The Elfstones of Shannara

  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 bedchamber 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.

  LIV

  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.”

  Finally it was the turn of the men of Callahorn to depart—the handful of Legion Free Corps and Old Guard who had survived the ferocious struggle to hold the Elfitch. Not a dozen of the former remained and of those not six would fight again. The command had virtually ceased to exist, the bodies of its soldiers scattered between the passes of the Breakline and Arborlon. Yet once more the tall, scar-faced Borderman called Stee Jans had survived where so many others had not.

  He came to Ander Elessedil early on the morning of the sixth day following their victory over the Demon hordes, riding out on his great blue roan to where the Elven King stood at the edge of the Carolan and reviewed with his engineers the plans drafted by the Dwarf Sappers. Excusing himself hurriedly, Ander walked quickly to where the Free Corps Commander had dismounted and stood waiting. Ignoring the nod of respect the big man gave him, Ander seized the other’s hand and gripped it firmly.

  “You are well again, Commander?” he greeted him, smiling.

  “Well enough, my Lord,” Stee Jans smiled back. “I came to thank you and to say goodbye. The Legion rides again for Callahorn.”

  Ander shook his head slowly. “It is not for you to thank me. It is for me—and for the Elven people—to thank you. No one gave more to us and to this land than the men of the Free Corps. And you, Stee Jans—what would we have done without you?”

  The Borderman was quiet for a moment before speaking. “My Lord, I think we found in the people and the land a cause worth fighting for. All that we gave, we gave freely. And you did not lose this fight—that is what matters.”

  “How could we lose with you to aid us?” Ander gripped his hand anew. He paused. “What will you do now?”

  Stee Jans shrugged. “The Free Corps is gone. Perhaps they’ll rebuild. Perhaps not. If not, perhaps there will be a new Legion command. I will ask for one, in any case.”

  Ander nodded slowly. “Ask me, Stee Jans—ask me and the command is yours. I would be honored to have you. And the Elven people would be honored. You are one of us. Will you consider it?”

  The Borderman smiled, turned, and swung back into the saddle. “I am already considering it, King Ander Elessedil.” He saluted smartly. “Until we meet again, my Lord—strength to you and to the Elves.”

  He reined the big roan about, gray cloak flying, and rode east across the Carolan. Ander watched him go, waving after him. Until we meet again, Borderman, he replied without speaking.

  Thus they went home, all those who had come to Arborlon to stand with the Elves, all the brave ones, all but two.

  One was the Valeman, Wil Ohmsford.

  Sunshine lay across the Carolan in a blanket of warmth and hazy brightness as the noonday neared and Wil Ohmsford approached the gates leading into the Gardens of Life. Down the gravel pathway the Valeman walked, his stride measured and even, and there was no sign of hesitation in his coming. Yet when he stood at last before the gates, he was not sure that he could go further.

  It had taken him a week to come this far. The first three days following his collapse in these same Gardens had been spent in his chambers in the Elessedil manor house, asleep most of the time. Two more had been spent in the seclusion of the grounds surrounding the ancient home, wrestling with the jumble of emotions that seethed within him as memories of Amberle came and went. The last two days he had spent studiously avoiding the very thing he had now come to do.

  He stood for a long time at the Gardens’ entrance, staring upward at the arch of silver scroll and inlaid ivory, at the ivy-grown walls, and the pines and hedgerows leading in. Heads turned toward him questioningly as the people of the city came and went, passing into and out of the gates before which he stood. They were there for the same reason that had brought him and were wondering as they saw him if he were perhaps even more awed and self-conscious than they. Sentries of the Black Watch stood rigid and aloof to either side, eyes shifting momentarily to watch the motionless figure of the Valeman, then looking quickly away again. Still Wil Ohmsford did not go forward.

  Yet he knew he must. He had thought it through quite carefully. He must see her one time more. One final time. There could be no peace within him until it was done.

  Almost before he realized it, he was through the gates, following the curve of the pathway that would take him to the tree.

  He felt oddly relieved as he went, as if in making the decision to go to her he was doing something not only necessary, but right. A bit of the determination that had seen him through so much these past few weeks returned to him now—determination that had been drained from him when he had lost the Elven girl, so complete was his belief that he had failed her. He thought he understood that feeling better now. It was not so much a sense of failure that he had experienced as a sense of his own limitations. You cannot do everything you might wish that you could do, Uncle Flick had told him once. And so, while he had been able to save Amberle from the Demons, he had not been able to save her from becoming the Ellcrys. Yet saving her from that, he knew, was not something that had ever been within his power. It had only been within hers. Her choice, as she had told him—as Allanon, too, had told him. No amount of anger, bitterness, or self-remorse would change that or bring him the peace he needed. He must reconcile what had happened another way. He thought he knew that way now. This visit to her was the first step.

  Then he passed through an opening in a tall row of evergreens and she was before him. The Ellcrys
rose up against the clear blue of the noonday sky, tall silver trunk and scarlet leaves rippling in the golden sunlight, a thing of such exquisite beauty that in the instant he saw her tears came to his eyes.

  “Amberle . . .” he whispered.

  Gathered at the foot of the small rise upon which she stood were Elven families from the city, their eyes fixed upon the tree, their voices lowered and hushed. Wil Ohmsford hesitated, then moved forward to join them.

  “You see, the sickness is gone,” a mother was saying to a little girl. “She is well again.”

  And her land and her people are safe, the Valeman added silently. Because of Amberle—because she had sacrificed herself for both. He took a deep breath, gazing upward at the tree. It was something she had wanted to do, something she had had to do—not just because it was needed but because in the end she had come to believe it to be the purpose for her existence. The Elven ethic, the creed that had governed her life—something of the self must be given back to the land. Even when she had banished herself from Arborlon, she had not forgotten the creed. It had been reflected in her work with the children of Havenstead. It had been a part of the reason that she had returned with him to discover the truth of her destiny.

  Something of the self must be given back to the land.

  In the end, she had given back everything.

  He smiled sadly. But she had not lost everything. In becoming the Ellcrys, she had gained an entire world.

  “Will she keep the Demons from us, Mommy?” the little girl was asking.

  “Far, far away from us.” Her mother smiled.

  “And protect us always?”

  “Yes—and protect us always.”

  The little girl’s eyes flitted from her mother’s face to the tree. “She is so pretty.” Her small voice was filled with wonderment.