The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (94 page)

The King crossed to the handwoven curtains that draped the far wall, drew them aside, and pushed outward several of the floor-length windows that opened into the forest beyond. Light flooded the chamber, soft and sweet, and the smell of morning dew. Behind him, Gael was moving silently about, lighting the oil lamps to chase the last of the gloom from the corners of the chamber. Eventine hesitated before a window, staring fixedly for an instant at the reflection of his face in the misted glass. The eyes mirrored there were startlingly blue, hard and penetrating, the eyes of a man who has seen too many years and too much unpleasantness. He sighed and turned to face Ander.

“All right, Ander, what’s this all about? Gael said something about your bringing one of the Chosen with a message?”

“Yes, sir. He claims he has an urgent message from the Ellcrys.”

“A message from the tree?” Eventine frowned. “How long has it been since she gave a message to anyone—over seven hundred years? What was the message?”

“He wouldn’t tell it to me,” Ander replied. “He insists on delivering the message to you.”

Eventine nodded “Then deliver it he shall. Show him in, Gael.”

Gael bowed slightly and hurried out through the chamber doors, leaving them slightly ajar. A moment later a huge, shaggy dog pushed his way
through and padded noiselessly to the King. It was Manx, his wolfhound, and he greeted the animal fondly, rubbing the grizzled head, stroking softly the rough coat along the back and flanks. Manx had been with him almost ten years, closer and more faithful than any man could have been.

“Getting a bit gray—like me,” Eventine muttered ruefully.

The doors opened wide to admit Gael, followed by Lauren. The Chosen paused in the doorway for a moment, glancing uncertainly at Gael. The King nodded to his aide, dismissing him. Ander was about to leave as well when a slight motion from his father indicated he was to remain. Gael bowed again and left, this time closing the doors tightly behind him. When he was gone, the Chosen came forward a pace.

“My Lord, please forgive … they thought that I …I should be the one …” He was almost choking on the words.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Eventine assured him. With a charm that Ander had always known his father could display, the King came forward quickly and put his arm about the young Elf’s shoulders. “I know this must be very important to you or you would not have left your work in the Gardens. Here, sit down and tell me about it.”

He glanced questioningly at Ander, then guided the Chosen to a small writing table at one side of the room, seating him in one of two chairs while he took the other. Ander followed them over, but remained standing.

“Your name is Lauren, isn’t it?” Eventine asked the Chosen.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Very well, Lauren. Now tell me why you’ve come.”

Lauren drew himself up and placed his hands on the table, folding the fingers together tightly.

“My Lord, the Ellcrys spoke to the Chosen this morning.” His words were almost a whisper. “She told us … she told us that she is dying!”

Ander felt his blood turn cold. For an instant, the King did not respond, but sat rigidly in place, his eyes fixed on the speaker.

“There must be a mistake,” he said at last.

Lauren shook his head emphatically. “There is no mistake, my Lord. She spoke to all of us. We … we all heard. She is dying. The Forbidding has already begun to crumble.”

The King rose slowly and walked to the open window, staring wordlessly out into the forest. Manx, who had curled up at the foot of the bed, rose and followed him. Ander saw the King’s hand stray down to scratch the dog’s ears mechanically.

“You are certain of this, Lauren?” Eventine asked. “Very certain?”

“Yes … yes.”

He was crying softly, almost soundlessly, at the table, his face buried in his hands. Eventine did not turn, but continued to stare fixedly into the
woodlands that were his home and the home of his people.

Ander was frozen, his eyes on his father, his mind still dazed with shock. The enormity of what he had heard slowly took hold. The Ellcrys dying! The Forbidding ending. The evil that had been shut away free once more. Chaos, madness, war! In the end, the destruction of everything.

He had studied history under his tutors and again in the books of his own library. It was a history that bore the trappings of legend.

Once, long ago, in a time before the Great Wars, before the dawn of civilization in the old world, even before the emergence of the old race of Man, there had been a war between creatures of good and evil magics. The Elves had fought in that war on the side of good. It had been a long, terrible, devastating struggle. But in the end, the forces of good were victorious and the forces of evil were cast down. Yet the nature of the evil was such that it could not be totally destroyed; it could only be banished. Therefore, the Elven people and their allies pooled their magics with the life-force of the earth itself to create the Ellcrys, so that by her presence a Forbidding would be placed upon the creatures of evil. So long as the Ellcrys survived and flourished, the evil could not return upon the earth. Locked in a void of darkness, it might wail in anguish behind the wall of the Forbidding, but the earth was lost to it.

Until now! But if the Ellcrys were to die, the Forbidding must end. It had been written that this must come to pass, for no power could be so strong that it could endure forever. Yet it had seemed that the Ellcrys would, so many generations had it been there, changeless, a fixed point in a shifting maze of life. The Elven people had come to believe it would always be so. Wrongly, it seemed. Foolishly.

The King turned sharply, glanced briefly at Ander, and moved back to the table, reseating himself and taking Lauren’s hands in his own to steady him. “You must tell me everything that she said to you, Lauren. Every detail. Leave nothing out.”

The Chosen nodded wordlessly. His eyes were dry once more, his face calm. Eventine released his hands and sat back expectantly. Ander pulled over a high-backed chair from across the room and seated himself next to them.

“My Lord, you have heard of the form of her communication with us?” he asked cautiously.

“I was a Chosen once, Lauren,” Eventine answered. Ander stared at his father in surprise. This was something he had never known. But Lauren seemed to gain a measure of confidence from the answer. He nodded, turning to Ander to explain.

“Her voice is actually not a voice of sound, but one of images that appear in our minds. There are seldom words as such; the words are our
own translation of the thoughts she projects. That is how I translate when she uses my name. The images are brief and not fully drawn, and we have to interpret them as best we can.”

He paused and turned back to Eventine. “I … the Ellcrys has never spoken to me more than once before this morning, my Lord. She had spoken to the six of us only at the time of our choosing. Until this morning, most of what we knew of her communication was based upon the writings of our Order and the teachings of the Chosen who have served before. Even now, it is very confusing.”

Eventine nodded encouragingly. Lauren continued.

“My Lord, the Ellcrys spoke to us at great length this morning, something she has never done before. She called us to her and told us what was to be and what we, the Chosen, must do. The images were not entirely clear, but there can be no mistake that she is dying. Her time is short; how much time remains isn’t certain. Already the erosion has begun. And as she fails, the Forbidding will fail with her. There is only one chance for her—a rebirth.”

Eventine’s hand shot forth, gripping Lauren’s. Ander too had forgotten—shocked and confused by the Ellcrys’ forecast of her death. A rebirth! It was written in the oldest histories that the Ellcrys could be reborn and the Forbidding preserved.

“Then there is still hope,” he whispered.

Eventine’s eyes were fixed on Lauren. “What must be done to give her this rebirth?”

Lauren shook his head. “My Lord, she has entrusted her fate to the Chosen. Only through us will she permit herself to be reborn. I do not pretend to understand her reasons, but the images were clear. She will deliver her seed to one of us—which, she did not say. No face was shown. But it was made known that only one of the Chosen who were selected by her this last time can receive that seed. No other will be considered. Whoever is selected must carry the seed to the life source of the earth—to the fountain of the Bloodfire. There the seed must be immersed within the fire by the bearer. Once returned to the site of the old tree, the seed will take root and a new tree will spring forth to replace the old.”

The details of the legend were coming back to Ander now—the bearing of the Ellcrys seed, the ritual of the Bloodfire, the rebirth. It was told in the strange, formal language of the oldest histories—histories that most of the people had forgotten or never known.

“The fountain of the Bloodfire—where is it to be found?” he asked abruptly.

Lauren looked miserable. “A place was shown us, my Lord Prince, but … but we could not recognize it. The images were vague, almost as if she lacked the ability to describe it properly.”

Eventine’s voice remained calm. “Tell me what you were shown. Everything.”

Lauren nodded. “There was a wilderness with mountains and swamp all around. There was a deep mist that came and went. Within the wilderness was a lone peak and beneath the peak a maze of tunnels that burrowed deep within the earth. Somewhere within the maze there was a door made of glass—glass that could not break. Behind the door was the Bloodfire.”

“No names for any of the parts of this puzzle?” the King asked patiently.

“Only one, my lord. But it was a name we did not recognize. The maze in which the Bloodfire lies hidden appears to be called Safehold.”

Safehold? Ander searched his memory, but the name meant nothing to him.

Eventine glanced at Ander and shook his head. He rose to his feet, walked several paces from the table, then stopped abruptly. He turned back to Lauren. “Is there nothing more that you were told? No hints—bits that might not seem to have any meaning?”

“Nothing. That was all.”

The King nodded slowly to the young Elf. “Very well, Lauren. You were right in insisting I be told at once. Now, will you wait outside for a little while?”

When the door had closed behind the Chosen, Eventine walked back to his chair and lowered himself slowly. His face seemed to have aged terribly and his movements were those of an old, old man. Manx moved over in front of him, and the grizzled face stared upward sympathetically. Eventine sighed and moved his hand tiredly to the dog’s head.

“Have I lived too long?” he muttered. “If the Ellcrys dies, how can I protect my people from what will happen then? I am their King; the responsibility for their protection is mine. I have always accepted that. Yet for the first time in my life, I wish it were otherwise …”

He trailed off reluctantly, then turned to look at Ander. “Well, we must do what we can. With Arion gone to the Sarandanon, I will need your help.” Ander flushed at the unintended rebuke. “Go with Lauren and question the Chosen carefully. See if there is anything more that may be learned. Anything. I will have the old histories moved up from the vaults and examine them.”

“Do you think there might be something there—or in the old world maps?” Ander asked doubtfully.

“No. You have read them more recently than I, but I can remember nothing. Still, what else can we do? If we are to have any chance at all of finding the Bloodfire, we must have more than what Lauren has been able to tell us.”

He nodded in dismissal. Ander went out to join Lauren, to return with
him to the tree where the other Chosen would be waiting. There he would attempt to discover something more of the mysterious Safehold. It seemed a hopeless effort. But, as his father had said, what else could they do?

T
he summer day ended with a brilliant burst of red and lavender that flooded the whole of the western skyline. For long, beautiful minutes, the sun seemed to hang at the crest of the Breakline, lighting the roof of the Westland forest and weaving shadows that draped the wooded earth with still, soft bands of darkness. The air cooled slowly, the midday heat fading now as an evening breeze rippled and sighed through the great, silent trees. Then daylight slipped into dusk, and night washed the color from the sky.

The people of the Elven city of Arborlon drifted wearily toward their homes.

Within the Gardens of Life, Ander Elessedil stared upward at-the Ellcrys. Seen now against the evening light, the great tree seemed normal, deceptively unchanged. Yet before the sun had set, traces of the sickness that was destroying her had been plainly evident.

The disease was spreading rapidly. On a scattering of smaller limbs, rot had begun to eat away at the silver-white bark. Broad clusters of leaves hung limp with wilt, curling at the tips, the deep red color turned black. The Chosen had scrubbed the bark carefully with herbal salves and plucked the damaged leaves, hoping against reason that the disease could be contained, knowing all the while that it could not. Ander had seen the truth reflected in their eyes. They could not heal the Ellcrys. No one could. She was dying, and there was nothing that anyone could do to prevent it.