The Elfstones of Shannara (57 page)

Wil Ohmsford's eyes lowered. “Perhaps so. And perhaps it would have been better if she had known from the beginning where that path you set her upon would end.” He shook his head slowly. “Odd. I thought that hearing the truth about everything that has happened would help somehow. But it doesn't. It doesn't help at all.”

There was a long silence. Then Wil looked up again. “In any case, I do not have the right to blame you for what has happened. You did what you had to do—I know that. I know that the choices were really Amberle's. I know. But to lose her like this—it's so hard . . .” He trailed off.

The Druid nodded. “I am sorry; Valeman.”

He started to rise, and Wil asked suddenly. “Why did you wake me now, Allanon? To tell me this?”

The big man straightened, black and faceless. “To tell you this, and to tell you goodbye, Wil Ohmsford.”

Wil stared up at him. “Goodbye?”

“Until another day, Valeman.”

“But . . . where are you going?”

There was no response. Wil felt himself grow sleepy again; the Druid was letting him drift back into the slumber from which he had been awakened. Stubbornly he fought against it. There were things yet to be said, and he meant to say them. Allanon could not leave him like this, disappearing into the night as unexpectedly as he had come, cloaked and hooded like some thief who feared that even the slightest glimpse of his face might give him away . . .

A sudden suspicion crossed his mind in that instant. Weakly he stretched forth his hand and caught the front of the Druid's robe.

“Allanon.”

Silence filled the little sleeping room.

“Allanon—let me see your face.”

For a moment he thought the Druid had not heard him. Allanon stood motionlessly at his bedside, staring down from the shadows of his robe. The Valeman waited. Then slowly the Druid's big hands reached up and pulled back the hood.

“Allanon!” Wil Ohmsford whispered.

The Druid's hair and beard, once coal black, were shot through with streaks of gray. Allanon had aged!

“The price one pays for use of the magic.” Allanon's smile was slow and mocking. “This time I fear that I used too much; it drained more from me than I wished to give.” He shrugged. “There is only so much life allotted to each of us, Valeman—only so much and no more.”

“Allanon,” Wil cried softly. “Allanon, I'm sorry. Don't go yet.”

Allanon replaced the hood, and his hand stretched down to grasp Wil's. “It is time for me to go. We both need to rest. Sleep well, Wil Ohmsford. Try not to think ill of me; I believe that Amberle would not. Be comforted in this: You are a Healer, and a Healer must preserve life. You have done so here for the Elves, for the Westland. And though Amberle may seem lost to you, remember that she may be found always within the land. Touch it, and she will be with you.”

He stepped away into the dark and pinched out the candle's flame.

“Don't go,” Wil called out sleepily.

“Goodbye, Wil.” The deep voice drifted out of a fog. “Tell Flick that he was right about me. He will like that.”

“Allanon,” the Valeman mumbled softly and then he was asleep.

 

Through the dimly lit corridors of the Elessedil home the Druid stole, as silent as the shadows of the night. Home Guard patrolled these corridors, Elven Hunters who had fought and survived in the battle of the Elfitch, hard men and not easily moved. Yet they stepped aside for Allanon; something in the Druid's glance suggested that they should.

Moments later he stood within the bedchamber of the Elven King, the door closing softly behind him. Candlelight illuminated the room with a dim, hazy glow that seeped through the gloom into shadowed corners and hidden nooks with a blind man's touch. Windows stood closed and drapes drawn, masking the room in silence. On a wide double bed at the far end of the chamber lay Eventine, swathed in bandages and linen sheets. At his side Ander dozed fitfully in a high-backed wicker chair.

Wordlessly Allanon came forward and stopped at the foot of the bed. The old King slept, his breathing ragged and slow, his skin the color of new parchment. The end of his life was near. It was the passing of an age, the Druid thought. They would all be gone now, all those who had stood against the Warlock Lord, all those who had aided in the quest for the elusive Sword of Shannara—all but the Ohmsfords, Shea and Flick.

A grim, ironic smile passed slowly across his lips. And himself, of course. He was still there. He was always there.

Beneath the linen coverings, Eventine stirred. It will happen now, Allanon told himself. For the first time that night, a touch of bitterness showed in his hard face.

Silently he moved back within the concealing shadows at the rear of the room and waited.

 

Ander Elessedil came awake with a start. Eyes blurred with sleep, he peered guardedly about the empty bedchamber, searching for ghosts that were not there. A frightening sense of aloneness swept through him. So many of those who should have been there were not—Arion, Pindanon, Crispin, Ehlron Tay, Kerrin. All dead.

He slumped back in the wicker chair, weariness numbing him until he could feel nothing but the ache of joints and muscles. How long had he slept, he wondered? He didn't know. Gael would be back soon, bringing food and drink, and together they would keep this vigil, watching over the stricken King. Waiting.

Memories haunted him, memories of his father and what had been, spectral images of the past, of times and places and events that would never be again. They were bittersweet, a reminder both of the happiness shared and its transience. On balance, he would have preferred that the memories leave him in peace this night.

He thought suddenly of his father and Amberle, of the special affection they had felt for each other, the closeness that had been lost and found again—gone now, all of it. It was difficult even now to comprehend the transformation that Amberle had undergone. He had to keep reminding himself that it was real, that it was not imagined. He could still see the little Wing Rider, Perk, telling him what he had witnessed, his child's face awestruck and frightened all at once, so determined and so concerned that he should not be doubted.

His head tilted back and his eyes closed. Few knew the truth yet. He was still undecided as to whether or not it should remain that way.

“Ander.”

He jerked upright, and his father's penetrating blue eyes met his own. He was so surprised that, for an instant, he simply stared down at the old man.

“Ander—what has happened?”

The Elven King's voice was a thin, harsh whisper in the stillness. Quickly Ander knelt down beside him.

“It is over,” he replied softly. “We have won. The Demons are locked once more within the Forbidding. The Ellcrys . . .”

He could not finish. He did not have the words. His father's hand slipped from beneath the coverings to find his own.

“Amberle?”

Ander took a deep breath, and there were tears in his eyes. He forced himself to meet his father's gaze.

“Safe,” he whispered. “Resting now.”

There was a long pause. A trace of a smile slipped across his father's face.

Then his eyes closed. A moment later he was dead.

 

Allanon stood within the shadows several minutes more before stepping forward.

“Ander,” he called softly.

The Elven Prince rose, releasing his father's hand. “He's gone, Allanon.”

“And you are King. Be the King he would have wanted you to be.”

Ander turned, his eyes searching. “Did you know, Allanon? I have wondered often since Baen Draw. Did you know that all this would happen, that I would be King?”

The Druid's features seemed to close in about him momentarily, and his dark face lost all expression. “I could not have prevented from happening that which happened, Elven Prince,” he replied slowly. “I could only try to prepare you for what was to be.”

“Then you knew?”

Allanon nodded. “I knew. I am a Druid.”

Ander took a deep breath. “I will do the best that I can, Allanon.”

“Then you will do well, Ander Elessedil.”

He watched the Elven Prince move back to the dead King, saw him cover his father as he would a sleeping child, then kneel once more at the bedside.

Allanon turned and slipped noiselessly from the room, from the manor house, from the city, and from the land. No one saw him go.

 

It was dawn when Wil Ohmsford was shaken gently awake, silver-gray light seeping through curtained windows to chase the fading dark. His eyes blinked slowly open and he found himself staring up at Perk.

“Wil?” The little Wing Rider's face was a mask of seriousness.

“Hello, Perk.”

“How are you feeling?”

“A little better, I think.”

“That's good.” Perk tried a quick smile. “I was really worried.”

Wil smiled back. “Me, too.”

Perk sat down on the edge of the bed. “I'm sorry to wake you, but I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye.”

“You're leaving?”

The youth nodded. “I should have left last night, but I had to rest Genewen. She was pretty tired after that long flight. But I have to leave now. I should have been back at the Wing Hove two days ago. They will probably be searching for me.” He paused. “But they'll understand when I explain what happened. They won't be mad.”

“I hope not. I wouldn't want that.”

“My Uncle Dayn said he would explain it to them, too. Did you know that my Uncle Dayn was here, Wil? My grandfather sent him. Uncle Dayn said I acted like a true Wing Rider. He said what Genewen and I did was very important.”

Wil pushed himself up slightly against his pillows. “So it was, Perk. Very important.”

“I couldn't just leave you. I knew you might need me.”

“We needed you very much.”

“And I didn't think my grandfather would mind if I disobeyed just this once.”

“I don't think he will mind.”

Perk looked down at his hands. “Wil, I'm sorry about the Lady Amberle. I really am.”

Wil nodded slowly. “I know, Perk.”

“She really was enchanted, wasn't she? She was enchanted and the enchantment turned her into the tree.” He looked up quickly. “That was what she wanted, wasn't it? To turn into the tree so the Demons would disappear? That was the way it was supposed to be?”

The Valeman swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“I was really scared, you know,” Perk said quietly. “I wasn't sure whether that was supposed to happen or not. It was so sudden. She never said anything about it to me before it happened, so when it did happen it scared me.”

“I don't think she wanted to scare you.”

“No, I don't think so either.”

“She just didn't have time enough to explain.”

Perk shrugged. “Oh, I know that. It was just so sudden.”

They were quiet a moment, and then the little Wing Rider rose. “I just wanted to say goodbye, Wil. Would you come visit me sometime? Or I could come to see you—but that wouldn't be until I'm older. My family won't let me fly out of the Westland.”

“I will come visit you,” Wil promised. “Soon.”

Perk gave a sort of half-wave and walked to the door. His hand was on the latch when he paused and glanced back at the Valeman.

“I really liked her, Wil—a whole lot.”

“I liked her, too, Perk.”

The little Wing Rider smiled briefly and disappeared through the door.

 

LIV

 

T
hey went home then, all those who had come to Arborlon to stand with the Elves, all but two.

The Wing Riders went first, at the dawn of the day that began the reign of Ander Elessedil as the new King of the Land Elves—three who remained of the five who had flown north together and the boy called Perk. They left quietly, with barely a word to anyone but the young King, and were gone before the sun fully crested the eastern forests, their golden-hued Rocs chasing after the disappearing night like the first rays of the morning sun.

At midday the Rock Trolls departed, Amantar at their head, as fierce and proud as when they had come, weapons raised in salute as the Elven people gathered along the streets and in the tree-lanes to cheer their passing. For the first time in more than a thousand years, Troll and Elf parted not as enemies, but as friends.

The Dwarves stayed several days longer, lending to the Elves the benefit of their vast engineering expertise by assisting in the drafting of plans for the rebuilding of the shattered Elfitch. A most difficult task lay ahead in that rebuilding, for not only was it necessary to replace the demolished fifth rampway, but most of the remainder of the structure was in need of shoring up as well. It was the kind of challenge that the redoubtable Browork relished; with the aid of those Sappers yet able to work, he traced for the Elves the steps by which the task might best be accomplished. When finally he did take leave of Ander and the Elven people, he did so with the promise that another company of Dwarf Sappers—one in better condition to serve than his own—would be sent at once to give whatever aid was necessary.

“We know that we can depend upon the Dwarves.” Ander gripped Browork's rough hand in parting.

“Always,” the crusty Dwarf agreed with a nod. “See that you remember that when we have need of you.”

Finally it was the turn of the men of Callahorn to depart—the handful of Legion Free Corps and Old Guard who had survived the ferocious struggle to hold the Elfitch. Not a dozen of the former remained and of those not six would fight again. The command had virtually ceased to exist, the bodies of its soldiers scattered between the passes of the Breakline and Arborlon. Yet once more the tall, scar-faced Borderman called Stee Jans had survived where so many others had not.

He came to Ander Elessedil early on the morning of the sixth day following their victory over the Demon hordes, riding out on his great blue roan to where the Elven King stood at the edge of the Carolan and reviewed with his engineers the plans drafted by the Dwarf Sappers. Excusing himself hurriedly, Ander walked quickly to where the Free Corps Commander had dismounted and stood waiting. Ignoring the nod of respect the big man gave him, Ander seized the other's hand and gripped it firmly.

“You are well again, Commander?” he greeted him, smiling.

“Well enough, my Lord,” Stee Jans smiled back. “I came to thank you and to say goodbye. The Legion rides again for Callahorn.”

Ander shook his head slowly. “It is not for you to thank me. It is for me—and for the Elven people—to thank you. No one gave more to us and to this land than the men of the Free Corps. And you, Stee Jans—what would we have done without you?”

The Borderman was quiet for a moment before speaking. “My Lord, I think we found in the people and the land a cause worth fighting for. All that we gave, we gave freely. And you did not lose this fight—that is what matters.”

“How could we lose with you to aid us?” Ander gripped his hand anew. He paused. “What will you do now?”

Stee Jans shrugged. “The Free Corps is gone. Perhaps they'll rebuild. Perhaps not. If not, perhaps there will be a new Legion command. I will ask for one, in any case.”

Ander nodded slowly. “Ask me, Stee Jans—ask me and the command is yours. I would be honored to have you. And the Elven people would be honored. You are one of us. Will you consider it?”

The Borderman smiled, turned, and swung back into the saddle. “I am already considering it, King Ander Elessedil.” He saluted smartly. “Until we meet again, my Lord—strength to you and to the Elves.”

He reined the big roan about, gray cloak flying, and rode east across the Carolan. Ander watched him go, waving after him. Until we meet again, Borderman, he replied without speaking.

Thus they went home, all those who had come to Arborlon to stand with the Elves, all the brave ones, all but two.

One was the Valeman, Wil Ohmsford.

 

Sunshine lay across the Carolan in a blanket of warmth and hazy brightness as the noonday neared and Wil Ohmsford approached the gates leading into the Gardens of Life. Down the gravel pathway the Valeman walked, his stride measured and even, and there was no sign of hesitation in his coming. Yet when he stood at last before the gates, he was not sure that he could go further.

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?