander replied. “He insists on delivering the message to you.”

  Eventine nodded. “Then deliver it he shall. Show him in, Gael.”

  Gael bowed slightly and hurried out through the chamber doors, leaving them slightly ajar. A moment later a huge, shaggy dog pushed his way through and padded noiselessly to the King. It was Manx, his wolfhound, and he greeted the animal fondly, rubbing the grizzled head, stroking softly the rough coat along the back and flanks. Manx had been with him almost ten years, closer and more faithful than any man could have been.

  “Getting a bit gray—like me,” Eventine muttered ruefully.

  The doors opened wide to admit Gael, followed by Lauren. The Chosen paused in the doorway for a moment, glancing uncertainly at Gael. The King nodded to his aide, dismissing him. Ander was about to leave as well when a slight motion from his father indicated he was to remain. Gael bowed again and left, this time closing the doors tightly behind him. When he was gone, the Chosen came forward a pace.

  “My Lord, please forgive … they thought that I … I should be the one …” He was almost choking on the words.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Eventine assured him. With a charm that Ander had always known his father could display, the King came forward quickly and put his arm about the young Elf’s shoulders. “I know this must be very important to you or you would not have left your work in the Gardens. Here, sit down and tell me about it.”

  He glanced questioningly at Ander, then guided the Chosen to a small writing table at one side of the room, seating him in one of two chairs while he took the other. Ander followed them over, but remained standing.

  “Your name is Lauren, isn’t it?” Eventine asked the Chosen.

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Very well, Lauren. Now tell me why you’ve come.”

  Lauren drew himself up and placed his hands on the table, folding the fingers together tightly.

  “My Lord, the Ellcrys spoke to the Chosen this morning.” His words were almost a whisper. “She told us … she told us that she is dying!”

  Ander felt his blood turn cold. For an instant, the King did not respond, but sat rigidly in place, his eyes fixed on the speaker.

  “There must be a mistake,” he said at last.

  Lauren shook his head emphatically. “There is no mistake, my Lord. She spoke to all of us. We … we all heard. She is dying. The Forbidding has already begun to crumble.”

  The King rose slowly and walked to the open window, staring wordlessly out into the forest. Manx, who had curled up at the foot of the bed, rose and followed him. Ander saw the King’s hand stray down to scratch the dog’s ears mechanically.

  “You are certain of this, Lauren?” Eventine asked. “Very certain?”

  “Yes … yes.”

  He was crying softly, almost soundlessly, at the table, his face buried in his hands. Eventine did not turn, but continued to stare fixedly into the woodlands that were his home and the home of his people.

  Ander was frozen, his eyes on his father, his mind still dazed with shock. The enormity of what he had heard slowly took hold. The Ellcrys dying! The Forbidding ending. The evil that had been shut away free once more. Chaos, madness, war! In the end, the destruction of everything.

  He had studied history under his tutors and again in the books of his own library. It was a history that bore the trappings of legend.

  Once, long ago, in a time before the Great Wars, before the dawn of civilization in the old world, even before the emergence of the old race of Man, there had been a war between creatures of good and evil magics. The Elves had fought in that war on the side of good. It had been a long, terrible, devastating struggle. But in the end, the forces of good were victorious and the forces of evil were cast down. Yet the nature of the evil was such that it could not be totally destroyed; it could only be banished. Therefore, the Elven people and their allies pooled their magics with the life-force of the earth itself to create the Ellcrys, so that by her presence a Forbidding would be placed upon the creatures of evil. So long as the Ellcrys survived and flourished, the evil could not return upon the earth. Locked in a void of darkness, it might wail in anguish behind the wall of the Forbidding, but the earth was lost to it.

  Until now! But if the Ellcrys were to die, the Forbidding must end. It had been written that this must come to pass, for no power could be so strong that it could endure forever. Yet it had seemed that the Ellcrys would, so many generations had it been there, changeless, a fixed point in a shifting maze of life. The Elven people had come to believe it would always be so. Wrongly, it seemed. Foolishly.

  The King turned sharply, glanced briefly at Ander, and moved back to the table, reseating himself and taking Lauren’s hands in his own to steady him. “You must tell me everything that she said to you, Lauren. Every detail. Leave nothing out.”

  The Chosen nodded wordlessly. His eyes were dry once more, his face calm. Eventine released his hands and sat back expectantly. Ander pulled over a high-backed chair from across the room and seated himself next to them.

  “My Lord, you have heard of the form of her communication with us?” he asked cautiously.

  “I was a Chosen once, Lauren,” Eventine answered. Ander stared at his father in surprise. This was something he had never known. But Lauren seemed to gain a measure of confidence from the answer. He nodded, turning to Ander to explain.

  “Her voice is actually not a voice of sound, but one of images that appear in our minds. There are seldom words as such; the words are our own translation of the thoughts she projects. That is how I translate when she uses my name. The images are brief and not fully drawn, and we have to interpret them as best we can.”

  He paused and turned back to Eventine. “I … the Ellcrys has never spoken to me more than once before this morning, my Lord. She had spoken to the six of us only at the time of our choosing. Until this morning, most of what we knew of her communication was based upon the writings of our Order and the teachings of the Chosen who have served before. Even now, it is very confusing.”

  Eventine nodded encouragingly. Lauren continued.

  “My Lord, the Ellcrys spoke to us at great length this morning, something she has never done before. She called us to her and told us what was to be and what we, the Chosen, must do. The images were not entirely clear, but there can be no mistake that she is dying. Her time is short; how much time remains isn’t certain. Already the erosion has begun. And as she fails, the Forbidding will fail with her. There is only one chance for her—a rebirth.”

  Eventine’s hand shot forth, gripping Lauren’s. Ander too had forgotten—shocked and confused by the Ellcrys’ forecast of her death. A rebirth! It was written in the oldest histories that the Ellcrys could be reborn and the Forbidding preserved.

  “Then there is still hope,” he whispered.

  Eventine’s eyes were fixed on Lauren. “What must be done to give her this rebirth?”

  Lauren shook his head. “My Lord, she has entrusted her fate to the Chosen. Only through us will she permit herself to be reborn. I do not pretend to understand her reasons, but the images were clear. She will deliver her seed to one of us—which, she did not say. No face was shown. But it was made known that only one of the Chosen who were selected by her this last time can receive that seed. No other will be considered. Whoever is selected must carry the seed to the life source of the earth—to the fountain of the Bloodfire. There the seed must be immersed within the fire by the bearer. Once returned to the site of the old tree, the seed will take root and a new tree will spring forth to replace the old.”

  The details of the legend were coming back to Ander now—the bearing o
f the Ellcrys seed, the ritual of the Bloodfire, the rebirth. It was told in the strange, formal language of the oldest histories—histories that most of the people had forgotten or never known.

  “The fountain of the Bloodfire—where is it to be found?” he asked abruptly.

  Lauren looked miserable. “A place was shown us, my Lord Prince, but … but we could not recognize it. The images were vague, almost as if she lacked the ability to describe it properly.”

  Eventine’s voice remained calm. “Tell me what you were shown. Everything.”

  Lauren nodded. “There was a wilderness with mountains and swamp all around. There was a deep mist that came and went. Within the wilderness was a lone peak and beneath the peak a maze of tunnels that burrowed deep within the earth. Somewhere within the maze there was a door made of glass—glass that could not break. Behind the door was the Bloodfire.”

  “No names for any of the parts of this puzzle?” the King asked patiently.

  “Only one, my lord. But it was a name we did not recognize. The maze in which the Bloodfire lies hidden appears to be called Safehold.”

  Safehold? Ander searched his memory, but the name meant nothing to him.

  Eventine glanced at Ander and shook his head. He rose to his feet, walked several paces from the table, then stopped abruptly. He turned back to Lauren. “Is there nothing more that you were told? No hints—bits that might not seem to have any meaning?”

  “Nothing. That was all.”

  The King nodded slowly to the young Elf. “Very well, Lauren. You were right in insisting I be told at once. Now, will you wait outside for a little while?”

  When the door had closed behind the Chosen, Eventine walked back to his chair and lowered himself slowly. His face seemed to have aged terribly and his movements were those of an old, old man. Manx moved over in front of him, and the grizzled face stared upward sympathetically. Eventine sighed and moved his hand tiredly to the dog’s head.

  “Have I lived too long?” he muttered. “If the Ellcrys dies, how can I protect my people from what will happen then? I am their King; the responsibility for their protection is mine. I have always accepted that. Yet for the first time in my life, I wish it were otherwise …”