The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (118 page)

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.

P
ale 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 Garden 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?”

Allanon’s voice was cold. “No. Not in the sense that you mean.”

“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.

Wordlessly, she dropped to her knees amid the clutter of dead leaves and broken twigs that blanketed the ground, her hands folding tightly in her lap. She waited.

Moments later, a ragged branch dipped downward and wrapped gently about her shoulders.

—Amberle—

The Elven girl began to cry.

   There had been silence between them for quite some time when Wil suddenly recalled something odd that Allanon had said earlier. He had determined that he would ask nothing further of the Druid following their last exchange, but his curiosity got the better of him.

“Allanon?”

The Druid looked at him.

“Something is bothering me.” He took a moment to arrange his words. “When you told Amberle that we must come here tonight, she reminded you that you had informed the Elves at the High Council that she would be given a day or two to rest. You answered her by saying that what you told them was a necessary deception. What did you mean by that?”

Moonlight revealed the familiar mocking smile as it slanted across the mystic’s lean face.

“I was wondering when you would get around to that question, Wil Ohmsford.” He laughed softly. “Your inquisitiveness is all-encompassing.”

Wil grinned ruefully. “Do I get an answer to my question?”

Allanon nodded. “An answer that will not please you. The deception was necessary because there is a spy within the Elven camp.”

The Valeman went cold. “How do you know that?”

“Logic. When I arrived at Paranor, the Demons were waiting for me. Waiting for me, Valeman—I was not followed. That suggests rather strongly that they knew in advance that I would be coming there. How did they know that? For that matter, how did they know about me in the first place? Only Eventine knew that I had returned to the Four Lands. Only Eventine knew of my plans to travel to Paranor; I told him in confidence that I would go there to study the Druid histories in an effort to discover the location of Safehold. Eventine was cautioned to say nothing and would have done exactly that.”

He paused. “That leaves only one possibility. Someone listened in on our conversation—someone who had reason to betray us to the Demons.”

Wil looked doubtful. “But how could that have happened? You said yourself that no one even knew that you had returned to the Four Lands before you spoke to Eventine.”

“That puzzles me, also,” the Druid admitted. “The spy must be someone with easy access to the King, someone who would know everything that he is about. One of his household staff, perhaps.”

He shrugged. “In any case, it was fortunate that I did not mention to the King where Amberle could be found or the Demons would almost certainly have reached her before I did.” He paused, black eyes fixing on the Valeman. “They would have reached you, as well, I imagine.”

Wil felt his skin crawl. The suggestion was a thoroughly disconcerting one, even now. For the first time since he had met Allanon, he was grateful that the Druid was so closemouthed about what he knew.

“If all this is so, then why did you tell the Elves at the High Council so much?” he asked. “If there is a spy, isn’t there a rather good possibility that he may discover everything that was said at that meeting?”