The Elfstones of Shannara

Chapter Fifty

Night lay over Arborlon. In the solitude of the Gardens of Life, Allanon walked alone to the top of the small rise where the Ellcrys stood, his black robes wrapped close to ward off the evening chill, the silver staff she had entrusted to his care cradled within his arms. He had come to be with her, to comfort her in whatever way he might, to give to her what companionship he could. These were to be her final hours; the burden that had been given her so many years ago was about to be lifted.

He paused momentarily, staring up at her. It would have seemed curious had someone come upon them, he thought the Druid and the Ellcrys, stark black silhouettes framed against a moonlit summer sky, the man standing wordlessly before the withered, barren tree as if lost in some private reverie, his dark face an impassive mask that told nothing of what feelings might lie beneath. But no one would come. He had decreed that the tree and he should spend this night alone and that no one should be witness to her dying but he.

He stepped forward then, her name whispered in his mind. Her limbs reached for him at once, frightened and urgent, and his thoughts went quickly to comfort her. Do not despair, he soothed. This very afternoon, while the battle to save Arborlon was at its most furious, while the Elves fought so gallantly to stem the Demon advance, something unexpected happened, something that should give us hope. Far, far to the south in the dark of the wilderness forests where the Chosen has gone, her protector brought to life the magic of the Elfstones. The moment that he did so, I knew. I reached out to him then and I touched his thoughts with my own — quickly, for but a moment’s time, because the Dagda Mor could sense what I did. Still, that moment was enough. Gentle Lady, the Bloodfire has been found! The rebirth can still come to pass!

Tinged with expectancy, the thoughts rushed from him. Yet nothing came back. Weakened almost to the point of senselessness, the Ellcrys had not heard or understood. She was conscious only of his presence, he realized then, conscious only of the fact that in her final moments she was not alone. What he might say to her now would have no meaning; she was blind to everything but her desperate, hopeless struggle to fulfill her trust — to live, and by living to protect the Elven people.

A sadness filled him. He had come to her too late.

He went quiet then, for there was nothing more that he could do, except to stay with her. Time slipped away, agonizingly slow in its, passing. Now and again her random thoughts reached him, filtered down like scattered bits of color in his mind, some lost in the history of what had been, some cloaked in wishes and dreams of what might yet be, all hopelessly tangled and fragmented by her dying. Patiently he caught those thoughts as they slipped from her, and he let her know that he was there, that he had heard, that he was listening. Patiently he shared with her the trappings of the death that sought to cloak her. He felt the chill of those trappings, for they spoke all too eloquently of his own mortality. All must pass the way that she was passing, they whispered. Even a Druid.

It caused him to ponder momentarily the inevitability of his own death. Even though he slept to prolong his life, to lengthen it far beyond the lives of ordinary men, still one day he, too, must die. And like the tree, he was the last of his kind. There were no Druids to follow him. When he was gone, who then would preserve the secrets handed down since the time of the First Council at Paranor? Who then would wield the magic that only he had mastered? Who then would be guardian of the races?

His dark face lifted. Was there yet time, he wondered suddenly, to find that guardian?

Night sped away with soundless steps, and dawn’s pale light broke across the darkness of the eastern sky. Within the vast Westland forests, life began to stir. Allanon felt something change in the Ellcrys’ touch. He was losing her. He stare fixedly at the tree, hands gripping tightly the silver staff as if by clasping it so he might hold fast to the life that drained from her. The morning sky brightened; as it did, the images came less frequently. The pain that washed into him lessened, and a curious detachment replaced it. Bit by bit, the detachment widened the distance between them. In the east, a crest of sunlight edged above the horizon, and the night stars faded way.

Then the images ceased altogether. Allanon stiffened. In his hands, the silver staff had gone cold. It was over.

Gently he laid the staff beneath the tree. Then he turned and walked from the Gardens and did not look back.

Ander Elessedil stood silently by his father’s bed and stared down at the old man. Torn and battered, the King’s frail body lay wrapped in bandages and blankets, and only the shallow rise and fall of his chest gave evidence of life. He slept now, a fitful, restless sleep, hovering in the gray zone between life and death.

A rush of feelings swept through the Elven Prince, scattering like leaves in a strong wind. It was Gael who had wakened him, frightened and unsure. The young aide had come back to the manor house, restless, unable to sleep, thinking to do some work in preparation for the coming day. But the doors were jammed, he told Ander — the sentries gone. Did the King sleep unguarded? Should something be done? Instantly Ander had come to his feet, dashing from his cottage and calling out to the gate watch. In a rush they had broken through the front entry, frantic, hearing the old King’s cries from within. There they had witnessed the finish of the death struggle between his father and that monster — the Demon that had masqueraded as Manx. His father had regained consciousness for just a short time as they carried him, bleeding and broken, to his bedchamber, to whisper in horror of the battle that had been fought and the betrayal he had suffered. Then consciousness had left him, and he had slept.

How could his father have survived? Where had he found the strength? Ander shook his head. Only the few who had found him could begin to appreciate what it must have taken. The others, the Ministers and the commanders, the guards and the retainers, had come later. They had not seen the old King. sprawled in that blood–smeared entry, torn and shredded. They had not seen what had been done to him.

There was speculation, of course — speculation that bred rumors. The King was dead, they whispered. The city was lost. Ander’s jaw tightened. He had silenced them quickly enough. It would take more than a single Demon to kill Eventine Elessedil!

He knelt suddenly beside his father and touched the limp hand. He would have cried had there been tears left to cry. How terribly fate had treated the old King. His firstborn and his closest friend were dead. His beloved granddaughter was lost. His country was overrun by an enemy he could not defeat. He himself had been betrayed in the end by an animal that he had trusted. Everything had been stripped from him. What was it that kept him alive after all that he had suffered? Surely death would come as a welcome relief.

He clasped the hand gently. Eventine Elessedil, King of the Elves — there would never be another such King. He was the last. And what would be left to remember him by, other than a land destroyed and a people driven into exile? Ander was not bitter for himself, he knew. He was bitter for his father, who had spent his entire life working for that land and those people. There was nothing owed to Ander Elessedil perhaps. But what of that old man whose heart was wedded to this land that would be ravaged and this people that would be destroyed? Was not something owed him? He loved the Westland and the Elves more than the life he was about to give up, and that he should be forced to see it all taken away… it was so terribly unjust!

Ander bent down impulsively and kissed his father’s cheek. Then he straightened and turned away. Through the curtained windows, he could see the sky brightening with the new day. He had to find Allanon, he thought suddenly. The Druid did not yet know. Then he must return to the Carolan, to stand with his people where his father would have stood had he been able. No matter the bitterness. No matter the regrets. What was needed now was the same courage and strength that his father had shown in his last battle, a courage and strength that would sustain the Elves in theirs. Whatever was to happen this day, he must be his father’s son.

Tightening his armor as he went, Ander Elessedil walked quickly from the darkened room.

On the threshold of the entry to the manor house he paused momentarily and peered toward the brightening eastern sky. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his face was haggard and drawn. The dawn air chilled him, and he drew his heavy cloak close. Behind him the manor house windows blazed with light, and grim–faced Elven Hunters prowled the hallways like hunting dogs.

«Useless now…» he murmured to himself.

He set off toward the front gates, moving alone down the gravel walk, his mind clouded by his need for sleep. How long had he slumbered before Gael had come to him? One hour? Two? He could no longer remember. When he tried, it was the face of his father that appeared, blood–spattered and terrible piercing blue eyes fixed upon his own.

Betrayed, those eyes cried out. Betrayed!

He passed through the wrought–iron gates into the street beyond, failing to notice the giant figure that emerged from the shadows where the war horses were tethered.

«Prince Ander?»

He started at the sound of his name, stopped, and turned. The dark figure approached silently, the new light glinting from chain–mail armor. It was the Free Corps Commander, Stee Jans.

«Commander.» He nodded wearily.

The big man nodded in reply, the scarred face impassive. «A bad night, I am told.»

«Then you have heard?» ‘

Stee Jans glanced toward the manor house. «A Demon found its way into the King’s house. His guard was slain, and he himself struck down when he slew the creature. You can scarcely expect to keep such news a secret, my Lord.»

«No — nor have we tried.» Ander sighed. «The Demon was a Changeling. It made itself appear as my father’s wolfhound, an animal he had had with him for many years. None of us know how long it has been there, playing this game, but tonight it decided the game was finished. It killed the guards, bolted the doors leading out, and attacked the King. A monster, Commander — I saw what was left of it. I don’t know how my father managed…»

He trailed off hopelessly and shook his head. The Borderman’s eyes shifted back to him.

«So the King still lives.»

Ander nodded slowly. «But I don’t know what it is that keeps him alive.»

They were silent then, their eyes glancing back toward the lighted manor house and the armed figures that patrolled its shadowed grounds.

«Perhaps he waits for the rest of us, my Lord,” Stee Jans said quietly.

Their eyes met. «What do you mean?» Ander asked him.

«I mean that time draws short for all of us.»

Ander took a deep breath, «How much longer do we have?»

«Today.»

The hard face remained expressionless, as if the Borderman spoke of nothing more significant than what the weather might be that day.

Ander straightened. «You seem resigned to this, Commander.»

«I am an honest man, my Lord. I told you that when we met. Would you wish to hear something other than the truth?»

«No.» Ander shook his head firmly. «Is there no chance that we can hold longer?»

Stee Jans shrugged. «There is always a chance. Measure it as you would measure the King’s chances of surviving beyond this day. That is the chance we all have.»

The Elven Prince nodded slowly. «I accept that, Commander.» He extended his hand. «The Elves have been fortunate to have you and the Free Corps soldiers to stand with them. I wish that we could find a better way to thank you.»

The Iron Mail gripped the other’s hand. «I wish that we could offer you the opportunity. Good fortune, Prince Ander.»

He saluted and was gone. Ander stared after him for a moment; then turned and started back up the street.

Moments later Allanon found him as he was preparing to ride to the Carolan. The Druid rode out of the predawn gloom aboard Artaq, black shadows slipping from the forest mist. Ander stood wordlessly as the big man reined Artaq to a halt and stared down at him.

«I know what has happened,” the deep voice rumbled softly. «I am sorry, Ander Elessedil.»

Ander nodded. «Allanon, where is the staff?»

«Gone.» The Druid stared past him toward the manor house. «The Ellcrys is dead.»

Ander felt the strength drain from him. «Then that’s the end, isn’t it? Without the magic of the Ellcrys to aid us, we are finished.»

Allanon’s eyes were hard. «Perhaps not.»

Ander stared at him in disbelief, but the Druid was already turning Artaq back up the roadway.

«I will wait for you at the gates to the Gardens of Life, Elven Prince,” he called back. «Follow quickly, now. There is still hope for us.»

Then he put his heels into the black and they disappeared from view.