The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  “When Amberle was made a Chosen, the first woman in five hundred years, there was no small amount of surprise among the Elves. But the selection of Amberle had far greater significance than anyone realized because the Ellcrys in making her choice was looking upon the girl as a possible successor. And more than that really. She was looking upon Amberle as a mother would her unborn child. An odd characterization you might argue, but consider the circumstances. If the tree were to die, she would then produce a seed, and that seed and Amberle would become one, a new Ellcrys born in part at least from the old. The selection of Amberle was made with that foreknowledge, and it necessarily entailed much of the feeling that a mother would bear for an unborn child. Physically the woman that had been the Ellcrys had changed, but emotionally she retained much of what she had been. Something of this the tree sensed in the Elven girl. That was why they were so close in the beginning.”

  He reflected a moment. “Unfortunately it was this closeness that eventually caused problems. When I first came to Arborlon, awakened by the erosion of the Forbidding and the threatened crossover of the Demons, I went to the Gardens of Life to speak with the Ellcrys. She told me that after her selection of Amberle as a Chosen, she attempted to strengthen the ties that bound the Elven girl to her. She did this because she felt the sickness within her growing. Her life, she realized, was coming to an end; the seed that was beginning even then to form within her was to be passed to Amberle. In her dying, she responded to the girl with that same mothering instinct. She wanted to prepare her for what was to come, to see something of the beauty and grace and peace that she had enjoyed in her life. She wanted Amberle to be able to appreciate what it meant to become one with the land, to see its evolution through the years, to experience its changes—in short, I suppose, to understand a little of the growing up that a mother knows and a child does not.”

  Wil nodded slowly. He was thinking of the dream that Amberle and he had shared after the King of the Silver River had rescued them from the Demons. In that dream they had searched for each other—he within a beautiful garden, so breathtaking that it had made him want to cry; she in darkness, calling out as he stood there but would not answer. Neither had understood that the dream was a prophecy. Neither had understood that the King of the Silver River had given them a glimpse of what was destined to be.

  The Druid continued. “The Ellcrys was well intentioned, but overzealous. She frightened Amberle with her visions and her constant motherings and her stealing away of Amberle’s identity. The Elven girl was not yet ready for the transition that the Ellcrys was so anxious for her to make. She became frightened and angry, and she left Arborlon. The Ellcrys did not understand; she kept waiting for Amberle to come back. When the sickness grew irreversible and the seed was completely formed, she called the Chosen to her.”

  “But not Amberle?” Wil was listening closely now.

  “No, not Amberle. She thought Amberle would come on her own, you see. She did not want to send for her because, when she had done that before, it had only driven the girl further away. She was certain that once Amberle knew that she was dying, the girl would come. Unfortunately there was less time remaining to her than she thought. The Forbidding began to erode, and she could not maintain it. A handful of the Demons broke through and the Chosen were slain—all but Amberle. When I appeared, the Ellcrys was desperate. She told me that Amberle must be found, so I went to seek her out.”

  A hint of renewed bitterness darkened the Valeman’s face.

  “Then you knew at Havenstead that the Ellcrys still considered Amberle a Chosen.”

  “I knew.”

  “And you knew that she would give Amberle the seed to bear.”

  “I will save you the trouble of asking further questions. I knew everything. The Druid histories at Paranor revealed to me the truth of how the Ellcrys had come into being—the truth of how she must come into being again.”

  There was a brief hesitation. “Understand something, Valeman. I cared for this girl also. I had no desire to deceive her, if you wish to characterize my omissions as deceptions. But it was necessary that Amberle discover the truth about herself another way than through me. I gave her a path to follow; I did not give her a map that would explain its twists and turns. Such choices as might be necessary I thought were hers. Neither you, I, nor anyone else had the right to make those choices for her. Only she had that right.”

  Wil Ohmsford’s eyes lowered. “Perhaps so. And perhaps it would have been better if she had known from the beginning where that path you set her upon would end.” He shook his head slowly. “Odd. I thought that hearing the truth about everything that has happened would help somehow. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t help at all.”

  There was a long silence. Then Wil looked up again. “In any case, I do not have the right to blame you for what has happened. You did what you had to do—I know that. I know that the choices were really Amberle’s. I know. But to lose her like this—it’s so hard …” He trailed off.

  The Druid nodded. “I am sorry, Valeman.”

  He started to rise, and Wil asked suddenly, “Why did you wake me now, Allanon? To tell me this?”

  The big man straightened, black and faceless. “To tell you this, and to tell you goodbye, Wil Ohmsford.”

  Wil stared up at him. “Goodbye?”

  “Until another day, Valeman.”

  “But … where are you going?”

  There was no response. Wil felt himself grow sleepy again; the Druid was letting him drift back into the slumber from which he had been awakened. Stubbornly he fought against it. There were things yet to be said, and he meant to say them. Allanon could not leave him like this, disappearing into the night as unexpectedly as he had come, cloaked and hooded like some thief who feared that even the slightest glimpse of his face might give him away…

  A sudden suspicion crossed his mind in that instant. Weakly he stretched forth his hand and caught the front of the Druid’s robe.

  “Allanon.”

  Silence filled the little sleeping room.

  “Allanon—let me see your face.”

  For a moment he thought the Druid had not heard him. Allanon stood motionlessly at his bedside, staring down from the shadows of his robe. The Valeman waited. Then slowly the Druid’s big hands reached up and pulled back the hood.

  “Allanon!” Wil Ohmsford whispered.

  The Druid’s hair and beard, once coal black, were shot through with streaks of gray. Allanon had aged!

  “The price one pays for use of the magic.” Allanon’s smile was slow and mocking. “This time I fear that I used too much; it drained more from me than I wished to give.” He shrugged. “There is only so much life allotted to each of us, Valeman—only so much and no more.”

  “Allanon,” Wil cried softly. “Allanon, I’m sorry. Don’t go yet.”

  Allanon replaced the hood, and his hand stretched down to grasp Wil’s. “It is time for me to go. We both need to rest. Sleep well, Wil Ohmsford. Try not to think ill of me; I believe that Amberle would not. Be comforted in this: You are a Healer, and a Healer must preserve life. You have done so here—for the Elves, for the Westland. And though Amberle may seem lost to you, remember that she may be found always within the land. Touch it, and she will be with you.”

  He stepped away into the dark and pinched out the candle’s flame.

  “Don’t go,” Wil called out sleepily.

  “Goodbye, Wil.” The deep voice drifted out of a fog. “Tell Flick that he was right about me. He will like that.”

  “Allanon,” The Valeman mumbled softly and then he was asleep.

  Through the dimly lit corridors of the Elessedil home the Druid stole, as silent as the shadows of the night. Home Guard patrolled these corridors, Elven Hunters who had fought and survived in the battle of the Elfitch, hard men and not easily moved. Yet they stepped aside for Allanon; something in the Druid’s glance suggested that they should.

  Moments later he stood within the bedcham
ber of the Elven King, the door closing softly behind him. Candlelight illuminated the room with a dim, hazy glow that seeped through the gloom into shadowed corners and hidden nooks with a blind man’s touch. Windows stood closed and drapes drawn, masking the room in silence. On a wide double bed at the far end of the chamber lay Eventine, swathed in bandages and linen sheets. At his side Ander dozed fitfully in a high-backed wicker chair.

  Wordlessly Allanon came forward and stopped at the foot of the bed. The old King slept, his breathing ragged and slow, his skin the color of new parchment. The end of his life was near. It was the passing of an age, the Druid thought. They would all be gone now, all those who had stood against the Warlock Lord, all those who had aided in the quest for the elusive Sword of Shannara—all but the Ohmsfords, Shea and Flick.

  A grim, ironic smile passed slowly across his lips. And himself, of course. He was still there. He was always there.

  Beneath the linen coverings, Eventine stirred. It will happen now, Allanon told himself. For the first time that night, a touch of bitterness showed in his hard face.

  Silently he moved back within the concealing shadows at the rear of the room and waited.

  Ander Elessedil came awake with a start. Eyes blurred with sleep, he peered guardedly about the empty bedchamber, searching for ghosts that were not there. A frightening sense of aloneness swept through him. So many of those who should have been there were not—Arion, Pindanon, Crispin, Ehlron Tay, Kerrin. All dead.

  He slumped back in the wicker chair, weariness numbing him until he could feel nothing but the ache of joints and muscles. How long had he slept, he wondered? He didn’t know. Gael would be back soon, bringing food and drink, and together they would keep this vigil, watching over the stricken King. Waiting.

  Memories haunted him, memories of his father and what had been, spectral images of the past, of times and places and events that would never be again. They were bittersweet, a reminder both of the happiness shared and its transience. On balance, he would have preferred that the memories leave him in peace this night.

  He thought suddenly of his father and Amberle, of the special affection they had felt for each other, the closeness that had been lost and found again—gone now, all of it. It was difficult even now to comprehend the transformation that Amberle had undergone. He had to keep reminding himself that it was real, that it was not imagined. He could still see the little Wing Rider, Perk, telling him what he had witnessed, his child’s face awestruck and frightened all at once, so determined and so concerned that he should not be doubted.

  His head tilted back and his eyes closed. Few knew the truth yet. He was still undecided as to whether or not it should remain that way.

  “Ander.”

  He jerked upright, and his father’s penetrating blue eyes met his own. He was so surprised that, for an instant, he simply stared down at the old man.

  “Ander—what has happened?”

  The Elven King’s voice was a thin, harsh whisper in the stillness. Quickly Ander knelt down beside him.

  “It is over,” he replied softly. “We have won. The Demons are locked once more within the Forbidding. The Ellcrys …”

  He could not finish. He did not have the words. His father’s hand slipped from beneath the coverings to find his own.

  “Amberle?”

  Ander took a deep breath, and there were tears in his eyes. He forced himself to meet his father’s gaze.

  “Safe,” he whispered. “Resting now.”

  There was a long pause. A trace of a smile slipped across his father’s face.

  Then his eyes closed. A moment later he was dead.

  Allanon stood within the shadows several minutes more before stepping forward.

  “Ander,” he called softly.

  The Elven Prince rose, releasing his father’s hand. “He’s gone, Allanon.”

  “And you are King. Be the King he would have wanted you to be.”

  Ander turned, his eyes searching. “Did you know, Allanon? I have wondered often since Baen Draw. Did you know that all this would happen, that I would be King?”

  The Druid’s features seemed to close in about him momentarily, and his dark face lost all expression. “I could not have prevented from happening that which happened, Elven Prince,” he replied slowly. “I could only try to prepare you for what was to be.”

  “Then you knew?”

  Allanon nodded. “I knew. I am a Druid.”

  Ander took a deep breath. “I will do the best that I can, Allanon.”

  “Then you will do well, Ander Elessedil.”

  He watched the Elven Prince move back to the dead King, saw him cover his father as he would a sleeping child, then kneel once more at the bedside.

  Allanon turned and slipped noiselessly from the room, from the manor house, from the city, and from the land. No one saw him go.

  It was dawn when Wil Ohmsford was shaken gently awake, silver-gray light seeping through curtained windows to chase the fading dark. His eyes blinked slowly open and he found himself staring up at Perk.

  “Wil?” The little Wing Rider’s face was a mask of seriousness.

  “Hello, Perk.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “A little better, I think.”

  “That’s good.” Perk tried a quick smile. “I was really worried.”

  Wil smiled back. “Me, too.”

  Perk sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  The youth nodded. “I should have left last night, but I had to rest Genewen. She was pretty tired after that long flight. But I have to leave now. I should have been back at the Wing Hove two days ago. They will probably be searching for me.” He paused. “But they’ll understand when I explain what happened. They won’t be mad.”

  “I hope not. I wouldn’t want that.”

  “My Uncle Dayn said he would explain it to them, too. Did you know that my Uncle Dayn was here, Wil? My grandfather sent him. Uncle Dayn said I acted like a true Wing Rider. He said what Genewen and I did was very important.”

  Wil pushed himself up slightly against his pillows. “So it was, Perk. Very important.”

  “I couldn’t just leave you. I knew you might need me.”

  “We needed you very much.”

  “And I didn’t think my grandfather would mind if I disobeyed just this once.”

  “I don’t think he will mind.”

  Perk looked down at his hands. “Wil, I’m sorry about the Lady Amberle. I really am.”

  Wil nodded slowly. “I know, Perk.”

  “She really was enchanted, wasn’t she? She was enchanted and the enchantment turned her into the tree.” He looked up quickly. “That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To turn into the tree so the Demons would disappear? That was the way it was supposed to be?”

  The Valeman swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “I was really scared, you know,” Perk said quietly. “I wasn’t sure whether that was supposed to happen or not. It was so sudden. She never said anything about it to me before it happened, so when it did happen it scared me.”

  “I don’t think she wanted to scare you.”

  “No, I don’t think so either.”

  “She just didn’t have time enough to explain.”

  Perk shrugged. “Oh, I know that. It was just so sudden.”

  They were quiet a moment, and then the little Wing Rider rose. “I just wanted to say goodbye, Wil. Would you come visit me sometime? Or I could come to see you—but that wouldn’t be until I’m older. My family won’t let me fly out of the Westland.”

  “I will come visit you,” Wil promised. “Soon.”

  Perk gave a sort of half-wave and walked to the door. His hand was on the latch when he paused and glanced back at the Valeman.

  “I really liked her, Wil—a whole lot.”

  “I liked her, too, Perk.”

  The little
Wing Rider smiled briefly and disappeared through the door.

  54

  They went home then, all those who had come to Arborlon to stand with the Elves, all but two.

  The Wing Riders went first, at the dawn of the day that began the reign of Ander Elessedil as the new King of the Land Elves—three who remained of the five who had flown north together and the boy called Perk. They left quietly, with barely a word to anyone but the young King, and were gone before the sun fully crested the eastern forests, their golden-hued Rocs chasing after the disappearing night like the first rays of the morning sun.

  At midday the Rock Trolls departed, Amantar at their head, as fierce and proud as when they had come, weapons raised in salute as the Elven people gathered along the streets and in the tree-lanes to cheer their passing. For the first time in more than a thousand years, Troll and Elf parted not as enemies, but as friends.

  The Dwarves stayed several days longer, lending to the Elves the benefit of their vast engineering expertise by assisting in the drafting of plans for the rebuilding of the shattered Elfitch. A most difficult task lay ahead in that rebuilding, for not only was it necessary to replace the demolished fifth rampway, but most of the remainder of the structure was in need of shoring up as well. It was the kind of challenge that the redoubtable Browork relished; with the aid of those Sappers yet able to work, he traced for the Elves the steps by which the task might best be accomplished. When finally he did take leave of Ander and the Elven people, he did so with the promise that another company of Dwarf Sappers—one in better condition to serve than his own—would be sent at once to give whatever aid was necessary.

  “We know that we can depend upon the Dwarves.” Ander gripped Browork’s rough hand in parting.

  “Always,” the crusty Dwarf agreed with a nod. “See that you remember that when we have need of you.”