Wards of Faerie

  Finally, Allanon moved, his black cloak shimmering. Slowly, he began to withdraw from her, sliding back across the Hadeshorn.

  “Don’t, Allanon!” she called after him. “Don’t go!”

  His voice hissed softly.

  –For now, I must. Wait for me to come again–

  Then his black form sank from sight and was gone, leaving her to stare at the empty lake as the first tinges of sunlight crested the jagged rims of the distant mountains and stained the waters brilliant gold.

  In Paranor, Aphenglow rose, dressed, and left Bombax sleeping in her bed. She had missed him terribly in the time she had been away in Arborlon, but not so much, it appeared, as he had missed her. At some point, they would be wed and she would bear his children. But that was in the distant future, for the Druids were not allowed to partner formally. Partnering for Aphenglow, as for most Elves, was just a word. The Elven kind bonded with hearts and a sense of commitment far stronger than what could be written or spoken. It was enough if you knew that your choice was for life. She and Bombax had promised themselves to each other long ago, shortly after meeting, knowing even then that they were meant to be together. Their union was as strong now as it would be when officially recorded or celebrated in public, and they were pledged never to belong to anyone but each other.

  So she slept with him as a wife would with her husband, and she would be true to him until death.

  She thought this as she left him and walked the empty halls of the Keep, searching for a place to begin her day. She carried with her the diary, intending to read it through once again, to think carefully on Aleia Omarosian’s words, to consider all possible ramifications. The Ard Rhys had asked them to look once again at everything, and she would do that now.

  Or shortly after brewing tea and eating toasted bread for her morning meal, anyway.

  After rereading the contents of the diary, she spent the better part of the day conversing with the others about possible interpretations of the phrasing and ideas for starting points in their search. But all of them had the same read on the diary’s entries and no fresh ideas for where to begin a search. Aphenglow kept thinking she was missing something, but try as she might she could not decide what that something was.

  The day was nearly done when she trudged up the long stairways to the rooms that housed the Druid histories and provided Woostra with his working space. The hallway leading to these rooms was already dappled with twilight shadows when she reached them, the sunlight gone so far west that it cast almost no light. Soon, triggered by the descending darkness, the smokeless lamps would begin to burn, giving a warmer glow to spaces that now already seemed cold and abandoned.

  She was almost to the library doors before she glimpsed the soft glow of lamps Woostra must have already lit. She knocked and waited.

  “Come,” Woostra called from somewhere inside.

  He was deep in a warren of rooms that housed the Druid papers, poring through sheaves of writings and clusters of files. It looked chaotic to Aphenglow, but Woostra seemed untroubled by the clutter. His head buried in an ancient tome, shoulders hunched as he bent over his worktable, he didn’t even bother to look up at her as she entered.

  “What is it?”

  She sat down on the end of a bench that was otherwise stacked with books and papers and files. “I just wondered if you had found anything.”

  “No, I haven’t. Anyway, I don’t report to you. I report to the Ard Rhys.”

  He was so abrupt about it she was taken aback. “I was just asking.”

  She got up and started to walk out, and she was almost to the door when he called after her. “Aphenglow, wait.” She turned around. His head had lifted out of the book he had been absorbed in and there was a hint of contrition on his lean features. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I know you’re busy. You don’t need me bothering you while you are trying to do your work.”

  “It’s not you who’s causing me trouble. It’s someone else. Close the door. Come back in and take a seat. I’ve something to tell you.”

  Intrigued, she did as he asked and resumed her position on the bench. “Is something wrong?”

  The narrow, bladed features wrinkled in distaste. “Something is always wrong. That’s the trouble with this order. Or maybe all Druid orders. Something is always wrong. And usually we cannot do anything about it. We just nudge it aside and hope for the best.”

  He seemed genuinely distressed, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “Is there something in particular that needs fixing?”

  He shook his head dismissively. “No, no. I’m just rambling. I get discouraged sometimes. I expect you do, too. We are faced with such obstacles, and we have so little support for our work. The Ard Rhys has given her entire life to helping the Races and they barely acknowledge her efforts. Mostly, they just want her—all of us, for that matter—gone. I might be only a scribe, not a Druid like the rest of you, but I have adopted your commitment and effort as my own. I have become one of you in all the ways that matter.”

  She smiled gently. “You have, Woostra. No one would argue that. You have done more for us than anyone, and I cannot imagine how we would manage without you.”

  Her words seemed to perk him up a bit, and he mumbled a few self-effacing phrases as a way of putting the matter to rest.

  “We’re all tired and discouraged sometimes,” she added. “You are not alone in feeling that way.”

  “Well, that might be so, but it still isn’t any reason for snapping at people.” He backed away from his worktable and swung his chair around so he was facing her. “I let personal feelings intrude on common sense. I was distressed over something that happened earlier and took it out on you. And I shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s all right,” she repeated.

  He shook his head dismissively. “Enough. On to other matters. I have something important to tell you, as I said. I have been searching our own histories and papers, and in the course of doing so I found something unexpected about Aleia Omarosian.”

  He leaned forward. “I had thought that what I would find would have something to do with her parents, who were King and Queen of the Elven people at different points in their lives, the one right after the other. I also thought it was odd Aleia died so young and there was no explanation as to what had become of her. It seemed to me that if anything were to be found, it would be in the chronicles of those times, in the records of the families. What we have is incomplete and rather scant, but I thought there was a chance. But do you know what, Aphen?”

  She shook her head. “What?”

  He paused. “Now you must promise me first. I have a duty to report my findings to the Ard Rhys, and technically I shouldn’t tell anyone else before I tell her—not even one of her Druid followers. But I like you and trust you, and you were the one who brought the diary here in the first place. So that gives you special dispensation, in my opinion. Still, I need your word. Until I speak of this to the Ard Rhys, you must keep it to yourself. Tell no one, not even Bombax. Can you do that?”

  “I can,” she said at once. “I promise I will not tell anyone.” She gave him a wry smile. “Especially not Bombax.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Woostra rubbed his bony chin. “So it turns out I was looking in the wrong place. What I wanted wasn’t to be found in the records of the Elven Kings and Queens. It was right here.”

  He took the ancient tome he had been studying when she entered and handed it to her, pointing at an entry.

  The lettering at the top of the page spelled out a single word.

  Aphenglow bent close and began to read.

  Khyber Elessedil slept most of the day, curled up close by the shoreline of the Hadeshorn while the sun crept out of the eastern horizon and slowly worked its way across the sky toward twilight. She fell asleep not long after the departure of the shade of Allanon, exhausted from the previous day. Facing Allanon’s ghost had been stressful, and she s
till wasn’t certain when she woke at sunset if he intended to help her.

  She could assume that his promise to return indicated he would at least consider answering some of her questions, but the extent of his willingness remained in doubt. He’d told her almost nothing of value when they talked before, and his recalcitrant attitude toward and outright disdain of her commitment to the tenets of the Fourth Druid Order suggested he was less than enthusiastic about what she was attempting. Dismissive, in point of fact. She knew he was a hard, secretive man; she had read the chronicles of his time and knew he had been the only Druid alive when the Sword of Shannara was recovered and brought to bear against the Warlock Lord. She had read how he led the Elven struggle to withstand the collapse of the Forbidding and repel the invasion of the escaping demons. Finally, she had read how he’d died in his quest to destroy the Ildatch, killed by a terrible creature called a Jachyra. His death had marked the end of any Druid presence for three hundred years.

  She had read it all, and she could tell from those readings that Allanon had been a powerful influence on the Races during his life. He had fought for their survival and died doing so. Nothing of what she had discovered suggested that he would be any different in death than he had been in life.

  But she had hoped he might be more sympathetic to her struggle and consider trying to do something to help her.

  When sunset approached and she was awake again and at least marginally rested, she rose and ate and drank from her small supply of provisions. She had come prepared to spend more than a single day in her efforts to summon one among the dead who would help her. That it was Allanon who had appeared had given her hope and raised her expectations that her needs were recognized and embraced. It was only in the unsettling aftermath of their talk that she wondered if she had been mistaken.

  But she resumed her place at the water’s edge and waited as he had commanded, hopeful that this time she might gain more from their meeting. If he reappeared at all, she added, her doubts nudging at her like a rock in her boot pressing into her sole. The sun slipped below the horizon and a scattering of stars came out. Khyber settled herself to wait, recounting over and over what she knew about Aleia Omarosian and the theft of the Stones.

  Doubts plagued her, and for the first time a sense of inadequacy took root. She was Ard Rhys and a proven leader with years of life experience in the study and use of magic. She had survived much during those years and had guided the Druid order with a steady hand. But her followers were few and mostly untested. They were brave and they were committed, but they were also young. Pleysia, at thirty-six, was the oldest, and that was not old at all. Even if Khyber found a way to go and was given a map to follow, how dangerous would it be to make the journey, and how prepared were her Druids to undertake it? She did not feel easy in her heart at the thought of it; she did not think them much prepared at all.

  But then others before her had undertaken equally dangerous challenges and completed them. Others had faced terrible risks and overcome them—many much younger even than Aphenglow. She shouldn’t assume it would be different this time. She shouldn’t be too quick to think that her followers were unequal to what might be demanded of them. They couldn’t know what they were capable of until they were actually tested. None of them.

  One day soon, they would find out, and she wasn’t particularly eager for that day to come.

  As the twilight deepened and night set in, she prepared herself for the long wait until the hour just before sunrise, when she assumed the Shade of Allanon would come—if it were coming at all. So she was surprised when in the first hour of true night, the waters of the Hadeshorn abruptly began to boil and steam, and the familiar sluggish swirling began its slow, clockwise motion. The voices of the dead lifted and intensified, filling the air and blanketing the valley in a harsh cacophony. The waters heaved in response, and hundreds of white forms rose through the surface and into the air, circling like birds.

  She sat up quickly and clambered to her feet, shocked by the unexpectedness of it, wondering why Allanon was coming so soon.

  Then his shade was there, a knife blade skimming the waters in a smooth, clean motion, a two-dimensional form that quickly broadened into something more substantial. Soon he dwarfed her once more, grown into a giant, gliding to a halt before her, hanging just above the waters, his black-cloaked form motionless. She could see his dark face and the strange glimmer of his eyes as they fixed on her, and she felt her heart go cold. The eyes held her pinned against the valley’s obsidian floor, and even if she had tried she could not have moved away.

  –Ard Rhys. I have spoken with Aleia Omarosian. She hides much from me and what she tells me cannot be entirely trusted. But I will tell it to you anyway. You will judge for yourself and do what you feel you must–

  She waited, breathless. The shade seemed to be considering what it would say.

  –What was written in the diary is true. It happened as she wrote it. She left the diary for her parents to find, after she was gone. She would not say where she had gone or why. But her early death suggests she knew her life was almost over. She was leaving, and she did not want to leave without telling her parents what she had done–

  So it was real. Khyber was strangely exhilarated. “Did she know anything of where the Elfstones were? Or what happened to them after the Darkling boy took them?”

  –She said they were lost to people like herself–

  “To the dead?”

  The shade seemed to hesitate, as if uncertain.

  –No. She meant something else–

  “Are they destroyed?” She found herself pressing for an answer. “What did she mean by ‘lost’? Lost in what way?”

  The waters hissed as if echoing the dark emotions of the shade, and she could see anger and impatience reflected in its face.

  –I am telling you what I know, Ard Rhys. It is for you to discover the rest. I will not put words in your mouth or thoughts in your mind that you have not conjured up yourself–

  She felt her heart sink. “Then there is nothing more you can tell me? She said nothing that would help our order in its search?”

  She knew she sounded every bit as desperate as she felt, but she could not accept that there was nothing more to be learned.

  –One thing–

  She felt an abrupt surge of hope. “One thing?”

  –Aleia Omarosian was a Chosen–

  A Chosen? Khyber stared at Allanon’s ghost in confusion. The writer of the diary was a Chosen? Why was there no mention of this anywhere in her writings? For there had not been a single reference to either the Chosen or the Ellcrys in the diary. A young girl in service to the tree would almost certainly have made some mention of it, wouldn’t she?

  A fresh hissing filled the night air like a long, slow sigh, and Khyber found the eyes of Allanon’s shade fixed on her anew.

  –Listen to me, Ard Rhys. I do not always know things, but I often sense them. It is so here. This quest must happen, and you must lead it. The search will take you to what you seek. I feel this the way I once felt my own future on the currents of the wind and the changes in the season. It was my gift then and is so now–

  The shade shifted slightly, black robes billowing. Behind and safely away, lesser ghosts floated on the air, gone strangely silent, as if listening to his words.

  –You will need help. Help of a sort that cannot be easily obtained. Your order is too small for what will be required. And it is too inexperienced. Even with the aid and protection of the Druid Guard, you will need others. Trackers and survivalists and hunters—men and women who can live off the land—you will need those. You will need wielders of magic with powers even stronger than those of your Druids. Perhaps even stronger than your own. Find these among the Races and persuade them to your cause. And heed me. You must find an Ohmsford to go with you. The presence of an Ohmsford is crucial. The whisper of that truth is everywhere about me and so strong that it cannot be ignored. Do not be deterred by those who questi
on your choices. Do not be dissuaded by those who dismiss your efforts and denigrate your character–

  It was so much for a shade to say, all at one time, that she stood silent in the aftermath, wondering that he should give her so much of himself. She had changed her mind about him. He had not abandoned her as one doomed to failure. He had embraced her cause and her spirit, and he was giving her what he could to help. But he was fearful for her.

  “Thank you,” she said to him. “Thank you for everything.”

  –You will not thank me later. Later, you will see me differently. But that is as it must be and not within my control. So heed me one last time. If you choose to undertake this quest, many of those who go with you will die. Many will be lost. This, too, I hear in the wind’s whisper and feel in the air’s currents. This quest will be hard, and its toll on lives and souls will be high. No one will come back the same. No one will emerge unscathed. Perhaps, in the end, no one will think it was worth it. Not even you–

  “No,” she said, “I will never think that.”

  –You will think that and much worse. You will curse me. You will hate what has happened. And you will trace its beginnings to this moment–

  He seemed so certain, yet he did not know the particulars of anything he was predicting and was giving voice to words he heard whispered in the air. She could not decide how much of what he was saying was substantive and how much guesswork.

  “I hope you are wrong,” she said finally.

  –I am Allanon–

  He said it as if it were an answer to everything, as if he were possessed of abilities and knowledge denied to others, herself included. She almost replied that who he was did not necessarily dictate what he knew. But she could not quite bring herself to do so.

  –We are finished–

  His shade was already backing away over the surface of the water, receding toward its distant center, black and forbidding in the light of the stars and a quarter moon just risen to the east. The voices of the dead had begun to wail anew, the white moths of their spirits to circle the giant form of the Druid shade, and the waters to hiss and boil with fresh intensity.