The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (170 page)
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.
Amberle.
Wil gazed upon her for an instant longer, then turned and walked slowly from the Gardens.
He had just passed back through the gates leading in when he spied Eretria. She stood a little to one side on the pathway leading up from the city, her dark eyes shifting quickly to meet his own. The bright Rover silks were gone, replaced by ordinary Elven garb. Yet there could never be anything ordinary about Eretria. She was as stunningly beautiful now as she had been the first time Wil had laid eyes on her. Her long black hair shimmered in the sunlight as it curled down about her shoulders, and that dazzling smile broke over her dusky face as she caught sight of him.
Wordlessly, he walked over to greet her, permitting himself a small grin in reply.
“You look like a whole man again,” she said lightly.
He nodded. “You can take whatever credit is due for that. You’re the one who got me back on my feet.”
Her smile broadened at the compliment. Every day for the past week she had come to him—feeding him, dressing his wounds, giving him company when she had sensed he needed it, giving him peace when she had seen that he needed to be alone. His recovery, both physical and emotional, was due in no small part to her efforts.
“I was told that you had gone out.” She glanced briefly toward the Gardens. “It didn’t require much imagination to know where you had gone. So I thought I would follow and wait for you.” She looked back at him, the smile winsome. “Are all the ghosts laid to rest at last, Healer?”
Wil saw the concern in her eyes. She understood better than any what the loss of Amberle had done to him. They had talked about it constantly in the time they had spent together during his recovery. Ghosts, she had called them—all those purposeless feelings of guilt that had haunted him.
“I think maybe they’re resting now,” he answered. “Coming here helped, and in a little more time, maybe …”
He trailed off, shrugged and smiled. “Amberle believed that something was owed to the land for the life it gave her. She told me once that her belief was a part of her Elven heritage. My heritage, too, I think she was suggesting. You see, she always thought of me more as a Healer than as a protector. And a Healer is what I should be. A Healer gives something to the land through the care he provides to the people who look after her. That will be my gift, Eretria.”
She nodded solemnly. “So you will go back now to Storlock?”
“Home first, to Shady Vale—then to Storlock.”
“Soon?”
“I think so. I think I should go now.” He cleared his throat uneasily. “Did you know that Allanon left me the black—the stallion Artaq? A gift. I suppose he felt it might help make up for losing Amberle.”
Her dark face glanced away. “I suppose. Can we walk back now?”
Without waiting for his answer, she began to retrace her steps along the pathway. He hesitated in confusion a moment, then hurried after her. Together, they walked in silence.
“Have you decided to keep the Elfstones?” she asked after several minutes had passed.
He had told her once, when his depression had been deepest, that he intended to give them up. The Elven magic had done something to him, he knew. Just as surely as magic had aged Allanon, it had affected him as well—though as yet he could not tell how. Such power frightened him still. Yet the responsibility for that power remained his; he could not simply pass it carelessly to another.
“I’ll keep them,” he answered her. “But I’ll never use them again. Never.”
“No,” she said quietly. “A Healer would have no use for the Stones.”
They walked past the Gardens’ walls and turned down the pathway toward Arborlon. Neither spoke. Wil could sense the distance separating them, a widening gulf caused by her certainty that he would be leaving her once again. She wanted to go with him, of course. She had always wanted to go with him. But she would not ask—not this time, not again. Her pride would not let her. He mulled the matter over in his mind.
“Where will you go now?” he asked her a moment later. She shrugged casually. “Oh, I don’t know. Callahorn, maybe. This Rover girl can go where she chooses, be what she wants.” She paused. “Maybe I’ll come to see you. You seem to require a great deal of looking after.”
There it was. She said it lightly, jokingly almost, but there was no mistaking the intent. I am for you, Wil Ohmsford, she had told him that night in the Tirfing. She was saying it again. He glanced over at her dark face, thinking fleetingly of all that she had done for him, all that she had risked for him. If he left her now, she would have no one. She had no home, no family, no people. Before, when she had wanted to go with him, there had been a reason to refuse her. What was his reason now?
“It was just a thought,” she added, brushing the matter off quickly.
“A nice thought,” he said quietly. “But I was thinking that maybe you’d like to come back with me now.”
The words were spoken almost before he realized what he had decided. There was a long, long silence, and they kept walking along the pathway, neither one looking at the other, almost as if nothing at all had been said.
“Maybe I would,” she replied finally. “If you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
Then he saw her smile—that wondrous, dazzling smile. She stopped and turned toward him.
“It is reassuring to see, Wil Ohmsford, that you have come to your senses at last.”
Her hand reached for his and clasped it tightly.
Riding back along the Carolan toward the city, his mind still occupied by thoughts of the rebuilding of the Elfitch, Ander Elessedil caught sight of the Valeman and the Rover girl as they walked back from the Gardens of Life. Reining in his horse for a moment, he watched the two who had not yet gone home, saw them stop, then saw the girl take the Valeman’s hand in her own.
A slow smile creased his face as he swung his horse wide of where they stood. It looked very much as if Wil Ohmsford, too, would be going home now. But not alone.
For
Lester Del Rey
Expert
