The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy by Terry Brooks
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 place 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 adressed 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 return 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.
19
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 Gardens 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.
Allanon, Wil Ohmsford, and Amberle stared up at her wordlessly from the base of the rise, cowled faces lifted against the screen of moonlight. For a long time they were still, motionless save for the ripple of cloth garments in the light breezes, silent. When Amberle finally spoke, her whisper filled the quiet with deep, sudden poignancy.
“Oh, Allanon, she looks so sad.”
The Druid did not respond, his tall spare frame rigid beneath the robes, his face hidden within the shadow of the cowl. The smell of lilacs wafted past them, lingered momentarily, and was gone. After a moment, Amberle glanced over at the big man, arms folding tightly into her robe.
“Is she in pain?”
The movement of the Druid’s head was barely perceptible. “Some.”
“She is dying?”
“Her life is ending. Her time is almost gone.”
There was a long pause. “Can you do nothing for her?”
“What can be done for her must be done by you.” Allanon’s deep voice was a gentle murmur.
Amberle’s sigh was audible, a shiver of acceptance that passed through her slender body. The seconds slipped away. Wil shuffled his feet wearily, waiting for the Elven girl to come to terms with herself. This was not easy for her. She had not expected even to be here tonight; neither of them had. They had expected that, with the adjournment of the Council, they would be allowed at long last to sleep. There had been no sleep since before their flight into the Valley of Rhenn and their unexpected reunion with Allanon. They were exhausted.
“She is sleeping,” Amberle whispered suddenly.
“She will wake for you,” the Druid responded.
She does not want this, Wil thought. She has never wanted this. She is not simply unwilling, she is frightened. She said so that first night in the little garden behind her home. Yet she has never said why.
Wil looked toward the summit of the rise. What was it about the Ellcrys that frightened her so?
“I am ready.”
She said it simply, her voice calm. Allanon was silent for a moment, then nodded, the cowl bending slightly with his response.
“Then go. We will wait for you here.”
She did not move at once, but stood quietly for a moment as if seeking something more from the Druid. But there was nothing more offered. Gathering her robes about her, she started forward, moving up the gentle slope, face lifted toward the still, ragged tree that waited at the top.
She did not look back.
She completed the climb in only moments and stood alone before the Ellcrys. She stood, not yet within reach of the tree, but just beyond, her small form withdrawn into the concealing folds of the dark robe, her arms clenched tightly against her sides. From atop the rise, the Westland lay open to the sweep of the horizon, and she felt small and unprotected. The night breeze blew across her face, laced with the scents of the garden, and she breathed it deeply, steadying herself.
I need only a moment, she told herself. Just one moment.
But she was so afraid!
She still did not understand why this was, not even now, after all this time. She should be able to understand it; she should be able to control it. Yet she could not. That made it all the worse. The fear was unreasoning, senseless, blind. It was always there, lurking in the back of her mind like some beast of prey, slipping from its place of hiding whenever she gave thought to the Ellcrys. She fought against it, struggled determinedly, but it swept through her nonetheless, irrepressible, dark. She had been able to suppress it in Havenstead, for in Havenstead the cause was distant and past. But now, returned once more to Arborlon, standing less than a dozen feet away, remembering the touch of the Ellcrys…
She shuddered at the memory. It was the touch she really feared. Yet why should that be? No harm came from it, no injury. It served only to allow the Ellcrys to communicate her thoughts through images. But there was this sense of something more that had always come with the touch, ever since that first time the Ellcrys had spoken with her. Something.
Her thoughts scattered at the sound of an owl’s soft hoot. She was aware that she had been standing there for several minutes and that the two men waiting below must be watching her. She did not want that.
Quickly, she began to walk around to the far side of the tree.
Druid and Valeman watched silently as the dark figure of the Elven girl circled the Ellcrys and disappeared from view. They remained standing a moment longer; but when she did not reappear, Allanon seated himself wordlessly on the grass. Wil paused, then sat down next to him.
“What will you do if the Ellcrys decides that she is no longer one of the Chosen?”
The Druid did not turn his head. “That will not happen.”
The Valeman hesitated a moment before speaking again.
“You know something about her that you have not told either of us, don’t you?”
“But in some sense.”
“What must concern you, Valeman, is seeing that nothing happens to her after you leave Arborlon.”
The way he said it left Wil with the very distinct impression that this particular subject was closed. The Valeman shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“Can you tell me something else, then?” he asked a moment later. “Can you tell me why she is so afraid of the Ellcrys?”
“No.”
Wil flushed heatedly within his cowl. “Why not?”
“Because I am not sure that I understand it myself. Nor do I think that she does. In any case, when she is ready for you to know about it, she will tell you herself.”
“I doubt it.” Wil slouched forward, arms resting loosely on his knees. “She does not seem to think much of me.”
Allanon did not respond. They sat in silence for a time, glancing periodically toward the summit of the rise and the solitary tree. There was no sign of Amberle. Wil glanced over at the Druid.
“Is she safe up there alone?”
The mystic nodded. Wil waited for him to explain why she was safe, but he did not offer an explanation. The Valeman shrugged. Being this close to her, he must have some means of seeing to it that she was protected, he decided.
At least he hoped so.
For a long time Amberle did not move. She could not. Her fear had paralyzed her. She stood rigid and chilled not five feet from the nearest branches, staring hypnotically at the Ellcrys. Within her, the fear ran like liquid ice, numbing even her thoughts. She lost all sense of time, of place, of everything but her inability to take those last few steps forward.
When at last she did take them, it seemed that it was someone else who took them for her. She remembered only the distance between herself and the Ellcrys closing and then disappearing altogether. She was beneath the canopy of the tree, lost in shadow. The night breeze died into stillness, and the cold within her turned to heat.